“My home,” the Lawgiver said, nodding at the complex.
“You live here?” Blade asked in surprise.
“I did when I was younger. My family lived here for over thirty years.”
“But why live at a chemical compound on the outskirts of the city when there are nice homes in Dallas for the taking?”
“My parents settled here a year before I was born for a variety of reasons. First, it’s relatively isolated, on the outskirts as you pointed out, and the gangs, the Chains and the Stompers, seldom venture out this far.
Second, the scavengers and the looters rarely bother with industrial facilities because there’s not much worth taking. Third, it’s not too far out.
My parents could sneak into the city and hunt for supplies.”
“Your folks lived here like hunted animals?”
“It’s not that bad,” the Lawgiver said. “See for yourself.” He headed down the path.
Blade followed, scrutinizing the complex. The path led to a split in the chain-link fence. Three of the buildings at the site were rectangular in shape, while the fourth was square. On the opposite side of the CHEMITEX plant, in the center of the fence, stood a closed metal gate.
Beyond the gate an asphalt access road meandered for seven hundred yards before connecting with a street. “Why didn’t we drive in the front gate?” he asked. “Why go in the back way?”
“It’s a security precaution,” answered Aaron, who walked behind the Warrior. “We don’t want to draw attention to the facility, which we would if we drove up to the front gate. And from the top of the hill we can see for miles. If anyone tailed us, we’d see them.”
“I take it you come here often,” Blade commented.
“Quite often,” Aaron confirmed.
“But why, when you’ve taken over that stadium as your headquarters, as your Temple?”
“The Bowl serves as our temple of worship and for other activities,” Aaron said, “but we can’t obtain the Elixir of Life there.”
“Why do you call the stadium the Bowl?”
“Legend has it that that’s what the place was called before the war,” Aaron divulged. “The Cabbage Bowl, I believe.”
“Enough conversation, Brother Aaron,” the Lawgiver said sternly.
They descended slowly. Blade studied the layout of CHEMITEX, speculating on the purpose the complex had once served. Had the plant manufactured chemicals? If so, what kind? Warfare toxins, or chemicals utilized in agriculture or commercial industry? And how could a chemical concern be connected to the Chosens’ Elixir of Life? For that matter, what was the Elixir? Perhaps the substance had something to do with longevity.
“Do you take the Elixir, Lawgiver?” he asked.
“I have no need. I already bear the Mark of the Chosen,” responded the leader.
Blade didn’t like the implications of that remark. His lips compressed as he contemplated the possibilities. In short order they came to the break in the fence, where someone long ago had snipped the links in a straight line from the bottom to within four inches of the top. Blade waited for the Lawgiver to enter the complex, then he crouched and squeezed through the gap. As he straightened, a movement on the roof of the two-story square building drew his attention, and he saw a man with a rifle watching them.
Aaron and the four guards passed into the facility.
The square building was positioned on the west side of the CHEMITEX plant. To the north, east, and south were the one-story rectangular structures. Above all four reared grimy smokestacks.
The Lawgiver led them to a closed brown door at the rear of the square building. Weeds and brush choked the space between the fence and the building, except for the well-defined footpath. He paused at the door and glanced up, smiling and waving at the man on the roof, who had leaned over the edge to keep an eye on them. “Brother Saul!” he called.
“Lawgiver!” the man responded.
Twisting the knob, the Lawgiver gave the door a shove and stepped inside.
Blade walked over the threshold tentatively, uncertain of what awaited him. A 35-foot corridor connected to another door. Lining both sides of the hall were dozens of lockers.
“Coming here always stirs fond memories,” the Lawgiver commented.
“I can remember playing here as a child, and I know every nook and cranny in the plant.”
“Do you know a secret passage I can use to escape?” Blade asked.
“There is no escape for the impure. Our Maker’s wrath will descend like a specter of death on those who do not have the Mark,” the Lawgiver said.
They ambled to the next door.
Blade’s eyes widened when he beheld the enormous chamber on the other side. Along the east wall were situated a dozen huge vats. In the middle were benches and cabinets, several crammed with beakers and bottles. A wide mixing tank, filled to the brim with a noxious chemical concoction, occupied the area near the north wall. Pipes projected from the containment walls at both ends. Those on the east were connected to the gigantic vats; those on the west went into the ground.
Three men and two women were seated at a nearby bench. They rose and approached, smiling happily.
“Lawgiver!” a woman exclaimed.
Blade’s nostrils registered a pungent odor in the air. He glanced up at the ceiling and spotted a jagged, ten-foot hole in the northwest corner where a portion of the roof had caved in. Dust covered everything.
“How are our converts doing?” the Lawgiver inquired.
“Two have almost converted, but the third is giving us a hard time,” answered a skinny man.
“Have you tried increasing his dosage?”
“Yes. But he squirms and locks his mouth shut, and it’s next to impossible to get the Elixir down his throat,” the skinny man replied.
“I’d like to see the progress they’ve made,” the Lawgiver stated, and looked at the Warrior. “You’ll find this extremely interesting.”
“I’ll bet,” Blade muttered.
They walked toward the northwest corner.
The Warrior saw that a chunk of concrete the size of a car had fallen and broken into sizable bits, and the impact had left a shallow depression in the floor, a miniature crater ten feet in diameter and six inches deep.
Into this crater rainwater had dropped through the hole in the ceiling, collecting into a stagnant pool. He also beheld a sight that made him clench his fists and grit his teeth in suppressed rage.
Lying on their backs within a yard of the pool, attired in fatigue pants and nothing else, their arms and legs spread-eagled, were the three missing soldiers from the Civilized Zone, shackled to spikes imbedded in the cement.
“Do you know who they are?” the Lawgiver questioned.
“I know,” Blade acknowledged gruffly.
They halted a few feet from the soldiers, two of whom were gazing absently into space. The third looked at the Warrior hopefully.
“These are the ones you were sent to find,” the Lawgiver stated. “Notice anything different about them, mercenary?”
Blade did, and he swallowed hard and involuntarily shuddered, his skin crawling as his eyes roved over the bright green splotches covering the two troopers who were staring distractedly. The chest and arms of the third soldier were dotted with faint blemishes.
The Lawgiver snickered maliciously.
“Who are you?” the third soldier abruptly inquired. “I’m Sergeant Whitney. Are you really from the Civilized Zone?”
“I’m Blade,” the Warrior said, and he could tell by the manner in which the noncom reacted that Whitney had heard of him.