“Like I was saying,” Blade said, “we’ll give the Flatheads the jeep and the two troop transports, as well as some of the weapons. I’ll give them explicit directions so they can join up with our main column.” He paused and glanced at Red Cloud, who was still busy releasing his fellow Flatheads. “Hey, Red Cloud!”
Red Cloud looked at Blade. “Yes?”
“Can any of your people drive a vehicle?”
Red Cloud nodded. “Some of us were assigned to the garbage detail in the Citadel about a month ago. They forced us to drive their garbage trucks to the dump. Under guard, of course. Why?”
“I’ll explain after a bit,” Blade said.
“After they leave, what then?” Geronimo inquired.
“We proceed as originally planned,” Blade responded. “We’ll drive to Catlow, subdue the garrison there, and send our message to the Doktor.”
“Message? What kind of message?” Rudabaugh asked.
Blade grinned. “We’re going to send the good Doktor an invitation to tea.”
Chapter Two
He couldn’t get the images out of his mind.
No matter how hard he tried.
All he kept seeing, repeating over and over again, were vivid scenes of death and destruction. A tremendous battle, the ultimate conflict between good and evil. Thousands upon thousands died on both sides, the innocent as well as the guilty.
And it was all his fault.
He had formulated the initial plan, and set the wheels of combat in motion. Whatever happened next, the outcome would be on his shoulders.
Maybe he should have waited for the Doktor to make the next move.
Maybe he should have upgraded the fortifications protecting the Home and waited for the Doktor to show up.
“Plato, it’s getting late.”
Plato sighed and shook his head, clearing the cobwebs, his reverie shattered. “What did you say?” he absently asked.
The speaker was standing on the bank of the moat in the northwestern corner of the 30-acre plot known as the Home. The moat was a stream, diverted under the northwestern corner of the 20-foot-high brick walls surrounding the Home. The stream was channeled along the base of the inside of the walls, providing a secondary line of defense as well as the essential water for the inhabitants of the Home, the descendants of followers of a wealthy survivalist named Kurt Carpenter. They called themselves the Family, and at the moment, their aged Leader, Plato, was supervising a special project. The stream entered the Home through an aqueduct in the northwestern corner, with half of the water flowing to the south and the remaining volume flowing to the east. Eight-foot-deep trenches carried the water along the four walls until they merged in the southeastern corner and exited the Home via another aqueduct. In addition to the walls and the moat, strands of barbed wire were strung all across the top of the wall to impede potential attackers. Of the six huge concrete blocks Kurt Carpenter had had constructed on the property, one of them was a well-stocked armory. Carpenter had known civilization would revert to bestial levels after World War III, and he had wanted his beloved Family to be prepared to repel any assault on the Home. He had tried to project probabilities and cover every contingency.
But he had left one weak spot.
Actually, two.
Plato stared at the stream while seated on a small boulder, watching the water rush past, wondering why Carpenter hadn’t thought to install a screen or grid over the aqueducts to prevent anyone or anything from gaining entry to the Home by swimming through them.
Live and learn.
Twice the Family had been attacked inside the compound, and it wasn’t until after the second attack that Blade had deduced the faulty link in the Family’s armor. First, some time back, a mutated frog had leaped from the moat and savagely assailed some nearby Family members. Then, only recently, two of the nefarious Doktor’s deadly genetic assassins had invaded the Home. One of them had let it slip that they had gotten into the Home by swimming. It didn’t require a genius to ascertain their method.
Plato glanced at the four men in the moat near the aqueduct. They were putting the finishing touches on the large screen they had attached to the interior aqueduct opening.
“It’s getting late,” the speaker on the bank reiterated. “It will be dark soon. Should we wait until morning to put the other screen on the southeastern aqueduct?”
Plato looked at the speaker, a tall man with blue eyes and short blond hair. He wore a brown shirt and buckskin pants, as well as the traditional Family footwear: moccasins. Strapped to his waist was a long broadsword, just one of the many unusual and exotic weapons Kurt Carpenter had stocked in the Family armory. Plato grinned. “The aqueducts haven’t had a screen on them in the one hundred years since World War Three,” he said. “One more night won’t hurt. Yes, we’ll wait until daylight to complete our task, Spartacus.”
Spartacus nodded. “Wrap it up!” he shouted to the four men in the moat. “We’ll be doing the second one tomorrow.” He faced Plato, noting the Leader’s haggard appearance and the stringy condition of Plato’s long gray hair and beard. Plato’s clothes, kept in spotless condition by his wife, Nadine, consisted of faded tan trousers and a buckskin shirt. “What were you thinking about just now?” he inquired.
“Nothing much,” Plato said evasively.
“Come on,” Spartacus rejoined. “I’ve seen that look before. You’re worried about Blade and the others, right?”
Plato sighed and frowned. “Of course.”
“Try not to think about it,” Spartacus advised.
“If only it were so easy,” Plato said wearily.
“You did what you had to do,” Spartacus pointed out.
“That’s what I keep telling myself,” Plato said. “But it doesn’t seem to help much.”
“Blade is a Warrior,” Spartacus noted. “He knew what he was getting into. He knows the risks involved. It’s all part of being a Warrior.”
Plato absently nodded. A Warrior.
The Founder of the Home, Kurt Carpenter, had been a firm believer in social equality. To that end, he had instituted a practice whereby each and every Family member would receive an official title. Whether it was Tiller, Empath, Warrior, or one of the others, every Family member would be assured equal social footing. Of the over 6 dozen Family members now alive, 15 had been selected as Warriors, the defenders of the Home and the protectors of the Family. The 15 were divided into 5 Triads of 3 Warriors apiece. These 5 Triads were known as Alpha, Beta, Gamma, Omega, and Zulu. Each Triad had a head or leader, but the head of Alpha Triad, Blade, was the chief Warrior, responsible for the Home’s security. Blade, Hickok, and Geronimo comprised Alpha Triad, and since they and Beta Triad were currently away from the Home, Spartacus, as the head of Gamma Triad, had become the chief Warrior in their absence.
Spartacus walked over to Plato and gently placed his right hand on Plato’s narrow shoulder. He had never seen the Family’s Leader look so sad. “Cheer up!” he stated as happily as he could. “Everything will work out.”
“I hope so,” Plato said softly.
“Hey! What’s the matter? Aren’t you the one who is always telling us to have faith?”
Plato gazed up at Spartacus. “If it’s spiritual enthusiasm you want, I suggest you see Joshua.”
“I haven’t seen Joshua around lately,” Spartacus noted.
“Neither have I, come to think of it,” Plato said thoughtfully.
“So what’s got you so down in the dumps?” Spartacus said, pressing the issue. “The senility?” he queried tactlessly.
“It has been affecting me greatly of late,” Plato divulged. “If only we could find a cure…”
A mysterious form of premature senility had befallen the Family. The Family records indicated that each previous generation had had a shorter life expectancy than the one before it. Some of the Family Elders were now showing unmistakable symptoms of the senility, and Plato was one of them. Although not quite 50 years of age, Plato looked the way a 70-year-old man would have looked in the days before World War III.