David Robbins - The Fox Run

“Better not,” Saxon grimly advised, “or you’re dead.”

Blade froze, his fingers inches from the automatic.

“Slowly take the gun from the holster,” Saxon directed. “Use two fingers and hold it by the butt. Very carefully,” he stressed.

Blade complied, dangling the Vega between his thumb and forefinger.

“Toss it,” Saxon ordered, wagging his gun to their right, “as far as you can.”

Blade threw the Vega. Jenny was still in shock, staring at Angela’s grisly remains.

“Think you’re pretty bright, don’t you?” Saxon asked.

Blade shrugged.

“Well, you’ve reached the end of your rope,” Saxon declared. “I’m going to personally finish you off.”

“I’m scared,” Blade taunted him, wondering if the giant would simply shoot him and be done with it.

“You will be,” Saxon promised, “by the time I’m done with you.” He smiled and holstered his revolver.

“You planning to crush me with your bare hands?” Blade asked derisively.

“I see you like big knives.” Saxon nodded at the Bowie on Blade’s right hip. “You used the other one real good on Wolvie.”

“Wolvie?”

“The second wolverine you wasted,” Saxon explained.

“Hope it upset you,” Blade goaded him.

“It did,” Saxon grudgingly admitted. “But like I was saying. You like big knives. I like big knives.” His right arm disappeared under his cloak and came out bearing the machete. “So I’ll tell you what we’re going to do. You use your big knife, there, and I’ll use mine. Fair enough?”

Blade drew his right Bowie. “You surprise me,” he conceded.

“I’m not a damn backstabber,” Saxon said angrily. “I like to see the fear in their eyes when I snuff ’em.”

Blade took several steps toward the massive Troll, who towered over him by at least a foot.

“By the way,” Saxon said, playfully twirling the machete in his palm, “what’s your name?”

“They call me Blade.”

“Saxon,” the Troll stated. “Now let’s get to it. I can’t wait to slice you into itsy-bitsy pieces.”

So saying, the giant closed in.

Hickok fired as he ran, aiming for the head, closing the distance, intent on reaching Joan’s side before she was overwhelmed by the surging Trolls.

She had dropped to her knees as the doors opened, the Commando chattering, the heavy bullets shredding the Troll ranks, flesh bursting and blood spurting as the astonished Trolls absorbed the initial onslaught.

“What do we do?” Clyde asked Geronimo. They were still at the corner of the last building. “We didn’t count on this!”

“You do what you want,” Geronimo told him, and charged from cover, the Browning booming.

The flabbergasted Trolls recovered quickly and tactically responded to this unexpected ambush; they spread outward, deploying their forces to the right and left of the swinging doors. Stacks of bodies piled directly in front of the doors as Joan mowed down the Trolls still spilling forth from the bedlam inside.

Hickok concentrated on any Trolls posing a threat to Joan. He saw a grizzled Troll raise a rifle to his shoulder, aiming at her, and he snapped a shot into the Troll’s brain. Another Troll ran at Joan, a sword upraised.

Hickok shot him twice.

Geronimo, coming up fast, noted Hickok’s efforts to protect the woman he loved. He also noticed the gunman was heedless of his own safety; a Troll with a bow took a bead on Hickok, and Geronimo exploded his chest with a blast from the shotgun.

Clyde held back, slightly timid. He provided supporting cover, shooting at random, snickering, delighted at experiencing his long-deferred revenge.

Hickok reached Joan’s side. He was beginning to believe they would break the Trolls, would compel them to retreat and scatter, when Joan suddenly stopped firing.

“Out!” she shouted, reaching behind her for one of the extra ammo clips.

Hickok shot a Troll attacking with a spiked club and pivoted, aiming at another bearded enemy, this one with a hatchet. He hastily squeezed the Henry’s trigger, appalled when the hammer clicked. He was out too! How could he allow himself to lose track of the rounds fired? There was no time to reload. He dropped the Henry and drew the Pythons, both Colts simultaneously, forcing his aching, injured shoulder to obey his mental commands.

The Troll with the hatchet shrieked as he closed the gap.

Hickok shot, the right Colt only, the bullet slamming into the Troll’s forehead.

Joan was frantically tugging on the spent clip, still in the Commando.

“It’s jammed!” she yelled. “The damn thing’s jammed!”

Hickok stepped between the Trolls and Joan, the Pythons held low, at waist level. He would insure she was safe until she could switch clips.

With the Commando inoperative, the Trolls regained their momentum, closing file and advancing, retaliating against the greatest threat, the woman with the machine gun.

Geronimo reached Hickok and Joan. “Reloading!” he alerted them, and dropped to one knee, extracting fresh rounds from the bandoleer and feeding them into the Browning.

The Trolls, seeing only one opponent effectively armed, voiced a collective war cry and attacked.

Hickok stood firm, shooting targets as rapidly as they presented themselves: two Trolls with rifles, another with a pistol, a fourth with a shotgun, one fleet of foot who managed to get within six feet with an axe, three more Trolls charging as a group. Arrows spun by his head, and bullets buzzed through the air, resembling angry hornets in flight. A spear cleaved a furrow in his left thigh.

Geronimo reentered the fray, four quick blasts from the Browning decimating a row of approaching Trolls. A slug nicked his left cheek, drawing blood. An arrow clipped his right ankle.

The Trolls had gained the advantage.

“Reloaded!” Joan suddenly shouted, the fresh clip finally in the Carbine.

She heaved erect as Hickok dodged aside, and she cut loose with the Commando, bowling the Trolls over. They screamed and plunged, littering the ground with the dead and the wounded, pools of crimson dotting the pavement.

One Troll, smarter than his peers, had hung back, hidden just inside the swinging doors. He was armed with a metal-tipped lance, and as his beady eyes surveyed the carnage the woman was wreaking, he galvanized his burly body into action. Sheltered by the shadows, he hefted the heavy lance, judging the distance. He shuffled backwards several steps, then raced forward, his right arm swinging the lance back, then up and out.

Hickok, crouched by Joan’s right side, caught a blur of motion as the Troll emerged from the building into the light of day. He automatically sent a bullet into the Troll’s brain, even as the lance left the Troll’s hand and hurtled through the air.

“Look out!” Hickok cried, diving, attempting to put his body in front of Joan’s.

Joan, intent on dealing death to the Trolls, caught the flashing gleam of the lance out of the corner of her right eye. She heard Hickok’s warning and whirled.

The lance, on course, descended from its apex, the tapered, sharpened point piercing Joan’s left side, puncturing her lung. It passed completely through her body and impaled her to the ground.

“No! No!” Hickok scrambled to her side.

Joan was attempting to speak; blood dribbled from the corners of her mouth. She was on her back, her lips close to his face.

“ No !” Hickok felt a drop of her blood spatter against his left cheek. He saw the Commando on the ground at her feet and he scooped the Carbine into his hands. “No!” Hickok rose and spun, the Commando bucking as he depressed the trigger. He began walking toward the Trolls, sweeping the Carbine back and forth, back and forth. He hardly noticed the havoc he caused: the torn and mangled bodies covering the pavement, the screams of agony and destruction, the frenzied efforts of the remaining Trolls to escape the mayhem. He held the trigger in, his mind attuned to a singular activity: sweeping the Commando in an arc, back and forth, back and forth.