David Robbins - Twin Cities Run

Clorg roared in torment, his right hand covering his shattered nose, blood pouring over his lower face.

“FANT! FANT! FANT!” the Wacks intoned, performing a ritual established over three decades ago. For years they had resigned themselves to Fant’s periodic assaults, too terrified to resist. Finally, it had dawned on one of them, the means to end their torment. All they had to do was keep Fant supplied with fresh meat, and Fant would cease his depredations on them. They hoped.

Clorg stood erect, gawking at the red liquid all over his hand and arm.

Blade struggled against the ropes. His time was running out!

The chanting suddenly stopped, as a petrified hush fell over the Wacks.

Blade gaped at the opening.

Fant was emerging from his den.

Dear Spirit! What was it?

Fant stood in the sunlight, blinking rapidly, surveying the scene ahead, the clustered, reeking, noisy ones, and the new food staked to the ground, ready for the feast.

Blade stared in sheer astonishment. What, in heaven’s name, was it ?

Never, not even in his wildest imaginings, would he have envisioned such a deformed monstrosity as now confronted him.

Fant shuffled forward, using its arms and two good legs for support, its third leg dragging on the ground, useless.

The Wacks were all on their feet, moving backward, edging away from the approaching beast.

Except for Clorg. He held his hand in front of his face. “Clorg hurt,” he said to himself, fascinated at the sight of his own blood.

No! Blade surged against the ropes again, fiercely wrenching his arms and legs, asserting his strength to the utmost, his veins bulging on his arms and legs, sweat running from every pore. He wasn’t going to go out like this, helpless, eaten alive! His face turned bright red from his exertion, his temples throbbing with pain. He ignored the discomfort, pushing his body, forcing his muscles to obey his commands. The increased flow of blood and adrenaline began to restore feeling to his hands and feet.

Blade glanced at Fant, now thirty yards away, the grotesque features in clearer detail, vividly, indelibly etched in his mind.

Fant was at least eight feet in height, and at least partially human. The creature was incredibly muscular, undoubtedly endowed with irresistible power. Fant’s skin was ashen, almost white, from a habitual lack of sunshine. Its body was squat and short, out of all proportion to its long arms and legs, and completely naked. Between Fant’s two legs dangled a third limb, a stunted appendage, a congenital defect, useless, thin and ungainly. The left side of Fant’s chest and face consisted of cracked, brown skin, blistering sores, and oozing pus, the trademark of the mutates. Its mouth was a red slit, the nose narrow and flared, the eyes black pools.

Fant was utterly hairless.

What was it, Blade wondered? The product of a deformed human fetus, a new brand of njytate, or both?

“No!” Clorg abruptly bellowed, glaring down at Blade. “You hurt Clorg! You die!” He raised the Commando over his head, gripping it by the barrel with the stock aimed at Blade’s head.

Blade shifted as the stock came at him, the wood crashing into the ground an inch from his right ear. Infuriated, Clorg brought the stock down again and again, growling like a wild dog. Blade desperately dodged each blow, knowing it was only a matter of moments before Clorg connected. The stock fell wide as Clorg slipped, the wood brushing Blade’s right hand as it thumped against the earth. Without thinking, Blade gripped the stock at the point where it narrowed, holding fast, refusing to release the Commando, to relinquish this last hope.

Clorg tugged and jerked on the Carbine. “Let go!” he shouted. He braced his feet and heaved, throwing his exceptionally strong shoulder muscles into the motion.

At the same instant, the one he’d been waiting for, Blade pulled on the stake, his jaw clenched, his right arm strained to the limit, adding his strength to Clorg’s, praying his ploy would be successful.

The combined force yanked the stake clear of the ground, and Blade’s right hand was free. He twisted, tugging on his left wrist, feeling the left stake give a little. Grabbing the top of the stake, he wrenched it back and forth, the dirt crumbling around the edges as the stake inched upward. It was almost loose!

“No! You die!” Clorg raised the Carbine over his head, carefully aiming this time, wanting to be sure. He froze as a shadow fell across both men, and he bent his neck and looked up into two evil black eyes. “No!”

Senselessly, he spun and struck the creature known as Fant across the left leg.

Blade fell back as the left-hand stake came out of the ground. He leaned down and applied both of his arms to the stake securing his right foot.

“No! Not now!” Clorg shouted at the hideous, spidery Fant. “Go away!

Feed later!” Clorg struck Fant a second time.

Fant hissed, revealing pointed fangs, and grabbed Clorg by the neck, lifting him clear off the ground and high into the air. Clorg gasped and gurgled, his legs thrashing.

Blade’s right foot jerked free and he immediately turned his attention to the final stake.

The assembled Wacks, thoroughly unnerved and terrified, broke and ran in all directions, screaming and shrieking.

The last stake was extracted, and Blade frantically tore the stakes from his limbs. He ran to the south, toward the hospital thirty yards away, and glanced back over his shoulder.

Fant had crushed Clorg’s neck and dropped the body to the earth.

Snarling, the disfigured freak began pounding the corpse with its left fist, pulverizing the remains to a pulp.

The Wacks, searching for places to hide and take cover, were trampling one another in their haste and panic. A crowd of them was jammed together at the hospital entrance.

Blade had reached a paved area in front of the Hospital. He stopped to gather his energy and his breath, an intense spasm lancing his left side.

He looked back.

Fant dipped his left hand into the bloody mess at his feet, then stuffed a chunk of flesh into his mouth. He chewed slowly, emitting slurping sounds. The moonish face swung sideways, and Fant spotted the group in front of the hospital. Hissing, Fant charged directly at them, directly at Blade.

“I don’t like it, pard. They’re taking too long!”

“Relax, man. Like I told you. Maggot takes his dear sweet time when he’s feedin’ that ugly puss of his.”

“I’m tired of waiting,” Hickok stated, his left ear pressed against the door, listening.

“What’s your big rush?” Bear asked. He was squatting on his haunches a few feet away. “They’ll come sooner or later.”

“I can’t afford to wait,” Hickok said, frowning.

“Why?”

Hickok stared at Bear. “I’ve got some friends I need to account for, and nothing better have happened to them.”

“Bertha?”

Hickok nodded. “Yep. And three others. I don’t know where they are. I don’t even know if they’re still alive. But I’ve got to find out. They could be needing my help right this moment.”

“So what’s your plan now?” Bear inquired.

“You’ll take me to where Maggot is eating.” Hickok stood.

“Say what?”

“You heard me.”

Bear also stood. “You’re crazy!”

“You said that before,” Hickok reminded him.

“This time I mean it! We can’t do it,” Bear protested, “because Maggot will be with his flunkies. Maybe twelve of them.”

“We go,” Hickok announced, and cautiously opened the door. He peered both ways to insure the corridor was clear.

“How you figure you’re gonna waste Maggot with all his bodyguards there?”