David Robbins - Seattle Run

Death was a portal to the other side.

Death was the technique of passage to the higher spheres.

A technique, and nothing more.

Death was not to be feared. Not to be dreaded. Death was to be accepted, and once accepted to be placed in its proper perspective.

Yama made a silent vow to himself. Never again would he become worried at the prospect of dying. Never again would the likelihood of his demise upset him.

Never again!

Never more!

Yama glanced at the arrow protruding from his abdomen. The Spirit had smiled on him! The point of the shaft was not a broadhead, which would have torn his insides to shreds. The point was an ordinary target tip, small and tapered to a neat point. The arrow could be extracted without breaking the shaft! He reached behind him with his left hand and gripped the arrow near the fletching.

It had to be done.

Girding himself, tightening his stomach and arm muscles, he slowly pulled on the arrow. The shaft resisted his effort for a second, then began to slid outward with a slurping sound.

The sensation was sickening.

Yama grinned when the shaft was completely out. He brought the arrow around in front of him and studied the bloody shaft and feathers.

Close.

So close.

He tossed the arrow aside and tried to rise, but vertigo overwhelmed him. Dizzy, he sighed and propped his back against the wall. He’d lost a lot of blood. If he pushed himself, he could well succumb because of the blood loss alone. He could… die?

Oh, really?

His dream, if such it was, had indicated otherwise. “Your time has not yet come,” Alicia had said. So was he going to believe the woman he loved, or go by the large pools of blood on the floor?

Yama laughed.

Mere minutes ago he had made a vow never to worry about the prospect of dying again. And what was he doing?

He put both palms on the slippery floor and shoved, rising to a squatting posture.

No problem.

Yama lifted the Wilkinson in his right hand, then used the stock on the floor as a brace while he straightened to his full height. The dizziness disappeared. He bent over, examining the exit wound in his abdomen. The target tip had perforated the skin in an even circle, and the blood flow had ceased.

But what about infection?

Yama shook his head, bemused by his second lapse. He chuckled and headed for the front doors while inserting a fresh clip into the Carbine’s magazine. Blinking in the bright light, he went outside.

Rikki was nowhere in sight.

Nor were Blade and Hickok.

Yama looked to his right. Far down the street there were six or seven bodies. Swarming over the corpses were scores of hungry rats.

Which way should he go?

Yama walked down the steps to the street. Seattle was a huge city, or had been. He could search for weeks, wandering at random, and never find his fellow Warriors. If Rikki, Blade, and Hickok had been captured, he didn’t have the slightest idea where their captors might be based.

The solution was simple.

Yama proceeded to the south, bypassing the feeding rats, until, four blocks later, he found exactly what he needed.

An ancient store, the faded lettering on its sign still legible. OFFICE SUPPLIES. The front window was busted and the door was off its hinges.

Yama entered the store, searching for the materials he required. Dust covered everything. Debris dotted the floor. Grimy computers and typewriters lined shelves on the walls. He crossed to one of the computers and ran his left index finger over its display screen. The dust was half an inch thick.

Where was what he needed?

Yama moved to the rear of the store. There, in a corner of the store, he found the items he wanted. Boxes of paper. Reams and reams and reams.

Time to set the bait.

Now where were his matches?

“What the heck!” Hickok blurted out.

“Oh, God!” Hedy exclaimed.

Manta hissed maliciously.

Hickok was staggered by the setup. They were in a vast chamber, and the exterior walls, which were composed of glass or plastic, affored a view of the sea! Fish could be seen swimming past, singly and in schools.

“Do you know what this was?” Manta asked.

Hickok shook his head, surveying the chamber’s interior. Square and oval tanks, some small, some huge, were everywhere. He guessed the tanks had once been utilized to house sea life, but now they housed… humans!

“This was once an aquarium, the Seattle Aquarium to be exact,” Manta stated. “I understand they underwent a major expansion project shortly before the war. How convenient for me!”

Hickok released Hedy’s hand and took a few steps into the gigantic chamber, stunned. There were scores upon scores of humans in the tanks.

Incredibly, they were engaged in typical human activities. In a large tank to his right, a group was tending to a garden growing inside the 40-foot-wide tank. And in a smaller tank to his left was a woman seated in a rocking chair and sewing .

“What do you think of my collection?” Manta taunted the Warrior. “A variety of human activities are represented for the enjoyment and edification of the Brethren.”

Hickok spun toward the mutant. “It’s… it’s like a blamed zoo!”

“This is better than a zoo,” Manta gloated. “This is my Humarium.”

At last Hickok understood. He gazed at the dozens of tanks, at the humans inside, and comprehension dawned. “The humans have taken the place of the fish! Everything is reversed! Instead of the humans watchin’ the sea life—” he looked at Manta—“the sea life is watchin’ the humans!”

“You are a bright one!” Manta declared.

“How long have these folks been here?” Hickok queried.

“Some have been here for decades,” Manta said. “Others, not so long.

Captain Dale and the crew of the Cutterhawk have been here four months,” Manta replied.

“This isn’t right!” Hickok stated. “It’s inhuman!”

Manta smirked. “Do tell. Is it any worse than what your species did to the former occupants of those tanks?”

“But that was different!” Hickok retorted. “You said so yourself! The aquariums were for broadening human understanding of sea life.”

“And my Humarium is for broadening mutant understanding of humans,” Manta said. “There is no difference.”

Hickok stared at the group tending the garden. “I don’t see how they can stand it!” he commented.

“Actually, most of them have a better life in my Humarium than they did outside,” Manta asserted. “I feed them daily. They are sheltered from the elements. And, if they perform their duties as required, they are not harmed.”

“Where are the rest?” Hickok questioned. “Dale said you were holdin’ hundreds of men, women, and children. I only see about a hundred in here.”

“The rest are elsewhere,” Manta said. “They work in shifts. Some are in the housing units to the south of the Humarium, others are harvesting kelp.”

“Kelp?”

“Kelp is a seaweed,” Manta explained. “One of the staples of our diet, along with dolphin, porpoise, and whale meat.”

“You eat other sea creatures?” Hickok inquired in surprise.

“Dolphins, propoises, and whales are mammals,” Manta reminded the Warrior. “We relish their flesh. Unfortunately, we must devote much of our time to slaying them ourselves. Humans are incapable of catching their warm-blooded, aquatic kin without the aid of a boat, and we would not trust putting a boat in the hands of our human workers. The temptation might be too great. So we relegate humans to kelp harvesting, work we find menial and boring.”

Hickok was observing the Brethren members engaged in overseeing the operations of the Humarium. All of them resembled Manta except in two ways. Some were female mutants, and they wore short green skirts instead of skimpy briefs. And none of the other Brethren possessed the peculiar fleshy cowl Manta did. Perhaps the cowl was a hereditary trait, a genetic mark of leadership.