David Robbins - Madman Run

“Indeed we do. That’s why I’m here. I knew you entered the underground through the portal in the mausoleum and came down to meet you.”

“How did you know?”

Morlock grinned. “That’s my little secret.” He shifted and gestured upward. “Must we stand here in the draft to discuss what’s on your mind?

Why not come upstairs with me where we can have our chat in a civilized fashion?”

“Lead the way,” Blade said, keeping the Marlin trained on the thin man’s back as Morlock led the way toward ground level. His every instinct told him not to let down his guard for an instant. For the time being, though, he had to play along, at least until he knew the fate of Hickok and Geronimo. “Where’s Grell?” he asked.

“You know about him, do you?”

“Just answer the question.”

“Very well. I’d imagine he’s out trying to round up the serfs. Eventually they’ll stop playing their games and let themselves be herded together.”

“Just like cattle,” Blade stated bitterly.

“In a way, they are.”

“Where did they come from? What have you done to them?”

“I’ll explain everything once we’re comfortable.”

Blade fell silent until they reached the ground floor. The sight of candles flickering in holders at regular intervals along the corridor prompted an observation. “I thought all of you can see in the dark.”

“Our night vision is exceptional, but we’re not completely weaned from a dependence on light. We usually keep a few candles lit after dark,” Morlock said and began to climb the next flight.

“Where are you going?”

“The chamber I have in mind is on the third floor.”

“What’s wrong with one on this floor?”

Morlock paused to look down. “Not a thing, but the sitting room I have in mind is very comfortable and private. We won’t be disturbed there.”

Who would disturb them? Blade wondered, reluctantly following all the way to the third landing. He stayed on the small man’s heels as they went right to the second door, which was wide open. Inside was a lavishly furnished room. Instead of candles, a kerosene lantern provided moderate illumination. “You must have a kerosene storage tank somewhere,” he commented, crossing to a wooden chair.

“Take that one, why don’t you?” Morlock suggested, pointing at an easy chair near the sofa.

Since it made no difference to the youth, he sat where Morlock wanted.

“And yes, we do have an underground storage tank,” the master of the castle disclosed enroute to the sofa. “It’s almost dry after all these years, so we conserve what little usable kerosene we have left. When I knew you were coming, I lit a lantern in preparation.”

“How did you, by the way?”

“I’ll get to that in a bit,” Morlock said, taking a seat and folding his left leg over his right. “Would you care for refreshments?”

“Just information,” Blade said, not knowing what to make of his host’s continued civility. It must be a trick of some kind. At the first hint of hostility, he’d put a bullet in the bastard’s brain. He was safe as long as he had the rifle and his Bowies.

“Very well. Where would you like me to begin? With the serfs?”

“That would be nice.”

“I overheard enough to know you believe the darling creatures are little better than slaves. Am I right?”

“They are slaves.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe the definition of a slave is someone completely under the domination of another person, someone who is the property of another. Would you agree?”

“Sounds accurate enough to me.”

“Then your accusation is unfounded. You heard Tabitha and Selwyn.

Do they consider themselves slaves? Absolutely not. They like the life they live and have no desire to change. They’re happy,” Morlock said. “Would you begrudge them such a blessing?”

Blade disregarded the disquieting question and tried another tack.

“Where did they come from?”

“The serfs have served the Morlock clan since shortly after the war—”

“Wait a minute,” Blade interrupted. “Is Morlock your first or last name?”

“Morlock is the family name. Moray Morlock was the first lord of Castle Orm.”

“Then what’s your first name?”

“Angus,” Morlock replied, smirking.

Why did he do that? Blade asked himself. “Okay. Back to the serfs. Who were their ancestors? Where did they come from?”

“As I understand it, a dozen survivors showed up here about a week after the missiles were launched. They were suffering from radiation sickness. Moray took them in and let them live in the lower levels.

Eventually most of them recovered, and they decided to stay here and work for Moray in exchange for their lodging.”

“So the current serfs are their descendants?”

“Aye. Over the years their skin has become paler and paler, and now they’re strictly nocturnal.”

The explanation was plausible, but Blade felt he was being deceived. He couldn’t put a finger on the reason. Perhaps it was Morlock’s smug expression and superior air. “And where did Grell come from?”

“Moray found him in the woods ten years after the war.”

Blade sat up. “Impossible. That would make Grell close to ninety years-old.”

“He is. The serfs even refer to him as the immortal one since three generations of them have known and feared him. Grell was just a pup when Moray stumbled on him hiding in a thicket. Moray liked the wee creature and gave it a home. Ever since Grell has been the Morlock watchdog.”

“What kind of mutation is he?”

“I don’t know. Moray believed a bear embryo underwent a radiation-induced transformation. If you’ve seen Grell, you know that no bear grows to such a massive size.” Morlock shrugged. “Who knows what his parents were?”

Blade thoughtfully pursed his lips, debating whether to pry into another disturbing matter, and decided to try an oblique approach. “Did Moray ever marry?”

“Yes.”

“Another survivor?”

“Aye. Bands of wanderers would travel through the area from time to time. His wife, Constance, was a refugee from the Twin Cities.”

And what about your wife? Blade wanted to inquire, but couldn’t bring himself to.

“Are you certain I can’t entice you to take some refreshment? I took the liberty of having a tray of food set out in the next room.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Too bad. We have excellent wine and cheese.”

Wine? Blade wondered if enough of it might loosen Morlock’s lips.

Perhaps a glass or two of wine was in order. He’d do anything to uncover a clue concerning his friends. “All right. Some wine can’t hurt.”

Again Morlock smirked and stood. He walked toward a closed door in the east wall. “Follow me. You can select whatever you want.”

Blade held the rifle down low as he crossed to the doorway. His host went through first, and he took three strides himself before he realized he’d been suckered.

Displaying unexpected speed, Morlock darted to the left and grabbed a lever on the wall.

Taken unawares, Blade was sluggish in reacting. “Don’t touch that!” he warned and began to bring the barrel up. Too late.

Morlock yanked on the lever.

Blade’s finger was tightening on the trigger when the floor fell out from beneath his feet.

Gruesome visions of a pit lined with sharp stakes at the bottom filled Blade’s mind as he plummeted straight down, enveloped by darkness, his arms above his head, the useless rifle clutched in his left hand. It took a few seconds for him to realize he was hurtling down a metal shaft toward an uncertain fate.