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What was that noise?
"Whoa there, Buck!" Larry Wagner called out, bringing his plow horse to a halt. He held the traces firmly in his calloused hands and gazed skyward, cocking his head and listening intently.
He could have sworn he heard something.
Puzzled, Larry surveyed the heavens. To the west the upper rim of the sun was visible above the horizon, and brilliant hues of red, orange, and pink contended with the gathering twilight for dominance. A dozen scattered clouds were drifting lazily from the northwest to the southeast. Several hundred yards away, off to the right, a flock of starlings winged their way on an easterly bearing.
Larry wiped his sweating brow with his right forearm and scanned the essentially flat countryside. To the north, on the other side of the barbed wire fence, was his herd, 58 head of some of the best beef in the Dakota Territory. The cattle were idly munching on the cool, green grass or standing contentedly while swishing at flies with their tails.
But there was nothing nearby, nothing to account for the noise.
How strange.
Shrugging, Larry resumed the plowing. He hoped to finish the field before nightfall and he still had a 20-foot strip to turn over. In a few days he wanted to harrow, and in a week or so he intended to plant his winter wheat. He glanced to the west at the white farmhouse that had been in his family for nearly nine generations, and he speculated, for the umpteenth time, on how easy his ancestors must have had it. Imagine being able to plow or harrow or pull a hay baler or do any of the thousand and one jobs necessary to keep a large farm running smoothly using machines to do most of the work! Such a concept seemed like Utopia. He gazed over his right shoulder at the distant rusted, disintegrating remains of the last functional tractor the Wagner family had possessed, and sighed.
Ever since World War Three, 106 six years ago, the Wagners had struggled to make ends meet, to keep the soil tilled and their livestock tended. After civilization crumbled, after fuel became scarce and electricity nonexistent except in a few sections of the country, and after the factories ceased to produce spare parts for farm machinery and other contrivances, the Wagner clan had reverted to the argicultural practices of the early American pioneers, using horses and oxen for most of the heavy work and relying on reproductions of antiquated implements to accomplish in days tasks that had once taken mere hours.
Now, as Larry guided his plow horse along the row and watched the curved blades dig into the soil, he wished that he could have lived before the war, back when farmers didn't have to break their backs just to get their winter wheat into the ground.
Then again, maybe his ancestors hadn't had it so easy, after all. Farming was never easy. A farmer's livelihood depended on the capricious fluctuations of fickle nature and supremely hard toil the likes of which few men were willing to tolerate. Anyone who believed farming and indolence went hand in hand possessed rocks for brains.
A faint swishing sound wafted from overhead.
Larry stared upward. There it was again. But other than a low cloud directly overhead, there wasn't anything close enough to account for the swishing. And clouds certainly didn't make noise. He looked every which way, mystified, wondering if he should take the time to travel all the way to Rapid City so he could have his hearing checked by the doctor. This was the second evening in a row he'd heard the odd sound.
Oh, well.
He'd discuss the matter with Elvy later.
His wife always gave him sage advice.
Larry concentrated on the plowing, urging Buck to go faster, beginning to doubt whether he'd complete the field before it was too dark to see the plow. A full moon would help, would enable him to finish, but the next full moon would take place in nine days, during the last week of September.
Fat lot of good that did him.
Buck came to the end of the field and turned well clear of the barbed wire, his ponderous hooves thudding on the earth, his mighty frame pulling the heavy plow with deceptive ease. Four years of experience had turned the horse into the perfect plow animal. Buck knew when and how to turn and seldom made a mistake.
"Let's go, boy," Larry said softly. In one respect horses were a lot like dogs. Gentle words of encouragement did wonders for their disposition and performance. As a man who'd spent all of his life around animals, he knew how to elicit the response he wanted.
Buck completed his swing and started in the opposite direction.
Yawning, Larry gazed at the house and saw the windows brighten as Elvy went from room to room lighting the lanterns. He thought of the precious new life she carried in her womb, and anticipated with pride the blessed event that would transpire in six months. Their first child! He prayed the infant would emerge healthy and normal.
Nowadays there was no telling.
Not with all the radioactive and chemical substances contaminating the environment.
Larry recalled the harrowing ordeal of the Tamberlines, Kirk and Susan. Kirk was his best friend, and he'd been present at their home the night the baby was delivered. He vividly remembered the shocked expression on Kirk's face upon hearing from the midwife that the baby had been born with three legs, one arm, and no eyes. Susan had just about gone over the deep end.
What if the same thing happened to them?
What if their child turned out genetically disfigured, or worse?
He shook his head, trying to clear his mind, unable to blot out the memory of how the Tamberlines had tried, really tried, for over ten months, how they had lavished love on their offspring to no avail, how the child had eventually died and they had vowed never to have another.
How would Elvy react if their baby was deformed?
Larry absently stared at Buck, feeling depressed. He'd heard of babies coming into the world minus arms and legs or having extra limbs. He'd heard of infants with oversized heads and even two heads. Once, incredibly, a child had been born endowed with rudimentary wings, if his cousin was to be believed. But the Tamberline baby had been the first instance he knew of where there weren't any eyes.
A sudden chill breeze blew from the west.
Involuntarily shuddering, Larry glanced at the western horizon and realized the sun had set. Darkness encroached on the landscape. He'd be able to finish the row, then have to call it quits until morning. All he'd need would be an hour tomorrow and the field would finally be done.
The swishing sounded again, only somewhat louder.
Larry tilted his head and saw stars dotting the firmament. The noise persisted for a full ten seconds before stopping. Perplexed, he scratched his head. More than anything else, the swishing resembled the sound someone would make when rubbing a hand up and down on rough fabric, like when he brushed dust and dirt from his pants after working in the fields.
It made no sense.
"We'll wrap this up, Buck," Larry stated. His stomach growled, reminding him of how hungry he was and of the piping-hot stew Elvy would have waiting for him. His mouth began to water.
Perhaps he should have stopped earlier.
From the south, from at least a quarter of a mile away, arose the familiar yipping howl of a coyote.
Larry smiled. Why was he dwelling on morbid subjects when he had so much to be thankful for? He'd been honored with the sincere love of a beautiful woman. He owned a 200-acre farm in one of the lushest areas in the Dakota Territory. And most of all, unlike the majority of the people living in the ruins of America a century after the holocaust to end all holocausts, he belonged to one of the truly free organized factions currently in existence, the Cavalry.
Composed of the descendants of those ranchers, farmers, Indians, and others who had refused to be evacuated by the U.S. government during the war, the Cavalry controlled most of the former states of North and South Dakota. After World War Three, when there were hordes of scavengers and raiders roaming the countryside, a prominent South Dakota rancher had organized his neighbors into a vigilante group he'd dubbed the Cavalry. Soon other residents had joined, and before long they had driven out the scavengers and taken to governing themselves. For a hundred years the Cavalry had existed on its own, acquiring a reputation as being tough and independent, renowned far and wide for its members' superb horsemanship.
Every citizen in the Territory was required to own a horse and be ready at a moment's notice to respond to a request for assistance in case of an invasion. A standing unit of 200 horsemen was maintained in battle readiness at all times.
They were billeted in Pierre, where the present leader of the Cavalry resided, a man by the name of Kilrane who was the most wildly respected Cavalryman of all. Larry had seen the man on two occasions, when Kilrane came to Rapid City to give a talk on the issues and problems the Cavalry would need to confront in the years ahead, and each time Larry had been very favorably impressed.
Kilrane was a born leader, an exceptional horseman.
Larry stared at the inky silhouette of the barn, barely visible to the right of the farmhouse, thinking of his other two horses, the roan and the mare. While Buck served as his work animal, the others were exclusively reserved for riding. Champ, the roan, was easily the equal of any horse in the—
What was that?
He glanced at the sky once again, listening to a new outbreak of swishing, only this time the noise was much louder and more distinct. The longer he listened, the louder it became, until the swishing resembled a distinct sort of… flapping.
Flapping?
As in wings?
Larry pursed his lips, reflecting on whether an owl might be responsible. Some owls, like the great horned owl, were quite large and their heavy flapping could be heard from several dozen yards away when there was no other noise. Crows too could sometimes be heard, but they didn't fly at night.
So what was up there?
Larry surveyed the heavens as he walked along. Not attaching much important to the random beating of wings in the night, he didn't totally focus his attention, and almost missed spotting the missing stars.
What in the world?
His brow knit in confusion at the sight of an irregular black blotch in the heavens, an area where there should be stars but there weren't, an area almost directly overhead. He stared at the bizarre blotch, watching its dimensions shift and fluctuate, astounded, at a loss to explain the celestial spectacle.
Then the obvious hit him.
The blotch wasn't caused by something off in space somewhere. The stars were still there, the heavens still intact.
No.
The black shape was caused by something in the air, something interposed between the stars and the earth, something huge, hovering in the cool night and flapping its enormous wings.
Dear God!
It couldn't be!
Larry abruptly released the traces and sprinted toward the farmhouse, going for the Winchester he kept in a gun cabinet in the living room. He had 40 yards to cover. If his supposition was right, he'd never make it. Please let me be wrong! he mentally pleaded. Please! He pumped his legs for all he was worth.
The flapping grew in volume, coming closer.
There could only be one reason.
The thing was after him!
His heart pounding in his chest, Larry breathed heavily. After an entire day of plowing his leg muscles were fatigued and sluggish, and he couldn't seem to attain his top speed no matter how hard he tried.
The flapping continued to grow louder.
Larry covered the 20 feet to the west edge of the field and paused for just a second, scanning the gloom for the gate. He spied the dull glint of the metal posts and dashed forward, trying to recollect if he left the gate open or closed.
A breeze gusted at him from above.
Swallowing hard, Larry reached the gate, found it closed, and shoved. In an instant he was through and racing toward the farmhouse, but he only managed to travel a few yards before a tremendous blow to the center of his back sent him sprawling forward onto his hands and knees. Pain racked his spine. His senses swam for a moment.
The thing hissed.
Larry shivered, incipient fear gnawing at his mind, and shoved to his feet, resisting an urge to glance over his shoulder at the horror lurking in the darkness. He ran, ran as he had never run before, and opened his mouth to shout for Elvy to grab the rifle.
What was he doing?
If she came outside, the thing might go after her.
Or there might be more than one.
Larry closed his mouth and sped onward. He wouldn't endanger his wife under any circumstances.
An eerie cry rent the night, resembling the piercing shriek of a bird of prey.
The front door unexpectedly opened and Elvy stood framed in the doorway, wearing her gray slacks and green blouse, a lantern in her left hand. She peered to the east. "Larry?"
"Go back!" Larry shouted, terror welling within him. "Get inside!"
Instead, she took three steps into the yard. "Larry! What's wrong?"
Before Larry could answer, before he could scream at her to hasten to safety, something smashed into his right temple with the force of a mule's kick. He stumbled, tripped, and fell to his knees, dazed. Frantically striving to recover, shaking his head vigorously, he placed his hands on the grass, about to rise.
The flapping abruptly emanated from directly behind him.
Larry felt steely hands slip under his arms and loop around his chest, and in the blink of an eye he was airborne, being conveyed into the night at a startling rate. He struggled to break free, watching the earth recede underneath him, seeing Elvy's upturned, terrified visage, and then he was sailing over the house, over the shingles on the roof, and in seconds he was hundreds of feet up in the atmosphere.
From far below came Elvy's plaintive wail. "Larry!"
He ceased resisting, knowing he'd be dashed to pieces if he fell from such a height. The air became colder, the wind stronger. Stunned, his arms limp at his sides, he stared in disbelief at the receding ground.
The thing holding him made a rumbling noise deep in its chest.
Larry licked his dry lips and twisted his head, trying to get a glimpse of his captor, but all he could distinguish was a vague, inky form. He placed his hands on the arms encircling his torso and felt hair under his palms. Goose bumps erupted all over his flesh. He gazed forlornly at an expanse of forest below, and despair flooded his soul as he realized he might never see his beloved wife again.
The creature flapped onward under the star-filled heavens.
Which one should it be?
The giant leaned back in the office chair and thoughtfully studied the six manila folders on his desk, reading the name printed on each one, trying to come to a decision. As he read off a name he mentally catalogued strengths and weaknesses, weighing the pros and cons of each team member. He wanted to appoint one of them as his second-in-command.
But which was most deserving of the honor?
More to the point, which could perform the job satisfactorily?
Should he select Captain Mike Havoc? As a professional military man with Special Forces training, not to mention graduation from Officers Training School, Havoc, at first glance, appeared to be the most qualified. At six feet two, weighing in the neighborhood of 210 pounds, the blond-haired, blue-eyed Havoc, with his superbly conditioned physique, possessed the physical prerequisites for the post. In addition, Havoc held a black belt in karate and had earned a marksmanship ribbon. A perfect candidate.
Almost.
Frowning, the giant stood, rising to his full height of seven feet, and stretched, his bulging muscles rippling, his black leather vest and green fatigue pants threatening to burst at the seams. He idly glanced to his right and happened to see a reflection of himself in the small mirror attached to the west wall, scarcely noticing the comma of dark hair that hung above his troubled gray eyes.
How could he appoint Havoc to the post when he entertained grave reservations about the officer? Havoc was up to something. What, he didn't know. But the officer had been acting suspiciously ever since joining the Force. And to top it all off, Havoc had been spending a lot of time in the company of General Miles Gallagher. After the fight with the drug lords in Los Angeles, General Gallagher had chewed Havoc out but good. He'd seen them both with his own eyes. Yet both had acted evasive when he later questioned them.
Why?
He sat down again and looked at the second folder.
Sparrow Hawk. The volunteer from the Flathead Indians, who now ruled the region once known as the state of Montana. A skilled tracker and hunter, Sparrow Hawk lacked any tactical experience whatsoever. Powerfully built, only five feet six, with shoulder-length black hair and brown eyes, the Flathead possessed remarkable endurance and could wield a spear and a knife exceptionally well. But none of his skills qualified him to be second-in-command.
The giant's eyes strayed to the third folder.
Don Madsen. Alias Doc. The lanky gunfighter and gambler hailed from the Cavalry. Appropriately, he dressed almost excusively in black: a wide-brimmed black hat, a black frock coat, black pants, and black boots. He was also partial to white shirts. Of all of them, the giant knew the least about Doc's personal life prior to joining the Freedom Force. Like any good gambler, Doc kept his cards close to his chest. A hair under six feet, Doc had cold hazel eyes and clipped brown hair that tended to contribute to the image he projected of being a man better left alone. A loner. Hardly the type to lead a fighting unit, even if he was a wizard with his Smith and Wesson Model 586 Distinguished Combat Magnum.
So who was next?
Raphaela. No last name. Simply Raphaela. A stunning redhead with striking green eyes, she'd been sent by the Moles to be their reprsentative on the team. Typically, she'd had no combat experience at all when she arrived in California. She tried hard, but she definitely didn't qualify.
The giant gazed at the next folder.
Jaguarundi. Now there was a possibility. Lean, intelligent, and endowed with extraordinary strength thanks to his hybrid heritage, the mutation possessed the proper mix of personality traits and temperament. As a cross between a human and a feline, the cat-man could bring a unique perspective to the position. But although Jaguarundi didn't hate humans as many hybrids did, he still adopted a superior air periodically, as if being unique made him automatically better than his human counterparts. Still, Jag was a possibility.
The last name caught the giant's attention and he laughed.
Leo Wood. Otherwise known by the name he used during his gang days in the Twin Cities, the monicker he preferred: Lobo. If ever there was a misnomer, Lobo was it. A rampaging rabbit conveyed a meaner impression than the volunteer from the Clan. Lobo stood five feet nine, weighed 190 pounds, and often appeared to be all mouth. The man could talk rings around a petrified tree. He tried to look formidable, what with his Afro, black leather jacket, and skin-tight jeans, but once he started to flap his gums his true character ruined the image.
Nope.
Lobo couldn't lead a kindergarten class, let along a unit composed of seven elite fighters.
Well, somewhat elite.
The giant propped his elbows on the desk top and rested his chin in his hands. This wasn't going to be easy. But selecting someone to serve in his stead was essential. If he should be injured or slain while the Force was out in the field, they'd need someone to take over the reins, someone who could get them back safely, someone who could instill discipline on a bunch of individualistic noncomformists.
Bringing him back to square one.
Which one should it be?
He stared at the south wall, reflecting, dwelling on his responsibility as the leader of the strike force organized to deal with any and all menaces to the security of the Freedom Federation. Ironic, wasn't it, that six years ago the Federation hadn't even existed, and now the alliance of seven disparate factions promised to be the salvation of civilization if they all could survive long enough.
And talk about an unusual merger!
The Free State of California most resembled the prewar society in its level of industrial and technological development. It had been the leader of California, Governor Melnick, who had initially proposed forming the tactical team to deal with all threats and graciously offered to house the unit at a special facility located north of Los Angeles, near Pyramid Lake. Captain Havoc was their latest volunteer, replacing his younger brother, who had been slain during an earlier mission.
The second member of the Federation, the faction from which Jaguarundi hailed, was known as the Civilized Zone. During World War Three the government of the United States had relocated in Denver, Colorado, and forcibly evacuated hundreds of thousands of its citizens into an area embracing the states of Kansas, Nebraska, Wyoming, Colorado, New Mexico, and Oklahoma, and portions of Arizona and Texas. Renamed after the collapse of the United States, the Civilized Zone almost rivaled California in its cultural attainments. Recently the Civilized Zone had reinstituted public schooling, and hoped to be able to supply electricity to all its rural areas within the next decade.
The remaining factions were as different as night from day.
The Flathead Indians now lived as their ancestors did before the arrival of the white man on the continent, hunting and fishing and trapping to supply their food and clothing. They were fiercely determined to remain a free people, and they were honored to belong to the Federation. They'd sent the best candidate in the Flathead Nation, Sparrow Hawk, to serve on the Force for the required period of one year.
By contrast, the Moles had sent the least qualified. Their leader, Wolfe, knew the importance of the unit, knew that each faction was supposed to send a representative skilled in the arts of combat. So what had Wolfe done? Sent Raphaela. There seemed to be no rhyme nor reason to the Moles' behavior. They resided in an underground city located in north-central Minnesota, and they tended to keep to themselves.
The Cavalry, thankfully, was vastly more dependable. The rugged horsemen of the plains enjoyed a lifestyle very similar to that of the early American pioneers in the Old West. Most made their living by ranching or farming. They owned few mechanical contrivances and generally shunned the use of cars and trucks, although both California and the Civilized Zone had offered both types of vehicles in trade. They were a hardy lot, proud and independent. Doc Madsen was typical of their breed.
Straightening, the giant thought about the last two factions.
First there was the Clan, refugees from the ravaged Twin Cities of Minneapolis and St. Paul who had relocated to the small town of Halma in northwest Minnesota. Composed of former warring gangs, the Clan had united and received a new lease on life due to the efforts of the giant's own faction.
The Family. Descendants of a survivalist and his followers, they dwelt in a 30-acre compound on the outskirts of Lake Bronson State Park. They were the smallest numerically, but the most influential in Federation councils. Renowned for their wise leadership and fearless fighting class, the Warriors, the Family was the heart and soul of the Federation. Eighteen Warriors safeguarded the Home, as their compound had been dubbed, and the giant held the distinction of being the head Warrior, the best of the best, as it were.
Some distinction! he thought wryly. His expertise had earned him the dubious reward of being asked to lead the Freedom Force, of being responsible for molding six persons who couldn't eat a meal together without squabbling into a cohesive fighting unit.
Talk about impossible tasks!
The giant rested his brawny hands on the pair of Bowies strapped around his lean waist, pondering his selection of candidates for the position of second-in-command, then stiffened when he heard footsteps pounding on the stairs leading down to his office from the outside.
A moment later the office door flew open and in rushed the recruit from the Flatheads, attired as usual in beaded buckskins and carrying a spear in his right hand, the spear that had once belonged to his father, the same spear he had used to kill the mutation responsible for his father's death. "Blade, you must come quickly!" Sparrow Hawk declared.
"What's the problem now?"
"They're at it again."
Blade sighed and rose. "Lobo and Jag?"
"Yes."
"What happened?" Blade inquired, moving around his desk and heading for the stairs.
Sparrow fell in behind the giant. "Captain Havoc was conducting our daily class in the martial arts. He paired off Lobo and Jaguarundi to spar together."
"Let me guess. They got carried away and now they're at each other's throats."
"You must be clairvoyant," Sparrow said, and grinned.
Blade exited his office, took a left, and hurried up the stairs to the outer door. As he stepped into the brilliant morning sunshine he squinted and paused, allowing his eyes to adjust to the glare.
In front of the Warrior, spread out on the ground in the shape of a square, were the four large gray mats used during hand-to-hand combat sessions. Standing in the middle of the mats and glaring spitefully at one another were the two Force members in question.
On the left stood Lobo, his fists clenched, sweat caking his ebony skin, his nostrils flaring. "Oh, yeah?" he snapped. "Mess with me, sucker, and you'll be sorry you were ever born!"
The object of the Clansman's anger hissed and raised his fur-covered arms, extending his tapered nails. "Rub it in, you scuzzbag!"
Lobo blinked a few times. "Rub in what?"
"The fact that I was created in a test-tube!" Jaguarundi stated harshly in his low, raspy voice.
Uh-oh. Blade took a stride forward and rested his hands on the hilts of his Bowies. He well knew how touchy the hybrid could be concerning the Genetic Research Division. The thought sparked a torrent of memories.
Years ago a nefarious scientist, a genetic engineer who went by the title of the Doktor, had created a corps of hybrid assassins in the laboratory. By improving on the techniques developed by geneticists prior to the war, and by skillfully manipulating the hereditary factors incorporated into the chemical structure of molecules of DNA, the Doktor had mixed and matched genetic traits as he desired. His personal army of mutations had included beast-men and animal-women of every combination conceivable. There had been lion-men, tiger-women, monkey-men, and snake-women. Frog hybrids, dog hybrids, ox hybrids, and leopard hybrids. To preclude their breeding without his authorization, the Doktor had never created two mutations exactly alike. Each of his genetically engineered mutants in the G.R.D. had been unique.
Jaguarundi was a case in point. There wasn't another being like him on the face of the planet. Six feet tall, 175 pounds, Jag possessed a lean, muscular build. A reddish coat of short hair covered his body from the top of his head to his toenails. His sturdy, sharp fingernails were an inch long, and he could rip an opponent open with a single swipe. Like the animal he was named for, Jag's head was small, his ears rounded.
Easily the most unnerving aspect of his face were his slanted green eyes, their vertical slits lending him an almost alien mien. A black loincloth was his sole article of clothing.
"What's going on here?" Blade demanded.
Lobo and Jag both glanced at the giant.
"He started it!" the Clansman said.
"Did not!" Jag responded. "This moron started it."
"Who are you callin' a moron?" Lobo asked.
"Do you see any other Cro-Magnons around here?"
"Takes one to know one!" Lobo retorted.
Blade moved onto the mats. "Enough! Stand at attention, both of you!"
The hybrid scowled but promptly obeyed.
Lobo sneered at the mutation. "You're lucky the Big Guy showed up when he did or you'd be history. I don't have a heavy rep as a lean, mean fightin' machine for nothing, you know."
"If you don't stand at attention right this second, you'll acquire a reputation for being the only man in California who walks around with his left arm shoved clear up his nose," Blade stated sternly.
Doing a double take, Lobo snapped to attention.
"That's better," Blade said. "Now I want to know what's going on. One at a time. Jag, you first."
"We were sparring and I got this turkey in a headlock," the hybrid explained. "That's when he insulted me, and when I requested an apology from him, he refused."
"Requested my ass," Lobo muttered. "He told me to apologize or he'd tear my face off."
"Did you insult him?" Blade inquired.
"Not really," Lobo answered.
"What did you say?"
"I can't remember now."
Blade leaned toward the Clansman and locked his flinty eyes on Lobo's. "I trust your amnesia will be as short-lived as my patience with your childishness. That is, if you like having two legs."
Lobo gulped. "Hey. Guess what? I think it's comin' back to me."
"I sort of figured it might."
"Well, it was like this," Lobo said. "We were sparrin' and Jag cheated—"
"He cheated?" Blade said interrupting.
"Yeah. He jumped me when I wasn't lookin'."
"Do you make it a habit of turning your back on your sparring partners?"
"No way, dude. You know me. I'm as tough as they come. Anyway, he got lucky and got his arm around my head. That's when I made an innocent little comment, and the next thing I knew he was gettin' all bent out of shape and tryin' to tear my head from my shoulders."
"What was the comment?"
"Huh?"
"What did you say to him?"
"Nothing much."
Blade reached out and tapped the Clansman's blue T-shirt. "I want to know your exact words."
"They're not important."
"I'll be the judge of that."
"Boy, some people got out on the wrong side of the bed this morning, didn't they?"
"What did you say?" Blade asked, almost shouting the words.
Lobo cleared his throat. "I made this teensy-weensy crack about him needin' a bath."
The Warrior glanced at the hybrid. "Is that true?"
"Not quite."
"Then tell me what he said."
Jaguarundi frowned. "When I had him in the headlock, he sniffed my armpit and made a snide reference to B.O. in alley cats."
Lobo snickered.
"Were those your words?" Blade asked.
"Kind of."
"And you think they're funny?"
"Don't you, dude?"
"Not half as funny as you jogging five miles."
"Say what!"
Blade motioned to the west. "Five miles. Right now. On the double."
"You're kiddin' me, right?"
"Do I look like I'm kidding?"
"But it's hot out. Do you know what five miles in this heat will do to my complexion?"
Blade smiled sweetly. "I'll requisition Supply for a case of cosmetics."
"I must've been nuts to join this chicken-doo-doo outfit." Lobo said, and jogged off. "If I get heat stroke, it'll be your fault."
"I'll try to live with the guilt."
Mumbling under his breath, the Clansman kept going.
"Thanks, Blade," Jaguarundi said.
"Don't bother thanking me."
"Why not?"
"Because you're doing ten miles."
"I am?"
"Yep."
"May I ask why?"
"The reason is simple. You're more mature than Lobo."
The hybrid regarded the Warrior quizzically. "I don't quite follow you."
Blade hooked his thumbs in his belt. "Lobo is always sticking his foot in his mouth because he doesn't know any better. He has the emotional maturity of a four-year-old." He paused. "Make that a two-year-old. You, on the other hand, are an intelligent, mature adult. You do know better. But you have a short fuse when it comes to comments concerning your creation. You're touchy about being a mutation endowed with human and animal traits. I expect you to be able to control your sensitivity. As the leader of the Force, I can't allow anyone to disrupt the effective functioning of this unit with their personal shortcomings. Lobo has to learn to keep a lid on his mouth, and you've got to learn to restrain your anger."
"I try."
"I know. Just try harder."
"I'm sorry I let him get to me."
"He gets to everybody."
Jaguarundi pivoted and sprinted after the Clansman.
Another petty problem resolved, Blade reflected. He went to turn toward the door when a female voice stopped him in his tracks.
"How could you? That was mean."
The Warrior rotated to the east.
Twelve feet away, past the edge of the mats, were the three remaining members of the Force. On the left, wearing his customary black frock coat, his hat pulled down to his eyebrows, was Doc Madsen. In the center, his arms folded across his wide chest, wearing camouflage fatigues, was Captain Mike Havoc. And on the right, also wearing camouflage fatigues, stood the Mole woman.
"What was mean?" Blade queried.
"You know darn well," Raphaela said. "You had no call to punish Jaguarundi when Lobo was to blame."
"Jag should have controlled his temper."
"I wouldn't have punished him."
"You're not in charge," Blade reminded her, and saw the corners of her mouth curl downward. "As I explained to all of you on the day you arrived at this facility, I expect each of you to behave in a professional manner and to abide by the rules I lay down. In our line of work discipline is essential. One slipup in the field and we could all wind up dead, which is why I can't tolerate any serious breach of our training regimen."
Doc Madsen nodded. "If you ask me, partner, they both had it coming."
Blade glanced at the officer. "What about you? Any comments?"
Captain Havoc's blue eyes darted to Sparrow Hawk, who was standing near the doorway to the command bunker, then back to the Warrior. "I could have kept them in line, sir. There was no need for anyone to go get you."
"Don't criticize Sparrow Hawk for doing his duty," Blade responded curtly. "If I hadn't intervened, Lobo and Jag might have gone at it. We're supposed to be a team, remember? We're supposed to function as a unit both on and off duty. First and foremost we must be loyal to one another. And that means we don't try to pound each other into a pulp at the slightest provocation. Or carp when someone does the right thing. Understand?"
"Yes, sir," Havoc stated, an edge to his tone.
"Is something else bothering you?"
Havoc's arms dropped to his side and he straightened. "Sir?"
"I get the impression that something else is bothering you," Blade reiterated. "What is it?"
"Nothing, sir."
"You're sure?"
"Positive, sir."
The Warrior sighed and gazed at a white cloud floating over the southern portion of the Force compound. Encompassing 12 acres, the entire facility was enclosed within an electrified fence and patrolled by regular California Army troopers. To the south was the concrete pad, 50 yards square, on which sat one of the Hurricanes utilized to ferry the Force to any hot spot in the country. The second VTOL was parked in the hangar to the east of the pad. In the middle of the compound were the three concrete bunkers, arranged in a row from west to east: the supply bunker, the command bunker, and the barracks bunker. The northern third of the compound was preserved in its natural state and used for training exercises.
"Should we continue with the hand-to-hand sessions?" Havoc inquired.
Blade looked at the officer. "No. Roll up the mats and store them in the supply bunker. When Jag and Lobo have completed their laps, let me know. We'll work on our marksmanship this afternoon."
"Yes, sir."
"We may need to postpone the shooting practice," Doc Madsen interjected.
"Why?" Blade asked.
Doc nodded to the south. "Guess who's paying us a visit?"
The Warrior knew what he would see before he pivoted. Coming through the gate in the south fence was a topless jeep bearing two men, the driver and General Miles Gallagher. Which proved the old adage to be right once again.
When it rained, it poured.
"So how's the training proceeding?"
Blade sat down in the chair behind his desk and gestured for the general to take one of the pair on the other side. "As well as can be expected."
Gallagher took a seat and grinned. A bulldog of a man with brown eyes and crew-cut brown hair, he served as the personal liaison between the Force and Governor Melnick. Whenever a leader of one of the Federation factions required the assistance of the Force, the leader would send a letter to Melnick by way of the routine shuttle runs on which the VTOLs were dispatched on a regular basis. Once Governor Melnick received the word, he would have Gallagher bear the tidings to Blade.
"What's so amusing?" the Warrior inquired.
"I saw Lobo and Jaguarundi jogging along the south fence on my way in," Gallagher mentioned. "They passed right by the jeep and Lobo asked me for a lift."
"He did, did he?"
"I doubt if you'll ever make a team player out of him," the general stated. "If he'd been under my command I would have given him the boot long ago."
"Lobo shows promise."
"Who are you fooling? He promises to be a royal pain in the butt for as long as he stays on the Force, and that's about it."
Blade's eyes narrowed. "Is this a social visit or are you here for a specific reason?"
"As a matter of fact, I'm here on official business. Let me ask you a question. Are your people ready for another mission?"
Blade leaned back and regarded the general coldly. "Why this sudden concern for our readiness? You were the one who rushed us into the Diablo affair, remember? And you didn't give a damn when I objected to interrupting my training schedule so the Force could take time off and spend three days in L.A."
"I'm not sure if I like what you're implying."
A smirk curled the Warrior's lips. "I'm not implying anything. I'm stating flat out that you haven't displayed much concern for our welfare in the past. Why start now?"
Gallagher's features hardened and for a moment he appeared ready to explode in indignant fury. Then, in a sudden transformation, he softened and smiled. "I apologize if I've given you the wrong impression. And I take issue with your assertion that I don't care about your unit. Yes, I persuaded you to take the Force after El Diablo, but the assignment entailed tracking the bastard to his lair and reporting back to me. You weren't supposed to become embroiled in a full-scale battle. You attacked his base on your own initiative."
"We had no choice."
"And need I point out that you have the final authority for accepting or rejecting Force assignments? You didn't have to go."
Blade said nothing.
"Now as far as L.A. is concerned, Governor Melnick offered the Force the three-day pass, not me. How can you blame me for interrupting your training schedule when the idea wasn't even mine?"
"I suppose I can't," Blade said.
General Gallagher grinned, presenting an image of unsullied innocence. "Now that we've disposed of that little matter, let's get down to cases. I need to know if your team is ready for a mission because we've received a request for assistance."
"From whom?"
"Kilrane, the head of the Cavalry."
Blade knew Kilrane well and admired the man highly. They had met on a number of occasions and he considered the top Cavalryman a friend. "I'm surprised. The Cavalry can hold their own against anybody. What kind of problem could they be having that requires our help?"
"Their people have been disappearing."
"I seem to recall Governor Melnick mentioning that in Anaheim."
Gallagher nodded. "During the past decade alone, over two hundred men and women have up and vanished without a trace."
"Two hundred!"
"Kilrane wrote a detailed letter to Governor Melnick," General Gallagher said, and patted the right side of his uniform jacket. "I have it right here for you to read. The pertinent point is that the Cavalry has been trying to discover the reason for the strange disappearances ever since they started, and until recently there wasn't a clue."
"Then what happened?"
"The Cavalry lucked out. They finally have a witness, a woman who saw her husband disappear right before her eyes."
Blade thought of his darling Jenny and imagined how he would feel if something should ever happen to her. The very idea disturbed him immensely, and he felt sympathy for the unfortunate Cavalrywoman. "Who is she?"
"Just a second," Gallagher said. He took Kilrane's letter from an inner pocket and unfolded the sheet of paper. "Let's see. Here it is. Elvy Wagner."
"Go on."
"Her hubby, Larry, was out plowing a field. The sun had set and she was preparing their supper when she heard an unusual cry. Naturally she stepped outside and called out Larry's name. He yelled at her to go back inside, and the next thing she knew he sailed over her head, clear over their house, and faded into thin air."
Blade sat up. "Let me get this straight. He flew over their house?"
"She thinks something was carrying him. She heard a flapping sound and saw a large form, but it was too dark for her to note details."
"So an unknown creature is the culprit."
"That's Kilrane's guess. But the thing has never left any tracks, never left so much as a hair at the scene of the abductions."
"Does Kilrane happen to mention whether any of his people disappeared in broad daylight?"
"According to the information he's gathered, all of the victims vanished at night."
"Which means the creature is nocturnal."
"So it would seem," Gallagher concurred.
The Warrior debated whether to accept the assignment. He still didn't believe his team was ready to go up against another enemy like El Diablo. They required more time to hone their skills before they'd be able to handle a bloodthirsty army of raiders. Although each of them, with the exception of Raphaela, was extremely deadly in his own right, as a team they had a lot to learn. He wouldn't take them on any mission unless he believed they had at least a fifty-fifty chance of surviving. The last thing he wanted was a repeat of the tragedy that had decimated the first Force. He wouldn't go through that ordeal again if he could help it.
Losing five members of the unit had been sheer torment to his soul.
Their names came unbidden to Blade's mind. Spader. Kraft. Athena Morris. Thunder-Rolling-in-the-Mountain. Sergeant James Havoc. They'd all died in combat except for Athena. Her death had been meaningless, an almost incomprehensible travestry of justice, a supreme absurdity in the stream of human events.
She'd fallen from a window!
Athena Morris, the enterprising journalist who had worked so diligently at joining the Force, who had gone so far as to take Special Forces training so she would qualify, who had honestly related every Force assignment in her syndicated column in the newspapers, who had done more to convince the citizens of California that the Freedom Force was critical to the future of the Federation than anyone else, had died when, while heavily sedated, she'd tried to open the window of her seventh-floor hospital room and fallen to the pavement below.
What a horrible way to go.
Her death had been all the more tragic because she had finally come to terms with her love for another Force member, a hybrid by the name of Grizzly. So far as was known, no human woman had ever chosen a mutation as her mate. It had taken considerable courage on her part to confess her affection, and equal courage on Grizzly's part to acknowledge her feelings and reciprocate.
Poor Grizzly!
Blade recalled the tortured expression of the hybrid at the funeral. Grizzly had been inconsolable, and instead of returning to the Civilized Zone, where he had lived prior to joining the Force, Grizzly had ventured into the savage Outlands, those vast areas of the country beyond the boundaries of the few organized factions. In the Outlands might made right. There were no laws, no rules of conduct. Anything went. The weak were invariable exterminated by the strong and the brutal. Blade had tried to talk Grizzly out of going, but the hybrid had been insistent. Where was Grizzly now? he wondered.
The Warrior suddenly became aware that Gallagher was speaking to him.
"—take this assignment or not? I'll need to send a reply to Kilrane right away if you're not going."
"We'll go on the mission."
"You will?" Gallagher queried, sounding surprised.
"We need the experience. I can't quite understand why Kilrane sent for us when he has trackers every bit as skilled as Sparrow Hawk, but we'll do the best we can."
"Kilrane doesn't have a mutant at his disposal. Maybe he thinks Jaguarundi can succeed where his own men have failed."
Blade stared at the oficer. "You know that Jag prefers to be called a hybrid."
"Hybrid, mutant, what's the big difference?"
Blade didn't bother to waste his breath arguing. The general knew the differences as well as he did.
Three types of mutations were currently in existence, two of them as a direct consequence of the war. Ordinary mutations were those babies and animals born with their genetic codes scrambled. The massive amount of radiation saturating the environment was the cause, and thousands upon thousands of deformed embryos had been born since humankind had tried to wipe itself out in the ultimate folly. Hapless infants and animals emerging from the womb with extra limbs or an extra head were doomed to a miserable existence of alienation if they lived long enough.
Chemical weapons, specifically the regenerating chemical clouds, were responsible for the second type of mutation, those vile creatures known as mutates. If mammals, repitiles, or amphibians should be caught in one of the green clouds, they underwent a repulsive metamorphosis, transforming into deranged monstrosities endowed with insatiable appetites. Pus-filled sores would cover their bodies, and they would roam the countryside slaying every living thing they encountered. Of all the mutations, the mutates were the most feared.
The third category embraced the hybrids, those beings who, like Jaguarundi, were the product of genetic engineering. They were the smallest numerically, and many normal humans wished they could be eliminated entirely. As was so typical of the human species whenever diverse races mingled, prejudice and bigotry had reared their ugly heads. Countless humans despised the hybrids for no other reason than they were different.
"When will you be leaving?" General Gallagher inquired.
"Tomorrow morning."
"Excellent. I'll instruct Captain Laslo and Captain Franklyn to be ready to fly your team out at nine A.M."
"Fine," Blade said absently. "We'll have our gear at the pad by eight."
"Governor Melnick will be pleased to hear you're going," Gallagher stated. Then he went on in an offhand manner. "He was a bit upset to learn you'd objected to the Force spending time in L.A."
"You told him?" Blade questioned in surprise.
"Sure. Why not?"
Blade kept silent, suppressing his annoyance, peeved at the general's lack of tact. Why would the officer inform Melnick unless Gallagher wanted the Force in hot water?
"Will you need any special equipment on this mission?"
"Yeah. I'd like an infrared scope and a parabolic mike."
"No problem. I'll issue you one of the new Nite-Vision systems and our Penetrator sound detector. They're both state-of-the-art. Anything else?"
"A high-powered rifle."
Gallagher blinked a few times. "What's wrong with the standard M-16's?"
"Nothing. The others will take M-16s. The rifle is for me."
"I thought you were partial to the M60?"
"I'm taking both."
"Both?" The general studied the Warrior for a moment, then grinned. "Do you know something I don't?"
"The M60 is a heavy-caliber machine gun, and like most machine guns it's not noted for pinpoint accuracy. Sure, it can spray lead all over the landscape and it can hit a given target with reasonable consistency, but I want a gun that can hit the head on a nail ten times out of ten."
"Do you have a specific rifle in mind?"
"A Weatherby Mark Five."
"A Weatherby!" Gallagher exclaimed. "Do you have any idea how hard they are to come by? They're very rare."
"There must be one you can dig up. We have several in the armory at the Home."
"I'll try," Gallagher said, "but I'm not making any promises. They were the cream of the crop back in their day, and anyone who owns one now won't part with it easily." He paused. "Why not take a Winchester or a Marlin? We have plenty of them."
"A Weatherby," Blade insisted. "A 460 Weatherby Magnum."
Gallagher came out of his chair. "A 460 Magnum! Are you sure you don't want it gold-plated?"
"Can you locate one by tomorrow?"
"Who knows? Keep your fingers crossed. If I do, it'll qualify as a damn miracle."
"Keep me posted."
"Okay," General Gallagher said, and sighed. He placed the letter on the desk. "Here. I'd better get my butt back to my office. I'll probably be on the phone all day."
The drumming of boots on the stairs heralded the arrival of Captain Havoc, who stepped into the office bearing a newspaper in his left hand. He saluted smartly and looked at Blade. "Sorry to disturb you, sir. This was just delivered."
"Give it here."
"Yes, sir." Havoc walked toward the desk.
Blade surreptitiously glanced at the general as he leaned forward and extended his right arm.
Gallagher's brown eyes darted to the rolled newspaper and he unconsciously licked his thick lips. He glanced at Havoc, at the paper again, then seemed to wrestle with his emotions for a second before turning a calm face toward the desk.
"Thank you, Captain," Blade said as he grasped the newspaper.
Havoc saluted and stuck his right foot behind his left, about to do an about-face.
"Hold up," Blade directed.
The captain paused and gazed uncertainly at the Warrior. "Sir?"
"I have an announcement to make that concerns you," Blade told him. "I might as well do it while General Gallagher is here, just in case he has any objections."
"Objections to what?" Gallagher inquired.
"To my appointing Captain Havoc as my second-in-command," Blade informed them, studying their reactions.
The normally stoic Havoc did a double take. His features shifted into a peculiar expression, a commingled astonishment and—something else.
General Gallagher's mouth dropped open. He recovered his composure an instant later and grinned slyly, as if amused by a joke only he knew.
"Me, sir?" Captain Havoc declared.
"You."
"You didn't tell us you were planning to pick a second-in-command, sir," Havoc said. He seemed to be thinking intently.
"Surprise, surprise."
"But why me, sir? What about Doc or Sparrow or Jag? Any one of them can handle the job."
Gallagher glanced at the junior officer. "If he wants you, Captain, why object? Consider your appointment an honor."
"Yes, sir," Havoc responded, devoid of enthusiasm.
Blade smiled at the captain. "My decision is final. I want you. Break the news to the others."
"What if they don't like the news, sir?"
"Tough."
"I'll tell them, sir," Havoc said unhappily. He saluted once more and departed.
General Gallagher beamed expansively, suddenly in exceptional spirits. "My compliments. You've selected an excellent man for the post."
"I figured you would approve of my decision."
"Havoc is a competent man. He won't let you down."
"I hope not."
The general moved toward the door. "Well, I'll be seeing you. I've got to get to work on locating a Weatherby."
"Good luck," Blade said, and spread the newspaper open on the desk. "I wonder if there are any articles today about the Force?"
Gallagher halted and looked at the paper. "I believe there is one. I read the Times earlier while eating breakfast."
Blade idly scanned the front page, then turned to the next. "There have been quite a few stories about us lately," he mentioned casually.
"No more than usual."
"Oh, I don't know. I can understand the story they printed about our battle with El Diablo and with the gangs, but yesterday I saw a piece on our favorite weapons." He paused. "Strange."
General Gallagher tensed perceptibly. "What is?"
"I don't recall being interviewed by a Times reporter about our weaponry. And I don't believe a reporter spoke to any of the others. I wonder how the newspaper found out?"
The officer shrugged. "You know news reporters. They have their sources."
Blade flipped another page. There, in the upper right corner, was an article entitled FREEDOM'S PRICE: THE FORCE IS NEEDED. "Ahhhh. Here it is. Heavy stuff."
"It's a good article."
Blade glanced up and noted the air of nervousness the general radiated. "Shouldn't you be trying to find me a Weatherby?"
"Yeah. On my way." Gallagher stared at the paper one last time, then left.
The Warrior grinned and leaned back. Got them! He'd deliberately made the announcement of his new second-in-command in their presence to test them, to gauge their response, and his ruse had been a success. If there had been any lingering, subconscious doubts concerning their duplicity, those doubts were now dashed on the rocks of hard evidence. Their expressions had indicted them to his satisfaction, and combined with their previous secretive behavior, had aroused his suspicions to a feverish pitch.
They were definitely up to something.
But what?
And why did General Gallagher almost have a coronary every time he picked up a newspaper? Of what significance were the articles about the Force?
Blade rested his forearms on the desk and quickly read the piece in the Times. The writer went on at length about the necessity of preserving the vestiges of true freedom embodied in the various Federation factions, and tried to emphasize the point that the Force served as the first line of defense against the savage denizens of the Outlands and the power-hungry petty dictators who frequently arose.
So what was the big deal?
Blade sighed and stared thoughtfully at the south wall. The article was about average for those he'd seen on the Force. Athena Morris had written several articles in the same vein. In fact, the crisp, precise writing style reminded him very strongly of Athena's own style. He looked at the piece again, rereading the opening paragraph.
And then it hit him.
As if struck by lightning, Blade jerked erect, stark astonishment etching his countenance, and for several seconds he was too stunned to move or speak. Finally he stared at the newspaper, then at the doorway, and breathed three words: "It can't be!"
Rapid City, Dakota Territory. Once one of the major cities in South Dakota with a population of 55,000 before the war. Now it was a frontier town with a population of only 8,000. Many of the buildings had been abandoned and neglected and the streets were in a state of severe deterioration. Once it had been the leading wholesale center for the Black Hills; now ranchers and farmers from hundreds of miles around came in to sell or trade their cows, steers, vegetables, and grain. Where once apparel of every type and color adorned the populace, now buckskins and woolen garments were prevalent. And where once primarily only law-enforcement officers wore firearms, now almost every man and most of the women carried a gun.
Blade mentally noted all these facts as the Hurricane flashed down out of the sparkling blue sky toward a field on the northwest outskirts of the town. Its mighty engines whining, the jet slowed rapidly. He twisted and gazed out the rear of the cockpit at the second jet, likewise on its descent approach to Rapid City.
The two Hurricanes were the pride of the California military establishment. Possessing vertical-takeoff-or-landing capability, they combined some of the characteristics of a helicopter with the power of a conventional jet. Both had been modified to carry extra fuel tanks and could transport up to five passengers at a time. And each was outfitted with 10,000 pounds of blistering firepower that included rockets, bombs, Sidewinder missiles, and machine guns.
Blade glanced at the other occupants of the leading jet. Captain Havoc sat on his right. Behind them were Doc Madsen and Sparrow Hawk. The rest of the team—Raphaela, Lobo, and Jaguarundi—were all in the second jet along with their gear.
Havoc noticed the Warrior's glance and returned it. "I want to thank you again for appointing me as your second-in-command. "
"I appreciate your gratitude, but you've already thanked me at least ten times. Enough is enough," Blade said, and grinned.
The captain stared out his side of the cockpit at the ground below. "You never stop surprising me, sir."
"Is that good or bad?"
"Good, I guess."
"You guess?"
Sparrow Hawk leaned toward them. "I, for one, am satisfied with your decision," he told the giant. "Captain Havoc did an outstanding job of leading us when we fought the gangs in Los Angeles."
"I'm glad you agree," Blade said, and looked at the Cavalryman. "What about you, Doc?"
Madsen had been sitting with his head bowed, his hazel eyes unfocused, apparently deep in reflection. At the sound of his name he roused himself and glanced at the Warrior. "Sorry. I didn't quite catch that. What did you say?"
"How do you feel about Havoc being second-in-command?" Blade inquired.
"Don't make no never mind to me," Doc replied. "I'll take orders from whoever is in charge. I signed up with this outfit to go around killing folks for a year, and I aim to uphold my end of the bargain."
Captain Havoc shifted in his seat. "There's more to being on the Force than killing."
"Like what?" Doc asked.
"Like defending the Federation at all costs."
"And how do we defend the Federation?" Doc said. "We do it by killing the Federation's enemies."
"That's a rather narrow-minded outlook," Havoc commented.
Doc snorted. "You're a fine one to talk, partner. You're a professional soldier, and the last I heard soldiers don't plant daisies for a living. You kill. That's your job."
"At least I kill in the line of duty."
Madsen straightened. "What's that crack supposed to mean?"
"We all know you made your living as a gambler before you volunteered for the Force. The word is that you also had a reputation as a gunfighter. One of the best in the Dakota Territory."
The Cavalryman looked at the Warrior. "Someone's got a big mouth."
"Don't blame Blade," Havoc said, correcting him. "I heard it from General Gallagher."
"Then I reckon I'll have a talk with that hombre after we get back."
"If you decide to punch his lights out, hit him once for me," Havoc stated with a bitter, vehement intensity.
Blade pretended to be interested in watching the pilot to cover his surprise at the captain's stinging remark. If he didn't know better, he'd swear Havoc hated Gallagher's guts. But if that was the case, why did the two spend so much time conversing in hushed tones?
"You must be excited at the prospect of going home," Sparrow said to the gunman.
"I'm tickled pink," Doc declared testily.
"Don't you want to visit your friends and family?"
"I joined the Force to get away from the Dakota Territory for a spell," Doc answered. "The last thing I wanted was to come back so soon."
"I don't understand," Sparrow said.
"And you never will."
Blade folded his hands in his lap. As if he didn't already have enough to worry about with Havoc and Gallagher acting like criminals, now Doc was acting up. "You should have told me how you felt," he mentioned. "If your reason was valid, I might have permitted you to stay behind."
"I'm part of this outfit. Where you guys go, I go," Doc asserted.
"Suit yourself," Blade said.
The pilot, Captain Peter Laslo, abruptly interrupted their conversation. "Check your seat restraints, gentlemen. I'm taking this baby down."
"Try to keep my kidneys in one piece," Blade joked.
"Philistine," Laslo quipped, and concentrated on his task. Banking sharply to the right, he dove the aircraft straight at the field. "There's our designated landing spot. And there's a reception committee waiting for us."
Blade peered downward and spotted two rows of horsemen on the east side of the field. Kilrane and company. The Cavalry leader's letter had stated he would await the arrival of the Force in Rapid City rather than Pierre. Kilrane had given the Force three days to respond to his request; otherwise, as he related in his letter, he intended to hunt for the creature or creatures himself. Blade had to smile as he remembered reading that comment. Kilrane never had been one to sit idly by when trouble brewed.
Displaying consummate skill, Captain Laslo brought the Hurricane down to within 300 feet of the field, then engaged the Hover Mode. Slowly, its engines roaring, the VTOL settled to the ground near the waiting horsemen. The grass underneath was flattened by the 22,000 pounds of thrust and dust billowed into the air, obscuring the riders.
"Here we are," Captain Laslo said while busily flicking switches. "Dakota International Airport. I thank you for flying No Frills Express."
The engines abruptly ceased roaring and the strident whine gradually tapered off. The second jet came down 40 yards to the west.
Blade unfastened his seat belt. "Thanks, Pete. Next time, though, why can't you provide one of those stewardesses like they have on the civilian flights?"
"You want a stewardess? I bet your wife would find that interesting."
"Forget I mentioned it."
"Coward." Laslo pressed a toggle switch on the control panel and a hatch on the right side of the canopy swung outward. Although the canopy itself could be opened, the pilots were under standing orders to use the hatch unless they knew the landing area was one-hundred-percent secure. The Hurricanes had been designed to carry commandos and other specialized tactical units into combat zones, and the hatch served as their means of exiting the craft while the canopy remained closed to protect the pilot from possible sniper fire.
Blade glanced at Captain Havoc. "I'll leave it up to you to assemble the team on the east side of the field. I want to talk to Kilrane." He slipped from his seat and eased to the hatch. "And don't forget to bring my M60 and the Weatherby."
"Yes, sir," Havoc responded.
The Warrior unfurled a green rope ladder lying next to the opening, then turned around and slid his legs onto a rung. He observed a frown on Madsen's face, then nodded at the others and rapidly climbed to the ground.
"Blade!"
At the familiar, friendly bellow, Blade pivoted and smiled. "Kilrane!"
The leader of the Cavalry had dismounted and was walking briskly toward the giant. A big man in his own right, Kilrane wore fringed buckskins that complemented his rugged good looks. His eyes were blue, his long hair brown tinged with gray streaks. On his right hip hung an ivory-handled Mitchell Single Action revolver, and his proficiency with that weapon had earned him the notoriety of being rated one of the fastest Cavalrymen who ever lived. Only a few others were considered to be in his class when it came to gun-handling. One of them, a man named Boone, had been the previous representative of the Cavalry on the Force. Another one was the gunfighter-gambler known as Doc.
Blade hastened to meet his friend. He extended his right hand and scrutinized Kilrane from head to toe. "It's great to see you again."
"Same here," Kilrane acknowledged, and shook vigorously.
"You have a few more gray hairs," the Warrior noted.
"I'm amazed you don't have any."
"Clean living keeps me young."
Kilrane laughed and gave the giant a playful slap on the shoulder. "How are Jenny and Gabe?"
"They're fine. Gabe is growing like a weed."
"And Hickok and Geronimo?"
"They're as crazy as ever. Hickok has two kids now."
"Two?"
"Yep. He adopted a little girl we rescued in Atlanta."
"Hickok did? That man has to be the most unpredictable son of a gun on the face of the planet."
Blade looked at the two rows of Cavalrymen. "I notice you brought an army along."
"Just a hundred men."
"Is Boone with them?" Blade inquired eagerly, scanning the nearest row.
"Nope. Sorry. He sends his regards. But I had to leave somone reliable to hold down the fort in Pierre and he's one of the few men I trust completely."
"Too bad," Blade said. "The next time you see him, be sure to relay a hello from me."
"Will do."
"So fill me in. What can you tell me about the disappearances that you didn't mention in your letter?"
A frown curled Kilrane's mouth and his handsome features softened, mirroring his acute sadness. "To tell you the truth, Blade, I'm at my wit's end. I've tried everything I can think of and I'm no closer to solving the problem than I was when it first began." He looked into the Warrior's eyes. "That's why I sent for you. If anyone can get to the bottom of the mystery, you can."
"Thanks. But you might be overrating my ability."
"Am I? Who was it who defeated the Doktor and that scum of a dictator, Samuel the Second?"
"I had a lot of help."
"And who was it who beat the Technics, the Superiors, the Gild, the Dragons, the…" Kilrane paused and smiled. "Well, you get my drift. You've licked everyone who's taken on the Federation. Not to mention all the lowlifes you wasted who were stupid enough to go up against the Family."
"Again, I had a lot of help. Don't forget the other Warriors. We're all trained to perform our job competently and professionally."
"Yeah. But some of the Warriors are deadlier than others. Hickok, for instance, is walking death. Yama and Rikki are the same. But you're in a league all your own."
Blade made a show of staring down at his feet. "Boy, it's a good thing I'm wearing these combat boots. It's starting to get deep around here."
"You can argue all you want to, but every living soul in the Federation knows you're the man to call to get the job done. Any job. And I'm hoping you can succeed where we've failed. The disappearances must stop!"
"Your letter indicated they began about a decade ago."
Kilrane nodded. "At first no one paid much attention to a few measly disappearances. What with all the wild animals and mutations roaming the countryside, everyone generally assumed the people who vanished were attacked by a mutate or some such and eaten. It didn't help matters that all of the disappearances took place at night. A rancher would be out late riding his range and never come home. Someone would go walking along a country road after dark and never be seen again. And the incidents were scattered over hundreds of square miles. News spreads slowly out here. There are only a few newspapers in the whole Territory. So it's perfectly understandable how someone could vanish in, say, White Owl one week and Kadoka a week later and no one would make the connection."
"When did you begin to put the pieces together?"
"Not until three years ago. I appointed one of my lieutenants to keep track of all disappearances in the Territory and to plot them on a map. Within six months of starting the project a definite pattern had emerged and he brought it to my attention."
"What type of pattern?"
"We discovered that eighty percent of the disappearances occurred within two hundred miles of the extreme southwest corner of our Territory," Kilrane said, and frowned. "Within two hundred miles of the Hot Springs Dead Zone."
"The what?"
"A Dead Zone, an area that was hit by a nuclear weapon during the war. We have several within our boundaries. Geronimo once told me that the Family refers to these regions as Hot Spots."
"Yes. Now I remember. He ended up in one of your Dead Zones during his first visit to your Territory and nearly lost his life."
"I know. I was with him," Kilrane remarked. "You have to see these areas to appreciate how eerie they are. Nothing grows in a Dead Zone. Not so much as a single blade of grass. We used to believe the Dead Zones were totally devoid of life, but now we know better. Now we know the radiation has produced some truly monstrous mutations."
"I was in a Hot Spot in California once. I know all about them. Do you think these creatures come from the Hot Springs Dead Zone?"
"Yep."
"Why was Hot Springs hit? Was there a military base nearby?"
Kilrane shrugged. "Beats me. No, there wasn't a base. Hot Springs was a town of about seven thousand when the war broke out. Made a lot of money off the tourists, what with being located almost smack dab between the Black Hills National Forest, the Buffalo Gap National Grassland, the Badlands National Park, and the Custer State Park. Plus there were all those caves in the region."
"Caves?"
"The Jewel Cave National Monument, the Wind Cave National Park, the Ice Cave, and others. Some of them were huge caverns," Kilrane related. "There's no logical reason why Hot Springs should have been hit. As near as we can figure, the other side must have aimed one of their nuclear missiles at Ellsworth Air Force Base, and missed."
"It's possible," Blade said slowly. From the information the Family had gathered over the decades, including the intelligence they had learned from their allies in the Federation, there were apparently over a score of such Hot Spots or Dead Zones scattered about the country once known as the United States of America. And some of the locations of the Dead Zones made no sense from a military perspective. Evidently the incoming missiles hadn't been as accurate as the enemy had claimed. Then again, when a person considered that the missiles had flown thousands and thousands of miles in some instances, it was easy to comprehend how the slightest deviation in the trajectory could result in missing the target by hundreds of miles.
"I figured we would spend the night in Rapid City and cut out at first light for the Dead Zone," Kilrane stated. "If it's all right with you?"
"Fine by me. Is the Dead Zone still hot?"
"We have teams of experts who monitor the Zones regularly, measuring the radioactivity with Geiger counters and whatnot. After a century, the radiation level is only slightly elevated, not enough to pose a danger to us."
"Have you any idea what type of creature we're looking for?"
"We reckon a mutation is to blame, maybe an overgrown bird of some sort. All we have to go on is the eyewitness testimony of Elvy Wagner. She saw whatever it was carrying her husband off, but she didn't get a good look at the creature. She did hear the swishing and beating of its wings."
"Swishing?"
"That's how she described the sound."
Blade stared at the ground, his memory piqued. Swishing sound. He vaguely recalled hearing a strange swishing sound once, years ago, and he attempted to remember exactly when. It had been during the war against Samuel the Second and the Doktor, back when the duo had ruled the Civilized Zone with an iron fist, before the Civilized Zone joined the Federation. And it had something to do with the night, if he was right.
Suddenly he remembered.
The episode had transpired during the war. He and other Warriors had been en route to Catlow, Wyoming, and they had jumped a jeep patrol one night. One of the troopers had fled into the darkness, and before the Warriors could overtake him there had terrified shriek and they'd heard a distinct swishing as something carried the young soldier away.
"What's wrong?" Kilrane inquired, studying the giant's face.
"I may have had a run-in with one of the creatures in northern Wyoming about six years ago, but at the time I had no idea what it was."
Kilrane abruptly slapped his right palm against his forehead. "Damn! Why didn't I think of that? Odds are those things have been taking folks from the northeast corner of the Civilized Zone too. I should get together with President Toland down in Denver and compare notes."
"And you estimate the things have abducted two hundred of your people?"
"More or less. It's hard to tell since we don't know their range."
"Even so," Blade said, and the dawning realization horrified him, "if the creatures have been grabbing people from the Civilized Zone and elsewhere at the same rate as here in the Dakota Territory, then we're looking at four or five hundred victims within the last ten years."
Kilrane nodded grimly. "And they're snatching more and more folks each and every year. At the rate it's going, no one will be able to step outside at night within another year or two."
The gravity of the situation staggered the Warrior. A few isolated abductions had blossomed into the systematic extermination of the human populace in the region. If the beings responsible weren't stopped now, they might spread their reign of terror farther and farther afield until the Midwest became completely under their sway, became their private hunting preserve, as it were.
Kilrane summed up the situation succinctly. "Either we find these things and wipe them or we're in a world of hurt."
"We'll find them."
"I like a man with confidence," Kilrane commented, and gazed past the Warrior. "So those are your new recruits?"
Blade shifted and discovered the six members of his team lined up at attention 15 yards away, each with an M-16 over a shoulder and a backpack strapped to his or her back. Captain Havoc held the M60, two ammo belts, and the Weatherby. "That's my new team."
"How's Doc doing?"
"He follows orders and he doesn't give me any grief, which is more than I can say for some of the others."
"It really shocked my shorts when he volunteered to replace Boone. He was the last person I would've expected to want the job," Kilrane said. "Which reminds me. Is there any chance you could order him to spend the night sleeping in one of those jets?"
Blade glanced at the frontiersman. "Why in the world would I want to do that?"
"Because if you don't, by tomorrow morning he could be dead."
The saloon and bar owners of Rapid City were seeing dollar signs in front of their eyes. They usually enjoyed a thriving business after the sun went down anyway, but now they were doubly fortunate to have the 100 riders comprising Kilrane's personal detachment as customers and the presence of the Freedom Force members to draw in patrons from the surrounding countryside. With the notable exception of Doc Madsen, the new Force members were unknown to the Cavalry populace at large and therefore generated intense curiosity. As if that weren't enough, Blade was in town, the most famous man in the entire Federation, the giant reputed to have slain hundreds of foes, the Warrior renowned for his heroic exploits.
Farmers, ranchers, and other residents flocked in from miles around.
At eight o'clock that night Blade and Kilrane entered The Rushmore, one of the premier gambling establishments in all of the Dakota Territory. Named after the famous monument located south of the town, The Rushmore sported plush red carpet and genuine crystal chandeliers. Gaming tables of every type filled the ground floor, while private card games were conducted in the rooms upstairs. And card games weren't the only activities taking place in those rooms. Attractive women in skimpy dresses mingled among the players and spectators, and many a man was escorted upstairs by a young lovely.
Kilrane led Blade through the crowd and up to the mahogany bar. The press of customers parted readily to permit their passage, and a number of patrons openly gawked at the giant. "How does it feel to be so famous?" Kilrane inquired, and motioned to the bartender.
"It can be a pain at times."
A stocky man attired in checkered trousers, a white shirt, and red suspenders hurried down the bar. "Good evening, gents. What will be your pleasure?"
"Whiskey," Kilrane said.
The bartender looked at the Warrior. "And you, sir?"
"Milk."
Utter astonishment lined the bartender's countenance. "Milk, sir?"
Blade nodded.
"Uhhh, begging your pardon, sir, but this establishment doesn't serve milk."
"How about juice then?"
The bartender looked as if he wanted to crawl into the woodwork. "All we serve are distilled spirits."
Blade frowned and placed his hands on the counter. "Can I get a glass of water?"
"Yes, sir," the man responded enthusiastically, relieved at being off the hook. "One large water on the rocks coming right up."
"I'd prefer some ice if you have any."
The bartender did an exaggerated double take, and seemed about to burst into laughter until his gaze roved over the giant's bulging physique. "Water with ice, sir." He moved off to fill their order.
"You never drink liquor, do you?" Kilrane inquired.
"Never. None of the Warriors do. We'll have some wine now and then, but that's about it."
"What do you have against liquor?"
"We're taught to avoid ft from childhood. Our parents and our teachers are fond of pointing out that liquor ruined countless lives in the prewar society. So did drugs. We want nothing to do with either."
Kilrane surveyed the gambling tables. "How do you feel about dens of iniquity?"
Blade laughed and turned his back to the bar. "You've visited the Home. You know about the exalted ideals we strive to attain."
"Yeah," Kilrane said, a tinge of melancholy in his tone. "If you ask me, your Family sets its sights too high."
"Why?"
"Look at yourselves. You try to live in peace and harmony. You all try to be guided by the Spirit in everything you do. And you believe in ideals of brotherly love and striving for perfection."
"What's wrong with that?"
"You're trying to forge a piece of heaven on earth, and it just can't be done. You know better than most what this world is really like. It's dog-eat-dog and only the strongest survive. You can't be spiritual and last very long nowadays."
"Our Family has lasted for a hundred and six years, and if I have anything to say about it the Family will last for a hundred more. Yes, we know what the world is like. We know all about the perverse violence so rampant everywhere, and we recognize there are those who would crush us underfoot without mercy," Blade said. "Why do you think our Founder created the Warrior class? Specifically to deal with the degenerates and the psychopaths who would harm the Family. We believe in higher ideals, true, but we also believe in taking whatever steps are necessary to preserve those ideals."
Kilrane had listened attentively. He saw the bartender deposit their drinks and raised the whiskey glass to his lips. "Let's drink to higher ideals."
Blade picked up the water. "Fair enough."
They clinked glasses and drank.
Kilrane glanced toward the entrance and nodded. "Here comes one of yours."
The Warrior looked up and spotted Doc Madsen entering the establishment. After Madsen came Sparrow Hawk. The others were probably making the rounds. They had been thrilled at the prospect of having the night off to do as they pleased so long as they stayed out of trouble. "Any sign of those four men you told me about?"
"Not yet."
Blade sipped the water, watching Doc and Sparrow walk to a blackjack table, and reflected on the story Kilrane had confided in him earlier. A tale that explained a lot.
No one knew Doc Madsen intimately. He was the sort of man who kept to himself and who had erected an impenetrable reserve around his innermost thoughts. But certain facts were widely known. He had been born on a farm near Lake Oahe, and until the age of 14 or 15 he had worked diligently with his father in the fields. The family had been on exceptionally friendly terms with the Cheyenne Indians who dwelt in the region west of the lake where before the war they had been confined to a reservation.
Rumor had it that the youthful Madsen had fallen in love with the daughter of a prominent rancher who lived not far from Seneca. The girl's father, however, objected, and his objections grew stronger the longer the budding romance continued. Instead of simply flatly refusing his daughter permission to see Madsen, the rancher applied pressure on the boy's father. The elder Madsen refused to interfere in his son's affairs.
According to Kilrane, who had learned most of the information from a close friend of the rancher's, the ill will between the rancher, Brett Quist, and Frank Madsen intensified. Frank told Quist to leave his son alone and stay off his property. Quist retaliated by sending some of his men to harass the Madsens. Fences were torn down in the night, livestock killed, crops trampled. Frank Madsen took all he could take. Then one day he confronted Quist on the main street in Seneca. Witnesses to what happened next gave conflicting reports. Most claimed that eight of Quist's hands heard the argument and came to the aid of their employer. They beat Frank Madsen and goaded him into going for his gun. One of the hired hands, a brutal man named Harvey Kiernan, a man with a minor reputation as a gun-hand, outdrew Madsen and shot him dead. An investigation was held, but the investigators were clearly partial to Quist and their subsequent report concluded the shooting had been a case of justifiable self-defense.
Everyone in the community expected more trouble, expected the younger Madsen to avenge his father's death. But Don Madsen stayed on the farm and worked the fields for almost a year, and then his mother died. Some said she succumbed because of grief over her husband, that she allowed herself to merely waste away. In any event, Don Madsen put down the plow and picked up a gun. For three months he practiced from dawn to dusk, day in and day out. He went into town and purchased a new wardrobe, trading in his flannel shirt and jeans for a black frock coat, black pants, and a black wide-brimmed hat. He also bought a new revolver, a pearl-handled Smith and Wesson.
Days later one of Madsen's neighbors noticed smoke billowing above the farm. The fire brigade was called out, but when the volunteers arrived at the scene they found the house, barn, and outbuildings all blazing to the ground, and Don Madsen standing idly nearby observing the conflagration. He warned them to let the place burn down, then mounted his horse and rode into Seneca.
In a few days Brett Quist and four of his riders came into town. They had no sooner dismounted than Don Madsen walked out to the middle of the street and started calling Quist every dirty name in the book, purposely insulting the rancher, prodding Quist and his men. Ultimately one of the riders snapped and went for his gun.
They never stood a chance.
Displaying the speed and uncanny accuracy for which he would become famous, Don Madsen killed all five men, each with a single shot to the head. He coolly reloaded, remarked sarcastically that someone should fetch a doc, and rode off. From that day forth he became known as Doc Madsen.
In the months that followed, Doc confronted other Quist hands, always in public, and he always made sure they went for their guns first. Eight more were killed. The rest fled for parts unknown, and one of them was Harvey Kiernan, who had concocted excuse upon excuse to explain his reluctance to venture off the Quist spread. Quist's widow and daughter were left to run the sprawling ranch alone. The daughter, Virginia, sent word through a friend that she would like to meet with Doc.
Inexplicably, Madsen left the area, heading south to Pierre, where he took up gambling. His reputation preceded him, and before long gunmen who wanted to enhance their reputations were calling him out. Nineteen men died in two years. As his fame grew, there were fewer and fewer challenges. He drifted from town to town, playing cards, a rootless loner whom no man dared mess with. Everywhere he went he asked about Harvey Kiernan.
One day, in Sioux Falls, he barely survived being shot in the back by three toughs who crept through the rear door of a saloon and aimed their rifles at his back while he sat at a table engrossed in poker. Another man saved his life, a man who cut loose with a pair of .44 Magnum Hombres and downed the bushwhacking trio before they could squeeze off a shot, a man named Boone.
The pair developed an unusual friendship. Boone was well-liked by everyone and mingled freely; Doc was shunned by everyone and inspired fear wherever he went. Through Boone, Doc met Kilrane, and it was only natural for the Cavalry leader to casually mention some months back that he would need a replacement for Boone on the Force when Boone's enlistment was up.
Doc Madsen had astounded Kilrane by asking for the job.
Why? Blade wondered as he finished his water and set the glass on the counter. He adjusted the ammo belts slanted across his broad chest and rested his right hand on the strap to the M60 slung over his right shoulder. Why would a man like Madsen want to join an elite combat unit? The man had been a loner all of his adult life, yet now he wanted to be part of a team. It just didn't add up.
"If the information I received is correct, if Harvey Kiernan and three of his cronies are in Rapid City, they just might try to gun Doc down," Kilrane commented, and swirled the whiskey in his glass.
"Even after all these years? You'd think Kiernan would have the common sense to leave well enough alone."
"From what I can gather, Kiernan's not the brightest guy around. He must have been in town and read the story in the paper about the letter I sent to you and the fact the Force was expected to arrive here soon."
"What if I'd refused the mission? You'd be left holding the bag."
Kilrane smiled. "I knew you wouldn't let me down."
"How could you be so certain?"
"A man with your high ideals would never desert a friend in need."
Blade chuckled. "I had no idea you were a student of psychology."
"Psychology, hell. I know my friends."
Blade saw Doc seated at the blackjack table. "I think I'll watch a card game," he stated, and walked toward the gunfighter.
"I've got nothing better to do," Kilrane said, joining the Warrior.
They strolled over to the table and stood on Doc's right, near Sparrow. The Flathead glanced up and grinned.
"Doc is teaching me how to play cards."
"Where are the others?" Blade inquired.
"Jag wanted to stay in his hotel room. He said he was tired of everyone gawking at him."
Blade frowned.
"Captain Havoc, Raphaela, and Lobo are at a place three doors down called The Beef and Brew. They're eating a steak dinner."
"I'm surprised Lobo didn't come with you," Blade mentioned, observing the dealer slide two cards in front of Doc.
"He wanted to tag along but Havoc lost the bet."
"What bet?"
"Doc and Mike flipped a coin to see who would have the honor of Lobo's company for the night. Doc won the toss."
"Wasn't Lobo upset?"
"Quite. He was looking forward to, in his words, teaching these cowboys chumps how to party hearty," Sparrow replied. His forehead creased. "Sometimes his words are most perplexing."
"Don't bother trying to understand him," Blade advised.
"No?"
"No. If Lobo ever starts making sense to you, let me know and I'll give you an extended vacation."
Sparrow Hawk threw back his head and laughed. "I'll keep it in mind."
The Warrior stepped closer to Doc Madsen and leaned down. "I need to talk to you."
"Hit me," the Cavalryman said to the dealer, then looked at the giant. "Right this minute? I'm in the middle of a card game."
"It's important," Blade stated.
"I thought we have the night off to do as we want."
"It's really important," Blade stressed.
"Is it about Harvey Kiernan?"
Blade's eyebrows arched. "You already know?"
Madsen nodded and picked up the new card he'd been dealt. ' "The desk clerk at our hotel told me. And I only had to pay him ten dollars in California silver coins."
"What do you plan to do?"
"Sit here and play cards all night."
"But you're a sitting duck here."
"Sparrow is watching my back for me," Doc said. "I'll be fine." He gazed at the entranceway.
"I don't like it," Blade said. "I can't afford to lose another member of the unit. Give me your word you won't go looking for trouble."
"I don't have to."
"Why not?"
Doc motioned toward the glass doors at the front. "Because trouble has come looking for me."
The Warrior straightened, his hands dropping to his Bowies at the sight of four gunmen who had spread out just inside the entrance, their hands hovering near their revolvers. All four wore typical Western attire.
One of them, the scruffiest of the quartet, a big man whose greasy black hair was plastered to his skull, suddenly barked out, "Madsen! Your killing days are over!"
Every patron in The Rushmore swung toward the front doors and an abrupt hush gripped the room. Those customers who were standing between the entrance and the blackjack table suddenly evinced a desire to be somewhere else, and in seconds a clear stretch of floor materialized, affording the foursome an unobstructed view of the table, Doc Madsen, and the three men beside him.
The big man with the greasy hair advanced slowly, his dark eyes darting from the calm gunfighter in black to the giant, the Indian, and Kilrane. He halted 20 feet from them and jabbed his right forefinger at the leader of the Cavalry. "This doesn't concern you, Kilrane! We have no beef with you."
"You must be Harvey Kiernan," Kilrane said flatly. "I don't believe we've ever met."
"But I know who you are," Kiernan stated, and looked at the giant. "And I know about you too, mister. We don't want any grief from you either. Our business is with Madsen."
"Doc is a member of my team," Blade said icily. "If you threaten him, you threaten me."
Kiernan's eyes narrowed. He glared at his nemesis and sneered. "Is that right, Madsen? Do you let others do your fighting for you, killer?"
Doc, who hadn't moved a muscle since the quartet entered, slowly laid down his cards. "No one will interfere."
"Then what are you waiting for? Why are you just sitting there like a bump on a log?" Kiernan snapped. "Do you know how long I've waited for this day?"
"You could have found me any time you wanted," Doc said, pushing his chair back and standing. "It took you all these years to get up your nerve."
Kiernan bristled and took a step forward. "And you could have found me whenever you wanted. Why didn't you? Why did you keep me waiting in suspense? For nine years I've been looking over my shoulders, never knowing when you'd show up. For nine years I've been jumping at every shadow and every sound."
"Good," Doc said, and smiled.
"Good?" Kiernan repeated quizzically, then hissed. "You son of a bitch! You planned it that way! You wanted me to suffer!"
Doc stepped lightly to the left, away from the table and his friends. "You're smarter than I gave you credit for, Harvey." His eyes flicked over the other three gunmen. "Who are your buddies?"
"I was hoping you'd ask," Kiernan spat. He pointed at a lean man on the far right. "That's Ike Millnick. Maybe you've heard of him?"
"They say he's right handy with an iron."
"Damn straight he is," Kiernan declared, and grinned. He indicated the nearest man on his left, a hefty gunman packing a pair of revolvers around his stout waist. "That's Ted Hulcy."
The hefty gunman nodded.
"And the last gent is Forrest Lockaby. Bet you've heard of him too."
"All those names ring a bell."
Kiernan laughed, a bitter, brittle, scornful derision, an insult in itself. "Ain't feeling so damn high and mighty now, are you?"
"I'm a bit puzzled," Doc said.
"About what?" Kiernan asked suspiciously.
"About why three hombres like Millnick, Hulcy, and Lockaby have hooked up with you?"
"Why do you think?" Kiernan rejoined caustically.
Doc calmly scrutinized the three gunmen. "They can't be in this for the money because you couldn't afford to hire a penniless tramp. So what brings three top gun-hands together to work with scum like you?"
Kiernan made a hissing noise.
"As far as I can figure it, the only reason that makes any sense is they came all this way to add to their rep," Doc stated, contempt lacing his tone. "Is that right, Hulcy?" he said to the hefty gunman.
The man named Hulcy shrugged. "You know how it is, Madsen. When you're at the top, you've got to expect that there will be someone who wants to take your place."
"And the three of you reckon you can do the job?"
"There's three of us and only one of you," Hulcy said, emphasizing the obvious.
"Hey, don't forget about me," Kiernan interjected.
Doc Madsen smiled and carefully lifted the right flap of his frock coat aside, exposing the pearl handles on his nickel-plated Distinguished Combat Magnum. Then he did a strange thing under the circumstances. He smiled contentedly and surveyed the quartet. "You're all overlooking one little point."
Kiernan licked his lips, his fingers fidgeting nervously. "What's that?"
"There may be four of you, but there's five bullets in my gun."
All conversation ceased.
Blade stared at Doc, debating whether to interfere. He could unsling the M60 and compel Kiernan and the gunmen to leave, but that would only delay the inevitable. He could side with Doc, but he knew Madsen wanted to handle this alone. Can I blame him? Blade asked himself. This confrontation was the culmination of a decade of hatred on Kiernan's part and the attainment of vengeance for Doc, if he survived. He tried to put himself in Madsen's shoes. How would he have felt if his father had been gunned down?
Who was he kidding.
He knew exactly how Doc felt. His own dad had been ripped apart by a deadly mutate, and ever since then he'd depised all such mutations. And he still savored the sensation of elation he'd felt when he terminated the mutate responsible for his dad's death. No, he certainly couldn't fault Doc for wanting revenge. And he decided he wasn't about to interfere.
At that precise moment someone else did.
Boots pounded just outside the glass doors, and the next moment in rushed Lobo, moving at full speed. He came through the doors so quickly no one had time to react, and before he could stop himself he collided with Harvey Kiernan, slamming into the Cavalryman from behind and sending the scruffy gunman sprawling onto the floor. "Oops! Sorry, dude!" Lobo exclaimed. "Didn't see you there."
Kiernan, initially startled, recovered and pushed to his knees, his face contorted in fury. "You dumbass nigger!" he roared, and went for his gun.
The irate Cavalryman never cleared leather.
Lobo's right hand streaked to his coat pocket and out again, and everyone within ten feet heard the distinctive click as the blade on his favorite weapon popped out, the tip a hairsbreadth from Kiernan's right eye. Years ago Lobo had found an automatic, a knife with a spring-loaded blade that slid out a slot at the top at the slightest press of the release switch. On its black handle were imprinted the words NATO MILITARY. He could wield the weapon with dazzling expertise.
Kiernan's eyes widened and he flinched as the gleaming four-inch blade almost skewered his right eyeball. His right hand froze in the act of gripping his revolver.
"What did you call me, honky bastard!" Lobo snapped.
Harvey Kiernan's mouth opened, but he couldn't seem to find his voice.
"I asked you a question," Lobo stated harshly, leaning down, his features steel hard.
"I—I didn't mean nothing," Kiernan blurted out. "Honest!"
"Nobody calls me that and lives to talk about it," Lobo said.
"Look, it slipped out, all right?" Kiernan stated. "You caught me off guard."
"You don't fool me, sucker," Lobo said. "I think I'll do the world a favor and cut your throat."
"No!" someone yelled.
The sharply shouted word rent the air like a shot. Lobo glanced up in surprise and saw Doc Madsen walking toward them. "What's with you?"
"Don't kill him."
"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't?" Lobo replied testily.
"He's mine."
"Wait your turn."
Doc halted. His next words were barely audible. "He killed my father."
Lobo looked at the man kneeling at his feet, then at the gunfighter. "I didn't know. No problem, dude. You want this scumbag, he's yours." He slowly straightened and wagged the NATO in front of Kiernan's eyes. "Now take your hand off your hardware before I change my mind."
"Don't do nothing hasty," Kiernan said, and held both arms out from his sides.
The hefty gunman unexpectedly stepped forward and gazed at Kiernan in evident disdain. "You can count me out of this, Harvey."
"What? Why?"
"I agreed to help gun Madsen because you claimed you had a legitimate grudge," Hulcy said. "Sure, I wanted to add to my rep. But I've never gunned down anyone who didn't deserve it, and as near as I can tell Madsen doesn't deserve it." He paused. "Plus there's another reason."
"What?" Kiernan asked.
"You're yellow."
Harvey Kiernan rose, his countenance livid. "Nobody calls me a coward!"
"What do you aim to do about it?" Hulcy responded with a sneer, his hands held close to his revolvers.
Kiernan wanted to draw. Everyone in the room could tell he was on the verge. But he suddenly deflated like a punctured balloon and mustered a wan grin. "I'm not about to slap leather on a pard."
"I was never your friend," Hulcy stated, and swung toward the man in black. "My mistake, Madsen. No hard feelings?"
"No," Doc said.
Hulcy reached up and touched the brim of his brown hat. "Buy you a drink sometime." He began to leave, but stopped and glanced at Millnick and Lockaby. "If you guys are smart, you'll bow out of this scrape. You're in the wrong, and you can't win when you're on the wrong end."
"That's superstitious bunk," Millnick said.
"Have it your way," Hulcy remarked, and departed.
Blade came around the blackjack table. "Lobo, what are you doing here?"
The Clansman blinked. "What a dork! I almost forgot!" He stepped forward, looking from the Warrior to Kilrane. "Another person has up and vanished."
"How do you know?" Blade asked.
"There's some dude down at The Beef and Brew. He's all bent out of shape. Seems something snatched his squeeze. He heard Kilrane was in town and came here lookin' for him. Found us first. Havoc is tryin' to calm the guy down. I was sent to bring you."
Kilrane and Sparrow Hawk joined the Warrior and the Clansman.
"When did the abduction take place?" the Cavalry leader inquired.
"Not long ago," Lobo said. "The guy lives about five miles south of Rapid City. He about rode his horse into the ground gettin' here."
"Let's go," Blade directed, and gestured at the glass doors. "Every minute counts." He twisted to stare at Doc, who hadn't budged. "You too."
"I'm not done here."
"For now you are."
Doc's eyes were locked on Harvey Kiernan. "I have unfinished business."
"Don't you think I know that? But your business will have to wait until we get back."
Doc looked at the giant. "Can't you handle this without me?"
"No. You're part of the Force, like it or not. And we're a team, remember? You can tend to your personal business on your own time. As of this second you're on duty, so let's go," Blade commanded.
"Yeah, run out while you've got the chance," Kiernan declared, and laughed.
Blade almost shot the man himself. He hastened outside and found Kilrane, Lobo, and Sparrow waiting for him.
"Where's Doc?" the Flathead queried.
"He's coming," Blade said, and gazed at the glass doors, waiting expectantly, not knowing if he would see Madsen emerge or hear the blasting of gunfire. He began to count to ten, intending to go back in when he finished, and he was on nine when the doors swung out and the gunfighter stepped from The Rushmore.
From inside arose mocking laughter.
Doc swung the doors shut behind him and frowned. He looked at the Warrior. "Don't ever ask me to do something like that again."
"Duty comes first."
Kilrane took off at a run to the east. "This way."
Pedestrians scattered out of the path of the five men, some venting exclamations, a few oaths. Most merely gaped at the titan beside Kilrane.
Blade unslung the big M60 as he ran, his mind racing with the implications of this new information. If the creatures had struck just a while ago, the Force might be able to arrive at the scene before the clues, if there were any, were obliterated. He eagerly stayed abreast of Kilrane, passing two buildings in a row, and slowed when they reached the wooden door affording entry to The Beef and Brew.
The Cavalry leader went in first.
Quickly Blade followed, and immediately he spotted Captain Havoc and Raphaela. They were seated at a round table with an elderly man whose gray hair was disheveled and whose expression showed a profound inner turmoil.
"What's happened?" Kilrane demanded, hurrying to the table. He stared at the gray-haired man for a moment, his eyes roving over the man's flannel shirt and overalls. "I know you from somewhere."
"Valesh, sir. Alan Valesh. We met once at a rodeo in Sioux Falls. You were putting on a shooting exhibition and I brought my nephew up to you so he could get an autograph."
"You live near here?"
"Yes, sir. We were in Sioux City that time visiting my son. But Martha and me live five miles south of Rapid City," Valesh said, and his lower lip quivered. "Poor Martha!"
Kilrane moved to the man's side and placed his right hand on Valesh's shoulder. "There, there. Tell me about it."
"Well, like I told these nice young folks, about an hour ago I was putting the stock up for the night in the barn," Valesh explained. "I have a farm, you see. Anyway, we were running late and it was getting quite dark, so Martha went into the house for a lantern." He stopped and swallowed, his throat bobbing.
"Then what happened?" Kilrane prodded gently.
"I heard this god-awful scream and ran out of the barn. And there was Martha forty feet up in the air! I couldn't believe it. Something had a hold of her. She pleaded for help. I could hear this funny noise, like the flapping of an owl or something, and I ran to the house for my rifle." Valesh inhaled loudly and tears moistened his agonized eyes.
"Take your time," Kilrane suggested.
"I'm okay, sir." Valesh sniffled, and continued. "I got my gun and ran out again, but she was gone. Martha was gone!" He bowed his head. "I called out for her again and again, even walked out into the field shouting her name. The full moon lit up the sky fairly decent, but I still couldn't see her anywhere. After a spell I remembered about you being here tonight and I saddled my horse and cut out. Here I am," he concluded wearily.
"Are you up to taking us to your spread?"
"You bet. I want to save Martha."
Kilrane nodded and smiled. "We'll do our best, Alan." He turned to the Warrior. "What do you say?"
"Need you ask? I'll round up Jag and collect our gear. We'll be ready to go in ten minutes."
"Make it twenty. I gave half my team the night off, and it'll take me at least ten minutes just to get the word passed out along the street for them to regroup."
"Twenty minutes, then."
Kilrane dashed out the door.
"You can come with us," Blade told the farmer.
"We'll take care of you," Raphaela added.
"You folks sure are nice," Valesh said, rising. "I pray you can find my Martha before it's too late."
"Did you see the thing that grabbed her?" Blade inquired.
"All I saw was a big dark thing, kind of like a raven."
"Do you have any idea which direction it went?"
"Nope. Sorry."
"You have nothing to apologize for. You did all any man could have done."
"I didn't save poor Martha."
"That's our department," Blade said, and made for the door. "Let's get our tails in gear."
"Here we go again," Lobo said, and groaned.
"What's the matter with you?" Captain Havoc queried.
"I don't know if I can take any more horse-ridin'. I'm not used to bouncing around on top of a smelly animal that takes a dump every fifty feet."
"You did okay when we rode into town," Havoc pointed out.
"Are you kiddin'? I think I damaged the family jewels."
"The what?" Raphaela interjected.
"Never mind," Havoc advised her. "Believe me, you don't want to know."
"Well, at least I should look at the bright side," Lobo mentioned as he headed for the entrance.
"What's that?" Havoc asked.
"We're finally going to kick some butt."
Led by Alan Valesh, the Force and Kilrane's Cavalry detachment rode out of Rapid City 30 minutes later. They headed to the south, paralleling U.S. Highway 16, and thanks to the full moon they were able to maintain a brisk pace. The night was warm, the temperature in the low fifties, and a sluggish breeze wafted from the northwest. Stars sparkled overhead.
Blade rode a big black gelding, a tractable animal that responded superbly to the reins and the pressure of his legs. The M60 hung over his left shoulder and swung from side to side with the motion of the horse. The Weatherby rested in a scabbard on the gelding's right side. He gazed at Kilrane and Valesh, riding ten feet in front.
The countryside consisted of low, rolling hills generally covered with trees, interspersed with plains of high grass.
"What happened back there with Doc, sir?"
Blade glanced to his left at the question from his new second-in-command, then looked over his shoulder to see Madsen, Raphaela, Lobo, and Sparrow 15 feet away. Behind them were the 100 Cavalry riders. The drumming of so many hoofs resembled the beating of countless drums. "He ran into an old enemy."
"So Lobo was telling us," Captain Havoc said. "Doc hasn't spoken a word since we were at The Beef and Brew."
"He has a lot on his mind."
"Will he need our help?"
"Yes and no."
"I don't follow you, sir."
"Yes, he could use our help, but no, he won't ask for it. He wants to handle the problem alone and we'll respect his wishes," Blade said. "And you can stop calling me sir."
"Old habits are hard to break, si—" Havoc said, and caught himself.
"I know you've devoted your life to the military and you're accustomed to doing things the military way," Blade stated. "But I'd much prefer to be called by my name."
"It's hard for me to call a superior officer by his name."
"How about if I make the request a direct order?"
Havoc grinned. "That might do the trick. Blade." He stared straight ahead, thinking of how much he had grown to like the Warrior in the past few months, and he felt a twinge of guilt at the deception he was practicing. How could he betray a man he respected so highly? The giant had turned out to be a decent, conscientious leader devoted to the people under him.
The captain sighed. Why couldn't Blade be a heartless bastard? It would make the job of ruining him that much easier. He thought of his younger brother, Jimmy, and about how Blade had to shoulder the blame for Jimmy's death. If the Warrior hadn't made an unauthorized stop in Canada when the Force was en route from Alaska to California, Sergeant James Havoc would still be alive.
How he missed Jimmy! Havoc averted his face from the giant and frowned. He'd been especially close to his adventuresome sibling. Out of the five Havoc children, they'd been the closest. Their childhood had been spent playing and hiking and hunting together. They'd encouraged one another to enter the service, and been mutually supportive of their career decisions. Perhaps the fact they were only eleven months apart in age accounted for their enduring brotherly affection.
And that affection had made Jimmy's loss all the harder to bear. Havoc scowled and stared at the heavens. The idea of his brother being slain by murderous pirate riffraff had been difficult enough to accept without the added realization that Jimmy wouldn't have died if Blade had adhered to orders and flown directly to California.
Was it any wonder he had initially despised the Warrior? Could he be blamed for siding with General Gallagher in the general's clever, clandestine scheme to discredit Blade and cause the Force to disband? Would the heavy finger of censure point at him later when the job was done? After all, the general himself believed California had no business being part of the Federation and subsidizing the Freedom Force.
The damn general!
The unmilitary reflection startled Havoc. He'd never entertained a remotely rebellious notion in his entire service career, and doing so now jolted his finely honed perception of loyalty and unquestioning obedience. But he had to admit his feelings to himself, and he felt intense resentment at the general for not being permitted to drop his vendetta.
Who would have figured he'd up and change his mind? After working with Blade for over two months, after getting to know the Warrior and discovering that no one cared for the team members more than Blade, Havoc had changed his mind about destroying the Force from within. General Gallagher, however, wasn't about to let him off the hook. Gallagher insisted on carrying through with their plan, which explained the good general's elation at Havoc's new position as second-in-command. Gallagher believed the job would be easier as a consequence, and just prior to the departure of the Force for the Dakota Territory, while the others were stowing the gear, the general had taken Havoc aside and stressed the need to destroy the Force at all costs.
Captain Havoc suddenly became aware the giant was speaking.
"—happy about your promotion."
Havoc glanced at the Warrior. "I'm sorry. What was that?"
"I couldn't help but notice General Gallagher was extremely happy about your promotion," Blade said, repeating his observation.
"Yes, he was," Havoc responded flatly, his forehead creasing. Why had the Warrior made such a comment? Did Blade suspect?
"At least I'll have some help keeping Lobo in line," Blade quipped.
"I'll do what I can, but I'm not a miracle worker," Havoc responded in kind.
Blade smiled, then tensed when he saw Kilrane rein up and signal for the column to halt. He goaded the gelding forward and stopped on the right side of the Cavalry leader's Palamino. "What is it?"
"Your hybrid," Kilrane said, and pointed to the south.
Blade spotted Jaguarundi a moment later, sprinting toward them at a deceptively easy long-legged pace. He had sent the mutation on ahead for three reasons. First, horses reacted skittishly to Jag's mere presence, and for Jag to be able to mount and ride one was next to impossible. Second, Jag could cover ground just as fast as any horse; years ago the notorious Doktor had clocked Jaguarundi's top speed at 52 miles an hour. Third, Jag had asked to scout the terrain and Blade had seen no reason to refuse. He had insisted that Jag take an M-16.
"We shouldn't have very far to go," Kilrane commented as they waited for the mutation to reach them.
"Less than a mile," Valesh confirmed.
"Did you alert your neighbors before you rode into Rapid City?" Blade thought to inquire.
"Just my neighbor to the east," Valesh answered. "Gary Norman. I swung by his place on the way into town."
"Had he seen anything unusual?"
"Nope. He offered to ride to my spread and stay there until I got back."
"Nice neighbor."
Valesh nodded. "Out here folks know how to pull together. It's not like the towns and cities where every mother's son is out to stab you in the back."
Blade glanced at the hybrid, who was now only 30 feet distant. He adjusted the M60 and leaned forward. "Anything?"
"I found the farm—a two-story farmhouse and a big red barn," Jag replied as he slowed. "There wasn't any sign of anyone."
"Nothing at all?"
"Except for a white horse hitched to a post in front of the house," Jag said, amending his statement.
"That would be Gary Norman's horse," Valesh disclosed. "He must be there somewhere."
"Maybe he was in the house or the barn," Blade speculated, his gaze on Jag. "Did you go in?"
"Nope. Just looked around a little and came on back."
"Okay. Lead the way. Don't get more than thirty feet in front of us, and holler if you see or hear anything unusual."
"You've got it," Jag said, and pivoted. He jogged into the darkness, his supple form outlined in a pale glow by the full moon.
"Strange critter," Valesh remarked. "I've never seen his like before."
"And you won't again," Blade mentioned. "He's unique, a one-of-a-kind hybrid."
Valesh stared skyward. "Kilrane told me a mutation might have taken my Martha." He paused. "I'm not too fond of mutants at the moment."
"Head out," Kilrane directed, and motioned with his right arm.
Blade rode southward, wondering why Kilrane bothered with the hand motion when most of the Cavalrymen wouldn't be able to see the gesture in the gloom. Force of habit, he figured, and concentrated on the plain ahead.
A minute elapsed. Then two.
Buildings materialized up ahead, a house and a barn, both illuminated from within by lanterns that cast their radiance through the windows of the home and the open barn doors.
"That's odd," Valesh said.
"What is?" Kilrane asked.
"I didn't light all those lanterns. Gary must have done it."
The column started across a field bordering the structures. Crickets chirped on all sides.
"From what I can see, you have a nice spread," Kilrane stated tactfully.
"Thanks," Valesh replied absently, his gaze riveted to the farmhouse and the barn. "But it won't mean a thing to me without Martha at my side."
Blade saw Jag standing between both buildings, awaiting them. He looked over his left shoulder at the members of his team. "Stay frosty, people."
"Do you think the creature might still be around?" Raphaela inquired.
"I doubt it, but you never know."
"Can we take a break from all this ridin'?" Lobo wanted to know. "I've about bounced my buns down to nothing."
"I've observed your riding technique," Sparrow said. "My sympathy lies with your horse."
"Was that a cut?" Lobo snapped.
"No."
"Good."
"I'd never insult a horse."
Blade noticed that Jag was staring at the stars, and he looked up and discovered a number of clouds floating tranquilly in the air over the buildings. There was nothing out of the ordinary. Fifteen seconds later Blade reined up six feet from the hybrid and slid to the ground, relieved to be on the ground again. He hadn't ridden in a while and his inner thigh muscles were aching from the strain.
"I heard something," Jag bluntly announced.
"What?" Blade asked.
"Something in the sky. A swishing noise, sort of."
Kilrane stayed in the saddle and scanned the firmament. "How high up?"
"Hard to determine."
The Cavalry leader twisted and barked out instructions. "Armitage, take half the men and scour the fields for a mile in every direction. Treon, take the other half and form a perimeter around these buildings. Keep your eyes on the sky."
"Yes, sir."
"On our way."
Displaying practiced precision, the two lieutenants led their contingents off. The horses raised clouds of dust as they filed to their appointed duties.
"Excuse me for asking, sir," Captain Havoc stated, speaking to Kilrane. "But is it wise to divide your force? We don't know the enemy's strength."
"There has never been more than one of the creatures reported at any given time," Kilrane responded. "Even if there are several, we have enough firepower to take them down. Plus, for once they won't have the element of surprise working in their favor."
Blade unslung the M60. "Captain Havoc, I want you and the others to stand guard right here while Kilrane and I inspect the house and the barn."
"Yes sir."
"I'll go with you," Valesh offered.
The Warrior walked toward the farmhouse, passing the tethered white horse.
"Yep. This is definitely Gary Norman's animal," Valesh confirmed.
"Where could he be?" Kilrane queried, dismounting with a Winchester in his right hand.
"Probably in the house," Valesh suggested.
Blade took the lead and moved along a narrow cement walk to a wooden porch. Both the screen door and the inner door were ajar, and he paused, feeling vaguely uneasy. There were heavy drapes over both front windows, backlit by the lanterns within but concealing the interior from view.
"I know I didn't leave the doors open," Valesh observed. "That Gary can be a forgetful cuss." He made for the door.
"Let me," Kilrane proposed quickly, and slid past the farmer to reach the doors first.
Valesh halted abruptly. "You don't reckon there's something in my house?"
"You never know," Kilrane said, and pried the screen door wide with his left boot. He glanced at the Warrior. "You coming?"
"I thought I'd stay out here and enjoy the fresh air."
"You're getting as bad as Lobo."
"There's no need to be insulting," Blade cracked, and stepped to the right of the door. "Ready when you are."
Kilrane nodded, kicked the inner door open, and ducked into the house.
His nerves on edge, Blade did likewise. He bore to the left once he was in, scarcely paying attention to the immaculate floors and walls or the quaint furniture, searching for signs of life.
The two friends went down a hall, past stairs, a moderately spacious living room, a sewing room, and a closet, and ultimately found themselves in a tidy kitchen where the delectable scents of delicious meals past lingered in the air.
"Nothing," Kilrane said.
They retraced their route to the stairs located to the left of the entrance.
"Me first this time," Blade stated, and bounded up the steps three at a time, frowning at the loud creaking noises accompanying his ascent. At the top he crouched and scanned another corridor, narrower than the hall below, with two doors on either side. "I'll take the right," he said.
"Just scream if you need me," Kilrane quipped.
Blade sidled to the nearest door, which hung partly open, and shoved with the M60. Within was a bedroom, decently furnished and as neat as the proverbial pin. But no monsters.
So far.
Beginning to relax, and attributing his jittery condition to a case of nerves, Blade strode to the second door and pushed. He discovered yet another bedroom, as spotless and homey as the rest of the house, the king-sized bed covered with a thick blue quilt. "All clear here," he announced.
"Nothing on this side," Kilrane stated, and sighed. "Those things must be long gone."
As if to contradict the Cavalry leader's statement, gunfire erupted outside, the brittle chatter of an automatic weapon.
Blade instantly took off, racing down the hall and descending the stairs four at a bound. He slammed the screen door aside and dashed across the porch to the yard, the M60 pressed tight against his right side, ready for the worst.
All of the Force members were gazing skyward, all with their M-16's pointed upward.
Blade ran toward them. He saw Lobo berating Raphaela.
"—don't ever do that again, Red! Damn! You scared me out of ten years of growth!"
"Clam up, Lobo," Captain Havoc barked.
The Warrior reached the end of the walk. "What was all that firing about?"
"It was this crazy Molewoman!" Lobo replied before anyone else could. "She's jumpy as hell. Damn near took my head off with her first shot."
"I did not," Raphaela retorted defensively.
"What were you firing at?" Blade inquired, striding over to them, his gray eyes probing the heavens.
"I saw something," Raphaela stated.
"What?"
"I don't know. I looked up and there was this big shadowy form diving right at us. I just fired automatically," Raphaela explained. "And I came nowhere near Lobo," she added.
"Says you, woman."
Blade glanced at the captain. "Did you see anything?"
"No, sir," Havoc said with evident reluctance.
"Don't ask me, dude," Lobo interjected. "I was too busy dodgin' bullets."
The Warrior faced the Clansman. "Do you remember what Captain Havoc just told you?"
"Of course. If you ask me, he's lettin' this second-in-command business go to his head."
"When he gives you an order you're to obey his commands just as if I'd given them to you," Blade stated sternly. "If you don't, you'll answer to me."
"Geez. Doesn't anyone in this outfit know how to chill out?"
"Consider yourself on report."
Lobo blinked in surprise. "Say what?"
"And if you open your mouth again, if you so much as burp, I'm shipping you back to the Clan."
"You wouldn't!"
"Try me."
Lobo's mouth widened, then abruptly closed.
"That's better," Blade said, and surveyed the others. "Did anyone else see the thing Raphaela shot at? Doc? Sparrow?"
The gunfighter and the Flathead both shook their heads.
"What about you, Jag?" Blade questioned.
"I heard something," the hybrid answered, his puzzled face upturned.
"What?"
Jag shook his head. "I'm not sure. A whistling."
The Warrior studied the stars and the few clouds drifting overhead. "Whistling?"
A bob of Jag's chin accented his comment. "A strange sort of whistling, almost like the noise the Hurricane makes when it's in a power dive, only this sound was almost inaudible."
Blade looked at Raphaela. "Did you hit it?"
"I don't know. It swooped back up again so fast I almost thought I'd imagined the whole incident."
The Warrior smiled at her. "You did good."
"I did?"
"One of us would be missing right now, snatched from our very midst, if you hadn't fired."
Raphaela beamed proudly. "It's nice to know I'm appreciated."
Blade turned to Havoc. "I believe you tied the cases containing the scope and the mike on Sparrow's horse. Get them."
"You've got it," the officer promptly replied, and gestured at Sparrow. "Give me a hand."
They walked over to the horses.
"I'd like to check my barn for Gary," Valesh mentioned.
"I'll go with you," Kilrane spoke up.
The Warrior glanced at the enormous barn, troubled at Gary Norman's prolonged absence. The man had to have heard Raphaela's shots. So where was he? "Lobo, tag along with them," he instructed.
For once the Clansman didn't argue.
Blade watched the three men move toward the open barn doors. Since Raphaela, Doc, and Jag were all scrutinizing the sky, he didn't bother lifting his own head to the heavens. Consequently, he had no idea they were in immediate danger until the Molewoman uttered a strident cry.
"Look out! Here they come!"
Blade glanced at Raphaela, saw her shocked countenance fixed in the direction of the farmhouse, and spun, bringing the M60 barrel up, his gaze darting high into the air over the building. He anticipated the attack would come from a lofty elevation.
The Warrior was wrong.
Voicing twin high-pitched shrieks, a pair of inky figures swept down toward the Force, coming in low, barely skimming the roof of the farmhouse, their outlines streamlined because their wings were tucked flush with their backs for greater diving speed, their arms extended in a power dive.
Blade glimpsed the uncanny duo when they crested the front porch and sped straight at his team. He snapped off a burst, hurrying his shots in his anxiety for his people, and his first rounds missed the creatures and tore into the farmhouse.
Cleaving the night air like huge birds of prey, the two grotesqueries were upon the humans in the blink of an eye.
It all happened so incredibly fast that Havoc and Sparrow, who were standing next to the horses, and Kilrane and Lobo, who were near the barn, had to hold their fire for fear of hitting their companions.
Raphaela got off a dozen rounds at point-blank range, her shots smacking into the creature on the right. But whether her bullets had no effect, or whether the thing was simply moving too rapidly to be stopped by anything, an instant later she felt awesomely strong hands clamp onto her upper arms and the creature began to surge upward bearing her with it.
"No!" Jag bellowed, and reverted to his feline nature. He dropped the useless M-16 and leaped at the thing holding Raphaela, intending to land on its back and rip his nails into its flesh.
Reacting too swiftly for the eye to follow, the second creature swerved and delivered a stunning blow with both clenched fists on the hybrid's temple, dropping him like a stone.
Forgetting her training and her resolve to persevere no matter what transpired, Raphaela, whose nostrils were tingled by an alien, musty odor, and who saw hair and teeth and feral eyes all in a rush, screamed.
No one could fire without striking her.
With a notable exception.
Not even bothering to employ the M-16 slung over his left arm, Doc Madsen took three strides, his Magnum flashing from its holster, and angling the barrel, planted two shots apiece into the back of the creature holding the Molewoman, aiming high on the monstrosity's shoulder, well above Raphaela's head.
The thing screeched, its mighty wings flapping, and suddenly gained a wobbly momentum, arcing into the night with its victim clasped in an iron embrace. Right on its heels came the second being.
"Raphaela!" Lobo shouted.
Blade was seething. He ran a few yards after the things, distinguishing their flapping forms at least 60 feet overhead, until the futility of the pursuit occurred to him. "Damn!" he fumed, and spun. "Havoc! The scope and mike! On the double, man!"
Hooves thundered from every direction as the Cavalrymen assigned to guard the perimeter rode in to investigate the din.
Kilrane ran up to the Warrior. "What do you want me to do? Send some of my men after them?"
"Your men couldn't keep up with them in the dark," Blade responded harshly, furious at himself for allowing Raphaela to be taken. He pivoted impatiently and found Havoc and Sparrow running toward him, the captain bearing the scope, the Flathead holding the mike. "Hurry it up!" he snapped.
Doc Madsen was helping Jaguarundi to rise.
Blade looked at the somberly sinister sky, and off to the south he detected motion, perhaps the continued flapping of heavy wings, which meant the fiends were already hundreds of yards distant.
In confirmation came a plaintive appeal from that direction. "Blade! Mike! Someone help me!"
Rarely had Blade felt as intensely frustrated as at that moment. He gripped the M60 until his knuckles hurt.
"Here you go, sir," Captain Havoc declared, halting on the giant's right.
Blade slung the M60 over his brawny left shoulder and grabbed the Nite-Vision device. He pressed the eyepiece to his right eye and stabbed the proper button to activate the system.
Painted a nonreflective black, the miljtary's infrared wonder consisted of two short, squat, circular tubes placed one on top of the other, with a padded support extending from underneath the bottom tube to be used as a brace on the shoulder. The top tube contained the infrared light source; the lower tube housed the viewing lenses, which in this case included a special zoom lens capable of pinpointing the head on a nail at 500 yards with the clarity of atmospheric light at twilight.
"Any sign of her?" Havoc inquired apprehensively.
"Not yet," Blade said, sweeping the Nite-Vision back and forth across the southern sky. Seconds later the device picked up Raphaela and the two creatures at the extreme limit of its range. Their forms were ambiguous shapes and he could discern few details. He noticed that the thing bearing the Molewoman appeared to be having difficulty keeping up with its comrade. Doc's shots must have had an effect, he deduced, and a horrendous thought hit him.
What if the creature dropped her?
"Give me the mike," Blade directed, handing the Nite-Vision scope back to the captain.
"Here you go," Sparrow said, extending the device.
The Penetrator sound detector was also painted black to minimize glare during night use. It was comprised of a handheld tube about 12 inches in length and four inches in diameter, which housed the sophisticated battery-powered electronic circuitry, and included a miniature super-sensitive microphone attached to the center of the small parabolic dish affixed to the end of the tube. A single knob on top served the dual purpose of on switch and volume control. At the inner end of the tube was a tiny speaker and an input jack to be used with headphones.
Blade didn't bother with the headphones. He snatched the sound detector, twisted the knob, and pointed the parabolic dish in the general direction of the departing creatures. From the speakers issued the unmistakable flapping of huge wings.
"What is the range on that?" Sparrow Hawk inquired.
"About a mile," Blade disclosed, and glanced over his left shoulder. "Jag!"
The hybrid came over, rubbing his sore left temple. "What do you need?"
"I want you to take off after those things," Blade ordered. "Stay as close to them as you can, but don't let them know they're being followed. With this you can stay a half mile or more behind them and have a margin to spare." He handed the detector to the mutation.
"No problem," Jag said. He aimed the dish to the south and detected the beating wings. "Don't worry, I won't lose them. I owe those creeps. And if it's all the same to you I'd like to leave my M-16 here. It would only slow me down."
"Leave it," Blade said. "We'll be hard on your heels. Mark the trail as best you can. Use stones or tree limbs or whatever."
Jaguarundi started on his quest, accelerating speedily.
"Remember," Captain Havoc called out, "if you lose them, we lose Raphaela."
"You think I don't know that?" Jag said in parting, without looking around, and sprinted out of sight within 30 seconds.
"God, that poor woman," Havoc commented with uncharacteristic emotion.
Blade stared at the officer for a second, mulling the possible implication, then turned to Kilrane. "Can we be ready to leave in five minutes?"
"You've got it," the frontiersman responded, and moved toward a cluster of Cavalrymen.
"What about me?" Alan Valesh inquired, approaching the giant. "What about Martha and Gary?"
"I don't know about your neighbor," Blade said. "The things may have grabbed him. You keep searching your property. In the meantime, we'll track the creatures to their lair and rescue your wife and Raphaela."
"I'll pack some grub and go with you."
"No."
"But it's my wife we're talking about," Valesh protested. "I have a right to go along."
"Ordinarily I would agree, but we'll be riding hard night and day if necessary. You might not be able to keep up."
The farmer snorted. "I could ride before you were born, mister. I'll keep up. Don't you worry."
"I'm afraid the issue isn't open to discussion," Blade informed him politely. "If I say you're not going, you're not going."
Valesh arched his spine. "And just who the hell do you think you are to be giving me orders? I'm not one of your Force people."
"The authority was vested in me by the Federation leaders. Kilrane agreed to the provision. We're working together on this mission, and I know he'll back me up. If you don't believe me, ask him."
"I sure as hell will!" Valesh declared, and marched stiffly in Kilrane's direction.
"He's ticked off, and I can't say as how I blame him," Captain Havoc said.
"It can't be helped," Blade said, and nodded at the scope. "Put that back in its case and strap the case on Sparrow's horse."
"You don't want it on yours?"
"No. You did right the first time. The equipment is too valuable to risk losing it in an accident," Blade said, and looked at the Flathead. "You're one of our best horsemen so you get to carry the gear."
"Doc is a better rider than I am," Sparrow noted.
"True, but Doc is too preoccupied right now to think straight," Blade remarked.
Havoc and Sparrow started for the Flathead's horse.
"Captain, you can take Jag's M-16 with you," Blade directed.
"Yes, sir."
Satisfied with the arrangements but chafing with impatience to be off after Raphaela, Blade rotated to gaze southward.
And there stood Doc Madsen.
The Warrior recovered from the embarrassment quickly. "You heard?"
Doc nodded. "Don't feel bad. You were right on the money. I am preoccupied. If I wasn't, I would have nailed those creatures sooner." He paused. "It's partly my fault they grabbed Raphaela."
"Your shots didn't faze that one very much. I doubt whether the outcome would have been any different even if you had been fully alert."
"Maybe," Doc said without conviction.
Blade studied the gunfighter's features. "We haven't had a chance to talk about what happened in town, and I can't spare any time now, but I will let you know that none of us will interfere unless you want our help."
"Thanks."
"I take it Harvey Kiernan isn't long for this world?"
"Need you ask? You, better than all the others, should understand. A man does what he has to do."
"Don't I know it," Blade said, and frowned. "Okay. When we get back you're on your own. Let's mount up."
Doc's thin lips cracked in a friendly smile and he made for his animal.
"What about me, dude?"
Blade faced the Clansman. "What about you?"
"Maybe I should stay here and guard the old geezer."
"No."
"But what if those things come back, man? He wouldn't stand a snowball's chance in hell against those mutants and you know it."
"If Valesh stays indoors he should be safe," Blade stated. "And like it or not, you're part of this team. You're coming with us."
"No big deal. I'm hoping to waste some of those flyin' chumps myself."
"Mount up," Blade ordered, and watched the Clansman hurry to his horse. Now what was that all about? Why would Lobo volunteer to stay behind when Raphaela's life was in danger. He thought they were close friends. What if his estimation of Lobo's character was way off base? What if the Clansman only cared about number one? He shook his head to dispel those thoughts for the moment, and out of the corner of his left eye spied Alan Valesh returning.
An irate Alan Valesh.
"I hope you're satisfied, Mister High-and-Mighty!" the angry farmer declared. "Kilrane says if you don't want me to go, I can't go."
"It's for the best," Blade said, trying to console him.
"Best my ass! I bet if it was your wife who had been captured by flying freaks that you wouldn't stay home twiddling your thumbs while someone else went after her."
"We're experts at this sort of job, Alan. If anyone can save Martha, we can."
"You avoided the issue. Would you stay home if it was your wife?"
Blade looked the farmer in the eyes. "Nice try, but you're staying put and that's final."
"What's this world coming to when one man can tell another what to do and what not to do?" Valesh said bitterly. He walked toward the farmhouse. "The Dakota Territory is turning into a damned dictatorship."
"Keep your doors locked," Blade suggested.
"You know where you can shove the doors."
The Warrior sighed and hastened to the black gelding. He mounted, careful to avoid banging the M60 against the horse, and shifted to stare at his team. "Everyone set?"
"We're ready, sir," Captain Havoc answered for the group.
"Our primary priority has been changed," Blade told them. "We still need to locate the lair these creatures are using and eradicate them, but first and foremost we've got to save Raphaela. Martha Valesh is important. And so is Gary Norman, if they have him. But Raphaela is one of our own. We don't come back without her."
"Now you're talkin', dude," Lobo commented.
"Don't worry, sir," Havoc said. "We've taken your teachings to heart. None of us will rest until she's found."
Blade nodded and turned just as Kilrane rode up.
"I've sent word to Armitage. The other half of my men should be here shortly."
"Good."
Kilrane stared at the heavens. "Did you happen to see those things?"
"All I got was a glimpse. They were moving too fast."
"Did you notice they were covered with hair?"
Blade nodded.
"Which means they aren't birds," Kilrane said. "They're animals of some kind."
"That'd be my guess."
Kilrane rested his hands on the pommel of his brown saddle. "This is the first time more than one of the things have been involved."
"So far as you know."
"Yeah," Kilrane said flatly. "It's so damn frustrating. We're completely in the dark. We have no idea what we're fighting."
"We're not totally in the dark," Blade amended.
"How do you figure?"
"Like you pointed out, we now know the things are mammals. Since they've been abducting humans for decades, and maybe longer, they must have a viable population for reproducing. There could be dozens of the creatures."
"There could be hundreds," Kilrane remarked, his countenance indicating he found the likelihood unpleasant.
"Could be," Blade agreed. "It's also probable they're strictly nocturnal, and nocturnal mammals usually have certain traits in common. They hole up during the day, their eyes don't adjust well to bright light, and their hearing is invariably sharp because they have to rely more on their ears than animals who go abroad during daylight hours. So we know a little."
"There's one additional likely fact you've overlooked," Kilrane said.
"Which is?"
"They're probably meat-eaters."
The arrival of Armitage and the rest of the Cavalry detachment served as the catalyst for action. Kilrane organized his men into a column behind the Force, with two Cavalrymen riding abreast all the way down the line. He placed Armitage and the other lieutenant, Treon, at the head of the column, then joined Blade at the forefront. In minutes they were under way.
Blade pushed the gelding hard, engrossed in reflection, dreading the idea of harm befalling Raphaela. Once again he stood an excellent chance of losing one of his team, and once again his emotions were torn ragged by the strain of uncertainty. Yet another mission had gone awry. A simple assignment to track down and slay a mutation had apparently escalated into open warfare between the human race and only the Spirit knew what.
It figured.
He held the reins loosely in his left hand and surveyed the rolling terrain, keeping his eyes close to the ground ahead, searching for the signs Jaguarundi would leave. After a while they came to a series of high hills covered with dense forest, and at the edge of the woods, at the very base of the first hill where the trees and the grasses met, the trunk of a dead tree and several branches had been arranged in the shape of a gigantic arrow 15 feet in length.
The arrow pointed to the southwest.
Blade barely slowed. So the creatures had changed direction slightly! He angled the gelding on the course indicated, grateful for the bright moonlight, well aware trailing Jaguarundi would be impossible without it.
Animal sounds arose in the forest: howls and snarls and yips, mingling in a bestial chorus, the cries of the predators and their prey.
With over a hundred mounted men at his back, Blade wasn't particularly concerned about the column being attacked by a wild beast or a mutation. Most wildlife would naturally avoid such a sizeable group of humans. Mutates would pose a problem, but they were becoming scarcer every year because the number of regenerating chemical clouds was dwindling.
Still, Blade kept his eyes and ears open as he rode into the hills, bearing in a generally southwesterly direction, hoping he wouldn't accidentally miss the next marker.
Fifteen minutes went by. A half hour. The night air became cooler, the breeze stronger.
Blade began to wonder if the rolling landscape would ever end. At least now he understood why the region had been named the Black Hills. He recalled reading during his schooling years at the Home that the Indians of long ago, back in the days of of the early American frontier, had viewed the Black Hills as sacred. Those Indians, the Sioux, had been "given" the Black Hills in a treaty. Later, after gold was discovered, the Black Hills were wrested from the Indians and "taken" by the white man.
Was it sheer concidence that now creatures spawned in the aftermath of the nuclear Armegeddon could well end up "taking" the Black Hills for their own?
Blade smiled, remembering a saying popular in California. What goes around, comes around.
How true.
Twenty minutes later the trees began to thin out and the hills gave way to flat land.
"We're almost to the Dead Zone," Kilrane disclosed.
The Warrior frowned. Terrific. Just what he wanted to hear. The last time he'd been foolhardy enough to venture into a Dead Zone, he'd been lucky to emerge with his skin intact. He saw a sapling lying on the ground in front of him and started to skirt it. Only when he glanced down did he realize the thin tree was another marker deposited by Jag, and he reined up. "Look at this," he said.
The lower branches had been stripped off the sapling, and the bottom end of the tree had been aligned to point to the southwest.
"There's no doubt about it. We definitely know where they're headed," Kilrane remarked.
"If only we knew where they are," Blade stated absently.
A second later he found out when the swishing of countless wings filled the air, mixed with dozens of raucous shrieks, and heavy forms plummeted in droves onto the Force and the Cavalry.
Jaguarundi loped at a steady pace, his lean limbs pumping rhythmically, the parabolic microphone clutched in his right hand, his loincloth brushing his thighs as he ran. Two hundred yards from the Valesh house he glanced over his right shoulder for a parting glimpse of his friends.
Did he say friends?
The thought gave him food for contemplation as he faced to the south and pressed alone into the murky land of shadows and malevolent whispers. He truly did regard his teammates as friends, even that lame-brained Lobo, which in itself was quite remarkable. There had been a time, years ago, when he'd firmly believed hybrids and humans could never experience genuine friendship.
Back in the good old days.
The ironic phrase brought a twisted grin to his mouth. How could anyone in their right mind label those days spent under the Doktor's paternal, eternally vigilant watch as good? The Doktor had been the vilest son of a bitch ever to put on pants, human or otherwise. When future historians got around to compiling a catalogue of the worst bastards in the history of the planet Earth, the Doktor would rank right up there with Jack the Ripper and Adolf Hitler. Come to think of it, the Doktor had been a curious combination of those two notorious gentlemen, combining all of their wickedest traits into a single demented personality.
Yes, sir.
A regular butcher.
But try as he might, Jag couldn't bring himself to hate the Doktor as much as he felt he should. How could he totally loathe the man who had brought him into existence, even if that man qualified as Depravity Incarnate? If not for the pioneering genetic work of the Doktor's, if not for that evil man's undeniable genius, Jag would never have known life, never have breathed in the crisp air on a radiant morning, never have known the thrill of feeling his blood pumping through his veins when he exerted himself.
How could a person despise his own creator?
The hoot of an owl brought Jag back to reality and he paused in surprise at his carelessness. With Raphaela's life at stake, now was hardly the time to indulge in musing. He raised the dish and checked the southern sky, and within seconds the beating of leathery wings came distinctly from the small speaker.
They were still out there, still bearing Raphaela to the south.
Jag switched the control knob off to conserve the battery power and resumed his pursuit. He partly blamed himself for Raphaela's predicament. If he hadn't been looking the other way when the creatures swept over the farmhouse, if he'd had time to react, he might have intercepted them before Raphaela was snatched and prevented them from taking her. Then again, he might not have made a difference. He gingerly touched his left temple, reliving being struck, vividly remembering the sheer power behind that blow.
Whatever they were, they were strong.
He also recalled the unfamiliar scent he'd detected. Once before his sensitive nostrils had registered such a tangy odor, but he couldn't isolate exactly when. Had it been during his years at the Doktor's Citadel in Cheyenne, Wyoming? Or elsewhere perhaps?
And what about that face!
Jag mentally reviewed the unsettling vision of the creature's bestial face sweeping toward him. He'd seen a gaping mouth rimmed with tapered teeth, a sloping forehead, and fantastically huge triangular ears. The thing's dark eyes, in particular, had arrested him with their malevolent intensity.
What were they?
He felt he should know their identity, and his failure to peg them annoyed him. If anyone should know about the various kinds of mutations, about all the genetic permutations to which normal species were susceptible, he should be the one. He'd spent the better part of a decade working in the damn Citadel; he'd witnessed the Doktor at work countless times and listened to the madman discourse about genetic engineering and the effects of radiation on the biosphere.
Something snorted.
The unexpected noise caused Jag to stop short, listening to the night sounds of the wildlife. He wondered if a predator had picked up his scent. The last thing he needed was to be delayed by an animal intent on consuming him for din-din.
The animal snorted again.
This time Jag determined the direction. Due west. He peered at a stand of trees 20 yards distant and perceived a dim, inky bulk moving against the backdrop of vegetation. It was the size of a cow, and since, by his estimation, he must still be on the Valesh farm, he assumed the animal actually was a cow.
Cows weren't anything to be worried about.
Grinning, Jag continued southward, and he had taken several loping strides when he heard the thumping of powerful hoofs hitting the earth, and it abruptly occurred to him there were other large farm animals that snorted on occasion.
Horses, for one.
Bulls for another.
A bull!
Jag glanced over his right shoulder and the fine hairs at the nape of his neck tingled as he laid eyes on a charging brown bull, over half a ton of throbbing muscle and sinew, and saw its curved horns revealed in the glow of the moon.
Not now!
Scowling, Jag took off to the south, running fast but not at his top speed, fleetingly furious at Valesh for not mentioning a bull was kept in the nearby fields. His fury dissipated with the realization that Valesh had been preoccupied with more important matters. He looked back, confident he could outrun his bovine pursuer, and he felt genuine surprise at seeing the bull gaining.
Damn!
What did Valesh feed the thing?
And why wasn't the brute fenced?
Jag pumped his arms and legs, holding tightly to the parabolic microphone, and scanned the terrain ahead. The field terminated less than 40 yards away at the base of a grass-covered hill.
Perfect.
He'd lose the sucker on the opposite side of the hill.
Not unduly concerned, Jag checked on the bull again, and the second he turned his head he tripped. His left foot caught in a rut and he went down hard onto his knees, arching his back, the Detector clasped to his chest to avoid damaging the device. He got his left foot on the hard ground, then heard an enraged snort and the thundering of hoofs from only a few yards to the north.
There was no time to look, no time for anything but instinctive action.
Jag threw himself to the right, onto his right shoulder, and he felt something brush his side. Clumps of dirt struck his fur. He rolled on his shoulder and pranced lightly erect.
The horned patriarch of the pasture had lumbered for 15 yards before realizing it had missed. Displaying amazing alacrity for such a massive beast, the bull wheeled, snorted, pawed the turf, and charged once more.
Jag was ready. He ran straight at the bull, the microphone tucked safely into his left elbow, grinning at the challenge. One good charge deserved another, he reasoned, and extended his right arm.
The bull was oblivious to everything except its intended victim. Its brutish mind entertained a single imperative, to destroy the violator of his territory. It fixed its blazing eyes on the cat-man and drove its mighty legs forward.
Jaguarundi tensed his leg muscles, gauging the distance between them critically, steeling himself not to panic as the bull drew nearer and nearer, forcing himself to stay calm, concentrating on the maneuver. He'd spent many an hour in the gym at the Citadel, honing his acrobatic skills, and now all that practice paid off a healthy dividend.
Ten feet separated them.
Six.
Four.
Jag leaped in a high arc, bringing his slim body horizontal to the ground, his right arm still outstretched, timing his tactic superbly. The bull passed underneath him a millisecond later, and in that instant he thrust his right palm against the bulging hump between the bull's front shoulders and shoved off, using his arm as a fulcrum to gain added momentum, even as he executed a flip and sailed up and over the beast.
The rampaging bull kept going.
As if he possessed the mass of a mere feather, Jag alighted on the grass with etheral grace and promptly raced toward the hill, smiling cockily. Once again hybrid superiority had prevailed! He looked back and saw the bull standing still, belligerently sniffing the air and gazing to the right and the left, clearly confounded by the loss of its quarry.
What a dummy!
Jag would have laughed if not for the fact he didn't want the brute after him again. He came to the hill and sprinted to the crest, glad the parabolic device had survived the encounter unscathed. Thinking of the detector brought Raphaela to mind and he halted, anxious to verify whether he was still bearing in the right direction. He switched on the microphone and pointed the dish to the south. Sure enough, from the speaker fluttered the flapping of those mysterious creatures.
Right on target.
Jag rotated and aimed the device at the open range below. The mike detected the raspy breathing of the irate bull, but not as strongly as he anticipated. Puzzled, he moved the dish back and form to pinpoint the animal's exact location. The sound increased dramatically as he moved the detector to the right, which indicated the bull was moving to the east.
Heading off to trample some innocent raccoon, no doubt.
Chuckling, Jag turned off the sole link between the Force and Raphaela and resumed his interrupted journey. In a mile the rolling plain gave way to high hills blanketed with trees. He ascended the first hill and employed the parabolic microphone again. His mouth curled downward when he discovered the things had changed their course.
The creatures were now flying to the southwest.
Peeved, Jag retraced his path to the bottom of the hill. He'd need to leave a marker informing Blade of the change. Something big. A downed tree, long since toppled by lightning, was ideal for the purpose. He hauled the trunk to the edge of the plain, then collected a few branches and constructed an enormous arrow.
That should do it.
Concerned about the loss of precious time, Jag proceeded on his tireless trek, plunging into the dank forest and bearing in the new direction. He felt as if he'd submerged himself in an ocean of wildlife. The woods teemed with bestial cries and challenges. To his nostrils wafted the scents of rabbits, deer, and bear, as well as an occasional scent belonging to none of the known species. He wasn't the only mutation abroad.
Just so nothing else tried to stop him.
The hills seemed to go on forever. Twice he stopped and used the parabolic microphone, and each time he confirmed the creatures were maintaining their southwesterly heading. Eventually the forest became thinner and he reached another plain.
Time for another marker.
Jag placed the device on the ground and scoured the vicinity for an object he could utilize. He decided on a thin sapling, which he pulled from the ground with considerable effort. After stripping off the bottom limbs he aligned the tree to point to the southwest.
Blade was bound to notice it.
Satisfied with his handiwork, Jag retrieved the detector and stuck with the chase. The plain underwent a remarkable transition less than a mile later. It was as if he'd stepped onto an alien landscape. He entered a desert realm where not so much as a single blade of grass grew, where the air was warmer than the surrounding countryside because the parched, barren earth soaked up the heat during the day and released extra warmth at night.
He'd entered the Dead Zone.
Jaguarundi tried to recall everything Blade had taught him about such regions. The soil underfoot possessed the grandular consistency of sand. Where before he could hardly hear himself think for all the animal noises, now the silence of the tomb enshrouded him. The patter of his footfalls was the only sound at all. He gazed at the expanse of emptiness in front of him and experienced a riveting premonition of palpable evil.
Something was out there.
The creatures.
Kilrane had been right.
He advanced cautiously, trusting in his reflexes and his lightning speed to see him through any difficulty that might arise. The knowledge there were other mutations abroad in the Dead Zone didn't deter him one bit. After all, he was a hybrid, a genetically superior specimen, not some run-of-the-mill radiation-spawned abberation. He was better.
Somewhere a bird chittered.
Jag stared idly at a cloud off to his right, his mind drifting. All those years of being viewed as different by humans, of being labelled as freaks, had left their mark on his soul. He knew that most human regarded themselves as vastly superior to every mutation in existence, whether the mutation had been the product of a contaminated environment or created to order in a test tube. So he derived some solace from knowing he was stronger and faster than every human alive, with a notable exception.
Another bird chittered.
That exception was a remarkable human called Blade, one of the very few who had never evinced the slightest bigotry toward him. Oh, Havoc and the others were polite in his presence. He doubted they were prejudiced, but he suspected he made them nervous simply by his very nature.
More birds joined the chorus.
Jag took three more strides and the incongruity slammed into his consciousness like a physical blow.
Birds?
At night?
He glanced skyward, his gut constricting, and his breath caught in his throat as he beheld the tangible apparitions swooping down upon him.
The creatures were everywhere!
Jag cut and ran, bearing to the east, then slanting to the south, running a zigzag pattern. Now that he knew they were there, the things began voicing a perplexing commingling of sounds, barks and growls and yelps, almost as if they were communicating. High-pitched shrieks punctuated the racket. He felt something tug at his head and he jerked free and darted to the right.
A flapping form descended directly in front of him.
Snarling, Jag twisted aside and raked the creature with his nails as he passed, across its furry chest and neck, and a strident screech of pain was his reward. He ducked to the left and raced all out.
The atmosphere seemed alive with beating wings and hovering figures, some of which were silhouetted by the full moon.
A talon or nail ripped into Jag's right shoulder. He gritted his teeth and angled to the right, only to find several of the mutations barring his escape, hovering just above the ground, their wings beating-beating-beating.
Supremely frustrated, Jag bore to the left, but there were more of them. He realized there were too many, way too many, and they had him at their mercy. But they wouldn't take him without a fight! He paused to get his bearings and in doing so made a mistake. From every direction they poured down on top of him, burying him under an avalanche of fur and wings. He fought back, releasing the detector to slash and tear, and he succeeded in maiming two or three before a succession of bony fists showered upon his head and he was swept away in a monsoon of agony that eclipsed his consciousness.
The battle was sheer bedlam.
Blade felt a heavy body smash into his back between the shoulder blades, and the impact sent him flying from the black horse. He came down hard on his left side and flipped onto his back just as one of the creatures pounced on his chest. The thing seized his wrists and pushed into the air, apparently intending to get airborne. But it misjudged both his size and his strength. He wrenched on his arms and managed to loosen the creature's hold for an instant, long enough for him to twist his forearms and seize his attacker just above the wrists. Pulling sharply downward, he hauled the creature off balance, causing it to bend forward at the waist, bringing its midriff within range of his boots. He lashed out with his right combat boot, planting the heel in the thing's abdomen, and suddenly the mutation tore from his grasp and flapped heavenward.
Close by a man screamed.
The Warrior surged erect, his ears assailed by a veritable din. Gunshots blasted. Men shouted and cursed and fought with noble ferocity. Horses whinnied in terror. And packing the air were scores of flying mutations, ready to assist their fellows who had dropped onto the humans.
They'd waltzed into a ambush!
Blade unslung the M60 and aimed at the flapping monstrosities overhead. He cut loose, the big machine gun blasting and bucking, and he was gratified to see the rounds rip through a half-dozen mutations in the space of five seconds, rupturing their torsos repeatedly.
Four of the creatures plummeted to the earth.
Blade stepped aside as one of the things thudded to the earth within inches of the spot where he was standing. He glanced down and saw it clearly, noting its features, raking it from head to toe in a twinkling.
The mutation exhibited the biform traits of a bat and a human. It was impossible to determine if the thing was a gigantic bat possessing a humanoid form or a human endowed with the countenance, wings, and fur of a bat. In any event, the radiation or chemical toxins had transformed its ancestors into an entirely new species. Six and a half feet in height and rather stockily built for beings adapted to flight, the batman was covered with dark brown fur over every square inch of his body. The wings were darker than the body and leathery, their pointed tips extending a full six inches above the creature's head. While the body more distinctly resembled a human form, the face was decidedly batlike. A sloping forehead and enormous ears lent a sinister aspect to its visage. The fingers and toes, stunted in comparison to human digits, were tipped with black talons.
All this Blade registered in a moment's time. He looked up again, and there was one of the bat-men diving straight at him, its mouth wide, its pointed teeth exposed in a snarl of defiance. "Eat this, turkey!" he exclaimed, and fired.
The slugs caught the bat-man in the face and crumpled its forehead. Without uttering a sound the thing fell.
Blade surveyed the conflict. The Force and the Cavalry were holding their own. He saw Sparrow, still mounted, thrust that deadly spear through a hovering mutation. Doc was keeping the things at bay with his Magnum. On the ground nearby were Captain Havoc and Lobo, both grappling with the same creature.
A bat-man suddenly rose from the melee, a struggling Cavalryman clutched in its hands. The intended victim was putting up such a fight that the mutation couldn't gain altitude.
Blade ran to his horse, which seemed rooted with fear a few yards away, slingng the M60 over his left arm. He couldn't chance using the machine gun when the Cavalryman and the bat-man were so close together. But the Weatherby was another story. He slipped the rifle from its scabbard, worked the fluted bolt, and pressed the gun to his right shoulder.
The bat-man and the Cavalryman were still struggling.
Blade sighted on the creature's head, held his breath, and squeezed the trigger. The Weatherby thundered like a cannon.
The high-velocity bullet nearly took the mutation's head off. The force tore the thing from the Cavalryman, who dropped to the ground, and caused the bat-man to catapult end over end before crashing down in a heap.
Blade heard someone shout his name and turned to find Doc Madsen pointing the Smith and Wesson directly at him. The sight prompted immediate action, and Blade ducked down.
The Magnum cracked.
Blade glanced over his left shoulder and saw one of the creatures clutching its head and striving to get higher. He swung around, injecting a fresh round into the chamber, and fired the Weatherby from the hip.
The bullet drilled through the bat-man's chest, and it sank like the proverbial rock.
Suddenly a succession of earsplitting whistles split the night, and on cue the bat-men flapped en masse hundreds of feet into the atmosphere, then bore swiftly to the southwest. Dozens carried captive Cavalrymen who were yelling for help and endeavoring to break free even though a fall from such a height would undoubtedly prove fatal.
Kilrane materialized on the Warrior's right, the Mitchell Single Action revolver in his right hand, a nasty gash marring his brow. He glared at the retreating bat-men and shook his left fist at them in unchecked rage. "Damn them! They're dead! If it's the last thing I ever do, I'm going to wipe out every last one of those monsters!"
"You won't be doing it alone," Blade vowed.
"I'm going to see how many of my men are missing or dead," Kilrane stated, and ran off.
Blade turned, worried about his own people. Sparrow still sat on the horse, his gore-covered spear held in both hands. Doc was reloading the Magnum while watching the mutations.
"Hey, dude! Got a present for you."
The Warrior pivoted, surprise lining his face.
Lobo and Captain Havoc had caught one of the things. They had it pinned under them, flat on its back, each man holding a furry arm, their bodies slanted across the creature's chest and thighs. The mutation hissed and snapped at them, all the while attempting to buck them off.
"Tough mother," Lobo commented, holding on with all of his might.
"Do you want us to kill it, sir?" Captain Havoc inquired.
"Not yet," Blade said. He glanced at the bat-men to ensure they were continuing to fly into the distance, his skin crawling at the sight of the great, dark, flittering mass of mutations. There must be over a hundred, at the least. He hadn't expected so many!
"Do you reckon they have Jag?" Doc asked.
"I don't know," Blade said slowly. "If anyone could evade them, it would be him."
"They have an army," Sparrow mentioned. "If we don't stop them…" He left the sentence unfinished.
"We'll stop them," Blade declared. He walked to his horse and slid the Weatherby into the scabbard, then returned to Lobo and Havoc.
The captured creature growled at the giant, but it ceased resisting.
"Can it talk?" Blade asked.
"It hasn't yet," Havoc responded. "I doubt it can. They're more animal than human."
"Look at those teeth," Lobo said, gazing at the mutation's open mouth. "They could bite through a two-by-four."
Blade nodded. "Now you know how Little Red Riding Hood felt."
"Who?"
The Warrior grinned. "Never mind. You'd need to have kids to understand that one."
"Whatever you say, dude."
Doc Madsen stepped over to study the bat-man. "We were lucky," he remarked.
Lobo laughed contemptuously. "Lucky? How do you figure, cowboy? Those things came close to cartin' us all away."
"That's just it," Doc said. "They were mainly interested in carrying us off, not in killing us. It could have been a lot worse."
"I've heard of lookin' at the bright side, but you take the cake."
"Doc is right," Blade stated, and turned to the north.
The Cavalry riders were trying to get organized. Kilrane walked among them, barking orders. Injured frontiersmen were being tended by their fellows. Dozens of riderless horses milled on the plain, and a roundup detail was in the act of bringing them together.
Blade's gray eyes scoured the ground. He counted 19 dead bat-men, and the tally pleased him. The creatures had paid a dear price for the attack; they would pay even more dearly before he was done with them.
"We should follow those devils before they're out of sight," Sparrow Hawk noted.
The Warrior glanced at the receding cloud of mutations. Sparrow had a point. "Go get Kilrane," he instructed the Flathead.
Sparrow nodded, wheeled his animal, and rode off.
"You're not thinkin' what I think you're thinkin', are you?" Lobo inquired.
Blade nodded.
"You're crazy. We'll wind up caught ourselves."
"Are you forgetting Raphaela?"
"No. Of course not," Lobo said defensively. "But committin' suicide doesn't strike me as the smartest way of savin' her."
Doc Madsen began to walk away. "I'll collect all of our horses," he volunteered.
"Thanks," Blade replied absently, deep in thought. With so many bat-men abroad, venturing into the interior of the Dead Zone did seem like a foolish idea. If he waited until daylight, and if the bat-men truly were nocturnal, the Force conceivably could locate their lair unchallenged. But the delay could prove costly to Raphaela and the captured Cavalrymen—not to mention Jag if the hybrid had fallen into the clutches of those flying deviates.
If.
If.
Sometimes he despised that word.
"I don't get how there can be so many of these freaks," Lobo commented while staring into the bat-man's hate-filled eyes.
"They've had a century or so to breed," Blade speculated. "They've kept to themselves, flourshing in secrecy, increasing their population to the point where now they don't seem to care whether humans know they exist or not. Their overconfidence will prove to be their undoing."
"You hope," Lobo muttered.
Blade gazed to the southwest. The bat-men were getting farther and farther away by the second. Unless he hurried, he'd lose them.
"Can we tie this hairy sucker up?" Lobo requested. "Its breath is enough to gag a maggot."
"No."
"Why not, dude?"
"Because I said so."
"That's good enough for me."
The Warrior focused on the mutation, which appeared to find him intensely interesting. Their eyes met and locked and the creature's thin lips curved in a wicked grin. A glimmer of intelligence flickered in the thing's eyes.
"Ugly, ain't it?" Lobo said.
"I've seen uglier," Captain Havoc remarked.
"You have?" Lobo responded. "Where?"
"In the bunk across from mine every morning when I wake up," the officer stated.
Lobo's forehead creased for a moment. "Hey! I'm in the bunk across from you."
"Really?" Havoc said innocently.
Smiling, Blade pivoted to the north and saw Sparrow heading back. Kilane was riding double with the Flathead, riding as if he was in the saddle instead of behind it. "Hold onto our friend for another minute, Captain," he stated.
"Yes, sir."
Kilrane's glowering countenance served as an accurate barometer of his frame of mind. He slid to the ground the moment Sparrow reined up and took a stride toward the captured mutation. "I should plug this son of a bitch!"
"Don't," Blade urged, stepping between them. "We need it."
The Cavalry leader's right hand drifted near his revolver, his fingers twitching. He came close to slapping leather, but he controlled himself with a visible effort and slowly relaxed. "All right. I'll let the rotten thing live."
"How bad is it?" Blade asked.
"Four dead, seven wounded, and twenty-six missing," Kilrane answered harshly. "Those vultures have twenty-six of my men!"
"How soon will you be ready to ride?"
"I don't know. We have to catch the rest of our horses, and the wounded are being bandaged. Maybe twenty minutes."
"That's what I figured," Blade said. "We're taking off now."
"By yourselves?"
"I don't have any choice. There's a chance the creatures may have Jag. My best bet is to follow them to wherever they hole up. Every minute we delay could cost us more lives."
Kilrane stared at the southern horizon, where the bat-men were faintly discernible. "You'd best skeddadle or you'll lose them."
"I have a better idea," Blade said, and moved over to the prisoner. He drew his right Bowie. "Let it go."
"Do what?" Lobo blurted.
"Release it," Blade reiterated.
"Are you out of your tree?"
"Now," the Warrior snapped.
"You heard the man," Captain Havoc said, and rolled to the right.
Startled at finding himself suddenly holding the mutation alone, Lobo let go and scrambled to the side.
Snarling viciously, the bat-man placed its palms on the earth and started to launch itself into the air. But it only managed to rise to one knee, its wings beating sluggishly, when the muscular colossus armed with the knife struck.
Blade's left hand whipped out and he seized the mutation by the throat. The creature screeched like a tomcat and grabbed his wrist, even as it snaked its talons at Blade's eyes. Blade dodged his head to the right, avoiding those wicked nails, then rammed his Bowie to the hilt in the thing's stomach.
The bat-man grunted and sagged.
Blade's teeth ground together as he methodically sliced the Bowie upward, the razor-sharp blade cleaving the creature's tough flesh as readily as slicing through a loaf of bread. He made a six-inch slash, exactly six inches, then pulled the Bowie out and stood back.
Gasping, the mutation pressed its hands over the breached abdominal wall and staggered backwards two feet. It gurgled, flung its head back, and took off, flapping unsteadily upward. Intestinal fluids gushed from the wound, over its fingers, and spattered onto the ground below.
"Why didn't you waste the sucker?" Lobo asked, rising.
"Watch," Blade said. He wiped the knife clean on his pants and replaced the Bowie in its sheath.
With evident effort, the bat-man attained a height of only 50 feet and flew at a snail's pace to the southwest.
"I get it!" Lobo exclaimed. "We're going to follow that crud back to their roost."
"Mount up," Blade commanded, and looked at Kilrane. "We'll find some way to let you know which way we're heading. Just stay on a southwesterly bearing until you find our sign."
"Are you sure you can't wait twenty more minutes?"
"If I could, I would," Blade responded. He walked to the black gelding and swung into the saddle. "Ride as hard as you can to catch up. We won't make a move on their lair, if we can help it, until you arrive."
"Take care," Kilrane advised.
Blade nodded, scanned his team to confirm they were all astride their horses, and rode out, his gaze on the injured bat-man, heading for the heart of the Dead Zone, riding willingly into the very heart of darkness.
Stark terror seized her very soul.
Raphaela stared at the surface of the earth hundreds of feet below and couldn't repress a shudder. She envisioned what would happen if the creature should let her slip, or if the thing should abruptly go into a sickening spin and carry her down to certain destruction, and she bit her lower lip to stifle a groan in her throat. She didn't want the mutation to know how truly scared she was by the ordeal; she refused to give it the satisfaction.
The creature suddenly coughed violently and lost 20 feet in altitude before it recovered and flew onward, its wings beating barely fast enough to keep it airborne.
Raphaela gulped and tightened her hold on the M-16, which was trapped between her body and the creature's. She wished the thing had grabbed her from behind instead of from the front. Her head was pressed against the mutation's chest, her left cheek flush with its fur. A pungent odor assailed her nostrils every time she inhaled, and it made her want to sneeze.
Then there was the blood.
She could feel a damp, sticky sensation on her cheek, and she knew the creature had been gravely wounded. Either her shots or Doc's had almost bagged the brute. From its constant coughing and wheezing, from the irregular, weak beating of its wings, and from the evidence of the blood, she surmised the thing was staying in the air through sheer willpower.
The other creature seemed to be offering support to its injured companion. Uttering soft cries of encouragement, the second mutation flew in circles around the first, apparently ready to move in if the wounded one collapsed.
Raphaela still hadn't been able to get a good look at their facial features, but from the features she detected on the circling mutation, combined with the impression of the leathery wings and the short fur, she believed they were batlike beings.
Where were they taking her?
What did they intend to do to her once they arrived at their destination?
Even more importantly, how in the world was she going to get out of this mess?
She knew Blade and the others would come after her. Her confidence in them was unbounded, especially in the giant. He would never let his people down, never desert them while breath remained in his body. But how would Blade know where to find her? The bat-things weren't leaving a trail, and even Jag couldn't track an enemy through thin air.
The terrain below changed several times. Cast in the pale light of the moon, the landscape presented a ghostly aspect. They flew over plains and hills, and eventually came to a desert, or a region very much resembling a desert. There was no sign of vegetation, just a limitless tract of sandy ground.
Could that be the Dead Zone Kilrane had mentioned on the ride into Rapid City from the landing field?
Raphaela squirmed, trying to ease the painful cramps in her shoulders and upper arms, and the creature holding her hissed in annoyance. She resigned herself to enduring the terrible strain on her body and her emotions for as long as necessary. If there was one lesson she had learned from the titan with the Bowies, it was to never give up hope.
Never give up.
Hadn't she told herself the very same thing over a year ago when the first unspeakable indignity had occurred? Hadn't she endured, despite the repeated violations, and eventually salvaged the vestige of her self-respect by volunteering for the Force? After the living hell she'd suffered, after experiencing the ultimate degradation any woman could know, being captured by hairy bat-men paled into insignificance.
The thought made her laugh bitterly.
Sometimes she was tempted to think that her entire life qualified as a continuous nightmare intermittingly punctuated by rare and all too brief moments of happiness. Well, that wasn't completely true. Until the tender age of six her life had been reasonably happy, so far as she knew.
And then her parents had died.
She could recall vividly the day her mom and dad had dropped her off at her aunt's chambers in the underground city known as the Mound. Her parents had wanted an afternoon to themselves, and they'd ventured to the surface to enjoy a picnic and some fishing. How were they to know a band of murderous scavengers was in the area? The lake near the Mound was a favorite haunt of the Moles, and many others were there that fateful June day casting for fish, boating, or swimming when the scavengers struck. Seventeen Moles had been killed before a security detail from the Mound routed the vile scavengers, and among the fatalities had been Raphaela's parents.
She never had been able to comprehend how God could allow such a tragedy to befall her. From the age of six until her twelth year she had subscribed to the childish idea that she must have committed a griveous sin, else why would the compassionate Father of the Universe have inflicted so staggering a blow to one so tender of age? Later she'd come to the conclusion she couldn't lay the blame on God. Certain events simply transpired without the guiding hand of the Supreme Being behind them. Still, one question bothered her. Even if God didn't deliberately inflict punishment, how could a loving Deity permit rampant suffering to exist?
She still didn't know the answer to that one.
Distressing memories of her years with her aunt filled her mind. The first 18 months hadn't been too bad because Aunt Gitana had been single and seemed to appreciate having Raphaela around. But then Gitana had married a lieutenant in the security forces, the handsome Zelig, and Raphaela's life was transformed into a living hell. Because underneath that dashing exterior lurked a devil of a man who drank way too much and who took out every petty frustration on his wife and children. Perhaps, Raphela had often reasoned, his motivation for having so many kids lay in his unconscious desire to make as many people miserable as he possibly could in the span of one sodden life.
If there was one accomplishment at which Zelig excelled, other than drinking more liquor in a day than most men consumed in a month, it lay in producing offspring. In seven years he sired seven children, four boys and three girls, and the birth of each child only added to the misery in the household. Gitana became increasingly withdrawn and spiteful. Instead of her maternal instincts being aroused by the births, they atrophied. She expended the least amount of effort possible in her daily tasks, and she often ignored the children and left them to fend for themselves.
By virtue of being the oldest, Raphaela was the one the others looked up to, the one they relied on to fill the void their parents refused to acknowledge even existed. Raphaela mediated disputes, bandaged them when they cut themselves, and frequently prepared their meals when their mother couldn't be bothered.
Dear Lord, what a life!
Work, work, and more work.
She might not have minded so much if her mother hadn't turned her brothers and sisters against her later. Raphaela had been bewildered and stung to her core when Gitana began making snide references to the fact that she had been adopted, continually stressing Raphaela wasn't really part of the family. To Raphaela's dismay, after a year or two of such treatment, her brothers and sisters started treating her coldly and behaving in the same way as Gitana.
Tears moistened her eyes.
How happy she'd finally been two years ago after taking an apartment of her own and acquiring a position on the kitchen staff of the imperial residence. If only she'd known! If only she'd foreseen the torment she would have to endure after he'd spotted her!
The worst part had been not being able to confide in anyone, to beg for help. He would have had her and whoever she told killed. There had been nowhere she could flee, short of leaving the Mound and entering the dreaded Outlands. So she'd borne the horror until, incredibly, he'd tired of her and moved on to another victim. Her shame, however, had lingered and intensified. Every time she saw him, every time she passed him in the corridor, she'd wanted to curl up and die.
When the official announcement requesting volunteers for the Freedom Force was posted, she'd signed the list more as an outlet for her frustration than anything else. She'd never really expected him to send her, and she still wondered why he did. Maybe he couldn't stand the sight of her, or, more likely knowing him, he was hoping she would meet the same fate as the previous recruit from the Moles: an early death.
All of those thoughts whirled through Raphaela's mind as the wouunded bat-man conveyed her deeper and deeper into the Dead Zone. She lost all track of time and the distance covered, and it wasn't until a lofty escarpment appeared ahead that she blinked and took stock of her surroundings.
What was that?
After so many miles of flat, barren land, the escarpment presented a welcome, if singular, change of scenery. It was at least 500 feet high, and the pale lunar radiance revealed the northern face of the cliff to be pockmarked with the entrances to scores of caves. And moving about those entrances, either on foot or flying to and from the escarpment, was a legion of winged demons.
It was their lair!
The realization caused Raphaela to shiver as a chill ran along her spine. There were so many! Her mind boggled. She suspected there were even more within the caves, and a minute later she got to confirm her supposition when the bat-man bearing her dove at a sharp angle toward one of the openings situated in the middle of the rocky escarpment.
Mesmerized by the eerie tableau, feeling as if she had been bodily transported to another realm, another planet, Raphaela belatedly reacted to the wind streaming past her face and the frantic flapping of her captor's wings. With a start she perceived they were descending too fast; indeed, the speed took her breath away.
They were going to crash!
Raphaela braced for the collision, certain she would be crushed against the sheer rock wall or sent hurtling to her death at the base of the escarpment. She saw other creatures standing idly in the mouth of the cave toward which they plummeted, and she would have shouted at them to do something if she thought her prompting would do any good.
The cliff loomed closer and closer.
Just when she was certain of impending doom and she inadvertently opened her mouth to voice her death cry, the mutation unexpectedly checked its swift descent, its wings beating madly. The floor of the cave, which extended over 20 feet beyond the edge of the ceiling, had rushed up to meet them, but suddenly they were settling gently to the ground.
Gasping, the bat-man released her.
The injured mutation sank to its knees and cradled its head in its hands.
Elation filled Raphaela. She was alive and she still had the M-16! Despite the overwhelming odds, she might be able to find a hiding place in the caves and escape later. She leaped to her feet and started to run.
A furry covered arm came from behind her, gripped the barrel of the assault rifle, and tore the weapon from her grasp as easily as she would pluck a toy from an infant.
Furious, she completed the turn and froze.
A huge mutation reared above her, the largest bat-man she had yet seen, almost seven feet tall and endowed with layers of prominent muscles. His wings flared above his broad shoulders like the uplifted cowl of a majestic cape. A head twice the size of any other creature's fit the contours of his form perfectly.
Raphaela gaped. Her intuition told her that here stood the leader of these mutations. His tremendous size alone would have marked him for leadership under any circumstance, but he possessed an additional attribute, the uncanny gleam of malevolent intellect in his feral eyes, that distinguished him even more.
The towering figure uttered a sharp bark. Immediately four bat-men materialized at his side. He motioned at the Molewoman, and two of the creatures stepped forward to take her by the arms.
Resentment and revulsion flared in Raphaela's breast and she futilely resisted, tugging and twisting heedless of the consequences. "Let go of me!" she exclaimed angrily.
A chittering noise issued from the leader. He leaned down and inspected her minutely, sniffing loudly as he ran his left hand through her hair.
"Don't touch me!" Raphaela snapped, jerking her head back.
Ominously, the bat-man smiled, a leering sort of expression every bit as sinister as the lecherous countenance of the worst kind of human pervert.
Raphaela trembled. She had seen such an expression before, many times, on the face of the man who had forced her to endure unspeakable debasement. All too vividly she relived the pressure of his lips on her body and the probing of his hands where they had no business being.
The leader chattered at the pair holding her.
A feeling of weakness seeped into Raphaela's limbs and she shook her head, fighting the sensation. Now was hardly the time to buckle under! She must be strong or perish. Even if Blade and the other Force members were coming to her rescue, they wouldn't arrive for hours. She was on her own.
As usual.
The two bat-men unceremoniously stalked forward, hauling her with them, and moments later Raphaela was swallowed by the stygian shadows.
They rode for an hour, easily keeping the bat-man in sight with the aid of the Nite-Vision device, staying approximately 400 yards back. A deathly stillness permeated the Dead Zone, and except for the plodding of their horses and the creaking of their saddles there were no other sounds.
"This place gives me the heebie-jeebies," Lobo muttered.
"Imagine how Raphaela must feel right about now," Captain Havoc remarked.
"If she's still alive," Sparrow noted.
The captain glanced at the Flathead. "Don't talk like that! She's alive. She's got to be."
"And don't forget about Jag," Doc Madsen said.
"Yeah. Of course," Havoc responded absently, then uttered a rare oath. "Damn those things!"
Riding at the head of the Force, the M60 resting on his stout thighs, Blade shifted and looked over his right shoulder. "Try to keep the noise down to a low uproar."
"Sorry, sir," Havoc said dutifully.
"We're all concerned about Jag and Raphaela," Blade stated. "But we can't let our worry get the better of us or we won't be able to do them any good."
They pressed on for another five minutes.
"I wish Kilrane would catch up with us," Lobo stated.
"Give him time," Blade said.
"What if those things come back before he reaches us?"
"We waste them," Blade answered, watching the mutation he'd gutted wing slowly to the southwest.
"Yeah. Right. Just the five of us takin' on all those hairy farts," Lobo snapped. "Like we'd stand a chance, huh?"
"What would you have us do?" Blade asked. "Give up?"
"No, but waitin' for reinforcements wouldn't be a bad idea."
"You know the reason we came on ahead of the Cavalry," Blade commented. "So do us all a favor and quit griping."
"Okay. But don't say I didn't warn you if we get slaughtered," Lobo declared testily.
The Warrior scanned the monotonously level countryside, then surveyed the heavens for signs of the bat-creatures. He thought of all the Hot Spots scattered about the ravaged remains of America, and wondered if every Dead Zone had its own resident deviate population. He recalled the details of the time his close friend Geronimo had encountered a horde of enormous ants in another Dead Zone, and he resolved to submit a proposal to the Federation Council requesting that every such region within Federation boundaries be checked out. If there were other menaces lurking in the Dead Zones, the Federation should deal with them before they became too powerful or widespread.
Like the bat-men.
He idly scratched his chin, reflecting. If there were bat-men, there must be bat-women somewhere. Sooner or later the thing he'd gutted would lead them to its lair, provided it didn't expire first. Once there, Blade faced the problem of how to rescue Raphaela and possibly Jaguarundi against impossible odds. Rather than dwell on the issue, he decided to cross that bridge when he came to it.
A depression appeared ahead.
Blade stared at the narrow notch running from east to west.
A gully, he reasoned, probably washed out by periodic heavy rains. The gelding came to the northern rim. Blade reined up and scrutinized the oversized ditch, estimating the depth at four feet and the average width at two and a half. The horse would be able to negotiate the fissure with ease.
"Maybe we should go around," Lobo suggested.
"Be serious," Blade said.
"I was."
The Warrior ignored the Clansman and goaded his horse. "Let's go, big fella," he said soothingly.
The gelding's ears pricked up and it shied away from the edge.
"There's nothing down there," Blade said, trying to soothe the animal's nerves. He glanced down at the bottom third of the gully, which lay shrouded in impenetrable shadow, and understood why the horse wouldn't cross the gap. "Come on. You can do it."
"Maybe you should carry it piggyback," Lobo queried.
Blade kneed the gelding, and finally prompted the horse into jumping the obstacle. Shying nervously, the animal nonetheless lowered its haunches and gave a bounding hop, its powerful rear legs propelling it to the opposite rim. Blade smiled and leaned forward to pat the horse on the neck, and the motion accidentally saved his life.
A short, squat form hurtled out of the gully at the Warrior's head and iron jaws snapped shut with a distinct snap within inches of the giant's neck.
"Look out!" Captain Havoc shouted.
Blade needed no urging. He dove from the saddle, the M60 in his left hand, and hit the ground on his right shoulder, rolling as he landed to minimize the pain and present an elusive target in case the thing that attacked him decided to try again. His momentum carried him into a crouch, the machine gun tucked tight against his waist, and he glanced to the right and the left but saw nothing.
"It hopped off," Lobo said.
"To your left," Doc added.
Blade turned on his heels just in the nick of time.
Whatever it was, the animal bounded out of the gloom and leaped straight at the Warrior's face.
Blade glimpsed bulbous eyes and a gaping, toothless maw, and then he threw himself to the right, barely evading the creature. A frog! The thing looked like a frog!
"It's coming at you again!" Sparrow cried.
The Warrior, on his right side, let go of the M60 and flipped onto his back, drawing both Bowies simultaneously. He saw the stocky figure alight six feet away, then vault toward him, and he extended both of his arms and locked his elbows.
The stubby jumping bean couldn't stop.
Blade braced his massive shoulders as the animal arced down onto the tips of the Bowies, and the big knives sank in all the way at the base of the thing's yellowish throat, impaling it to the hilts. A gooey liquid sprayed onto Blade's hands and splattered his forearms.
The animal vented a raspy croak and thrashed wildly, its four legs flapping like wings, its mouth opening and closing convulsively.
Blade held the thing at arm's length, waiting for it to expire. Something heavy thudded onto the ground to his right, and then footsteps sounded.
"Allow me," Sparrow Hawk said. He lanced his spear into the animal's side, wrenched it off the Bowies, and smashed the creature on the reddish earth.
"What is it?" Lobo called out.
Blade rose slowly and leaned down to inspect his assailant. A closer examination revealed his initial impression had been slightly off; the thing was a toad, not a frog. Two feet high and four feet long, the diminutive monster possessed fleshy, webbed feet, rough skin coated with warts, and large eyes containing vertical slits.
"What is it?" Lobo repeated.
"A toad," Blade replied.
"A poisonous toad," Sparrow Hawk amended. "I've seen this variety before, but never one this huge."
"How poisonous?" Blade asked.
"If it had bitten you, if it had broken your skin and its venom entered your bloodstream, you wouldn't have lasted five minutes."
Lobo snorted. "What the hell is a dumb toad doing way out here in the middle of nowhere?" he asked, and motioned at the expanse of arid land. "There's no water within miles of here."
"You're thinking of frogs," Sparrow said. "Most frogs require water to live, to sustain their metabolism. But many toads can exist under very dry conditions. All they need is just a small water hole to survive. Some can burrow down to subterranean springs."
"Do you think there could be more?" Lobo queried nervously.
"Where you find one of a species, it is safe to assume there might be others nearby," Sparrow stated.
"Maybe we should haul ass, dudes," Lobo suggested.
"I agree," Blade said, retrieving the M60.
"You do?" Lobo declared in disbelief. "Do you mean I'm right for once?"
"Everybody gets lucky now and then," Captain Havoc quipped.
The Warrior walked to his horse, took hold of the pommel, and swung up into the saddle. He glanced at his second-in-command. "Thanks for the warning."
Havoc shrugged. "It came automatically. I would have shot the damn thing but you were too close."
"Pardon me," Doc Madsen interjected.
Blade looked at the gunfighter. "What is it?"
"I don't think it's a bright idea to be sitting here jawing when we're the main item on the menu."
"The menu?" Blade repeated quizzically.
Doc pointed at the stretch of gully to the east.
Dreading the worst, Blade twisted in the saddle. The short hairs on his neck seemed to stand on end at the sight of dozens of squat forms, the nearest less than 30 feet away, hopping madly toward the Force.
"I'm out of here!" Lobo exclaimed, and urged his mount over the gully in a surprising display of competent horsemanship.
"Move it!" Blade barked at the others.
Doc and Captain Havoc handily cleared the notch. The gunfighter's body flowed smoothly with his animal's, as if he was part of his horse.
"Ride hard!" Blade directed, and suited his actions to match the command. He glanced over his left shoulder as he raced to the southwest, consternation seizing him when he beheld a wave of bounding toads crest the south rim of the depression and leap in pursuit.
Could those things outrun a horse?
Blade hugged the galloping gelding and gazed at the amphibians. There was no way a normal toad could hope to outpace a full-grown horse, but those mutations, easily 20 times their normal size, could conceivably possess the speed and endurance needed. And if the toads caught up with a horse, all it would take would be one healthy bite and in minutes the larger animal would drop, leaving the rider in the lurch. "Faster!" he bellowed.
The Force members were riding all out. Lobo bounced up and down uncontrollably and held onto the pommel for dear life. Doc Madsen, who could easily outride all of them, even Sparrow, was intentionally holding back, bringing up the rear, the Magnum in his right hand.
Blade could see the toads covering the ground at an astounding rate and he marveled at their prodigious leaps. Fifteen-foot jumps were accomplished effortlessly. The mutations, to his dismay, appeared to be gaining.
One of them came on much faster than the rest and outdistanced the pack. The creature cleared 20 feet at a hurdle. It made a beeline toward the Warrior's steed.
Clasping the M60 securely under his left arm, Blade whipped the reins with his right hand, hoping to impel the gelding to a swifter performance. The flat terrain worked in favor of the Force, enabling their mounts to race unchecked.
But it wasn't fast enough.
The foremost toad narrowed the gap quickly, its legs barely touching the earth between each hop, incredibly fleet for so small a creature.
Blade knew the toad would overtake his animal in the next few seconds. He was about to turn and try nailing it with the machine gun when someone else did him the favor of disposing of the toxic terror.
Doc Madsen's Magnum cracked once.
The toad was in midair when the slug bored into its head and stopped it dead. For a moment the mutation hung motionless, its mouth gaping, and then it sank to the ground with a plop.
"Thanks," Blade said to the gunfighter.
"Anytime."
The Warrior faced forward and concentrated on his riding. He probed the darkness ahead for a change in the landscape, a hill or a ravine they could use to their advantage, somewhere they could make a stand if need be. Far, far off, almost an inky dot on the southern horizon, was—something. A hill? No, not at that distance. A mountain, he reasoned, and he forgot about it for the time being because it was simply too far away to offer them any help.
For minutes the death race continued, with the drumming of heavy hoofs shattering the perpetual stillness of the Dead Zone.
Blade glanced behind him again and was gratified to notice the toads were beginning to fall behind. In short sprints they were greased lightning, but they apparently lacked the stamina for a marathon. Which suited him just fine.
A few more minutes elapsed.
The Warrior straightened and scanned the moonlit land to their rear, smiling in relief when he failed to find any evidence of the toads.
Good riddance!
Blade held aloft his right hand. "Hold up!" he shouted, and drew slowly to a halt, turning the gelding sideways so he could continue to survey their back trail.
The Force members reined up.
"Do you think we lost those things?" Captain Havoc asked.
"Looks that way," Blade said.
"Oh, Lord!" Lobo declared in a strangled voice. He leaned forward, his hands cupped over his groin. "I'm dyin'!"
Sparrow moved his mount next to the Clansman's. "What's wrong? Did a toad bite you, brother?"
"Forget the damn froggies!" Lobo snapped, his tone high-pitched and squeaky. He gave the pommel a hard smack. "It's this saddle! What moron invented these things anyway? Oh, my poor, poor baby."
Sparrow looked at Doc, who shrugged, then back at Lobo. "Your baby?"
"My rod, dude. My rod. I may never be able to give some fox the thrill of her life ever again."
"Oh," Sparrow said, comprehending. He turned his head aside and started laughing softly.
"What the hell is so funny?" Lobo grunted indignantly. "Some of us weren't born on a horse, you know. My gonads will never be the same again."
"You have my sympathy," Captain Havoc stated.
"Thanks, dude."
"Just be sure to wash that saddle before you give it back to Kilrane."
"Up yours."
Havoc, Doc, and Sparrow all chuckled.
Sitting quietly on the gelding, Blade smiled at their banter. He was pleased to see Doc loosening up. After all they'd been through within the past few hours, they needed the levity. He cast another glance to the north and tensed. "Damn!"
The others instantly clammed up and stared in the same direction.
Perhaps 40 yards off, bounding tirelessly toward the Force, were scores of toads.
"Ride!" Blade ordered, and whipped the gelding to the south. The horse started to gain speed. He gazed at the sky, at the radiant moon, and abruptly hauled on the reins.
"Look!" Lobo cried, pointing heavenward. "Look!"
"I see them," Blade responded.
Swooping down out of the blanket of night, their wings extended as they glided on the wind, their talons ready to rip and tear, were dozens of bat-men.
Why did his head feel as if an elephant had done a tap dance on his skull?
And when was the last time he'd taken a bath?
Jag slowly regained consciousness, his memory sluggish at first, and kept his eyes closed while he took stock of his condition. From the aches all over his body he surmised someone had used him for a punching bag. Every square inch was aflame with pain, even his toes.
What could have happened?
Where was he?
Where were his friends? Blade? Raphaela!
The remembrance of his battle with the bat-men shot through him like an electric shock and he inadvertently opened his eyes. In his mind's eye he saw them again: all those teeth, hateful eyes, and fists. They'd beaten him, had him at their mercy. Yet he still lived.
Why?
Placing his palms on the dark ground, he pushed up to a sitting posture.
"Jag! You're awake!"
The delightful yell startled him. He blinked, still feeling dazed, and looked to his right.
"Oh, Jag! You're alive! Thank God!"
Jag saw Raphaela running toward him, her arms outstretched, her face lit by an eager smile. He became vaguely aware of other figures nearby, and he noticed that a pale, whitish glow bathed everything within his range of vision. His mind fek sluggish, and he was slow to rouse himself from a feeling of abject lethargy.
"Speak to me!" Raphaela declared, reaching his side the next moment. She knelt and hugged him firmly, a sigh of relief escaping from her lips. "Oh, God! It's so great to see you again! I was so scared, but not anymore."
"What—?" Jag began, his voice croaking, his throat parched and dry.
"What happened to you?" Raphaela asked, finishing the sentence for him. She leaned back and studied his features. "Don't you remember? You were captured by those bat-things."
"Where—?" Jag said in a grating whisper.
"Where are you? At the bottom of a pit in an enormous cliff. I mean actually inside the cliff." She gazed upward. "It's like a huge cavern."
"How—?"
"How did you get here? Why, they brought you, of course. They dumped you in here with the rest of us about thirty minutes ago."
Jag licked his lips and swallowed, biding his time to gather his strength, to recover enough to at least complete a question. He surveyed his surroundings, taking stock, distressed to discover they were at the bottom of a circular pit 40 feet in circumference and an equal distance in height.
"Is this a friend of yours?" a male voice inquired.
Jag glanced to his left, and surprise lined his feline face at the sight of seven humans standing in a cluster a dozen feet away. There were four men and three women. Several of the men sported stubby beards, indicating they normally shaved but hadn't in a while.
"Yes," Raphaela answered, and gave Jag a squeeze. "A dear friend."
"He's a mutant, isn't he?" the same speaker demanded. He wore a brown shirt and jeans and appeared to be in his late forties or early fifties.
"Yep," Raphaela said. She shifted to stare at the man. "What difference does that make? He's in the same boat we are."
The man gazed at Jag. "I was just asking, is all. No offense meant."
"I should hope not, Mr. Norman," Raphaela stated sternly.
One of the other men, a burly specimen attired in tattered clothes, sighed. "Bat-men. Cat-men. I'm so sick and tired of lousy mutations I could puke."
The Molewoman stood, her fists clenched. "That's no way to talk, Mr. Shertzer."
"I can't help how I feel, lady," Shertzer replied. "You'd probably feel the same way if you'd been stuck in this pit for over two weeks."
"Maybe I would. But I won't tolerate having my friends be insulted by you or anyone else!"
Norman interjected a comment. "Calm down, Raphaela. I'm sure Bill didn't mean anything by his crack."
"I meant every word of it," Shertzer snapped. "What's she going to do? Punch me out?" He laughed scornfully.
Jaguarundi had heard enough. His saliva had soothed the torment in his throat and his mental faculties had been restored. He sprang to his feet and took a stride toward the man named Shertzer. "If you want your lights punched out, jerkface, I'll be glad to oblige."
Bill Shertzer's mouth dropped. He extended his right hand, palm outward. "Hey! Take it easy, pal! I didn't mean anything."
"I'm not your pal," Jag hissed. "And if you badmouth me again, getting out of this pit will be the least of your worries."
Shertzer glared but said nothing.
"That's better," Jag said, taunting him. He scrutinized their natural prison and frowned. The sides were sheer and smooth, lacking a handhold anywhere. Barely visible hundreds of feet above the rim of the pit was the roof of the cavern, and framed in an immense, jagged opening in that rock ceiling was the full moon.
Raphaela followed the direction of his gaze. "The top of the cliff and the north face are honeycombed with caves and holes. They all lead into the central cavern in which this pit is located."
"And the bat-men?"
"You can't see them from down here, but they're all over up there. Bat-men, bat-women, even young ones."
"So this is where they breed," Jag said.
"There are hundreds of them," Raphaela informed him.
The man wearing the jeans stepped forward and offered his right hand to Jag. "Hello. I'm Gary Norman. I'm pleased to meet you."
"He's the neighbor of Alan Valesh," Raphaela added.
"I gathered as much," Jag said, and shook.
Norman jerked his head toward the hefty prisoner. "Don't be too hard on Bill. You don't know the whole story. His wife and son were killed by those things."
Jag glanced at Shertzer. "They were?"
Norman nodded. "They were captured about two and a half weeks ago. His wife and son have since been taken out."
"Taken where?"
"Up there," Norman said, craning his neck to peer at the rim.
"That's right," Shertzer interjected acrimoniously. "Some of those freaks flew down here, grabbed them, and carried them up to the cavern floor. First my wife, then my son. Each time I tried to stop the bastards, and each time they knocked me down." He paused. "Every time I close my eyes I can hear my wife and son yelling for help as they were lifted out of this damn pit, and then I hear their screams all over again, their cries as those demons tore them apart limb by limb." He shuddered. "Is it any wonder I haven't slept a wink in days?"
Jaguarundi stared at the man, gauging his sincerity. "I had no idea. I'm sorry."
"So am I. I really don't hate you just because you're a mutation."
"Hybrid. I prefer the word hybrid," Jag said. He pointed at the cavern roof. "Those things are mutations."
"Whatever, you're in the same boat we are," Shertzer stated. "Those things will eat you too."
Jag stared at the other men and women. "Who has been here the longest?"
"I have," another man responded. "Over three weeks. There were twelve people in this pit when I was brought in. I'm the last one from that group." He gestured at the rest. "They were all brought in after me."
"The bat-men must feed you," Jag deduced.
"Yeah, they give us some slop now and then, just enough to stay alive. Mostly it's putrid meat, but when you're hungry enough you'll eat anything."
"I never will," Raphaela declared emphatically.
Jag walked in a small circle, inspecting the pit. "Since there are hundreds of those things, and they capture so few humans, they must eat more than human flesh."
"I've heard all kinds of squealing and wild shrieks from time to time," the man who had been in the pit the longest disclosed. "As if animals were being ripped to pieces. Those flying monsters must eat anything they can catch."
"Do they ever put live animals down here?" Jag inquired.
"Not that I know of," the long-time resident said.
"Just humans," Norman stated thoughtfully, then looked quickly at the hybrid. "Until now, that is."
"But why did they go to all this trouble for us?" Raphaela questioned.
"Maybe we're special," Jag answered.
"Special?"
"A delicacy."
"Oh."
Jag rotated to the left and a reeking stench assailed his nostrils. He coughed and covered his mouth.
"That's where we go to the bathroom," Shertzer said. "If you don't turn in that direction the odor isn't so bad."
"We've got to escape," Jag asserted, gazing overhead, striving to distinguish details.
"No fooling," Shertzer said sarcastically. "What was your first hint?"
"Do you think we haven't thought about escaping?" a woman in a grimy white blouse demanded. "It's all we do think about. But we can't fly like those devils. How are we going to get out of this pit when the walls are as slippery as glass?"
"There must be a way," Jag said.
Shertzer made a snorting noise. "Listen to the hybrid! He's been down here less than an hour and already he thinks he knows a way out."
"I didn't say that."
"Then what did you say? You make us sound like quitters or jackasses. Well, I'm telling you it can't be done! I did everything in my power to try and escape, to save my family. And it did no good! We're as good as dead."
"Speak for yourself," Jag said. "Where there's life, there's hope."
"How corny can you get," Shertzer responded with manifest contempt.
"Please, Bill," Norman said. "You're starting in on him again."
"I don't care. He's implying I let my family down, that I didn't do all I could have."
Jag shook his head. "I never made any such claim."
"Wait!" Raphaela suddenly interrupted, and raised her right arm. "Look!"
A fluttering of heavy wings reached Jag's keen ears and he tilted his head back to behold several bat-men hovering above the pit, partly blocking off the moonlight. The mutations were no more than hairy shadows.
"Oh, God!" Shertzer exclaimed in stark dread.
"What is it?" Norman asked.
"They've come for one of us."
"How do you know?" Raphaela queried anxiously.
"He's right," stated the longtime prisoner. "I know their routine by now."
"We've got to fight them," Jag proposed.
"Are you nuts? What can we hope to do against them?" Shertzer retorted.
The bat-men, five of them, began to slowly descend into the pit, staying huddled near the middle so their wings wouldn't brush the stone walls. One of them, a huge creature, dropped lower than his fellows.
"That's their leader," Raphaela declared.
"How do you know?" Jag inquired.
"I saw him before."
"So did I," Norman said, confirming her statement. "I saw him giving orders to the others."
Jag's eyes narrowed speculatively at the news. What would happen if the leader of the bat-men should die? How organized were the mutations? Could they mount an effective opposition without their head honcho?
"What do we do?" one of the women asked fearfully.
Before Jag could reply, and before anyone else could so much as move, the enormous leader dived straight down, its form a blur, its hands reaching out to grab the man who had been confined in the pit for over three weeks.
"No!" the man wailed.
Jag lunged at the bat-man, but the creature was faster. It shoved off the instant its talons bit into the man's shoulders and shot upwards, conveying the thrashing prisoner effortlessly.
"Help me!"
Raphaela extended her arms in a hopeless gesture. "We've got to help him!"
"There's nothing we can do for him," Gary Norman said.
The creatures flew over the edge of the pit and bore their burden to the left.
"Now you know how I felt when they took my wife and son," Shertzer commented.
For a minute nothing else happened. The vast cavern was quiet. And then a protracted, wavering scream echoed in the gigantic subterranean chamber, profoundly stirring in the sheer, unbridled terror pervading every quaking note.
"No!" Raphela said softly.
"One of us will be next," Norman remarked.
"Not if I can help it," Jag told them. "I have a plan."
"Who cares?" Shertzer responded. "It all boils down to us against them, and we don't stand a prayer."
Jag faced the malcontent. "Would you rather stand around twiddling your thumbs until they come to get you?"
The hefty man scowled, then looked at the spot where their late companion had been standing mere minutes ago. "No, I guess not." He squared his shoulders. "So what's this great plan of yours?"
They were trapped!
Blade gazed up at the rapidly descending bat-men, then over his right shoulder at the onrushing toads.
"What do we do?" Lobo queried.
The Warrior glowered in frustrated fury. There was no time for the luxury of indecision. If one horror didn't get them, the other one would. Unless. Unless he had a brilliant brainstorm and turned the tide instantly. A desperate idea flashed through his brain in a burst of inspiration, a death-defying gambit that might save their lives if their timing was flawless.
"They're almost on us!" Lobo belabored the obvious.
"Stick with me!" Blade commanded sharply, reversing direction, pointing the horse directly at the toads.
"What are you doing?" Lobo queried.
"Follow me," Blade directed, and rode to the north at a gallop, his body hunched low on the animal's broad back, the M60 held next to his chest. The success of his strategy depended on the toads. Did the amphibian mutations possess a normal endowment of self-preservation? Would they risk being pounded to a pulp by the drumming hoofs of the horses, or would the toads scatter to save themselves? Everything depended on the instinctual thread of elemental existence.
From the bat-men came a sudden loud chattering and sharp barking noises.
Blade ignored the winged deviates for the moment, hoping he wouldn't feel talons ripping into his back before he broke clear of the amphibians. If he broke clear.
The toads came on swiftly, executing their remarkable leaps, bounding streaks in the night.
"Don't stop for anything!" Blade shouted, and bore down on the middle of the foremost rank of popeyed mutations. He tensed, ready to vault from his animal if the toads should swarm over its legs. At a distance of 25 feet the amphibians were still surging forward without a hint of a break in their strides.
Doc Madsen's Magnum boomed and a bat-man screeched.
The flying abominations must be getting close, Blade realized, and then the gelding was only 15 feet from the first toads and he braced for the impending clash.
But there wasn't one.
At the last second the toads parted like a breaker on a boulder, scattering to the right and the left, jumping out of the way of the five racing horses, out of the path of those 20 driving hoofs, croaking and grunting in a guttural chorus.
The Warrior beamed in elation at their temporary respite. He rode a dozen yards and looked back in anticipation of finding both the bat-men and the toads in hot pursuit, but instead he laid eyes on a spectacle straight out of a madman's nightmare.
None of the toads were after the Force. The amphibians had another problem to deal with.
Incredibly, inexplicably, most of the bat-men had turned aside to chase the toads, swooping and diving every which way as they scooped up amphibian after amphibian. They would each grab a victim by a rear leg and haul the fleshy prize into the air, then immediately go after another one.
Blade straightened, realizing there could only be one explanation for the surprising behavior. The bat-men must constantly be on the lookout for food, and here was a golden opportunity they weren't about to pass up, the chance to bag scores of plump toads. So the majority of them had been diverted.
Ten bat-men, however, were still in pursuit of the Force.
The Warrior galloped northward for another 30 yards, repeatedly glancing at the flapping creatures, gauging the range, and when the bat-men came within 20 feet he abruptly halted the gelding and spun, the M60 rising to his right shoulder. He sighted on the dark forms and fired, sweeping the barrel from left to right and back again, the machine gun thundering in his ears and causing the black horse to prance skittishly. Compensating for the motion, he drilled the creatures.
Captain Havoc, Doc, Sparrow, and Lobo also opened fire.
Six of the bat-men crashed instantly, their wings fluttering as their lifeless figures plummeted. The other four bravely managed a few more yards before the rain of lead bored through their skulls and chests and brought them smashing down.
"On me!" Blade instructed, and made to the east. He intended to evade the other bat-men by swinging in a loop. Hopefully, the creatures were so involved in snatching toads that they wouldn't pay any attention to the Force for the next few minutes.
Captain Havoc rode up alongside the Warrior. "We lost the one we were following!" he exclaimed.
Blade gazed to the south, anger and frustration flaring within him. Damn! He'd forgotten all about the wounded bat-man in the flurry of activity. There was no sign of the creature. Either it had died, other bat-men had come to its aid, or it was continuing to the southwest all alone. Since the bat-man had stayed on a steady course, Blade felt safe in assuming the thing had been making for its lair. If the Force stayed on the same heading, he was optimistic they would locate where the creatures had their base of operations.
"Look!" Havoc declared, and pointed.
The Warrior spotted them. Five toads were frantically speeding to the southeast, away from the bat-men, fleeing for their lives without a backward glance. He watched them bound into the darkness, then motioned for his men to bear to the south.
To the west, scarcely visible in the faint light, the winged creatures were still gathering toads.
Blade observed the bizarre hunt warily, puzzled that none of the other bat-men broke off the chase to come after the Force. Was food so critical to the creatures that they would rather grab a hundred toads instead of five humans? Or was there a more sinister motive. Did the bat-men feel confident they could capture the Force any time, but desired to catch the toads before the amphibians took refuge in their burrows? The implications bothered him, but there was no turning back.
No matter what.
Blade led his team ever deeper into the Dead Zone, and they covered over a mile in somber silence except for the beating of shod hoofs. He noticed with mounting interest the dot on the horizon, a dot which grew quickly in scope and breadth, acquiring monumental proportions. Initially he surmised the dot might be a hill, then a solitary mountain peak, but when the true width and height became apparent he concluded he was gazing at a towering cliff, an escarpment of staggering dimensions.
"What's that up ahead, dude?" Lobo inquired.
"A cliff," Blade replied.
"I don't like the looks of it."
"Neither do I," the Warrior admitted.
"There is an aura of evil about that place," Sparrow Hawk mentioned gravely. "Even from here I can feel the emanations."
"Aura?" Lobo said, and snickered. "Emanations? Are you for real? It just looks ugly, is all."
"My people believe there are spirits in the forces of Nature, and that other spirits dwell in animals and objects like trees and rocks. To us, the natural world is alive with a life all its own, both a life we can see with our eyes and a life invisible to our senses," Sparrow explained.
"You don't really believe that garbage, do you?"
The Flathead glanced at the Clansman. "To my people, to our ancestors and the people from many other tribes, such beliefs aren't garbage. We know what we know."
"You don't really expect me to fall for such bull?"
"No, I wouldn't expect a man who hasn't learned to know his own spirit to be aware of others."
"Was that a crack?"
"I'm simply pointing out that certain places are special. Some are good and bring only fortune. Others are wicked and reek of evil." Sparrow nodded toward the escarpment. "I feel much evil emanating from that place."
"You're a few bricks shy of a load," Lobo said. "You know what I mean?"
Sparrow sighed. "White men have never understood the beliefs of my people. Why should you be any different? But I know my words are true. I went through the Sun Dance and I have my own guardian spirit."
"Say what?"
Blade, who had been listening to the exchange while scanning the landscape, looked at the Flathead. "You went through the Sun Dance?"
Sparrow nodded and stared at the giant. "You know what it is?"
"I have an Indian friend by the name of Geronimo. He's a Warrior, like me. Thanks to him, I know more about Indian customs and beliefs than I would otherwise. I know, for instance, the Sun Dance is one of your most sacred ceremonies. It's usually held in the summer, I believe, and the object is for those who take part to dance around a scared pole until they have a vision."
The Flathead nodded, impressed by the giant's knowledge. "Yes. I took part in the Sun Dance four years ago. For four days I danced around the pole of life, four days without food or drink, four days in the blistering heat. I thought I would die." He chuckled. "But I went into a trance and saw my vision."
"What did you see?" Blade inquired out of curiosity.
"A supernatural being of light, blue light, with three blue halos above his head and eyes the color of fire."
Lobo laughed.
"I asked the being if there was a sacred object I should have to make my medicine bundle," Sparrow went on, ignoring the Clansman. "But the being of blue light told me I needed no sacred object. He placed a part of himself, a blue circle of light, inside my head and told me that it was to be my guide and protector. When I'm in trouble, I need only call on the blue light inside my head and I'll be delivered."
"What a dork!" Lobo declared. "Do all Indians believe in such fairy tales?"
"Lobo?" Blade said.
"Yeah?"
"Shut your face."
"What did I do?"
"If you want to make fun of Sparrow's beliefs, do it on your own time. There's no reason you should inflict your ignorance on the rest of us."
Lobo did a double take. "Ignorance? Are you tellin' me you believe that crap?"
"I've learned to be open to the spiritual experiences of others," Blade stated. "We can't measure reality by the boundaries of our own minds."
"There you go again. Gettin' weird on me."
Blade smiled and rode onward, staring at the cliff and searching the heavens for signs of the bat-men. Strangely, the Dead Zone was tranquil. Even the breeze had stopped.
"You know, maybe we should call a halt and wait for Kilrane and the rest of the cowboys to get here," Lobo suggested.
"Why?" Blade queried.
Lobo gazed at the escarpment. "You heard Sparrow. He's pickin' up evil vibes."
"I thought you didn't believe in such nonsense."
"I don't," Lobo declared. "But I've got this motto I live by, and my motto has pulled my fat out of the fire more times than I care to remember."
"What motto?"
"Better safe than sorry."
"We keep going."
The Clansman frowned. "What's the big rush, dude?"
"Raphaela, remember? And we still haven't seen any sign of Jag."
"He's probably already saved her butt and both of them are back at the farm, waitin' for us."
"Wishful thinking," Blade commented.
Lobo looked at the stars. "No one ever told me I'd be takin' on man-eating bats when I joined this outfit."
"We take our enemies as they come along," Blade said. "A week from now we could face bloodsucking worms."
"You're kiddin' me, right?"
"You never know," Blade replied, and smiled enigmatically.
For 15 minutes the Force drew ever nearer to the rearing escarpment. Low clouds floated overhead. The stillness became almost palpable, an oppressive, invisible veil smothering the alien wasteland.
"I really don't like this," Lobo muttered.
"Do you want me to ride on ahead and scout the cliff?" Captain Havoc inquired.
"No. We'll stick together," Blade answered.
Lobo straightened in his saddle. "Hey, dude. I could ride back and find Kilrane."
"No."
"You're a real grump, you know that?"
The Warrior absently nodded and fingered the reins in his left hand, bothered by the silence. Logic dictated there should be bat-men in the vicinity of the escarpment. As the highest promontory in the Dead Zone—maybe the only promontory in the Dead Zone—the rocky precipice was an ideal site from which to view the region for miles around, the perfect place for a base.
So where were the creatures?
Blade spotted inky openings in the cliff face and his brow knit in perplexity. Caves. There were scores of caves dotting the palisade, and caves were ideally suited as a habitation for bats.
And bat-men.
But why did the caves appear to be deserted? He reached back to rub his neck and relieve a trifling stiffness, and for a second he closed his eyes.
"Blade!" Captain Havoc shouted in alarm.
The Warrior's gray eyes flicked open, and kept opening in consternation as he beheld a seething stream of winged mutations pouring from the escarpment, from every cave in the cliff, angling down in collective might toward the Freedom Force.
"Are you ready?" Raphaela whispered.
"As ready as I'll ever be," Gary Norman replied.
"This is crazy," Bill Shertzer remarked nervously. "It'll never work."
"Do you have any better ideas?" Raphaela demanded.
"No."
"Then quit griping and do your part."
Shertzer frowned. "Don't worry about me. I'll do my part. I want out of this stinking hole more than you do."
Raphaela stared at the deep shadows on the right side of the pit. Jag and the five other prisoners were well concealed. With a little luck the mutations wouldn't awaken to the deception until too late.
"I wish I had a weapon," Norman mentioned.
"Don't we all," Raphaela said. The three of them were standing in the center of the floor. She gazed up at the rim, took a deep breath, and held her arms out. "Here."
Norman and Shertzer each seized a wrist and pretended to be pulling her in opposite directions.
"Here goes nothing," Raphaela stated, and yelled as stridently as she could. "Take your hands off me!"
"Louder!" Shertzer urged.
"Leave me alone!" Raphaela cried. She screamed until her throat hurt, her eyes on the top of the pit, waiting apprehensively for the bat-men to appear.
"Still nothing," Norman stated irately. "Try again!"
Raphaela nodded and voiced a shriek that would have done justice to a woman being torn apart by ravenous mutates. She shrieked long and hard, until her face turned red, and she had just ran out of breath when one of the creatures fluttered into view.
"Keep going!" Shertzer declared, and tugged on her left wrist with more intensity than he should have properly used. "It's working!"
Opening her mouth wide, Raphaela screamed once more. Now everything hinged on the bat-men. Would the creatures take steps to prevent one of their captives from being harmed, or couldn't the things care less? If Jag was right, if the batmen wouldn't let one of their precious delicacies be damaged, then something should happen, and soon.
Something did.
Three more creatures materialized at the rim, hovering a few feet in the air and chattering excitedly.
For good measure Raphaela screeched again.
That did the trick.
The four hairy forms sank toward the pit floor, their wings beating slowly, spaced close together in the center just like the last time.
Shertzer voiced an insane cackle. "They're falling for it! The bastards are falling for it!"
"Stay calm," Norman advised.
Raphaela pulled on her arms, feigning a violent struggle while surreptitiously watching the winged quartet drop lower and lower. They were certainly taking their sweet time about coming to her aid.
"Get ready!" Shertzer hissed to Norman.
"Wait for the hybrid's signal," Norman advised sternly.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Shertzer said, pulling on the Mole-woman's wrist.
Raphaela didn't like the wild gleam in the burly man's brown eyes. Even in the subdued lighting she could tell his features were flushed with excitement, and his palms were sweating profusely where they touched her skin. "Stay calm!" she whispered.
"Yeah, right!" Shertzer declared, openly staring at the bat-men when he should have been ignoring them.
"You'll ruin it for all of us!" Norman exclaimed.
The four creatures were only ten feet above them.
"Now!" Raphaela said, sticking to the plan despite Shertzer's erratic behavior. She sank to her knees.
Shertzer and Norman both leaned over her.
Would the ruse work? Raphaela wondered breathlessly. They were forcing the bat-men to descend as low as possible; the lower, the better. For the plan to succeed, the things must all be within arm's reach. To her supreme joy, the creatures took the bait.
Intent on stopping the presumed fight, their wings swishing back and forth, the quartet alighted in a ring around the two men and woman. One of the bat-men placed its hand on the burly prisoner's shoulder.
"Get them!" Shertzer bellowed prematurely. He foolishly released Raphaela, spun, and lunged at the bat-men, wrapping his arms around its waist.
"Damn him!" Norman snapped, and threw himself at another mutation.
Raphaela felt the same way, but she suppressed her anger at Shertzer's stupidity and made a dive at a third creature, looping her arms about its ankles.
The fourth bat-man began to rise.
"Jag!" Raphaela yelled, knowing the things would break free and escape in seconds, dashing the chance at freedom on the bitter rocks of one man's selfishness. She strained with all of her strength as the creature she held started to flap upward. "Jag!"
And suddenly the hybrid and the five other captives were there, each clasping a bat-man as the things became airborne.
Jag went after the fourth creature, the one that had risen the highest, at least eight feet from the floor. His sinewy muscles uncoiling like steel springs, Jag vaulted and caught the bat-man just under the left arm. His nails tore into the mutation's chest, digging deep, and he held on as the thing beat him on the head and shoulders in a frenzied effort to dislodge him.
The other captives were doing the same, desperation lending strength to their limbs and resolve to their efforts. They seized hold of the creatures and held fast.
Jag could feel the fourth creature rising. Would the thing take him all the way to the rim in its frantic effort to get away, or would it resist and try to dislodge him? His insane scheme called for the prisoners to break out of the pit and take shelter in the depths of the cavern. After that, slipping out to find the Force and the Cavalry would be the next step provided they lived long enough. He glanced down to see how the others were faring.
Shertzer, two men, and one of the women were all clinging to the same mutation, weighing the bat-man down to the point it could barely get off the ground. Snarling furiously, the thing struck at them and endeavored to shake them off.
Gary Norman and one woman were holding fast to another creature despite its best efforts to beat them into submission.
And Raphaela and the last woman had the third bat-man by the legs. The monstrosity had risen a couple of feet and now hovered while swatting at their heads.
Even as he watched, Jag saw the third bat-man pound the woman's head so hard she went abruptly limp and slumped to the pit floor, which left Raphaela to occupy its bestial attention. He saw the thing hit Raphaela three times in swift succession and she sagged against its legs.
Damn!
Why hadn't they stuck to his plan? No more than three prisoners permutation, if possible! An even distribution, he'd told them! Enough to subdue each creature but not so many they couldn't fly! Those had been his instructions, but of course Shertzer and some of the others hadn't paid any attention. And now their stupidity threatened to jeopardize their success. Jag simmered.
Raphaela, hit again, was losing her grip.
Jaguarundi wasn't about to leave without her. The creature he held still hovered eight feet from the bottom. His own legs were only six feet from the floor and two feet to the Molewoman's right, and the proximity suggested a mad scheme that could extricate them both. "Raphaela!" he shouted above the din of combat.
Seemingly dazed, Raphaela looked around while clutching the third bat-man's legs.
"Raphaela!" Jag repeated, ignoring the blows delivered to his body.
Her red hair bobbed as the Molewoman glanced upward and spied him.
"When I give the word, let go of that thing and grab my legs!" Jag directed.
Raphaela's eyes narrowed and she shook her head, signifying she hadn't understood.
"When I say the word, let go of him and take hold of my legs!" Jag reiterated, hoping she could understand his words. The other prisoners and creatures were creating a racket as they battled, bellowing and screaming and growling.
Finally Raphaela nodded. She ducked a fist aimed at her cheek, her gaze riveted on the hybrid.
There was no time to lose.
"Now!" Jag cried, and saw her release the third creature. Instantly the thing shot into the air, heading for the rim. As it streaked past him, the breeze from its heaving wings brushing the fur on his face, he let go of the bat-man he was holding and started to fall.
The fourth mutation began to fly upward.
Jag had to execute his move perfectly. He had to allow his legs to drop within Raphaela's reach while simultaneously seizing the departing bat-man's ankles. His hands flicked out, he dug his nails into the creature just above its feet, and as he squeezed with all his strength he felt arms clamp on his own legs. With the next heartbeat he was drawn swiftly upward, and as he went he drew Raphaela along with him.
The fight still raged on the pit floor.
Jag stared at the rim, his body as tense as an iron wall. Could the bat-man support so much additional weight? Would it clear the edge or fall back and doom them to await their horrid fate? He heard the flap-flap-flap as the creature struggled to gain altitude, and for several heart-stopping moments failure seemed certain. They began to sink down again.
"No!" Raphaela shouted.
Down below a woman vented a terrified shriek.
Jaguarundi snarled and gave the bat-man added incentive to reach the top. He dug his nails into the mutation's ankles until he scraped bone.
The creature threw back its head, yelped, and sped for the edge with all the speed it could muster, its wings beating madly.
Raphaela gasped as the movement caused her hands to slip half an inch.
For Jag, the next several seconds seemed to stretch into an eternity. The rim seemed to draw nearer by minute degrees. Raphaela's arms were creeping down his legs, and in another minute or two she would slip off entirely and plummet to the floor almost 40 feet below. They needed to reach a firm footing quickly.
The creature's head rose about the rim.
"Hang on!" Jag yelled.
"I'm trying!"
Its wings beating in a continuous motion, the bat-man rose steadily higher. Its shoulders cleared the pit, then its abdomen.
Jag glanced to his left at a flat stretch of cave floor dimly illuminated by the moonlight streaming in the hole in the roof. He had to reach firm ground before reinforcements swarmed in to knock him off the mutation.
The bat-man's feet ascended out of the pit.
If Jag had been by himself, he would have lunged for the side and clambered to safety. But with Raphaela hanging from his legs he had to wait until just the right moment. In his mind he roared at the bat-man. Keep going! Keep going!
In the pit a man cursed and raved.
Jag's head, shoulders, and chest emerged, dangling from the mutation, less than 18 inches from the rim. His nerves were aflame with impatience. Under him Raphaela continued to lose her hold little by little.
Something moved above the cave floor.
His eyes registered the rhythmic sweep of leathery wings and Jag spotted a bat-man rushing toward him out of the gloom. Its intention was transparent. The thing planned to batter him from his perch and send him back into the pit where he belonged. His knees were now above the edge, but it wasn't enough.
This new menace swept toward the cat-man like an enormous bird of prey.
Jag guessed the thing would try to ram him with its fists. He deliberately held his body out several inches from the bat-man to which he clung, presenting an excellent target, wanting the onrushing creature to believe it couldn't miss. He waited until the very last instant, gazing to one side as if he didn't know the thing was hurling toward him.
The attacking bat-man twisted its body and extended both fists as it closed the final few feet.
His sinews rippling, Jag jerked his body to the right, gritting his teeth against the strain of bearing Raphaela's weight. Knuckles brushed his left temple, and then the attacker had swept past and was arching high tor another run. Jag sensed that the mutation supporting both Raphaela and him had intentionally slowed, probably with the intention of giving the attacker a second try. He wasn't about to let that scheme bear fruit. Without evincing any inkling of his aim, he suddenly pressed against the creature's left leg and sank his tapered teeth into its shin.
In a flash the mutation soared another seven feet higher, screeching in torment.
Jag didn't waste a second. He swung his body like a pendulum, back to front, not once but twice, swinging wider on each try, carrying Raphaela with him, and on the third swing he whipped her toward the floor of the cave bordering the pit. He also let go. The cool air in his eyes and the hard ground giving the impression of leaping up to meet them of its own accord brought a knot to his stomach and a lump in his throat.
Raphaela came down first within half a foot of the edge, landing on her knees and sprawling forward.
For a fleeting instant Jag thought he might pitch back into the pit. He dived headfirst for the stone floor and felt Raphaela's arms slide from his legs. Only five feet separated his head from the ground, but it was enough space for him to tuck his chin into his chest, draw his legs up, and flip. His calloused pads smacked down, stinging his feet, but he disregarded the pain in his joy at being free. A short-lived joy—
Raphaela rose awkwardly and swayed near the rim, not in full control of her faculties yet. "Jag!" she cried.
He spun, his feline form a blur, and grabbed her by the shoulders. "I've got you. We're safe."
"Are we?" Raphaela responded, and nodded at the cavern ceiling.
Jag glanced up. After hearing there were hundreds of the creatures, he expected to find the air filled with wings and enraged yowls and barks. To his amazement, there were only two bat-men in sight, circling high above the pit.
The cavern appeared to be deserted otherwise.
"Where are the bat-men?" Rapahela asked in astonishment.
"I have no idea," Jag said, watching the duo overhead.
"I saw them. They were all over the place."
"They're gone now," Jag stated absently.
An injured mutation, its right wing somewhat crumpled, flapped out of the pit and climbed to join its comrades.
"Gary and the others!" Raphaela exclaimed, and dashed to the rim.
Jag warily went along to guard her, his gaze constantly roving to the three bat-men in the air.
Only one creature remained in the pit, and it wouldn't be flying ever again. Two men and one woman were lying on the ground, their faces covered with blood. The rest stood around the dead bat-man, gloating, having overwhelmed their warder by sheer force of numbers and beaten it to death with their bare hands. Bill Shertzer kicked the thing once more for good measure.
Raphaela stared at the two dead captives and recognized one of the casualties. "Oh, not! Not Gary!"
"The fools should have tried to escape instead of taking their revenge," Jag snapped.
"We've got to get them out."
"How? We don't have a rope."
"We've got to try," Raphaela insisted.
Jag pointed at the three bat-men. "We have a bigger problem to worry about."
The creatures were flying near the huge opening in the cavern roof. They unexpectedly angled up and vanished in the night.
"Where are they going?" Raphaela blurted.
"How should I know? Probably to get help."
Raphaela gazed at the gigantic cavern, her nostrils crinkling at the reeking odor of what must be tons of defecation.
"We can't look a gift horse in the mouth," Jag said. "With all the creatures gone, this may be the only chance we'll get to escape."
"But what about them?" Raphaela protested, pointing at the pit.
"We'll come back for them," Jag assured her. "First we have to find Blade."
"I don't know," Raphaela said uncertainly, reluctant to leave the captives.
And then they both heard the sounds that made her reservations moot. From somewhere outside, from relatively close at hand, came the sharp retorts of automatic-weapons fire, and mingled in with the lighter chattering of M-16's was the distinctive thundering of a machine gun both Raphaela and Jag had heard in operation many times: the trademark metallic roar of Blade's M60.
Kilrane was a man enraged.
He rode at the head of the column of Cavalrymen, his right hand resting on his hip next to the Mitchell Single Action revolver. Behind him were his two lieutenants, Armitage and Treon. Neither spoke a word to him. They knew better than to bother him when he was in one of his infrequent moods. And he was furious.
What a jerk!
How could he have let himself be taken by surprise like that? The statistics ran through his mind again and again. Four dead. Seven wounded. And 26 missing.
Twenty-six!
He fumed, clenching the reins so tightly his knuckles paled. Those flying freaks had gotten in the first lick, but he wasn't through with them by a long shot. Counting the wounded, he still had 70 prime fighting men behind him, 70 men armed with repeating rifles and revolvers, 70 men who were among the best marksmen in the Dakota Territory. He couldn't wait until they tangled with the bat-men again.
Come and get it, you bastards!
Kilrane smiled grimly, surveying the heavens. The first time those creatures had taken him by surprise. It wouldn't happen again. He didn't care how many bat-men were in the Dead Zone. By the time the Cavalry was done, there wouldn't be a single monstrosity left alive. He glanced over his shoulder at his lieutenants. "Did you pass my instructions along to the men?"
"Of course," Armitage answered. He was the older of the pair, a seasoned gun-hand who had made his living as a rancher before being approached by Kilrane to join the detachment.
"They know what to do," Treon added confidently. He had only served for nine months, but had risen through the ranks swiftly, a testimony to his superior skill and unusual maturity.
"They'd better," Kilrane said flatly. "We were lucky once because those things were trying to take us alive. We might not be so lucky the next time."
"Your plan will work," Treon predicted.
"It better," Kilrane noted.
"I'm surprised we haven't seen hide nor hair of Blade and his people," Armitage commented. "We've been riding pretty hard."
"Maybe the Force was captured," Treon speculated.
"I doubt it," Kilrane said.
"Why's that?" Treon inquired.
"For one thing, Blade isn't the type to get captured easily. You don't know him like I do."
"Is he really as good as they claim he is?" Treon asked.
"He's better."
"Well, I guess when someone is as big as him, with all those muscles, they're just naturally a tough mother."
Kilrane glanced at his youngest lieutenant. "Don't you believe it. Blade got where he is today through hard work and dedication. He spent countless hours exercising to develop that physique of his. He's the toughest hombre on the planet simply because he's Blade."
"He'd make a great Cavalryman," Treon stated.
"Oh, I don't know," Armitage said, grinning. "We wouldn't want a wimp like him in our Territory."
Kilrane smiled for the first time in hours. The smile abruptly faded, though, when he beheld two riders racing toward the column from the southwest. His scouts.
"Here comes Russell and Leonard," Treon said.
"Halt the column," Kilrane directed, and reined up. He watched thin spirals of dust rise into the atmosphere behind the pair of galloping horses, the minute particles opaque in the moonlight. His lieutenants were calling out for the detachment to stop and the word was being passed rapidly down the line.
Within 60 seconds the two scouts drew up. One of them, a lanky, bearded man in buckskins, started right in. "We've found a party of bat-men about' a mile ahead. Lots of the critters."
"Did they spot you?"
"Nope. They were too busy."
"Doing what?"
Russell and Leonard exchanged glances.
"You won't believe it," the former said.
"Try me," Kilrane stated impatiently.
"They were beating giant toads to death."
"What?"
"I told you that you wouldn't believe me. We came across about thirty-six of the things gathering big old toads. They'd already caught a whole bunch of the varmints when we spotted them. We crawled as close as we dared and took a look-see. The bat-men were bashing the toads on the ground, splitting the skulls open, then tucking a bunch of the bloody critters under their arms and taking off," Russell detailed.
"I ain't never seen the like," Leonard chimed in. "They had rounded up bunches of those toads before we got there. They'd just hold those toads by the back legs and beat them silly. Some of the toads tried to fight back, but there wasn't much they could do. I saw one of the bat-men get bit, but it didn't faze him none."
"Are some of the bat-men still there?" Kilrane inquired.
"About two dozen, I reckon," Leonard answered.
"Good," Kilrane said grimly. He turned to his lieutenants. "You know the drill. Get hopping."
Armitage and Treon both nodded and went about their business. Both men wheeled their mounts. Treon nodded at the right-hand row, then led them to the east at a 90-degree angle. In due course they had formed a line from west to east, each Cavalryman sitting attentively on his horse.
"Your turn," Kilrane told Armitage.
The older lieutenant gestured at the left-hand row, and in unison they repeated the maneuver performed by Treon's men, cutting to the east and forming a straight line, positioning themselves directly in front of Treon and Company.
Kilrane inspected the disposition of his detachment with satisfaction. Now he had two row of riders extending from east to west, facing the enemy, ready to ride with the wind. He grinned as he rode to a position ten feet in front of the first line, halfway down the row. He turned the palomino toward his men and drew his rifle from its scabbard.
The seventy were waiting expectantly.
"Men of the Cavalry!" Kilrane said to them proudly. "We are about to engage the latest threat to the safety of the Federation. These bat-men made the mistake of taking us on first, and now none of the other Federation factions will have an opportunity to confront them."
Some of the men laughed.
"Seriously, all of us know what's at stake here tonight. Who knows how many innocent lives have been snuffed out by these abominations! Hundreds, at least. Tonight the killing ends!"
The riders were all abruptly somber.
"This threat has hit home because it's sprung up within our own borders. We have a responsibility to ensure the horror doesn't spread," Kilrane declared, and looked both ways, eyeing his men affectionately. "The smart thing to do would be to return to Rapid City and send a call out for reinforcements. We're outnumbered. Those things can fly, we can't. They have the advantage because they know this area, we don't." He paused. "But since when has being outnumbered or at a disadvantage stopped the Cavalry? The best of the best. And I say we can teach these scum-sucking genetic misfits what happens to those who attack the Cavalry! I say we pay them back in kind for all the lives they've taken! What do you say?"
For several seconds silence greeted the question, until Armitage raised his right arm aloft and cried out, "Yes! Yes! Yes!" in moments all of the Cavalrymen had adopted the refrain and their shouts rose in a challenging din intended for the ears of the grotesque denizens of the Dead Zone.
Kilrane grinned and nodded. They were as ready as they would ever be. He held up the rifle and the riders promptly quieted. "To victory or death!" he shouted, and spun the palomino. He headed to the southwest, the two scouts falling in alongside him.
"The ones we saw are straight ahead," Russell said.
Nodding, Kilrane adjusted his grip on the Winchester. After so many months of sitting behind a desk at Pierre, dealing with the thousand and one petty administrative problems that governing the Dakota Territory entailed, he savored this chance to be in action again. Gone were the carefree days when he could roam the plains at his leisure. Now thousands of people relied on his judgment and stability to guide them through every crisis, and he had discovered he was tied down to the capital as effectively as if he were a prized steer under lock and key in a barn.
This was a rare treat.
Kilrane thought of Blade. He envied the Warrior, envied Blade's freedom. As the top Warrior and head of the Force, Blade got to travel to any point in the Federation, or outside of it if necessary, to quell problems as they developed. The giant wasn't tied down to one particular spot. He would gladly trade boots with Blade in an instant. Ironically, he knew the Warrior disliked all the travel and would rather spend his time at the Home. Too bad their situations weren't reversed.
"Here they come," Leonard declared.
Surprised by the intrusion into his reverie, Kilrane looked up. He'd lost all track of time. "What?" he said absently.
Leonard pointed at the sky to the south. "They must have heard all that shouting we did. Here they come."
Kilrane saw them. Dozens of bat-men winging in a beeline for his detachment. Now he could test his strategy. "Detachment, halt!" he shouted.
The twin rows of Cavalrymen drew to a stop.
"Rifles, out!" Kilrane commanded as he turned the palomino sideways.
Out came 70 rifles, each held in the at-ready position.
"Chamber and shoulder, now!"
Seventy levers were worked, 70 stocks pressed to waiting shoulders.
Kilrane glanced at the bat-men. During the last battle those things had dropped among the horses, spooking the mounts. Now those creatures were about to learn that Cavalry mounts were the best-trained steeds in the world. Sure, flying mutations might throw a scare into them, but every one of the horses had been trained to take the booming of gunfire in stride. "Detachment, aim!" he bellowed.
Their wings beating powerfully, 36 bat-men swooped out of the night. They were 100 yards from the humans.
"First rank, on my order you will fire!" Kilrane directed, watching the mutations, measuring the distance. The things were so confident in their ability that they weren't even trying to take cover or evasive action.
Good!
Kilrane elevated his left arm. His 26 missing men came to mind and he scowled. Time to even the score. At a range of 70 yards his skin began to tingle. At 40 yards he laughed harshly. And at 20 yards he gave the signal every Cavalryman awaited. "First rank, fire!"
Thirty-five rifles cracked simultaneously.
"Second rank, fire!" Kilrane commanded.
The second row fired on cue, giving the first row time to feed another round in the chamber and take aim on a new target.
"First rank, fire!"
Once more the marksmen cut loose.
Kilrane still wasn't through. "Second rank, fire!"
For the fourth time dozens of rifles rent the air with their crashing discharge.
"Cease firing!" Kilrane yelled, waving his Winchester. He gazed at the barren stretch ahead and nearly whooped for joy.
Not one of the bat-men had managed to get closer than ten yards to the Cavalrymen. Hairy forms littered the ground, many groaning, their wings and limbs twitching or moving feebly. Puddles of blood seeped into the sterile soil.
"Chalk one up for us," Kilrane stated. "Armitage! Take ten men and finish the bastards off!"
The lieutenant promptly obeyed.
"What's next?" Russell inquired.
The Cavalry leader stared to the southwest, his features hardening in remorseless determination. "What do you think is next? It's them or us. No quarter. No mercy. We fight to the death."
Russell looked at the other scout and grinned. "I'm fixing to stuff one of those buggers and mount it in the family room. How about you?"
"There's zillions of 'em!" Lobo exclaimed.
Blade scanned the surrounding landscape, seeking cover, a refuge of any kind, and 30 feet off to the west lay a depression of some sort, a bowl-shaped area. "On me!" he shouted, and raced toward it.
Hundreds of bat-creatures had emerged from the caves marking the looming face of the escarpment. They were flying in a packed formation 20 yards wide and 300 feet long. Leading them, several yards in front of the pack, was an enormous bat-man with a 15-foot wingspan. The mutations arced down at the Force, then leveled off at an altitude of 50 feet and circled above the five men in a wide loop, voicing their distinctive cries the whole time.
Lashing the reins, Blade reached the depression first and plunged over the edge. The dimensions of the bowl were barely adequate for defensive purposes. Twenty-five feet in diameter and only four feet deep, the circular bank sloped sharply to the dusty floor. He absorbed the shock as the gelding came down on all fours and goaded the horse to the middle of the bowl. In a flash he dismounted and hastened to the side of the depression as the others imitated his example.
"Why didn't we haul ass?" Lobo asked anxiously, resting his left knee on the bank.
"How far do you think we would have gotten?" Blade responded. He glanced at the horses, huddled in the center, then at his team. "Fan out around the rim. We'll take them as they come."
Havoc nodded and moved to the right. Doc and Sparrow went to the left. Lobo stayed where he was.
"Didn't you hear me?" Blade asked.
"Yeah," the Clansman replied inattentively. He gazed at the circling creatures in awed fascination. "We don't stand a snowball's chance in hell. You know that, don't you?"
"I know nothing of the kind," Blade stated. "We're still alive. We can fight."
Lobo jerked his left thumb toward the mutations. "Fight all of them? Give me a break, dude!"
"When we get back to L.A. we're going to have a long talk about your attitude," Blade said. "Now pick a spot and dig in."
"I'll dig in, all right," Lobo mumbled, walking to the right. "I'll dig all the way to freakin' China."
The leader of the bat-men suddenly whistled shrilly and the creatures stopped and hovered. Hundreds of wings beat the air, creating a subdued swishing effect. They gazed down at the bowl with a collective, malignant intensity.
"I can pick off that big one from here," Captain Havoc offered.
"Not yet," Blade said.
"No, wait for Christmas why don't you?" Lobo muttered.
"Consider yourself on report, Lobo," Blade stated without taking his eyes from the fluttering genetic deviates.
"I should live so long."
"What are those critters waiting for?" Doc Madsen wondered aloud.
"We should be thankful they are," Sparrow said.
Blade scrutinized the assembled mutations, then focused on the apparent leader. Why hadn't it given the order to attack? He saw the thing looking straight at him, and a moment later the bat-man flew slowly down toward the bowl.
"Let me blow it away!" Lobo urged.
"Not yet," Blade reiterated.
The large creature brazenly descended to within 15 feet of the Warrior and paused, its wings flapping in a leisurely fashion, a curous smirk creasing its visage.
Blade pointed the M60 at the leader but there was no reaction. The bat-man boldly stayed in position, not even flinching. It just flapped and smirked. "What do you want?" he demanded, not really anticipating an answer.
Projecting an attitude of smug superiority, the leader pointed at the Warrior, then at the ground underneath its feet.
"Damn! I think the thing is challenging you, sir!" Captain Havoc declared.
"So it would seem," Blade agreed.
"But why?" Havoc wanted to know. "Why not simply overwhelm us and be done with it?"
"I don't know," Blade admitted, studying the leader. He arrived at several conclusions. First, from the rancor reflected in the bat-man's features, he deduced the thing positively loathed all humans, probably hated them with a passion. So part of the leader's motivation was plain and obvious abhorrence. But there was more, an underlying current of condescension, as if the creature held all human beings in complete and abject contempt. The challenge, therefore, ranked as an inconsequential diversion for the mutation, a moment's sport, a way to indulge its self-proclaimed superiority while having a little fun.
"That being radiates evil," Sparrow said from his side of the bowl. "I would advise you to stay away from it."
Blade returned the creature's hostile stare, undecided. He felt an almost irresistible impulse to smash that complacent face to a pulp, to accept the gauntlet, but he suspected the challenge might also serve as a ruse and he held his tongue. Before he could make up his mind, fate intervened.
A lone bat-man streaked out of the north, venting piercing shrieks of alarm, and sped under the ring to approach the leader.
Blade saw an undercurrent of excitement ripple among the mutations. They chattered together in hushed tones and many gazed in the direction the new arrival had come from. Why were they so agitated? What was out there? Kilrane and the Cavalry perhaps?
The messenger and the leader consulted in short barks and grunts, with much gesturing on the part of the harbinger of dire tidings. Several times the huge leader stared grimly to the north. Finally the big one climbed a dozen yards and rotated, staring at all of its subjects.
"What's going down, dude?" Lobo questioned.
"Your guess is as good as mine," Blade said.
"Since when?"
In its guttural tongue, motioning emphatically to stress its points, the leader addressed the mutations. The fiery speech aroused the creatures to a fever pitch and they began snarling and yipping. After a minute of this activity, the leader waved its right arm northward while chittering like a furious squirrel. Immediately two thirds of the monstrosities flew off.
"Where are they going?" Lobo queried.
"After Kilrane would be my guess," Captain Havoc stated.
"Damn! I hope that cowboy knows what he's doing."
Blade kept his eyes on the leader, who remained stationary, watching the horde until they were out of sight. The remaining mutations closed ranks, forming a more compact ring above the bowl.
"There's less of the suckers now," Lobo mentioned. "Maybe we should get while the gettin' is good."
"Not on your life," Blade stated.
"Why not?"
"Because if those creatures did go after the Cavalry, Kilrane will have his hands full as it is. The last thing he'd need would be for us to lead even more of the creatures to him."
"That's nice. But what about us?" Lobo inquired.
"We'll stall."
"Say what?"
"We'll dig in here and keep these others occupied."
"I don't suppose you've noticed that we're outnumbered something pitiful."
"The odds were worse a minute ago," Blade pointed out, and looked at the captain. "I want to make certain these don't leave."
"How can we do that?" Havoc replied.
"I'll engage the leader one on one. You keep me covered. And the instant I win, let those things have it."
"What if you don't win, dude?" Lobo interjected.
"Then kill a few for me," Blade said, and climbed to the top of the bank. He cupped his right hand to his mouth and tilted his head back. "Hey, you! I'm waiting!"
The leader of the bat-men looked down, then went into a dive, its wings outstretched. Gliding swiftly and silently, the mutation came down within ten feet of the Warrior and alighted as gently as a feather.
"I thought you wanted to see which one of us is the best?" Blade taunted. He doubted the thing could understand English, but his tone was unmistakable. For his plan to succeed, if he wanted the head bat-man to forget all about Kilrane for the time being, he needed to anger it, to get the creature too mad to think straight.
Frowning, the gigantic deviate extended its right arm and indicated the M60.
Blade grinned. "No, it wouldn't be very sporting to use this, would it?" He lowered the machine gun to the turf, then straightened. The ammo belts, he decided, stayed on despite their weight. So did the knives. He never took the Bowies off unless he was in his cabin at the Home, and even then only for certain occasions.
"Go get him, sir," Captain Havoc said.
"Yeah. Waste the chump," Lobo added.
"Stay frosty," Blade instructed them. He took two strides, warily regarding his foe, noting they were about evenly matched in size and stature. How could he hope to overcome the creature's great strength and pantherish reflexes? A frontal assault seemed ludicrous, yet he tried one anyway to test the bat-man's reaction. Whipping his brawny arms up, he lunged.
Displaying consummate skill, pushing into the air with barely a quiver of its leg muscles, the leader arched over the Warrior's head, just out of reach, and performed an acrobatic flip in midair. It landed upright five feet away, turning as it did to fix a mocking stare on its adversary.
Blade spun and smiled. "Neat trick," he said, and stepped to the right, circling. He suspected the mutation intended to play with him for a while, so why not accommodate the deviate and draw out the fight? Again he lunged, but not quite as fast as he could, and once more the bat-man soared overhead and dropped to the ground behind him.
The hovering spectators erupted in yips and high-pitched titters.
It must be nice to have your own cheering gallery! Blade thought, and darted at the bat-man with predictable results. He whirled and pretended to be mulling over his options while the creature watched him with evident disdain.
As if to accentuate its scorn, the leader stretched.
Blade couldn't resist the temptation. He pounced, and this time he grabbed the mutation's ankles and wrenched before it could gain altitude, pulling its abdomen down within reach of his fists. Flicking a one-two combination, he drove his knuckles into the bat-man's stomach and doubled it over. Then, sweeping his right arm down and around, he delivered a powerhouse uppercut to the tip of the leader's chin.
The bat-man was catapulted rearward by the blow, its wings fluttering as it attempted to right itself, and crashed onto its stomach. Hissing like an incensed serpent, the creature stood and glared at the Warrior. Blood trickled from the right corner of its mouth.
"Where's your smug look now?" Blade said, baiting it.
The leader snarled and launched itself in a flying tackle, covering the yards between them incredibly fast. Its rippling arms coiled about the Warrior's waist and they both went down.
Talons tore into Blade's sides, ripping his black leather vest, and he arched his back and drove his right knee into the creature's groin. The action was instinctive, the result rewarding.
Gurgling in agony, the bat-man went airborne, clutching its privates as it rose.
Blade started to stand, wincing at the pain in his sides, feeling a sticky substance caking his skin under the vest. He looked down at himself, mistakenly believing the bat-man was temporarily out of commission.
No such luck.
The creature screeched and dove, feet first, and rammed into the Warrior's head. The impact would have flattened a buffalo.
Blade was knocked onto his back. The universe danced and swirled. The cosmos appeared to have been shaken to its very foundation. He struggled to regain his perception, vigorously shaking his head, and realized he was too late when immensely strong hands clamped onto the front of his vest and he was rudely hauled from the earth. Even in his dazed state the gravity of the situation sparked a flicker of apprehension. The creature was carrying him into the sky!
"Blade!" someone shouted. The voice sounded like Sparrow's.
A rush of cool air brought the Warrior back to reality. He grabbed at the thing's wrists and blinked in amazement at finding them nose to nose.
The bat-man grinned, then let go.
Blade tried to hold on, but the creature's hair was too slick. He fell like a rock, his arms flailing the air, and envisioned his legs being crushed to splinters. The landing jolted his bones and caused his teeth to gnash together, and he pitched forward recognizing that the thing had been toying with him. It had taken him about ten or 15 feet up, not high enough to kill but a sufficient height to rattle him.
There was no respite. Blade surged to his knees, still game, when the creature gripped him from the rear, under the arms, and swept him from the ground once again. He expected to be conveyed to a great altitude. Instead, the mutation took him up 20 feet and released him.
The earth leaped up to make contact.
Blade's legs took the brunt of the fall. He threw himself to the right as his boots thudded into the soil, grimacing at the spasms provoked, and smacked onto his elbows and knees. Apparently the mutation planned to take him higher each time and eventually finish him off. A slow, lingering, terror-filled death.
The Warrior had other ideas.
Blade frantically flipped to the left and continued to turn. A foot or a hand gouged into his right shoulder but couldn't slow him. He turned and turned until he'd traversed a dozen yards, then leaped to his feet, in a crouch, his hands held out from his waist.
Growling deep in its throat, the bat-man knifed out of the darkness.
Not this time! Blade thought, and sidestepped to the right, pivoting and lashing out with his right foot. The kick struck the bat-man on the ribs just as the creature flew past and sent it into a short spiral headfirst into the ground.
Someone cheered.
The Warrior took three paces and leaped, his arms out-flung. He slammed into the bat-man as the leader was rising, his arms going around its hips, and they both tumbled.
A bellow of rage burst from the huge bat-man and it twisted in the Warrior's arms.
Suddenly Blade found himself holding a tornado, a slashing, biting, snapping whirlwind intent on tearing his throat wide open. He jabbed his right elbow under its chin to ward off those glistening teeth, then stiffened when the mutation gouged its talons into his exposed arm. His left palm whipped up and across the creature's face, pulverizing its nostrils.
Which produced an unforeseen result.
The bat-man went berserk.
Any shred of self-control the creature possessed evaporated in a twinkling, and venting a roar of primal blood lust, it tried to knee the Warrior in the crotch even as it jerked its head free and sank its teeth into the forearm that had been restraining its chin.
Exquisite agony lanched along Blade's arm as those razor tips sheared deep into his flesh. He attempted to pull his right arm loose, but the mutation held fast, growling all the while, blood spilling over its lips. He felt an arm loop about his waist and he started to rise. The thing was taking him into the air again!
Not this time.
So far Blade had restricted himself to the use of his hands and feet. Not once had he touched his knives, and in the heat of savage combat it was likely that his foe had forgotten all about them. Blade corrected its glaring oversight the next instant when he whipped the left Bowie from its sheath and plunged the steel blade into the bat-man's chest all the way to the hilt.
The creature opened it maw to voice a strangled screech, letting go of the Warrior's arm in the bargain, then shoved as it twisted and sped upward.
The Bowie slid out, and Blade fell a mere four feet to the earth, landing on the balls of his feet, poised for the next attack. He saw the bat-man flap slowly higher, clutching its side, until the mutation reached a height of 100 feet. There it paused, staring down at the Warrior, its features shrouded in shadows.
What was it up to?
Blade glanced at the bowl, 30 feet away, then back at the bat-man. The thing was gazing at the ring of deviates. In a flash of insight he perceived the next act in the tableau, and he whirled and sprinted toward the depression and the M60.
If only they'd give him time to reach it!
They didn't.
At an imperious bark from the leader, the bat-beings swooped down toward the Force.
"Open fire!" Captain Havoc bellowed.
Four M-16's cut loose, raking the creatures, and with the mutations packed so closely together every shot scored. Batmen and bat-women shrieked and plummeted out of control. Those most eager to reach the Force were the first to die. The main body of mutations broke into two masses, with half veering to the right and half to the left to evade the hail of lethal lead. A few rash individuals speared out of the throng at the bowl and were blasted into oblivion for their effort.
Blade was still 15 feet from from the M60 when a cloud of mutations engulfed him, 11 of the creatures who dropped out of the night after detaching themselves from the main body. They were all around him in the blink of an eye, hissing and snarling and striking, and he retaliated in kind, drawing his right Bowie and wading into them with both big knives slashing in fierce abandon.
Captain Havoc saw the pack descend on the Warrior, and he automatically began to climb from the bowl so he could aid the giant. But a glance skyward showed him the two masses were attacking again, coming in from different directions. He ejected the partly spent magazine in his M-16, then slapped home a new one. "Doc and Sparrow, you take the group on the left. Lobo, you and I will take the formation on the right!" he commanded. "On three!"
The prongs speared toward the Force, diving rapidly lower.
"One," Havoc cried, fingering the trigger. "Two."
Aloof from the other mutations, the leader hovered and observed the battle, still holding its side.
"Three!" Havoc shouted, and fired. He swung the barrel back and forth in a controlled sweep, raking the creatures leading the charge, slowing the swarm as those in front crumpled and those behind collided, creating rampant confusion. The other Force members were likewise pouring it on, exacting a heavy toll among the creatures.
The tide of the conflict hung in the balance.
Blade heard the firing and wanted to help his men, but the press of mutations held him at bay. He cut and whirled and stabbed and spun, always in motion, never pausing for a breath because the slightest hesitancy would spell his doom. The creatures clawed and snatched at him, striving to grab his arms and pin them. He was lacerated again and again. Undaunted, he fought on with the grim ruthlessness of an aroused tiger. The toll he took decimated the creatures. Here he hacked off a hand, there he sliced open a neck, and again he might pierce an eyeball or gut an adversary.
Seven of the 11 littered the soil, and the four who were left suddenly took off.
Go! Blade's mind screamed, and he raced to the edge of the bowl, slipped the Bowies into their sheaths blood and all, and scooped up the M60. As he straightened he heard the strangest sound. From far off in the distance, from the north, came the strident blaring of something that sounded very much like a horn or a trumpet. The exigency of the situation denied him the luxury of indulging in speculation. He jumped into the depression, raised the M60 until the stock was tucked under his left arm, and commenced firing.
Where the M-16's perforated the mutations and left neat holes as entry points and fist-sized exit wounds, the M60 literally ripped them to ribbons. The rounds ruptured torsos and exploded craniums, shattered bones and severed arteries. Creatures fell in droves.
But it wasn't enough.
Even with the M60 and four M-16's in operation, there were too many deviates for only five men to handle. Dead mutations rained from the sky, yet still they came on.
Blade realized the things would reach the bowl, and he knew his men would be easily picked off if they remained isolated from one another. "Close up on me!" he shouted, hoping they could hear him over the bedlam. "Close up on me! Move!"
Captain Havoc and Lobo responded first, firing on the run as they hurried to his side.
"Doc! Sparrow!" Blade yelled. "Close on me!"
The gunfighter and the Flathead dashed around the huddled horses and took up positions near at hand.
"Let them have it!" Blade directed, and did so with renewed vigor. He could still hear the horn, louder now, but he dismissed the oddity from his mind and concentrated on simply staying alive.
The bat-creatures poured down in a close-knit throng.
Blade drilled deviate after deviate, the M60 thundering and bucking in his hands, but despite his blistering firepower and the deadly marksmanship of his team, the mutations reached the air space just above their heads. At such proximity, the things could pounce the moment a weapon went empty.
"Die, suckers!" Lobo cried, discarding his empty M-16 and drawing his NATO. He sank the blade into the stomach of a bat-woman and carved a five-inch incision.
Doc Madsen's M-16 went empty and was grabbed from his grasp. He resorted to his Magnum, the revolver clearing leather and booming at point-blank range into the face of a snarling bat-man.
Sparrow Hawk laid about him with his spear.
Captain Havoc was tackled by a pair of creatures and went down swinging.
All of this Blade took in at a glance, and then the M60 fell silent and he drew his Bowies once again. The blaring horn, which he had generally ignored until now, sounded much louder and a lot nearer. He thrust his left knife into a descending mutation, then rent a throat with his right blade. Talons tore his cheeks and tried to poke out his eyes.
Unexpectedly, gunfire shattered the night, repeated volleys crackling with military precision. The horn added its insistent staccato refrain.
Blade wanted to ascertain the cause of all the noise, but the press of mutations prevented him from doing anything other than preserving his own life. Fists pummeled his body, talons cut his skin, and bat-men endeavored to sink their fangs into his neck. He stabbed and cleaved as fast as targets presented themselves. Heads, hands, arms, and necks were rent asunder or impaled. Blood and gore spattered him from his hair to his combat boots. Dead or dying creatures fell one on top of another on all sides.
The volleys went on and on.
A skinny bat-man clamped its hands on the Warrior's neck from the rear and tried to crush Blade's neck. He snapped forward at the waist and flipped the creature into a bat-woman diving toward him with her arms extended and her fingers shaped into claws.
Another mutation tried to tackle him. It sprang and wrapped both arms around his shins.
Blade reversed his grip on the Bowies, swept down, and planted both knives into the creature's back between the shoulder blades. The thing sagged, its arms going limp, and he stepped clear, bringing his arms up to defend himself.
But there were no mutations to fight.
As swiftly as they had descended, the creatures were fleeing into the darkness, their wings beating frantically as they endeavored to outrun the certain death being dispensed by the two rows of remorseless riders who levered round after round into repeating rifles and fired shot after shot with unerring accuracy.
It was a virtual slaughter.
Blade simply stood there in relieved astonishment and watched Kilrane and the Cavalrymen mow the creatures down. The frontiersmen fired in volleys, first one row, then the other. A bugler inspired them with martial music the whole time.
"Awesome, dude."
The Warrior looked around at the comment. Lobo stood on the left, a ragged tear in his black leather jacket and a gash in his left cheek. Otherwise, he appeared to be unharmed. "Are you okay?"
"I am now."
Blade pivoted, elated to discover all of his men were alive. Sparrow leaned on his spear, which was imbedded in the chest of a mutation. Doc Madsen was standing eight feet off, his normally clean frock coat spattered with crimson splotches that glistened in the bright moonlight. Captain Havoc was rising slowly, his fatigue shirt torn from the shoulder to the waist, a bloody survival knife in his right hand. "Is anyone hurt?" Blade called out.
Each one shook his head wearily.
The volleys came to an abrupt end, as did the blare of the bugle.
Blade turned, scanning the sky. Except for a few scattered, flitting figures heading for parts unknown, the heavens contained only stars. He rotated in a complete revolution, verifying the mutations had indeed fled. From the number of bodies piled on the ground, he estimated very few had managed to escape.
"Blade! Thank God we got here in time!"
The Warrior climbed out of the bowl as Kilrane rode up and dismounted. "Am I glad to see you."
"We came as fast as we could," the Cavalry leader stated. "A big bunch of those monsters tried to stop us. Took eight volleys to drive them off."
"How many more men have you lost?" Blade inquired. He gazed at the mounted Cavalrymen.
"Not one," Kilrane said, and beamed. "Only a dummy makes the same mistake twice. Once I knew how many of those things there were, once they lost the element of surprise, it was all over but the shooting." He scrutinized the Force members. "I see you came through it in one piece."
"More or less," Blade responded. Suddenly he felt very, very tired. He began wiping the Bowies on his pants legs.
Kilrane swung toward the escarpment. "Is that where they came from?"
"Yeah."
"There might be some left in there."
"Could be," Blade agreed. "Give me five minutes and we'll go on in."
"It'd be smarter to wait for daylight," Kilrane noted.
"Are you forgetting Raphaela, Jag, and your men?"
"I said it'd be smarter. I didn't say it would be the wisest course of action." Kilrane peered at the caves. "We'll be ready to go in when you are."
Blade suddenly had a thought. He tensed and surveyed the sky carefully. "Did you see any sign of a bat-man my size?"
"As big as you? No. I don't remember one your size. But there were so many," Kilrane said. "Why?"
"It was the leader."
"Well, if it's still alive the thing won't be for long. I'm sending riders to Rapid City at daybreak. In two days I'll have three hundred men here. We'll scour every square inch of this Dead Zone, turn over every rock, look behind every clump of dirt, until the last of these bastards has bit the dust. I'm going to make damn sure the Dakota Territory is a safe place to live, to have a family, rear kids, or do anything else without fear of the dark."
"While you're at it, you should check out every Dead Zone within your borders," Blade suggested.
"Maybe I will," Kilrane said.
Blade replaced the knives in their sheaths. He reminded himself to clean the sheaths too at the earliest opportunity. "Our first priority is to find our missing people."
"It looks like we've found yours."
"What?" Blade responded, glancing at his friend.
Kilrane nodded at the cliffs. "That guy can really move, can't he?"
The Warrior turned and spied the slim form speeding in their direction, running swifter than any human could ever hope to do even when burdened with someone in his arms. "He can do over fifty miles an hour at times."
"I believe it."
Blade went out to meet them. Behind him came a shout of joy from the Clansman.
"Hey, guys! It's Red and Fur Face!"
The Warrior looked back to see Lobo, Havoc, Sparrow, and Doc clambering from the bowl. He continued running another 20 yards, then halted and placed his hands on his hips. Seconds later the rest of the team pounded up beside him.
"I thought we'd lost her," Captain Havoc commented.
"Both of them," Sparrow said.
"I never figured I'd be happy to see that mutant's hairy puss," Lobo mentioned.
Doc hooked his thumbs in his gun belt and said nothing.
The hybrid and the Mole woman approached to within 15 feet. Raphaela gave a squeal of delight as Jaguarundi stopped and lowered her to the ground.
"Yo, babe!" Lobo declared happily. "Where have you been keepin' yourself?"
"You big dummies!" Raphaela exclaimed. She ran to the giant and gave him a hug, then went to each of the others and did the same.
Blade noticed that she hugged Havoc last, and she seemed to linger in the embrace longer than she had with any of them. Blade glanced at Jag. "We were wondering what happened to you."
"They nabbed me," the hybrid said, walking forward. "Threw me in a pit with Raphaela and other prisoners. One of them was Gary Norman."
"Was?" Blade repeated.
"Yeah. Past tense."
The Warrior gazed at the escarpment. "Where are the prisoners?"
"Still in the pit," Jag replied. "Raphaela and I were lucky to get out as it was." He stared over the Warrior's right shoulder.
Blade twisted and found Kilrane joining them.
"You'll be interested in this next news," Jag informed the Cavalry leader.
"What's that?" Kilrane asked.
The hybrid indicated the cliff with a jerk of his left thumb. "There's a vast cavern inside there. It's incredibly huge. There's a whole series of caves leading to the outside. And when we were working our way out of there, we also discovered a series of pits. We came across nine, but there could be more. Anyway, we were surprised to find a lot of your men had been captured and thrown into those pits."
Kilrane took a stride, his features a study in intensity. "How many did you see?"
Jag glanced at the Molewoman. "How many did you count?"
"Twenty-six," Raphaela said, and looked at the Warrior. "We also found Martha Valesh in one of the pits with three Cavalrymen. She was a little worse for wear, but unharmed. "
"My men are alive!" Kilrane stated passionately. "We'll go haul them out of those pits right away." He wheeled and hastened toward the detachment.
"I can't believe we came out of this in one piece," Captain Havoc remarked, his eyes on Raphaela.
"The Everywhere Spirit smiled on us," Sparrow observed.
"We were just plain lucky, Chief," Lobo said. "We came close to buyin' the farm and you know it."
"All's well that ends well," Blade commented, starting to turn. His gaze alighted on Raphaela and he saw her head snap up and her eyes widen in alarm. He heard a strange whistling sound and something slammed into him between his shoulder blades, knocking him forward, causing him to lose his balance and begin to fall. But before he could pitch onto his face, even as Rapahela screamed and Doc Madsen tried to bring his Magnum into play, steely hands gripped him from behind, under the arms, and lifted him into the night sky.
A beastly growl sounded in the Warrior's right ear.
Stunned by the blow, Blade hung limply in his captor's arms, while the earth receded rapidly below them. Enough sentience remained to enable him to comprehend what had happened and to determine the identity of the creature holding him.
The leader of the bat-men was getting revenge.
Blade realized the mutation must have dived from a great altitude after lurking high in the clouds until the right moment presented itself. He had no doubt as to the bat-man's intention. The thing would carry him aloft and let go. It would be as simple as that.
The rhythmic beating of the creature's wings and heavy, raspy breathing attested to its exertion. The air grew cooler as the bat-man climbed steadily.
Blade's faculties returned to normal. Invigorated by the chill, he stared at the ground, at the diminishing figures of his friends, and racked his brains for a way to extricate himself alive. At any moment the bat-man could release him. He had to do something—anything—and do it quickly or his wife and son would never lay eyes on him again.
But what could he do?
Already they were 150 feet up and sweeping higher. He had to fight back, even though he ran the risk of falling to his death. His arms were dangling at his sides. Slowly, exercising the utmost caution, he inched his right arm upward. Once his elbow brushed the furry chest behind him and he froze, anticipating a violent reaction.
Nothing happened.
Blade eased his hand over the sheath to his right Bowie and grasped the hilt. Now came the hard part. How could he draw the knife without alerting the mutation? His forearm would need to lift almost to his shoulder and the creature was bound to notice.
Suddenly, unexpectedly, the bat-man broke into a fit of rough coughing. Its entire body shook and its grip slackened somewhat.
Blade knew the thing was suffering from the stab wound he'd administered. By all rights it should be dead. Only a being endowed with extrordinary vitality and stamina could survive a Bowie knife in the chest. Even so, he guessed the creature was bleeding internally, which explained the coughing. He took advantage of the fit to slip the blade free and lower his arm again.
Now he was ready.
The bat-man's hacking subsided and it seemed to gain strength.
Blade couldn't wait any longer. Every second of delay meant another foot gained in altitude. He was hanging with the back of his head pressed against the mutation's sternum, and he took a moment to mentally calculate the proper angle before he whipped his right arm up and back and rammed the Bowie into the creature's rib cage. The blade struck bone, glanced off, and sank all the way in.
A protracted gasp issued from the bat-man as its body stiffened and its wings ceased beating.
For a heart-stopping moment they hung motionless in the air. Blade gazed at the murky stretch of landscape below and gulped, thinking of how he would be smashed to a pulp if they dropped.
They did.
The mutation hissed and plummeted like a boulder, its fingers slipping from under the Warrior's arms.
Blade's mind raced. His only hope of survival lay in forcing the bat-man to break their fall, provided the thing still lived, and to do so he had to stay next to the creature. With that as his goal, he spun and reached out, locking his arms around the mutation's legs. They gained momentum, the wind rushing by their heads.
The bat-man kicked its legs feebly, attempting to dislodge the Warrior.
Blade held on, peering downward in consternation. If the leader wouldn't use its wings, he was finished. He had to goad the thing into flying, to provoke it, to get its adrenaline flowing. And the best catalyst for creating a surge of adrenaline was sheer, undiluted rage. He balled his left fist, drew his arm back, and slugged the mutation in the stomach.
Suddenly the creature came alive, snarling and thrashing, its wings flapping feebly.
Still they continued to pick up speed. The rush of cold air brought tears to Blade's eyes. He blotted the image of crashing into the earth from his mind and punched the batman again.
The mutation bucked and clawed at the Warrior's head and shoulders. Its leathery wings flapped harder, but they weren't beating fast enough to act as a brake on their descent.
Flap, damn you! Blade thought, and delivered two more blows, holding back, though, afraid he would render his adversary unconscious if he employed all of his strength.
Apparently he'd used just enough.
Growling and wrenching from side to side, the bat-man went into a paroxysm of fury in a supreme effort to tear itself loose from the Warrior. And the harder it struggled, the harder its wings beat.
Blade felt them begin to slow down, felt those powerful wings begin to arrest their fall, but the effort seemed to be too little, too late. They were dropping too fast. Less than 50 feet remained. In a final act of desperation he turned his face to the creature's right leg and bit, tearing his teeth into the fur and the flesh.
The mutation became insane, kicking and kicking and digging its talons into the Warrior while its wings beat like those of the mammal it resembled.
They slowed even more.
Not enough! Blade realized. He had mere seconds in which to save his life, and he reached overhead, dug his fingers into the creature's skin, and pulled himself higher, drawing up his legs at the same time.
The bat-man, oblivious to the peril, pummeled the Warrior savagely.
They were going to hit! Blade shoved against the creature's chest with all of his might and succeeded in swinging the mutation under him as a makeshift cushion.
None too soon.
With a pronounced thud they plowed into the ground, raising a cloud of dust from the concussion.
The sensations were almost too swift for Blade to register. He felt the shock of the abrupt stop, as if he had run into a brick wall at full speed, and a sticky liquid spattered all over his face. His hands sank into a pulpy substance. And a millisecond later everything blanked out.
Someone was whistling.
Blade opened his eyes and instinctively attempted to sit up. A wave of vertigo washed over him and he groaned, sagging onto his elbows, feeling confused and weak.
"Whoa there, mister! Don't be rash!"
Blinking his eyes, squinting in the bright light streaming in a nearby window, Blade swallowed and looked around.
An elderly man attired in an old brown suit, the jacket open and revealing a considrable paunch, came over to the cot on which the Warrior reclined. "You're not going anywhere so settle back down."
"Who are you?" Blade croaked, his lips and throat both parched. His face felt slightly swollen.
"I'm Doctor Mills. I've been tending you for the past two days."
"Two days!" Blade exclaimed, and the exertion produced pain in his temples. He inadvertently winced.
"I'll explain everything," Dr. Mills said. "But first I must make it clear that you're not to get excited in the least. You must take it easy. Don't strain. Your system sustained a massive shock."
Blade nodded his understanding.
"You've been on this cot, under my care, ever since Armitage brought you in. I don't mind telling you it was nip and tuck for a while. You were fortunate to pull through," Dr. Mills stated, and regarded the giant appreciatively. "You must have the constitution of an ox."
"Where am I?" Blade asked.
"In my office in Rapid City."
"Rapid City!"
"There you go again," Dr. Mills admonished sternly. "I warned you to stay calm. If you don't cooperate, you run the risk of a relapse."
"I was that bad?"
The physician nodded grimly. "They told me that you fell something like one hundred and fifty feet. From what I've gathered, you would have died if that thing you were fighting hadn't absorbed the brunt of the impact."
"I nearly died," Blade said softly, the reality staggering him. He'd survived so many battles in recent years, come through dozens of conflicts with only a few scratches, that he'd begun to discount the possibility of his own death. Now, thinking of Jenny and Gabe, he shuddered. "You say Armitage brought me to Rapid City?" he commented absently to change the train of his thought.
"Yes. Kilrane would have come himself, but he's been busy exterminating those vile creatures responsible for slaying so many of our people. A rider was sent to Pierre for reinforcements at the same time they brought you in. Boone and the rest of Kilrane's personal guard should arrive at any minute."
"I'd like to see Boone again," Blade said, gazing at the spartan accommodations in the office. "Where's my unit?"
"They came into town with Armitage. Apparently they wouldn't leave your side no matter what. They hovered over you like mother hens when you were carried inside, and I had to chase them out to get any privacy to work," Dr. Mills related, grinning wryly. "I wouldn't permit them to remain in here and be underfoot, so they camped out in my anteroom. Except to grab a bite to eat, they haven't left. And I donn't mind telling you it's scared off a few of my regular patients."
"I don't understand."
"The threat of violence, I mean, No one wants to visit my office when there's a chance they might be caught in a cross fire. One of your men is Doc Madsen, I believe."
"He's a good man," Blade said.
"As well he may be," Dr. Mills commented. "But everyone in the Dakota Territory knows about his reputation as a gunfighter. And three men, three disreputable gentlemen named Kiernan, Millnick, and Lockaby, have been frequenting the vicinity of my office waiting for Madsen to show his face outside. They've publicly called him out."
"And Doc hasn't gone out to face them?"
"Not yet. Everyone in Rapid City is wondering why. He's the talk of the town, right up there with those bat-things. Some folks are claiming Madsen has lost his nerve, but that's ridiculous. The man is braver than most ten people put together."
Blade shifted and stared at a closed door on the wall opposite the bed. "I'm surprised he hasn't gunned them down by now."
The physician leaned forward conspiratorially. "Just between you and me, I suspect he's been waiting for you to come around. Yesterday I heard your Captain Havoc and Madsen arguing quite loudly. Evidently the captain informed Madsen he couldn't go out to confront those three under any circumstances, that Madsen is part of the Force and has an image to uphold."
"And how did Doc react?"
"He sort of snickered, which ticked off your captain no end. Madsen told Havoc he'd tend to those vermin, to use his own words, when the time was right. Do you have any idea what he meant?"
"Maybe," Blade said. "I'd like to see them now."
"I don't know," Dr. Mills remarked. "You sustained a concussion. Strict rest is called for."
"Now, Doctor," Blade stressed gently.
Mills expelled his breath. "Very well," he stated in a huff. "But I won't be held accountable if you have a relapse." He pivoted and walked toward the door. "I must say that you Force types certainy are—forceful."
Blade smiled and watched the physician open the door and step into a smaller room beyond. A distinctly female shout of pure joy precipitated a rush into the office with Raphaela in the lead.
"Blade! You're back in the land of the living!" the Molewoman declared ecstatically as she came over to the side of the bed.
"You didn't think you'd get out of your daily calisthenics that easily, did you?" Blade quipped, noting the concern on all of their faces. Genuinely touched, he coughed to clear an obstruction in his throat.
"I will give thanks to the Everywhere Spirit for your deliverance," Sparrow Hawk said.
"You celebrate your way, I'll celebrate mine, dude," Lobo stated.
"How will you celebrate?" Sparrow inquired.
"I'll find me a fox and show her why I've got such a heavy rep as a lean, mean lovin' machine."
Captain Havoc stepped forward and smiled at the Warrior. "It's great you've recovered, sir. I've held off sending a message to General Gallagher until we knew one way or the other. I didn't want word to prematurely get back to your family."
"Thanks, Captain," Blade said, and looked toward the doorway. Doc Madsen stood to the left of the door, his thumbs hooked in his gun belt as usual, his wide brimmed hat low over his eyes. "Doc."
The gunfighter simply nodded.
"Thanks for waiting," Blade mentioned.
"The least I could do."
"You can take care of it now if you want."
"Thanks," Doc said, and turned toward the anteroom.
"Wait a minute, sir," Captain Havoc interjected. "Do you know what he's going to do?"
"Yes," Blade said.
"And you're going to let him?"
"I have no right to stop him."
"How can you say that? You're in charge of this unit. If you let him go outside, he'll either get himself killed or add to his tally as a gunman. How can you allow that to happen?"
Blade sighed. "I'm allowing him to be a man."
"Sir?"
"Think about it," Blade directed, and glanced at the gunfighter. "Get going."
Doc nodded and departed.
"I'll go with him," Lobo offered. He took several paces toward the door.
"No," Blade stated.
The Clansman halted and cast a peeved expression at the Warrior. "You can't let him go up against those three chumps alone. Aren't you the one who's always tellin' us we're a team? We should back his play."
"No one leaves this room."
"But he might need our help," Raphaela noted.
"No."
"I could cover him from the roof," Sparrow suggested.
"No."
Captain Havoc pointed at the window. "We can see the street from here. I could provide cover fire if he needs it."
"No."
Lobo slapped his right hand against his thigh in frustration. "Boy, you can be a prime hard-ass when you want to. Anybody ever tell you that?"
"Practically everyone," Blade acknowledged.
"So we just stand here and do nothing?" Lobo snapped.
"That's the general idea."
"Damn if I will." Lobo marched to the window and leaned on the waist-high sill. "At least I'll watch what goes down." He looked over his right shoulder. "What about the rest of you?"
Raphaela shook her head. "I don't think I can watch. What if he loses?"
"Sparrow? Mike?" Lobo asked.
Neither man moved.
"What a bunch of wimps," Lobo muttered, and gazed through the glass pane. "Hey! I can see those three scuzzies across the street They're standin' next to a hitchin' post, just talkin'." He suddenly straightened. "And there goes Doc out to meet them."
Sparrow Hawk stepped to the window.
"They've seen him!" Lobo continued, his tone tinged with excitement.
"What are they doing?" Raphaela inquired anxiously.
"They're lookin' at him like they can't believe their eyes. Now they're spreadin' out," Lobo detailed. "Doc is still walkin' toward them. He's about twenty feet away. Fifteen. Now he's stopped and he's movin' the flap of his coat aside."
"And? And?" Raphaela prompted.
"They're talkin'. That bastard called Kiernan must be bad-mouthin' Doc," Lobo said, and laughed lightly. "You should see all the people in the street. They're haulin' ass to get out of the line of fire. There's a broad draggin' her kid by the arm." He chuckled.
"What about Doc?" Raphaela asked, taking a tentative pace nearer the window.
"He's just standin' there listening to Kiernan flap his gums. Those other two, Millnick and Lockaby, are ready to draw if Doc so much as bats an eye."
"We should help him," Raphaela said.
"Too late for that," Lobo stated. "Kiernan must be callin' Doc every dirty name in the book. I don't think Doc has spoken one word, but I can't really tell because I can only see him from the side." He paused. "Wait a minute. Doc just said something. Just three words, I think. Kiernan is madder than hell. His face is as red as a whore's lips. It won't be—"
They all heard the blasting of the three shots, bam-bam-bam, sounding almost as one.
For five seconds no one uttered a word.
Finally Lobo swung away from the window, amazement etching his visage. He took a few strides and shook his head in disbelief.
"What about Doc?" Raphaela practically shouted.
"Doc? He's fine," Lobo said softly. His eyes strayed to the Warrior. "I didn't see his hand move," he whispered in awe.
"What?" Raphaela asked. "What did you say?"
"I never saw the dude's hand move," Lobo related emphatically. "I mean, one moment his hand was hanging by his holster, and the next those lowlifes were lying in the street with holes in their foreheads." He glanced at the Molewoman. "Would you do me a favor?"
"Sure," Raphela replied. "Anything. What do you need?"
"The next time I start to make fun of Doc, remind me to have my head examined."
There was no excuse for putting it off any longer than necessary.
The Force had been back from the Dakota Territory for almost a week. In an hour he'd be leaving for two and a half weeks at the Home, precious time he could spend with those he loved most in all the world, his darling wife and precocious son. The army doctors had given him a clean bill of health and marveled at his recuperative powers. Just to play it safe, he decided to let himself be checked by the Family Healers.
When he returned to California he'd need to be in perfect condition if he intended to embark on his personal quest.
But what choice did he have?
Blade sat in his chair behind the desk in his office and gazed thoughtfully at the stack of paperwork in front of him. That would all have to wait. The training would have to wait. Even missions, unless they were extremely critical, would have to wait. It was bad enough he would be spending two and a half weeks at the Home before launching his investigation.
Still, a year had already elapsed.
What difference could two and a half more weeks make?
He stood and walked outdoors. If his deduction proved to be correct, there would be hell to pay. There could be no justification for such a deception, not when it had caused such profound sorrow. Someone would be held accountable. He guaranteed it.
Blade halted and stretched, enjoying the warmth of the sun on his body. He wondered if, perhaps, he should leave well enough alone, if he should let the matter drop.
No.
He had to discover the truth, no matter what the cost.
The thought made the Warrior smile.
Lobo wasn't the only one who should have his head examined.