David Robbins - Twin Cities Run

“MUH-EET!” came from behind him, the basso bellow of the town crier.

The weeds thinned out, ending in a paved square that once had served as a parking lot for fifty automobiles.

Blade paused, wavering over the peril of exposing himself in the open.

But then what choice did he have? Pressing his left hand on the arrow wound to suppress the flow of blood, he hobbled across the tarmac, the hairs on the back of his neck tingling from a sense of anticipated menace.

Another arrow zinged by his right shoulder.

Blade twisted, catching a glimpse of a form standing near the pavement. The bowman notching another shaft. Blade raised the Vega, carefully sighted, and fired. The boom of the gun and the scream of the Wack were instantaneous.

As Hickok would say, Got ya!

Blade limped on, heading for the far side of the parking lot. There appeared to be dense brush and trees ahead, and if he could reach that cover, he could elude the crazies on his heels.

The pounding of feet on the tarmac behind him reached his ears.

Blade glanced back over his shoulder.

Four Wacks had burst from the weeds, intent on catching him before he could attain the other side.

Blade knew they’d be on him before he could fire twice. This was no time for the gun. He smiled grimly. This situation called for dirty infighting, his specialty. He quickly holstered the Vega and drew his two Bowies, reassured by the feel of the heavy handles in his hands. Let them come!

They did.

The first attacker came at him with an upraised shovel, the tool held over his head. Blade jumped in close, before the Wack could swing, and slashed the Bowie in his right hand across the zany’s left wrist.

The Wack’s left hand dropped to the ground, the man frozen in his tracks, horrified, watching the hand flap for a few seconds as the fingers twitched.

“Clorg!” the crazy shouted, terrified, holding the stump up to his face and gaping as blood spurted in every direction. “Clorg!”

Blade was already in motion, avoiding the first stab of the second assailant, who leaped at him with a knife. A flash of pale flesh revealed Blade’s target, and he buried his left Bowie in the man’s neck. To the hilt.

He fiercely twisted the blade, then yanked the Bowie clear.

The third Wack came in fast and low, diving for Blade’s legs.

Blade cried out as the attacker collided with his injured left leg, and he went down, trying to orient his position in relation to the two Wacks still capable of fighting. He lashed with his right foot and caught the man who’d tackled him in the face, crushing the Wack’s nose.

Where was the fourth one? Blade struggled to rise. There had been one more when…

“Where are the others?”

“Be quiet.”

“But we can’t desert the others!”

“We’ll find them. You’ve got to stay silent, Joshua.”

“It’s so hard for me to think,” Joshua complained, his head reeling.

“You’ve been hurt,” Geronimo stated. “You need rest. I don’t know how bad your injury is.”

Geronimo, supporting Joshua with his brawny left arm, led him deeper into the trees they had discovered on the other end of the wide paved area.

“I don’t think I can stay awake,” Joshua mumbled sleepily.

“Just for a little bit more,” Geronimo urged him.

“I’ll try,” Joshua feebly promised.

Geronimo glanced back, extremely concerned. Blade should have caught up with them by now. Had he been killed or captured? What did the Wacks do with their victims? Bertha had told them the Wacks ate other people. Great Spirit! How disgusting!

“I can’t go on,” Joshua muttered drowsily. “I’m sorry, ’ronimo.”

Joshua passed out.

Geronimo lowered Joshua to the grass. They were in a small space between two large trees. The two trunks would provide some shelter and seclusion. Geronimo flattened and pressed his right ear against the ground.

Footsteps. Coming their way!

Geronimo squatted, holding the Browning. He wasn’t about to leave Joshua. If the Wacks found them, he would go down as a Warrior should.

He gazed at Joshua. Funny. Joshua wasn’t a Warrior, but he’d performed superbly back on University Avenue, despite his pacifist, spiritual convictions.

Someone grunted.

Geronimo tensed, ready.

“Any sign of them?” a voice fifteen yards away asked.

“Nope,” replied another.

“Clorg not be happy,” said a third.

“Clorg will be happy with one we got.”

“Not much food,” complained the second man.

“But is big one.”

“Not much food,” the second man insisted. “Maybe two feeds if that.”

“We find more tonight.”

“Let’s go back.”

“Okay.”

“Say, Miffle?”

“Yes?”

“Seen my finger? I dropped it.”

“Your own fault,” Miffle said. “Should not carry with.”

“Didn’t mean to cut it off,” apologized the Wack. “Was skinning skunk.”

“We knew.”

“Let’s get big man back to Fant.”

All three laughed.

The voices faded.

Geronimo, puzzled, stood. They hadn’t made much sense, but he did gather they had captured a “big man.” Had to be Blade. What should he do now? Stay with Joshua or go aid Blade? His mind whirled. If he stayed here, the Wacks would cart Blade off to wherever they lived and eat him.

But, if he left Joshua to follow the Wacks, something might find Joshua in the dark and finish him off. There was no telling how long it might be before he had an opportunity to free Blade, even if he did trail the Wacks.

Great Spirit, preserve him!

Geronimo sat, cross-legged, and moodily contemplated their predicament. They were separated. They were cut off from the SEAL. They were in hostile territory with one Warrior a prisoner and Joshua hurt.

Where were Hickok and Bertha?

Joshua moaned in his sleep.

Geronimo placed his right hand on Joshua’s forehead. Just what they needed! Joshua had a fever.

Geronimo made up his mind. He would stay with Joshua until morning, tend to his wound, leave him the Browning, and track the Wacks to where they were holding Blade. He’d rather take the Browning, but the Smith and Wesson was gone, probably dropped by Joshua when he was hit on the head.

His thoughts took a morbid turn. What if they never returned? What would the Family do? Send out more Warriors to find them, although Plato had promised not to? What if the Wacks ate Blade before he got there? What if Hickok and Bertha were dead? He stared up at the stars, praying for the sun.

The bright light on her eyelids woke her up.

Bertha involuntarily started, pushing herself up from Hickok’s chest, blinking rapidly, trying to adjust her eyes to the morning sun.

She must have dozed off!

That thought immediately woke her up. What was the matter with her, falling asleep in no-man’s-land? Was she as crazy as the Wacks? To her credit, she had managed to fight off fatigue until an hour before sunrise, succumbing because her system was emotionally overwrought and she was extremely fatigued. She had been unable to sleep soundly since leaving the Home.

Bertha stared at Hickok. He was breathing, his chest rising and falling in a regular rhythm. Dried blood caked the left side of his head, shading his blond hair a dull brown. There was a circular indentation in the center. She gently raised the hair and intently examined the wound. It didn’t appear to be deep, but she worried nonetheless, dreading he might have sustained brain damage. She wouldn’t know until she revived him.

And the sooner, the better.

Birds were chirping in nearby trees.

A good sign. If danger was present, the singing birds would fall silent.