David Robbins: Liberty Run

The eyes contained bizarre, bright red pupils. Its expression reflected its nervousness.

The one on the left wore a black loincloth, and its feral features radiated sheer animosity. This deviate only reached four feet in height, and couldn’t have weighed more than 60 pounds. Brown hair, about three inches in length, covered its entire body. Its head was outsized for its diminutive form. A long, tapered nose almost resembled a snout. Beady brown eyes shifted from trooper to trooper.

In the center was the smallest deviate, just shy of four feet tall, but weighing about as much as the feral one. A thick coat of short, grayish-brown hair or fur encased his wiry physique. A gray loincloth protected his genitals. His eyes were vivid green and slightly slanted. His ears were pointed. He resembled, for all the world, a living cat-man.

Pointed nails capped his bony fingers. Amazingly, his posture conveyed a supreme nonchalance. He was even grinning, exposing his needlelike teeth. “Hi, there, chuckles!” he said to Lysenko in a high-pitched, lisping voice. “We’re the Three Musketeers. I’m Athos. This”—he indicated his tall companion—“is Aramis. And this”—he nodded at the feral one—“is Porthos. We’re here to shish-kebab your gonads!”

Lieutenant Lysenko recovered quickly. His initial stupefaction subsided, and he leveled his AK-47 and squeezed the trigger.

Too late.

The three… things… darted from view, taking cover behind the trees, moving with astonishing speed. One moment they were there; the next they were gone.

Lysenko’s burst struck the two trees, splintering the wood, sending chips flying. He ceased firing, glancing at Grozny, jerked his head to the left.

Grozny nodded and crouched, stepping to the left of the trees.

Lysenko motioned for Serov to do likewise to the right. He. waited while his men cautiously neared the trees from opposite sides, prepared to catch the genetic deviates in a cross fire.

Grozny and Serov paused, exchanged glances, and swept around the trees, weapons at the ready.

“Well?” Lysenko barked when they failed to fire.

“They’re gone!” Grozny exclaimed.

“Gone? Where could they go?” Lysenko queried in disbelief.

Harsh laughter sounded from the wall of forest beyond.

Grozny and Serov backpedaled to Lysenko’s side.

“What are they?” Serov hissed.

“Mutants,” Lieutenant Lysenko answered. “Man-made mutants.”

“They’re dead mutants if they show their faces again,” Grozny vowed.

From in the woods came a low, raspy question: “Should I be scared now, or later?”

More laughter.

“What do we do?” Serov asked in a soft whisper.

“You can drop your guns and give up!” ordered the one with the high, lisping voice, the cat-man. “And we’ll let you live!”

“You are insane!” Lysenko shouted. “You don’t even carry guns!”

The cat-man snickered. “I don’t need a gun, bub! My nails will slice you open like a rotten melon!”

Grozny was peering into the vegetation. “Where the hell are they? I can’t see them!”

Lieutenant Lysenko looked at the blonde. Inspiration struck. “I know you come from the Home!” he shouted. “I know what you are!”

“I think we’ve just been insulted,” said the low, raspy voice, seemingly coming from a tangle of brush to the left.

“If you don’t come out now,” Lieutenant Lysenko warned, “I will kill our prisoner!”

“I wouldn’t do that, dimples, if I were you!” yelled the cat-man. “Her hubby is after your ass, and he’s one mad son of a gun. His name is Hickok. Maybe you’ve heard of him? He’s got quite a rep. I expect he’ll jam his Colt Pythons up your butt and keep pullin’ the triggers until the cylinders are empty!”

“I’m serious!” Lysenko repeated his threat. “I’ll kill her!”

The cat-man uttered a peculiar trilling sound. “Not nice, chuckles! Not nice at all!”

Silence descended.

“Do you think they’ve gone?” Serov asked hopefully.

“Come out!” Lysenko bellowed.

“Please!” cried a new voice, coming from directly ahead. “Surrender, yes? Avoid bloodshed, no?”

Lieutenant Lysenko was stymied. He could hear the deviates, but couldn’t see them. And he couldn’t shoot what he couldn’t see. He was bluffing about killing the blonde, because General Malenkov needed her alive. Lysenko suspected the damn mutants were deliberately delaying their escape, hindering them until the Warriors could arrive.

“What do we do, sir?” Serov asked anxiously.

Before Lysenko could reply, a high-pitched voice, from directly behind them, answered, “I say we play peekaboo!”

The Russians soldiers spun.

The cat-man and the feral one were already in motion. The cat-man leaped onto Grozny, burying the tapered tips of his right fingernails in Grozny’s eyes, even as his left hand, his fingers pressed together, forming a compact point, speared into Grozny’s throat. Grozny screamed as the cat-man tore his eyeballs from their sockets and ripped his neck from chin to chest.

Serov bravely endeavored to bring his AK-47 into play as the feral creature landed on his chest in one bound. Snarling, the deviate placed a hairy hand on either side of Serov’s astounded face, then brutally wrenched Serov’s head to the left. There was a distinct popping noise, and Serov slumped to the ground.

Lieutenant Lysenko had retreated several steps, unable to fire without hitting Grozny and Serov. He aimed at the feral one as Serov fell, but before he could shoot, the third mutant intervened. Steely gray arms encircled him, lifted him from the ground. The pressure was unbelievable.

He felt like his chest was on the verge of being crushed. His AK-47 clattered to the earth.

The feral one was standing with its arms folded, smirking, staring at Serov.

The cat-man suddenly rose from Grozny’s body, its hands soaked with blood, dripping crimson. It grinned, then glared at Lysenko. “Put the Red down, Gremlin,” he said. “I want to have some fun.”

Gremlin twisted his torso, holding the soldier away from his feline friend. “No, Lynx! Blade wanted them alive, yes? Must spare this one, no?”

Lynx shook his head, his ears twitching. “I just want to have a little fun with him.”

“Bet me!” interjected the feral one in his low, rasping tone. “I’ve seen that look in your eyes before. You’ve got the blood lust.”

“Who asked you, Ferret?” Lynx quipped.

“I know what I’m talking about,” Ferret persisted. “All of us are prone to it. Maybe its part of our genetic constitution. You know as well as I that the damn Doktor designed us as his personal assassin corps.”

“Yeah,” Lynx concurred. “The Doc was always braggin’ about being the only person able to edit the genetic instructions encoded in DNA, or some such garbage. Odds are, he intended for us to live to kill.”

Gremlin shook his leathery head. “Gremlin has never had blood lust, yes? Must not be true for all of us, no?”

Lynx snickered. “Gremlin, you’re such a goody-goody, you’d never kill anyone or anything just for the thrill of it.”

Gremlin frowned. “There is a thrill in killing, yes?”

“For some of us,” Lynx confessed. He nodded at the Red. “You’re real lucky, pal. If I hadn’t of given my word to Blade, you’d be mincemeat right about now.”

“Listen!” Ferret exclaimed.

There was a crashing in the underbrush, and a man dashed into view, breathing heavily from the strenuous exertion of having run eight miles.

He was a lean blond, with a sweeping handlebar mustache. Buckskins and moccasins covered his muscular frame. Strapped around his waist were a pair of pearl-handled Colt Python revolvers.