The Fox Run, page 22
part #1 of Endworld Series
“I’m scared,” Blade taunted him, wondering if the giant would simply shoot him and be done with it.
“You will be,” Saxon promised, “by the time I’m done with you.” He smiled and holstered his revolver.
“You planning to crush me with your bare hands?” Blade asked derisively.
“I see you like big knives.” Saxon nodded at the Bowie on Blade’s right hip. “You used the other one real good on Wolvie.”
“Wolvie?”
“The second wolverine you wasted,” Saxon explained.
“Hope it upset you,” Blade goaded him.
“It did,” Saxon grudgingly admitted. “But like I was saying. You like big knives. I like big knives.” His right arm disappeared under his cloak and came out bearing the machete. “So I’ll tell you what we’re going to do. You use your big knife, there, and I’ll use mine. Fair enough?”
Blade drew his right Bowie. “You surprise me,” he conceded.
“I’m not a damn backstabber,” Saxon said angrily. “I like to see the fear in their eyes when I snuff ’em.”
Blade took several steps toward the massive Troll, who towered over him by at least a foot.
“By the way,” Saxon said, playfully twirling the machete in his palm, “what’s your name?”
“They call me Blade.”
“Saxon,” the Troll stated. “Now let’s get to it. I can’t wait to slice you into itsy-bitsy pieces.”
So saying, the giant closed in.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Hickok fired as he ran, aiming for the head, closing the distance, intent on reaching Joan’s side before she was overwhelmed by the surging Trolls.
She had dropped to her knees as the doors opened, the Commando chattering, the heavy bullets shredding the Troll ranks, flesh bursting and blood spurting as the astonished Trolls absorbed the initial onslaught.
“What do we do?” Clyde asked Geronimo. They were still at the corner of the last building. “We didn’t count on this!”
“You do what you want,” Geronimo told him, and charged from cover, the Browning booming.
The flabbergasted Trolls recovered quickly and tactically responded to this unexpected ambush; they spread outward, deploying their forces to the right and left of the swinging doors. Stacks of bodies piled directly in front of the doors as Joan mowed down the Trolls still spilling forth from the bedlam inside.
Hickok concentrated on any Trolls posing a threat to Joan. He saw a grizzled Troll raise a rifle to his shoulder, aiming at her, and he snapped a shot into the Troll’s brain. Another Troll ran at Joan, a sword upraised.
Hickok shot him twice.
Geronimo, coming up fast, noted Hickok’s efforts to protect the woman he loved. He also noticed the gunman was heedless of his own safety; a Troll with a bow took a bead on Hickok, and Geronimo exploded his chest with a blast from the shotgun.
Clyde held back, slightly timid. He provided supporting cover, shooting at random, snickering, delighted at experiencing his long-deferred revenge.
Hickok reached Joan’s side. He was beginning to believe they would break the Trolls, would compel them to retreat and scatter, when Joan suddenly stopped firing.
“Out!” she shouted, reaching behind her for one of the extra ammo clips.
Hickok shot a Troll attacking with a spiked club and pivoted, aiming at another bearded enemy, this one with a hatchet. He hastily squeezed the Henry’s trigger, appalled when the hammer clicked. He was out too! How could he allow himself to lose track of the rounds fired? There was no time to reload. He dropped the Henry and drew the Pythons, both Colts simultaneously, forcing his aching, injured shoulder to obey his mental commands.
The Troll with the hatchet shrieked as he closed the gap.
Hickok shot, the right Colt only, the bullet slamming into the Troll’s forehead.
Joan was frantically tugging on the spent clip, still in the Commando.
“It’s jammed!” she yelled. “The damn thing’s jammed!”
Hickok stepped between the Trolls and Joan, the Pythons held low, at waist level. He would insure she was safe until she could switch clips.
With the Commando inoperative, the Trolls regained their momentum, closing file and advancing, retaliating against the greatest threat, the woman with the machine gun.
Geronimo reached Hickok and Joan. “Reloading!” he alerted them, and dropped to one knee, extracting fresh rounds from the bandoleer and feeding them into the Browning.
The Trolls, seeing only one opponent effectively armed, voiced a collective war cry and attacked.
Hickok stood firm, shooting targets as rapidly as they presented themselves: two Trolls with rifles, another with a pistol, a fourth with a shotgun, one fleet of foot who managed to get within six feet with an axe, three more Trolls charging as a group. Arrows spun by his head, and bullets buzzed through the air, resembling angry hornets in flight. A spear cleaved a furrow in his left thigh.
Geronimo reentered the fray, four quick blasts from the Browning decimating a row of approaching Trolls. A slug nicked his left cheek, drawing blood. An arrow clipped his right ankle.
The Trolls had gained the advantage.
“Reloaded!” Joan suddenly shouted, the fresh clip finally in the Carbine.
She heaved erect as Hickok dodged aside, and she cut loose with the Commando, bowling the Trolls over. They screamed and plunged, littering the ground with the dead and the wounded, pools of crimson dotting the pavement.
One Troll, smarter than his peers, had hung back, hidden just inside the swinging doors. He was armed with a metal-tipped lance, and as his beady eyes surveyed the carnage the woman was wreaking, he galvanized his burly body into action. Sheltered by the shadows, he hefted the heavy lance, judging the distance. He shuffled backwards several steps, then raced forward, his right arm swinging the lance back, then up and out.
Hickok, crouched by Joan’s right side, caught a blur of motion as the Troll emerged from the building into the light of day. He automatically sent a bullet into the Troll’s brain, even as the lance left the Troll’s hand and hurtled through the air.
“Look out!” Hickok cried, diving, attempting to put his body in front of Joan’s.
Joan, intent on dealing death to the Trolls, caught the flashing gleam of the lance out of the corner of her right eye. She heard Hickok’s warning and whirled.
The lance, on course, descended from its apex, the tapered, sharpened point piercing Joan’s left side, puncturing her lung. It passed completely through her body and impaled her to the ground.
“No! No!” Hickok scrambled to her side.
Joan was attempting to speak; blood dribbled from the corners of her mouth. She was on her back, her lips close to his face.
“No!” Hickok felt a drop of her blood spatter against his left cheek. He saw the Commando on the ground at her feet and he scooped the Carbine into his hands. “No!” Hickok rose and spun, the Commando bucking as he depressed the trigger. He began walking toward the Trolls, sweeping the Carbine back and forth, back and forth. He hardly noticed the havoc he caused: the torn and mangled bodies covering the pavement, the screams of agony and destruction, the frenzied efforts of the remaining Trolls to escape the mayhem. He held the trigger in, his mind attuned to a singular activity: sweeping the Commando in an arc, back and forth, back and forth.
“Hickok!”
Hickok disregarded the voice, still firing.
“Hickok!”
Hickok advanced, keeping the trigger pressed, unaware of all else.
“Hickok! It’s me!” Geronimo stepped in front of him and gripped him by the shoulders. “It’s me! The gun’s empty! Do you hear me? The gun’s empty!”
Hickok stopped, disoriented. He stared at the smoking Carbine.
“The gun’s empty!” Geronimo repeated. “The Trolls are gone.”
Hickok scanned the area. Sure enough, except for the dozens of bodies all over the place, the Trolls had withdrawn.
“Are you okay?” Geronimo asked. He was sporting a nasty wound on his right side.
“Fine,” Hickok mumbled. “Piece of cake.” Then he remembered. He turned and raced to Joan, aghast at the sight of her pale face and the red puddle at her feet.
“Joan!” Hickok knelt by her side. “What do I do?” He glanced at Geronimo. “Should I remove the lance?”
Geronimo sadly shook his head.
“Joan!” Hickok stared into her beautiful blue eyes, his own watering.
Joan grinned weakly. She licked her dry lips and managed to raise her right hand.
Hickok tenderly took her hand in his. “Don’t move,” he advised her. “Stay as still as possible.”
“It’s no use,” Joan said, her voice a wavering whisper.
“Don’t talk like that!” Hickok stroked her forehead, tears streaming down his face.
“We sure gave it to them,” Joan stated proudly. “Didn’t we?”
Hickok nodded, his throat bobbing.
“You’ve got to find the women,” Joan declared urgently. “Jenny, Mary, Ursa, and the rest.”
“We will,” Hickok promised.
Geronimo was standing guard, his back to them, scanning for danger.
His own eyes were misting over.
“Get them to the Home, safe and sound,” Joan said.
“We will,” Hickok assured her. “Don’t worry.”
“You know,” Joan began, a faraway look in her eyes, “this would happen now, after I finally find someone I care for. Murphy’s Law strikes again.”
She smiled.
“Please,” Hickok begged her. “Don’t talk. If we can remove this thing—”
Joan reached up and touched the tip of her right forefinger to his lips.
“Take care, lover,” she told him.
“Joan…”
“It’s been fun.” She began coughing.
“Don’t talk!”
Joan shook her head. “Doesn’t matter. I’ll be waiting for you in the mansions on high.”
“Please…”
“Tell me you love me,” she urged him.
“I love you.”
Her eyes abruptly widened, her body stiffened, and she gave vent to one last, lingering breath. Then she was gone.
Hickok raised his tear-streaked face to the heavens.
“NOOOOOOOOOOOOooooooooo!”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Saxon was toying with Blade. The giant knew he had the longest reach, and the machete added to his leverage, the Bowie being fourteen inches shorter. He swung the machete again and again, almost lazily, displaying his contempt, forcing Blade to back away.
For his part, Blade was using this game to gather his energy. After the battle with the wolverines, he was winded, tired, and feeling the loss of blood from the wounds covering his body. The wolverine’s claws had caused considerable damage. He glanced at Jenny, still staring mutely at Angela. What was the matter with her? Was it shock?
Saxon caught the glance, and promptly misinterpreted it.
“Don’t worry about her,” the giant teased. “I won’t harm her. I’m saving her for myself.” He grinned lecherously.
“You’ll never have her,” Blade rejoined harshly.
“Think so, eh?”
“I know so,” Blade confirmed.
Saxon bore down, his blows coming faster now, his playfulness gone.
Blade parried his opponent’s thrusts and slashes, continuing to retreat across the arena, away from Jenny.
“I must admit,” Saxon spoke even while fighting, “you are a worthy foe.
No one has dared face me in years.”
“You know what they say…” Blade managed to retort as he ducked beneath a sweeping blow.
“No.” Saxon chuckled. “What do they say?”
Blade scurried away from another stabbing thrust. He paused, smiling, strangely appreciative of this colossus of a man. “The bigger they are…”
“…the harder they fall,” Saxon finished for him. “Yes, I’ve heard that one.”
“I don’t suppose,” Blade said lightly, “I could prevail upon you to surrender?”
“What?” Saxon laughed. “Do you hear that?” he asked.
For some time, from outside the swinging doors, came the sound of gunfire and screaming and yelling.
“That’s my men,” Saxon stated. “Finishing off whoever was with you.”
“It could be the other way around,” Blade reminded him.
Saxon glanced in the direction of the combat, his brow furrowed. “You could be right,” he mused. “We don’t have machineguns. The Watchers do, but we have a pact with them.”
“Watchers?” Blade said. “What are the Watchers?”
Saxon shook his head. “Sorry. I really must get outside.” Without warning, he flipped his machete at Blade.
Blade twisted, avoiding the machete, off balance, his back turned toward the giant for only an instant.
It was enough.
Saxon leaped, pouncing on Blade from behind, wrapping his mighty arms around the Warrior. He lifted Blade from the floor and applied pressure, squeezing, exerting his stupendous brute force.
Blade, caught in a steel vise, struggled and heaved, attempting to trip the giant and drop them to the ground. He surged against Saxon’s restraining arms until his own biceps and triceps bulged, to no avail.
“Why fight it?” Saxon hissed through clenched teeth. “Make it easy on yourself.”
Blade tossed and pitched, trying to butt Saxon with his head and kick him with his legs.
Saxon laughed.
Blade could feel the pressure building in his chest. He could easily imagine it caving in if he couldn’t break free.
Jenny was showing signs of life, looking around her, her green eyes blinking rapidly.
Blade’s face was reddening, his arms weakening, the sustained conflict taking its toll on his physique.
“You should never mess with the Trolls,” Saxon stated, straining even more.
Blade remembered his Bowie, still clutched in his right hand. A vital spot, a death stroke, was out of the question; they were out of his reach.
But there was one option…
“Blade!” Jenny was running his way, horrified at what she saw.
“I think I’ll have her for supper,” Saxon gloated.
Blade focused, aligning the Bowie. He gripped the handle and drove the blade upward, through the tunic, and into Saxon’s groin, slicing into the gonads and twisting the knife.
Saxon screeched and released Blade. He stumbled backwards, his hands groping his bleeding groin.
Blade dropped to the arena floor. He quickly hiked the tunic and found one of the Soligen throwing knives.
Saxon was doubled over, whimpering. His hands grabbed the Bowie and pulled, and he screamed as the knife jerked loose. He looked up at Blade.
“I don’t believe it!” he said, moaning.
Blade slowly stood, the Soligen hidden behind his right leg.
“Don’t leave me like this,” Saxon pleaded. “The pain! The pain!”
“I could take you prisoner, back to the Home,” Blade told him.
“Don’t leave me like this,” Saxon repeated. He looked down at the blood oozing from his ruined testicles. “Don’t leave me less than a man.”
Blade nodded once, understanding. The Soligen was up and on its way in the blink of an eye.
Saxon flinched as the thin blade penetrated his sloping forehead. His eyes closed and he toppled like a jumbo tree in the forest, his head striking the ground first, driving the knife even deeper.
“Blade!”
Jenny reached him, tossing the thigh bone aside. She hugged him and buried her face in his shoulder.
Blade held her, allowing his nerves to relax. Outside, all was quiet. What had happened? he wondered. He detected movement in the bleachers and tensed, then smiled when he recognized the Family women—Lea, Mary, Daffodil, Ursa, Saphire—and an elderly woman he did not know.
Or did he?
“Bless you, Blade,” this woman said. “Thank you for saving us from hell.”
“Do I know you?” he asked her.
“Know me? You used to sit on my lap and eat my cookies.”
“Nadine!” Blade realized, grinning. “Wait until Plato sees you.”
“Wait until I see him.” Nadine smirked. “I’ll probably wear the poor dear out the first week I’m home.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The mop-up took the remainder of the day.
They searched the entire town, but any remaining Trolls had vanished into the woods, taking the other women prisoners with them. Of the Trolls involved in the battle, only five were still alive. Blade placed them in one of the buildings, and gave them a jar of water and several strips of venison.
He couldn’t afford to take them to the Home; there wasn’t enough room in the transport for all the Family members as it was, and it would be slow going, with several of the women forced to march outside the vehicle, guarded by the Warriors.
Cindy and Tyson conferred, deciding they still wanted to go to the Home, although they were inexpressibly saddened by the death of their papa. Geronimo had found Clyde slumped against the building he had stood near during the fight, an arrow through his chest and a deep gash over his left eye.
Runt, Ursa told them, had escaped. In the confusion and the din, sensing his chance, he had jumped from the bleachers, found a sizable hole in the north wall, and departed the company of detested man for good, instinctively yearning for the scents and sounds of the natural element he’d been denied confined in a cage, the deep forest.
Hickok, morose, inconsolable, wrapped Joan in several discarded, and relatively clean, cloaks. They placed her body in the rear section of the SEAL. She would receive the honor of a Warrior’s burial in the Family plot.
Blade, after collecting his weapons, joined the others. They were huddled around a fire near the SEAL. The sun was setting, the horizon a vivid display of reds and pinks and yellows.
“I’ll never let you out of my sight again,” Jenny said, her arms around him. “I can’t believe we’re together, we’re alive, and we’ll be safe in the Home within a few days.”
