Dozens upon dozens upon dozens of figures were cresting the rise and pouring over the field.
Rudabaugh remembered the binoculars dangling from the black strap around his neck. Blade had seen fit to leave the binoculars with him, saying he would need them the most. He raised them and focused on the wild throng sweeping across the field. His eyes widened in disbelief.
There were hundreds of them! They came in all shapes and sizes, but they shared one dominant characteristic: they were all members of the Doktor’s Genetic Research Division. Hairy, scaly, horrid creatures, possessed of ghastly aspects and relatively few human attributes. Few were armed, and even fewer wore any clothing except for a scanty loincloth.
Some resembled common animals, like dogs or cats, while others looked like bizarre combinations of humanity and savage beasts. They shrieked and howled, bellowed and roared as they closed on Catlow.
Rudabaugh saw Blade reach the tree and say something to Bertha. She shook her head, apparently disagreeing, but Blade wasn’t listening.
The Warrior rounded the tree and charged the G.R.D.’s!
Rudabaugh marveled at the man’s courage.
Blade was running all out, his Commando in his right hand and the M-16 in his left. He was about 15 yards from the tree when he abruptly dropped to his knees, cradling the two automatics in his muscular arms, and opened up.
The nearest G.R.D.’s were cut down in droves.
Blade swept the Commando and the M-16 in small arcs, emptying the magazines into the on-rushing mass.
Bertha, Hickok, Geronimo, and Orson began shooting, providing covering fire for Blade.
Rudabaugh saw Blade toss the empty M-16 aside.
The Warrior hastily ejected a spent magazine from the Commando and replaced it in a smooth, practiced motion. He rose and backed up, the Commando chattering, felling the G.R.D.’s closest to him.
Rudabaugh lost all track of how many foes Blade killed. Two dozen.
Three. And still they came on, hungry for his flesh, anxious to crush him to a pulp!
Blade whirled and ran toward the tree. He was five yards from it when he suddenly clutched his left side and sprawled to the ground.
No! Rudabaugh screamed in his mind. Get up! Get out of there!
Bertha dodged out to support Blade. She was almost to him when she too was hit, and went down on one knee.
No!
The G.R.D.’s were screeching in triumph and rapidly narrowing the gap.
Blade rolled onto his side, firing from his prone position.
The fastest G.R.D.’s stumbled and collapsed as the heavy 45 slugs ruptured their vital organs and severed their veins and arteries, splattering the ground with splotches of blood and gore. Undeterred by the carnage, the rest of the G.R.D.’s continued coming.
Rudabaugh gripped the binoculars so hard his knuckles were white.
There was no way Blade could hold them all off!
Bertha was trying to stand and go to Blade.
Move! Rudabaugh wanted to shout. He caught a movement out of the corner of his right eye.
Hickok was running toward Blade and Bertha, his M-16 spitting death.
He wasn’t more than ten yards away when the M-16 went empty and he threw it away in disgust. Instead of unslinging his Henry from his left shoulder, Hickok drew his Pythons.
Rudabaugh had never seen anyone draw so swiftly. One instant the gunfighter’s hands were empty, and in the next the Pythons were out and up.
Hickok fired as he ran, blasting a lizard-like deviate about to pounce on Blade.
Blade’s Commando was empty again!
Hickok reached Blade’s side, his Colts cracking, and two more G.R.D.’s died, one of them clutching at a reddish hole in its hairy forehead. A creature with the facial features of a weasel rushed up from the right, and was met by a bullet in the brain.
Geronimo darted from cover, the FNC in his hands, heading for his friends.
Bertha was on her feet, helping Blade to rise.
Hickok was blasting G.R.D.’s with ambidextrous accuracy.
The G.R.D.’s in the center of the field, the ones bearing the brunt of the conflict, were beginning to hold back, unwilling to needlessly risk their lives confronting the Warriors and Bertha.
Rudabaugh noticed the G.R.D.’s on the flanks were still advancing. The ones on the left were bearing down on Orson, who was picking them off from behind the doghouse. The G.R.D.’s on the right, without any effective opposition, were the nearest to Catlow. They were rushing in toward the middle of the field, trying to sweep around and close on Bertha and the three Warriors from the rear.
Rudabaugh glanced down at his feet. There were seven sets of wires lying near the wooden box. He scooped up one set and quickly attached them to the proper connections.
The G.R.D.’s on the right were sweeping toward the center, flowing over a line of backyards, clamoring for blood.
Rudabaugh waited, keeping his eyes on his marker, a rusted swing set in one of the backyards.
The G.R.D.’s reached the backyard in question and swarmed around the swing set.
Now!
Rudabaugh drove the plunger down.
Six sticks of dynamite detonated with a resounding explosion, blowing dirt and dust and tangled metal, along with torn limbs and ravaged torsos, into the air. The noise was deafening.
The G.R.D.’s in the middle and on the left slowed, taken completely unaware by this development.
Hickok, Blade, Geronimo, and Bertha were sprinting toward the garage, taking advantage of the momentary lull.
Orson left the cover of the doghouse and jogged to join them.
The G.R.D.’s on the left spotted Orson leaving and renewed their onslaught.
Rudabaugh removed the first set of wires and applied the second.
The G.R.D.’s on the left were about 30 yards from the doghouse.
Then 20.
Then ten.
Rudabaugh depressed the plunger, and six more sticks of dynamite blew countless genetic mutations to kingdom come.
Two charges expended—five to go!
Rudabaugh stripped the second set of wires and affixed the third.
Bertha tripped and fell. Hickok was at her side in a flash, yanking her erect and propelling her toward the garage.
Blade, reloaded, was protecting his friends. He unleashed a rain of death on any G.R.D.’s foolhardy enough to get within range of his Commando.
Geronimo’s FNC was equally as efficient in dispensing ruinous mayhem among the furious creatures.
Orson caught up with the others and added his M-16 to their firepower.
The G.R.D.’s were fanning out, the flanks deploying in uneven lines, evidently intending to encircle the defenders and finish them off.
Rudabaugh knew he would need to time this just right. He gripped the plunger, observing the left flank as it swung wide of the area near the doghouse. He hastily counted at least 20 of the brutes in the desired tract and leaned on the plunger.
Another gigantic explosion rocked Catlow.
His nimble fingers flying, Rudabaugh replaced the third set of wires with the fourth. An instant later, he pressed the plunger.
The G.R.D.’s on the left flank received the same destructive treatment as their counterparts on the right.
The cool air was now filled with billowing dust, literally choked with clouds of pulverized dirt.
The Warriors, Bertha, and Orson reached the garage.
Blade, his left hand pressed against his side, the Commando in his right, looked up at the slanted roof. “Rudabaugh!”
Rudabaugh peered over the edge.
“Fall back!” Blade ordered. “We can’t hold them!”