When World War Three finally had erupted, when the misguided political madness known variously and collectively as government had attained inevitable fruition, Carpenter and those relatives and friends he had gathered about him at his carefully selected survival site actually had outlasted his many detractors.
The horror of the aftermath of global nuclear devastation had precluded any urge to gloat; conversely, Carpenter had often wished he had perished in the holocaust, that he had not lived to see the world as he knew it come to an abrupt end. Living had become a bitter experience, an excruciating conflict for the simple basic necessities. The world had done a radioactive flip-flop, and the terrifying results were worse than anyone had predicted they would be. For instance, Carpenter had never anticipated chemical warfare would be extensively employed, never envisioned the outcome, and had failed to include chemical contingencies in his master plan. In the end, one of the clouds had gotten him.
Still, all in all, Carpenter had built well.
The Home, as Carpenter dubbed his survival site—and the name stuck—was built on a thirty-acre plot. First, he had surrounded his site with sturdy brick walls, twenty feet high. Later, his followers would string barbed wire all around the top of this first fortification. Next, along the inside of the wall, he had dug a twenty-foot trench. A large stream flowed across his property, entering from the northwest and exiting towards the southeast. Using aqueducts, the walls had been constructed over the stream. He had diverted part of the flow to the inside trench, creating another effective barrier, a moat. He knew human nature, knew that with the decline of civilization, culture, and law, society would revert to primitive, bestial levels, and he wanted his Family, as he affectionately called his followers, to be prepared to defend itself if the need arose.
Carpenter’s buildings had been fabricated with strength and durability in mind, from reinforced concrete. The Home would have never survived a direct nuclear hit, or even a near miss, but he had selected his isolated site with that possibility in mind. He had located his survival site as far as possible from primary military targets, and the nearest civilian metropolis had been hundreds of miles distant. His buildings, both above and below ground, had been built according to scientifically calculated specifications for optimum impenetrability. He had been confident the Home would not be destroyed in the initial attack.
Carpenter’s main worry had been the fallout. He had realized the pattern of fallout would be dictated by the targets hit, the number and type of weapons used, and, more importantly, the prevailing wind currents and other weather conditions. His fear of fallout had been his reason for building the underground chambers, well stocked with provisions, oxygen tanks and masks, an internal ventilation system, and the special equipment required for the monitoring of gamma rays. Fortunately, the direct fallout the site received had been minimal, and within a month of the nuclear war the Family had been able to come above ground again.
All these facts, and more, Kurt Carpenter had detailed in his diary. They were taught to every child in the Family during their schooling years.
Blade was thoroughly versed in the story of Kurt Carpenter’s life and lasting triumph, and he ruminated on the implications as the Alpha Triad descended the hill west of the Home.
A strident horn sounded inside the Home.
“They’ve seen us,” Hickok commented.
They could distinguish figures scurrying along the rampart on the upper level of the wall. Most of them were congregating above the drawbridge placed in the center of the western wall. The fields surrounding the Home were kept cleared of all vegetation except grass, a necessary precaution against surprise attack for human and bestial foes.
As they crossed the field nearest the drawbridge, Geronimo scanned the people on the wall. “Jenny is waiting for you,” he said to Blade.
Blade squinted, compensating for the glare of the bright sun. “Where…?” he began.
“I see her,” Hickok confirmed. “Just to the south of the drawbridge.”
Blade spotted her too. Her blonde hair was swaying in the breeze, and she waved at him.
Blade returned her wave.
“So when are you two binding?” Hickok asked.
“When we’re damn good and ready,” Blade snapped.
“Touchy.” Hickok grinned.
“You know how he is about his personal affairs,” Geronimo said. “Why bait him?”
“It’s just his nature,” Blade responded before Hickok could reply.
“And it keeps you from getting a swelled head,” Hickok cracked. “Our future leader should maintain a firm grasp on humility, and not distort his importance out of all proportion.”
Blade stopped. “What do you mean by that?”
Hickok and Geronimo were still walking.
“I said,” Blade emphasized, “just what the hell do you mean by that?”
They halted and faced him.
“I was just quoting Plato,” Hickok said. “No need to lose your temper, Red.”
“You know what he meant,” Geronimo offered.
“Do I?” Blade retorted.
“Don’t play the naive innocent with us,” Hickok stated sharply.
“Whether you like the idea or not, pard, the fact is that Plato wants you to become leader after he kicks.”
“What if I don’t want the responsibility of leadership?” Blade countered.
“Tough,” Hickok said.
“Why must we go over this again and again?” Geronimo asked Blade.
“Because I’m not sure I want to be leader,” Blade replied honestly.
“Why not?” Hickok demanded. “Too good for us?”
“Maybe I don’t want over six dozen lives dependent on decisions I would be required to make.”
“The Family must have a leader,” Geronimo reminded Blade. “And you have the natural aptitude and ability a leader should have. It’s in your blood, Plato says. Your father had it.”
“And look where it got him!” Blade rejoined.
“Now is not the time and place for this.” Geronimo waved his left hand in the direction of the Home. More members of the Family were gathered for their homecoming.
“Let’s go.” Blade glared at Hickok, who laughed, and led the way.
The drawbridge was being lowered and a reception committee was forming on the other side of the moat.
Blade scanned the rampart, but Jenny was gone. A moment later he saw her come into view on the drawbridge. She waved again and ran towards him.
The horn blasted again.
Blade glanced up at the lookout post on the northwest corner of the wall.
Whoever had duty had already spotted them and sounded off, so why was he blowing the horn again?
The lookout blew twice more, paused, then three more times.
“Damn!” Hickok exclaimed.
“Where?” Blade was turning, searching the horizon.
“There!” Geronimo pointed.
Three quick notes, a pause, then three more. It could only be one thing.
Blade saw it, and his skin crawled.
The cloud was creeping over the hill behind them, shrouding the forest in a peculiar greenish mist, traveling slowly, borne by the breeze.
“Blade!” Jenny screamed, running faster.
“Make for shelter,” Blade directed his friends.
Hickok obeyed, running. Geronimo, fatigued from carrying the buck for two miles, started to shuffle off.
“For God’s sake,” Blade yelled, “drop the carcass!”
“But the food…” Geronimo started to protest.
Blade grabbed the deer by a rear leg and yanked, toppling the buck to the ground. “You’re more important! Move!”
Geronimo sprinted towards the Home.
Blade looked back. The wind was picking up, it had shifted since the mutate incident, and was now coming from the west, bearing the cloud right down on them. It was coming fast, too fast!