David Robbins - The Fox Run

Hickok was staring at the dashboard, his brow furrowed.

“I thought you said this was a piece of cake.” Plato reminded him.

“It is,” Hickok replied defensively.

“Then what’s the problem?” asked Geronimo.

“How do you start this critter?” Hickok reached out and touched a small vent, his movements, for once, hesitant, uncertain.

“You place that key in the ignition,” Plato directed, “then turn the key.”

“That’s nice to know,” Hickok snapped, frustrated. “What the heck is an ignition?”

Plato restrained an impulse to laugh. He showed Hickok the ignition, Hickok placed the key in the slot and paused, and all of them tensed expectantly.

“Here goes nothing, pards,” Hickok stated, and twisted the key.

They were braced, anticipating a loud noise, having read that engines produced a considerable sound, and they were still startled and amazed when the engine kicked over, caught briefly, sputtered, and stopped.

“I’ve killed it!” Hickok moaned. “I did something wrong!”

“I don’t believe so,” Plato assured him. “Try again.”

“You sure?” Hickok asked doubtfully.

“Trust me. One more time.”

Hickok took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and turned the key again.

The SEAL roared to life and the engine idled for a minute, then it abruptly died.

“Damn!” Blade cursed.

“Once again,” Plato directed.

Hickok tried it one more time.

The SEAL shook as the engine turned over and achieved performance level. The longer it ran, the quieter it became. Within a very short time the metallic rumble was reduced to a muted whine.

“We did it!” Blade shouted.

“Yahoo!” came from Hickok.

The Family cheered wildly.

“Thank the Spirit,” Joshua said, touching the Latin cross he wore around his neck.

“It functions,” Plato said to himself. “It actually functions.” He could scarcely accept the evidence of his own eyes. The Founder’s vision had actualized, had borne fruit! The SEAL, the unique and exclusive prototype for a generation of vehicles the world would never know, was operative!

“How do I make this thing move?” Hickok wanted to know.

“Push down and back on that lever.” Plato pointed at the shift. “Watch that small gauge in front of you, above the steering column. A small arrow should stop on the letter D.”

Hickok gingerly shifted as instructed.

“What next?”

“Do you see those two pedals on the floor by your right foot?” Plato asked.

Hickok glanced down at the floor. “Yep. I see ’em.”

“Well, to initiate motion, the Manual says we should press down on the right pedal,” Plato stated.

Hickok nodded his understanding, raised his right foot, and forcefully tramped down on the accelerator.

Pandemonium erupted.

The SEAL lunged forward, and only fleet feet and quick reflexes enabled those Family members standing directly in front of the transport to leap aside before they were run over. Several women screamed, children bawled, and a few of them shouted an unflattering term or two in Hickok’s direction.

The SEAL was racing across the compound.

Hickok’s petrified face appeared, protruding through the open driver’s-side window. “Help! How do I stop this blasted critter?” he shouted. The SEAL hit a deep rut, the motion lifting Hickok and cracking his head against the roof. He winced and concentrated on steering the SEAL in a straight line.

Blade ran to Plato’s side. “How does he stop it?”

“If he’d only remove his foot from the right pedal, it would slow down,” Plato answered.

“He’s probably too shocked to think of that,” Blade pointed out. “What else?”

“The left pedal,” Plato said urgently. “He must depress the left pedal and the SEAL will cease all motion.”

“Blade, look!” Geronimo cried in warning.

Blade whirled.

The SEAL was fast approaching a huge tree.

“Hickok!” Blade broke into a run, Geronimo at his side, Joshua trailing behind.

In the SEAL, Hickok’s eyes widened at the sight of the tree. “Who the hell put that there?” he shouted to no one in particular. What the blazes was he supposed to do? He’d never ridden in a motorized vehicle before.

How would you stop the thing? Let up on the right pedal? For all he knew, that might damage the SEAL. Why were these things so complicated? The drivers in prewar society must have all been certified geniuses.

The tree was dangerously close.

Hickok fumed. He angrily jerked on the steering wheel with his good arm and the transport lurched to the right, narrowly missing the tree. He maintained the pressure on the steering wheel, executing a wide circle, then released it, straightening the SEAL, proud of his feat. That was when he noticed he was now heading directly back at the grouped Family members. “Get out of the way, you idiots!” he shouted. “Get out of the way!”

Blade and Geronimo appeared next to the open window.

“Press on the left pedal!” Blade yelled, his hands cupped, encircling his mouth.

“The left pedal!” Geronimo chimed in.

The SEAL surged ahead and they fell behind.

“The left pedal,” Hickok repeated for his own benefit. “Got it, pard.” He shifted his right foot and slammed it on top of the left pedal.

The SEAL reacted as if it had smashed into a brick wall, coming to an immediate stop.

During the hectic ride, Hickok had kept his right hand glued to the steering wheel, gripping it with all his strength, his muscles straining.

Only his grip aided him now, the force of the sharp halt propelling him forward, his momentum elevating him from his seat and smacking his body against the windshield. His hand never relinquished its grasp on the steering wheel, and his battered body swung back down, crashing in a twisted heap on the bucket seat.

Blade and Geronimo were nearest to the SEAL. They saw Hickok’s moccasins protruding above window level.

“Do you think he’s…” Geronimo left the thought unfinished as they reached the SEAL.

Blade yanked the door open.

Hickok’s head was resting on the seat, his body doubled over on top of him, his ankles and feet resting on the back of the seat, his right hand still holding the steering wheel. He was breathing rapidly, deeply.

“Are you okay?” Blade asked, concern chiseled in his features.

“Fine,” Hickok mumbled. “Piece of cake.”

“Just one thing, pard,” Hickok said, interrupting their levity.

“What?” Blade leaned over his friend.

“When we make the Fox run…” Hickok released the steering wheel. His fingers and wrist ached like the dickens!

“What about when we leave?” Blade inquired.

Hickok stared pleadingly into Blade’s eyes. “You figure you could do the driving?”

“I’m going to make a break for it as soon as it’s dark,” Joan whispered to the others as they sat in a circle.

The Trolls had permitted another break. Saxon was upset because the stream was still nearly three miles ahead of them. Their march was delayed when a mutate, a former raccoon, crossed their path. Fortunately, they spotted it before it saw them and hid until the foraging creature left the area. The mutate had dallied, searching under logs and in bushes, hunting grubs and rodents.

Now the mutate was gone, and Saxon called a break while he dispensed instructions to the other Trolls.

“You can’t be serious!” Lea objected.

“You’d be alone out there.” Angela’s eyes widened as she gazed at the surrounding forest.

“You wouldn’t stand a chance,” Ursa opined. “Don’t do it.”

“I can’t allow the opportunity to go by,” Joan countered.