Yellowstone Run

by David Robbins

Attended by a muted crackling and a loud hissing, Old Faithful erupted, sending a silvery spray of steaming water high, high into the air.

  Attaining a height of 170 feet, the water then felt back to the earth in a wide circular area around the geyser, splattering silica in all directions.

  “Wow!” Achilles said.

  Blade watched the beautiful display in silence, thinking of the irony involved. Once this geyser had drawn spectators by the millions, and he remembered reading that scientists and geologists had been concerned Old Faithful might stop erupting, just like other famous geysers in Yellowstone. Evidently, many geysers simply died out, lost their Oomph, after a while. But here was Old Faithful, continuing to cascade water long after the millions of spectators had ceased to exist.

  The eruption lasted for several minutes. Then the hissing abruptly ended and the last of the spray dropped to the soil.

  “That was magnificent,” Achilles commented. “Do you mink Yellowstone Park will ever be reopened?”

  “Maybe one day the leaders of the Civilized Zone will get around to it, after the scavengers and the mutants and the raiders have all been exterminated.”

  Achilles sighed. “Then it will never reopen.”

  “Let’s get comfortable,” Blade suggested, and sank to his knees next to the bottom of the busted window, carefully avoiding the strewn glass.

  “In case I should forget, I want to thank you again for the opportunity you’ve given me,” Achilles remarked, unslinging the FNC and squatting alongside the giant.

  “You can repay me by staying alive.”

  “I’ll do my best, I want to live long enough to ask Priscilla to go back to the Home with us.”

  Blade glanced at the novice.

  “I know I couldn’t leave the Home, couldn’t desert the Family. If she feels the same way about me that I do about her, then she might agree.”

  “It’s worth a try,” Blade acknowledged.

  “Wouldn’t it be funny? I mean, I came along to acquire combat experience, yet I may be going back with a treasure more valuable than any other. What’s the thrill of combat compared to the genuine affection of a lovely woman?”

  “Yep. You definitely should become a poet.”

  “I don’t know the first thing about poetry, about putting words on paper.”

  “Plato once told me that poetry is the rhythm of the soul, not the rhyming of words.”

  Achilles chuckled. “I really must spend more time in Plato’s company from now on.”

  They settled down to wait, placing the spare weapons on the tile near their legs. Thirty minutes passed. An hour. Ravens, jays, and an occasional hawk winged through the sky. Squirrels scampered in the trees and chipmunks frolicked among the boulders. Twice mule deer crossed their field of vision, and once four fat elk appeared in the forest on the opposite side of Old Faithful.

  Blade savored the peace and quiet, knowing all too well what was coming. He double-checked the Commando, and wished he possessed ammo for the Henry and the Colts lying next to his right knee. His mind strayed, and he thought about his wife and son. Immersed in reflecting on the time he took them on a vacation to a small lake north of the Home and nearly got them all slain, he almost failed to register the movement off to his left, to the east of the store. He casually swung his head around and saw them.

  The Breed.

  The mutations were strung out in single file, advancing down the center of the highway, hiking from the east toward the geyser complex. One of them limped badly. Three others were carrying the bodies of dead comrades.

  Blade lowered his head below the sill and peeked over the edge, counting the creatures. He stopped halfway through his count when he spied Hickok, Geronimo, and Eagle Feather marching along with their wrists bound. They appeared to be extremely fatigued, and the Flathead’s expression was strangely dull, devoid of animation.

  “Where’s Priscilla?” Achilles inquired anxiously.

  “I don’t know,” Blade whispered.

  “Maybe she’s at the rear of the column.”

  The rest of the Breed came into view, but the Mormon woman wasn’t with them.

  “Dear Spirit!” Achilles breathed. “Where is she? What could have happened to her?”

  Blade’s lips compressed as he studied the mutations. They seemed to be tired too. Apparently the Breed had exerted themselves to reach the site swiftly. They drew nearer until they were directly in front of the store. He saw the creature in the lead, the tallest mutation, halt, turn, and bark orders. That must be Longat, he reasoned, and noticed that Longat held Geronimo’s tomahawk.

  Many of the Breed sat down on the spot. Others stretched or conversed.

  Hickok and Geronimo took a few steps to the side, inadvertently moving closer to the store, and began talking in hushed tones.

  “Maybe Priscilla escaped,” Achilles speculated. “Maybe she’s wandering around alone in the wilderness somewhere.”

  “Stop thinking about her.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You have to concentrate on the task at hand,” Blade instructed him. “You can’t afford to be distracted.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  Blade nodded and scrutinized the bear-men. His plan had worked to perfection. By discovering where the Breed were headed, he’d been able to get in front of the deviates. Now he could give them a taste of their own medicine. But how to do it without endangering Hickok and Geronimo?

  He needed a distraction. If the creatures could be diverted, it might be possible to get his fellow Warriors and the Flathead to safety. Exactly how to achieve the diversion puzzled him until he received an unexpected assist from Mother Nature.

  Old Faithful erupted again.

  Rumbling and hissing, the geyser spit its fountain of steaming water skyward…-.

  The Breed predictably shifted to observe the spectacle. Every creature watched the rare display in fascination, some gesturing and chattering excitedly.

  Blade rose higher, hoping Hickok and Geronimo would glance in his direction, but they both were glued to Old Faithful’s performance, their backs to the store. The dummies. There would never be a better opportunity. “Stay put and cover me,” he ordered, and darted out the front door.

  Now if only none of the creatures turned around!

  Blade raced toward his friends, constantly scanning the mutations, ready to fire if detected. He wanted to shout to get Hickok’s and Geronimo’s attention, but he’d also alert the Breed to his presence. Come on! he mentally shrieked. Look this way, you ding-a-lings!

  Both the gunman and the Blackfoot continued to stare at the geyser.

  Blade didn’t know whether to grin or become furious. If he made it through this mess alive, he vowed to give the two of them a good swift kick in the seat of their pants for not maintaining an unflagging vigilance.

  Then again, maybe he underestimated them.

  Both Warrior’s swiveled their heads, surveying the creatures, then each one took hold of Eagle Feather by an arm, pivoted, and took a stride in the direction of the store.

  They simultaneously beheld the giant and both displayed fleeting amazement.

  Blade halted ten yards from them, trained the Commando on the mutations, and motioned for them to hurry.

  Beaming inanely, Hickok practically dragged the Flathead after him.

  Geronimo kept pace, repeatedly glancing over his shoulder.

  Old Faithful spewed more and more water into the air.

  The Breed, still enthralled, watched.

  Seven yards separated Blade from his friends. Five yards. He caressed the Commando’s trigger, his whole body tense, certain the mutations would discover the stratagem at any moment.

  They did.

  One of the Breed happened to idly look back at the buildings.

  Astonishment lined his bestial features for all of a second, until he opened his mouth and bellowed at the top of his lungs.

  All of the mutations started to turn.

  Bl
ade dashed forward, letting his friends go past him. “Get inside!” he directed.

  “About time you showed up, slowpoke,” Hickok muttered, running toward the store where Achilles stood framed in the window.

  There was no time for Blade to reply. He clasped the Commando firmly and cut loose, sweeping the barrel from right to left, mowing the Breed down, knowing from experience how difficult they were to kill and going for the head, seeing over a dozen craniums burst as heavy slugs tore through their heads from front to rear.

  Voicing a commingled roar of rage and implacable animosity, the Breed charged the giant.

  Blade deliberately held his ground. Hickok and Geronimo would need precious time so they could be cut free by Achilles, then grab their guns and reload if necessary, time he intended to supply. He poured a withering fire into the mutations, raking them with a hail of lead, keeping his finger depressed, pouring out every shot in his 90-round magazine, firing and firing until the machine gun went empty.

  Fifteen of the creatures were prone on the asphalt or trying to rise, even though riddled with bullets. The rest surged in a frenzied wave at the Warrior.

  Blade went to grab a fresh magazine, but he realized he’d never be able to insert it and draw back the cocking handle before the mutations reached him. And retreating to the store was out of the question. They’d catch him before he covered five yards. Stuck in the open, with nowhere to take cover, he did the only thing he could; he dropped the Commando, drew his Bowies, and attacked the Breed.

  A few of the creatures stopped, taken aback by the sight of the lone giant rushing toward them. Their companions never slowed.

  A smile on his lips, Blade met them in a savage clash, whipping the Bowies in a glittering onslaught, slashing and hacking and stabbing in a wild abandon, his body always in motion, always slicing and cutting, spinning and whirling, because he knew if he slowed for an instant they would seize him and overpower him with their greater numbers. Nails dug into his arms, shoulders, and thighs, and he ignored the pain and the stinging sensations, focusing exclusively on slaying the creatures, his arms whirlwinds of razor-edged death, severing hands and tearing open throats and rending faces in a mad melee of elemental ferocity.

  Mutations fell right and left, their bloody forms dotting the tarmacadam.

  Suddenly the Breed parted, and Blade found himself face to face with their leader, Longat. The creature snarled and swung the tomahawk, and Blade parried the blow with his right Bowie. Again Longat swung, his powerful sinews driving the tomahawk in a blow that would have smashed through the defenses of any ordinary man. But Blade’s own bulging muscles were equal to the occasion, and he deflected the tomahawk. Again he warded off a swipe meant to cleave his skull, then again and again.

  The mutations saw their chance. With the giant occupied, they sought to encircle him and pounce on him from behind. One of them, skirting to the right, coiled his legs and was about to spring when a shot rang out. He collapsed in his tracks. The other creatures rotated in the direction of the report.

  Hickok, Geronimo, and Achilles sprinted from the store, bearing to the left, intending to lure the mass of tightly packed bear-men away from Blade, leery of firing for fear of hitting the head Warrior. They succeeded beyond their highest expectations.

  Every member of the Breed except for Longat ran toward the trio, growling and screeching, venting their wrath, eager to tear the humans limb from limb.

  Hickok smiled as he saw the creatures moving away from Blade. The Breed had enjoyed the advantage the last time he’d fought them. They’d jumped him in the dark, using the cloak of night to their advantage. But this time the situation was different. This time they were fighting in broad daylight. This time he could see his targets clearly. He pressed the Henry to his right shoulder and levered off every round, aiming at their heads, felling a foe with every shot. The instant the Henry was empty, he let the rifle fall and resorted to his Colts, his hands a blur as he gripped the pearl handles and cleared leather. He heard Geronimo and Achilles firing, and then he opened up with the Pythons, every shot dead center.

  Nearby, Achilles fought in a blind rage, the two words Geronimo had told him in the store resounding over and over in his mind. She’s dead!

  She’s dead.’ She’s dead! And these sons of bitches had killed her. He expended every round in the Bullpup, let go, and pulled the Taurus and the Amazon. A creature loomed in front of him and he shot it between the eyes, then spun to blast another mutation, Coldly, methodically, he shot one after another, slashing at those who tried to rake him with their nails, holding his own, dominated by his fury, killing, killing, killing.

  Only Geronimo had a breathing space. Fewer of the Breed came after him, and those who did he downed with the FNC.

  Lacking firearms, the creatures were unable to close effectively, and Geronimo regarded their deaths as a virtual slaughter. He glimpsed Blade and Longat locked in combat, and he wished he was the one fighting the leader. He wanted to repay the deviate for taking his tomahawk. A bear-man sprang at him from the right, and he pivoted, the FNC bucking, stitching a pattern of crimson holes across the mutation’s forehead. He turned and saw Blade slip on a puddle of blood.

  Longat leaped forward, the tomahawk upraised, his lips curled back to expose his pointed teeth, his eyes gleaming points of ferocity.

  Down on his right knee, Blade swept both knives upward to block the tomahawk. He could hear shooting, and he wanted to dispose of Longat quickly and aid his friends. To do so would require an unorthodox tactic, a move Longat wouldn’t be expecting. As his shoulders absorbed the impact from the tomahawk, in a flash he perceived a means of gaining the upper hand.

  Longat started to lift the tomahawk again.

  Now! Blade reversed the grip on the Bowies, angled the bloody blades downward, and lunged, spearing a knife into each of Longat’s feet, sinking both to the hilt.

  The leader of the Breed stiffened and uttered a gurgling scream, then recovered and tried to swing the tomahawk, his movements awkward because his feet were pinned to the asphalt.

  Blade was relentless. He straightened, his hands bunched into a single fist, and pounded the bear-man on the tip of the jaw, rocking Longat’s head backward and crunching the creature’s teeth together.

  Remorselessly, Blade struck with his fists in a flurry of battering punches, hitting Longat on the face, dazing the mutation. He thought of all the innocent lives the Breed had taken, all the people the mutations had eaten, and his visage acquired a stony cast. His huge fists rained on Longat.

  Rained and rained and rained.

  Longat’s nose was crushed, his lips battered to a pulp, and his cheeks split. He feebly attempted to employ the tomahawk, but a sledgehammer blow to his right eyebrow caused his arms to go limp and his body to sway.

  Gritting his teeth. Blade tightened his right hand into a rock-hard fist.

  He slowly drew his arm back as far as he would go, then paused. “This is for the human race,” he said, and swung with all of his might.

  The force of the impact lifted Longat from his feet, actually tore the Bowies out of the ground and sent the bear-man sailing for over six feet to crash onto the tarmacadam, a crumpled wreck.

  Blade abruptly became aware the firing had ceased and turned.

  Eight yards away were Hickok, Geronimo, and Achilles. All three were staring at him somberly. Each one was spattered with crimson. Nineteen bearish corpses lay about them.

  “Nice job,” Geronimo said, stepping toward the fallen leader. “I just hope you didn’t damage my tomahawk.”

  “Excuse me for living,” Blade retorted, scanning the battlefield, “Why don’t you mop up and make sure they’re all dead.”

  “Let me,” Achilles volunteered, hurrying forward, his features grim. “I owe them,” he added bitterly.

  “Priscilla?”

  Achilles frowned and shook his head.

  “I’m sorry,” Blade said, and looked at the normally loquacious gunfighter. “W
hat’s the matter? Nothing to say?”

  Hickok twirled the Colts into their holsters, grinned, and nodded at Longat. “I love it when you get ticked off.”

  EPILOGUE

  Blade found him standing on a small hill in the southeast corner of the Home. “So here you are. I’ve been looking all over for you.”

  Achilles turned slowly, his red cloak billowing in the stiff westerly wind, his countenance downcast. “Oh?”

  “I thought you’d like to hear the good news. The Elders have formally accepted you as a Warrior.”

  “That’s nice.”

  Blade studied the other man for a moment. “Don’t jump for joy or anything.”

  “Sorry,” Achilles said, and gazed off into the distance. “I keep thinking about her. The more I do, the more I realize how little I knew about her.”

  He paused. “And yet, I cared for her so much.”

  “I know,” Blade responded softly.

  “Have you had any word about Eagle Feather?”

  “Star says he’s recovering slowly but surely. He suffered a tremendous loss, and he’ll never be the same man he was before his loved ones were killed. But he’s picking up the pieces.”

  “That’s good,” Achilles commented, and took a deep breath. “I appreciate all the effort you went to on my behalf. The Elders must have given you a hard time.”

  “Not at all, once Hickok and Geronimo reported on your performance during the mission.”

  “They did that for me?”

  “Yep. They gave a glowing report. Your competence was never in question.”

  Achilles glanced at the giant. “Just my attitude.”

  “They know you’ve changed considerably since we got back a week ago.

  Everyone has noticed.”

  “So I’m not the pain in the ass I once was.”

  “You’re just not as high on yourself.”

  The new Warrior pursed his lips and stared at the moat 40 yards away.

  “So which Triad will I be in? Are you going to shuffle the Warriors around?”

  “No,” Blade answered. “You’ll be in Zulu Triad with Samson and Sherry. Samson is the head of your Triad and he’ll be responsible for most of your training. He’s one of the best. You’ll be in good hands.”