The Doktor was concentrating on Thor, watching his “associate” struggle to resist the collar.
There would never be a better opportunity.
Lynx voiced a strange trilling sound as he launched himself from the cab of the half-track and sprang at the Doktor. His maneuver caught the Doktor unaware. He swung his right arm, knocking the control box from the Doktor’s hand, and lunged for the Doktor’s throat.
The madman was endowed with incredible reflexes. His right arm swept upward, the barrel of his 45 connecting with Lynx’s forehead and sending him sprawling.
Lynx tumbled to the earth, rolling with the blow, and bounded to his feet, his claws clenched, ready to pounce again.
The Doktor was pointing the 45 at Lynx’s head. “Before I conclude this fiasco, there is a question you will answer.”
“Eat dirt!” Lynx retorted.
“What have you done with the rest of the thermos?” the Doktor demanded.
Lynx did a double take before he understood: the Doktor must believe that Yama and he had stolen several of the thermonuclear devices when they fled the Citadel. Truth was, they hadn’t, but there was no reason to let the Doktor know. Lynx grinned. “I’ll never tell.”
The Doktor’s eyes narrowed. “I need those thermos! What did you do with them?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Lynx rejoined.
The Doktor frowned. “I really didn’t expect you to volunteer the information, but that’s all right. I’ve already deduced their location and have sent a force to retrieve them.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Lynx saw Thor stand and rub his bullish neck.
The Doktor caught the movement too. “Are you ready to do my bidding?” he asked Thor.
Thor nodded.
“Then kill Lynx!” the Doktor directed. “Now!”
Thor reclaimed his sledgehammer and moved around the front of the half-track. He looked at Lynx, his features softening. “I’m going to smash you to a pulp for getting the Doktor mad at me!” So saying, he raised the sledgehammer above his head.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The thump of Geronimo’s body on the balcony next to his own caused Hickok to glance to his right. He saw the bundle of dynamite, its fuse sparkling, drop from his friend’s hand. The gunman’s reaction was instantaneous; his right hand flicked out and grabbed the charge and heaved it up and out.
Hickok threw his own torso on top of Geronimo’s, sheltering him—and none too soon.
The dynamite went off, shattering the windows in the house, cracking its foundation, obliterating the soldiers and the G.R.D.’s below, and ripping the balcony from its supports.
His eardrums stinging from the blast and the subsequent concussion, Hickok felt the balcony give way and plummet toward the turf. The floor of the balcony was still intact, and it absorbed the brunt of the brutal impact when they smacked onto the ground.
Both of the Warriors were bounced and jostled by the severe collision.
A cloud of dust was filling the air.
Hickok shook his head to clear his stunned senses. He gripped Geronimo’s shirt and hauled him over onto his back.
Geronimo’s left shoulder was all bloody, his eyes closed.
“Pard! Pard!” Hickok shouted in alarm. “Don’t die on me!” He slapped Geronimo’s right cheek. “Please don’t die!”
Geronimo’s eyes flicked open and a devilish grin creased his mouth.
“Why, Hickok, I didn’t know you cared!”
The gunman leaped to his feet. “You lousy Injun! I should of known you were faking it!”
Geronimo chuckled, despite his agony. “Wait until I tell Blade! The great Hickok got all misty because I suffered a little scratch!”
“Misty my butt!” Hickok leaned over and yanked Geronimo to his feet, careful not to aggravate the wound in his left shoulder. “I just didn’t want to have to tell your wife you got yourself killed because you can’t even throw a few sticks of dynamite without getting yourself shot!”
“And you could have done better?” Geronimo asked.
Hickok bent down and picked up the Henry and the FNC. “In my sleep,” he said when he straightened up.
Geronimo suddenly pressed his left arm against his side and winced.
“How bad is it, pard?” Hickok inquired.
“The collarbone may be broken,” Geronimo speculated.
“Here.” Hickok placed his left arm under Geronimo’s right armpit.
“Lean on me.”
They started to walk around the ruined house.
“Let me carry one of the guns,” Geronimo offered.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Hickok countered.
They could distinctly hear the din of gunfire and explosions coming from the north, and more shooting off in the east.
“I hope we get there before the party is over,” Hickok commented.
Geronimo glanced over his left shoulder, the movement eliciting a sharp twinge.
No one was behind them.
They hurried as rapidly as possible, given Geronimo’s condition.
“I hope Rikki doesn’t wait too much longer,” Geronimo mentioned at one point.
“Relax,” Hickok said. “Rikki won’t let anything happen to us.”
Geronimo nodded at his injured shoulder. “Oh? What do you call this?”
Hickok made a show of rolling his eyes. “Brother! If you’re gonna whine every time you get a teensy-weensy scratch—”
“Teensy-weensy?” Geronimo bristled. “If you were shot instead of me, you’d be screaming for your mommy right about now.”
“Is that a fact?”
“It certainly is,” Geronimo stated. “Only my superior Indian heritage enables me to bear up as nobly as I am.”
Hickok grimaced. “Only your superior Indian heritage makes you such a natural-born bull-shitter!”
“It takes one to know one,” was all Geronimo could think of to say in response.
They hastened in silence. The noise of conflict to the north had abated.
“We only have a block to go,” Geronimo announced after a few more minutes.
Both of them heard the voice call out, “Hickok!”
They stopped and glanced to the north.
Orson and Rudabaugh were coming toward them, supporting one another. Both appeared to be pretty shot up.
“Glad we found you,” Orson said as they approached, his relief reflected on his face.
“They’re after us,” Rudabaugh stated.
“How many?” Hickok asked.
“Too many,” Rudabaugh replied.
Geronimo twisted his head, scanning to their rear. “It looks like we have some company too.”
Hickok glanced back.
Another wave of troopers and genetic deviates was headed toward them, the leading figures perhaps a hundred yards off.
“The Doktor is sending them in waves,” Hickok conjectured.
“We’ve got to reach the town square,” Rudabaugh declared.
“Let’s go,” Hickok said, and led the way.
They were nearing the town square from the west, passing homes and a few scattered businesses. Ahead was a house with a low stone wall paralleling the street.
“We’ll never make it to the command post before they catch up with us,” Hickok stated. “Let’s make a stand here.”
They clambered over the wall and dropped to the grass on the other side.
“If we can drive ’em back,” Hickok remarked, “we’ll make a run for the command post.” He gave the FNC to Geronimo.
All four of them checked their weapons.
“How do you think Blade is doing?” Orson questioned.
Geronimo scanned the town square. He could see the fountain in the middle and a military vehicle parked in front of the command post. What kind of vehicle was it? he wondered. And was it his imagination, or was there a commotion of some sort taking place on the other side of the vehicle?
“How many charges do we have le
ft?” Hickok queried them.
“I used up mine,” Rudabaugh answered.
“I have one left,” Orson said.
“I have one left too,” Geronimo noted.
“And I have both of mine,” Hickok stated. “Four charges and there are four of us. Get them out.”
Orson, Geronimo, and Hickok extracted their remaining charges. The gunman gave one of his to Rudabaugh.
“Here’s the plan,” Hickok informed them. “We’ll wait until they’re almost on us, then toss the four charges all at once. The explosions should cover our tracks.”
“What then?” Orson inquired nervously.
“Make for the fountain,” Hickok advised. “From there, we’ll try and reach the command post. Blade should be there soon, if he isn’t already.”
Geronimo nudged his friend and pointed at the command post. “What is that?”
Hickok studied the military vehicle. “I think it’s called a half-track,” he guessed. “Didn’t we have pictures of them in one of the books in the library?”
Geronimo, never one to miss his chance, grinned. “You mean to tell us you can read?”
Orson was peering over the wall. “Here they come!” he declared.
Soldiers and G.R.D.’s were advancing from the north and the west.
“Get ready!” Hickok directed them. “Hold your charges out and I’ll light them for you.”
“Why should you light them?” Geronimo asked.
“Because I’m the only one with brains enough not to have gotten shot,” Hickok quipped. “How are you going to light it with one of your arms out of action?”
Orson extended the bundle in his left hand, while Rudabaugh and Geronimo used their right.
Hickok peeked above the wall.
The enemy skirmish line was only 15 yards away.
The gunman swiftly lit all four charges. As soon as the last one was lit, which was his own bundle, Hickok nodded and swung his right arm down and up.
Three other arms did the same.
All four men dropped to the ground and tensed.
When the explosions came, the very earth rumbled and shook. The stone wall swayed slightly, but held firm, and the invariable billowing cloud of dust permeated the sky overhead.
“Move it!” Hickok ordered. “I’ll cover you.” He slung his Henry over his left shoulder and drew his Colt Pythons.
Rudabaugh and Orson took off, Orson helping the Cavalryman as they made for the fountain.
Geronimo balked. “I’m not deserting you.”
“Get the blazes out of here!” Hickok yelled.
“I won’t leave without you,” Geronimo declared obstinately.
“Danged hardheaded Injun!” Hickok muttered. He stood, facing the street and the yards beyond, and spotted several figures rushing in the direction of the wall. The Pythons bucked as he fired, four times in speedy succession, and four vague forms toppled to the ground.
Geronimo was holding the FNC in his good arm.
Hickok backed away from the stone wall. “Let’s go.”
Geronimo turned and ran toward the fountain.
Hickok waited several seconds, to insure they had deterred their foes.
He whirled and sprinted after the others.
Orson and Rudabaugh were close to the fountain.
Geronimo was only a few yards ahead.
There was movement near the half-track, and Hickok’s blue eyes narrowed as he tried to see clearly through the swirling dust and refracted sunlight.
Someone was climbing up onto the rear of the vehicle.
The cloud of dust diminished as Hickok continued to race to the fountain, and as his mind registered the scene near the command post he ran even faster.
One of the Doktor’s freaks, a huge ape-like thing, had scaled the tailgate on the half-track and was swiveling a mounted machine gun in the direction of the fountain—in the direction of the four defenders!
Chapter Twenty-Five
Blade’s eyes blazed with an intense inner fury at being hemmed in by his antagonists.
“What are we gonna do?” Bertha cried.
“Stay close to me!” Blade ordered her. He darted from the room and into the hallway beyond.
Three troopers were just entering the back door.
Blade fired into them before they could bring their M-16s to bear, the Commando thundering in the narrow confines of the hallway.
All three soldiers were struck, their bodies dancing and flouncing and thrashing in uncontrollable spasms.
Blade ceased firing and brushed past their crumpled bodies. He burst through the rear doorway and found himself surrounded by four G.R.D.’s.
One of them, a furry monster with pink pupils, was directly in front of him. Blade rammed the barrel of the Commando into the thing’s stomach and pulled the trigger.
The deviate was almost cut in two by the slugs.
Blade pivoted, going for a scaly horror to his left, but the creature grabbed the Commando barrel and wrenched it aside. Blade released the gun and drew his right Bowie. His huge arm flashed up, then out, and the knife gleamed as it cleaved the air and imbedded itself in the thing’s chest.
The creature screeched and attempted to pull the Bowie from its body, but a geyser of blood erupted from its narrow lips and it fell to the pavement.
The third monstrosity leaped on the Warrior from behind and pinned his arms to his sides.
The fourth, in the act of diving at the Warrior, was hit in midair.
Bertha’s M-16 chattering from the doorway and puncturing holes in its body from its head to its feet.
Blade swept his head straight back, connecting with the nose of his foe and crushing the cartilage. The hairy arms securing him momentarily weakened, and Blade surged his massive biceps and triceps, exerting his prodigious strength, and broke free. He dove forward and Bertha gunned the thing down.
Blade scrambled to his Commando and scooped it into his arms. Two more G.R.D.’s were rushing up from the south. He cradled the Commando and pulled the trigger. Both G.R.D.’s were bowled over, spurting blood and flesh over the alley.
“Let’s get the hell out of here!” Bertha shouted.
Blade bent over the scaly deviate and extricated his Bowie from its chest. The knife made a slurping noise as it came loose. He wiped the gory blade on his left pants leg, then slid the Bowie into its sheath.
“Look!” Bertha yelled.
Soldiers and G.R.D.’s were pouring into the north end of the alley.
Blade and Bertha started running toward the south end, their speed impeded by Bertha’s injured right thigh.
Blade deliberately hung back, shielding Bertha. He abruptly spun and fired a few rounds at their pursuers, dropping a few and forcing the rest to duck for whatever scant cover was available.
Bertha reached the south end of the alley and took a right, and a second later Blade was on her heels.
“The town square?” Bertha asked.
Blade nodded.
Voices were heard all around them, as their adversaries closed in.
Blade and Bertha sprinted westward. A block and a half from the alley Blade spotted a row of metal trash cans lined up alongside the sidewalk.
Not much protection, but they would have to do!
Blade grabbed Bertha’s elbow and drew her from the sidewalk. They dodged behind the trash cans and dropped to their knees.
Dozens of their foes were in hot pursuit, maybe a block away.
“Hurry!” Blade directed her, his chest heaving from the strain. “One of your charges!”
They each removed a bundle of dynamite from their respective pillowcases.
Blade risked a quick peek over the trash cans.
“There they are!” the nearest trooper bellowed.
Blade nodded at Bertha, then lit his charge.
Bertha struck a match and ignited her fuse.
“On the count of three,” Blade told her.
Both fuses were sputtering and crackling.
“One…”
“They’re behind the trash cans!” someone bawled.
“Two…”
One of the approaching soldiers fired his M-16, and the trash cans pinged as the bullets hit.
“Three!” Blade cried.
Together, they popped up from behind the trash cans and threw their charges.
One of the troopers, faster than the rest, raised his M-16 to his shoulder and snapped off a shot.
Blade heard Bertha grunt as she was struck, but before he could turn to aid her the dynamite detonated. The tremendous concussion from the blast knocked Blade onto his broad back. He swiftly rose to his hands and knees.
Bertha was unconscious on the sidewalk beside him.
“Bertha!”
A cursory examination revealed a wound on the left side of her head. It didn’t appear to be deep, but you could never accurately judge a head injury without an extensive examination.
And there wasn’t time for that!
Coughing from the dust as much from the pain in his left side, Blade lifted Bertha into his brawny arms and jogged in the direction of the town square. This fiasco wasn’t going well at all. There was no way they could hold out until the end of the day. If Rikki and Kilrane didn’t show up soon, they might show up too late.
About 20 yards from the town square. Blade saw a house to his right with its front door wide open. The occupants must have evacuated in a hurry. He angled toward the door and cautiously entered the home.
“Is anybody here?” he called out.
No response.
Blade gently lowered Bertha to a sofa flanking a wall not ten feet from the door.
“Sleep tight,” he whispered. He wished he could say more: how very proud he was of her professionalism and courage, how he would be honored to sponsor her for Warrior status if she ever decided to formally join the Family, and how sorry he was her relationship with Hickok hadn’t worked out.
Circumstances dictated otherwise.
Blade exited the house, closing the front door behind him. He jogged toward the town square, his left side smarting.
What the—!
He saw the half-track parked in front of the command post. Three figures were near the vehicle. One of them was Lynx, and the diminutive feline was engaged in fighting an apish brute at least three feet taller than himself. Standing aloofly to one side, observing the struggle with a sneer on his lips, was a big man dressed in black, with a flowing black cape over his shoulders. His unruly hair was black, and he was holding a 45 in his right fist.
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