Armageddon Run

by David Robbins

  The Doktor!

  It had to be!

  Blade had never met the infamous Doktor, had never even seen him, but he intuitively recognized the man in black as the nefarious scientist.

  The Doktor was concentrating on the fight between Lynx and the ape-man. The ape-like figure was striving to bash Lynx’s brains in with a sledgehammer, but Lynx was more than holding his own, his superior speed and agility enabling him to avoid the ponderous blows.

  Blade darted to the left, crossing the street and zigzagging across a yard. He passed several trees and a bicycle, running due south, keeping his gaze on the command post, insuring the Doktor did not look in his direction. He wanted to put the corner of the command post between himself and the Doktor, then sneak up to the building and take the Doktor completely by surprise.

  His left side was throbbing.

  Blade suppressed the torment and kept running.

  Where were Hickok and Geronimo and the others? he wondered. Were they faring any better?

  Blade realized the Doktor and the half-track had disappeared from view. The command post was now blocking his avenue of approach from the Doktor. He turned, racing to the command post and stopping only when he reached the east wall of the structure, and was 15 feet from the northeastern corner.

  The Spirit was smiling on him!

  He took a moment to catch his breath, and then cautiously eased toward the corner. If his calculations were correct, the Doktor would be standing ten feet from the corner. Lynx, the ape-thing, and the halftrack were five to eight yards beyond the Doktor.

  Blade was tingling with anticipation when he paused mere inches from the corner of the building. Their strategy had worked! And with the Doktor eliminated, Samuel II was next!

  “Don’t toy with him,” the Warrior heard the Doktor say. “Get it over with!”

  Blade grinned, placed his finger on the trigger of the Commando, and leaped from concealment.

  The Doktor was watching the combat, his back to the corner.

  “Doktor!” Blade shouted triumphantly.

  The Doktor spun around, his dark eyes widening in disbelief.

  Blade, relishing his victory, squeezed the trigger.

  Nothing happened.

  There was a loud click, and that was all.

  The Commando was empty!

  Lynx had twisted at the sound of Blade’s voice, and for the briefest of instants was off guard.

  Thor immediately took advantage of the unexpected diversion. He delivered a vicious stroke at Lynx’s head.

  Lynx sensed the danger, but too late. He twisted, trying to avert the sledgehammer, but it struck him a glancing blow, the stunning impact sufficient to send him hurtling into the half-track. He slumped to the ground next to the front tire.

  The Doktor was pointing his 45 at Blade’s chest. “Are we having problems?” he asked, grinning.

  Blade considered rushing the madman, but discarded the notion as patently stupid. He’d be dead before he was halfway there.

  “Drop it!” the Doktor commanded, nodding at the Commando.

  Blade released his weapon and it clattered as it landed.

  “Now the pistols,” the Doktor directed. “Slowly!”

  Blade carefully drew the Vegas from their shoulder holsters and let them fall.

  The Doktor seemed to relax slightly. He smiled and studied the knives on the Warrior’s hips. “Bowie knives,” he said matter-of-factly, and looked up. “You undoubtedly are Blade.”

  Blade simply nodded.

  “So we meet at last,” the Doktor remarked.

  Thor was standing behind the Doktor, glaring at Blade.

  “I truly wish I could prolong our encounter,” the Doktor commented, “but I must complete my business here and travel to Denver. Any last words before we wrap this up?”

  Blade remained silent.

  The Doktor chuckled. “Oh, come now! Not even a few words of spite and malice?”

  Blade was praying for a distraction. Something. Anything.

  The Doktor, evidently unable to resist the allure of a captive audience, continued to speak. “Come to think of it, there are some words I’d like to say to you. I want to praise you.”

  “Praise me?” Blade finally asked.

  “Oh, not you personally. Your Family. Specifically, the accursed Warriors. You have created more difficulties for me than anyone else in the past one hundred years, and that’s quite an accomplishment,” the Doktor said.

  “I’m flattered,” Blade snapped sarcastically.

  “Seriously,” the Doktor stressed, “Haven’t you ever heard that you can measure the quality of a man by the excellence of his competition?” The Doktor sighed. “Believe it or not, I shall be sorry to see you go. You and the rest of the Warriors. There is no place in a society like ours, where peace is promoted at the expense of personal liberties, for Warriors like yourself.

  You are an anachronism Blade. You and Geronimo and Hickok and the rest.” The Doktor laughed. “Especially Hickok. I’ve heard of some of his escapades and listened to some of the tapes of monitored Family conversations. Does he use that phony Wild West jargon all the time?”

  Blade nodded.

  “Remarkable,” the Doktor stated. “But then, the Family is remarkable. It has produced an astonishing quantity of outstanding individuals. Plato. Joshua. Your own father.”

  “My father?” Blade repeated bewildered. “You knew my father?”

  “Haven’t you ever speculated who was responsible for your father’s death?” the Doktor inquired, a wicked gleam in his eyes.

  Blade’s mouth fell open as he gawked at the Doktor. “You?” he asked in stupefied amazement.

  “Who else?” the Doktor said, smiling arrogantly.

  Blade’s mind spun, his emotions staggered by the revelation. He vividly recalled the day, about four years ago, when the runner had told him his father had been attacked by a mutate while on a hunting trip. At the time, his father was the Family Leader. He had been with two other men from the Family. They had dropped behind while one of them removed a stone from his boot. Blade’s father had been 30 yards ahead of them, near a growth of dense brush, when what the men thought was a mutate had charged from cover and attacked him, ripping and slashing with its fearsome claws. Regrettably, Blade’s father had passed on to the higher mansions mere minutes prior to his own arrival on the scene. Blade had knelt in the grass and held his father’s hand while tears streaked his cheeks.

  The men with Blade’s father had rushed to his aid, but the mutate responsible for the savage onslaught had whirled and vanished in the underbrush. Both men had claimed there had been something unique about that particular mutate; they had insisted it had worn a collar, a leather collar.

  The collar!

  Blade’s memory flashed back to the run Alpha Triad had made to Thief River Falls. He remembered the ferocious creatures called the Brutes, the bestial beings the soldiers had used for tracking and guard duties. Blade had barely survived a fierce fight with one of them, and it had worn a leather collar!

  Blade was feeling dizzy. He abruptly recalled an incident during the trip to Kalispell. What was it the officer had told him? Yes! Now he recollected what it was: “That metal collar is how the Doktor controls his freaks. His earlier creatures… just wore leather collars.”

  Damn!

  Damn! Damn! Damn!

  Right in front of his nose the whole time!

  “It was necessary to dispose of your father,” the Doktor was saying. “He intended to send out expeditions to ascertain if there were other survivors of the war. So long as your Family remained comparatively isolated, we were content to periodically send monitoring teams to eavesdrop on your conversations, using sophisticated electronic equipment, as we do with all the other outposts of civilization beyond the borders of the Civilized Zone.

  But we couldn’t allow your Family to contact the others. We weren’t quite ready to commence reconquering the United States, and we wanted all su
rviving factions to be as disorganized as possible to prevent them unifying against us. Consequently, I sent in a team with one of my little pets. Your father conveniently left the security of the Home, and the rest you know.”

  Blade felt an intense fury mounting within him. His fists clenched into compact clubs.

  “I would have done the same to Plato,” the Doktor revealed, “only he decided to send Alpha Triad out so abruptly we couldn’t assassinate him beforehand.”

  Blade’s cheeks were flushing from the passionate rage welling up inside him.

  “Killing your father wasn’t anything personal,” the Doktor commented.

  “It was strictly business. Killing Joshua, on the other hand, was purely personal.”

  Blade wasn’t sure he had heard correctly. “Joshua?”

  “Oh? Didn’t I mention it?” The Doktor chuckled. “The foolish pacifist tried to convert me to the path of life and light! Imagine!” He tossed back his head and gave vent to uncontrolled mirth.

  Blade’s muscles tightened. He no longer cared if the Doktor held a gun.

  He didn’t give a damn if Thor was nearby. He wanted one thing and one thing only: to wring the Doktor’s neck!

  A gigantic, thunderous explosion erupted from the west end of the town square, sounding as if several charges went off simultaneously.

  Both the Doktor and Thor involuntarily glanced in the direction of the cacophonous blast.

  It was the moment Blade had been waiting for. He charged, forgetting to draw his Bowies, his arms extended and his fingers rigid.

  The Doktor detected Blade’s assault out of the corner of his right eye.

  He turned and fired.

  Blade experienced a burning sensation along his rib cage on his right side, but he disregarded it and leaped the final four feet.

  The 45 boomed again, but in his haste the Doktor missed, and before he could aim again the Warrior slammed into him and bore him to the ground.

  Thor, about to hasten to the Doktor’s defense, saw four forms hurrying toward the center of the town square from the west. He recognized them almost instantly; the fat one with the beard, the guy in black, the Indian Geronimo, and, trailing a few yards behind, the gunfighter called Hickok.

  What should he do?

  Thor glanced at the Doktor and Blade. The Doktor had landed on his back with the Warrior on top, but he suddenly swept his left knee up and rammed it into Blade’s left side. Blade winced and doubled over, releasing his hold on the Doktor.

  “Doktor!” Thor yelled. “Hickok and the others…” He pointed in their direction.

  The Doktor never bothered to look up. “Kill them!” he ordered, scrambling to his hands and knees.

  Thor ran to the rear of the half-track and climbed over the tailgate to the mounted machine gun. He pivoted the gun, sighting on the four defenders, and let the sledgehammer fall to the floor.

  Blade, his left side in excruciating agony from the Doktor’s blow, was lying on his right side. He felt something hard being pressed against his left temple and twisted his head to find the reason.

  It was the Doktor, and he was holding the 45 next to Blade’s head.

  “Don’t move!” the Doktor hissed.

  Lynx abruptly began moaning.

  “No one lays a hand on me!” the Doktor snapped at Blade. “No one!” He sounded as if he were on the verge of going off the deep end, his tone strident and ragged.

  What was he waiting for? Blade wondered.

  The Doktor’s face conveyed the fanatical nature of his insanity: his eyes were wide, the pupils distended; his nostrils were flared; his lips were curled upward in a fake grin, exposing his teeth; and his entire countenance seemed to be aglow with a bizarre inner light.

  Lynx, unnoticed by the Doktor or Thor, opened his green eyes and rose to his knees, still groggy, his movements unusually slow.

  The Doktor inexplicably cackled. “Adieu, Blade!” he declared happily.

  “It’s the void for you!”

  Blade, striving to regain control of his limbs, tensed, knowing the Doktor was playing with him and dreading that something would happen.

  It did.

  Pandemonium erupted.

  “Over here, sucker!” a female voice screamed, coming from the east.

  Both the Doktor and Blade glanced up.

  Bertha was ten yards away, weaving toward them, the left side of her face caked with blood.

  The Doktor instinctively swung the 45 at her, not realizing she was unarmed and didn’t pose a threat.

  Blade drove his right hand, balled into an iron fist, up and around, connecting with the madman’s chin and slamming him to the ground. The 45 went flying.

  Lynx jumped to his feet.

  Blade pushed himself to his knees. “Lynx!” he shouted. “Thor! The half-track!”

  The Doktor was trying to stand.

  Blade executed a flying tackle, bearing the Doktor to the turf. He kneed the lunatic in the groin, then flicked his fists in a furious combination of brutal punches, smashing his knuckles into the Doktor’s face again and again and again.

  Thor had turned upon hearing Blade’s cry, but he was too late.

  Lynx cleared the side of the half-track in two bounds. His second leap brought him to the top of the side panel, and he added to his momentum by grabbing the upper edge and propelling his body at Thor like a shot out of a cannon.

  Thor lunged for his sledgehammer, but his reach was impeded by the machine gun.

  Lynx snarled with a feral frenzy as he landed on his foe, his feet raking Thor’s massive chest while his hands, his slashing talons, ripped ten crimson furrows in Thor’s face.

  Thor shrieked and tried to cover his eyes with his hands.

  The scent of fresh blood drove Lynx wild. He went berserk, his arms flailing away at Thor’s face and neck, as hair and flesh and gore splattered every which way. A shredded eyeball sailed over the tailgate.

  On the ground, Blade was grappling with the Doktor, the two of them rolling back and forth as each attempted to gain the upper hand. One of their rolls caused them to collide with the front of the command post, to the right of the door. Blade bore the brunt of the collision, his head banging against the concrete and momentarily dazing him.

  The Doktor wrenched free of Blade’s grasp, sprang to his feet, and darted through the front door.

  Blade shoved himself erect and took off inside in hot pursuit.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Hickok saw Lynx pounce on the apish figure in the rear of the half-track. He concentrated on catching up with the others. Orson and Rudabaugh had already reached the fountain and were crouched alongside the basin. Geronimo joined them an instant later.

  “Look!” Orson shouted as Hickok joined them.

  They could see the other side of the half-track for the first time. Blade and a man wearing a black cape were wrestling on the ground.

  Bertha was a few yards from the vehicle, her left hand pressed to her face, staggering.

  “Black Beauty!” Hickok cried. He started to run around the fountain to assist her.

  “Look!” Orson yelled again.

  Soldiers and G.R.D.’s were swarming toward the town square from several directions at once. They appeared to the west, the north, and the east, hollering exultantly as they spied the four men near the fountain.

  “This is it,” Rudabaugh said, drawing his pistols, forcing his left arm to obey his mental bidding.

  Orson quickly unslung his shotgun. “Remember what I told you,” he stated, directing his comment at Rudabaugh, grimacing from the pain in his right shoulder.

  Geronimo caught Hickok’s eye. “I’ve loved you like a brother,” he informed his friend, “which goes to show you how warped my taste is.”

  Hickok was in a quandry. He couldn’t believe what Geronimo had just said, the words only serving to aggravate his confusion. He wanted to aid Blade and Bertha, but he couldn’t leave Geronimo.

  Some of the approaching troopers o
pened fire, their rounds smacking into the fountain.

  Hickok risked a last glance at the command post. The creep with the cape and Blade had vanished! And Bertha was climbing over the tailgate of the half-track, evidently intending to use the machine gun.

  More bullets were striking the fountain.

  Hickok raised the Henry and fired, his aim rewarded by the sight of a reptilian G.R.D. taking a slug in the head.

  Geronimo downed several antagonists with a burst from his FNC.

  Orson began blasting away with his shotgun.

  Rudabaugh picked up the lethal refrain with his pistols.

  The onrushing throng scarcely slowed.

  Hickok emptied his Henry and threw it aside. Into the fountain!” he bellowed over the noise of the gunfire. The basin rim might afford some shelter from the withering hail of lead.

  Orson, his shotgun booming, went to take a step over the rim. His whole body suddenly jerked to the left and he was knocked over the basin and into the water. He fell on his stomach, splashing the water over the sides of the fountain, and didn’t move.

  “Orson!” Rudabaugh turned and stepped over the rim. He reached down and gripped Orson’s flannel shirt.

  Hickok leaped over the rim to help Rudabaugh. He distinctly heard a thup-thup-thup, and Rudabaugh arched his back, gasped, and pitched into the pool.

  Geronimo backed up, stepping over the basin into the pool while still firing the FNC. He crouched behind the rim, shooting the closest foes, the gravest threats, as they presented themselves. As he twisted to mow down three G.R.D.’s charging from the west, he realized Hickok was standing and staring at Rudabaugh and Orson.

  Enemy gunfire was chipping away at the basin and pockmarking the pool with dozens of concentric ripples.

  “Get down!” Geronimo shouted.

  Hickok, miraculously untouched so far, looked up, his mouth a thin slit, his blue eyes glaring.

  Geronimo abruptly stiffened and toppled across the rim of the fountain, his legs in the water, his head dangling outside.