David Robbins - The Fox Run

Jenny looked up into a sea of smirking faces. The Trolls were packed to the edge of the bleachers, crammed together, craning for a glimpse of the action in the arena. With Runt temporarily occupied, they shifted their attention to Wolvie and his antagonist.

Blade’s tremendous stamina and superbly conditioned physique were enabling him to hold his own against the sinewy power of the frenzied wolverine. So far. Despite the gunshot wound, his right arm still functioned. He had grabbed the wolverine’s throat as it sprang at him, his right hand buried in the pliant folds of skin, and he steadfastly refused to relinquish his grip no matter how ferociously the animal struggled. They tumbled and rolled on the floor of the pen, the wolverine churning its legs, lashing him with its curved claws, while Blade repeatedly thrust his Bowie into the furry, bulky body, seemingly to no avail.

Both combatants were covered with dirt and caked with blood.

The Trolls started cheering the wolverine, shouting encouragement and waving their arms, some jumping up and down.

“Go, Wolvie! Go!”

“Tear the sucker up!”

Blade was jarred by the brutal impact of colliding with the arena wall, his head cracking against the wood. Wolvie took advantage of his slight disorientation and jerked free of his grip, just as he plunged the Bowie into its side one more time. The wolverine growled and pulled away, taking the knife with it, the blade still imbedded in its ribs.

“Kill the bum!” came from one of the Trolls.

Blade hastily scrambled to his feet, catching his breath, debating his next move. The wolverine, fortunately, seemed winded too. Maybe all his stabbing had finally taken effect. Whatever the cause, he had a brief respite to consider his options. If he drew his other Vega, he risked being shot again by someone in the bleachers. He still retained his other Bowie, but he must have pierced the wolverine a dozen times already and the damn thing was still on its feet. No, he needed a method guaranteed to succeed.

The wolverine was panting, gathering itself for another charge.

Blade wondered if he would have time to shed the heavy cloak, and as he reached for the leather tie string secured at the base of his neck, eager to toss the cloak aside and free his arms for maximum effectiveness, inspiration struck.

Wolvie was inching toward him.

Would it work?

Did he still have them on him? Or were they dislodged during their conflict?

There was no time to check. It would be now, or never.

The wolverine rumbled deep in its chest, craving this human more than any prey in its life.

Blade waited, his hands near the tie string. Everything depended on his timing. Too early, and he would only slow the animal; too late, and he would miss entirely and be at the wolverine’s mercy.

The assembled Trolls were hushed, expecting the familiar rush and the shrill shrieks of agony as the victim was disemboweled.

“Get ’em, Wolvie!” one Troll shouted encouragement.

The wolverine made its move, three leaping bounds and it launched itself into the air, its mouth open, the gleaming teeth visible, saliva drooling over its gums.

Blade was in motion with Wolvie’s first leap, yanking on the tie string and releasing the cloak. He held the cloak with both hands, gripping the top border, and swept the bear hide around, placing it directly in the path of the oncoming wolverine.

Wolvie couldn’t stop. The beast hit the cloak dead center and dropped to the ground, enfolded in the cloak, tearing the skin in an effort to extricate itself.

In moments it would be loose.

Blade hurriedly searched his waist for the daggers. They were both still tucked under his belt, jammed together over his right hip. He whipped them from their respective sheaths, one in each hand.

The wolverine managed to cut an opening in the cloak. It poked its narrow head through the slash, getting its bearings.

Now!

Blade jumped, landing on the wolverine’s back. The beast twisted to confront him, still confident in its superior ability, its front paws imprisoned under the bear skin.

Saxon was the only Troll to immediately grasp Blade’s intent, and he tried to bring his revolver into play. His arm was still rising when he saw the imposter bury the daggers in Wolvie’s eyes, actually sink the keen blades to the hilt in the wolverine’s eye sockets.

Blade vaulted beyond the range of the wolverine’s death throes and ran toward Jenny. She was standing not far from where the final wolverine complacently gorged on Angela, her face blank, apparently in deep shock.

He reached her side and glanced up at the astonished Trolls, most of whom were staring at the dying Wolvie, unwilling or unable to accept what they saw.

“Jenny! Snap out of it!” Blade shook her.

“Blade?” Jenny looked at him, dazed, uncomprehending, unaware of their precarious predicament.

Blade knew the Trolls would channel their collective revenge in his direction at any moment, once the reality of the two dead wolverines hit home. He needed a distraction, something to buy him time.

But what?

The smallest wolverine was savoring its feast, ripping chunks of bloody, dripping meat from Angela’s body and wolfing them down. It was lying with its back to Blade and Jenny, engrossed in its feeding, not considering them much of a threat.

Blade’s mind whirled. How heavy was the last wolverine? Maybe thirty pounds, maximum. The pen walls were ten feet high. He could do it, but speed was essential!

“Blade?” Jenny absently repeated.

Blade ran to the wolverine and stooped over, his powerful hands encircling the ten-inch tail.

Runt grunted in surprise as his tail was clasped in a vise of iron and he was hauled from the arena floor.

Blade surged upward, spinning his body, his momentum carrying the bewildered wolverine in a wide revolution. He spun and spun, gathering speed, the surrounding pen a blur as he dug his heels into the ground, his arm muscles bulging.

“Look at that!” a young Troll yelled.

“What’s he doing?” another asked.

Saxon was vainly endeavoring to sight his revolver on the man, but he was reluctant to fire for fear of striking Runt.

Blade angled his body closer to the western wall of the pen. He needed to be as close as he could get to the wall when he gave the Trolls the shock of their lives.

Some of the Trolls, those nearest the edge of the bleachers, perceived their dilemma and attempted to back away from the arena. Those standing in the rear rows, however, were pressing forward, striving for a better look, ignorant of the activity in the pen.

Blade was at his limit, going as fast as he could go. He arched his broad back and elevated the wolverine as high as he could swing it, then released his hold on the tail.

To the complete consternation of the startled Trolls, Runt came sailing over the pen wall and landed among them in the bleachers.

The Trolls went crazy, screaming and screeching and falling over one another in their precipitate haste to remove themselves from the immediate vicinity of the thrashing, snapping wolverine.

Runt, enraged because of his interrupted repast, was biting and clawing everything in sight.

The Trolls broke, en masse heading for the swinging doors and escape.

With one notable exception.

Saxon, his revolver in his right hand, jumped from the bleachers into the arena below, his smoldering eyes and compressed lips indicative of his simmering fury. The man was holding the woman Jenny, hugging her close and whispering words in her ear. Saxon came up behind them and stopped eight feet away. He pointed his revolver at the man’s back.

Blade heard the click of a hammer being drawn and he spun, his left hand going for the remaining Vega.