David Robbins - Madman Run

“I was born ready,” Hickok said.

“No, but go ahead anyway,” Geronimo said.

Tensing, Blade flung the door open and threw himself outside to roll on his shoulder and rise to his knee with the Marlin sweeping the flat area before him.

Morlock had vanished.

The central section of the roof was level except for the doorway leading to the spiral staircase, which had been constructed as an isolated, elevated island in the very middle and fronted the northern battlements.

Blade glanced at the top of the door and saw the camera mounted on a sturdy bracket, so he knew Morlock had been within ten feet of the door a minute or two ago.

There were four ramparts connected to four turrets, one at each corner, and those turrets were the only hiding places on the roof.

“He must be in one of those beehive kind of things,” Hickok whispered.

“Spread out,” Blade said. “We’ll check the turret at the northwest corner first.” He rose to a crouching posture and advanced warily. A cool breeze caressed his face and brought to his nostrils a peculiar, pungent animal scent unlike any other he knew. He surmised the wind had carried the scent from an animal in the woods below but immediately realized such couldn’t be the case. And if the smell didn’t come from below or above, then there was only one explanation. The thought made him slow up, and his friends passed on by.

It couldn’t be! Blade told himself, staring at the turret in mounting apprehension. He would have smelled it before now, wouldn’t he?

Hickok was the closest to the three steps leading from the rampart into the shadowed turret. Both Colts were out and ready.

Blade moved forward, chiding himself for letting his imagination get the better of him. The thing was in the forest. Had to be.

The gunfighter had two yards to cover when a bloodcurdling roar rent the night and the monster squeezed through the turret entrance, all ten feet of hair and muscle and unbridled ferocity.

“Grell!” Geronimo yelled.

Hickok squeezed off four shots so fast they sounded like one. But none stopped the gargantuan mutation. He was lifting his arms to fire at the beast’s eyes when a swipe of a brawny arm sent him flying over five yards to crash onto his back, dazed.

“Try me,” Geronimo bellowed, lifting the Winchester. Quick as he was, Grell was quicker, and a second swipe tumbled the Blackfoot head over heels to lie in a stunned heap.

Blade felt his blood turn to ice. He gazed into those hellish red orbs and felt as if his life force was being sucked from his body. Fear—total, dominating, terrifying—rooted him in place. He wanted to shoot, but couldn’t make his hands move.

Grell snarled and lumbered toward the youth.

A tidal wave of panic engulfed the youth. Never had he been so outright scared. His dearest friends were down, perhaps severely injured and needing his help, and yet he couldn’t get his limbs to cooperate with his mind. He saw Grell’s long white fangs exposed and Grell’s right claw sweeping at his head, and he reacted automatically, spinning and running toward the safety of the doorway and the stairwell, his heart pounding, thinking only of escaping with his life. His spine tingled, and he shivered as he ran.

Somewhere, Morlock laughed.

The sound brought Blade up short in midstride, shocked at what he was about to do. He was fleeing, running away, being a coward. Worse, he was deserting his two best friends, leaving them to suffer a horrible fate at the hands of the madman or the mutation. Tremendous revulsion welled up within him, revulsion at his own behavior. He spun.

Grell had halted and coldly regarded the youth.

How could he be so base, so spineless? Blade asked himself. He’d let instinctive fear get the better of him, but fear could only maintain its grip if the person afraid allowed it to dominate their being. And he wasn’t about to have fear override his personality, have it supplant his will. He was a man , damn it, a man endowed with the power of choice. He could choose to let instinct win, or he would exercise his free will to do what had to be done.

At that moment, as he stood there confronting the monstrous, growling beast looming above him, he came to grips with his innermost being. His spiritual inheritance triumphed over his animal heritage and in the process forged a soul tempered in the adversity of supreme danger.

Blade smiled.

“Kill him, Grell!” came a shout from the darkness, and the creature stalked forward.

Whipping the Martin up, Blade went to fire, then paused. No. He wouldn’t take the easy way out. If he wanted to truly conquer fear, he must face it fully. The triumph must be total—spirit, mind and body. He threw the rifle to the roof and drew his Bowies.

Grell lifted his massive arms and snarled hideously.

Blade ran straight at the mutation and leaped into the air, his back arched, his hands overhead, the big Bowies held with the blades pointed downward. At the apex of his leap he was only a foot from Grell’s head. He could almost feel those baleful red orbs boring into his brain and smelled the beast’s fetid breath. For an instant panic tried to reassert control, until he gritted his teeth, tensed his steely sinews and swept both knives in a flashing arc, burying a Bowie in each crimson eye, sinking the sharp blades all the way to the hilts.

Grell stiffened, roared and swung his arms, catching the youth a glancing blow that knocked him aside. He staggered backwards, clutching at the Bowies and snarling, and managed to yank both knives out.

Blade gasped when his left side smacked into the hard stone roof, and he lay still for a few seconds, recovering, then pushed to his feet and dashed to where he’d thrown the rifle. He’d proven his courage to his satisfaction. There was nothing to be gained by further heroics. And without a weapon, slaying the monster would be impossible. He scooped up the Marlin and aimed at the thing’s head.

“Put down the gun.”

The youth froze at the gravelly command.

“You heard me. Put down the gun, and do it real slow.”

Blade estimated Morlock was not more than ten feet to his left and slightly behind him, just out of the line of vision. He could try to nail the madman, but even if he hit Morlock the shotgun might go off, and at such close range it would blow him in half. Reluctantly, he lowered the Marlin.

“Good. Now turn around, boy. I want to see your face when I kill you.”

Blade complied, his arms at his sides.

A malicious grin curled Angus Morlock’s lips. “At last I have you right where I want you. Any last words?”

The youth refused to give the madman the satisfaction.

“Very well. But I want you to know how much I hate you for what you’ve done. My daughter and my son, both dead. Poor little Grell, blinded for life. And why? All because I didn’t have you slain right away instead of toying with you.”

The scraping of calloused soles on the stone surface made Blade twist his head slightly so he could see the mutation. Grell was shuffling toward him, those hairy hands pressed over his ruptured eyes, hissing like an enraged viper.

Morlock glanced at his pet. “Look at him,” he said morosely. “Look at what you’ve done.”

Blade shifted, saw that he stood directly between the pet and its master, and instantly took the initiative. “You bloodthirsty brute!” he shouted. “You deserve to die!”

Grell lowered his arms, roared again and charged wildly in the direction of the youth’s voice.

“What are you doing?” Morlock exclaimed.

In three great bounds the monster was almost upon Blade. He dived to the right and felt the creature’s side brush his legs as it went past, glancing at the madman as he did.