“You’re impossible!” Priscilla declared.
“That’s what my missus keeps sayin’,” Hickok observed. He surveyed the clearing, noting sentries had been posted at 20-foot intervals around the perimeter. Although he wanted to escape just as badly as Priscilla, what else could he do? For the time being he was stuck where they were.
“I’ll just have to wait for Achilles to come and save us,” Priscilla said.
“You’re partial to that whippersnapper, aren’t you?” Hickok said.
“None of your damn business.”
“Yep. You are.”
“Are you a mind reader?” Priscilla asked sarcastically.
“Nope. But I do know that when a woman acts contrary, she usually is hidin’ something.”
“My. I never would have guessed you’re a student a human nature.”
“And I don’t know why you’re pickin’ on me when there are heaps of real lowlifes you can vent your spleen on.”
Priscilla opened her mouth to speak, then changed her mind and averted her face. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I’m terrified of what will happen to us. I don’t mean to take it out on you.”
“That’s okay. I’m married.”
“So?”
“So I’m used to havin’ a female dump on me all the time.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“I am?” Hickok responded, and beamed. “Thanks.” He glanced at Geronimo. “I bet nobody ever pays you compliments like that.”
“You’ve got me there.”
Eagle Feather suddenly sat up, scowling. “This is insane! Here we are, about to die, and you act as if you don’t have a care in the world!”
“Calm down,” Hickok advised. “Gettin’ all bent all of shape won’t help us a bit. Why do you think we’re makin’ light of the situation? Because we’re crazy? We do it to keep our sanity intact, to get a handle on things until we can make our break. If you brood on it, you’ll go to pieces.”
“Warriors must take courses in combat psychology taught by an experienced Elder,” Geronimo disclosed. “We’re trained to control our reactions to brutality and danger by trying to take everything in stride.
We’re affected by all of this, just like you, only we learned a long time ago to take what comes as calmly as possible. Humor is just one of the tools we use. Otherwise, we couldn’t stand the strain.”
“I could never be a Warrior,” Eagle Feather said.
“You never know until you try,” Hickok said, He saw a trio of familiar figures coming toward them. “Uh-oh. Here comes Gruesome again.”
Longat and the two creatures with him approached to within a yard of the prisoners, then halted.
“Forget something?” Hickok quipped.
“No,” Longat replied, and nodded at the pair beside him. They immediately walked to Milly Odum and roughly hauled her to her feet.
“What are you planning to do with her?” Priscilla asked. “Leave her alone!”
“Yeah!” Hickok stated. “What’s she to you?”
A scornful smile creased Longat’s countenance. “Breakfast.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Blade felt strong hands clamp on his shoulders as a heavy body struck him squarely in the chest, and the next instant he was flying from the saddle with the creature on top of him. He twisted to the right as he fell, hoping to dislodge his hairy attacker. They both crashed onto the rocky ground with a bone-jarring impact.
The thing snarled and lunged at the Warrior’s throat.
A repulsive image of hair and teeth and hate-filled eyes loomed inches from Blade’s face. Sharp nails bit into his neck, and before they could rip his throat apart he grabbed the creature’s wrists and strained, pulling its hands loose.
The booming of Achilles’ Bullpup reverberated in the stony defile.
Blade heaved, shoving the mutation from him, and swept to his feet. A hasty glance showed three of the creatures converging on Achilles, but there was nothing he could do to assist the novice. The thing that had pounced on him was erect, and there were two others charging him, their clawed fingers extended to tear into him.
Damn.
He’d waltzed right into their trap.
Although the Henry was slung over his left arm and the Commando over his right, and even though he had the Pythons jammed under his belt. Blade’s hands flashed to the weapons he preferred the most, the knives he had wielded ever since he was old enough to hold them. The Bowies speared up and out just as the first creature leaped at him.
The mutation threw back its head and vented a strident screech as the blades sank to their hilts in its chest.
Blade wrenched the Bowies downward, slicing the creature open all the way to the abdomen. Then he wrenched the knives sideways, tugged them out, and spun.
Too late.
One of the Bear People closed in from either side. Each took hold of a brawny arm and held fast, apparently intending to capture the Warrior alive.
Blade whipped his body forward, causing the creatures to lose their balance, and quickly, savagely reversed direction. His tactic succeeded.
The two mutations lost their footing and stumbled, their grips slackening.
With a herculean effort, every muscle of his arms and shoulders bulging, Blade tore his arms from their grasp, causing the Henry to fall to the ground in the process.
His respite was short-lived.
The thing on the right swiped its claws at the giant’s eyes.
Ducking, Blade narrowly missed having his pupils punctured. He pivoted and lanced the Bowies into the creature’s exposed jugular, and he blinked when blood sprayed onto his forehead and cheeks. To nail the mutation on the right he’d been forced to turn his back on the one on the left, and now a grimy arm encircled his neck from the rear and squeezed.
Blade released the Bowies and tottered backwards as intense pressure, threatened to crush his trachea. He frantically drove his right elbow around in a tight arc and connected with the creature’s ribs, but the pressure only increased. He reached up, seized the arm squeezing him, and executed a flawless jujitsu throw, dropping onto his right knee and flipping the mutation onto the ground. The Commando clattered at his feet.
He had no time to grab it.
The creature he’d stabbed in the throat had pulled the knives free. A crimson spray gushing from his neck, the thing hissed, raised the Bowies overhead for a downward thrust, and sprang.
In a lightning insight. Blade perceived that he’d discovered the key to defeating his foes. They were fierce brutes who relied on their strength and speed; they knew nothing of the martial arts. To win, he had to take the offensive and employ every martial skill he knew. No sooner did the thought flicker through his mind than he placed his palms on the ground and performed a full circle sweep, his left leg rigid. He caught the creature behind the knees and the thing slammed onto its back.
But the other two were already up.
Blade straightened, staring in astonishment at the mutation he’d gutted. Intestines and gore were oozing from the cuts, and still the thing was coming at him.
What did it take to kill them?
The Warrior went for the weakest creature first, for the one with the intestines hanging out. He leaped into the air and delivered a spinning back kick. His foot struck the mutation in the head and bowled the creature over.
The third mutation charged as the giant landed.
Blade barely had time to react. The thing rammed him in the stomach and looped its arms around his waist, upending him, and he rolled with the momentum, falling onto his buttocks and arching his back while driving his left knee into the creature’s midriff. He succeeded in tossing his bestial adversary over his head, then rolled to the left and rose, drawing the Pythons.
So much for the martial arts.
The things could fight all day, if need be, even when severely injured.
He needed to end the battle, and end it now.
At point-blank range Blade shot the one creature he hadn
’t knifed in the head, then whirled and planted two slugs in the brain of the brute with the ravaged throat.
Leaving Gutsy.
Blade pointed both barrels at the mutation as it stood unsteadily.
“Don’t make me shoot,” he warned.
The thing glanced at the Warrior and grinned, a chilling gesture of defiance. “Screw you, human!”
For a moment Blade was stupefied. He’d never anticipated that the thing could Talk! Stunned, he was sluggish to respond when the creature roared and shuffled toward him. It almost reached him before he squeezed the trigger on the right Colt, intentionally aiming low.
Growling and lashing out with its tapered nails, the mutation collapsed when the slug tore through its left knee. It fell onto its left side, its inner organs still seeping from the gaping slashes.
“Drop the guns, human!”
Blade whirled at the command, the Pythons level in his hand.
Two of the three Bear People who had attacked Achilles were dead, their craniums blown to bits by the Bullpup. The Mossberg lay on the ground between the pair.
The third creature had its left arm encircling Achilles’ neck. In its right hand, the barrel touching the novice’s temple, was the Taurus. “I won’t tell you again!” the mutation snapped. “Just because we seldom use human weapons, don’t think I can’t use this.” He gouged the Taurus into Achilles.
“Now drop those damn guns or your friend is wolf bait.”
Blade hesitated. If he possessed Hickok’s skill, he’d be tempted to shoot the bear-man before it knew what happened. But his expertise, the skill to which he had devoted almost all of his life, lay in the consummate use of edged weapons. Frowning, he started to lower the Colts.
Achilles appeared to be in a bind. With the mutation holding him from behind, there didn’t seem to be much he could do. His left hand gripped the arm that held him. He could feel the Taurus digging into his skin, and he saw Blade reluctantly comply. His right hand disappeared under the folds of his red cloak.
“That’s it,” the creature said, watching the Pythons droop toward the ground. “Smart move, for a human.”
“What are you?” Blade asked, hoping to distract the mutation. He’d seen Achilles’ right hand vanish and he guessed what would happen next.
“My name is Nuprix. I belong to the Breed.”
“Strange name,” Blade commented, stalling, continuing to slowly lower the Pythons to the ground instead of simply dropping them.
The creature watched the Colts, concentrating on the revolvers to the exclusion of all else. “Most of the Breed stopped using typical human names decades ago.”
“Why’s that?”
“Just put those damn guns down and shut up!” Nuprix barked.
Blade squatted and eased the revolvers to within six inches of the dirt.
He surmised that Achilles would make a move soon, that the novice hadn’t budged a muscle to give the mutation the false impression of having given up. His conjecture proved accurate.
The Amazon suddenly flashed out from under the red cloak as Achilles swept the big knife up and angled the gleaming blade straight back above his head. The tip sliced into the creature’s right cheek, then penetrated its right eye, puncturing the orb and sinking deep.
Nuprix bellowed and staggered to the left, releasing Achilles and tearing loose from the imbedded knife. The mutation clutched at its ruined eye, then howled and pointed the Taurus at the blond man.
Blade elevated the Pythons and snapped off two hasty shots. The bullets hit Nuprix in the chest and rocked the creature on its heels. Quickly Blade aimed carefully, sighting on the thing’s forehead, and squeezed both triggers.
Straightening, Blade glanced at Achilles. “Nice move. I couldn’t have done better myself.”
“Thanks,” Achilles responded, and glanced past the head Warrior.
“Look out!”
Blade whirled, astounded to discover the last mutation three feet away, persistently striving to reach him with its nails. Despite being shot in the left knee, and despite the fact its intestines were dangling from its ruptured abdomen, the thing had risen on its right leg and was shuffling forward. “Stop!” Blade commanded.
The creature snarled and lunged.
Taking a stride backwards to evade the mutation’s nails. Blade pointed the left Python at the mutation’s right knee and fired.
Again the bearish figure crumpled, gritting its teeth against the pain, and glared up at the giant. “Finish me!”
“Not yet,” Blade said.
The creature motioned at its split abdominal wall. “Damn you, human!
Look at me! Do the honorable deed and finish me off!”
“What would you know about honor?”
“Up yours.”
Blade cautiously skirted the mutation, tucked the Colts under his belt once more, and swiftly reclaimed his Bowies, wiping the blades clean on his fatigue pants. He returned to the creature. “So you want me to put you out of your misery?”
“That’s the general idea, bastard.”
“I’ll do it if you’ll answer a few questions.”
“Get stuffed,” the thing said, and grunted in agony.
“Suit yourself, stupid,” Blade said, baiting the Breed.
Achilles came over, the Amazon back in its sheath, the Bullpup in his hands.
A groan issued from the mutation’s lips and it doubled over, racked by torment.
“If you want to suffer, that’s fine with me,” Blade said. “But what harm could a few questions do?”
The thing glanced up, crimson spittle flecking its mouth. “What do you want to know?”
“What’s your name?”
“Yeddt.”
“Why did you attack us?”
“Longat gave us orders to watch our back trail, and to capture any scuzzy humans who showed up.”
“Longat is the leader of the Breed?”
“Yes,” Yeddt stated. He closed his eyes and inhaled raggedly.
Blade squatted, his Bowies held at the ready. “Tell me about the Breed. Why do you call yourself by that name? Where are you from?”
Yeddt said nothing.
“Come on,” Blade prompted. “If you want to linger in misery for hours, that’s your business. I’ll only finish you if you cooperate.” He paused, striving to come up with a persuasive argument. “I certainly couldn’t use any information you supply against your people, could I?”
The mutation opened its eyes and stared at the Warrior. “No, I guess not.”
“Then answer my questions and end your torture.”
Yeddt licked his lips and coughed. “I don’t have much choice. All right.
But I won’t tell you the exact location of our base of operations no matter what.”
“Fair enough.”
“It all started about a decade after the war,” Yeddt revealed, speaking softly, blood trickling from the right corner of his mouth. “During World War Three a bunch of survivalists hid out in the mountains, in a secluded valley where there was plenty of game and a large lake. The survivalists built cabins and lived off the land, and they stayed there after the war was over because there was nothing to return to.”
Blade listened attentively, breathing shallowly, almost nauseated by the sickening odor arising from the mutation’s intestines and abdominal cavity.
“About ten years after the war the changes started,” Yeddt said, and coughed again.
“Changes?”
“Yeah. The survivalists began to change, to become hairier and heavier.
And their babies were even more different. No one could figure out what was going on. They thought the radiation might be to blame,” Yeddt related, then trembled briefly. “Later they found the canisters.”
“What canisters?” Blade probed.
“About a dozen metal canisters were found in the lake. Biological-warfare canisters.”
Blade stiffened. “How did the canisters get in the lake?”
/> “No one could figure that out, either, until the hermit told them about the plane.”
“Who was this hermit?”
“An old geezer who lived all by himself way up in the mountains. He came down to trade with the survivalists every now and then, and he told them about this plane that had been flying real low over the mountains one night a month after the war started. He’d seen this plane, a bomber he thought it was, circling as if looking for a place to land. Smoke was coming from one of its engines. The bomber went over a ridge to the west and never came back, and the old man didn’t think much of it,” Yeddt said. “A few days later, the survivalists showed up.”
Blade mentally filled in the missing pieces of the puzzle. The bomber must have been carrying biological weapons and either taken a hit or developed engine trouble. Too far from the nearest base, and probably losing altitude, the pilot undoubtedly decided to ditch the aircraft. But before taking the bomber down, the crew apparently opted to dump their load of biological weapons somewhere relatively safe, away from inhabited settlements. And what would have been safer, in their point of view, than an isolated lake in a remote valley? So they’d released the canisters into the water and later crashed. Maybe every crew member was killed. In any event, no one ever returned for the canisters.
A few days later the survivalists moved into the valley and used the lake as their source of drinking and bathing water. Unknown to them, some of the canisters had sprung leaks and contaminated the lake with biological toxins. So after a decade of consuming the tainted water, after the chemicals permeated their systems and warped their glands, the survivalists began to change into something other than human. The poor, vulnerable embryos in their mothers’ wombs were especially susceptible to the gene-altering effects of the compounds.
Dear Spirit!
What a horrid fate!
“Eventually everyone became as you are,” Blade stated. “A bearish mutation.”
Yeddt nodded.
“Why didn’t the survivalists just move out of the valley? They might have been able to reverse the effects.”
“Some tried. But when they left the valley, they were killed by people who feared them for no other reason than their appearance. The rest realized they could never leave. They weren’t about to abandon the children already born. And they couldn’t mingle with their former fellow humans. So they stayed and multiplied.”
Yellowstone Run Page 14
