David Robbins - Twin Cities Run

“Want it, Mommmy!” the girl shouted, her face reddening, beginning to throw a tantrum.

“No.”

“Yes! Yes! Yes!”

The mother backhanded the daughter across the face. “I say no! Clorg get it! He always do.”

The girl fell silent, glaring at Blade.

“Come.” The mother walked away, the girl in reluctant tow.

Dear Spirit! It had been close! What did the woman mean, saying Clorg would get it? Blade’s mind drifted, focusing on Jenny. How he missed her!

If he managed to make it back to the Home, he would never leave again.

He’d relish Home life, with Jenny keeping him warm at night, and lots of little ones underfoot to provide some spice for their domestic life. Maybe he’d quit the Warriors. After all, who needed this aggravation? This unwarranted grief? He should never have agreed to this foolish venture in the first place! Why had he let Plato talk him into it?

Wait a minute!

What was the matter with him? A little hardship, a bit of adversity, and he’s ready to buckle, to give up every value he’s cherished?

Blade concentrated, resisting the negative, defeatist thoughts. His battered condition was starting to take its toll, sapping his strength and his mental equilibrium.

There was a growing commotion around him, an increasing number of voices and movement.

What was going on?

Blade glanced in both directions, surprised to see the Wacks converging into a group, surrounding him on three sides. They had staked him in the center of a grassy area, the grass stunted by the frequent stomping of their feet and the weight of their bodies. This grassy tract was a congregation point, a meeting ground, for the Wacks. During the day, at any given time, no fewer than a dozen would be resting or conversing or be engaged in ridiculous antics on the grass. At night, they went inside the building and left him alone. The first night of his captivity he’d stayed awake the entire night, fearing an animal would creep up on him in the dark and feast on his defenseless body. Inexplicably, he hadn’t been attacked. Not a thing had disturbed him then or since, and he continually asked himself why.

There had to be a reason. What would keep predators out of this area?

Another predator? Or something they dreaded even worse?

The number of Wacks gathering about him grew.

Blade roughly estimated those present at one hundred. Based on the activity he’d seen the past several days, he guessed the total Wack population stood at between one hundred and fifty and two hundred. He hadn’t seen this many together at one time before.

Clorg emerged from the crowd, carrying the Commando in his right hand. Six of the Wack men followed him as he came up to Blade and angrily waved the Carbine in Blade’s face.

“Not work!” Clorg fumed. “Why?”

Blade wondered where the rest of his arms were. Scattered among the Wacks, no doubt, along with his clothes and moccasins.

Clorg pounded on his chest. “Clorg want to know why?”

“It’s jammed,” Blade told him.

“What?”

“Jammed.”

Clorg gripped the Commando in both hands and stared at the gun, confused. “What is jammed?”

Blade realized there was no use attempting to explain. “It won’t work,” he answered.

Clorg shook the Commando. “Want it work. Make it work!”

“I can’t,” Blade said. “Not with my hands tied.”

“Make it work!” Clorg roared. He swung the barrel at Blade and pulled the trigger.

Instinctively, Blade tried to twist aside, unable to move because of the ropes.

The Commando was still jammed.

Enraged, Clorg brought the barrel of the Commando down on Blade’s injured left thigh, on the arrow wound.

Blade thrashed and squirmed, gritting his teeth, the pain washing over his brain in successively weaker waves of agony. Damn that crazy bastard!

Clorg smiled, watching Blade writhe. “Serves right!”

The other men were laughing.

“Is time for Fant,” Clorg announced, turning to face the assembled Wacks. “Time to call on great one! Time for feed on Big Man!”

The Wacks cheered, clapped, and uttered cries of delight at the prospect of another feed, a subtle frenzy transforming the already insane crowd into demented demons.

Blade, sensing his time was running short, tried to break his bonds again, to no avail. What was happening? What did it all mean?

“Time for food!” Clorg shouted, waving his arms. “We call great one! We call Fant!”

The Wacks were jumping and screaming and spinning and weaving.

“Clorg!” Blade yelled.

Clorg ignored him, staring off into the distance, to the west.

“Clorg!”

Clorg reluctantly glared at Blade. “What you want, Big Man?”

“What is Fant?”

Clorg grinned wickedly. “You see. You see, real soon.”

“Is Fant a Wack?” Blade desperately wanted to achieve an understanding of what was coming.

“Fant?” Clorg slowly nodded. “Was once like us. No more.”

“He’s not a Wack anymore?” Blade asked, perplexed.

Clorg squatted, smiling, in a strangely talkative mood. “Not like peoples now. No. Changed.”

“Changed? How do you mean?”

“You see. Real soon.”

“Is Fant an animal?”

Clorg stood, gazing off. “You see. Fant be hungry. Always is. We give Fant you, then Fant leave us be.”

“You’re going to give me to Fant?”

Clorg lifted his left hand and tapped his head. “Clorg real smart. We feed you Fant, then Fant not eat any of us. Clorg real smart!”

What was all this about? Blade turned his head and scanned the crowd, perceiving the Wacks had enclosed him on only three sides, the north, the east, and the south. Toward the west was open, allowing an avenue of approach. For what? He could see a building about forty yards away to the west, a two-story structure with a section of the facing wall missing, a gaping hole glaring at him like a giant black eye.

The Wacks had quieted and were staring at the building, at the dark opening.

“Cut me loose,” Blade said to Clorg, “and I will fix the gun for you.”

“Quiet! “Clorg barked.

“But I can fix the gun!”

Angrily, Clorg spun and kicked Blade in the ribs. “I tell you keep mouth shut!”

Blade fought to catch his breath. His right side was in agony.

Clorg, beaming, raised his arms. “FANT! FANT! FANT!” he began to chant.

The clustered Wacks followed suit.

“FANT! FANT! FANT!”

The Wacks were dropping to their knees, their voices calling out the name in unison.

“FANT! FANT! FANT!”

Over and over and over they repeated their cry.

Blade kept his eyes on that huge hole in the wall.

“FANT! FANT! FANT!”

Something was moving in the building with the hole, something large, a patch of pale motion visible against the black of the cavity.

“FANT! FANT! FANT!”

Blade detected a motion at the edge of the aperture, a sinuous rising and falling.

What the hell was it?

“FANT! FANT! FANT!”

Clorg abruptly bent over Blade, gloating, his breath stale and putrid, his thick lips close to Blade’s face.

“FANT! FANT! FANT!”

“Now time is come!” Clorg exclaimed. “You die, Big Man!”

“FANT! FANT! FANT!”

The incessant chant was grating on Blade’s nerves.

Clorg glanced down at Blade’s sex organ. He smacked his lips, drooling.

“FANT! FANT! FANT!”

“I eat soon too,” Clorg said in Blade’s right ear. “Clorg hungry. Clorg is after Fant.”

Blade, comprehending, furious, drew his head back, then swept his forehead up, smashing it against Clorg’s nose, feeling the nasal passages collapse and flatten.

“FANT! FANT! FANT!” the Wacks continued their beckoning appeal, oblivious to the conflict between Clorg and Blade, all eyes nervously fixed on the building to the west, on Fant’s lair.