David Robbins - Dallas Run

Marlon placed his hands on his hips. “Yeah. Some of us have kids.”

“Melanie and you?”

“Yeah.”

“Were are they?”

“Hidden at the Galleria. Four of our women are watching over them.”

“How many children are there?”

“Nine.”

“Then for the sake of your children, if for no other reason, you should seriously consider my plan,” Geronimo said. “We might be able to defeat the Chosen, to spare your children the horror of being converted.”

“Not only that, but if you’ll help us we’ll put your case to my superiors,” Lieutenant Garber offered. “If they agree, and if you’re cleared for immigration by our medical experts, all of you could move to the Civilized Zone. You could live in peace and security. You wouldn’t have to live like animals anymore.”

Marlon gazed at his people. “What do you think?”

“I like the idea,” a man answered.

“It’s for the children,” said a woman.

“No more worrying about being killed,” added a second man. “It sounds too good to be true.”

Geronimo cradled the Browning in his left arm. “What do you say?”

“Even if we agree, there’s no guarantee the Stompers will go along with your plan,” Marlon noted.

“We won’t know until we talk to them.”

“But any messengers I send will be killed on sight,” Marlon posed another objection. “The Stompers will start shooting the moment they see any Chains on their turf.”

“Then send a messenger who doesn’t belong to the Chains,” Geronimo suggested.

“Like who?”

“Me.”

“Forget it.”

“Why not?” Geronimo asked.

“Just because you’re not a member of the Chains won’t stop the Stompers from busting your head wide open,” Marlon said.

“But I’d have a better chance than one of your own people,” Geronimo noted.

“I’ll go with you to cover your back,” Lieutenant Garber declared.

“You’re both wacko,” Marlon opined.

“We don’t have all day to debate the issue,” Geronimo stated. “The longer we delay, the more jeopardy Blade is in. Garber and I are going to find the Stompers, with or without your help. Which will it be?”

Marlon frowned, stared at the Chains, then slapped his right hand against his thigh in frustration. “Okay. I must be as crazy as you are, Indian. We’ll take you to the Stompers. But remember I told you so when they blow your brains out.”

“The spiders!” Melanie wailed, and screamed hysterically.

The instant his eyes alighted on the arachnids, Hickok’s mind made lightning calculations. There weren’t enough rounds left in the Henry to nail them all. Even employing the Pythons wouldn’t insure he could stop the spiders from reaching them, not when they were trapped with their backs to the double doors. There was no room to maneuver, to flee. Which could easily be remedied.

“Save us!” Melanie cried as one of the gruesome abominations stalked toward them, only 25 feet away.

Hickok spun, pointing the barrel at the center of the double doors, at the circular metal lock at the edge of the right-hand door, and fired. The bullet struck the lock with a resounding whang. Without bothering to visually inspect his handiwork, Hickok took a stride and planted his right heel on the right-hand door. Both doors swung outward several inches but wouldn’t open.

The spiders were closing in.

The Warrior braced his legs, then rammed the doors with his right shoulder, throwing his entire weight and power into the effort. There was a loud snap and the doors parted. He grabbed Melanie’s right wrist and darted into a corridor, then handed her the rifle, placed his hands on the doors, and closed them. Expecting the arachnids to make a concerted rush, he planted his feet firmly and tensed for the impact of their bodies against the doors.

But nothing happened.

Perplexed, Hickok tried to peer through the narrow slit between the doors to no avail.

“Let’s get out of here,” Melanie recommended anxiously.

Hickok was reluctant to release the doors. He couldn’t believe the spiders had given up. Maybe, he reasoned, the critters wouldn’t stray far from their webs. Maybe they confined themselves to the factory proper.

“What are you waiting for?” Melanie goaded him.

The gunman glanced to the right and the left. To the right the corridor extended for 70 feet, passing a series of offices. To the left the corridor ran 30 feet to a glass door, surprisingly still intact. Visible beyond the door was a sidewalk and a stretch of blacktop. He nodded at the entrance.

“When I let go, run like your britches are on fire.”

“My what?”

“Run like heck.”

“I’ll beat you there,” Melanie said.

“Ready. Set. Go!” Hickok declared, and relaxed his pressure on the doors. He turned to the left. Melanie was already a yard in front of him.

Despite all the swaying, she could run with sure-footed swiftness. He followed, elated their escape would be so simple, glancing over his shoulder to verify the spiders hadn’t come through the doors. Strange.

He’d figured the arachnids would be a mite more persistent. They’d looked so menacing when he first saw them hanging in their webs on the ceiling.

The ceiling!

Hickok snapped his head up, his hands streaking to the Colts. The ceiling consisted of sheets of white fiberboard. Ten feet ahead a ragged, yawning hole had been torn out, and there, perched in the opening and ready to pounce, was a spider. “Melanie!” he shouted. “Look out!”

She slowed and started to turn.

The Pythons flashed up and out, and Hickok squeezed both triggers simultaneously. The shots bored into the creature’s head, tearing through two of its eight eyes, and the mutation recoiled, scrambling upwards.

Three feet from the hole, Melanie halted and gaped at the ceiling, her fear rooting her in place, the Henry clutched in her hands.

Hickok launched himself into motion, hurtling the intervening distance and leaping, his arms outspread, catching Melanie from the rear. His arms looped about her waist, his momentum carrying her forward. The passed under the hole and came down hard. Hickok released her and rolled to his knees.

Not a moment too soon.

The spider had dropped to the floor, missing them by a fraction as it descended, and now it came after them, its mouth opening and closing.

The gunfighter sent four quick rounds into the arachnid’s head and it collapsed. “Out the door!” he barked, pushing erect.

Melanie, on her hands and knees, the rifle lying at her side, went to rise.

A second spider came through the hole in a prodigious bound, angling its repulsive form at Melanie. The mutation landed in front of its dead fellow and darted at its prey.

A terrified screech burst from Melanie’s lips when the spider’s mouth closed on her left leg, its fangs lancing into her flesh.

Hickok stepped to her aid. He glimpsed another spider suspended in the cavity, about to leap, and he swiveled and fired three times. The arachnid shuddered and retreated from view.

“Oh, God!” Melanie shrieked as she felt herself being pulled backwards.

The gunfighter reached her in a bound, holstering the Colts in a fluid motion and stooping to retrieve the Carbine by the barrel. He moved in close, swinging the Henry like a club, slamming the stock into the spider’s eyes. Once. Twice. Three times, and finally the monstrosity let go of Melanie’s leg and rotated, lunging at Hickok. He backpedaled frantically, reversing his grip on the Henry, and levered a fresh round into the chamber. Those glistening, dripping fangs were an inch from his legs when he squeezed the trigger, the rifle recoiling into his shoulder as the heavy slug tore through the arachnid and it stopped dead.