“Geronimo!” Hickok took a step toward him, then stopped. His hands flashed to the Pythons, the barrels glinting in the sunlight as they cleared leather. Heedless of his personal safety, he left the pool, deliberately walking toward the soldiers and the G.R.D.’s. His right Colt cracked, and a furry G.R.D. clutched at a hole where its left eye had been and tumbled to the ground. The left Colt bucked, and a trooper took a slug between the eyes.
A genetic deviate resembling a walking lion bounded up from the west.
Hickok whirled, both Pythons blasting, and the lion-man was flung backwards to crash to the turf.
A bullet creased the gunman’s right leg.
Hickok spotted a soldier sighting his M-16 for a second shot, and let him have a bullet in the brain for his efforts.
A monkey-like G.R.D. waving an axe rushed the gunfighter, gibbering crazily.
Hickok, a twisted smile on his face, let the creature get within three feet before he angled a slug into the G.R.D.’s mouth.
Something stung the gunman’s right forearm.
A pack of G.R.D.’s swarmed in from the west, at least ten of them working in concert.
Hickok spun, thumbing the hammers and squeezing the triggers on his Colts with a precision few men could equal. Three, four, five, six of the pack were down, contorted in their death throes, and he was leveling the Colts at a seventh when a hard object struck his right temple, stunning him, jolting his senses and causing him to drop to his knees.
The world was spinning.
Move! he mentally screamed.
Move or die!
He looked up, squinting, as a shadow fell over his face.
A genetic mutation with the canine features of a coyote towered above him, a metallic club grasped in its bony fingers and uplifted for the coup de grace.
What transpired next seemed more like a dream than reality.
Hickok was suddenly aware of a tremendous clamor, of a deafening, confusing din swelling in volume, of constant gunfire.
The G.R.D. with the club glanced to one side and its mouth gaped open in astonishment.
Hickok saw a gleaming sword appear as if from thin air, swooping from above, and the coyote literally lost his head as he was decapitated by the stroke. One second he was intact, and the next his head was flying off trailed by a crimson spray while his body swayed for a moment, then keeled over backwards.
Hickok’s senses were clearing. He became aware of a horde of horsemen filling the town square and engaging the soldiers and the G.R.D.’s in savage combat.
Another shadow obscured the sun.
It was a short, agile man dressed in black, astride a brown stallion, a bloody katana held in his right hand. He slid from the horse and landed beside the gunman.
“Are you okay?” he shouted over the racket.
Before Hickok could respond, a soldier with a bayonet affixed to the barrel of his M-16 tried to spear the man in black from the rear. The man twirled around, his katana a streaking blur, and the trooper’s head was split open from his forehead to his chin. He was dead before he hit the earth.
“Are you okay?” the man repeated. “It’s me, Rikki.”
Hickok rose to his feet. He was about to reply when a wave of vertigo engulfed him and everything went dark.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Blade halted a few feet inside the front door of the command post, puzzled.
The Doktor was nowhere in sight.
But that was impossible! He had only been a couple of yards ahead!
So where…?
The Warrior cautiously moved toward the first door to his left, the door to the communications room. He peered around the jamb, then froze.
The Doktor was serenely standing about three feet inside the doorway.
“Don’t be shy,” he said, and laughed.
Blade, wary of a trick, edged into the room. The Doktor didn’t appear to be armed. What was he up to now?
The Doktor’s left hand was hanging loosely at his side, but his right was curled into a fist. He chortled and unfurled his fingers. A silvery ball plummeted to the floor and split open upon impact, releasing a stream of odoriferous white smoke.
Blade recoiled in alarm, suspecting the smoke was a form of deadly gas.
The smoke formed a small cloud within the blink of an eye, completely enshrouding the Doktor.
How could the cloud be toxic if the Doktor was immersed in it?
Blade took a step toward the cloud. It must be a wily ruse of some sort.
Maybe there was a secret passage and the fiend was escaping under cover of the smoke.
The Doktor hurtled from the cloud and crashed into the unprepared Warrior, sending him flying from the communications room to slam against the far side of the hallway.
Blade’s chest was lanced by an acute spasm, but he ignored the agony and lashed out with his right leg, catching the Doktor on the left knee as he closed in.
There was a loud snap, and the Doktor nearly fell, but he recovered and lunged, his immensely strong fingers encircling the Warrior’s throat.
Blade grabbed the madman’s wrists and tried to pry the fingers from his neck.
“I’ve got you now!” the Doktor hissed, gloating.
Amazed by the Doktor’s display of physical force, Blade released the wrists. He drew back his right hand and, his index finger extended and rigid, drove the stiff digit into the Doktor’s left eye.
The Doktor howled and backed away down the hallway, his left hand shielding his injured organ.
Blade leaped, his arms clasping the Doktor around the waist and bearing him to the floor.
The Doktor’s right hand disappeared in a fold of his flowing cloak, emerging a second later with a small hypodermic syringe. A tiny red plastic tip covered the tip of the needle. With a flick of one finger, the Doktor removed the tip and stabbed the point at the Warrior’s left shoulder.
Blade detected the ploy out of the corner of his eye, twisting his body to avoid the syringe and rolling to his feet.
The Doktor did likewise, the needle held at chest height. His left eye was open but watering, a line of moisture flowing across his left cheek to his chin.
Blade assumed the horse stance and waited for the Doktor to make his move.
Instead, the demented scientist grinned. “You should see your face!” he exclaimed. “Judging by your expression, your hate for me is unbounded.”
Blade, his gaze on the syringe, refused to comment. Talking in the midst of hand-to-hand combat was ridiculous. Total concentration was required in life-or-death situations, and only someone as unhinged as the Doktor would babble inanely while so occupied.
“Why are you amusing yourself at my expense?” the Doktor asked. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”
What was the psychopath talking about? Blade didn’t reply. He waited for that syringe to move.
“Why else haven’t you used your knives?” the Doktor calmly inquired.
Despite his reservations. Blade found himself mulling the question.
Why hadn’t he resorted to the Bowies? Because he wanted to beat the Doktor with his bare fists? Or because he had forgotten about them in the heat of battle, which was utterly unlike him?
“Go ahead,” the Doktor said. “Draw your knives. I won’t go anywhere.”
Blade was thoroughly confused. What was up the Doktor’s sleeve? This was insane! There had to he an ulterior motive.
“Tell you what I’ll do,” the Doktor stated. “I’ll make it easy on you.” So saying, he tossed the hypodermic syringe to the floor.
Blade was stunned by the action. It was impossible to predict what a murderous lunatic like the Doktor would do next. Why did he throw away the syringe?
The Doktor, smiling, extended his arms, palms up, toward the perplexed Warrior. “See? There’s nothing to be afraid of. Use your knives and finish it. I’m tired of living.”
Unnerved, Blade debated the wisest move. They were at a stalemate; there was no way the Dok
tor could get past him to the door, and it appeared unlikely he could best his crafty adversary without a weapon.
“Go ahead,” the Doktor repeated, goading him. “What are you waiting for?”
Blade reached a decision. He was tired of these damn games! The Doktor was standing about two feet in front of him. All he had to do was whip out the Bowies and, as he had practiced so many times over the years, sweep the big knives up and out, flinging them point first into the Doktor’s torso.
“Well?” the Doktor baited him.
When it came to drawing his Bowies, Blade was almost as fast as Hickok was with his cherished Colts. His hands flew to the handles and the gleaming blades leaped clear of their scabbards. His arms began to swing upward and outward, the razor tips elevating. He was all set to release the handles and let the Bowies fly when the Doktor made his move.
The Doktor’s left hand dropped at a 90-degree angle to his forearm and a tiny metallic dart shot from under his sleeve trailing a thin wire behind it.
Blade believed the miniature dart was meant for him, so for the briefest fraction of a second he was relieved when the dart struck the blade on his right Bowie. But instead of striking the steel and being deflected to the floor, the dart stuck to the Bowie.
What transpired next was totally unforeseen.
Blade felt a terrific jolt of… something… lance up his right arm and course through his entire body. The shock to his system was staggering. It was as if he had been kicked in the chest by a bucking bronc. He was lifted from his feet and flung almost to the front door, crashing to the floor on his back and lying there with his breath caught in his throat. His limbs were trembling uncontrollably, although his mind seemed perfectly lucid.
The Doktor’s sneering visage came into view directly overhead. “You’re still alive? Remarkable. The shock would have terminated any ordinary man,” the Doktor said.
No matter how hard he tried. Blade couldn’t stop his body from quaking.
“Aren’t you the least bit curious about how I did it?” the Doktor inquired.
Blade’s feet abruptly ceased shaking.
The Doktor held up his left hand. It held the small dart and several coils of thin wire. “Do you see this? Do you know what it is? Law enforcement agencies once used a crude, cumbersome version of this device. I, of course, have improved on the original design and incorporated many advanced refinements.”
Blade’s legs stopped their shuddering.
The Doktor nodded at his left forearm. “There’s a tube under my sleeve. The dart is fired by means of a compressed gas cartridge.”
Blade felt his hips halt their vibrating.
“This insulated wire,” the Doktor explained, dangling the wire in Blade’s eyes, “runs up my sleeve and over my shoulder to a portable power pack strapped to the small of my back.”
Sensation returned to Blade’s arms and hands. He realized his right Bowie was gone, but he had retained his grip on the left knife.
“All I need do,” the Doktor was saying, “is move my hand a certain way and, presto! My target receives enough juice to kill a horse! Simplicity itself!”
Blade glared at the Doktor, his intense hatred welling up inside of him.
The man had assassinated his father and claimed to have murdered Joshua; he had caused untold hardship and suffering to the Family; he had used countless infants as fodder for his rejuvenation technique. Who knew the extent of his atrocities?
It was time for the Doktor to die.
His bulging muscles rippling, Blade surged upward, his left arm driving the Bowie up and in, planting the blade in the Doktor’s groin, imbedding the knife to the hilt.
The Doktor gasped and dropped the dart and wire. He uttered a feeble, rasping squeak and looked down at his ruined loins.
Blade gripped the Bowie in both hands and drove the keen blade upwards, slicing through the abdomen and reaching the ribs.
Whining, wimpering in abject fear at the prospect of his own demise, the Doktor managed to grab Blade’s wrists. “Please!” he pleaded, his eyes silently begging for his life. “Spare me!” he entreated the grim-faced Warrior.
Blood was pouring from the Doktor’s ruptured body, raining from his abdomen and spattering the floor with continual red drops. His intestines were seeping from their cavity, oozing slowly toward the concrete below.
“We can make a deal!” the Doktor cried in desperation. “We can make a deal!” A crimson rivulet suddenly spurted from the right corner of his mouth.
Blade allowed himself the luxury of having the last word. “A deal, Doktor? You want to bargain with me, a man who represents everything you loathe? Plato has told me a little about the contents of your journals. I know you don’t believe in the Spirit, Doktor. I know you think faith is for simpletons. You see humans as nothing more than animals. You consider love fit only for weaklings.” Blade paused.
The Doktor was breathing heavily and starting to sag.
“Well, I don’t, Doktor!” Blade stated, his voice hardening. “I was raised to appreciate love as the greatest of all strengths. I see all men and women as spiritual children, all part of one vast cosmic family. And I value my faith, Doktor. It’s the foundation of my life. And do you know what else?”
Blade growled. “I value wisdom, and my wisdom tells me you will never see reality as I see reality. You will always be as warped and perverted as you are now. You will always be a menace, Doktor. People like you think they have the right to reshape the world in their own wicked image. And you don’t!”
The Doktor’s chin was drooping.
“And so,” Blade said in conclusion, “there’s only one way to deal with people like you.” He tightened his hold on the Bowie. “And this is it!”
The Doktor’s head snapped up, his eyes locking on Blade’s.
Blade rammed the Bowie upward, angling the blade over the sternum and burying the knife in the Doktor’s neck below the chin. Warm blood flowed over his hands and arms and sprayed on his face.
With a protracted, labored wheezing sound the Doktor expired, his arms falling limply at his sides. He started to fall forward.
Blade wrenched his Bowie free and stood aside.
The Doktor toppled over like a giant tree plummeting to the ground in the forest, smacking onto the floor and making an odd squishing noise.
“I admire your style, bub,” someone said from the doorway.
Blade looked up.
Lynx was leaning on the jamb, his arms folded across his hairy chest.
His body was covered with red splotches. “I wanted the Doc for myself,” he remarked. “But I didn’t want to interrupt your work of art.” He chuckled, gazing at the form on the floor. “I couldn’t of done better, chuckles.”
“What’s happened?” Blade queried. “Where are the rest.”
“Come take a look,” Lynx responded.
Blade spotted his other Bowie on the floor near his feet. He scooped it up, wiped the knife he used to slay the Doktor on his pants, and slid both Bowies into their sheaths.
Lynx stood to one side as the Warrior strode past.
Blade stopped just outside the front door, surveying the scene before him.
The town square was packed. Bodies littered the ground, the majority of them G.R.D.’s or troopers. Cavalry riders were everywhere, tending to wounded comrades or mopping up, checking on the prone figures of their enemies to ascertain if any were still alive. A veritable stack of soldiers and genetic deviates was piled on the east side of the half-track.
Blade glanced up at the rear of the vehicle.
Bertha was slumped over the machine gun, her arms dangling in midair.
“Bertha!” Blade ran to the back of the halftrack and vaulted over the tailgate. He took her in his arms and examined her.
Blood was trickling from her right thigh and the wound on the left side of her head. There was an additional injury, a bullet hole in her shirt on the left side of her chest.
Blade pressed his right
ear to her bosom.
Thank the Spirit!
Bertha was breathing, but barely.
Blade scanned the crowd below and recognized Yama walking toward the half-track.
“Yama!” Blade shouted.
The man in blue immediately ran to the vehicle and climbed up to Blade’s side.
“Take care of her,” Blade ordered. “I’ll locate Kilrane and have him send over one of his men skilled in medicine.”
“I will tend her,” Yama promised, then added, “Rikki needs to see you at the fountain.”
Blade jumped from the half-track and headed for the fountain. The strain of the combat was beginning to be felt; his left side was a mass of torment, his right side along the ribs ached, and his body was feeling extremely fatigued.
The Cavalrymen readily parted for the crimson-coated apparition moving among them, many gaping at his barbarous appearance.
A cool breeze was blowing in from the northwest.
Somewhere nearby, a man was groaning in agony.
The fountain abruptly loomed directly ahead.
Blade stopped, shocked, forgetting his pain at the sight before him.
Rikki-Tikki-Tavi, Teucer, and Kilrane were standing near the fountain.
Lying on the ground at their feet were four bodies.
Blade ran the final yards.
Hickok, Geronimo, Rudabaugh, and Orson were each on their backs.
Before Rikki could say anything, Blade knelt alongside Hickok and placed his left ear on his chest. He detected a strong heartbeat, and a flood of relief washed over him.
Rikki squatted next to Blade. “He’ll live,” he stated, and pointed at a huge bruise on the gunman’s right temple. “I saw him get hit by a G.R.D.
with a club. He should be coming around soon.”
Blade turned to Geronimo. The third member of Alpha Triad was obviously alive, his chest rising and falling rhythmically. There was a bloody furrow parting the center of his hair.
“It’s deep,” Rikki said, “but he’ll be fine.” He looked at the remaining two forms. “I wish I could say the same about them.”
Blade went down the line.
Rudabaugh’s clothes were drenched. He had been shot three times, high in the back, between the shoulder blades. The bullets had exited on either side of his sternum, and two of them had made a sizeable hole above his heart. He was dead.
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