David Robbins - Armageddon Run

“Is anybody here?” he called out.

No response.

Blade gently lowered Bertha to a sofa flanking a wall not ten feet from the door.

“Sleep tight,” he whispered. He wished he could say more: how very proud he was of her professionalism and courage, how he would be honored to sponsor her for Warrior status if she ever decided to formally join the Family, and how sorry he was her relationship with Hickok hadn’t worked out.

Circumstances dictated otherwise.

Blade exited the house, closing the front door behind him. He jogged toward the town square, his left side smarting.

What the—!

He saw the half-track parked in front of the command post. Three figures were near the vehicle. One of them was Lynx, and the diminutive feline was engaged in fighting an apish brute at least three feet taller than himself. Standing aloofly to one side, observing the struggle with a sneer on his lips, was a big man dressed in black, with a flowing black cape over his shoulders. His unruly hair was black, and he was holding a 45 in his right fist.

The Doktor!

It had to be!

Blade had never met the infamous Doktor, had never even seen him, but he intuitively recognized the man in black as the nefarious scientist.

The Doktor was concentrating on the fight between Lynx and the ape-man. The ape-like figure was striving to bash Lynx’s brains in with a sledgehammer, but Lynx was more than holding his own, his superior speed and agility enabling him to avoid the ponderous blows.

Blade darted to the left, crossing the street and zigzagging across a yard. He passed several trees and a bicycle, running due south, keeping his gaze on the command post, insuring the Doktor did not look in his direction. He wanted to put the corner of the command post between himself and the Doktor, then sneak up to the building and take the Doktor completely by surprise.

His left side was throbbing.

Blade suppressed the torment and kept running.

Where were Hickok and Geronimo and the others? he wondered. Were they faring any better?

Blade realized the Doktor and the half-track had disappeared from view. The command post was now blocking his avenue of approach from the Doktor. He turned, racing to the command post and stopping only when he reached the east wall of the structure, and was 15 feet from the northeastern corner.

The Spirit was smiling on him!

He took a moment to catch his breath, and then cautiously eased toward the corner. If his calculations were correct, the Doktor would be standing ten feet from the corner. Lynx, the ape-thing, and the halftrack were five to eight yards beyond the Doktor.

Blade was tingling with anticipation when he paused mere inches from the corner of the building. Their strategy had worked! And with the Doktor eliminated, Samuel II was next!

“Don’t toy with him,” the Warrior heard the Doktor say. “Get it over with!”

Blade grinned, placed his finger on the trigger of the Commando, and leaped from concealment.

The Doktor was watching the combat, his back to the corner.

“Doktor!” Blade shouted triumphantly.

The Doktor spun around, his dark eyes widening in disbelief.

Blade, relishing his victory, squeezed the trigger.

Nothing happened.

There was a loud click, and that was all.

The Commando was empty!

Lynx had twisted at the sound of Blade’s voice, and for the briefest of instants was off guard.

Thor immediately took advantage of the unexpected diversion. He delivered a vicious stroke at Lynx’s head.

Lynx sensed the danger, but too late. He twisted, trying to avert the sledgehammer, but it struck him a glancing blow, the stunning impact sufficient to send him hurtling into the half-track. He slumped to the ground next to the front tire.

The Doktor was pointing his 45 at Blade’s chest. “Are we having problems?” he asked, grinning.

Blade considered rushing the madman, but discarded the notion as patently stupid. He’d be dead before he was halfway there.

“Drop it!” the Doktor commanded, nodding at the Commando.

Blade released his weapon and it clattered as it landed.

“Now the pistols,” the Doktor directed. “Slowly!”

Blade carefully drew the Vegas from their shoulder holsters and let them fall.

The Doktor seemed to relax slightly. He smiled and studied the knives on the Warrior’s hips. “Bowie knives,” he said matter-of-factly, and looked up. “You undoubtedly are Blade.”

Blade simply nodded.

“So we meet at last,” the Doktor remarked.

Thor was standing behind the Doktor, glaring at Blade.

“I truly wish I could prolong our encounter,” the Doktor commented, “but I must complete my business here and travel to Denver. Any last words before we wrap this up?”

Blade remained silent.

The Doktor chuckled. “Oh, come now! Not even a few words of spite and malice?”

Blade was praying for a distraction. Something. Anything.

The Doktor, evidently unable to resist the allure of a captive audience, continued to speak. “Come to think of it, there are some words I’d like to say to you. I want to praise you.”

“Praise me?” Blade finally asked.

“Oh, not you personally. Your Family. Specifically, the accursed Warriors. You have created more difficulties for me than anyone else in the past one hundred years, and that’s quite an accomplishment,” the Doktor said.

“I’m flattered,” Blade snapped sarcastically.

“Seriously,” the Doktor stressed, “Haven’t you ever heard that you can measure the quality of a man by the excellence of his competition?” The Doktor sighed. “Believe it or not, I shall be sorry to see you go. You and the rest of the Warriors. There is no place in a society like ours, where peace is promoted at the expense of personal liberties, for Warriors like yourself.

You are an anachronism Blade. You and Geronimo and Hickok and the rest.” The Doktor laughed. “Especially Hickok. I’ve heard of some of his escapades and listened to some of the tapes of monitored Family conversations. Does he use that phony Wild West jargon all the time?”

Blade nodded.

“Remarkable,” the Doktor stated. “But then, the Family is remarkable. It has produced an astonishing quantity of outstanding individuals. Plato. Joshua. Your own father.”

“My father?” Blade repeated bewildered. “You knew my father?”

“Haven’t you ever speculated who was responsible for your father’s death?” the Doktor inquired, a wicked gleam in his eyes.

Blade’s mouth fell open as he gawked at the Doktor. “You?” he asked in stupefied amazement.

“Who else?” the Doktor said, smiling arrogantly.

Blade’s mind spun, his emotions staggered by the revelation. He vividly recalled the day, about four years ago, when the runner had told him his father had been attacked by a mutate while on a hunting trip. At the time, his father was the Family Leader. He had been with two other men from the Family. They had dropped behind while one of them removed a stone from his boot. Blade’s father had been 30 yards ahead of them, near a growth of dense brush, when what the men thought was a mutate had charged from cover and attacked him, ripping and slashing with its fearsome claws. Regrettably, Blade’s father had passed on to the higher mansions mere minutes prior to his own arrival on the scene. Blade had knelt in the grass and held his father’s hand while tears streaked his cheeks.

The men with Blade’s father had rushed to his aid, but the mutate responsible for the savage onslaught had whirled and vanished in the underbrush. Both men had claimed there had been something unique about that particular mutate; they had insisted it had worn a collar, a leather collar.