David L. Robbins - Endworld 26 - Madman Run.pdf - Cień Zagłady (eng) - goku88

DEATH FROM THE SKIES

Geronimo raised his hand over his eyes and squinted. "What are those

things attached to the bottom of its wings?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," Blade said, and saw the aircraft arc

into the heavens again. As it did, a small spherical object dropped from

the right wing directly toward them. Blade's intuition flared, and he gave

his friends a shove. "Into the forest! Move!"

Confused, Geronimo and Hickok nonetheless trusted the giant's

judgment enough to obey him instantly and without question. They darted

to the northwest.

Blade raced on their heels, his gray eyes glued to the spherical object.

When it was 15 feet from the soil, he threw himself to the ground and

bellowed, "Get down!"

Again the pair complied, and not a moment too soon. For when they hit

the ground, a blast with the force of a quarter-ton of dynamite rent the air

and rocked the ground…

Madman Run

#26 in the Endworld series

David Robbins

Dedicated to…

Judy, Joshua, and Shane.

To everyone who remembers

those scary Saturday afternoon matinees.

Oh. And to the memory of

H.G. Wells. His imagination

has inspired so many.

A LEISURE BOOK® June 1991 Published by

Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc. 276 Fifth Avenue New York, NY

transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means,

including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and

retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except

where permitted by law.

The name "Leisure Books" and the stylized "L" with design are

trademarks of Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

Printed in the United States of America.

* * * * * *

Dear Plato:

Hi.

Enclosed is the file you requested. I had to go into the basement to find

it. No one has read this particular one in many years, and I was

extremely surprised when you asked for it.

Although you are probably as familiar with the facts as I am, I

thought it might help to refresh both our memories and provide some

background.

All three of them were in their midteens at the time. Blade had just

turned 16, according to the records. This was the fourth of their little

adventures and the one that affected Blade the most.

As usual, I employed a subjective style instead of an objective

narrative. History should be vibrant, not dull.

Knowing you as well as I do, I took the liberty of going through the

archives for the other files related to Blade's travels during the same

period. If you desire to see them, I'll be happy to send them over.

By the way, does Blade know you're doing this? He doesn't take kindly

to anyone prying into his past without a good reason. I know the files

are official records open to every Family member, but it's a privilege

that should not be abused, even by our esteemed leader.

Does this have anything to do with the recent incident involving

Blade's son Gabe and that mutated black bear? If so, I understand your

motive. Will you give this to Blade before or after you read it? Heh-heh.

Well, I've rambled enough. Stop by and visit me sometime. I get lonely

with no one to talk to.

Respectfully ,

RLD

The Chronicler

Chapter One

The scorching July sun was perched at its zenith above the northern

Minnesota landscape. A slight breeze provided scant relief from the heat,

occasionally stirring a leaf in the verdant forest. Birds sang gaily and

insects buzzed, indicating there were no predators abroad.

Three youths were hiking to the southeast at a brisk pace, despite the

temperature. All three carried backpacks, and all three were armed to the

proverbial teeth.

In the lead walked a teenager whose features revealed his Indian

ancestry. The blood of the Blackfeet flowed in his veins, and perhaps it was

due to his biological inheritance that he had always excelled at hunting

and trapping. He wore torn jeans and a faded blue T-shirt that fit his

stocky frame snugly. Tucked under his brown leather belt were two

tomahawks, one on either hip. He held a Winchester 30-30 in his left

hand.

"Whose bright idea was this, anyway?" he asked while swatting a fly the

size of his thumb.

"It wasn't mine, pard," replied the second youth in line. His hair was

blond, and a thin moustache just beginning to take shape on his upper lip

was the same color. He wore buckskins that served to accent his alert blue

eyes. Strapped around his slim waist were a pair of Colt Python .357

Magnum revolvers sporting pearl handles. "Blame this on Mikey."

"The new name is Blade, remember?" stated the third member of their

party, a giant standing six-feet eight-inches tall and endowed with a

herculean physique. A black leather vest and jeans scarcely contained his

bulging muscles. Around his waist were two matched Bowie knives, while

slung over his left shoulder was a Marlin 45-70. His hair was dark, his eyes

a penetrating shade of gray.

"Well, excuse me for living," the blond gunman said. "I've been calling

you Mikey since we were knee-high to a grasshopper. Just because you

had your Naming last week doesn't mean I'll automatically stop."

"You will if you know what's good for you," Blade declared.

The gunman halted and turned. "Was that a threat?"

"It was a promise," the giant said.

"Oh, brother. Here we go again," the Indian interjected, looking at the

gunman. "Hickok, he's right and you know it. You don't like us to call you

Nathan any more, so have the decency to call Mikey by his new name." He

grinned broadly.

"I reckon you have a point, Lone Elk," Hickok said. "Too bad your

Naming isn't for a couple of months yet. Have you picked the one you

want?"

"I've decided to take the name Geronimo."

The young gunfighted cackled. "Leave it to you to pick the name of a

bloodthirsty Injun. Why couldn't you select something civilized?"

Lone Elk straightened indignantly. "Like what, for instance?"

"Oh, I don't know. How about Percival or Barney?"

"If they're such great names, why didn't you pick one for yourself?"

"Because I like a handle with class."

"You know what you can do with your class."

Hickok pretended to be offended. "Why are you being so touchy? It was

the Founder who said a person's name should reflect their personality. I

can't help it if you're more the Percival type than a Geronimo." He glanced

at the giant. "What do you think, Mikey?"

"Leave me out of this," Blade responded. He walked past them and took

the lead, refusing to become embroiled in yet another senseless argument

over their names. Although the three of them were the best of friends, they

still found plenty to bicker about, especially after they'd been hiking for

miles through dense woodland in 100 plus degree weather.

Blade was proud of his new name. He'd spent countless hours

narrowing down a list of those he liked the most and had finally chosen

the one that best described his outlook on life and his preference in

weapons. Ever since the age of four or five, he'd entertained a fascination

with edged arms of every type, and over the years he'd become extremely

proficient in the use of all the knives, swords and daggers in the huge

Family armory. So it was only natural for him to take a name that typified

his passion.

The way he saw it, he owed a debt of gratitude to the long-deceased

Founder of the Home, Kurt Carpenter, the man who had constructed the

30-acre survivalist retreat in northwestern Minnesota shortly before the

outbreak of World War III. A wealthy film maker who realized the

inevitability of nuclear conflict after the liberal Russian president was

deposed by militant hard-liners, Carpenter had spent millions on his pet

project. It was he who first dubbed the compound the Home and

designated his select band of followers as the Family, and for 92 years

they'd survived in a world deranged by radioactive and chemical toxins.

David L. Robbins - Endworld 26 - Madman Run.pdf

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