David Robbins - Anaheim Run

The Python was inches from his left hand.

Blade scooped up the Colt, jammed the barrel into Parmalee’s open mouth, all the way, and squeezed the trigger twice in succession.

The android’s eyes enlarged in bewilderment. Parmalee went rigid for an instant, and then shoved the Warrior from her. She sat up, vigorously shaking her head.

Blade was to the android’s right, on his hands and knees, the Python in his left hand. He saw fluid flowing from under her hair, spreading over her shoulders, and he raised the Colt for another shot.

There was a slight sound to the rear, and the Warrior was delivered a brutal smash to the rear of his head.

Blade collapsed, sagging to the floor, almost unconscious, releasing the Python from his numb fingers. He realized the mutant must have clobbered him with the rifle butt, and he expected to receive a shot to the brain to finish him off. Instead, a hand gripped his right shoulder and he was savagely flipped over onto his back.

The mutant was glaring at the Warrior. He slowly began to aim the Darter.

Blade understood. Nightshade wanted him to see his demise, wanted to instill terror in his victim. But the plan backfired. Instead of feeling fright, Blade became enraged. He thought of all the bodies he’d seen in the lobby, all the needless deaths the assassins had caused, all the misery the murderers had perpetrated to satisfy the retributive craving of a vile dictator, and his fury mounted, lending strength to his limbs and clarity to his vision.

Nightshade was sneering in triumph when the Warrior’s right boot lashed out and caught him in the left knee. There was a pop, and the mutant’s leg buckled. He snapped off a shot, but the explosive dart missed the Warrior’s head and detonated in the carpet several inches to the right.

Blade kicked with both boots, catching the mutant’s right leg below the knee, and Nightshade tottered backward and fell onto his back. Blade was up and bounding forward before the mutant could recover. Nightshade was just scrambling to his knees when the Warrior delivered a kick to the mutant’s chin, toppling Nightshade over and sending the rifle flying. Blade closed in, assuming the mutant was down for the count. But he underestimated his foe.

Nightshade, on his right side, his left leg out of commission with a busted kneecap, rolled to the left and struck at the Warrior with his right foot. Blade easily sidestepped, but in so doing he came within reach of Nightshade’s arms, and Nightshade reached out and seized the Warrior’s ankles and yanked.

Blade felt his feet slip out from under him, and then he was on the floor next to the mutant. The two of them exchanged a flurry of hand blows, neither very effective because of their awkward positions. Blade punched Nightshade on the jaw, rocking the mutant, but Nightshade immediately countered with an excruciating blow to Blade’s abdomen.

Nightshade tried to apply pressure to Blade’s throat, to finish the job Parmalee had started, but the Warrior knocked his arms aside.

Blade was rapidly tiring. The strain of the combat with the android and the rifle butt to the head were taking their toll. His reflexes became sluggish, and he was able to ward off fewer and fewer of the mutant’s strikes.

Nightshade sensed his advantage and pressed it, grappling with the Warrior and succeeding in butting his forehead into Blade’s chin. The Warrior was momentarily stunned, and Nightshade used those precious seconds to scramble erect on his good leg and hobble toward the Darter lying a few feet away.

“No you don’t, gruesome!”

Nightshade turned at the sound of the stern command, and there was the gunfighter, Hickok, with his revolvers in his hands and a fierce expression on his face. Nightshade froze.

“How’d you do it?” Hickok asked.

Nightshade had no idea what the Warrior was talking about.

“You took four shots to the chest at close range,” Hickok said. “How come you’re still alive?”

Nightshade glanced at the Darter, measuring the distance.

“Don’t even think it!” Hickok warned. “Now answer me! How come you’re still alive?”

Nightshade tapped his shirt.

“What?” Hickok queried.

The assassin unbuttoned two of his shirt buttons and tugged the fabric aside, exposing the garment underneath.

Hickok’s reaction was mystifying to the mutant. The gunman did a double take, then laughed. “A bulletproof vest! You were all wearing bulletproof vests!”

Nightshade nodded.

“Then that’s why that joker on the terminal roof didn’t go down!”

Hickok said, sounding relieved. “I didn’t miss!”

Nightshade, puzzled, remained immobile.

“Thanks,” Hickok declared. “I needed that.” He paused. “I’m not about to plug you when you’re unarmed. Unlike you, I don’t kill unless it’s necessary. I’ll give you the chance you never would have given me.”

To Nightshade’s amazement, the gunman bolstered his Colts.

“It’s your move,” Hickok said.

And move he did, with all the speed in his mutant frame. Nightshade dove for the Darter and whirled, stupefied to find the Warrior hadn’t even moved. The gunfighter’s hands were still by his sides!

But not for long. Hickok saw the look on Nightshade’s face, saw the mutant believed he’d won. His arms a blur, Hickok punctuated the assassin’s delusions with twin blasts from his Pythons.

Nightshade’s head jerked backward and he was thrown onto his back by the force of the slugs. He convulsed for a moment, then was still.

Blade was slowly rising to his feet. “Thanks,” he said. “I owe you.”

“You don’t owe me diddly,” Hickok responded. “What are friends for?”

A female voice tittered. “Friends are friends and mares are does and mastodons eat poison ivy!”

Hickok swiveled to the left.

Melissa Parmalee was sitting on the floor with a remarkably stupid expression on her wreck of a face.

“What the heck!” Hickok exclaimed.

“She’s an android,” Blade informed him.

“An android?” Hickok stepped up to her and leaned down, studying her features.

Parmalee giggled. “Two and two is nine, and fifty and four decades make a stitch in time.” She applauded her poetry.

“What the blazes is she babbling about?” Hickok asked.

“Her circuits are damaged,” Blade explained. “I shot her in the head.”

Parmalee beamed at Hickok. “Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water. Nine months later, wouldn’t you know, Jill had a daughter!”

She laughed uproariously.

“Shut her up,” Blade ordered.

Hickok pressed the Python barrels to her eyes and squeezed the triggers.

Blade stood on the sidewalk outside the front entrance to the hotel, enjoying the warmth of the afternoon sun on his body. He ached all over, and swallowing was an exercise in the finer art of torture. His mind reviewed the aftermath of the assassination attempt, and he frowned.

Forty-three deaths! The toll was staggering! He thought of the ones he’d known, of Lone Bear and Red Cloud, of the Mole and Brother Timothy.

And Hamlin! How could he forget Hamlin? All killed in the performance of their duty. All slain needlessly, casualties of humankind’s seemingly endless thirst for blood and destruction. How long would it take? he wondered. How many centuries of warfare? How many horrors would be unleashed before the people of the earth awoke to the insanity of it all?

How long before there really was peace on earth and goodwill in the hearts of all men and women?

At the rate the human race was going, maybe never!

There were footsteps behind him and he turned.

Plato intently scrutinized the Warrior as he approached. “How are you feeling?” he inquired.