Was he dreaming?
The rising sun bathed the granite cliff in its fiery light, imparting an illusion of life to the four figures.
There was something about them.
His fatigued mind sluggishly reacted to the impressive sight, struggling to remember some elusive fact.
What was it?
Why did he—
It hit him!
He knew what it was.
Some of the books in the Family library contained photographs and references to this cliff.
Mount Rushmore.
Before the Big Blast, Mount Rushmore had been a national monument.
Those four faces were the visages of four Presidents of the United States of America. What had their names been? He squinted up at the cliff, racking his memory. Lincoln was one, wasn’t he? But he couldn’t recall the identity of the others.
Did it matter?
They were symbols of a past glory, a glory obliterated by a nuclear war, a promise of greatness eradicated before it could attain fruition. Those four men were representative of a magnificent history, of a time when the people chose their leaders based on wisdom and loyalty to higher ideals.
But in the years before the war, the populace had neglected its heritage.
He remembered now. How the citizens had become apathetic and ignored the tremendous trust placed in their hands. How only a small percentage of the voters had bothered to exercise their constitutional right on election day. And how the people had selected leaders according to their image instead of their intelligence.
How sad.
How very sad.
He yawned and rubbed his sleepy eyes.
Why did people do it? he wondered.
Why did they always become so complacent about the most important matters in life? Why were they so willing to trade their hard-won freedoms for baubles, for a full stomach and a life of leisure?
Why was he babbling like an idiot?
He laughed and eased back in his seat, clutching his FNC Auto Rifle in his lap.
If he kept this nonsense up, he’d begin to sound like Hickok!
He glanced at the monument again, and noticed a wide crack running down the figure with the mustache. What had happened? Age? An earthquake? Tremors caused by a nearby nuclear blast? Whatever the case, Mount Rushmore wouldn’t stand forever. Like all of mankind’s accomplishments, it was destined to crumble and collapse without the constant, conscientious care it duly deserved. Whether it was a noble idea, a lofty ideal, or merely a scientific or engineering marvel, it would expire if not properly nurtured.
Enough, already!
He smiled at his rambling, closed his eyes and was asleep.
Chapter Fifteen
Day three of the siege.
One hour after dawn.
“I don’t like the looks of this,” Spartacus commented.
“You and me both, pard,” Hickok agreed, peering at the enemy line through a pair of binoculars.
“What are they doing now?” Spartacus asked.
“Nothin’,” the gunman replied. “They’re waitin’ for the word to attack.”
Spartacus pointed at a mound of dirt near the tree line 150 yards from the west wall. “What do you suppose that is? They completed it during the night.”
“I reckon they’re hidin’ somethin’,” Hickok said.
“What?”
“How should I know?” Hickok rejoined. “I can’t see through a pile of dirt.”
The mysterious dirt mound was situated directly across the field from the drawbridge. On either side of the mound, their M-16’s in their hands, were hundreds of soldiers. The scene was the same from each of the walls; whether it was the west, north, south, or east, hundreds of troops were lined up adjacent to a dirt mound.
“Did you get that gas like I told you?” Hickok inquired.
Spartacus nodded. “Blade took most of it with him. All I could locate were three cans.”
“It’ll have to do. Where did you put it?”
“I placed the cans about twenty yards north of the drawbridge,” Spartacus responded. “They’re hidden behind a tree near the moat.”
“Perfect.”
Spartacus scanned the line of soldiers. “Do you think we can hold them?”
Hickok lowered the binoculars. “We’ll do our best, pard.”
“At least they didn’t attack last night,” Spartacus commented.
“Did you get any sleep?” Hickok asked.
“I tried,” Spartacus replied. “But I didn’t get much.”
“Me neither, pard,” Hickok said. He surveyed the defenders nervously manning the western wall. “Two nights in a row without much shut-eye. I’ll bet ol’ Brutus planned it this way. Pretty crafty of the vermin.”
“You think he’s still alive?” Spartacus inquired.
Hickok nodded. “Yep. I got the impression Brutus is one tough hombre.”
Spartacus looked at the gunman. “Say…” he began.
“What?”
“I noticed you placed Blade’s wife, Jenny, and Geronimo’s wife, Cynthia, in C Block with the Healers.”
“Yeah? So?” Hickok responded defensively. “Jenny is a Healer, you know. And Cynthia can lend her a hand.”
Spartacus grinned.
“What’s so blamed humorous?” Hickok demanded.
“I—” Spartacus started to speak, then abruptly stopped.
The clear, penetrating blast of a bugle punctuated the crisp morning air.
“Uh-oh,” Hickok said.
Again the bugle sounded. And a third time.
“Have you passed the word to fire on my command?” Hickok queried.
“The order was given,” Spartacus replied.
“They’ll begin the attack any second now,” Hickok mentioned.
The ground in front of the drawbridge suddenly erupted skyward as a powerful explosion rocked the west wall. Dirt and grass showered onto the western rampart, hitting the defenders.
“What was that?” Spartacus shouted in alarm as the noise and flying debris subsided.
“Beats me!” Hickok was striving to see through the swirling smoke and dust. What the blazes were they using? Now he knew why they’d built the dirt mound!
Another blast shook the west wall, this one closer to the drawbridge.
“They’re getting the range!” Spartacus yelled.
Hickok leaned nearer to Spartacus so his voice could be heard. They were standing on the rampart above the drawbridge with other defenders on both sides. “We’ve got to clear the wall above the drawbridge!” Hickok directed, motioning for Spartacus to begin moving the defenders stationed to their left.
Spartacus promptly complied.
Hickok turned to his right. “Move!” he bellowed. “Get clear of the drawbridge!”
The rampart over the drawbridge was quickly evacuated, the defenders bunching on both sides.
All except for Hickok.
The gunman was still standing above the drawbridge when a shell struck the wooden structure dead center. The drawbridge was exceptionally sturdy; the Founder of the Home had insisted the bridge be four feet thick, and had told those constructing it to use the stoutest wood available. Consequently, although the west wall shook and the upper third of the drawbridge was blown to smithereens, the rest of the structure survived the first hit.
Hickok felt the rampart under his moccasined feet buckle and heave.
He grabbed for the vertical lip of the wall and held fast until the quaking ceased.
The air was literally choked with smoke, dust, and minute wood fragments.
Hickok lurched to his left, his speed impaired by his injured leg.
Spartacus appeared out of the grayish-white smoke. “What are you trying to do? Get yourself killed?”