David Robbins - Madman Run

“Hey, Mikey!” the gunfighter yelled. “Wait for us.”

Halting, Blade turned and regarded them critically as they jogged up to him. “This isn’t the time or place for your petty squabbles,” he said.

“Whoa! Who died and made you boss?” Hickok quipped.

“As you pointed out, this was my brainstorm. So by rights I should take charge,” Blade noted.

“We’re both Warriors. I don’t see why you should lord it over us just because you had an idea for once.”

“What about me?” Lone Elk interjected. “I can lead, too.”

Hickok snorted. “You don’t count. You’re not even a Warrior yet.”

“But I will be soon,” Lone Elk pointed out.

Blade smiled. “I bet you can hardly wait.”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

But Blade did have an excellent idea of the excitement his friend felt.

After all, he’d felt the very same way when it came time for the Family Elders to decide on his nomination.

The Warrior class consisted of twelve Family members who were carefully screened not only for their ability as fighters, but for their temperament and intelligence as well. They were diligently trained under the tutelage of a retired Warrior in everything from the martial arts to combat psychology. Because of a recent mishap, three vacancies had developed. Blade and Hickok had applied and were accepted, and shortly it would be Lone Elk’s turn.

“If you ask me, we don’t need someone in charge,” Lone Elk stated. “It’s not like we’re on official Family business. All we’re doing is taking a day to goof off.”

“Speak for yourself, twinkle-toes,” Hickok responded. “I’m a Warrior now. I never goof off.”

Lone Elk unexpectedly leaned down and inspected the grass at their feet.

“What the blazes are you doing?” Hickok demanded.

“Making a note of this spot. I want to return next week and see how well you’ve fertilized it.”

Blade chuckled and marched onward, eager to reach their destination.

If they didn’t spot the castle soon, they’d have to head back to avoid being abroad after dark—not that they were afraid—but at night the predators and mutations were out in force, and anyone foolish enough to roam around courted death or risked being maimed.

The eerie stillness persisted. Not so much as a bee buzzed.

“Have you guys noticed how quiet it is?” Blade asked.

“Yeah. And I don’t like it,” Lone Elk said.

“What’s the big deal?” Hickok wanted to know. “We’ll blow away anything stupid enough to mess with us.” His hands hovered near his Pythons.

Lone Elk stopped. “Did you hear that?”

“I didn’t hear nothing,” Hickok said. “Your mind is playin’ tricks on you.”

As if deliberately trying to prove the gunfighter wrong, howls and snarls erupted from a dense thicket to the west, and a moment later a feral pack of mutations burst from cover and charged.

They resembled coyotes in shape and size, but there any resemblance ended. Hideously transformed by an unknown agent, the nine creatures loping toward the three humans lived purely to kill. Their bodies were hairless and covered with sores that oozed a yellowish-green pus. Their teeth were bared, their eyes blazing like miniature beacons of blood-crazed insanity.

Blade had seen such horrors before. The Family referred to such creatures as mutates. None of the Elders knew what caused them to exist, although Blade’s father and another man who was called Plato had often speculated the chemical weapons employed during the war were somehow responsible. If radiation was the culprit, so the reasoning went, then there would be humans similarly affected, and there wasn’t a single report in the entire Family history of a human mutate. As far as anyone knew, only reptiles, amphibians and mammals were mysteriously altered. Never had anyone observed a mutated bird or insect. Since the war, the mutate population had grown dramatically to the point where they were a serious threat to all travelers, day or night. Plato, the wisest member of the Family, believed the mutates were increasing by geometric progression, and he was eager to secure a live juvenile specimen for analysis.

Unfortunately, the only way to get one was to kill it.

The young giant pressed the Marlin to his right shoulder, sighted on the foremost mutate, and fired.

Struck in the head, the lead coyote was flipped backwards by the impact of the slug. Other members of the pack collided with it, causing momentary confusion.

Lone Elk opened up with the Winchester, levering off two shots in rapid succession, the sharp retorts producing two dead beasts.

Leaving six.

Blade was aiming at another onrushing form when Hickok moved around him. He held his fire, the Marlin still raised to provide cover if need be, but as he anticipated, his help wasn’t required.

The blond youth’s hands streaked those gleaming Colts from their holsters and twin shots sounded as one. Three times the gunman stroked each hammer, and after the six shots there were six twitching, dying mutates stretched out on the grass. Each one had been shot in the head between the eyes. Dead center between the eyes. Grinning, Hickok ambled toward the pack, ready to finish off any that tried to rise. None did.

Lone Elk glanced at Blade and said softly, “If he gets any faster he’ll have to change his name to lightning.” Then he looked at the gunman and declared, “You could have saved some for us.”

“I can’t help it if you’re as slow as molasses,” Hickok retorted, in the act of prodding each coyote with a toe.

“Don’t get smart with us, ding-a-ling. We know your secret,” Lone Elk said.

“What secret?”

“Your so-called quick draw is a trick done with mirrors.”

“Anytime you feel inclined to try and outdraw my mirrors, feel free to let me know.”

Lone Elk stepped forward to help check the bodies. “You’d shoot little ol’ me?” he asked innocently.

“Of course not. Oh, I might crease your head, but it’s so swelled up you’d never notice the difference.”

Blade surveyed the woods in case there were more mutates in hiding.

Nothing moved, and he relaxed a bit. “We’d better get going,” he urged.

“If there are scavengers in the area, they’re bound to have heard the shots.”

Hickok looked up and smirked. “There you go again, trying to take charge.”

“You can’t blame him,” Lone Elk said. “It’s in his veins. His dad is our Leader, after all.”

“And one day Mikey might follow in daddy’s footsteps,” the gunfighter joked.

“I have no intention of becoming the Leader of the Family,” Blade asserted stiffly. “How many times do I have to tell you?”

“You can tell us until you’re blue in the face, pard, but we won’t believe you.”

“Why not?”

“Because we know you,” Hickok said. Satisfied the mutates were all dead, he began to reload the Magnums.

“And what does that mean?” Blade demanded.

“It means you’re a rotten liar. Deep down you really do want to become Leader some day.”

“You’re nuts.”

“Hey, Lone Elk agrees with me,” Hickok said, glancing at the Blackfoot.

“Don’t you?”

“Are you talking to me?” Lone Elk rejoined.

“No, I’m talkin’ to one of the blamed critters,” the gunman muttered, then raised his voice. “Of course I’m talkin’ to you, mutton head.”

“If you care to address me, from now on you’ll call me by my new name.”

“You want me to call you Geronimo?”

“Yes.”

Hickok paused, a cartridge in his left hand. “But you haven’t had your Naming yet.”

“So? I will, soon. And since Mike and you already have your new names, I want you to call me by mine.”