David Robbins - Armageddon Run

The Doktor hurtled from the cloud and crashed into the unprepared Warrior, sending him flying from the communications room to slam against the far side of the hallway.

Blade’s chest was lanced by an acute spasm, but he ignored the agony and lashed out with his right leg, catching the Doktor on the left knee as he closed in.

There was a loud snap, and the Doktor nearly fell, but he recovered and lunged, his immensely strong fingers encircling the Warrior’s throat.

Blade grabbed the madman’s wrists and tried to pry the fingers from his neck.

“I’ve got you now!” the Doktor hissed, gloating.

Amazed by the Doktor’s display of physical force, Blade released the wrists. He drew back his right hand and, his index finger extended and rigid, drove the stiff digit into the Doktor’s left eye.

The Doktor howled and backed away down the hallway, his left hand shielding his injured organ.

Blade leaped, his arms clasping the Doktor around the waist and bearing him to the floor.

The Doktor’s right hand disappeared in a fold of his flowing cloak, emerging a second later with a small hypodermic syringe. A tiny red plastic tip covered the tip of the needle. With a flick of one finger, the Doktor removed the tip and stabbed the point at the Warrior’s left shoulder.

Blade detected the ploy out of the corner of his eye, twisting his body to avoid the syringe and rolling to his feet.

The Doktor did likewise, the needle held at chest height. His left eye was open but watering, a line of moisture flowing across his left cheek to his chin.

Blade assumed the horse stance and waited for the Doktor to make his move.

Instead, the demented scientist grinned. “You should see your face!” he exclaimed. “Judging by your expression, your hate for me is unbounded.”

Blade, his gaze on the syringe, refused to comment. Talking in the midst of hand-to-hand combat was ridiculous. Total concentration was required in life-or-death situations, and only someone as unhinged as the Doktor would babble inanely while so occupied.

“Why are you amusing yourself at my expense?” the Doktor asked. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”

What was the psychopath talking about? Blade didn’t reply. He waited for that syringe to move.

“Why else haven’t you used your knives?” the Doktor calmly inquired.

Despite his reservations. Blade found himself mulling the question.

Why hadn’t he resorted to the Bowies? Because he wanted to beat the Doktor with his bare fists? Or because he had forgotten about them in the heat of battle, which was utterly unlike him?

“Go ahead,” the Doktor said. “Draw your knives. I won’t go anywhere.”

Blade was thoroughly confused. What was up the Doktor’s sleeve? This was insane! There had to he an ulterior motive.

“Tell you what I’ll do,” the Doktor stated. “I’ll make it easy on you.” So saying, he tossed the hypodermic syringe to the floor.

Blade was stunned by the action. It was impossible to predict what a murderous lunatic like the Doktor would do next. Why did he throw away the syringe?

The Doktor, smiling, extended his arms, palms up, toward the perplexed Warrior. “See? There’s nothing to be afraid of. Use your knives and finish it. I’m tired of living.”

Unnerved, Blade debated the wisest move. They were at a stalemate; there was no way the Doktor could get past him to the door, and it appeared unlikely he could best his crafty adversary without a weapon.

“Go ahead,” the Doktor repeated, goading him. “What are you waiting for?”

Blade reached a decision. He was tired of these damn games! The Doktor was standing about two feet in front of him. All he had to do was whip out the Bowies and, as he had practiced so many times over the years, sweep the big knives up and out, flinging them point first into the Doktor’s torso.

“Well?” the Doktor baited him.

When it came to drawing his Bowies, Blade was almost as fast as Hickok was with his cherished Colts. His hands flew to the handles and the gleaming blades leaped clear of their scabbards. His arms began to swing upward and outward, the razor tips elevating. He was all set to release the handles and let the Bowies fly when the Doktor made his move.

The Doktor’s left hand dropped at a 90-degree angle to his forearm and a tiny metallic dart shot from under his sleeve trailing a thin wire behind it.

Blade believed the miniature dart was meant for him, so for the briefest fraction of a second he was relieved when the dart struck the blade on his right Bowie. But instead of striking the steel and being deflected to the floor, the dart stuck to the Bowie.

What transpired next was totally unforeseen.

Blade felt a terrific jolt of… something… lance up his right arm and course through his entire body. The shock to his system was staggering. It was as if he had been kicked in the chest by a bucking bronc. He was lifted from his feet and flung almost to the front door, crashing to the floor on his back and lying there with his breath caught in his throat. His limbs were trembling uncontrollably, although his mind seemed perfectly lucid.

The Doktor’s sneering visage came into view directly overhead. “You’re still alive? Remarkable. The shock would have terminated any ordinary man,” the Doktor said.

No matter how hard he tried. Blade couldn’t stop his body from quaking.

“Aren’t you the least bit curious about how I did it?” the Doktor inquired.

Blade’s feet abruptly ceased shaking.

The Doktor held up his left hand. It held the small dart and several coils of thin wire. “Do you see this? Do you know what it is? Law enforcement agencies once used a crude, cumbersome version of this device. I, of course, have improved on the original design and incorporated many advanced refinements.”

Blade’s legs stopped their shuddering.

The Doktor nodded at his left forearm. “There’s a tube under my sleeve. The dart is fired by means of a compressed gas cartridge.”

Blade felt his hips halt their vibrating.

“This insulated wire,” the Doktor explained, dangling the wire in Blade’s eyes, “runs up my sleeve and over my shoulder to a portable power pack strapped to the small of my back.”

Sensation returned to Blade’s arms and hands. He realized his right Bowie was gone, but he had retained his grip on the left knife.

“All I need do,” the Doktor was saying, “is move my hand a certain way and, presto! My target receives enough juice to kill a horse! Simplicity itself!”

Blade glared at the Doktor, his intense hatred welling up inside of him.

The man had assassinated his father and claimed to have murdered Joshua; he had caused untold hardship and suffering to the Family; he had used countless infants as fodder for his rejuvenation technique. Who knew the extent of his atrocities?

It was time for the Doktor to die.

His bulging muscles rippling, Blade surged upward, his left arm driving the Bowie up and in, planting the blade in the Doktor’s groin, imbedding the knife to the hilt.

The Doktor gasped and dropped the dart and wire. He uttered a feeble, rasping squeak and looked down at his ruined loins.

Blade gripped the Bowie in both hands and drove the keen blade upwards, slicing through the abdomen and reaching the ribs.

Whining, wimpering in abject fear at the prospect of his own demise, the Doktor managed to grab Blade’s wrists. “Please!” he pleaded, his eyes silently begging for his life. “Spare me!” he entreated the grim-faced Warrior.

Blood was pouring from the Doktor’s ruptured body, raining from his abdomen and spattering the floor with continual red drops. His intestines were seeping from their cavity, oozing slowly toward the concrete below.