David Robbins - Madman Run

Blade’s forehead knit in perplexity. Worms? The man had worms in there? What possible threat could worms pose?

“Some flatworms closely resemble leeches, which might explain these mutations. Of course, few grow as large or become aggressive, but radiation is notorious for drastically altering genetic traits,” Morlock said, starting to raise the bottle toward the rim.

Blade held the rifle at water level, his stomach muscles tightening. The madman must not be accustomed to having victims fight back, he reasoned, or else Morlock wouldn’t make such blatant mistakes.

The demented lord looked into the bottle and snickered. “Are you thirsty, my little ones?” He glanced at the giant. “They haven’t been fed in days. I’d imagine they’re famished.”

A few more inches, Blade thought, his visage impassive.

“Time for the festivities,” Morlock said and hoisted the container above the edge of the plastic wall. He held it steady in preparation for upending the contents into the tank.

Blade was ready. He snapped the Marlin to his shoulders, took a hasty bead on the middle of the bottle and fired. The booming of the 45-70 almost deafened him.

The slug smashed the bottle to pieces and sent a shower of glass, water and mutations spraying down on both sides of the wall. Most of it struck a shocked Morlock full in the face, and screaming, he brought up his hands to shield his eyes and lost his balance. Desperately he tried to grab a rung, but he plummeted from the ladder.

All this Blade barely noticed. He had problems of his own. Three dark forms had dropped into the tank and disappeared in the soup. He swam to the far corner and pressed his back to the wall, waiting for whatever they were to attack.

They didn’t waste any time.

Something crested the surface and made a beeline for the youth, its slender shape visible as a dark brown blur, throwing off a narrow wake.

Blade levered a fresh round into the chamber, pressed the rifle to his shoulder and tried to track the speeding mutation. He squeezed off a shot when the thing was only inches from the end of the barrel, and the mutation promptly dived. He had no idea whether he’d scored or not.

“What are they?” Geronimo called out.

“Use the rifle on the wall! Use the rifle on the wall!” Hickok stressed urgently.

Feeding in another round, Blade turned right and left, his legs kicking vigorously. He envisioned one of them going for his groin and involuntarily shuddered.

Suddenly Morlock appeared, his features a mask of fury, blood seeping from a half-dozen cuts on his face and neck. Dangling from his left cheek and his forehead were two of the mutations. He shook his right fist at the giant and bellowed, “Damn you! Damn you all to hell!”

Blade couldn’t help but look.

The mutations were a foot in length and two inches in width, except at the center where they tapered to an inch. Their bodies were essentially flat, but their heads were round and the size of a grown man’s fist.

Somehow the creatures had latched onto Morlock and were sucking his blood.

“I’ll be back!” the madman shrieked and ran toward the door, tugging in vain on his unwanted appendages.

Blade gulped and scanned the water. Where were they? Had the shot deterred them? Even more important, how could he get out of there before the things tried again?

He stiffened when he felt a nudge on his right ankle. It had to be one of the mutations! The nudge was repeated on his shin, then his knee and his inner thigh. The thing was working its way up his body, perhaps seeking naked flesh.

Blade stared straight down, transferred the rifle to his left hand and drew his right Bowie. He distinguished the rippling form of the bloodsucker several inches below his belt, writhing snakelike. Elevating the knife above his head, he froze until the thing was level with his belt, then speared the point into the water.

The Bowie connected, slicing the creature open, and black fluid poured from the wound. Instantly the thing angled toward the bottom and vanished.

Two down, or at least wounded, Blade congratulated himself. But he’d been lucky. He couldn’t expect to hold them off forever. Had Morlock succeeded in dumping in the entire bottle, he’d probably have a dozen of the mutations gorging on his blood. He glanced up at the transparent walls, racking his brain for a way out. They were shatterproof, Morlock had boasted. A sledgehammer wouldn’t crack them, which meant his Bowies were useless.

Another thin shape materialized on the surface eight feet away and swam toward the youth as if propelled by a rocket.

Blade saw it coming and braced to meet the slender monster, swinging his right arm on high and bringing the Bowie down again at just the right moment, trying to cleave the creature in two. He missed.

He glimpsed a circular head rearing out of the water, a head consisting entirely of a gaping mouth ringed by tiny, tapered teeth. From the mouth protruded a tubular tongue six inches long. And then the mutation smacked into his abdomen next to his navel, and an incredible pain lanced his gut. Those tiny teem sank in and held fast. He doubled over, feeling as if someone was gouging his midriff with a scorching poker.

It was the thing’s tongue!

Blade realized the creature was seeking a vein or an artery. With a supreme effort he straightened, stuck the knife in his mouth with the sharp edge outward and tried to seize the writhing horror. Its slippery body squished through his fingers again and again. In desperation he seized it near the head and finally succeeded in getting a firm grip. He yanked, but the mutation was locked onto his body.

“Use the rifle on the wall!” Hickok bellowed. “Use the rifle on the wall!”

In the back of his mind Blade wished the dummy would shut up. If a sledgehammer wouldn’t do the job, what good would his rifle do? He wrenched on the flatworm, his right arm bulging, and his hands slipped off. There was no way he could remove it unless he got a firm footing.

Which brought him back to square one.

He spied another of the creatures swimming slowly on the other side of the tank.

Dear Spirit, what should he do? He pounded the plastic in frustration, and then inspiration struck. Sure, a sledgehammer wouldn’t work, but a sledge delivered its force over a broader area than a bullet. A 45-70 was one of the most powerful rifles ever made. Its thick, blunt bullet could plow through thick brush to bag a deer or an elk. At point-blank range, what would the effect be on the plastic?

There was only one way to find out.

Twisting, Blade jammed the barrel against the glass several inches below the water line. If he was wrong, the ricochet might well kill him. But it was either that or let the mutations slowly suck him lifeless.

He fired.

The shot was muffled by the water. His arms were driven backwards by the recoil.

Blade leaned closer and saw a dent in the plastic. The bullet hadn’t penetrated. He guessed the slug had flattened and sank to the bottom. But the dent was encouraging. The creature’s tongue fluttered around inside his stomach, adding incentive to his limbs as he worked the lever. He placed the barrel directly on the dent and squeezed the trigger.

The 45-70 did its job. The high-powered round drilled through the plastic, trailed by a stream of water that splashed onto the floor below.

One hole wouldn’t suffice. Blade levered the fourth round home, then groped in his back pocket and extracted three more shells. He quickly loaded and pressed the rifle to the wall again, only this time three inches below the hole. Once more he fired, expecting to dent the plastic.

This time the first shot bored through, producing a second stream, but it did something more. The concentration of pressure at the two holes as the water gushed out put an immense strain on the plastic between and surrounding the holes, and the pressure accomplished what the Marlin alone never could.