David Robbins - Thief River Falls Run

“What?” Hickok repeated.

“These.” Joshua opened his left palm, revealing the box of matches taken from the motorcyclist.

“Way to go, pard!” Hickok grinned.

Joshua rejoined Hickok, opened the box, and ignited one of the all-purpose matches by striking it against the counter top. He held the match up and squinted at the transmitter, reading the labels aloud.

“Modulation. Charging. Transmit Mode. Receive Mode. Here it is!” he happily declared. “Power.” He flicked a toggle switch and the unit suddenly hummed. One of the meters above the power switch lit up, illuminating a small scale. A thin black needle hovered at the left side of the needle.

“What we want to do,” Hickok informed Joshua, “is listen in on the Watchers without them being any the wiser. Can we do it?”

“Easily,” Joshua replied. “This should do it.” He flicked another switch, this one marked Receive Mode.

Abrupt crackling and static emanated from a speaker in the upper right of the unit.

“There’s nothing there,” Hickok commented, disappointed.

“Possibly they are not broadcasting,” Joshua reasoned. “Or we could be on the wrong frequency.”

“Doubt it,” Hickok disagreed. “They would have this gizmo set for their frequency, all right. Who else would they listen to?”

“Then all we can do is wait,” Joshua stated.

“And you know how Hickok is at waiting,” Bertha chuckled.

“If patience was gold,” Joshua remarked, “Hickok would be the poorest man alive.”

Bertha laughed. “Hey, that’s pretty good, Josh! You’re learning!”

Hickok shook his head. “Just great! It isn’t bad enough I have Geronimo on my case all the time, but now I’ll have to put up with you too?”

Joshua grinned.

“First you blow away a brute,” Hickok stated, “and now you’re telling jokes. You’re changing, pard.”

Joshua’s expression altered, a cloud seeming to cross his face. “I certainly am, aren’t I?” he stated wistfully.

“So what’s our next move?” Bertha inquired, hastily attempting to change the subject.

“Like Josh said,” Hickok answered sighing, “there’s nothing we can do but wait. The next move is theirs.”

Joshua, deep in thought, noticed the match was extinguished. He dropped it to the floor, wondering if, come morning, their lives would be snuffed out as easily as the flame from the match.

“We haven’t heard anything in a while,” Bertha mentioned. “I hope Blade is all right.”

“I told you not to worry about him,” Hickok said. “If I know Blade, he’s relaxing right now, working on a plan to get us out of this mess.”

“Relaxing?” Bertha repeated doubtfully.

“Sure. He’s probably hiding in the park somewhere, or in one of the nearby houses, taking it easy, waiting for the right moment to strike.

Blade isn’t the kind to sweat the small stuff.”

“You call this mess we’re in small stuff?” Bertha asked.

“It’s no big deal.” Hickok shrugged.

“You’re crazy, White Meat,” Bertha stated. “If you think this is small stuff, I’d hate to see what you’d call big trouble.”

I’m in big trouble here, Blade mentally told himself as he jogged along the darkened streets of Thief River Falls. He’d run over four miles at least, always staying within the town limits, crisscrossing and zigzagging, first one street for a few blocks, then, at random, another avenue for several more blocks, but never for any great distance in a straight line. He wouldn’t give Krill the advantage of predicting his direction, of being able to race ahead and ambush him.

So far, so good. It appeared to be working. But combined with his injuries, the strain was taking a severe toll.

Blade’s breathing was becoming labored, and an excruciating pang periodically seared his right side. The pain in his shoulder was a constant, agonizing presence. He required rest, but could he afford to stop? There had been no sign of Krill since the intersection. Had the brute abandoned the chase? Why would it hang back so long? If it was simply an unthinking animal, craving revenge for Aria, surely it would have attacked by now?

He had to rest!

Blade paused, listening. The wind was increasing, rustling the leaves on a stand of trees to his right. An owl hooted. The night seemed perfectly normal.

Ahead, maybe fifteen yards away, was a brick house, one of the few with a front door still intact.

Blade ran to the door and stopped, scanning for any indication Krill was in the area.

Nothing.

Another spasm rocked his body. What was going on? Was one of his ribs broken? Aria had gripped him around the waist, though, not his chest. Was there internal damage from the bullet or Aria’s crushing grasp? Whatever, he felt a compelling need to lie down.

Blade gingerly opened the door and entered the house, closing the door behind him. The air was stale and musty. He successfully resisted another impulse to sneeze.

Two doors opened into the room he was in, a former living room containing dust-covered furniture and furnishings. Both doors were ajar.

He walked to the front door and pushed it open, revealing a bedroom. The second door was to the kitchen. Neither displayed any evidence of recent habitation. The window in the bedroom was gone, but a small window in the kitchen was intact and closed. He shut both doors and moved to the sofa. Tiny particles of dust rose into the air as he sat down and rested his head on the back of the creaking sofa.

Now, if Krill tried to attack, the brute would need to come through one of the three doors. It wouldn’t be much of a warning, but it would give him a few precious moments to bring the Commando to bear.

Blade closed his tired eyes, his thoughts drifting. What was his beloved Jenny doing? Was she moping, pining for his safe return? How he wished he could be with her, holding her in his arms, listening to her tender words of affection!

What was that?

Blade snapped to attention. He was positive he’d heard a scraping noise. Was it Krill? He waited and waited, but the house was filled with soothing quiet, with a comforting sense of solitude.

Must be my nerves, he reflected.

Blade leaned back and closed his eyes again. Memories of his parents flooded his mind. His mother he’d never known; she had died giving birth to him. His father had served as Family Leader until four years ago, when he was killed by a mutate. Blade relived the incident again. His father was on a hunting expedition with two other men. They fell behind, while one of them removed a stone from his boot. Without warning, a mutate, a former mountain lion, charged from the brush and ripped his father to shreds.

The mutate vanished into the woods, leaving a torn and bloody body and a profound mystery in its wake.

Mutates! How he hated them! What could possibly transform your average puma into a hairless horror, covered with large blistering sores, oozing pus everywhere, its skin split and shriveled? Mutates were insatiably ravenous, devouring anything and everything they saw, even other mutates.

Everyone knew that fact.

And yet…

The mutate responsible for his father’s demise did not devour the body.

It did not even try to. Nor did it go after the other two Family men.

Odd.

Even odder was the story the two men had told. They had claimed this particular mutate wore a wide leather collar. Imagine! Although they were respected members of the Family, no one had really believed they had actually seen a collar.

Blade missed his father. Plato had assumed leadership of the Family after his father’s death, and he knew Plato expected him to become Leader some day. He recalled the pressures and problems his father was forced to face daily, and he sincerely doubted he wanted any part of it. Let someone else be Leader. He would devote himself to raising a family of his own, to enjoying a peaceful existence, married to Jenny, living in one of the cabins reserved for the couples. He’d relinquish his Warrior rank and…