David Robbins - Dallas Run

From off to the left came more clicking.

“I won’t hurt you, Melanie,” Hickok promised. “Do us both a favor and come out here.”

She didn’t reply.

“Please.”

Silence.

Exasperated, Hickok felt tempted to forget about her and head for the alley. But Blade had ordered him to bring her, and he’d bring her or die in the attempt. Knowing his companions were in danger, even though he possessed total confidence in their ability to take care of themselves, disturbed him immensely. Preoccupied with his worry, he released the door and advanced several yards into the cavernous chamber.

Feet scuttled across the floor to his right.

“Melanie?”

The loud clicking was repeated to the left.

And suddenly Hickok knew with an awful certainty that he wasn’t alone. There were—things—-all around him. He had made the cardinal mistake any Warrior could make: He’d been careless. If he wanted to live, and he sure as heck did, then he’d better move, and move fast. The thought brought instant action. He darted for the black doors.

But as swift as the gunman was, there were—things—that were much swifter.

Hickok heard the scuttling again, and what felt like an iron hand clamped on his right heel, tripping him, causing him to fall onto his hands and knees. He glanced over his left shoulder, his skin prickling as he distinguished the broad, inhuman shape of his attacker. Whatever it was, the creature stood four feet high and was equally as wide.

The grip on his heel tightened.

More scuttling noises arose from nearby.

Hickok twisted, snapped the Henry to his shoulder, and fired twice, the shots thundering and reverberating in the chamber. The first shot rocked the thing, the second drove it backwards, clicking furiously.

His ankle was free!

Rising awkwardly, his right heel lanced with pain, Hickok managed to take two strides and get within three feet of the doors before a heavy body plowed into him from the left, bowling him over. He tumbled and rolled, concentrating on keeping hold of the Carbine at all costs, and wound up flat on his back. Before he could push to his feet, another of the creatures materialized above his head. A snakelike arm or appendage slithered across his neck.

The thing clicked.

Hickok angled the Henry upward, levered in a fresh round, and squeezed the trigger, bracing the stock against his hip to absorb the recoil.

The shot flipped the creature into the gloom. He scrambled up, spotted the doors, and took four steps.

A scuttling express train swept out of the darkness and rammed the gunman in the legs.

This time Hickok went down extremely hard, his jaw taking the brunt of the impact, his mouth snapping shut and his upper and lower teeth mashing together. A universe of stars burst into being in front of his eyes, his body went slack, and he couldn’t seem to organize any coherent thoughts.

The same or a similar iron hand seized the gunman’s right leg, and the next moment whatever held him was dragging him deeper into the chamber.

A chorus of clicking sounded.

Slowly, through the haze, his muddled mind became aware that the creature dragging him wasn’t alone. Many others were serving as escorts.

He was completely surrounded by a clicking pack of the things. With a start, he felt the Henry begin to slip from his grasp. His right hand closed on the shoulder strap, and he clutched the strap with all the strength he could muster, pulling the rifle after him.

Where were they taking him?

Hickok kept himself as limp as he could, certain the whole bunch would pounce on him if he were to put up a fight at this point. He allowed his mind to clear, gathering his wits, biding his time until a better opportunity to escape should arise. Although the pressure on his right leg where the thing held him was intense, making the leg throb in torment, he doubted the skin or any bones were broken. As long as he didn’t panic, he might be able to get out of the fix he was in in one piece.

The clicking continued unabated.

Were they communicating? Hickok wondered. Were the creatures talking to one another, using those clicks instead of speech? He reasoned that his attackers must be some form of mutation.

But what?

A cool, damp breeze suddenly touched his face.

Thanks to the light from one of the narrow windows, Hickok was able to distinguish the outline of a huge hole in the back wall. He gulped when he realized the things were taking him into it, and he resisted an urge to try and flee. Seconds later the cement floor over which he had been drug was replaced by loose, moist earth. He could smell the dank soil, and he worried about dirt clogging the Henry. Surreptitiously, pulling the Carbine toward him inch by snail-paced inch, he succeeded in grasping the barrel and hugging the rifle to his chest.

The tunnel slanted downward for a half-dozen yards, then leveled.

Hickok lost track of the distance they traveled. Total blackness engulfed him. He began to doubt the wisdom of not trying to break loose sooner. If the creature let go of him now, he’d have no way of knowing which way led to safety. He’d blunder about in the darkness until starvation or a mutation claimed him.

Blast!

Here was another fine mess he’d gotten himself into.

He thought of Sherry, Ringo, and Chastity, and smiled. Even if he bought the farm, he’d try and go out thinking of them, the three people who loved him more than any others, the three who meant more to him than life itself. Funny, wasn’t it, how life worked out sometimes? When he’d been much younger, he’d believed that no woman in her right mind would ever tie the knot with him. There had been a woman he cared for before he met Sherry, another Warrior named Joan, but after she was killed by the lousy Trolls he’d resigned himself to the prospect of possibly being a bachelor for life. And then along came the most wonderful female on the planet, someone who viewed him as special, someone who must have hit her head on a rock when she was a child.

Hickok almost laughed aloud.

Unexpectedly the passageway brightened, and moments later the clicking creatures and their captive emerged from the tunnel into another immense chamber. Regularly spaced windows set high on the four walls allowed the sunlight to reach the floor.

Hickok looked to his right, and his blood seemed to chill in his veins.

Although the lighting wasn’t sufficient to reveal every feature, he could see his captors better, and what he saw shocked him.

They were bugs.

Big, ugly bugs.

The insects were about the size of mule deer, but twice as wide. Their bodies were oval in shape, and each was supported by six thin legs. Every insect sported a pair of wings that rested flat on top of its streamlined bulk. From the head of each creature extended a pair of antennae over six feet in length, and the antennae were constantly in motion, swaying and waving or flicking out to touch other insects. Underneath each gruesome head, and used to produce the clicking noises, were a pair of mandibles.

Hickok could feel goose bumps all over his flesh. He glanced down at his legs, at the insect holding him in its steely mandibles, and he wished he could plug the vermin and skedaddle.

But not yet.

He estimated there were 15 of the bugs around him, and he knew he couldn’t down them all before they got him. So he waited, hoping for a break.

The insects moved across the floor until they came to a strange mound almost ten feet in height. They climbed effortlessly up the gradual incline.

Hickok turned his head, studying the composition of the mound. To his amazement, he determined the bugs were ascending an artificial hill composed of trash, perhaps the accumulation of decades. The stench was nauseating.