Dakota Run

by David Robbins

  Undeterred, Ox twirled and managed to grip Blade’s left wrist with his right hand.

  Blade immediately buried the Bowie in the hand holding him.

  Ox snarled and released Blade’s wrist, yanking his arm back and causing the knife to rip through half of his hand, tearing the flesh open from his knuckles to his wrist. Disregarding the injury. Ox swept his left leg up and caught the Warrior in the midsection,-doubling him over.

  “Blade!” Gremlin cried. He was trying to crawl to Blade’s assistance.

  Ox used his massive left fist and clubbed the Warrior to the ground.

  Ferret was finally recovered and on his feet. “Nice going,” he complimented Ox. “Now let’s get this over with. I want to get the hell out of here.”

  Gremlin, despite excruciating torment in both legs, endeavored to stand.

  “No problem,” Ox said. “This will only take a minute.” He walked over to Gremlin and kicked him in the head.

  Gremlin collapsed into a senseless heap.

  Ox flicked his thick tongue over his lips, tasting his own blood and relishing the flavor.

  “Get on with it,” Ferret snapped, disgusted.

  “Don’t worry,” Ox said, grinning. He bent over Gremlin, his mouth only inches from his victim’s exposed stomach. “This will be a piece of cake.”

  He opened wide, prepared to rip a large chunk of flesh from Gremlin’s abdomen.

  The new voice intruded on his concentration.

  “Did someone call my name?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Geronimo frantically backpedaled, putting distance between himself and the ant emerging from the pit wall. He aimed and fired, the ant shuddering at the impact of the heavy slug, but it kept coming, pushing through the wall. Geronimo shot again, and this time the insect slumped in the opening, motionless.

  Another ant appeared, shoving the first ant completely through the hole it had made. The dead ant tumbled down the crater wall and disappeared in the tunnel.

  Bull’s-eye! Geronimo grinned. He’d love to have that ant on his dart team!

  The second ant was perched at the lip of the new hole in the wall, its antennae waving wildly.

  Hold that pose, beautiful! Geronimo sighted and pulled the trigger, the big gun booming in his ears.

  The ant recoiled as it was torn by the slug. It rebounded and exited the hole, hastening down the slope, coming toward the human on the other wall.

  Toward Geronimo.

  It was too bad the Great Spirit didn’t provide mortals with wings, Geronimo mused, as his legs churned and he tried to run up the far side of the crater.

  No go.

  Murphy strikes again!

  Geronimo turned, aiming the Marlin.

  The ant was at the bottom of the pit, only ten yards away, about to begin its ascent.

  Geronimo held his breath, steadying the rifle, and pulled the trigger again.

  Nothing happened!

  What the…?

  Geronimo worked the lever, ejecting an empty shell from the chamber.

  The rifle was empty? But that was impossible! He’d kept track of his…

  Damn!

  He’d neglected to reload after shooting twice at that last ant inside the tunnel, the one trying to bulldoze past the bodies blocking the passage!

  Idiot!

  The latest threat was now five yards off, its jaws clicking together as they worked back and forth in anticipation.

  So much for the Marlin!

  Geronimo heaved the rifle at the ant, his throw true, the Marlin smacking the ant across the head and causing it to momentarily halt.

  Try eating that, sucker!

  Geronimo whirled, clawing at the earthen wall, pumping his legs, attempting to climb to the top of the crater.

  It was impossible!

  It was worse than running on wet, slippery grass.

  A premonition of impending danger compelled him to cast a glance over his left shoulder.

  The ant was stalking him again, only four yards away.

  Geronimo turned and flattened, drawing the Arminius. The Magnum was a powerful handgun against mortal foes, but how would it fare against this gigantic insect?

  Only one way to find out.

  Geronimo fired twice, to no noticeable affect.

  Uh-oh!

  The ant stopped, only two yards separating them, the insect towering over Geronimo and seeming to reach the clouds themselves. Its jaws never ceased working.

  Geronimo emptied the Arminius into the ant’s head, then quickly rolled aside, putting distance between them just in case.

  It was well he did.

  The ant uttered a peculiar high-pitched squeal, shuddered, and toppled over, sliding down the side of the crater. Its body came to rest near the tunnel.

  Geronimo replaced the Arminius in its holster, eyeing the tunnel and the hole in the opposite wall.

  No more ants in sight.

  Time to make tracks!

  Geronimo rose and started up the slope. There was no sign of Cynthia or Kilrane anywhere in the pit. Good! They must have escaped while the insects were occupied. His left foot slipped and he glanced down, righting himself, his attention diverted for the briefest instant.

  But it was enough.

  Something twittered directly in front of him, and Geronimo looked up, startled.

  An ant was at the top of the crater, directly in front of him. In a burst of speed, before the man could wheel and run, it slid over the edge and pounced. Its huge jaws closed around Geronimo’s waist and lifted him from the ground.

  Great Spirit, no!

  Geronimo struggled, his arms still free. He grabbed the tomahawk in his right hand, raised it over his head, and plunged the sharp blade into the ant’s left jaw.

  It was like hacking at a petrified tree.

  The curved mandibles were impenetrable, bone-like in substance.

  Geronimo decided to strike at the ant’s head. If his bullets could inflict fatal wounds in that area, his tomahawk might do likewise. He hesitated, wondering why the ant wasn’t crushing him to a pulp.

  The ant was simply standing there, holding him in its jaws, its tremendous head tilting from side to side, evidently examining the being it held.

  What was it waiting for?

  Geronimo checked his swing, confused. If the ant wasn’t intending to rend him to pieces, perhaps wisdom dictated he shouldn’t do anything to provoke it.

  But why?

  His thoughts raced, his mind seeking a logical explanation. Was this ant a worker instead of a soldier? Would that explain its behavior? Were worker ants natural killers like the soldiers, or was their function merely to build, dig, and forage? More to the point, how could you tell a worker from a soldier?

  Geronimo tensed, waiting for the ant to make a move.

  Any move.

  The jaws weren’t hurting him. Yet. But the slightest additional pressure could have lethal consequences.

  Come on! Geronimo wanted to scream.

  Do something!

  Anything!

  His skin was tingling, a reaction to the supremely uncomfortable feeling, the sensation of expectant imminent doom.

  The ant finally did do something.

  It unexpectedly moved toward the tunnel.

  No!

  Geronimo reared up and brought the tomahawk down, planting it as near to one of the eyes as he could. The blade penetrated the face next to the left eye, biting deep, creating a large gash oozing with a slimy, colorless liquid.

  The insect responded violently, jerking backwards, instinctively releasing the source of its anguish. The jaws opened and discarded their cargo.

  Geronimo dropped to his knees, overwhelmed with relief. He looked up at the underside of the ant’s head and swung the tomahawk again, ripping a two-foot tear in the insect.

  The ant twisted to one side, then attacked.

  Geronimo made a diving leap, landing in the dirt under the charging insect. He found himself on his lef
t side, lying under the soft abdomen, and he spun, swinging the tomahawk. A smelly, sticky mess spattered all over him as the ant passed overhead and turned, running toward the tunnel.

  He could take a hint!

  Geronimo leaped to his feet and did his utmost to reach the peak of the crater before another ant appeared.

  He failed.

  Two ants emerged simultaneously, one from the tunnel and the other from the new hole in the opposite wall. They converged at the bottom of the pit and made toward the struggling human near the top.

  Geronimo’s fingers were only a foot away from the edge of the crater, grasping for the rim, extending his arms until his shoulders hurt. His moccasins were slipping and sliding on the steep slope, unable to find adequate traction in the fine soil. In a desperate gambit for freedom, he lunged, hoping to grab hold of the top of the pit and haul himself over the top.

  He missed.

  For a paralyzing instant, he was suspended in midair, his body momentarily defying gravity. Then he plummeted like a stone, striking the ground and hurtling downward before he could arrest his momentum.

  Straight toward the ants.

  He tried to check his descent with his hands and feet, digging them into the earth, stinging his hands. A cloud of dust rose above him as he clutched at the pit wall, vainly endeavoring to stop before it was too late.

  The ants had stopped and were waiting near the bottom of the crater.

  Geronimo attempted to brake by ramming his tomahawk into the earth, using the handle to gouge a furrow in the dirt. His speed began to taper off.

  Would he make it?

  Twenty yards remained between the ants’ mandibles and his hurtling form.

  How would he stave off two ants, even if he did stop in time?

  Fifteen yards.

  His best bet would be to get under them and slash at their Achilles’ heel, their tender bellies.

  Ten yards.

  His fall was abruptly concluded as he collided with a boulder protruding above the surface of the soil. Totally unexpected, the violent impact jarred his entire body and almost knocked the breath from him.

  He struck the boulder with his chest, and an excruciating pain lanced through his left side. His senses swam; he wasn’t able to focus, to concentrate on the danger in front of him.

  One of the ants shuffled toward him.

  Geronimo could vaguely detect the approaching giant. He shook his head, wanting his balance to return.

  The ant was almost on him when it did.

  Geronimo glanced up, saw the jaws coming at him, and rolled to his right, out of harm’s way.

  The ant closed in, unhurried, seemingly overconfident in its ability.

  Geronimo rolled again, dodging a second swing of those huge jaws.

  The other ant started to circle below him.

  They were going to box him in!

  Geronimo hesitated, debating his next move. He’d never reach the rim of the crater, and more ants would be pouring from the tunnel any second.

  The odds of escaping were practically nonexistent. He grinned.

  If his dying time had arrived, if it was time for the journey to the mansions on the other side, he would show the Great Spirit how nobly and bravely a true son could go out.

  The ants were now in position, one on either side of their prey.

  Geronimo stood, hefting his tomahawk.

  Slowly, deliberately, the insects closed in.

  Geronimo looked from one to the other. It didn’t matter which one he went up against, now. He raised his eyes to the blue sky and vented his war whoop.

  Then he attacked, making for the first antagonist, determined to fight with his dying breath. He swept the tomahawk at the ant’s face, but the insect parried the blow with its mandibles. The hair on the nape of his neck rose. He could feel the other ant bearing down on him from the rear.

  Geronimo crouched and swung at one of the ant’s front legs. The tomahawk sliced in deep, and the ant uttered a strange cry and stepped back several steps.

  Geronimo whirled to confront the second ant, but as he did something hard smashed his head. He felt himself losing consciousness, and the next instant something pressed both of his arms together and he was lifted into the air.

  I tried my best, he thought, as the darkness closed in. The pity of it, the irony of his passing, was that no one would ever know. The Family, and especially Hickok, would always wonder if he were still alive. They might think he deserted them.

  What person in their right mind would desert those who loved them?

  And poor Hickok! Who would be around to babysit him from now on?

  Who would burp him…

  The night engulfed him.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Ferret pivoted, facing the newcomer.

  He stood at the edge of the clearing, his hands hanging loosely at his sides. His hair and moustache were blond. He wore buckskins and moccasins, and draped around his waist was a cartridge belt and two holsters containing pearl-handled revolvers, one on either hip. His blue eyes were focused on the fallen Warrior, a frown creasing his lips.

  Ferret recognized him from the dossier on the Family maintained by the Doktor. “The gunfighter!” he hissed.

  The gunman glanced up. “Did you say something, furball?”

  “I know who you are,” Ferret stated.

  “Then I reckon you know what I’m going to do,” the blond man said.

  “What you will try to do,” Ferret amended. He’d read about this particular Warrior, about his renowned reputation with those revolvers.

  The gun-fighter was supposed to be lightning with those guns, but Ferret doubted any man could be fast enough to counter their speed, their genetically conditioned swiftness.

  “Who are you?” Ox demanded.

  The Warrior glared at Ox. “You shouldn’t have done that to my pard,” he said harshly, nodding at Blade. “And I’m also kind of fond of that critter too.” He indicated Gremlin.

  “Then you can join them in my stomach!” Ox arrogantly snapped, annoyed this puny man was interfering with his meal.

  The gunman’s features changed, shifting and hardening.

  Ox looked at Ferret.

  Ferret nodded his head to the left, and Ox immediately began edging in that direction. His body tense, prepared for a leap. Ferret moved to the right.

  The gunfighter chuckled. “You boys ain’t none too subtle, are you?”

  “Ox is going to rip your head off!” Ox promised.

  The Warrior shook his head. “You’ve got it backwards, you walking pile of horse manure.”

  “Drop your guns!” Ferret ordered, still inching toward the gunman.

  The man laughed. “You’ve got to be kidding, runt.”

  Ferret bristled at the slur. Hickok was only four feet away, within range of his powerful leg muscles.

  “Any last requests?” the gunfighter asked.

  Ox bellowed and sprang at the Warrior.

  Over the years, Ferret had observed many men draw their guns. Some of these men were considered quick on the draw, but none of them had prepared him for the speed of this gunman. The man’s hands were a blur, his revolvers up and pointed in less than the blink of an eye.

  One of the revolvers fired, the left one, and the bullet slammed into Ox’s left shoulder.

  Ox twisted with the impact, and then whirled, laughing at the gunman.

  “You’ll have to do better than that!”

  “How’s this?” the Warrior queried, his right revolver booming.

  A small hole suddenly appeared in the center of Ox’s forehead; and the grass behind him was sprayed with drops of blood and brains. Ox’s eyes crossed as he futilely endeavored to see the source of the pain in his forehead. His mouth opened and closed several times, and his hands clenched and unclenched as he managed to take another step.

  Ferret, about to spring, found himself covered by the revolvers.

  “I wouldn’t, if I were you,” the Warrio
r advised.

  Ferret froze.

  “I shot your pard in the shoulder because I wanted to take him alive,” the gunman said. “He didn’t know enough to quit while he was behind. Do you?”

  Ferret glanced at Ox, still on his feet, weaving, about to fall.

  “Which one of you hurt my lady?” the gunfighter demanded.

  Ferret stared at those revolvers.

  “Answer me,” the Warrior warned.

  “I didn’t touch her!” Ferret replied.

  “Figured as much,” the gunman said, nodding. His right gun cracked and the bullet tore into the left nipple on Ox’s chest. “That’s for Blade,” the man announced. The revolver blasted again, and the right nipple vanished. “That’s for Gremlin.” Twice more he fired, and Ox’s eyes became empty sockets. “And that’s for my lady.” He twirled the right revolver into its holster and pointed the left handgun at Ferret’s head.

  Ox was slowly crumbling, ever so slowly falling to his knees. He swayed for a moment, then toppled onto his face, his massive body thudding as it struck the ground.

  “Now it’s your turn, shorty,” the Warrior stated. “If you so much as blink, I’ll perforate your face and add an additional nostril or two.”

  Ferret smiled. “I must hand it to you, Hickok,” he said in reluctant appreciation, “I’ve never seen anyone as fast as you. I thought we’d take you out, easy.”

  “The person or thing who finally takes me out,” Hickok predicted, “won’t find it easy.” He paused. “You know my name. And you’re as ugly as they come. So I reckon you’re from the same outfit Gremlin is from. You’re a G.R.D., right?”

  Ferret nodded.

  “Gremlin told us all about it,” Hickok revealed.

  Voices could be heard, not far off, drawing closer.

  “Must be tough wearing that brand,” Hickok said thoughtfully.

  “Brand?” Ferret repeated, puzzled.

  Hickok pointed at the collar. “Gremlin says you can’t ever take them off, that this Doktor controls you with them.”

  Ferret nodded, frowning. “We do what we’re told or we’re killed, electrocuted at the Doktor’s convenience. He monitors us using a satellite link. These collars also serve as transmitters, and their range is almost unlimited.”