David Robbins - Yellowstone Run

The Breed.

The mutations were strung out in single file, advancing down the center of the highway, hiking from the east toward the geyser complex. One of them limped badly. Three others were carrying the bodies of dead comrades.

Blade lowered his head below the sill and peeked over the edge, counting the creatures. He stopped halfway through his count when he spied Hickok, Geronimo, and Eagle Feather marching along with their wrists bound. They appeared to be extremely fatigued, and the Flathead’s expression was strangely dull, devoid of animation.

“Where’s Priscilla?” Achilles inquired anxiously.

“I don’t know,” Blade whispered.

“Maybe she’s at the rear of the column.”

The rest of the Breed came into view, but the Mormon woman wasn’t with them.

“Dear Spirit!” Achilles breathed. “Where is she? What could have happened to her?”

Blade’s lips compressed as he studied the mutations. They seemed to be tired too. Apparently the Breed had exerted themselves to reach the site swiftly. They drew nearer until they were directly in front of the store. He saw the creature in the lead, the tallest mutation, halt, turn, and bark orders. That must be Longat, he reasoned, and noticed that Longat held Geronimo’s tomahawk.

Many of the Breed sat down on the spot. Others stretched or conversed.

Hickok and Geronimo took a few steps to the side, inadvertently moving closer to the store, and began talking in hushed tones.

“Maybe Priscilla escaped,” Achilles speculated. “Maybe she’s wandering around alone in the wilderness somewhere.”

“Stop thinking about her.”

“I can’t.”

“You have to concentrate on the task at hand,” Blade instructed him. “You can’t afford to be distracted.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Blade nodded and scrutinized the bear-men. His plan had worked to perfection. By discovering where the Breed were headed, he’d been able to get in front of the deviates. Now he could give them a taste of their own medicine. But how to do it without endangering Hickok and Geronimo?

He needed a distraction. If the creatures could be diverted, it might be possible to get his fellow Warriors and the Flathead to safety. Exactly how to achieve the diversion puzzled him until he received an unexpected assist from Mother Nature.

Old Faithful erupted again.

Rumbling and hissing, the geyser spit its fountain of steaming water skyward…-.

The Breed predictably shifted to observe the spectacle. Every creature watched the rare display in fascination, some gesturing and chattering excitedly.

Blade rose higher, hoping Hickok and Geronimo would glance in his direction, but they both were glued to Old Faithful’s performance, their backs to the store. The dummies. There would never be a better opportunity. “Stay put and cover me,” he ordered, and darted out the front door.

Now if only none of the creatures turned around!

Blade raced toward his friends, constantly scanning the mutations, ready to fire if detected. He wanted to shout to get Hickok’s and Geronimo’s attention, but he’d also alert the Breed to his presence. Come on! he mentally shrieked. Look this way, you ding-a-lings!

Both the gunman and the Blackfoot continued to stare at the geyser.

Blade didn’t know whether to grin or become furious. If he made it through this mess alive, he vowed to give the two of them a good swift kick in the seat of their pants for not maintaining an unflagging vigilance.

Then again, maybe he underestimated them.

Both Warrior’s swiveled their heads, surveying the creatures, then each one took hold of Eagle Feather by an arm, pivoted, and took a stride in the direction of the store.

They simultaneously beheld the giant and both displayed fleeting amazement.

Blade halted ten yards from them, trained the Commando on the mutations, and motioned for them to hurry.

Beaming inanely, Hickok practically dragged the Flathead after him.

Geronimo kept pace, repeatedly glancing over his shoulder.

Old Faithful spewed more and more water into the air.

The Breed, still enthralled, watched.

Seven yards separated Blade from his friends. Five yards. He caressed the Commando’s trigger, his whole body tense, certain the mutations would discover the stratagem at any moment.

They did.

One of the Breed happened to idly look back at the buildings.

Astonishment lined his bestial features for all of a second, until he opened his mouth and bellowed at the top of his lungs.

All of the mutations started to turn.

Blade dashed forward, letting his friends go past him. “Get inside!” he directed.

“About time you showed up, slowpoke,” Hickok muttered, running toward the store where Achilles stood framed in the window.

There was no time for Blade to reply. He clasped the Commando firmly and cut loose, sweeping the barrel from right to left, mowing the Breed down, knowing from experience how difficult they were to kill and going for the head, seeing over a dozen craniums burst as heavy slugs tore through their heads from front to rear.

Voicing a commingled roar of rage and implacable animosity, the Breed charged the giant.

Blade deliberately held his ground. Hickok and Geronimo would need precious time so they could be cut free by Achilles, then grab their guns and reload if necessary, time he intended to supply. He poured a withering fire into the mutations, raking them with a hail of lead, keeping his finger depressed, pouring out every shot in his 90-round magazine, firing and firing until the machine gun went empty.

Fifteen of the creatures were prone on the asphalt or trying to rise, even though riddled with bullets. The rest surged in a frenzied wave at the Warrior.

Blade went to grab a fresh magazine, but he realized he’d never be able to insert it and draw back the cocking handle before the mutations reached him. And retreating to the store was out of the question. They’d catch him before he covered five yards. Stuck in the open, with nowhere to take cover, he did the only thing he could; he dropped the Commando, drew his Bowies, and attacked the Breed.

A few of the creatures stopped, taken aback by the sight of the lone giant rushing toward them. Their companions never slowed.

A smile on his lips, Blade met them in a savage clash, whipping the Bowies in a glittering onslaught, slashing and hacking and stabbing in a wild abandon, his body always in motion, always slicing and cutting, spinning and whirling, because he knew if he slowed for an instant they would seize him and overpower him with their greater numbers. Nails dug into his arms, shoulders, and thighs, and he ignored the pain and the stinging sensations, focusing exclusively on slaying the creatures, his arms whirlwinds of razor-edged death, severing hands and tearing open throats and rending faces in a mad melee of elemental ferocity.

Mutations fell right and left, their bloody forms dotting the tarmacadam.

Suddenly the Breed parted, and Blade found himself face to face with their leader, Longat. The creature snarled and swung the tomahawk, and Blade parried the blow with his right Bowie. Again Longat swung, his powerful sinews driving the tomahawk in a blow that would have smashed through the defenses of any ordinary man. But Blade’s own bulging muscles were equal to the occasion, and he deflected the tomahawk. Again he warded off a swipe meant to cleave his skull, then again and again.

The mutations saw their chance. With the giant occupied, they sought to encircle him and pounce on him from behind. One of them, skirting to the right, coiled his legs and was about to spring when a shot rang out. He collapsed in his tracks. The other creatures rotated in the direction of the report.