Rikki took out the Doberman, the closest one, first, his katana a gleaming blur as he sliced the canine open from its chin to its sternum. He twisted, avoiding the hurtling Doberman and concentrating on the shepherd. Several seconds were required before the Doberman realized the gravity of its wound. It twirled, preparing for another attack, when its front paws slipped on a moist substance coating the highway and it fell.
Vertigo overwhelmed it, and the Doberman watched helplessly as the man in black hacked off the top of the shepherd’s head with his flashing sword.
“Look out!” Lex screamed.
Rikki barely had time to brace himself before the rest of the pack was on them. He dropped his scabbard and assumed chudan-no-kumae.
Chapter Two
“He should have been back by now, pard.”
“We’ll give him a little while yet.”
“Whatever you want. I’ve just got a bad feeling, is all,” said the first speaker, a lean, blond man with long hair and a drooping mustache dressed in buckskins and moccasins. Strapped around his narrow waist were twin holsters containing a pair of pearl-handled Colt Python revolvers. The fringe on his buckskin shirt stirred in the afternoon breeze as he glanced at his traveling companion. “I reckon we should check on him, Blade.”
The other man slowly nodded. He was a towering giant, a powerhouse with an awesome physique and bulging muscles. His wardrobe consisted of a black-leather vest, green fatigue pants, and black boots. On each huge hip, snug in its respective sheath, was a Bowie knife. Slung over his left shoulder was a Commando Arms Carbine with a 90-shot magazine, modified to full automatic by the Family Gunsmiths. His dark hair and eyes lent a grim, somber aspect to his appearance. “Maybe you’re right, Hickok,” Blade said to the gunman. “Rikki was only supposed to scout ahead for a mile or two. According to the maps, we’re almost to the outskirts of St. Louis. Whether he saw any sign of the city or not, he should have been back by now.”
“I just hope he didn’t go and get into a fix,” Hickok griped. “I want to get this assignment over with and return to the Home.”
“You didn’t need to come along,” Blade reminded him. “This was a volunteer mission. You knew that.”
“Yeah,” Hickok said wistfully. “When Plato first announced it, I figured I could use the break. Get out of the cabin for a spell. Break the monotony. You know what I mean?”
Blade nodded.
“But I miss ’em,” Hickok said sadly. “I miss Sherry and my son. Little Ringo,” he stated proudly. “I want to see ’em both so bad.”
“I know how you feel,” Blade assured the gunfighter. “I miss my wife and boy too.”
“Where the blazes is Rikki?” Hickok snapped impatiently.
Blade gazed to the east, reflecting, recalling the day only three months before when the Leader of the Family, Plato, had called all of them together in the walled compound designated their Home, located in the extreme northwest of Minnesota. “We require volunteers from the Warrior ranks,” Plato had informed them. “As you know, we have established peaceful relations with the Flathead Indians in Montana, with the horsemen known as the Cavalry in the Dakota Territory, and with what’s left of the U.S. Government to the west and south, in the Civilized Zone. We’re also friendly with the refugees from the Twin Cities now living near us, and with the Moles to our east. But we are ignorant of what exists west of the Rocky Mountains and east of the Mississippi River.
Consequently, the leaders of the various groups I’ve mentioned, which we now collectively refer to as the Freedom Federation, have decided to send an expedition into uncharted land, to venture where none of us have gone in one hundred years. We’ve heard many terrifying rumors about the country east of the Mississippi. We must determine if the rumors are true or mere fabrications. It is imperative we learn if there is any danger to our Family and the Freedom Federation as a whole. We now have fifteen Warriors safeguarding our Home and preserving us from harm. I propose to have the Warriors draw lots, and the three drawing the shortest straws will make the journey. Do you agree?” Plato had asked.
Blade frowned at the memory. The Family had concurred with their leader, and Plato had held a conference with the head of the Warriors.
Blade, despite his better judgment, had offered to lead the expedition, to forgo drawing a lot. Plato had gladly accepted his offer. The rest of the Warriors drew lots, and Rikki-Tikki-Tavi and Geronimo had drawn the shortest straws. But Geronimo’s wife, Cynthia Morning Dove, had given birth only a week before the drawing. Hickok had therefore stepped forward and volunteered to go in Geronimo’s place, and Plato had accepted the proposition after Geronimo had reluctantly acquiesced.
So here I am, Blade told himself. Almost to St. Louis and wishing I was anywhere but here. What a jerk I was to agree to go! And all because I think I can drive the SEAL better than anyone else in the Family, and certainly better than any of the other Warriors.
The SEAL. The pride and joy of the Founder of the Home, a man named Kurt Carpenter.
Carpenter had wisely anticipated the advent of World War III. A wealthy filmmaker, he had devoted his millions to constructing a survivalist retreat he had dubbed the Home. Shortly before the outbreak of hostilities, he had invited a carefully selected group to the Home.
Because the retreat was located hundreds of miles from any primary, secondary, or even tertiary targets, it was spared a direct hit. Thanks to the prevailing high altitude winds at the time of the war, the Home received only minimal dosages of radiation. Carpenter had planned for practically every contingency. He’d stocked ample supplies of every conceivable type.
His crowning achievement was the vehicle he bestowed on his followers, a vehicle he’d spent a fortune having developed. Carpenter had christened it the Solar Energized Amphibious or Land Recreational Vehicle—SEAL for short. The SEAL was a van-like transport, green in color, with an impervious body composed of an indestructible plastic. The plastic was tinted, allowing those within to see out but preventing anyone outside from viewing the interior. Four enormous tires allowed the transport to navigate virtually any terrain. The SEAL received its power from a pair of solar panels attached to the roof, which in turn supplied converted energy to six revolutionary batteries mounted under the vehicle. As if all of this weren’t enough, Carpenter had then hired skilled mercenaries to install special armaments in the SEAL. As far as Blade knew, there wasn’t another vehicle like it on the entire planet. He abruptly became aware of Hickok speaking.
“—listening to me or am I flappin’ my gums for the fun of it?” the gunman demanded.
“Sorry,” Blade apologized. “What were you saying?”
Hickok chuckled. “I never realized how much you and my missus have in common,” he quipped.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Blade inquired.
“It means you’re both pretty darn good at ignoring me at times,” Hickok said. “It must be my introverted personality.”
“Yeah, right,” Blade responded. “You’re about as introverted as a bull elk during rutting season. What were you—”
Hickok suddenly held up his right hand for silence. “Shush, pard! Give a listen!”
Blade complied, his ears straining. “I don’t hear anything,” he declared after several seconds.
“You’d best clean your ears out,” Hickok cracked, then paused. “Now do you hear it?”
Blade did. A faint sound coming from the east. An odd noise. Sort of a soft whump-whump-whump. What could it be?
“There!” Hickok exclaimed, pointing. “See it?”
Blade saw it. About a mile off to the east, hovering in the air, a huge dragonfly-shaped object.