David Robbins - Twin Cities Run

Fant roared, the breeze carrying the scent of the Wacks in front of the hospital directly to its sensitive olfactory organ. Fant slowed, observing the Wacks’ pandemonium.

Blade’s attention was arrested by a flash of light to his left. One of the Wacks was wearing the Bowies! He also had on Blade’s pants. The sunlight glistened from the handles and part of the blades as the long knives bounced in their scabbards. The Wack was engaged in fighting his way to the doors, and he hadn’t even remembered to employ the knives!

Blade clasped the man by the right wrist. “Hey, you!”

Snarling, the Wack spun on Blade and lunged at his face. Blade knocked the man’s hands down, formed his own right hand into a Tiger Claw, and gouged the Wack in the jugular. The kung fu blow crushed the Wack’s windpipe and he gagged and fell to his knees. Blade grabbed the man’s head in a steely grip and twisted, sharply, to the right. He heard the spine pop as the vertebra snapped in two.

Blade glanced over his shoulder, afraid Fant was on them.

One of the Wacks, a man braver or more foolish than the rest, had ran in front of the monster. He was jumping up and down and flapping his arms, shouting for Fant to stop.

Which it had. The creature was standing still, the eyes glaring at the prancing Wack.

The Wacks at the door were still wildly attempting to reach the interior of the building and safety.

Blade crouched and quickly stripped the dead Wack of his pants and the prized Bowies. He hastily checked the right front pocket, fearing the worst, but he was elated to discover the keys still there.

Fant had not moved.

Blade hastily slipped into his pants, relieved at being clothed again. He ran his fingers over the Bowie handles, caressing them, the knives snug in their sheaths against his hips. He felt whole once more. A part of him had returned.

A scream of terror sounded behind him.

Blade whirled, drawing his Bowies.

Fant had bowled the Wack over and stepped on his chest. The Wack sputtered and twitched as blood and froth spewed from his gaping mouth.

Blade tried to move the mob with reason one final time.

“Quit shoving! There’s room for all of us if we take our time!”

A fat man pivoted and aimed a club at Blade’s face.

“Damn!”

Blade ducked under the blow, grinning, released from any obligation he might have entertained about not hurting these poor, pathetic, mentally deficient slobs, lunatics who could not be held accountable for their actions.

He gutted the fat man.

A woman shrieked.

Blade dove into the mass of crazies, swinging the Bowies with devastating effect, hacking arms and slashing throats and stabbing with reckless abandon.

Behind him, a sinister, eerie sibilation warned him that Fant was almost on them.

Only two men barred his entrance to the hospital. They were jammed in the doorway, wrestling, striving to be next to enter.

Blade couldn’t afford to waste any time. He plunged his knives into their vulnerable backs, one in each man, and shoved, driving them through the doorway and jerking the blades free. They toppled to the tiled floor, writhing, contorted.

The doors to the hospital had once incorporated glass panels, broken decades ago, leaving the metal strip casings attached to hinges, the frames tilting toward the ground.

Blade entered the gloomy interior of the hospital, stepping over the two Wacks, debating his next move. Was there a rear exit to the building?

Were there more crazies inside, lurking in the dark, ready to pounce on unsuspecting victims?

An uproar behind him drew his attention.

Fant had plowed into the crowd of Wacks in front of the hospital, scattering the ones able to flee, and pounding on those Blade had left lying on the tarmac. Within a matter of two minutes, Fant was the only creature still standing, the only thing still alive, outside the building entrance. Fant savagely mashed the last body into the pavement, the blood and flesh and bones forming a repulsive pile of mush. It gazed into the hospital, and for a moment Blade thought it might try to enter, although it would have a hard time getting through the doorway. Instead, Fant turned and began feeding on one of the bodies.

A bearded Wack suddenly sprang from the darkness, trying to tackle Blade. Blade sidestepped, backing away, wary, expecting others. The Wack scrambled to his feet, growling, and lunged. Blade brought both knives up and in, burying them in the Wack’s chest, holding the crazy at arm’s length until he stopped moving, and then dropped him. He turned, scanning for a way out, alert for more adversaries. There had to be more Wacks in the hospital. He just knew it.

From somewhere in the depths of the building came a maniacal laugh.

Damn!

From the frying pan to the fire!

Blade held the Bowies ready at his waist. The tile felt cool on the soles of his naked feet as he padded down the hall. He stopped when the corridor branched in three directions, one branch proceeding straight ahead, the second leading to the left, the third to his right.

Which way to go?

Blade selected the central corridor, telling himself the fastest way between two points is always the straightest. He hoped.

A rustling sounded from the black hallway to his right as he passed it.

Blade treaded cautiously, uneasy. The Wacks hadn’t bothered to light the inside of the hospital. Considering their exceptional night vision, they probably didn’t need any illumination. But he did, and he had another problem to contend with. The enforced lack of food and water and rest, combined with the beatings and the fights, had taken a terrible toll on his body. He was weak and unsteady, and he couldn’t afford prolonged combat in his current condition.

The sooner he got out of this madhouse, the better!

Feet were shuffling along the corridor behind him.

Blade whirled. He could see several moving shadows about ten yards to his rear. They were holding back, waiting for the right moment to strike.

Blade broke into a run, keeping to the center of the hallway, figuring the middle was least likely to be cluttered with obstacles. He passed countless rooms, even darker than the corridor. From some of the rooms came sounds, low moans and groans and sighs, coughing, and in one instance, a scream.

The pursuit was picking up.

His legs were balking at the sustained pace, cramps lancing his calves and thighs, the arrow wound throbbing.

Damn!

Where was an exit? There had to be some! How long was this mental hospital, anyway?

A swath of sunlight ahead gave him hope.

Thank the Spirit! Maybe it was an exit.

It was, the door in the same condition as the front entrance.

Blade bolted through the doorway and onto a parking lot, devoid of vehicles, littered with trash and debris. He stopped and doubled over, his lungs heaving, the strain taking its toll.

That was when the Wacks hit him.

They piled out of the doorway, four men, each armed, and tackled him before he could defend himself.

Blade spun as they struck him, one of them pinning his legs, another grabbing him around the waist, the other two going for his arms, attempting to clasp them and restrain him. The loony on his left managed to grip his wrist, but the one on his right missed, and as they went down in a tumbling heap the Wack clutching his abdomen bit his stomach, tearing the flesh, ripping the skin from his body and gulping the morsel down his throat.

Furious, Blade lunged with his right Bowie, the point of the blade piercing the throat of the Wack on his right and drawing a flow of blood, continuing to sweep the knife in a smooth arc, burying the Bowie in the neck of the crazy holding his left wrist. The man screeched and released his arms, leaping to his feet and pressing his hands against the hole in his neck.