David Robbins - Chicago Run

An arrow thudded into a tree trunk on Blade’s right as he let the Commando rip and swung the barrel in an arc. He heard Geronimo’s FNC chatter simultaneously.

Two of the charging figures were lifted from their feet and flung to the grass. The other two were unfazed, firing arrows as rapidly as they could notch the shafts to their bowstrings.

Blade heard an arrow buzz past his left ear and his lips compressed in anger. Not again, you sons of bitches! He tracked them with the barrel, and had the gratification of seeing both men go down, one convulsing and screaming.

The FNC ceased firing and Geronimo declared, “All down on this side.”

Twisting, Blade probed the murky shadows for more bowmen. He distinguished the ominous black outline of the house approximately one hundred yards distant.

“Why were they using bows?” Geronimo whispered. “Anyone who wants a gun can usually find one in the Outlands if they’re willing to pay the price.”

“If more show up we’ll ask them to use howitzers.” Blade said sarcastically. He rose and cautiously advanced toward the last pair he’d downed.

Geronimo kept pace on the right. “Why are you in such a bad mood?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Call me immature, but when someone shoots an arrow through me I tend to get a little ticked off.”

They fell silent, and were soon standing over one of their dead foes.

“Ugly sucker,” Geronimo commented.

Blade absently nodded.

The man was about six feet in height and quite lean and bony, his unkempt black hair down past his shoulders. A bushy beard rimmed his chin. He wore tattered jeans and crudely made sandals, nothing else. His skin was grimy, caked with dirt in spots; it appeared he hadn’t taken a bath since birth. A deer-hide quiver hung on his back, and lying at his side was a stout longbow.

“All he needs is a loincloth and I’d take him for a caveman,” Geronimo said.

They stepped to another body and found a man of similar height, weight, and general characteristics. Even the faces resembled one another.

Blade bent over for a closer inspection. There were enough similarities to lead him to suspect that the pair had been related, possibly even brothers.

“I hope Nathan didn’t run into these guys,” Geronimo said, scanning the forest.

“If he did, they might have taken him to the house,” Blade said, and made toward it. In the back of his mind he doubted the gunfighter had been taken unawares by the bloodthirsty band. For one thing, Hickok’s reflexes were the best of all the Warriors; at the slightest hint of a threat he could draw and fire faster than any human alive. For another, the gunfighter, like many of his combat-seasoned peers, had developed an uncanny sixth sense about dangerous situations. Catching him by surprise had rarely been done.

They crept to within 20 yards of the house without mishap. No more of the odoriferous bowmen appeared.

Blade halted in the shelter of a tree and studied the dwelling. There were no lights on within. The roof appeared to sag and the east wall slanted at an unnatural angle, suggesting structural damage brought on by a century of neglect and the ceaseless battering of the elements. A series of wooden steps led up to a narrow porch on which were a pair of rocking chairs. He glanced at Geronimo, who had crouched nearby, and motioned, starting forward with his Commando trained on the front door.

Not a sound came from the bowels of the once-stately residence. The wind rattled a few thin branches, the noise resembling the clattering of old, dry bones.

Pausing next to the bottom step, Blade listened while scrutinizing the blank, dark shapes of the windows. The glass pane in each had been broken out. He raised his foot to the third step, and frowned when the wood creaked loudly. In a rush he climbed to the porch and squatted.

Geronimo came up beside him.

Blade glided to the right of the door, and discovered it had long ago been torn from its hinges and now was lying on the floor just inside. He could barely make it out. The deepest cave in the depths of the earth would be hard pressed to match the near-total darkness inside. A faint, chill breeze seemed to be stirring the air, arising somewhere within.

After waiting a minute and not having anyone shoot at them or challenge them, Blade eased around the corner and placed his back against the wall.

Geronimo did the same, only he went to the left.

Now Blade had to wait longer, giving his eyes ample time to adjust to the lack of light. When they had, all he could perceive were dim shadows.

He speculated that it might be wiser to wait outdoors until daybreak and then go over every square inch of the house, but if Hickok had been captured, then every minute of delay was another nail in the gunfighter’s coffin.

The room in which they found themselves contained intact furniture, which in itself was remarkably unusual. A sofa lined the far wall, and there were three chairs positioned randomly.

Blade stepped along the wall until he stood near a doorway. A hasty peek revealed additional furniture, a bed and a chair, their contours easily recognizable. He proceeded farther, and halted at the base of a flight of stairs.

Feet pattered on the floor above. Then all was quiet.

Geronimo promptly joined his friend.

About to start upward, Blade glanced at the front doorway as a precaution, and was shocked to behold a thin form framed there, another of the bearded nocturnal prowlers armed with a bow.

The man was in the act of drawing the string.

Spinning, Blade punctured the bowman’s chest with a short burst that smashed the guy onto the porch.

No sooner had the blasting of the Commando died away than the heavy pounding of feet heralded the advent of a newcomer on the scene, someone who raced downstairs heedless of the consequences.

Whirling around, Blade saw the person abruptly halt after rounding a bend in the stairs. He glimpsed swirling tresses and empty hands that were outflung in shock, and he barked a harsh, “Freeze!”

Naturally, the woman turned and fled.

Blade took the lead and pounded in pursuit, taking four steps at a stride, his long legs lending him exceptional speed, and he was only a few feet behind her when she reached the next floor and tried to take a left.

She slipped and fell to her knees, and he maximized her blunder by overtaking her and touching the barrel of the Commando to the back of her head. “I said freeze,” he reiterated.

This time she obeyed, venting a terrified whine.

Looking up, Blade gazed along a narrow hallway. As near as he could tell it was empty.

Almost silently Geronimo stepped past the giant and the woman and covered the corridor.

“Who are you?” Blade demanded.

Another whine was the response.

“You must have a name,” Blade snapped. “Tell me.”

Haltingly, stuttering in fear, the woman answered, “Isabel.”

“Isabel what?”

The woman had her head bowed and her long hair hid her face. She replied softly, her voice barely audible. “Isabel Kauler.”

“Stand up,” Blade directed, his ears tuned to detect any noises from below.

With as much enthusiasm as if she’d just been handed a death sentence, the woman stood, deliberately keeping her back to the giant and her head still bowed.

“Turn around.”

As if she felt certain she was about to confront the worst ogre that ever existed, Isabel Kauler turned.

Blade inhaled and almost gagged. Like the strange bowmen, this woman evidently was ignorant of the fact that at one point along humankind’s arduous evolutionary climb from the status of a lowly primate to a soul-endowed creation of a Supreme Spirit, a ritual known as the bath had been invented. “Where are the rest of your people?”