David Robbins - The Kalispell Run

“There’s just too much forest between Fox and the Mound,” Silvester threw in. “Too many wild animals, and the mutant monsters.”

“The mutant monsters?” Hickok repeated.

“Yeah. You must know about them. The things with all the pus. They’ll eat you alive if they catch you.” Silvester shuddered at the prospect.

“We call them mutates,” Hickok revealed.

“What are you talking about?” Sherry questioned them.

“You don’t know?” Hickok replied.

“Nope. What kind of animal is it?”

Hickok studied her closely. “You mean to tell me you don’t have mutates in Canada?”

“Doesn’t sound like anything I’ve ever heard of,” Sherry confirmed.

“But that’s impossible,” Hickok declared. “Mutates are all over the place around these parts.”

“That’s right,” Silvester concurred. “They’re ugly things! All brown, and smelly, and dripping pus from their bodies.”

“They’ll attack you the moment they see you,” Hickok elaborated.

“That one isn’t attacking,” Sherry said calmly, and pointed to their right.

Hickok spun, bringing up the Henry, hoping she was joking.

She wasn’t.

The mutate, a former badger, was crouched at the edge of the clearing, glaring at them, wheezing and drooling. Mounds of slimy pus covered its nostrils and coated its ears. It was at least three feet long and weighed in the vicinity of thirty pounds.

“Kill it!” Silvester screamed, panic-stricken.

The mutate’s beady eyes focused on the Mole, it snarled and charged.

Five yards separated the monstrosity from its intended meal.

Hickok levered the Henry as fast as he could, firing one shot after another. Two, three, four times, the 44-40 slugs ripping into the mutate and spraying pus and a greenish fluid in every direction.

On the fifth shot the mutate slowed, growling and hissing, and stumbled.

Hickok planted the sixth shot between the beady eyes.

A gaping hole blossomed in the mutate’s forehead and the badger collapsed in a heap at Silvester’s feet, only inches from his toes.

Silvester was gawking at the mutate in petrified terror, unable to move.

Hickok warily approached the mutate and peered at its body, ensuring the thing was truly dead.

It was.

Hickok sighed and glanced at Sherry. “The next time a mutate tries to eat us for lunch,” he quipped, “I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t be quite so nonchalant about the whole deal.”

“I had no idea,” she blurted, gaping at the mutate. “I’d never seen one before.”

Silvester was trying to speak, but only muted, choking sounds emanated from his throat.

“Mutate got your tongue?” Hickok cracked, grinning at the sight of Silvester’s pale complexion and perspiring brow.

“Th… tha… than… thanks,” the Mole managed to croak, “for saving my life.”

“I couldn’t let you die, pard,” Hickok told him. “Not before you show me where the Mound is, anyway.”

Silvester smiled weakly and began weaving.

“You okay?” Hickok asked.

Silvester nodded twice. “Thanks, again,” he said, his voice barely audible.

“Piece of cake,” Hickok stated. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Silvester nodded again, then fainted, toppling over backward onto the grass.

“The Moles must be a bunch of wimps,” Hickok opined.

“Poor baby!” Sherry commented, walking to Silvester and lightly slapping his cheeks. “Come on, handsome. Snap out of it!”

Silvester slowly roused to a sitting position.

“Are you still dizzy?” Sherry inquired solicitously.

“I’m fine,” he replied. “Really. Give me a second to catch my breath.”

“I still can’t see why you were sent to Fox,” Hickok mentioned. “You’re lucky to still be in one piece.” He abruptly remembered their conversation before the mutate appeared. “Say, you never told us the second reason Wolfe sent you to Fox.”

“Because of my sister,” Silvester responded, still catching his breath.

“Your sister? What’s she got to do with it?” Hickok queried.

“Wolfe wants my sister, Gloria. She doesn’t want him. So, he decided to get even with her by sending me out with Doug…”

“Doug is the one I shot?” Hickok interrupted.

“Yes. Wolfe figured Gloria would change her mind about sleeping with him. He thought she would give in to save me, to prevent me from leaving the Mound.” Silvester sadly shook his head. “He doesn’t know my sister very well. She thinks I’m a creep and could care less what happens to me.”

“I see your family is real strong on love and loyalty,” Hickok sarcastically commented.

“I wish we were,” Silvester said longingly. He gazed at the Warrior. “I owe you for saving my life.”

“Piece of cake. It was no big deal.”

“It was to me,” Silvester disagreed. “No one has ever saved my life before.”

“Silvester,” Sherry caught his attention. “What do you do at this Mound? What are you good at?”

“I empty the pails,” Silvester replied forlornly.

“The pails?” Sherry’s brow creased. “What pails?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Silvester rudely announced, and rose to his feet. “We better be going.”

Hickok went to speak, to order the Mole to answer, when Sherry caught his eye and shook her head. The gunman shrugged and followed the Mole.

Silvester entered the forest and forged ahead. They were fifteen yards from the clearing when they intersected a wide, fequently used trail.

“I think I know this!” Silvester exclaimed, delighted at the discovery. He glanced both ways, grinning. “I do know it! It’s one of ours!”

“So how far to the Mound?” Hickok questioned him.

“Just a few miles,” Silvester answered happily. He pointed to the south.

“Not far.”

“It better not be,” Hickok warned ominously.

“Silvester,” Sherry spoke up from the rear, “would you answer some questions for me?”

“If I can,” the Mole promised.

“Who built the Mound? What’s it like?” Sherry inquired.

Silvester looked over his right shoulder at Sherry and tripped on a protruding root. He managed to regain his balance before he fell on his face.

“Keep your eyes on the trail,” Hickok advised. “What a klutz!”

Silvester resumed walking. “My parents told me,” he responded to Sherry’s query, “the Mound was built by a man named Carter a long, long time ago.”

“Why?” Sherry asked.

“It was right before the big war,” Silvester said, sorting his facts, striving to recall the stories he’d been told. “Carter and some others were sure the war was going to break out. They felt they didn’t have much time, so they packed up their families and things and hiked to the Red Lake Wildlife Management Area,” Silvester said slowly, uncertain if he had remembered the correct name.

“That’s what we’re in now?” Sherry guessed.

“Right. It was real far from everything and Carter thought the bombs would miss it. He was pretty smart,” Silvester said appreciatively.

“How did he build the Mound?” Sherry probed curiously.

“He started digging,” Silvester replied.

“Digging?”

“You’ll see!” Silvester stated. “Of course, the Mound has been added to a lot since Carter first began it,” he added.

“Enough talk,” Hickok directed. “We’re getting close to this Mound and they may have guards or patrols.”

“We do have guards,” Silvester informed him, “but we don’t have many patrols. Just some scouts who go out from time to time. Not many people come to this area. It’s too far out of the way.”

“You can say that again,” Hickok retorted. He stopped and gazed ahead. “Hold it, Silvester.”