David Robbins - Yellowstone Run

“That’s it,” the creature said, watching the Pythons droop toward the ground. “Smart move, for a human.”

“What are you?” Blade asked, hoping to distract the mutation. He’d seen Achilles’ right hand vanish and he guessed what would happen next.

“My name is Nuprix. I belong to the Breed.”

“Strange name,” Blade commented, stalling, continuing to slowly lower the Pythons to the ground instead of simply dropping them.

The creature watched the Colts, concentrating on the revolvers to the exclusion of all else. “Most of the Breed stopped using typical human names decades ago.”

“Why’s that?”

“Just put those damn guns down and shut up!” Nuprix barked.

Blade squatted and eased the revolvers to within six inches of the dirt.

He surmised that Achilles would make a move soon, that the novice hadn’t budged a muscle to give the mutation the false impression of having given up. His conjecture proved accurate.

The Amazon suddenly flashed out from under the red cloak as Achilles swept the big knife up and angled the gleaming blade straight back above his head. The tip sliced into the creature’s right cheek, then penetrated its right eye, puncturing the orb and sinking deep.

Nuprix bellowed and staggered to the left, releasing Achilles and tearing loose from the imbedded knife. The mutation clutched at its ruined eye, then howled and pointed the Taurus at the blond man.

Blade elevated the Pythons and snapped off two hasty shots. The bullets hit Nuprix in the chest and rocked the creature on its heels. Quickly Blade aimed carefully, sighting on the thing’s forehead, and squeezed both triggers.

Straightening, Blade glanced at Achilles. “Nice move. I couldn’t have done better myself.”

“Thanks,” Achilles responded, and glanced past the head Warrior.

“Look out!”

Blade whirled, astounded to discover the last mutation three feet away, persistently striving to reach him with its nails. Despite being shot in the left knee, and despite the fact its intestines were dangling from its ruptured abdomen, the thing had risen on its right leg and was shuffling forward. “Stop!” Blade commanded.

The creature snarled and lunged.

Taking a stride backwards to evade the mutation’s nails. Blade pointed the left Python at the mutation’s right knee and fired.

Again the bearish figure crumpled, gritting its teeth against the pain, and glared up at the giant. “Finish me!”

“Not yet,” Blade said.

The creature motioned at its split abdominal wall. “Damn you, human!

Look at me! Do the honorable deed and finish me off!”

“What would you know about honor?”

“Up yours.”

Blade cautiously skirted the mutation, tucked the Colts under his belt once more, and swiftly reclaimed his Bowies, wiping the blades clean on his fatigue pants. He returned to the creature. “So you want me to put you out of your misery?”

“That’s the general idea, bastard.”

“I’ll do it if you’ll answer a few questions.”

“Get stuffed,” the thing said, and grunted in agony.

“Suit yourself, stupid,” Blade said, baiting the Breed.

Achilles came over, the Amazon back in its sheath, the Bullpup in his hands.

A groan issued from the mutation’s lips and it doubled over, racked by torment.

“If you want to suffer, that’s fine with me,” Blade said. “But what harm could a few questions do?”

The thing glanced up, crimson spittle flecking its mouth. “What do you want to know?”

“What’s your name?”

“Yeddt.”

“Why did you attack us?”

“Longat gave us orders to watch our back trail, and to capture any scuzzy humans who showed up.”

“Longat is the leader of the Breed?”

“Yes,” Yeddt stated. He closed his eyes and inhaled raggedly.

Blade squatted, his Bowies held at the ready. “Tell me about the Breed. Why do you call yourself by that name? Where are you from?”

Yeddt said nothing.

“Come on,” Blade prompted. “If you want to linger in misery for hours, that’s your business. I’ll only finish you if you cooperate.” He paused, striving to come up with a persuasive argument. “I certainly couldn’t use any information you supply against your people, could I?”

The mutation opened its eyes and stared at the Warrior. “No, I guess not.”

“Then answer my questions and end your torture.”

Yeddt licked his lips and coughed. “I don’t have much choice. All right.

But I won’t tell you the exact location of our base of operations no matter what.”

“Fair enough.”

“It all started about a decade after the war,” Yeddt revealed, speaking softly, blood trickling from the right corner of his mouth. “During World War Three a bunch of survivalists hid out in the mountains, in a secluded valley where there was plenty of game and a large lake. The survivalists built cabins and lived off the land, and they stayed there after the war was over because there was nothing to return to.”

Blade listened attentively, breathing shallowly, almost nauseated by the sickening odor arising from the mutation’s intestines and abdominal cavity.

“About ten years after the war the changes started,” Yeddt said, and coughed again.

“Changes?”

“Yeah. The survivalists began to change, to become hairier and heavier.

And their babies were even more different. No one could figure out what was going on. They thought the radiation might be to blame,” Yeddt related, then trembled briefly. “Later they found the canisters.”

“What canisters?” Blade probed.

“About a dozen metal canisters were found in the lake. Biological-warfare canisters.”

Blade stiffened. “How did the canisters get in the lake?”

“No one could figure that out, either, until the hermit told them about the plane.”

“Who was this hermit?”

“An old geezer who lived all by himself way up in the mountains. He came down to trade with the survivalists every now and then, and he told them about this plane that had been flying real low over the mountains one night a month after the war started. He’d seen this plane, a bomber he thought it was, circling as if looking for a place to land. Smoke was coming from one of its engines. The bomber went over a ridge to the west and never came back, and the old man didn’t think much of it,” Yeddt said. “A few days later, the survivalists showed up.”

Blade mentally filled in the missing pieces of the puzzle. The bomber must have been carrying biological weapons and either taken a hit or developed engine trouble. Too far from the nearest base, and probably losing altitude, the pilot undoubtedly decided to ditch the aircraft. But before taking the bomber down, the crew apparently opted to dump their load of biological weapons somewhere relatively safe, away from inhabited settlements. And what would have been safer, in their point of view, than an isolated lake in a remote valley? So they’d released the canisters into the water and later crashed. Maybe every crew member was killed. In any event, no one ever returned for the canisters.

A few days later the survivalists moved into the valley and used the lake as their source of drinking and bathing water. Unknown to them, some of the canisters had sprung leaks and contaminated the lake with biological toxins. So after a decade of consuming the tainted water, after the chemicals permeated their systems and warped their glands, the survivalists began to change into something other than human. The poor, vulnerable embryos in their mothers’ wombs were especially susceptible to the gene-altering effects of the compounds.

Dear Spirit!

What a horrid fate!