A moment later Bear joined him. He pulled the Winchester from his belt and checked to see if a round was in the chamber. “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be,” he told Hickok. “Which ain’t sayin’ much.”
The hallway was carpeted and both walls were covered with wood paneling, some of the panels broken or cracked or missing altogether.
Torches hung in special brackets on the walls.
“Which room is Maggot in?” Hickok inquired.
Bear waved him to their right, to a closed door ten feet away.
“This is it,” Bear remarked. “The eating room.”
Hickok gently twisted the knob and quietly opened the door a foot. He peered around the jamb.
The meal was still in full swing. A table large enough for a dozen diners was in the center of the lavishly decorated chamber. Maggot, like a plump, ponderous hyena presiding over a flock of vultures, sat at the far end of the table on a chair higher than any other. His cheeks and jowls were coated with food and grease. He was smiling as he scooped mouthful after mouthful from a large bowl, using a white ladle, gulping the chunks of food without bothering to chew. Ten other men also sat at the table.
Hickok noted several items of interest. Rat was sitting immediately to the left of Maggot. All of the men were armed, but they had leaned their rifles against the wall behind their respective chairs, and out of their reach. Some of them would be packing handguns, but he wouldn’t know which ones for sure until they drew. He did know Rat had the Taurus on his left hip. His eyes lit up when he spotted his Pythons and the Henry, all three on top of the table within Maggot’s easy grasp. He eased out to the corridor.
“Are they still in there?” Bear whispered.
Hickok nodded.
“So how do we play this?” Bear inquired.
“You give me your Winchester and take off,” Hickok answered.
“Do what?”
“Just give me your gun and get out of here.”
“I thought you wanted my help,” Bear, taken by surprise by this unforeseen development, noted.
“I did,” Hickok concurred. “But I’ve changed my mind. I’m going in there alone.”
“Why?” Bear quizzed. “I don’t understand.”
Hickok drew Bear away from the door. “Listen, friend.” He placed his left hand on Bear’s broad shoulders. “One of us needs to stay alive. There’s a chance we’d both be blown away if we barged into that room.”
“I ain’t lettin’ you go in there alone,” Bear affirmed.
“I’ve got to.”
“No way, Hickok.” Bear vigorously shook his head. “I ain’t runnin’ this time. I’m stickin’ by you!”
“Don’t do it for me. Do it for Bertha.”
“What?”
“Didn’t you tell me you and Bertha are friends?”
Bear nodded.
“Good. Then get back to where they found me. That’s where I saw her, and my other friends, in that area. If something happens to me, I can go out easier knowing you’ll be searching for them and helping them if you find them. Their names are Blade, Geronimo, and Joshua. You’ll know them easy enough. They’re as crazy as you say I am.”
“Was Bertha still alive last you saw her?” Bear asked, his tone tinged with unconcealed concern.
Hickok noticed, his brow creasing. What did this mean? Was Bear more than a friend to Bertha?
“Was she?” Bear gripped Hickok’s left arm. “I got to know!”
“She was well when I saw her last,” Hickok slowly acknowledged.
Bear breathed an audible sigh of relief.
“I get the impression you like her a lot,” Hickok casually offered.
“I guess I do,” Bear confessed. “More than I been willing to tell anyone, even her. I’ve decided to ask her to be mine.”
Hickok turned away, pretending to watch the door. “Well,” he said softly, “I reckon life is plumb full of little surprises.”
“What do you mean?”
Hickok faced Bear, a devil-may-care smile on his lips. “I mean, pard, it’s more important than ever that you stay alive and find Bertha.”
“And you?”
“I got a score to settle with Maggot.” Hickok took the Winchester from Bear. “You wait at the end of the hall. If I ain’t the one who comes out of this room after all the shooting is done, hightail your butt out of here and go find Bertha and my pards.”
“I don’t know…” Bear said reluctantly.
Hickok gazed into Bear’s eyes. “Go, Bear, now.” His voice was low and hard.
Bear started to shuffle away. “Is something wrong?”
“What could be wrong?” Hickok walked to the door, his back to Bear.
“Get the hell out of here. Now!”
Bear went, unwillingly, confused by Hickok’s abrupt change.
Hickok held the C.O.P. in his left hand and raised the Winchester.
Good! He could use his thumb and forefinger to grip the rifle barrel and still hold onto the palm gun with his other three fingers. The Winchester contained six shots in its tubular magazine, the C.O.P. four. As a backup, he had his Mitchell’s Derringer on his right wrist.
Time to even the score!
He stared at the door, seeing Bertha’s face. What was Bear to her?
She’d never even mentioned him. Why not? If Bear liked her so much, she had to be aware of his feelings. Maybe Bear was the real reason she had been so dead set against coming back to the Twin Cities? Maybe she felt guilt because she found herself liking both men, one of whom came from a completely different background and culture. What chance did they have?
Realistically speaking? They were as different as night and day. Literally.
How would the Family react if Bertha and he become involved? What would they say? Since when had he cared what anyone else thought? He shook his head, his blond hair swirling. Enough of this morbid reflection!
Hickok grinned, recalling a statement he’d made to Blade and Geronimo after they’d killed a mutated bear. “I’d rather die in a fight, with my guns in my hands.” Wasn’t that what he’d said?
Well, now was as good a time as any!
That was when the door opened.
Chapter Twenty-One
The second blow from the tail knocked Geronimo into the putrid pond, the water filling his mouth. He rose to the surface as the creature spun on him, coughing, shaking his head to clear his vision. He grabbed his tomahawks and braced his legs, waiting, his mind racing, trying to identify his attacker.
The beast was at least six feet long, half of it tail. It had four clawed feet, but its main arsenal was the mouth, filled with those razor teeth, some of which protruded from the sides of its jaw.
Geronimo thoroughly enjoyed nature books. He’d, read all of the Family books on wildlife, and as the reptile bore down on him, he called to mind two possibilities. An alligator or a crocodile. He didn’t know which this was, and the name didn’t matter. What counted was the method of dispatching the thing. If his memory served, alligators and crocodiles were tough to kill, tenacious and savage when aroused. And this one was definitely aroused!
The creature was within biting range, the mouth open and targeted on Geronimo.
Geronimo sidestepped, his movements sluggish and slow because of the water. He slashed with his right tomahawk, the edge biting into the side of the reptile’s mouth, drawing blood, but causing only a minor wound. He swung his left tomahawk, the blade connecting on top of the creature, above the eyes. The blow stunned the reptile, but the tough skin deflected the blade.
The reptile submerged.
Geronimo twisted and turned, the back of his neck tingling. He couldn’t see into the water! The thing could grab him by the leg, pull him under, and drown him! He glanced at the ladder, thirty yards distant, his one hope!
Something brushed against his right leg.
He swam, still grasping his prized tomahawks, his arms and sturdy legs churning the water.
Great Spirit,
preserve him!
Geronimo narrowed the distance to the ladder. Maybe the reptile would let him go. Maybe it had attacked him because he had pushed against it.
Did alligators or crocodiles eat humans?
The reptilian monstrosity swept out of the water, the head breaking the surface, the jaws clamping onto Geronimo’s left leg below the knee.
No!
Geronimo bent and imbedded his left tomahawk in the creature’s left eye, the blade buried deep, blood flowing from the gash and spreading, turning the murky water a rust-colored hue.
The reptile went under again, releasing its grip on Geronimo’s leg and wrenching the tomahawk from his hand.
Without hesitation, disregarding his hurt leg, Geronimo resumed swimming, his eyes fastened on the ladder.
He was getting close!
Geronimo mentally ticked off the feet remaining, expecting the beast to latch onto him again at any moment. He plowed through the piles of litter in his path, the filth clinging to his clothes and face.
Something nipped at his right foot, but was unable to get a hold on the pumping extremity.
Left arm, right arm. Left arm, right arm. Keep the legs thrashing. Left arm, right arm. He kept his rhythm steady and measured, knowing to panic now was to die.
Another reptile, a smaller version of the first, appeared to his right, lying in the water with its eyes and snout exposed. This one vanished as he drew near.
How many of the things were there? Did they ever attack in groups?
The rungs of the ladder were ten yards from his hands. Eight. Six.
Almost there!
Geronimo reached the metal rungs and gripped the lowest one with his left hand, slipping as he pulled himself up. He grabbed the ladder again and heaved, at the same instant the reptile was on him again, the jaws closing on his right foot.
Great Spirit!
Geronimo brutally brought the right tomahawk down, cutting into the reptile’s other eye.
The thing refused to release his right foot.
He swung again, the tomahawk digging a furrow between the eyes. His left hand, still wet, began to loose its hold, and he slipped in the water up to his waist.
Furious, blinded, the reptile freed his foot and sank, agitating the water with its death throes, the blood pouring from its injuries.
Geronimo hastily climbed the ladder, holding fast to the metal rungs, the sunlight hurting his eyes.
Squinting, he managed to reach the circular opening. He squeezed through and rolled to his left, gasping for air, exhausted.
He’d made it!
How long had he been underground? His eyes were stinging and watering like mad. He rested, happy, relishing the fresh air and the warmth from the sun. Never, in all his life, had the sun looked so good as it did now. It was surprising how many blessings you could take for granted.
The pounding of feet alerted him to the fact he wasn’t out of danger yet.
Geronimo sat up, finding himself in the middle of a street. Shabby, crumbling buildings lined both sides of the road. Two gutted automobiles were at the curb twenty feet away. An alley intersected the street about ten feet to his right.
The sound of someone running came from the alley.
Geronimo rose to his feet, a bit unsteady. He still had the Arminius in the shoulder holster under his right arm.
Whoever was coming down the alley was making a lot of racket, knocking cans aside and breathing heavily.
Geronimo slipped his solitary tomahawk under his belt and drew the Arminius, the revolver soaking wet. His left leg and right foot were torn and bleeding. They would require attention as soon as he tended to his new business. He was sick and tired of being the victim, of being set upon again and again and again. This time, it would be different. He’d do the attacking for a change of pace!
Another trash can toppled to the pavement.
Geronimo ran to the alley entrance and hid to one side, the Arminius in his left hand. He tensed, ready, estimating the distance, and when a blurred form hurtled from the mouth of the alley, he flicked his left leg out and tripped the newcomer.
“Damn!”
The runner crashed to the pavement, pinwheeling, the sunlight gleaming from bladed weapons.
Geronimo pointed the Arminius at the target, his finger tightening on the trigger.
They weren’t getting him this time!
Chapter Twenty-Two
The gory fiend was coming in his direction!
Blade reached the hospital entrance, the doorways choked with frantic Wacks, the crazies fighting amongst themselves in their frenzied fear for safety.
“Don’t panic!” Blade shouted. “We can all get inside if we don’t panic!”
The Wacks totally ignored him, tearing and pulling at one another, each one trying to be next through the doors.
“Calm down!”
A woman in front of him turned and spit in his face.
A man kicked him in the shins.
Blade glared at both of them, his lips compressed, his nostrils flaring.
Enraged, he backhanded the man and sent him reeling. He grabbed the woman by the front of her blouse and tossed her aside.
“Move!” he roared, plunging into the crowd, punching and kicking, dispersing those around him, pressing for the doors.
A lean man jumped him from behind and wrapped his skinny arms around Blade’s throat. Blade reached up, gripped the Wack by his black hair, and pulled, sweeping the loony over his shoulder and plowing his face into the pavement. Another crazy took a swing, but missed. Blade socked him in the gut, doubling the Wack over. He jammed his right knee into the man’s face, and the Wack dropped, clutching his shattered nose, blood covering his hands.
Fant roared, the breeze carrying the scent of the Wacks in front of the hospital directly to its sensitive olfactory organ. Fant slowed, observing the Wacks’ pandemonium.
Blade’s attention was arrested by a flash of light to his left. One of the Wacks was wearing the Bowies! He also had on Blade’s pants. The sunlight glistened from the handles and part of the blades as the long knives bounced in their scabbards. The Wack was engaged in fighting his way to the doors, and he hadn’t even remembered to employ the knives!
Blade clasped the man by the right wrist. “Hey, you!”
Snarling, the Wack spun on Blade and lunged at his face. Blade knocked the man’s hands down, formed his own right hand into a Tiger Claw, and gouged the Wack in the jugular. The kung fu blow crushed the Wack’s windpipe and he gagged and fell to his knees. Blade grabbed the man’s head in a steely grip and twisted, sharply, to the right. He heard the spine pop as the vertebra snapped in two.
Blade glanced over his shoulder, afraid Fant was on them.
One of the Wacks, a man braver or more foolish than the rest, had ran in front of the monster. He was jumping up and down and flapping his arms, shouting for Fant to stop.
Which it had. The creature was standing still, the eyes glaring at the prancing Wack.
The Wacks at the door were still wildly attempting to reach the interior of the building and safety.
Blade crouched and quickly stripped the dead Wack of his pants and the prized Bowies. He hastily checked the right front pocket, fearing the worst, but he was elated to discover the keys still there.
Fant had not moved.
Blade hastily slipped into his pants, relieved at being clothed again. He ran his fingers over the Bowie handles, caressing them, the knives snug in their sheaths against his hips. He felt whole once more. A part of him had returned.
A scream of terror sounded behind him.
Blade whirled, drawing his Bowies.
Fant had bowled the Wack over and stepped on his chest. The Wack sputtered and twitched as blood and froth spewed from his gaping mouth.
Blade tried to move the mob with reason one final time.
“Quit shoving! There’s room for all of us if we take our time!”
A fat man pivoted and aimed a club at Bl
ade’s face.
“Damn!”
Blade ducked under the blow, grinning, released from any obligation he might have entertained about not hurting these poor, pathetic, mentally deficient slobs, lunatics who could not be held accountable for their actions.
He gutted the fat man.
A woman shrieked.
Blade dove into the mass of crazies, swinging the Bowies with devastating effect, hacking arms and slashing throats and stabbing with reckless abandon.
Behind him, a sinister, eerie sibilation warned him that Fant was almost on them.
Only two men barred his entrance to the hospital. They were jammed in the doorway, wrestling, striving to be next to enter.
Blade couldn’t afford to waste any time. He plunged his knives into their vulnerable backs, one in each man, and shoved, driving them through the doorway and jerking the blades free. They toppled to the tiled floor, writhing, contorted.
The doors to the hospital had once incorporated glass panels, broken decades ago, leaving the metal strip casings attached to hinges, the frames tilting toward the ground.
Blade entered the gloomy interior of the hospital, stepping over the two Wacks, debating his next move. Was there a rear exit to the building?
Were there more crazies inside, lurking in the dark, ready to pounce on unsuspecting victims?
An uproar behind him drew his attention.
Fant had plowed into the crowd of Wacks in front of the hospital, scattering the ones able to flee, and pounding on those Blade had left lying on the tarmac. Within a matter of two minutes, Fant was the only creature still standing, the only thing still alive, outside the building entrance. Fant savagely mashed the last body into the pavement, the blood and flesh and bones forming a repulsive pile of mush. It gazed into the hospital, and for a moment Blade thought it might try to enter, although it would have a hard time getting through the doorway. Instead, Fant turned and began feeding on one of the bodies.
A bearded Wack suddenly sprang from the darkness, trying to tackle Blade. Blade sidestepped, backing away, wary, expecting others. The Wack scrambled to his feet, growling, and lunged. Blade brought both knives up and in, burying them in the Wack’s chest, holding the crazy at arm’s length until he stopped moving, and then dropped him. He turned, scanning for a way out, alert for more adversaries. There had to be more Wacks in the hospital. He just knew it.
Twin Cities Run Page 17