David Robbins - Houston Run

“What do we do, yes?” Gremlin queried anxiously.

Lynx motioned for them to drop from sight. “Leave it to me,” he advised.

They heard the man’s footsteps as he reached the top of the loading dock, then paused. “Now where’s that damn consignment?” the man mumbled.

Lynx cautiously eased his head above the nearest box.

The man in orange was eight feet away, examining the crates and boxes, idly scratching his pointed chin.

Lynx scanned the ramp to insure the man was alone. No one else was in sight.

“Ahhhh! There!” The man exclaimed, and walked toward some crates to his right.

Lynx vaulted over the box screening him, his padded feet landing noiselessly on the cement dock. He took three supple strides and sprang, his arms encircling the man’s ankles, his momentum bearing the startled human to the cement.

“What the hell!” the man in orange blurted, and suddenly steely fingers were fastened to his throat, and a pair of feral green orbs blazed into his own brown eyes.

“Don’t move, bub!” Lynx threatened. “Or I’ll tear your neck open!”

The man in orange froze, petrified.

Ferret and Gremlin quickly raced to join Lynx.

“Give me a hand,” Lynx directed, and the trio lifted the human and carted him to their hiding place.

The man in orange gawked as they deposited him on the cement, prone on his back, the cat-man still gripping his throat.

Lynx leaned forward until his nose was almost touching the human’s.

“I’m gonna let go. But you’d better not squawk, if you know what’s good for you! Do you understand?”

The man in orange nodded. He sported a mustache and shallow cheeks.

Lynx released his hold, then knelt on the man’s chest. “What’s your name?” he demanded.

“Barney,” the man blurted out, panic-stricken. “Barney 137496.”

“137496?” Lynx said. “What’s that?”

Barney seemed confused by the question. “How do you mean?” he replied nervously.

“What’s the number for? I asked your name,” Lynx stated.

“But that is my name!” Barney stressed. “Barney 137496.”

“Your last name is a number?” Lynx queried.

“Of course,” Barney answered, bewildered. “Every Servile has an I.D. number.”

“Servile? What’s a Servile?” Lynx interrogated the human.

Barney was obviously flabbergasted by the cat-man’s ignorance. “You don’t know what a Servile is? Where are you from?”

Lynx’s tone hardened. “I’ll ask the questions, pal. What’s a Servile?”

“All the workers are Serviles,” Barney replied. “All the human workers, that is.”

“What other kind of workers are there around here?” Lynx asked.

“There are mutants, like you guys, and…” Barney began, then stopped as the cat-man voiced a trilling sound.

“Mutants like us?” Lynx said. “There are mutants here like us?”

“Sure,” Barney declared. “Lots of them. But they’re in a class all by themselves. They’re never called Serviles.”

Lynx glanced at Ferret and Gremlin. If there were other mutants in this strange city, where had they come from? The mutations prevalent since World War III were derived from three sources. The first type, the wild mutations found everywhere, were deformed creatures produced by the saturation of the environment with incredible amounts of gene-altering radiation. The second sort, labeled mutates by the Family, were former mammals, reptiles, or amphibians, transformed into pus-covered monstrosities by the chemical toxins unleashed during the war and still prevalent in the environmental chain. And the third form, of which Lynx, Ferret and Gremlin were prime examples, had been deliberately developed in the laboratory by the scientists like the Doktor, genetic engineers intent on propagating new species. But so far as Lynx knew, all of the Doktor’s genetic creations had perished. If there were indeed mutants in this city, how had they been produced? Lynx looked at Barney. “What do you call these mutants?”

Barney did a double take. “Mutants,” he said.

Ferret snickered.

“Where do the mutants come from?” Lynx inquire.

“From the D.G. Section,” Barney revealed.

“What’s the D.G. Section?” Lynx wanted to know.

“Deviate Generation Section,” Barney elaborated. “Over in Science.”

Lynx reflected for a moment. He reached out and tapped the silver circle in the middle of Barney’s forehead. “What do you call this gizmo?”

“It’s my O.D.,” Barney said.

“O.D.?” Lynx repeated quizzically.

“Orwell Disk,” Barney told them.

“What’s it for?” Lynx queried.

“Every Servile has one,” Barney elucidated. “The mutants too. The Superiors use them to keep tabs on us. They can monitor our activities with them.”

Lynx straightened, frowning. He recalled the collars the Doktor had utilized to keep his Genetic Research Division in line. Every mutant the Doktor had developed in his lab had been required to wear the metal collars, collars containing sophisticated electronic circuitry enabling the Doktor to instantly know the location of his test-tube creatures, and to eavesdrop on their conversations. “Can the Superiors hear what you’re sayin’ with that Orwell Disk?” he asked Barney.

Barney shook his head. “No. They can tell where we are, though, and they know right away if we’ve strayed into an unauthorized area or are trying to escape Androxia.”

“Androxia? Is that the name of this city?” Lynx questioned.

“Sure is,” Barney confirmed.

“Where is Androxia?” Lynx queried.

“Where?” Barney said, puzzled.

“Yeah. Where? What state is it in?” Lynx asked.

“Oh. You mean like the old-time states they had before the war?”

Barney asked.

“Yep. What state is this?” Lynx said, prompting him.

“It’s Androxia,” Barney responded. “It’s been called Androxia for almost a hundred years, I think.”

“But you just said this city is called Androxia,” Lynx observed.

“City. State. They’re both the same,” Barney said.

“You mentioned the old-time states,” Lynx stated. “Do you know what this city was before it became known as Androxia?”

Barney pursed his lips. “An old man did tell me a story once, but I don’t know how true it is. He said this was once the city of Houston, in a state called Texas. But he was drunk when he told me. Maybe he made the whole thing up.”

“Have you ever been outside of Androxia?” Ferret interjected.

“Nope,” Barney said. “I was born here. I’ve always been here. The Superiors don’t permit us to leave Androxia.”

“And haven’t the Superiors ever mentioned anything about Androxia’s history?” Ferret inquired.

“No,” Barney answered. “Why should they?”

Lynx gazed at the city lights. “Do you know where the Containment Section is located?”

Barney nodded. “In the Intelligence Building. In the lower levels.”

“Is it far from here?” Lynx queried.

Barney pointed toward a skyscraper to the northwest. “That’s it right there.”

Lynx calculated the distance. Not more than a mile, by his reckoning.

“Good. Get up. You’re gonna take us there.”

Barney slowly stood, his frightened brown eyes expanding in alarm. “I can’t!” he objected.

“Want to bet?” Lynx countered. He flicked his right arm up, his claws grabbing Barney’s coveralls.

“Believe me!” Barney whined. “You don’t want me to take you there!”

“Yes we do,” Lynx retorted. “We need to get there as fast as possible, and you’re our ticket. If you’re a good little boy, I’ll even let you live, sucker. But we’re going, and we’re going now, before you’re missed.”