Madman Run

by David Robbins

  "Who will watch over us?" Tabitha asked, on the verge of tears. "Who will protect us and clothe us and feed us?"

  The implications of her questions shook Blade to the core of his being.

  He took a pace backward and gazed at them in blatant disbelief. "Let me get this straight. You want them to take care of you?"

  "Of course, sir," Tabitha said.

  "We'd be lost without them, sir," Selwyn chimed in.

  "But they take advantage of you."

  Tabitha giggled. "How do they ever do that, sir?"

  "They make you work for them, make you till the fields to produce their food, and they keep you cooped up during the day. You're little better than slaves."

  "Oh, you have it all wrong, sir. We like working for the masts. They love us and treat us fairly."

  "How can you say such a thing? They beat and tortured your friend Tweena until she died. And Grell ate a serf."

  Tabilha nodded. "But Tweena deserved to be punished for disobeying the masts. And Cathmor deserved to be eaten for trying to leave the Domain."

  The absurd illogic baffled Blade, and he pressed a palm to his forehead as he tried to make sense of it all. The serfs were enslaved and didn't even know it. Worse, they preferred the status quo. How could they? Didn't they realize how precious freedom was?

  "Can we go now, sir?" Tabitha asked.

  "Go where?" Blade responded absently.

  "We'd like to find our friends and play before dawn, sir," Selwyn said.

  "Or before the masts catch us," Tabitha stated and snickered.

  Blade stared at their pale skin, at their pale features, at their pale eyes, and suddenly their very paleness offended him. Their personalities were as colorless as their complexions, devoid of all character, stripped of any semblance of conviction and independence. They were pale imitations of human beings, at best, puppets on a string who didn't want the puppeteers removed. "Go," he said harshly. "Get out of here."

  The serfs giggled and danced down the stairs, and moments later they were swallowed by the inky shadows.

  Good riddance, Blade reflected. He abruptly realized his rifle was missing and scoured the landing until he found it. As he stooped to retreive the Marlin he heard a little laugh behind him.

  "I could have spared you a lot of trouble, boy."

  Startled, Blade crouched and spun, leveling the rifle, his finger on the trigger. He saw the thin figure of the lord of Castle Orm standing at the junction.

  "I'm unarmed," Morlock said calmly.

  The youth hesitated, suspecting a trick. "Don't move or I'll shoot."

  "There's no need for violence, boy."

  "The name is Blade, remember? Come closer so I can see you."

  Morlock advanced and held out his empty hands to demonstrate he posed no threat. "See? You have nothing to fear."

  "How long have you been standing there?"

  "A while."

  "Where are my friends?"

  "I have no idea."

  Blade took a stride and aimed at the smaller man's forehead. "Tell me the truth."

  "Or what? You'll shoot me? I think not." Morlock chuckled. "You won't kill a defenseless man, boy."

  "Don't tempt me."

  Morlock nodded at the stairs. "I saw your fight. If you were a born killer, you would have pulled your knives instead of trying to best Elphinstone with your hands and feet." He paused. "My compliments, by the way. No one has ever beaten him before."

  "Where is he now?"

  "How would I know? Probably nursing his wounds."

  "And where's your wife?"

  "My darling Endora is taking her nightly stroll." Blade lowered his rifle barrel a few inches. Now that he had Morlock right where he wanted him, he didn't know what to do. By all rights he should put an end to the man's reign of terror by terminating him on the spot, but he couldn't bring himself to fire. Morlock was right, damn him. Blade wasn't a cold-blooded killer. "We need to talk," he said lamely.

  "Indeed we do. That's why I'm here. I knew you entered the underground through the portal in the mausoleum and came down to meet you."

  "How did you know?"

  Morlock grinned. "That's my little secret." He shifted and gestured upward. "Must we stand here in the draft to discuss what's on your mind?

  Why not come upstairs with me where we can have our chat in a civilized fashion?"

  "Lead the way," Blade said, keeping the Marlin trained on the thin man's back as Morlock led the way toward ground level. His every instinct told him not to let down his guard for an instant. For the time being, though, he had to play along, at least until he knew the fate of Hickok and Geronimo. "Where's Grell?" he asked.

  "You know about him, do you?"

  "Just answer the question."

  "Very well. I'd imagine he's out trying to round up the serfs. Eventually they'll stop playing their games and let themselves be herded together."

  "Just like cattle," Blade stated bitterly.

  "In a way, they are."

  "Where did they come from? What have you done to them?"

  "I'll explain everything once we're comfortable."

  Blade fell silent until they reached the ground floor. The sight of candles flickering in holders at regular intervals along the corridor prompted an observation. "I thought all of you can see in the dark."

  "Our night vision is exceptional, but we're not completely weaned from a dependence on light. We usually keep a few candles lit after dark,"

  Morlock said and began to climb the next flight.

  "Where are you going?"

  "The chamber I have in mind is on the third floor."

  "What's wrong with one on this floor?"

  Morlock paused to look down. "Not a thing, but the sitting room I have in mind is very comfortable and private. We won't be disturbed there."

  Who would disturb them? Blade wondered, reluctantly following all the way to the third landing. He stayed on the small man's heels as they went right to the second door, which was wide open. Inside was a lavishly furnished room. Instead of candles, a kerosene lantern provided moderate illumination. "You must have a kerosene storage tank somewhere," he commented, crossing to a wooden chair.

  "Take that one, why don't you?" Morlock suggested, pointing at an easy chair near the sofa.

  Since it made no difference to the youth, he sat where Morlock wanted.

  "And yes, we do have an underground storage tank," the master of the castle disclosed enroute to the sofa. "It's almost dry after all these years, so we conserve what little usable kerosene we have left. When I knew you were coming, I lit a lantern in preparation."

  "How did you, by the way?"

  "I'll get to that in a bit," Morlock said, taking a seat and folding his left leg over his right. "Would you care for refreshments?"

  "Just information," Blade said, not knowing what to make of his host's continued civility. It must be a trick of some kind. At the first hint of hostility, he'd put a bullet in the bastard's brain. He was safe as long as he had the rifle and his Bowies.

  "Very well. Where would you like me to begin? With the serfs?"

  "That would be nice."

  "I overheard enough to know you believe the darling creatures are little better than slaves. Am I right?"

  "They are slaves."

  "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe the definition of a slave is someone completely under the domination of another person, someone who is the property of another. Would you agree?"

  "Sounds accurate enough to me."

  "Then your accusation is unfounded. You heard Tabitha and Selwyn.

  Do they consider themselves slaves? Absolutely not. They like the life they live and have no desire to change. They're happy," Morlock said. "Would you begrudge them such a blessing?"

  Blade disregarded the disquieting question and tried another tack.

  "Where did they come from?"

  "The serfs have served the Morlock clan since shortly after the war—"

&nbs
p; "Wait a minute," Blade interrupted. "Is Morlock your first or last name?"

  "Morlock is the family name. Moray Morlock was the first lord of Castle Orm."

  "Then what's your first name?"

  "Angus," Morlock replied, smirking.

  Why did he do that? Blade asked himself. "Okay. Back to the serfs. Who were their ancestors? Where did they come from?"

  "As I understand it, a dozen survivors showed up here about a week after the missiles were launched. They were suffering from radiation sickness. Moray took them in and let them live in the lower levels.

  Eventually most of them recovered, and they decided to stay here and work for Moray in exchange for their lodging."

  "So the current serfs are their descendants?"

  "Aye. Over the years their skin has become paler and paler, and now they're strictly nocturnal."

  The explanation was plausible, but Blade felt he was being deceived. He couldn't put a finger on the reason. Perhaps it was Morlock's smug expression and superior air. "And where did Grell come from?"

  "Moray found him in the woods ten years after the war."

  Blade sat up. "Impossible. That would make Grell close to ninety years-old."

  "He is. The serfs even refer to him as the immortal one since three generations of them have known and feared him. Grell was just a pup when Moray stumbled on him hiding in a thicket. Moray liked the wee creature and gave it a home. Ever since Grell has been the Morlock watchdog."

  "What kind of mutation is he?"

  "I don't know. Moray believed a bear embryo underwent a radiation-induced transformation. If you've seen Grell, you know that no bear grows to such a massive size." Morlock shrugged. "Who knows what his parents were?"

  Blade thoughtfully pursed his lips, debating whether to pry into another disturbing matter, and decided to try an oblique approach. "Did Moray ever marry?"

  "Yes."

  "Another survivor?"

  "Aye. Bands of wanderers would travel through the area from time to time. His wife, Constance, was a refugee from the Twin Cities."

  And what about your wife? Blade wanted to inquire, but couldn't bring himself to.

  "Are you certain I can't entice you to take some refreshment? I took the liberty of having a tray of food set out in the next room."

  "I'm not hungry."

  "Too bad. We have excellent wine and cheese."

  Wine? Blade wondered if enough of it might loosen Morlock's lips.

  Perhaps a glass or two of wine was in order. He'd do anything to uncover a clue concerning his friends. "All right. Some wine can't hurt."

  Again Morlock smirked and stood. He walked toward a closed door in the east wall. "Follow me. You can select whatever you want."

  Blade held the rifle down low as he crossed to the doorway. His host went through first, and he took three strides himself before he realized he'd been suckered.

  Displaying unexpected speed, Morlock darted to the left and grabbed a lever on the wall.

  Taken unawares, Blade was sluggish in reacting. "Don't touch that!" he warned and began to bring the barrel up. Too late.

  Morlock yanked on the lever.

  Blade's finger was tightening on the trigger when the floor fell out from beneath his feet.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Gruesome visions of a pit lined with sharp stakes at the bottom filled Blade's mind as he plummeted straight down, enveloped by darkness, his arms above his head, the useless rifle clutched in his left hand. It took a few seconds for him to realize he was hurtling down a metal shaft toward an uncertain fate.

  Damn his stupidity!

  Anger supplanted the initial shock, anger at his gullibility. He'd waltzed right into the trap with both eyes open. Attila or any of the other experienced Warriors would never have let themselves be so blatantly duped. Being a novice was no excuse. Even novices were expected to exercise basic common sense.

  The shaft angled to the right, then the left, in gradual curves designed to retard the speed of passage.

  Blade's elbows and knees banged and scraped on the sides, and when he lifted his head and tried to see the bottom his forehead struck the top with a resounding crack. The descent went so long that he estimated the shaft must drop down into the underground levels. When he began to wonder if it would ever end, it did.

  Shooting out of the mouth like a tongue out of a lizard, Blade plummeted over ten feet into an enormous tank of stagnant water. He hit with a loud splash and went under, instinctively holding his breath but unable to prevent the warm liquid from filling his nose and ears. A bitter taste filled his mouth, almost gagging him, and then his boots hit bottom and he shoved off, kicking desperately for the top.

  He burst from the surface and inhaled deeply, grateful merely to be alive. Shaking his head and wiping his arm across his face, he blinked and looked about him, treading water to stay afloat. To his consternation he found himself imprisoned, enclosed on all four sides by clear glass or plastic walls rising over ten feet above the water.

  It was like a gigantic fish tank.

  Blade swam to one side and took stock. The depth was 12 feet. The length and width were the same, ten feet both ways. He reached out and touched the wall, deciding the substance must be a hard plastic. Never in a million years would he be able to climb so smooth a surface. And since he couldn't get a purchase for his legs either, he was ingeniously snared and effectively helpless.

  The water had a brownish tinge and gave off a foul odor.

  Abruptly realizing there must be a light source nearby, Blade surveyed the chamber in which the tank was located. It dwarfed all the others. Fifty feet high and seventy in length, the walls were composed of large, square stones, and the ceiling of immense wooden beams. More thick candles mounted on the walls provided marginal illumination. Far off on the right, at the top of a flight of wooden stairs, stood a broad wooden door.

  He swung to the left and received a pleasant shock. Aligned against the wall were five metal cages, the bars on each spaced six inches apart, and two were occupied by unconscious figures.

  Hickok and Geronimo!

  Elated, Blade swam to the left side of the tank and stared happily at his companions until a horrifying thought occurred to him. What if they were dead? He licked his lips and called out. "Hey! Sleepyheads! Rise and shine!"

  There was no reaction.

  Intensely worried, Blade yelled louder. "Wake up, you dummies! It's me, Blade."

  At last Geronimo stirred, groaning and rolling onto his back. His arms moved feebly.

  "Geronimo, wake up!"

  The insistent shout had an effect. Geronimo's eyelids fluttered, and after a few seconds he opened his eyes and sat up, gazing in confusion at his surroundings until his gaze alighted on the tank. Recognition brought a flood of awareness, and he suddenly rose to his knees. "Blade! What's going on?" He seized one of the bars. "Where in the world are we?"

  "In an underground chamber below Castle Orm," Blade called out. His legs were beginning to tire and he wished he could rest for a while, but there was no place in the tank to gain a firm footing. "What happened to you? How did they catch you?"

  Geronimo rubbed the back of his head and stood. "I'm not sure. The last thing I remember is running around the corner and not seeing any sign of Hickok or the serfs. I stopped and was turning when something or someone rose out of the shadows at the base of the wall and clobbered me but good." He paused. "I think it was Elphinstone."

  "Morlock captured me," Blade revealed, without bothering to elaborate.

  "Have you seen Hik—" Geronimo began and looked to his left. Beaming, he stepped to the side of his cage. "Nathan! On your feet, you goof."

  The gunfighter didn't budge.

  Geronimo reached through the bars and tried to grab Hickok's cage, but it was inches out of reach. He desisted and cupped his hands to his mouth. "Yo, Nathan! I know you need your beauty sleep, but don't go overboard."

  Hickok finally moved his arms. His head bobbed, he licked
his lips, and his eyes snapped open. "Where am I?" he bellowed, sitting up. "Where's the lowlife who hit me?" He saw the tank, did a double take and glanced in both directions. Discovering Geronimo, he did another double take, then chuckled.

  "What can you possibly find amusing?" the Blackfoot inquired.

  "Since you two clowns are here, it's a safe bet I'm not in heaven."

  "You're still on Earth, dimwit. Under Morlock's castle."

  The gunfighter shoved up, his hands falling to his holster—his empty holsters. "Hey! Where are my six-shooters?"

  It was Blade who found them. He noticed a table at the end of the row of cages and distinguished a small pile of weapons. "Over there," he shouted, pointing.

  Hickok looked and fumed. "Some hombre is going to pay for takin' my Colts. Nobody takes my guns—ever!"

  "How did they manage to catch you?" Blade yelled so his voice would carry over the top of the tank.

  "I was after those fairies, as I recollect. I ran into the yard, thinkin' I was about to catch 'em, but they were all gone. I didn't know if they went on around the blamed castle or lit into the trees, and then I saw one of those fancy tombs was open. So I just kept on going, right inside, and I was about to give a call and let you know where I was when the door swung shut and someone bashed me on the head," the gunfighter explained.

  "Probably Elphinstone," Blade said. "He's been a busy bee tonight."

  "Wait'll I get my revolvers back," Hickok snapped. "I'll teach that yahoo a lesson."

  "How are we going to get out of this mess?" Geronimo asked.

  Blade wanted an answer to that one himself. After all he'd been through, after the strain of the chase and the fight, his limbs were already weary. The sustained effort of staying above the surface only aggravated his condition. He found it hard to keep his grip on the Marlin.

  "Are you holdin' your rifle, pard?" Hickok inquired in amazement.

  "Yeah. Why?"

  "Try to shoot your way out of that overgrown goldfish bowl. A couple of shots should crack one of those walls, easy."

  "What if they're bulletproof?"

  "Then the ricochet might hit you," Hickok said. "But what does a little scratch matter if it gets us out of this dungeon?"

  Blade tapped the nearest wall with the Marlin, debating the merits of the gunfighter's suggestion. He still had no idea whether the substance was glass or plastic, but a few rounds might just do the trick. There wasn't enough water to do more than cover the floor to a depth of two or three inches, at most, so none of them need worry about drowning. His main concern was the wall. Would it break cleanly or with jagged edges? If the latter, he might be cut badly when the water poured from the tank. "I don't know," he said uncertainly. "What's wrong with the idea?"