David Robbins - The Fox Run

Plato had told him everything appeared to be in working order, that the passage of time had not caused the deterioration of any vital part. The Founder had planned for this contingency, expecting many years might elapse before the Family required the transport. His engineers had incorporated the latest, state-of-the-art, sometimes purely theoretical, knowledge and scientific developments into the vehicle’s design and construction. As Plato had pointed out earlier, the use of fluids was confined to an absolute minimum. The chemical composition of various parts of the SEAL, such as the body, the tires, the seals, and gaskets, was a radical departure from the methods used in constructing conventional products. The chemist who had devised the formula for the tires had told Carpenter he had perfected a process the tire manufacturers would gladly kill to suppress: a process for producing an indestructible synthetic tire.

Blade drove the SEAL at a sedate speed, still unsure of his ability and the SEAL’s capability.

“You certainly do drive slower than Hickok,” Geronimo pretended to complain. “Although, I will admit, we do have a better chance of reaching our destination this way.”

Hickok glanced at Geronimo. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

“Immensely.” Geronimo beamed.

“You ever notice, pard,” Hickok said, facing Blade, “how them Injuns have such a pitiful sense of humor?”

Geronimo laughed. “Yeah. And have you ever noticed how the white man has such a long history of making a fool of himself?”

Blade was focused on the field ahead, on dodging holes and ruts and boulders and trees.

“Hey, Blade?” Hickok nudged his right shoulder. “You still with us, or what? I’d hate to think we were wasting all this grand entertainment.”

“What?” Blade looked over at Hickok. “Sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.”

“We noticed,” Hickok said.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing important.” Hickok noticed the Operations Manual lying on the console and picked it up. “So what’s on the agenda, big guy?”

“We head east, following the map,” Blade stated. “When we get tired, we rest inside the SEAL for safety’s sake…”

“Gee, I hope you’ll let us out to tinkle,” Hickok commented.

“We make the run to Fox, rescue the women, and return to the Home,” Blade finished.

“It certainly sounds easy enough,” Geronimo mentioned.

“Easier said than done,” Blade admitted.

“Aren’t we in an optimistic mood?” Hickok quipped.

Blade felt his neck and arm muscles beginning to relax as the time passed. He was gaining valuable confidence, both in himself and the transport. The needle on the speedometer wavered between ten and fifteen. They reached the end of the wall and bore east.

“You know,” Hickok observed, reading the Manual, “they take an awful lot for granted in this book. They talk about things like you should already know what a lot of them are. Listen to this.” He quoted from the contents:

“‘When the SEAL is driven over sixty for five minutes, overdrive automatically engages, reducing the strain on the transmission and assuring even engine performance at cruising speed.’” Hickok glanced up at Blade, annoyed. “What’s that supposed to mean? What’s an overdrive?

What’s a transmission? This entire Operation Manual appears to be like that! I can’t make hide nor hair out of some of these instructions.”

“We’ll just have to do the best we can,” Blade said.

“Hope it’s good enough,” Hickok griped.

They lapsed into silence, Geronimo lost in thought, Hickok immersed in the Manual, and Blade driving.

This isn’t so difficult, Blade reflected, relaxed, thankful Plato had taken the time to give him a crash course in the transport’s basics. His mind drifted, recalling the events leading up to Jenny’s abduction. Was she still alive? She better be! The Trolls would rue the day they attacked the Family!

“Blade!” Geronimo suddenly yelled. “Look out!”

A huge boulder loomed directly in their path.

“Damn!” Blade cursed and jerked on the steering wheel. The SEAL swerved to the left, narrowly missing the boulder.

“Do you mind?” Hickok casually chided Blade. “I’m trying to read.”

“Oh no!” Geronimo slapped his right palm against his forehead.

“What’s wrong?” Blade asked. Geronimo appeared to be in genuine torment.

“It’s what I’ve always feared!” Geronimo wailed.

“What?” Blade urgently demanded.

“That whatever Hickok has,” Geronimo said, smiling, “is contagious.”

What was that noise?

Joan dropped to her hands and knees behind a large log, listening. What had she heard?

Birds sang, and the leaves of the trees rustled in the breeze.

Nothing else.

She sighed, feeling the fatigue in her limbs and an intense pain in her head, the lingering result of the blow she had suffered when the Trolls assaulted the Home. Her exertion had agitated her wound.

How far had she come?

Four miles maybe.

Joan knew there would be pursuit. She was doing her best to disguise and cover her tracks, exactly as Geronimo had instructed her. But she couldn’t spend too much time on erasing her trail; her first priority was reaching the Home. A competent tracker would be able to follow her—slowly, to be sure, but he wouldn’t be fooled.

A branch snapped to her left.

She had to reach the Home. The Warriors would have no idea which direction the Trolls were taking. They would find the spoor, all right, but it would require time, a precious commodity, one they couldn’t afford to waste.

Up ahead, a squirrel began chattering in alarm.

Joan regretted leaving her sisters. What choice did she have? That thicket had provided the perfect opportunity for her escape, preferable to waiting for dark. Now, at least, she had some daylight on her side.

The squirrel was having a veritable temper tantrum.

Why?

Joan eased through the undergrowth, wishing she had her gun.

Anything would be of more help than a three-inch pocketknife. Her faded brown pants and green blouse were torn and dirty.

Voices.

She froze, getting her bearings.

The voices were right ahead of her. Sounded like two men. Three guesses who.

Joan eased onto her belly and crawled forward, carefully avoiding twigs and limbs that could break and give her away.

“I’ll be glad when we get back to Fox,” someone was saying.

“I can’t wait to pork the new flesh,” said the second.

Joan stopped behind a tall, leafy bush and gently parted one branch.

The two Trolls were busily engaged in wiping out any trace of the path their group had made, wiping the ground with clumps of long grass, carefully obliterating every track they found.

“Which woman will you screw first?” asked the younger of the two Trolls. He was armed with an axe.

The older Troll grinned, exposing a gap where three of his top three teeth had once been. “It’s hard to pick one of ’em,” he admitted. “They’re all so healthy. Not like the usual scrawny flesh we get.”

“Yeah.” The younger Troll beamed. “You know, Galen, we should get some real good years out of this bunch.”

Galen nodded. “A lot of years before we’ll have to feed ’em,” he agreed.

“Maybe, Trent, we’ll have to raid this Family again.”

“I don’t know.” Trent frowned.

“What’s the matter?” Galen asked.

Joan couldn’t see any weapon on the older Troll, on Galen. That concerned her. It meant he had it hidden under that bulky cloak all the Trolls wore. She didn’t like surprises in matters of life and death.