David Robbins - Miami Run

They continued in silence.

Blade stared at the Bowies in Paolucci’s right hand. His life depended on getting those knives back, but timing would be everything. He must wait for the perfect moment. His gaze shifted to the island ahead, and he scrutinized the grove of trees. One consolation, he mentally noted, was that Hickok and Rikki were free. If worse came to worst, they could fly to the Home, call a meeting of the Federation, and lead a combined military force back to Miami to smash the Dragons.

The party reached an incline at the eastern edge of the island, with willows and myrtles on both sides of the trail. They ascended to the crest of the rise. Beyond was a spacious clearing containing granite pedestals and a low marble altar.

And seven waiting figures.

Blade advanced toward the forms, determined not to betray a hint of trepidation. He wouldn’t give the Masters any satisfaction by allowing dread or fear to register on his features. Setting his lips in a thin line, he boldly walked toward the clearing, studying the mutants.

All seven were exceptionally tall, averaging six and a half feet in height.

Each projected an ungainly appearance, enhanced by their disproportionately long limbs; their arms hung below their knees, and their legs, while on normal dimensions from their hips to their knees, were thin poles below the kneecaps. Their skin was a sickly, pale gray, with layers of excess flesh forming pronounced wrinkles on their neck. Four of the mutants were males, three females. The males wore red, skintight shorts, evidently made especially for their bizarre physiques. Red halters and short skirts clothed the females.

“Masters!” Arlo Paolucci called out happily.

One of the mutants came toward him.

Blade received the impression he was watching a skeleton on stilts. The mutant’s stride was peculiar, a rolling sort of gait. He noticed that the Master never straightened its legs as it walked; the knees were always bent. But the strangest aspect of all, one that filled the Warrior with loathing, was the bony visage.

Except for the folds of flesh at the neck, all of the Masters possesed thin, partially transparent, and extremely taut skin. Veins and arteries, even bones, could be seen just under the surface. The result was to transform their countenance into a hideous caricature of a human face. Each Master was hairless, their heads resembling animated skulls. Their eye sockets were deep, darl wells, their nostrils were slits, their lips wafer thin.

“Director One,” said the approaching Master, its voice gravely.

“Master Orm,” Paolucci responded.

The mutant called Orm halted, waiting for them.

As he drew closer, Blade distinguished additional ghastly characteristics. Orm’s rib cage was clearly visible, each rib distinct and seemingly pressing against the skin from within. The mutant’s knuckles were outsized knobs. And when Orm spoke, he revealed a mouth rimmed with pointed, white teeth.

Orm was returning the Warrior’s critical appraisal. “So this is the mighty Blade?” he asked derisively.

Paolucci bowed. “Yes, Master. Delivered as promised.”

“You said there were three Warriors.”

Paolucci, straightening, his hood only half over his head, blanched.

“The other two have not been apprehended.”

Orm looked at Paolucci. “This is most unfortunate. We were expecting you to bring all three.”

“My abject apology, Master.”

“Kiss his feet, why don’t you?” Blade quipped.

Orm cocked his head, his dark eyes flat and cold. “Defiant to the last, I take it.”

“I’m just getting warmed up,” Blade declared.

Orm motioned toward the marble altar and the granite pedestals.

“Shall we proceed?”

Paolucci nudged the Warrior. “Get moving.”

Blade moved slowly toward the center of the clearing. All of the Masters were watching him intently. The tallest, a mutant who radiated an air of menace, whose expression was baleful, sneered at the Warrior. “Are you the leader of the Masters?” he asked Orm. As he did, Orm stepped past him and he saw one of their backs for the first time.

Orm’s spinal column was a knobby succession of bony protuberances extending from the base of his skull to his waist, each knob progressively bigger than the one above it. The spine curved outward, magnifying the repellent aspect.

Disconcerted by his discovery, Blade abruptly realized the mutant was speaking to him.

“—not the leader of the Masters,” Orm was saying, “so much as I am the head of my Family.”

Blade gazed at the six mutants now six feet off. “This is your family?”

“Yes, Warrior.”

The tallest Master took a stride toward the Warrior. “I am Radnor, bastard!”

Blade stopped and clenched his fists, expecting the Master to attack.

“Radnor!” Orm snapped.

“Let me kill him now, Father,” Radnor said.

“In due time,” Orm responded. He looked at the Warrior. “Radnor is my eldest.”

“One big, happy family,” Blade cracked.

“You cannot judge us by human standards,” Orm stated.

“He has already judged all of us, Master,” Paolucci mentioned. “He believes we deserve to die.”

Radnor, who was the only Master the equal of the Warrior in height, glared into Blade’s gray eyes. “Let me kill him, Father!” he reiterated.

“After we have questioned him,” Orm said.

“You’ll get nothing out of me,” Blade vowed.

“I wouldn’t be so certain,” Orm responded. “There are ways to force you to talk,” he added ominously.

“Give it your best shot,” Blade countered.

Orm sighed. “I was hoping we could conduct our business as reasonable individuals, but if you persist in this obstinacy, we shall commence the skinning.”

“The skinning?”

“Why do you think we instructed Director One to bring your knives?”

Orm asked.

Blade didn’t respond.

“Come with me,” Orm declared, walking to the east with his hands behind his back.

Blade hesitated.

“No tricks. I promise you,” Orm said.

What was the Master up to? Blade, suspicious yet curious, moved to the Master’s left.

Orm resumed walking, scrutinizing the trees surrounding the clearing.

“It is quite lovely here.”

“What are you trying to pull?” Blade demanded. “Why are you being so courteous?”

“What did you expect? Slavering monsters?”

“I don’t know what I expected,” Blade admitted.

“I repeat. You can not judge us by human standards,” Orm said. “To you, we are physically repulsive. Am I right?”

Blade nodded.

“Yet we have hearts and minds, just like you,” Orm said. “We can love and hate, just like you.”

“What do you know about love?” Blade asked scornfully.

“I love my wife and children,” Orm declared.

“But you don’t love humans.”

“True,” Orm confessed.

“Is that the reason you set up the Dragons? Is that why you use drugs to control the human populace? Because you hate us?”

Orm studied the Warrior for a moment. “I will tell you something no other human knows, because the knowledge will go with you to your grave.

I established the Dragons to protect my family.”

“What?”

“I am serious,” Orm insisted. “There is a natural animosity between humans and mutants. When my children were much younger, there was a great danger of being hunted down by your kind. Although I built a hideaway in the depths of the Everglades, I knew it was only a matter of time before we were discovered. I needed a power base, some way of ensuring my family would be protected. The drug war in Miami provided the ideal setting. I offered my services to one of the drug lords, assassinating his rivals. Such a task was easy. Our night vision and strength far surpasses the average human.”