Madman Run

by David Robbins

  "Try me," Geronimo bellowed, lifting the Winchester. Quick as he was, Grell was quicker, and a second swipe tumbled the Blackfoot head over heels to lie in a stunned heap.

  Blade felt his blood turn to ice. He gazed into those hellish red orbs and felt as if his life force was being sucked from his body. Fear—total, dominating, terrifying—rooted him in place. He wanted to shoot, but couldn't make his hands move.

  Grell snarled and lumbered toward the youth.

  A tidal wave of panic engulfed the youth. Never had he been so outright scared. His dearest friends were down, perhaps severely injured and needing his help, and yet he couldn't get his limbs to cooperate with his mind. He saw Grell's long white fangs exposed and Grell's right claw sweeping at his head, and he reacted automatically, spinning and running toward the safety of the doorway and the stairwell, his heart pounding, thinking only of escaping with his life. His spine tingled, and he shivered as he ran.

  Somewhere, Morlock laughed.

  The sound brought Blade up short in midstride, shocked at what he was about to do. He was fleeing, running away, being a coward. Worse, he was deserting his two best friends, leaving them to suffer a horrible fate at the hands of the madman or the mutation. Tremendous revulsion welled up within him, revulsion at his own behavior. He spun.

  Grell had halted and coldly regarded the youth.

  How could he be so base, so spineless? Blade asked himself. He'd let instinctive fear get the better of him, but fear could only maintain its grip if the person afraid allowed it to dominate their being. And he wasn't about to have fear override his personality, have it supplant his will. He was a man, damn it, a man endowed with the power of choice. He could choose to let instinct win, or he would exercise his free will to do what had to be done.

  At that moment, as he stood there confronting the monstrous, growling beast looming above him, he came to grips with his innermost being. His spiritual inheritance triumphed over his animal heritage and in the process forged a soul tempered in the adversity of supreme danger.

  Blade smiled.

  "Kill him, Grell!" came a shout from the darkness, and the creature stalked forward.

  Whipping the Martin up, Blade went to fire, then paused. No. He wouldn't take the easy way out. If he wanted to truly conquer fear, he must face it fully. The triumph must be total—spirit, mind and body. He threw the rifle to the roof and drew his Bowies.

  Grell lifted his massive arms and snarled hideously.

  Blade ran straight at the mutation and leaped into the air, his back arched, his hands overhead, the big Bowies held with the blades pointed downward. At the apex of his leap he was only a foot from Grell's head. He could almost feel those baleful red orbs boring into his brain and smelled the beast's fetid breath. For an instant panic tried to reassert control, until he gritted his teeth, tensed his steely sinews and swept both knives in a flashing arc, burying a Bowie in each crimson eye, sinking the sharp blades all the way to the hilts.

  Grell stiffened, roared and swung his arms, catching the youth a glancing blow that knocked him aside. He staggered backwards, clutching at the Bowies and snarling, and managed to yank both knives out.

  Blade gasped when his left side smacked into the hard stone roof, and he lay still for a few seconds, recovering, then pushed to his feet and dashed to where he'd thrown the rifle. He'd proven his courage to his satisfaction. There was nothing to be gained by further heroics. And without a weapon, slaying the monster would be impossible. He scooped up the Marlin and aimed at the thing's head.

  "Put down the gun."

  The youth froze at the gravelly command.

  "You heard me. Put down the gun, and do it real slow."

  Blade estimated Morlock was not more than ten feet to his left and slightly behind him, just out of the line of vision. He could try to nail the madman, but even if he hit Morlock the shotgun might go off, and at such close range it would blow him in half. Reluctantly, he lowered the Marlin.

  "Good. Now turn around, boy. I want to see your face when I kill you."

  Blade complied, his arms at his sides.

  A malicious grin curled Angus Morlock's lips. "At last I have you right where I want you. Any last words?"

  The youth refused to give the madman the satisfaction.

  "Very well. But I want you to know how much I hate you for what you've done. My daughter and my son, both dead. Poor little Grell, blinded for life. And why? All because I didn't have you slain right away instead of toying with you."

  The scraping of calloused soles on the stone surface made Blade twist his head slightly so he could see the mutation. Grell was shuffling toward him, those hairy hands pressed over his ruptured eyes, hissing like an enraged viper.

  Morlock glanced at his pet. "Look at him," he said morosely. "Look at what you've done."

  Blade shifted, saw that he stood directly between the pet and its master, and instantly took the initiative. "You bloodthirsty brute!" he shouted. "You deserve to die!"

  Grell lowered his arms, roared again and charged wildly in the direction of the youth's voice.

  "What are you doing?" Morlock exclaimed.

  In three great bounds the monster was almost upon Blade. He dived to the right and felt the creature's side brush his legs as it went past, glancing at the madman as he did.

  Angus Morlock comprehended the ruse too late. "No, Grell!" he yelled, but his pet paid no heed. He already had the shotgun leveled, and he fired into the mutation's chest. The explosive impact stopped Grell for just a moment, and then the beast's swinging hands fell on Morlock's shoulders.

  "No!" the madman screeched. "It's me, you dumb animal."

  Blade would never know whether Grell recognized the voice of his master. He saw those immense fingers wrap around Morlock's head even as Morlock struggled and bellowed frantically. He saw Grell wrench sharply to the right, then the left. And he heard the snap, loud and clear.

  A moment later yet another unfortunate victim crashed lifeless on top of the true beast of Castle Orm.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The youths watched the flames lick at the pile of four corpses located on the roof near the north battlement and gazed in silence at the black smoke curling into the bright morning sky.

  "It's fitting the Morlocks are being burned together," Geronimo commented thoughtfully.

  "How do you figure, pard?" Hickok asked.

  "Their destinies were intertwined from the start."

  The gunfighter chuckled. "If you say so. But you worry me."

  "I do?"

  "Yep. You're startin' to sound like the big guy."

  Sighing, Geronimo stared at their somber friend. "Are you all right?"

  "Fine."

  "You sure?"

  "Drop the subject."

  "What's with you?" Hickok asked. "You should be happy, not down in the dumps. We won, didn't we? We took care of these bozos so they'll never kill another innocent wanderer."

  "Did we win?" Blade inquired softly.

  "We're still alive, ain't we?"

  "And what about the serfs?"

  "What about 'em?"

  Blade glanced at the doorway, his features profoundly troubled. "What happened to their bodies?"

  "Who knows?" Hickok said and shrugged. "There must have been a few off playin' somewhere when we killed the rest, and while we were up on the roof they came and dragged the dead nymphs off."

  "We weren't up here long enough for all the bodies to be removed."

  "You don't know that for certain,." Hickok said. He stretched and crinkled his nose. "Boy, the Morlocks and that hairy critter aren't exactly roses, if you get my drift. Let's skedaddle. I want to get back to the Home."

  They turned and walked to the doorway, two of them deep in contemplation, the third grinning at the fitting conclusion of their adventure. At the doorway all three abruptly halted when they heard the sounds wafting up from far, far below, the sounds of giggling and tittering.

  Epilogue

&
nbsp; Plato closed the file and leaned back in the wooden chair, his brow creased, his blue eyes narrowed, and absently ran his right hand through his long gray beard. An unexpected knock on the cabin door curtailed his reflection. "Come in," he called out.

  The door swung inward to reveal a seven-foot giant wearing a black leather vest and green fatigue pants. Around his waist were strapped two Bowies. "Hi, Plato. Sorry to bother you."

  "Nonsense, Blade. How may I be of service?"

  The giant's eyes strayed to the Family Leader's lap. "The Chronicler told me you have a certain file I need."

  "This one?" Plato asked innocently, tapping the blue cover.

  "Yeah. Are you done with it?"

  "Sure am." Plato said, holding the file out. "Be my guest."

  "Thanks." Blade walked over and took it, his gaze lingering on the older man's face. "Any particular reason you were reading this one?"

  "No," Plato fibbed.

  Blade turned to go. "Well, I'll see you later."

  "How is Gabe doing?"

  The giant stopped and glanced at his mentor. "You heard, huh?"

  "I would imagine everyone in the Family knows the story by now."

  Blade frowned. "You're probably right."

  "No one blames him for what happened."

  "He blames himself."

  A kindly chuckle issued from Plato's lips. "When you're five years-old and you see a slavering, mutated black bear bearing down on you, your first reaction is to run. He has nothing to be ashamed of. Especially since, as I understand it, he only ran a dozen yards or so, then went back to get Tommy."

  "That's what happened," Blade confirmed. "Tommy was so scared he just stood there. They were both lucky that Ares heard Gabe screaming for Tommy to run and got there in time to kill the mutant."

  "So all's well that ends well."

  "Not quite. Gabe is upset because he ran in the first place. He thinks he's a coward and can never grow up to become a Warrior like me."

  "I take it a bedtime story is in order?"

  Blade nodded. "I'm hoping it will help."

  "If he's anything like his father—and I know he is— Gabe will recover quickly. We all do when we're that young."

  The giant smiled and stepped to the doorway. "Thanks again."

  "Say, Blade?"

  "Yes?"

  "Did anyone ever go back to Castle Orm?"

  "No."

  "One of these days we should go there."

  "One of these days."