“Please don’t be mad at Ox!” the blue colossus repeated.
Ferret looked up at the pitiful, pleading countenance on Ox. “How can I stay mad at someone who can’t tell his right foot from his left?”
Ox, perplexed, gazed down. “What do my feet have to do with it?”
Ferret, exasperated, sighed and shook his head. The Doktor’s handiwork sometimes left a lot to be desired.
“Are you still mad?” Ox anxiously inquired.
“No,” Ferret replied, lying. “I’m not still mad! But you better give me your word you won’t make another move unless you consult with me first. Agreed?”
Ox eagerly nodded. “Ox won’t kill another person unless he asks you first!”
“Good!” Ferret pointed at the prone form sprawled in a spreading pool of its own blood. “You snuffed him, you carry him! Come on!” He beckoned for Ox to follow and headed for the thickest cover he could find.
Ox shuffled behind him, the Tiller carelessly draped over his left shoulder, a red stain oozing down his broad back.
Ferret reached an ideal spot and nodded at the earth underfoot. “Okay. Here’s a good place. Start digging.”
“Whatever you want,” Ox said. “Hold this for me.” He tossed the Tiller’s head to Ferret.
Ferret reflexively caught Ox’s trophy, appalled and fascinated by the gruesome visage. The farmer’s eyes were frozen wide open, the blue orbs seemingly gaping at Ferret in astonishment; his lips were almost purple and puffy; and his tongue protruded from the right corner of his mouth.
Ferret suppressed an impulse to shudder. He could kill and maim with the best of them, but he didn’t revel in the gore and the slaughter as some of his fellows enthusiastically did; he simply wasn’t as bloodthirsty. Many of the G.R.D.’s displayed a singular purpose, namely to murder at the Doktor’s bidding.
They functioned as the Doktor’s personal assassin corps, obedient to his every whim. Others, like Ferret, although they dared not publicly question the Doktor’s commands for fear of the lethal consequences, privately hated the Doktor and longed for an escape from his ruthless dictates.
“Is this deep enough?” Ox asked, interrupting Ferret’s reflection.
Ferret blinked, collecting his thoughts. Ox had scooped a six-foot trench in the soft dirt, about two feet deep. “It’s fine,” Ferret stated. “Drop the body in and cover it up.”
“Can I keep the head?” Ox queried expectantly.
“Why?”
“I like brains. They’re my favorites!”
“All right,” Ferret agreed. “But I don’t want to hear another peep from you about food until the job is done. Understand?”
Ox beamed and resumed his burial detail.
Ferret removed the baseball cap from the Tiller’s head. “Here. You won’t be eating this.” He tossed the cap into the trench.
Ferret laid the head on the grass and walked to a nearby tree. He crouched and rested his back against the trunk. If only they could complete their mission and return to the Civilized Zone! He wasn’t particularly happy with the assignment; he rather admired the one they were here to terminate. It wasn’t often one of the G.R.D.’s managed to slip through the Doktor’s fingers. Inwardly, Ferret wished he could do likewise.
Ox was busily filling in the grave.
Still, Ferret realized, there was no way he could dispute the Doktor’s orders. Either he obeyed or he died. It was as simple as that. No matter what his personal feelings might be, the outcome was inevitable: Gremlin must die!
Chapter Thirteen
The sun was rising above the eastern horizon in a cloudless sky, the birds chirping and singing as they greeted a new day, when Blade walked from B Block and lazily stretched. He wore green fatigue pants and his leather vest and was armed with his Bowies in their respective sheaths on both hips. He decided he would visit C Block and check on the two prisoners. They were being held in the Family infirmary under Warrior guard. One of the captured soldiers, the officer, had sustained a broken nose. The other trooper, according to the Healers, suffered from a mild concussion. Blade was anxious to interrogate the pair, but Plato wouldn’t allow any questioning until the soldiers were somewhat recovered from their ordeal.
Blade turned left, toward C Block, casually scanning the wide cleared space between the concrete bunkers. His gray eyes passed over the SEAL, then immediately returned to the vehicle, aware that something was amiss.
The SEAL was the Founder’s pride and joy. Kurt Carpenter had spent millions of dollars on its development and construction, wisely foreseeing that his beloved Family would require an exceptionally durable and versatile vehicle to travel across the dramatically altered post-war terrain.
SEAL was an acronym for Solar Energized Amphibious or Land Recreational Vehicle. The green van-like transport was powered by the sun, a pair of solar panels attached to the roof collecting the sunlight and a bank of six revolutionary batteries mounted under the vehicle serving to store the converted energy. The SEAL’s body was an impervious plastic, its four enormous tires composed of a unique, indestructible synthetic. To the Family, the SEAL was a virtual godsend, enabling those who used it to travel vast distances protected from the numerous lethal denizens proliferating unchecked across the entire land.
Ordinarily, the SEAL was kept locked to deter a theft or worse. Two months ago a saboteur had attempted to demolish the transport with explosives, and Blade readily recalled his timely intervention and fight with the mysterious intruder. Since that disturbing incident, the Warriors were instructed to scrutinize the vehicle at every opportunity, and Plato personally verified the SEAL was secure each night before retiring. The night before, Blade had observed his mentor standing beside the transport and tugging on the driver’s door handle, guaranteeing the door was fastened shut.
Now that same door hung wide open.
Was Plato up this early and working on the vehicle?
Unlikely.
Blade ran toward the SEAL, his big hands on his Bowies. Who else would be in the transport this time of the day? No one he could think of.
Only Alpha Triad knew how to drive the SEAL, and Hickok was still asleep.
With Geronimo absent, there wasn’t anyone else authorized to be inside the vehicle.
So who was it?
Ten feet from the open door Blade reduced his speed and crept forward, prepared to draw his Bowies at the slightest hint of danger.
If it was another damn saboteur, Blade vowed, he’d gut the bastard on general principles.
Blade was five feet away when he heard the humming and relaxed, releasing his knives. What in the world was she doing in there?
The hummer was a young girl of twelve dressed in homemade buckskins, buckskins made by her deceased mother. She was huddled under the dashboard, her beautiful black hair obscuring her face and falling to her waist. Her name was Star and she was, so far as anyone knew, the sole survivor of the Flathead Indians of Montana. The rest of her tribe had vanished after a confrontation with the soldiers from the Cheyenne Citadel. Plato and his wife Nadine had adopted the girl and accepted her as their own and she had adapted marvelously to Family life.
Blade leaned against the SEAL, grinning. He saw Plato’s keys lying on the dash and realized how Star had gotten inside.
The interior of the transport was spacious. Two bucket seats were positioned in the front with a console between them. Behind the bucket seats was a single seat running the width of the vehicle. A large storage area completed the interior design.
Silently, Blade eased toward Star until his head and shoulders were inside the SEAL.
“Boo!”