David L. Robbins - Endworld 01 - The Fox Run.pdf

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The Fox Run
by
David L. Robbins
Chapter One
The blasted dog pack still had his scent!
Blade paused, angry, his gray eyes smoldering, his head cocked to one
side, listening intently. How long had they been after him now? Sweat
soaked his thick, curly hair and caked his green canvas pants and tattered
fatigue shirt to his muscular body. At least a dozen were on his trail, their
eager baying filling the morning air. They were close, too close, and
narrowing the gap rapidly.
Just what he needed!
Blade ran, balancing the deer carcass on his broad right shoulder,
hefting his bow in his left hand. The quiver of arrows on his back and the
Bowie knife on each hip bounced as he moved. He'd never make it to the
Home with the extra weight, and after the three days of tracking it took
him to bag the buck, three days with little sleep and less food, he wasn't
about to abandon the meat to the dogs.
No way!
Blade knew he was only two miles from the Home, two miles from
shelter and comfort, two miles from help. But the others had no idea when
he would return, they didn't know which direction he would be coming
from, and they wouldn't be this far from the Home under normal
circumstances anyway. In short, he couldn't rely on any aid from his
friends.
 
He was up the creek without a paddle. Blade smiled grimly. Who was he
kidding? He was up the creek without a canoe.
The howling was louder, closer. The fleetest of the pack had the fresh
scent of blood in their nostrils, and the aroma goaded them to increased
speed.
Blade ran over the crest of a small hill and paused. A natural clearing
was forty yards away, half the distance down the hill. It would be his best
bet. He would be able to see them coming. Even better, they wouldn't be
able to sneak up on him and nip his hamstrings when his back was
turned.
The first dog must have spotted him because a tremendous howl split
the dawn.
Blade hurried, running for all he was worth, the buck slowing him down,
though, impeding his progress, and he knew he was in trouble, knew he
wouldn't quite make the clearing, even before, he heard the patter of
rushing pads on the hard ground and then the ominous, throaty growl
from a canine pursuer. He tried to whirl, but he was too late, his
movements hampered by the weight of the buck.
The dog hit him squarely in the center of his back, the buck absorbing
the brunt of the brutal impact, the force of the blow still sufficient to drive
Blade to his knees, and he dropped the deer and twisted, his right-hand
Bowie drawn and ready, held waist high, the blade extended.
He's show these bloodsuckers how he got his nickname!
The lead dog was a big one, called a German shepherd in the days before
the Big Blast. Huge, hungry, and deadly, it curled its lips back to display
long, sharp teeth, its body crouched, its legs tensed for the spring.
The bow had landed to one side. The buck was lying on the ground
between them.
"Come and get it!" Blade hissed.
The dog obliged. The German shepherd leaped, snarling.
Blade side-stepped, his right hand flashing, the Bowie slicing into the
dog, opening its neck, crimson spurting over the grass.
The dog yelped and landed unsteadily, wavering, stunned by the sudden
loss of blood.
Blade put his Bowie in its sheath and scooped up his bow. He drew an
arrow and fired in one smooth, practiced motion, the dog dead on its feet
before it realized what had happened, and Blade was spinning, another
arrow ready, because the pack was on him now, and the second dog was
 
caught in midair, the arrow thudding into the hairy brown chest and
toppling the animal to one side.
The pack didn't miss a beat.
Another dog, a mixed breed, came in low and fast and struck Blade in
the legs as he was notching another arrow to the bow string.
Blade fell, flinging the bow aside, grabbing his Bowie knives, one in each
hand, and he rose to his knees, slashing right and left, frantically cutting
and slicing, berserk, and he lost count of the number of dogs he laid open,
the fur and the dust and the blood flying in every direction, the barking
and snapping and yowling reaching a crescendo.
A Doberman pinscher fearlessly plowed into Blade, slamming into his
chest, bowling him over, exposed and defenseless.
The pack expectantly howled with glee and closed in.
Blade managed to bury his left-hand Bowie in the Doberman. I gave it
my best shot, he thought, which was small consolation for failing to get
the meat back to the Family.
Teeth bit into his left calf.
Another dog had his left wrist in a vise grip.
Blade lunged with his remaining Bowie, ramming the knife into a black
dog's throat. He was surrounded by the raging canines.
One of the dogs to his right was abruptly picked up and smashed to the
earth, and an instant later the blast from the 30-06 carried to Blade's
ears. Another dog, the one gripping his wrist, twisted and dropped away,
flesh and blood erupting from its neck.
Hickok, Blade speculated.
A war whoop was added to the din.
And Geronimo.
Blade grinned, relieved, as the 30-06 continued booming.
Four more of the dogs were down now, and the ones still able took off,
making for the nearest cover, a stand of trees and dense brush twenty
yards to the west.
The rifleman was reluctant to let them go. Two more dogs were dead
before the remnant of the pack reached cover.
Had to be Hickok, Blade knew. Hickok was the best shot, and Geronimo
would be loath to waste the bullets.
Blade slowly stood, taking stock of his wounds. He was bleeding from a
number of bite wounds, but none were particularly severe. His left wrist
 
was throbbing, the bone exposed. He angrily kicked the dog responsible
for his wounded wrist.
"I think the critter is dead," someone commented.
"He's obviously not a dog lover," added someone else.
Blade turned, smiling.
"You always gotta do everything the hard way?" Hickok asked.
"He likes to do things the hard way," Geronimo observed. "He thinks it
builds his character."
Blade faced his two best friends, grinning.
"We came out of the woods at the bottom of the hill," Hickok said,
pointing, "just as the dogs closed in on you. Had to fire and run at the
same time. Tricky. I was hoping I wouldn't waste a bullet by accidentally
hitting you." He laughed.
"You mean that you were aiming at the dogs?" Geronimo pretended to
be surprised.
Blade shook his head at their antics, delighted they were there.
Hickok was examining the shot dogs, insuring that none of them were
still alive, his lean frame coiled for action. He held his rifle loosely in both
hands, casually sweeping the barrel from side to side. A leather belt was
draped around his hips, a holster hanging from each side, his prized
ivory-handled .357's loaded and gleaming in the sun, reflecting the
meticulous care and attention they received from their owner. And well
they should. With a rifle, Geronimo and one or two others in the Family
might come close to tying Hickok, but with a handgun Hickok was
unequaled in marksmanship, almost uncanny in his speed and ability to
hit any target without consciously appearing to aim his revolver. The
.357's were his by virtue of his skill, and he was called Hickok because he
had selected it on his sixteenth birthday, at his Naming. One of the old
history books called The Gunfighters told of a man long ago who was a
legend with pistols, a man called Hickok, a tall man with blond hair and a
sweeping moustache. It was fitting that sixteen-year-old Nathan, already a
qualified member of the Warrior Class at that early age, should select as
his namesake of the deadliest gunfighter of all time, simply because he,
Nathan, was the most proficient gunman in the Family's history.
The Warrior Class was well trained.
While Hickok checked the dogs, Geronimo kept alert, scanning the tree
line, prepared for any assault. In contrast to the blond, thin Hickok,
Geronimo was stocky and had black hair. Where Hickok had blue eyes,
 
Geronimo had brown. Where Hickok was tall, Geronimo was short. Where
Hickok had long hair and a moustache like his hero, Geronimo wore his
hair cut short and his face was clean shaven. And what Geronimo lacked
in ability with a handgun, he more than made up for in other areas.
Geronimo was the Family's supreme tracker, a lingering legacy of his
Indian heritage. Geronimo was proud of the Indian in his blood, despite
the fact that Plato had informed him his blood contained, at most,
one-eighth Blackfoot inheritance. Geronimo could hunt, he was immensely
strong, and his eyesight was spectacular at great distances. He was their
best trapper, his trap line in the winter months often being their single
largest supplier of fresh meat and new skins. Even in the worst of weather,
Geronimo would return with food.
Blade, his grey eyes twinkling, motioned at the slain dogs. "Don't think
I'm not grateful for the timely rescue, but how in the world did you know
where to find me? Lucky?"
"Design, Plato would say," Geronimo replied.
"What's that mean?"
"It means," Hickok interjected, "that Hazel told us where to find you.
Specifically, which direction you would be coming from. The timing was
strictly ours. I'm just glad we didn't stop to relieve ourselves."
Hazel. Blade had experienced the results of her unique power several
times in the past. Hazel's official title was Chief Family Empath. The
Family was blessed, currently, with six individuals with psychic
capabilities. Hazel was the oldest, the one with the most sensitive nature.
"Why was Hazel homing in on me?" Blade asked Hickok.
"Plato asked her to." Hickok had completed his check of the dogs; they
were all dead.
"Why?"
"We don't know ourselves," Geronimo answered. "But whatever it is, it's
urgent. Plato sent us to get you back as quickly as we could."
"I wonder what's up?" Blade asked, more to himself than the others.
"Instructions?" Hickok requested of Blade.
Blade paused, pondering. He was the section leader of the Alpha Triad,
and as such he was responsible for issuing orders and implementing
strategy. The Warrior Class was divided into four triads, each with a
designated section leader. Plato had paired Blade with Hickok and
Geronimo and appointed him as the leader. Plato had said that their
teaming "compensated for individual deficiencies and maximized
 

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