David Robbins - The Fox Run

The youth reluctantly emerged from hiding, his arms upraised. He wore torn jeans and a ragged brown shirt. His hair, like the girl’s, was snipped at the shoulders, the brown strands oily. His brown eyes glared at Geronimo.

“You!” Blade gestured at the girl with the Commando barrel. “Get on this side of the wall.”

She promptly obeyed, clambering through a gaping hole in the waist high wall.

“And you!” Blade looked at the boy. “Get over here.”

The youth arrogantly shuffled across the highway.

“Move it!” Blade barked, swinging the Carbine to cover him.

The boy paled and increased his speed.

The elderly man stepped from the ramshackle house, the rifle held aloft.

Blade brought the Commando around and kept it trained on the man as he crossed a weed-choked yard and climbed through the hole in the wall.

“Lay the gun on the ground. Slowly,” Blade ordered.

The man complied. All three were lined in a row: the scared girl, the haughty boy, and the bewildered man, their arms upraised.

“Looks like the posse collared some vicious outlaws,” Hickok wryly commented behind Blade. “Might be the James Gang.”

Blade glanced over his right shoulder. Hickok and Joan were just feet away, Joan carrying the Henry.

“I thought I told you to let her sleep,” Blade said to Hickok.

“I was going to, pard,” Hickok chuckled, “but your Commando alarm clock woke her up.”

Blade faced the amateur assassins. “Who wants to do the talking?”

“I have something I’d like to say,” the boy with the oily hair said angrily.

“What?” Blade demanded.

The youth glanced at the man. “I told you, asshole, they were not Trolls, but no! The day you listen to me is the day I die of a heart attack!”

“You mind that tongue of yours,” the old man retorted testily.

“Papa!” the girl chimed in. “Can’t you two stop your fighting for a minute! At a time like this! These men may kill us!”

“No, I don’t think so.” The man shook his gray head, his eyes twinkling.

“And why wouldn’t we kill you?” Blade asked him.

“You ain’t natural killers like the damn Trolls.” The man looked directly into Blade’s eyes. “You could of killed my girl with that machinegun of yours, but you didn’t. And your friend could of killed my son with that cannon of his, but he didn’t. Nope. Somethin’ tells me you won’t kill us in cold blood.” He paused, eyeing the Carbine with open appreciation. “What is that thing, mister? Never saw a gun like that in all my born days!”

“It’s called a Commando Arms Carbine,” Blade told him, amused.

“They were factory shipped as semi-auto,” Hickok added, “but we converted it to full auto.”

“What’s that mean?” the man wanted to know.

“It means it can shoot a lot of bullets real fast, old-timer,” Hickok responded.

“My name is Clyde, sir. This is my daughter, Cindy. And this contrary pup is my son, Tyson.”

“Why did you attempt to kill us?” Blade queried.

“I thought you was Trolls,” the old man replied, and the boy made a loud snorting sound.

“You don’t love the Trolls much, I take it,” Hickok said.

“Sure as hell don’t, mister!” Clyde exploded, his face reddening. “The damn Trolls should all be killed, and that’s no lie! For years and years they’ve been after my family. Long time ago they took my dear Bess, the Lord bless her soul. We never know when some of them bastards might try and sneak up on us and take my Cindy. So far, though,” Clyde said, laughing, “we been too smart for ’em! Even killed a few in our time.

They’re not too bright.”

“You live here?” Blade gazed at the deteriorated buildings in their vicinity.

“We hole up where we can,” Clyde said sadly. “Used to have a farm south of here a ways. My granddad owned it. But the Trolls discovered us. We’ve been runnin’ and hidin’ ever since.”

“Why didn’t you move away from here?” Geronimo chimed in. “Away from the Trolls?”

“Because he’s too proud,” Cindy answered.

“Too stupid,” Tyson amended.

“Watch your mouth, boy!” Clyde fumed.

Hickok walked up to Blade and winked. “So what are we going to do with the James Gang here? Line them up against the wall and execute them?”

“Please! Don’t!” the girl screeched, taking him seriously.

“Let me think.” Blade studied the three, debating. What should they do with them? Leave them here, in effect banish them to a miserable life, a furtive existence of constant conflict with the Trolls? Clyde, apparently, wanted to retaliate against the Trolls for taking his wife. But what about the girl and the boy? Was this the type of life they should live? Never knowing a roof over their heads, never feeling safe and truly happy?

Cindy was staring at Joan. “You sure have pretty clothes, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“You call these pretty?” Joan looked at her torn, dirty blouse and jeans.

“You should see some of the clothes the women wear at the Home.”

“The Home?” Cindy repeated.

“It’s where we live,” Joan informed her. “We make our own apparel or mend the garments still around from the time of the Big Blast.”

“Big Blast?” Clyde reiterated.

“Clyde,” Blade interrupted, “I have a deal for you.”

“A deal?”

“You say you don’t like the Trolls…”

“You got that right!” Clyde confirmed.

“Neither do we. What do you know about Fox?”

“That’s their filthy den. We’ve snuck up on ’em a couple of times and done in a few of ’em.” Clyde cackled delightedly.

“So you’re familiar with Fox?” Blade pressed him.

“I’ve seen it from the outside,” Clyde said. “I’ve never been inside. No one goes inside and ever comes out again.”

“At least you know the area. Here’s my offer.” Blade lowered the Carbine and stepped over to Clyde. “You help us rescue some friends from the Trolls, and after this is over you can come and live with us at our Home.

What do you say?”

“I don’t know…” Clyde bit his lower lip, his brow furrowed.

“Oh please!” Cindy exclaimed, excited at the prospect. “Please! These are nice people, Papa. You said so, yourself. Please!”

“How do we know we can trust “em?” Tyson asked suspiciously.

“You don’t trust ’em?” Clyde asked his son.

“Nope.”

“Then I know they can be trusted.” Clyde beamed at his own wit and nodded twice. “You got a deal, mister.”

“Good,” Blade smiled.

“Say, pard.” Hickok was grinning at Blade.

“What?”

“If these fine folks are coming with us,” Hickok said casually, “don’t you reckon they can lower their arms now?”

Their testing was about to commence.

The Trolls, approximately five dozen, most wearing the usual bearskin tunic and cloak, were assembled on a small field at the east edge of Fox.

The area had been cleared of rocks and debris, and the grass and weeds were cut within six inches of the ground. The Trolls surrounded the center of the field, enthused over the imminent entertainment, talking loudly and making wagers, bartering over the projected outcome of the tests.

In the middle of the cleared tract, nervous and frightened, stood the Family women. Saxon and Nadine stood nearby.

“I’m so scared,” Angela commented.

Jenny hated to admit it, but she was too. She studied the other women, gauging their state of mind, assessing their stability. Angela, the youngest and the smallest, was obviously petrified and would require watching.

Daffodil, the Artist, seemed unconcerned. Lea, the Weaver, was absently fussing with her long black tresses, scowling at the Trolls. Ursa, the Librarian, was thoughtfully preoccupied. Mary, the tanned young Tiller, was in the best physical condition, the result of her long hours in the field.