David Robbins - Madman Run

“Lead the way,” Geronimo said.

Hickok vented a protracted sigh while watching the monster crash through the brush. “Sure. Whatever you want, pard.”

Taking a few seconds to orient himself by using the stars, Blade hiked in the directions of the tilled field and the garden. He felt uncomfortable at leaving without making at least a token effort to slay Grell, but he couldn’t bring himself to turn around and go back.

“That thing is the biggest mutation I’ve ever seen or heard of,” Geronimo commented. “I wonder how Morlock exerts control over it?”

“Most likely with his charming personality,” Hickok quipped.

“Why do you think Selwyn referred to it as the immortal one?”

Geronimo wondered.

“Who knows?” Hickok rejoined. “I don’t make it a habit of tryin’ to figure out fruit loops and fairies.”

“They’re serfs, remember?”

“Serfs, smerfs, what’s the difference?”

They walked in silence for five minutes, listening to the receding footsteps of the monster.

“I had no idea mutations grew so big,” Geronimo said.

“Drop the subject, will you?” Blade snapped. “We have other things to consider.”

“Like what, pard?”

“Like what we’re going to do about Morlock, Endora and Elphinstone.”

“What’s to consider? We blow ’em away.”

“I agree we must stop them from enslaving the serfs, but how far can we go? Do we have the right to kill them, if need be?”

“Sure we do,” Hickok said without hesitation.

“Oh? Even though they’re not a threat to the Family?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Everything,” Blade said. “You and I are Warriors. We’re pledged to safeguard the Home. Technically speaking, neither of us has jurisdiction here.”

Hickok chuckled. “Why worry about a measly thing like jurisdiction when it comes to blowin’ away a couple of lowlifes?”

“Because if we kill Morlock or any member of his family without proper justification, we’re no better than common killers. Morally, we’d be in the wrong.”

“Here you go with the morality business again. Why don’t you forget being a Warrior and become a spiritual Teacher instead?”

The sarcastic comment stung Blade. A few years ago he had toyed with the idea of becoming a Teacher, as the Family designated those gifted individuals who possessed the capacity to teach truth and were in tune with the Source of all, but he’d decided his natural talents lay elsewhere.

Except for an occasional insect noise and once the hooting of an owl, an eerie stillness enveloped the forest.

Blade hoped his sense of direction was equal to the task and received confirmation when they broke from the trees and discovered the garden straight ahead. There was no sign of the serfs. “Where are they?” he absently mumbled.

“Probably off huggin’ trees,” Hickok said.

“They could have heard us coming and ran off,” Geronimo guessed.

They skirted the garden until they came to the grassy road. Parked there was a crudely constructed, wooden wagon, six feet high and with immense wooden wheels and a thick beam for a tongue. Tilling implements were piled high inside.

“So now we know what made the ruts,” Geronimo observed.

“Maybe they went to the castle,” Blade said. “Let’s check.” Only when he uttered the recommendation did he recall Grell had headed toward the castle. Again he thought of the enormous brute and those eyes the color of fresh blood, and he involuntarily shivered as if from a chilling breeze. It was too late to change his mind without arousing suspicion, so he led them slowly along the road.

The front of the castle came into sight and with it the narrow field in front where dozens of pale forms danced and played in innocent abandon.

“Get down,” Blade whispered, dropping to one knee.

“What the blazes are they doing now?” Hickok asked.

“Having fun,” Geronimo said.

“With that hairy fart runnin’ around loose? Those people ain’t playin’ with a full deck, if you get my drift.”

“They’re like children,” Geronimo remarked quietly. “I’d say they have the emotional maturity of twelve year-olds.”

“Should we try to capture one again?”

“Not yet,” Blade answered. “They’d see us and take off. We’re no match for them unless we can take them by surprise.”

“Now I’ve heard everything,” Hickok complained. “When you wouldn’t let us tangle with Morlock and that great ape earlier, I held my peace. And when you beat a retreat without takin’ on Grell, I figured you knew what you were doing.” He gestured at the serfs. “But when you claim we’re no match for a bunch of bimbos and dorks who like to traipse around in their underwear and who couldn’t stomp a flea in a fair fight, I draw the line.”

So saying, the gunfighter rose and sped toward the serfs.

“Wait,” Blade said. He tried to grab his friend’s wrist and missed. He saw the pale figures collectively whirl around and gape at Hickok, then they fled en masse, giggling and running without really exerting themselves.

The gunfighter never slowed.

“Damn,” Blade snapped and took off after him.

Geronimo kept pace on the giant’s left. “You’ll have to forgive Nathan,” he commented.

“Why should I?” Blade responded testily.

“Because unlike the rest of us, he gets by with half a brain.”

“When I’m done with him, he won’t even have that.”

Predictably, the serfs reached the castle well ahead of their puffing pursuer and ran along the base of the wall toward the yard in back.

The gunfighter was doing his best, but it was the tortoise and the hare all over again, and he wasn’t the hare.

“Hickok! Stop!” Blade bellowed, and when his cry produced no result, added under his breath, “Idiot.”

“You’ve got to admit there’s never a dull moment with him around,” Geronimo said proudly.

“For someone who’s always on his case, you certainly stick up for him a lot.”

“What are friends for?”

Blade increased his pace, annoyed that he wouldn’t be able to overtake Hickok before the gunfighter reached the rear corner. He didn’t like the idea of Hickok being out of sight, even for ten seconds. “Will you stop?” he shouted.

Incredibly, Hickok glanced back and grinned, his white teeth contrasted by the darkness. “I’m gainin’,” he replied and kept going.

“Remind me to dunk him in the moat when we get back,” Blade said angrily.

“Okay.”

“Fifty or sixty times.”

In graceful leaps and bounds the serfs went around the castle and disappeared.

“Hickok, don’t—” Blade began and stopped in midcry when the gunfighter took the corner. He pumped his arms and legs frantically, pulling ahead of Geronimo, and pounded into the rear yard with his mouth open to chew out Hickok for being such a blockhead.

But Hickok wasn’t there.

Nor were the serfs.

Stunned, Blade halted so abruptly he nearly tripped over his own feet.

He glanced to the right and the left. It was impossible, and yet it had happened. His intuitive dread had not been unfounded.

Geronimo came around the corner and stopped short. “Where’s Nathan?” he blurted.

“You tell me,” Blade said, gazing at the castle and the mausoleums, and jogged toward the latter when the thought occurred to him that Hickok might be behind one of the tombs.

Geronimo ran at his side. “He couldn’t have just vanished,” he declared in astonishment.

“He did.”

They conducted a sweep of the mausoleums but found no trace of their rash companion. Winding up in front of the biggest tomb, they stood in mutual, baffled contemplation, trying to make sense of the inexplicable.