David Robbins - Miami Run

A frog croaked to the right.

Blade faced front and continued toward the lights. He recognized the lights were arranged in the shape of a square, apparently aligned along the wall enclosing the five-acre living area. What was the power source? he wondered. A generator? Or a line from the metropolis? Did the utility company run lines out this far? If so, it was underground. There was no evidence of utility poles.

“Pssssst!”

Blade halted and pivoted, thinking Hickok had signaled him, but he was mistaken.

Rikki had done the whispering.

The martial artist dashed up to Hickok and the Dealer. “We are being followed,” he declared in a hushed voice.

Hickok looked to their rear. “What? Are you sure?”

“Something is after us,” Rikki asserted.

Blade walked to them. “Something?”

“Listen,” Rikki said.

“I don’t hear nothin’,” Hickok commented.

“Listen,” Rikki reiterated.

Blade cocked his head to one side, straining his ears, hearing only the sounds of the swamp. He was surprised Rikki would be susceptible to a case of overwrought nerves.

“I don’t—” Hickok began, then froze.

Blade heard it then too. A deep, heavy sort of breathing , as if a gigantic animal was on their back trail, expelling its breath in wheezing sighs.

“It’s comin’ after us,” Hickok said.

“What the hell is it?” Barbish asked fearfully.

“We’re not sticking around to find out,” Blade stated. “Run!”

And run they did, sprinting to the south, their feet pounding on the gravel, swirls of dust rising from the road.

Blade intentionally refrained from reaching full speed. His companions could not hope to match his lengthy strides, and he was not about to outdistance them in a crisis. If whatever was chasing them caught up with them, he would make a stand with his friends.

Which just might be the case.

Because the thing was gaining.

The three Warriors and the Dealer raced down the gravel road two abreast, with Hickok and Barbish a few feet in front of Rikki and Blade.

From their rear came the measured thump-thump-thump of their colossal pursuer.

Blade could hear the breathing grow louder and louder. He racked his mind, speculating on its identity, and reached an inescapable conclusion.

Only one type of creature achieved such awesome prportions; only a genetic deviate, a hybrid or a unique new specimen, fit the bill; only a mutant could be after them. A gust of warm air suddenly struck the nape of his neck, and a fetid stench assailed his nose.

The thing was so close it was breathing on him!

Blade risked a glance over his right shoulder, his eyes discerning the bulk profile of a lizard-like beast with a gaping maw rimmed by white teeth. The creature’s head was eight feet behind him and twice that distance above the gravel road.

Damn!

What was the word Barbish had used?

Dinosaur?

It fit.

Involved with keeping his eyes on the gargantuan, carnivorous brute, Blade did not realize that Barbish was on the verge of collapsing until the Dealer abruptly cried out, clutched his chest, and toppled forward. Blade looked around in time to see Barbish go down onto his knees, but he did not have enough time to react. The Dealer was directly in his path, and he tried to throw himself to the left to avoid a collision. His legs crashed into Barbish and he was upended, tumbling to the gravel and landing on his right shoulder. He rolled onto his back, bringing the Paratrooper up.

The creature reared above them.

Blade could see the beast swiveling its huge head, gazing from Barbish to himself.

The Dealer was on his hands and knees, taking deep gulps of air and groaning.

Blade waited for the thing to lower its head. He wanted a better line of fire at the mutant’s eyes.

Barbish unexpectedly rose on his knees, swaying unsteadily, his arm flapping weakly. “My chest!” he cried. “My chest!”

The movement and the outcry attracted the creature’s attention. Its head tilted downward as its eerie, light green eyes appraised the human below it.

Barbish caught sight of Blade. “Help me! It hurts!”

Blade went to warn the Dealer to keep quiet, but the harm had already been done.

The beast’s head swooped low, its maw wide, attacking with astonishing rapidity for an animal so huge. Its mouth closed on the Dealer, its jaws locking fast, taking in Barbish’s head and shoulders in one bite. There was a muffled scream as Barbish was lifted into the air, his arms and legs flapping wildly. Without a moment’s hesitation, the creature turned to the west and plowed into the vegetation. Loud splintering and crackling attended its progress through the undergrowth, terminated by a monstrous splash. Then all was still.

“Are you lyin’ down on the job again?”

Blade craned his head backwards.

Hickok and Rikki were a yard away, their weapons trained on the west side of the road.

“I thought you kept going,” Blade remarked as he rose.

“You know better than that, pard,” Hickok said.

“We would never desert you,” Rikki added.

Blade gazed to the west, listening for more sounds of the creature’s passage. Everything was quiet.

“What the blazes was that critter?” Hickok asked.

“A mutant would be my guess,” Blade said.

“What happened to Barbish?” the gunman queried. “It looked to me like the cow chip had a heart attack.”

“Same here,” Blade concurred. “He wasn’t in the best of shape. Maybe he didn’t exercise regularly. Maybe the strain was too much for him.”

“That critter will probably get indigestion,” Hickok joked.

“Perhaps Barbish will not satisfy the creature’s appetite,” Rikki commented.

Hickok glanced at the martial artist. “What?”

“Perhaps it will return for a second helping,” Rikki said.

“We’d best vamoose,” Hickok suggested.

“Let’s go,” Blade stated, jogging to the south.

Hickok and Rikki flanked the giant.

“Do you think they heard Barbish yell at the estate?” Hickok questioned.

“I doubt it,” Blade replied. “We have about a mile to go yet.”

They ran a quarter of a mile, constantly glancing to their rear, alert for the return of the beast.

“What’s the plan once we get to Happy Acres?” the gunman inquired.

“We’ll go in over the wall,” Blade said. “We’ll find this Arlo, Paolucci and force him to take us to the Masters.”

“Then we can wrap this up and head for the rendezvous site,” Hickok mentioned.

“We have plenty of time before the Hurricane returns to pick us up,” Blade noted. “The VTOL won’t be at the site for five days.”

“There’s something I’ve been wondering about,” Rikki mentioned.

“What’s the maximum range of the Hurricanes?”

“The Hurricanes were constructed right before the Big Blast,” Blade answered, using the colloquial term the Family employed for World War Three. “They were designed to ferry combat troops, strike squads, over vast distances. With greater fuel efficiency than previous models, with their state-of-the-art technology, and with their six fuel tanks each filled with five hundred gallons, they have a maximum one-way range of approximately three thousand miles.”

Rikki performed a few mental calculations. “The Hurricane that dropped us off won’t have enough fuel to return to the Home.”

“It’s flying to Denver, not the Home,” Blade said.

“Denver?” Rikki repeated. “It still won’t have enough fuel.”

“It will once it’s been refueled en route,” Blade divulged.

“What are you talkin’ about?” Hickok inquired. “They can refuel those contraptions in midair?”