David Robbins - Dakota Run

Spartacus grinned. “Then they’re dead meat!”

“Better them than us,” Blade said.

“You sound so grim,” Spartacus noted. “Lighten up. What can these bozos do to us anyway?”

Blade glanced at Spartacus, realizing his companion was completely unaware of the gravity of the situation. “They could destroy the Home.”

“Destroy the Home?” Spartacus responded skeptically. “They have that much power?”

“They have that much power,” Blade assured him.

The two Warriors ran in silence for a minute, passing fields of recently harvested crops. They reached a line of cabins centered in the middle of the Home, located between the eastern, agricultural half and the western, occupied section. The cabins were the homes for married couples and their families.

“I still say,” Spartacus stubbornly persisted, waving to a nearby couple as he went by them, “Rikki will slice them up into little pieces.”

“Let’s pray to the Spirit you’re right,” was all that Blade would say.

Spartacus hadn’t been with Alpha Triad on its previous runs; he just didn’t know what their enemies were capable of. Well, he was about to find out.

“We’re gaining on them!” Cynthia happily yelled over her right shoulder, her black hair flying behind her as the paint galloped up yet another hill.

Geronimo, keeping the big black right on her heels, looked over his left shoulder to verify her assessment. She was correct; they were putting more distance between the Legion patrol and themselves. With one notable exception. The majority of the patrol was three-fourths of a mile to their rear, but a single rider, a man on a golden Palomino, was considerably closer, perhaps five hundred yards away and not losing any ground.

“We’re not gaining on him ,” Geronimo shouted, nodding his head in the direction of the Palomino rider.

Cynthia smiled. “He’s the one I told you about,” she called out, “the captain. I think he’s warm for my form!”

Geronimo grinned. What kind of woman was this Cynthia that she could make jokes at a time like this?

They were rapidly approaching the crest of the hill, a barren jumble of large boulders obscuring their view of the other side.

If we can get beyond those boulders, Geronimo told himself, we can cut to the right and swing around in a circle. They might be able to shake the Legion patrol.

Cynthia entered the rocks first, expertly dodging her mount between the boulders, its hooves clattering on the stone underneath.

Geronimo gamely followed her, cautiously swerving and weaving the black, amazed at the consummate ease with which his steed negotiated the often narrow passageways.

A stretch of green was visible ahead.

Cynthia emerged from the boulder first, the paint darting into the open and beginning to pour on the speed again, when it abruptly tried to stop, its hind legs digging into the turf as it slewed sideways, terror stricken by the sight in front of it.

Geronimo barely avoided a collision, jerking on the black’s reins and twisting the horse to one side, wondering what in the world had startled Cynthia’s mount, fearing that some of the Legion patrol might have been able to get ahead of them and cut off their escape.

The paint whinnied in abject fear and scrambled to regain its footing, Cynthia clinging to the reins and the mane, striving to stay on, her slim legs clasping the animal’s heaving sides.

Geronimo, concentrating on Cynthia’s predicament, neglected to see the thing in front of them until it was almost upon them. He heard a thunderous bellow and whirled, momentarily shocked by his discovery.

It couldn’t be!

Not now!

But it was.

A mutate.

The dreaded scourge of the post-nuclear age, mutates overran the land.

No one knew what caused them, whether it was attributable to the long-term effects of intense radiation or the consequence of the widespread use of chemical agents during the war. Plato once speculated they might be the result of a combination of the two. Whatever, the Family did know mutates were former mammals, reptiles, or amphibians converted by a mysterious process into rampaging, insatiable demons.

The creature’s skin would become dry and cracked, turning a brownish color, and it would be covered with large blistering sores, oozing pus everywhere. Green mucus would pour from the ears, and its teeth would turn yellow and rot away. Mutates displayed one primary purpose in life; to kill anyone and anything in their paths, to rend and destroy, to consume every living thing they encountered, even one another.

This one, Geronimo knew, had once been a bison. Its hair was gone, replaced by the pus-covered skin. Even its shaggy mane and beard had disappeared. The buffalo stood six feet high at the shoulder and weighed in the neighborhood of fifteen hundred pounds. Its horns were still attached, and they were aimed at the paint as it snorted and charged.

“Cynthia!” Geronimo shouted, reaching for his rifle, knowing he would be unable to prevent the mutate from reaching her before he could fire.

The paint managed to surge upright an instant before the mutate slammed into it, the horns ripping into the side of the horse and tearing it open, blood and guts spilling from the cavity. The paint started to go down as the mutate braced for another onslaught.

“Cynthia!” Geronimo had the Marlin to his shoulder.

Cynthia released the reins and pushed herself free of the plunging horse, rolling as she struck the ground. She rose to her hands and knees, keeping her eyes on the mutate.

It was well she did.

The mutate turned, forgetting the paint, focusing on this new target, pawing the grass as it prepared to attack.

Only a second to spare!

Geronimo hurriedly sighted and pulled the trigger, rushing his shot, unwilling to permit the monstrosity to get any closer to Cynthia.

The 45-70 boomed, the slug smashing into the mutate above its right eye and exiting below its left nostril, the bison’s face erupting in a geyser of discolored flesh, blood, and pus. Enraged by the pain, the buffalo spun and launched its massive bulk at the floundering paint, the keen horns gouging a ghastly gash in the paint’s flank. The horse was bowled over by the tremendous force of the blow.

Geronimo levered another round into the chamber and aimed for another head shot, confident he would kill the freak this time.

He didn’t count on two things.

First, the big black reared, reacting to the proximity of the deformed bison.

Secondly, Cynthia rose and ran, managing to cover five yards before her right foot caught in an unseen hole and she stumbled and fell flat on her stomach. The mutate detected the motion and faced her, ignoring the thrashing paint.

Geronimo frantically attempted to bring the big black under control, his left hand clutching the reins while he gripped the Marlin with his right. The black landed on all fours, still skittish, shying away from the former buffalo.

Cynthia tried to stand, agony lanching her right ankle. She saw the mutate lower its head and charge, and she involuntarily screamed and extended her arms in front of her in a vain endeavor to avert imminent death.

No!

Geronimo held the rifle in his right hand, the barrel pointed in the general direction of the mutate’s stomach as the black bucked, and fired, the recoil almost wrenching the 45-70 from his grasp.

Seared by the slug as it tore through its innards, the bison staggered, recovered, and turned, catching sight of the black for the first time.

Geronimo released the reins as the mutate came directly at him. He raised the Marlin, hoping the pressure of his knees against the black would suffice to prevent him from falling, and levered his third round into the rifle.