David Robbins - The Fox Run

“Hickok!”

Hickok disregarded the voice, still firing.

“Hickok!”

Hickok advanced, keeping the trigger pressed, unaware of all else.

“Hickok! It’s me!” Geronimo stepped in front of him and gripped him by the shoulders. “It’s me! The gun’s empty! Do you hear me? The gun’s empty!”

Hickok stopped, disoriented. He stared at the smoking Carbine.

“The gun’s empty!” Geronimo repeated. “The Trolls are gone.”

Hickok scanned the area. Sure enough, except for the dozens of bodies all over the place, the Trolls had withdrawn.

“Are you okay?” Geronimo asked. He was sporting a nasty wound on his right side.

“Fine,” Hickok mumbled. “Piece of cake.” Then he remembered. He turned and raced to Joan, aghast at the sight of her pale face and the red puddle at her feet.

“Joan!” Hickok knelt by her side. “What do I do?” He glanced at Geronimo. “Should I remove the lance?”

Geronimo sadly shook his head.

“Joan!” Hickok stared into her beautiful blue eyes, his own watering.

Joan grinned weakly. She licked her dry lips and managed to raise her right hand.

Hickok tenderly took her hand in his. “Don’t move,” he advised her. “Stay as still as possible.”

“It’s no use,” Joan said, her voice a wavering whisper.

“Don’t talk like that!” Hickok stroked her forehead, tears streaming down his face.

“We sure gave it to them,” Joan stated proudly. “Didn’t we?”

Hickok nodded, his throat bobbing.

“You’ve got to find the women,” Joan declared urgently. “Jenny, Mary, Ursa, and the rest.”

“We will,” Hickok promised.

Geronimo was standing guard, his back to them, scanning for danger.

His own eyes were misting over.

“Get them to the Home, safe and sound,” Joan said.

“We will,” Hickok assured her. “Don’t worry.”

“You know,” Joan began, a faraway look in her eyes, “this would happen now, after I finally find someone I care for. Murphy’s Law strikes again.”

She smiled.

“Please,” Hickok begged her. “Don’t talk. If we can remove this thing—”

Joan reached up and touched the tip of her right forefinger to his lips.

“Take care, lover,” she told him.

“Joan…”

“It’s been fun.” She began coughing.

“Don’t talk!”

Joan shook her head. “Doesn’t matter. I’ll be waiting for you in the mansions on high.”

“Please…”

“Tell me you love me,” she urged him.

“I love you.”

Her eyes abruptly widened, her body stiffened, and she gave vent to one last, lingering breath. Then she was gone.

Hickok raised his tear-streaked face to the heavens.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOooooooooo!”

Saxon was toying with Blade. The giant knew he had the longest reach, and the machete added to his leverage, the Bowie being fourteen inches shorter. He swung the machete again and again, almost lazily, displaying his contempt, forcing Blade to back away.

For his part, Blade was using this game to gather his energy. After the battle with the wolverines, he was winded, tired, and feeling the loss of blood from the wounds covering his body. The wolverine’s claws had caused considerable damage. He glanced at Jenny, still staring mutely at Angela. What was the matter with her? Was it shock?

Saxon caught the glance, and promptly misinterpreted it.

“Don’t worry about her,” the giant teased. “I won’t harm her. I’m saving her for myself.” He grinned lecherously.

“You’ll never have her,” Blade rejoined harshly.

“Think so, eh?”

“I know so,” Blade confirmed.

Saxon bore down, his blows coming faster now, his playfulness gone.

Blade parried his opponent’s thrusts and slashes, continuing to retreat across the arena, away from Jenny.

“I must admit,” Saxon spoke even while fighting, “you are a worthy foe.

No one has dared face me in years.”

“You know what they say…” Blade managed to retort as he ducked beneath a sweeping blow.

“No.” Saxon chuckled. “What do they say?”

Blade scurried away from another stabbing thrust. He paused, smiling, strangely appreciative of this colossus of a man. “The bigger they are…”

“…the harder they fall,” Saxon finished for him. “Yes, I’ve heard that one.”

“I don’t suppose,” Blade said lightly, “I could prevail upon you to surrender?”

“What?” Saxon laughed. “Do you hear that?” he asked.

For some time, from outside the swinging doors, came the sound of gunfire and screaming and yelling.

“That’s my men,” Saxon stated. “Finishing off whoever was with you.”

“It could be the other way around,” Blade reminded him.

Saxon glanced in the direction of the combat, his brow furrowed. “You could be right,” he mused. “We don’t have machineguns. The Watchers do, but we have a pact with them.”

“Watchers?” Blade said. “What are the Watchers?”

Saxon shook his head. “Sorry. I really must get outside.” Without warning, he flipped his machete at Blade.

Blade twisted, avoiding the machete, off balance, his back turned toward the giant for only an instant.

It was enough.

Saxon leaped, pouncing on Blade from behind, wrapping his mighty arms around the Warrior. He lifted Blade from the floor and applied pressure, squeezing, exerting his stupendous brute force.

Blade, caught in a steel vise, struggled and heaved, attempting to trip the giant and drop them to the ground. He surged against Saxon’s restraining arms until his own biceps and triceps bulged, to no avail.

“Why fight it?” Saxon hissed through clenched teeth. “Make it easy on yourself.”

Blade tossed and pitched, trying to butt Saxon with his head and kick him with his legs.

Saxon laughed.

Blade could feel the pressure building in his chest. He could easily imagine it caving in if he couldn’t break free.

Jenny was showing signs of life, looking around her, her green eyes blinking rapidly.

Blade’s face was reddening, his arms weakening, the sustained conflict taking its toll on his physique.

“You should never mess with the Trolls,” Saxon stated, straining even more.

Blade remembered his Bowie, still clutched in his right hand. A vital spot, a death stroke, was out of the question; they were out of his reach.

But there was one option…

“Blade!” Jenny was running his way, horrified at what she saw.

“I think I’ll have her for supper,” Saxon gloated.

Blade focused, aligning the Bowie. He gripped the handle and drove the blade upward, through the tunic, and into Saxon’s groin, slicing into the gonads and twisting the knife.

Saxon screeched and released Blade. He stumbled backwards, his hands groping his bleeding groin.

Blade dropped to the arena floor. He quickly hiked the tunic and found one of the Soligen throwing knives.

Saxon was doubled over, whimpering. His hands grabbed the Bowie and pulled, and he screamed as the knife jerked loose. He looked up at Blade.

“I don’t believe it!” he said, moaning.

Blade slowly stood, the Soligen hidden behind his right leg.

“Don’t leave me like this,” Saxon pleaded. “The pain! The pain!”

“I could take you prisoner, back to the Home,” Blade told him.

“Don’t leave me like this,” Saxon repeated. He looked down at the blood oozing from his ruined testicles. “Don’t leave me less than a man.”

Blade nodded once, understanding. The Soligen was up and on its way in the blink of an eye.

Saxon flinched as the thin blade penetrated his sloping forehead. His eyes closed and he toppled like a jumbo tree in the forest, his head striking the ground first, driving the knife even deeper.