David Robbins - Yellowstone Run

Hickok, Geronimo, and Achilles sprinted from the store, bearing to the left, intending to lure the mass of tightly packed bear-men away from Blade, leery of firing for fear of hitting the head Warrior. They succeeded beyond their highest expectations.

Every member of the Breed except for Longat ran toward the trio, growling and screeching, venting their wrath, eager to tear the humans limb from limb.

Hickok smiled as he saw the creatures moving away from Blade. The Breed had enjoyed the advantage the last time he’d fought them. They’d jumped him in the dark, using the cloak of night to their advantage. But this time the situation was different. This time they were fighting in broad daylight. This time he could see his targets clearly. He pressed the Henry to his right shoulder and levered off every round, aiming at their heads, felling a foe with every shot. The instant the Henry was empty, he let the rifle fall and resorted to his Colts, his hands a blur as he gripped the pearl handles and cleared leather. He heard Geronimo and Achilles firing, and then he opened up with the Pythons, every shot dead center.

Nearby, Achilles fought in a blind rage, the two words Geronimo had told him in the store resounding over and over in his mind. She’s dead!

She’s dead.’ She’s dead! And these sons of bitches had killed her. He expended every round in the Bullpup, let go, and pulled the Taurus and the Amazon. A creature loomed in front of him and he shot it between the eyes, then spun to blast another mutation, Coldly, methodically, he shot one after another, slashing at those who tried to rake him with their nails, holding his own, dominated by his fury, killing, killing, killing.

Only Geronimo had a breathing space. Fewer of the Breed came after him, and those who did he downed with the FNC.

Lacking firearms, the creatures were unable to close effectively, and Geronimo regarded their deaths as a virtual slaughter. He glimpsed Blade and Longat locked in combat, and he wished he was the one fighting the leader. He wanted to repay the deviate for taking his tomahawk. A bear-man sprang at him from the right, and he pivoted, the FNC bucking, stitching a pattern of crimson holes across the mutation’s forehead. He turned and saw Blade slip on a puddle of blood.

Longat leaped forward, the tomahawk upraised, his lips curled back to expose his pointed teeth, his eyes gleaming points of ferocity.

Down on his right knee, Blade swept both knives upward to block the tomahawk. He could hear shooting, and he wanted to dispose of Longat quickly and aid his friends. To do so would require an unorthodox tactic, a move Longat wouldn’t be expecting. As his shoulders absorbed the impact from the tomahawk, in a flash he perceived a means of gaining the upper hand.

Longat started to lift the tomahawk again.

Now! Blade reversed the grip on the Bowies, angled the bloody blades downward, and lunged, spearing a knife into each of Longat’s feet, sinking both to the hilt.

The leader of the Breed stiffened and uttered a gurgling scream, then recovered and tried to swing the tomahawk, his movements awkward because his feet were pinned to the asphalt.

Blade was relentless. He straightened, his hands bunched into a single fist, and pounded the bear-man on the tip of the jaw, rocking Longat’s head backward and crunching the creature’s teeth together.

Remorselessly, Blade struck with his fists in a flurry of battering punches, hitting Longat on the face, dazing the mutation. He thought of all the innocent lives the Breed had taken, all the people the mutations had eaten, and his visage acquired a stony cast. His huge fists rained on Longat.

Rained and rained and rained.

Longat’s nose was crushed, his lips battered to a pulp, and his cheeks split. He feebly attempted to employ the tomahawk, but a sledgehammer blow to his right eyebrow caused his arms to go limp and his body to sway.

Gritting his teeth. Blade tightened his right hand into a rock-hard fist.

He slowly drew his arm back as far as he would go, then paused. “This is for the human race,” he said, and swung with all of his might.

The force of the impact lifted Longat from his feet, actually tore the Bowies out of the ground and sent the bear-man sailing for over six feet to crash onto the tarmacadam, a crumpled wreck.

Blade abruptly became aware the firing had ceased and turned.

Eight yards away were Hickok, Geronimo, and Achilles. All three were staring at him somberly. Each one was spattered with crimson. Nineteen bearish corpses lay about them.

“Nice job,” Geronimo said, stepping toward the fallen leader. “I just hope you didn’t damage my tomahawk.”

“Excuse me for living,” Blade retorted, scanning the battlefield, “Why don’t you mop up and make sure they’re all dead.”

“Let me,” Achilles volunteered, hurrying forward, his features grim. “I owe them,” he added bitterly.

“Priscilla?”

Achilles frowned and shook his head.

“I’m sorry,” Blade said, and looked at the normally loquacious gunfighter. “What’s the matter? Nothing to say?”

Hickok twirled the Colts into their holsters, grinned, and nodded at Longat. “I love it when you get ticked off.”

Blade found him standing on a small hill in the southeast corner of the Home. “So here you are. I’ve been looking all over for you.”

Achilles turned slowly, his red cloak billowing in the stiff westerly wind, his countenance downcast. “Oh?”

“I thought you’d like to hear the good news. The Elders have formally accepted you as a Warrior.”

“That’s nice.”

Blade studied the other man for a moment. “Don’t jump for joy or anything.”

“Sorry,” Achilles said, and gazed off into the distance. “I keep thinking about her. The more I do, the more I realize how little I knew about her.”

He paused. “And yet, I cared for her so much.”

“I know,” Blade responded softly.

“Have you had any word about Eagle Feather?”

“Star says he’s recovering slowly but surely. He suffered a tremendous loss, and he’ll never be the same man he was before his loved ones were killed. But he’s picking up the pieces.”

“That’s good,” Achilles commented, and took a deep breath. “I appreciate all the effort you went to on my behalf. The Elders must have given you a hard time.”

“Not at all, once Hickok and Geronimo reported on your performance during the mission.”

“They did that for me?”

“ Yep . They gave a glowing report. Your competence was never in question.”

Achilles glanced at the giant. “Just my attitude.”

“They know you’ve changed considerably since we got back a week ago.

Everyone has noticed.”

“So I’m not the pain in the ass I once was.”

“You’re just not as high on yourself.”

The new Warrior pursed his lips and stared at the moat 40 yards away.

“So which Triad will I be in? Are you going to shuffle the Warriors around?”

“No,” Blade answered. “You’ll be in Zulu Triad with Samson and Sherry. Samson is the head of your Triad and he’ll be responsible for most of your training. He’s one of the best. You’ll be in good hands.”

“I know his reputation.”

Blade smiled. “And as if that’s not enough, Hickok has graciously offered to teach you the fast draw.”

“He what?”

“Apparently he saw you draw the Taurus during the battle with the Breed, and he described your draw as downright pitiful,” Blade mentioned. “So he’s taking it on himself to teach you how to pull a gun, as he put it, a mite faster than the speed of petrified molasses.”

“Was I that bad?” Achilles asked in disbelief.