“You shouldn’t have manhandled him,” Plato said to Blade. “We mustn’t antagonize these people. We want them for our friends.”
Blade shrugged. “Couldn’t be helped.”
Plato gazed at the smoldering limousine. “This attack confirms your theory. The persons responsible are trying to terminate the summit.”
“Or terminate the summit leaders,” Blade amended.
Hickok was surveying the landscape. “You know, it’s right pretty hereabouts.” He glanced up at the sky. “But a mite too warm for my tastes.”
“We should have worn lighter clothing,” Plato remarked. “California has always been famous for its salubrious climate.”
“I wish you’d stop usin’ them highfalutin’ words,” Hickok said. “Half the time I don’t know what the blazes you’re talkin’ about.”
Plato grinned. “Nathan, you’re not as dumb as you pretend to be.”
“What makes you say that?” Hickok rejoined.
“You never request definitions for the words I employ,” Plato noted.
Blade stretched, his huge muscles bulging. “I like this weather. Minnesota gets too cold in the winter for my taste. I wouldn’t mind living here all year long.”
“California’s weather is not always this mild in January,” Plato mentioned. “In fact, General Owens told me they were in a cold snap until yesterday.”
“A cold snap is better than four months of lousy weather,” Blade observed.
“Who are you tryin’ to kid, pard?” Hickok quipped. “You like this weather because you can prance around half naked without gettin’ goose bumps.”
The captain returned carrying his dress uniform. “Here you go. I hope it fits.” He handed the uniform to Plato.
“Just so whoever’s after us can’t identify him from a distance,” Blade said.
“The ploy might succeed,” Plato stated. “A helmet will hide my hair, but what about my beard?”
“Tuck it under your shirt,” Blade directed. “If you keep your chin down, you’ll pass as a soldier.”
Plato walked to the stand of trees.
The captain nervously scanned the vegetation on both sides of the highway. “I’ll be glad when we get going. I don’t like being out in the open.”
“You and me both,” Blade agreed.
“I radioed in a report,” the captain said. “They’re sending a helicopter from L.A. to provide aerial cover.”
“Has Governor Melnick ever been attacked before?” Blade asked.
“No,” the captain replied. “Except for the damn Raiders and the mutants and such, we never have any trouble. California holds elections every four years, just like the state did before the war. If the people don’t like a politician, all they have to do is vote him or her out of office.”
“When was your last election?” Blade queried.
“November,” the captain said.
“What’s with Plato?” Hickok interjected.
Blade glanced toward the side of the road.
Plato was emerging from the trees, but he was only partially clothed, wearing his brown corduroy pants and holding the uniform shirt in his right hand, and he was walking backwards.
Blade stared at Plato’s naked back, puzzled, and then he detected a slight movement beyond the Family Leader. He whipped his Bowies from their scabbards and charged forward, bearing a bit to the right for a clearer view, his intuition shrieking a warning, knowing what he would see, his stomach tightening in anticipation. He came around Plato’s right side, and there it was, a repulsive monstrosity straight from a madman’s nightmare.
A slavering mutant.
Chapter Three
Once, the deviate might have been a feral cat, but now it was a deformed, grotesque horror. Three feet tall at the shoulder, its streamlined body was covered with splotches of brownish-gray hair alternated with patches of wrinkled, dry skin. The oval ears were utterly devoid of hair, but the feline face was unnaturally bushy. Slanted green eyes were locked on its prey.
Fangs protruded from its upper and lower lips, and spittle seeped from its mouth and over its chin. The legs were short and sturdy, and its tail was a mere stump.
Blade didn’t hesitate. He leaped, interposing himself between Plato and the mutant.
The cat was in motion, having shifted its attention to the approaching giant. It attacked, launching itself toward the giant’s throat.
Blade had a split second to react. If he dodged aside, the thing would be on Plato with its slashing claws and teeth. His only recourse was to stand his ground, and stand it he did, twisting his torso to narrowly evade the mutant’s raking claws. He plunged his left Bowie up and in, the razor point easily slicing into the feline’s throat, burying the knife to the hilt.
The enraged mutant, impaled in midair, thrashed and swiped at the giant human.
Blade felt an intense stinging sensation in his left wrist and knew the cat had drawn blood. He let go of his left Bowie, allowing the mutant to drop to the ground.
Spurting blood, the mutant landed on all fours, but its stance was wobbly and its green orbs were glazing.
Blade swept his right Bowie up, then down, ramming the knife into the feline’s neck, into the spine at the junction with the head. There was a distinct snap as the right Bowie was imbedded in the mutant, Blade’s exceptional strength driving the knife all the way in, slamming the feline to the tarmacadam. He held onto the hilt as the mutant convulsed wildly, then expired.
“Thank you,” Plato said.
Blade slowly straightened, wiping perspiration from his forehead with the back of his right hand.
“Why do you always do things the hard way, pard?” Hickok asked, standing to Blade’s left with his Pythons in his hands. “You should have given me a clear shot.”
“I’ve never seen anyone take on a mutant with a knife before,” commented the captain, joining them. He was gawking at the dead feline.
Hickok noted blood on Blade’s left wrist. “Are you okay, pard?”
Blade raised his left forearm and studied the trio of gashes extending from his hand to the middle of his forearm. Crimson coated his skin. “It’s just a scratch,” he remarked.
“You are lucky it wasn’t one of the pus-covered ones,” the captain said.
“If a drop of that pus gets in your system, you’re a goner.”
“We call the pus-covered genetic deviates mutates,” Plato mentioned, “to differentiate them from the typical mutants.”
“Either one, you were lucky,” the captain reiterated to Blade. “I have a first-aid kit in my jeep. I’ll get some disinfectant.”
“I don’t need it,” Blade said.
“We don’t want you showing up at the summit with your arm all bloody,” the captain stated. He hurried toward his jeep.
Blade knelt and yanked his Bowies from the mutant’s body. He carried the knives to the edge of the highway and wiped the blades clean on a clump of tall grass.
Hickok, his Colts still in his hands, was alertly watching the vegetation.
Plato donned the uniform shirt. “Thank the Spirit the creature didn’t attack before you intervened,” he said to Blade.
The towering Warrior grinned at his mentor. “Weren’t you the one who said this trip would be a—what were your words?—wonderful, scenic vacation?”
“I appear to have miscalculated,” Plato remarked.
“If you want to finish gettin’ dressed,” Hickok offered. “I’ll tag along to make sure nothin’ bites you on the butt.”
“Thank you.” Plato and the gunman walked into the trees.