David L. Robbins - Endworld 06 - Citadel Run.pdf

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Citadel Run by David
Robbins
Chapter One
"I sense danger," the Empath announced for the benefit of the three
other occupants of the green vehicle.
Immediately, the muscular driver of the van-like transport applied the
brakes, bringing the SEAL to an abrupt stop in the middle of the road. His
brawny hands deftly twisted the steering wheel, angling the vehicle,
enabling him to see in both directions without turning in his seat. His
penetrating gray eyes scanned their immediate vicinity as he ran his left
hand through his thick dark hair. The driver wore green fatigue pants and
a black leather vest, and he was armed with a pair of Bowie knives, one
strapped to each hip. "Are you certain, Joshua?" he asked the Empath.
Joshua nodded, his long brown hair bobbing on his narrow shoulders,
his brown eyes partially closed as he concentrated his mental powers on
the emanations he was receiving. He wore a blue shirt and brown pants,
the front of the shirt covered by a large Latin cross he wore suspended
from around his neck. "I'm positive, Blade. I'm picking up definite
hostility, although I am unable to pinpoint the precise source."
"Maybe your battery needs recharging, pard." commented a blond man
in buckskins, a lean figure with broad shoulders and a matched set of
pearl-handled Colt Python revolvers in the holsters of his gunbelt. His
right hand stroked his sweeping blond moustache as he looked around. "I
don't see a critter stirrin' out there."
"Just this once, Hickok," groused the fourth occupant of the transport,
a stocky Indian with brown eyes and black hair, wearing frayed green
 
pants and a shin, both constructed from an old canvas tent, "I wish you'd
use normal English like the rest of us. If I hang around you long enough,
I'm likely to start talking like you do."
"So what's wrong with the way I talk?" Hickok demanded.
"Oh, nothing, really," responded his friend. "But I don't want my wife to
think I'm a dimwit."
"Are you implying, Geronimo, old buddy," Hickok said, glancing at his
closest companion in the entire world, "that I'm a dimwit?"
Geronimo chuckled. "Does a bear crap in the woods?"
"I don't need this aggravation," Hickok stated, feigning annoyance. "I
get enough of it from my wife, you know."
Blade gazed fondly at the gunman, grinning. Hickok was seated in a
bucket seat directly across from him. Between them was a console, and
behind them was another seat running the width of the vehicle. Geronimo
sat directly behind Hickok, Joshua behind Blade. The rear section of the
SEAL was devoted to storage space.
The SEAL.
Blade stared at the dashboard. Thank the Founder for the transport!
Without it, traveling over the countryside would be extremely precarious,
what with the ravaging mutates, the scavengers, and all the other deviates
waiting to kill you at a moment's notice. Kurt Carpenter had been the
Founder, and he had wisely foreseen his beloved Family's need for a
superior vehicle, a mode of transportation capable of withstanding the
structural stress, the hostile environment, and the harshly altered terrain
existing after World War III. Carpenter had spent millions on the design
and building of his prototype, incorporating various unique features and
special capabilities. His Solar-Energized Amphibious or Land
Recreational vehicle was now known by the acronym SEAL. The
transport's body was composed of a nearly indestructible tinted plastic,
enabling anyone inside the SEAL to see outside clearly, but preventing
someone outside the transport from viewing the interior. Carpenter had
known that gas and oil would be difficult to obtain after the collapse of
civilization, so he had instructed his scientists and engineers to power the
SEAL by solar energy, utilizing two solar panels attached to the roof. The
 
energy was converted and stored in a bank of six revolutionary batteries
positioned in a lead-lined case under the vehicle. Four huge tires,
constructed of an impervious synthetic, enabled the SEAL to traverse
obstacles conventional vehicles could never overcome. After the SEAL had
been produced, Carpenter had employed the services of several military
specialists, skilled mercenaries whose talents could be purchased for a
high enough price, and had had them install certain advanced weapons
systems in the prototype.
Kurt Carpenter, Blade thankfully reflected, had seldom missed a trick.
"So what's the plan?" Hickok asked Blade. "Do we cool our heels here or
keep going into the Twin Cities?"
Blade pondered the gunfighter's query. As the head of Alpha Triad, the
Warrior unit comprised of Hickok, Geronimo, and himself, Blade was
responsible for making decisions and directing their actions. Indeed, as
the chief Warrior for the entire Family, Blade was dedicated to preserving
the security of the Home, their thirty-acre survival site in extreme
northwestern Minnesota, and insuring the safety of the Family, the
descendants of Kurt Carpenter's initial survivalist group.
"It must be close to noon," Geronimo noted, gazing out at the late
October sky. "Plenty of time for us to contact Zahner and the rest."
"And don't forget Bertha," Joshua added, casting a thoughtful glance at
Hickok.
Hickok noticed the look. "Why'd you stare at me when you said that?"
he gruffly inquired.
Joshua shrugged and quickly diverted his attention to the road ahead.
"No reason," he answered.
"You sure?" Hickok pressed him.
"Leave him alone," Blade interjected. "He didn't mean anything. Just
because you're nervous about seeing Bertha again is no…”
"Who's nervous?" Hickok interrupted. "Bertha will understand. It'll be a
piece of cake."
 
"If you ask me," Geronimo amended, "you'll be wearing cake all over
your face when she's through with you.”
"I didn't ask you," Hickok glumly retorted. He angrily glared at the
buildings in front of them. "Blast it! Why'd I agree to come back here? I
should be at the Home with my missus, eating her cooking and taking it
easy. Why'd I come back?" he inquired of no one in particular.
"Because you had to return," Blade stated, his mind reviewing the
reason for Alpha Triad's previous trip to the Twin Cities of Minneapolis
and St. Paul, a distance of some three hundred and seventy miles from
their Home. About two months ago, the Family Leader, a wise, wizened,
elderly man by the name of Plato, had sent Alpha Triad and Joshua to the
Twin Cities for urgently needed medical and scientific equipment and
supplies. Plato had hoped Minneapolis and St. Paul would still be intact,
untouched by the scavengers and the looters, at least enough to permit
Alpha Triad to locate the items needed in abandoned hospitals or
universities. Unfortunately, the Leader's assumption had proven to be
erroneous. Alpha Triad had found the Twin Cities in a virtual shambles.
Most of the buildings had been standing since Minneapolis and St. Paul
had been spared a direct hit during World War III, but the structures had
been in utter disrepair, with a few exceptions, and the contents of all the
buildings had long since been used or destroyed by the four factions
fighting for control of the Twin Cities.
Blade sighed. A lot could happen in a century, and in the one hundred
years since the Big Blast—as the Family usually referred to the Third
World War—the Twin Cities had been ravaged by the constant warfare
between the four feuding groups.
"I just saw something move," Geronimo declared, leaning forward and
pointing ahead and to their right. "Behind that overgrown excuse for a
hedgerow."
"Wacks, maybe?" Hickok speculated, retrieving his Navy Arms Henry
Carbine from the console.
"Couldn't tell," Geronimo replied.
The Wacks! Blade grit his teeth and suppressed a shudder. During his
last trip here he'd been captured by the Wacks and had almost lost his life.
In fact, all four of them had nearly bought the farm. He mentally
 
envisioned the layout of the Twin Cities, preparing himself.
The former metropolis was divided up into four different turfs by the
four factions. The Wacks were based in southern Minneapolis, and were
the descendants of the former residents of the Minnesota Hospital for the
Criminally Insane. They were pitiful, demented cannibals, scrounging for
any food they could find, attired in rags and armed with everything from
bricks to pitchforks. The second group was called the Horns, and they
occupied most of St. Paul. They were a strict religious sect, the
descendants of a church leader who had stubbornly refused to evacuate
his congregation when ordered to do so by the Government at the outset
of the war. The third clique was called the Porns by the residents of the
Twin Cities, and they controlled western Minneapolis. They were the
descendants of a drug and pornography kingpin. The final faction, holding
most of northern Minneapolis, was the Nomads, made up of former Horns
and Porns, people weary of the incessant fighting and longing for a better
life.
"I don't see the reason for any alarm even though I sense danger,"
Joshua was saying, interrupting Blade's reverie. "We did achieve a truce
among the Horns, the Porns, and the Nomads, didn't we? We promised
them we'd lead them out of the Twin Cities and aid them in beginning a
new life, possibly in one of the small towns situated near our Home. They
all eagerly embraced our proposal. So why should you be so tense?"
"We're Warriors, Josh," Hickok answered. "We're trained to expect the
worst."
"How sad," Joshua said, frowning. "Surely you must realize how warped
your orientation is, speaking from a totally spiritual perspective."
"You may have a point, Big Words," Hickok admitted, "but this warped
orientation of ours has kept us alive. Don't knock it until you've tried it."
"I have tried it," Joshua reminded the gunman, "and I didn't like it."
"Can we save this philosophical discussion until later?" Geronimo
suggested. "I just spotted someone behind that tree over there." He
indicated a large maple to their left.
"Orders, Blade?" Hickok requested.
 

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