Lynx, unnoticed by the Doktor or Thor, opened his green eyes and rose to his knees, still groggy, his movements unusually slow.
The Doktor inexplicably cackled. “Adieu, Blade!” he declared happily.
“It’s the void for you!”
Blade, striving to regain control of his limbs, tensed, knowing the Doktor was playing with him and dreading that something would happen.
It did.
Pandemonium erupted.
“Over here, sucker!” a female voice screamed, coming from the east.
Both the Doktor and Blade glanced up.
Bertha was ten yards away, weaving toward them, the left side of her face caked with blood.
The Doktor instinctively swung the 45 at her, not realizing she was unarmed and didn’t pose a threat.
Blade drove his right hand, balled into an iron fist, up and around, connecting with the madman’s chin and slamming him to the ground. The 45 went flying.
Lynx jumped to his feet.
Blade pushed himself to his knees. “Lynx!” he shouted. “Thor! The half-track!”
The Doktor was trying to stand.
Blade executed a flying tackle, bearing the Doktor to the turf. He kneed the lunatic in the groin, then flicked his fists in a furious combination of brutal punches, smashing his knuckles into the Doktor’s face again and again and again.
Thor had turned upon hearing Blade’s cry, but he was too late.
Lynx cleared the side of the half-track in two bounds. His second leap brought him to the top of the side panel, and he added to his momentum by grabbing the upper edge and propelling his body at Thor like a shot out of a cannon.
Thor lunged for his sledgehammer, but his reach was impeded by the machine gun.
Lynx snarled with a feral frenzy as he landed on his foe, his feet raking Thor’s massive chest while his hands, his slashing talons, ripped ten crimson furrows in Thor’s face.
Thor shrieked and tried to cover his eyes with his hands.
The scent of fresh blood drove Lynx wild. He went berserk, his arms flailing away at Thor’s face and neck, as hair and flesh and gore splattered every which way. A shredded eyeball sailed over the tailgate.
On the ground, Blade was grappling with the Doktor, the two of them rolling back and forth as each attempted to gain the upper hand. One of their rolls caused them to collide with the front of the command post, to the right of the door. Blade bore the brunt of the collision, his head banging against the concrete and momentarily dazing him.
The Doktor wrenched free of Blade’s grasp, sprang to his feet, and darted through the front door.
Blade shoved himself erect and took off inside in hot pursuit.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Hickok saw Lynx pounce on the apish figure in the rear of the half-track. He concentrated on catching up with the others. Orson and Rudabaugh had already reached the fountain and were crouched alongside the basin. Geronimo joined them an instant later.
“Look!” Orson shouted as Hickok joined them.
They could see the other side of the half-track for the first time. Blade and a man wearing a black cape were wrestling on the ground.
Bertha was a few yards from the vehicle, her left hand pressed to her face, staggering.
“Black Beauty!” Hickok cried. He started to run around the fountain to assist her.
“Look!” Orson yelled again.
Soldiers and G.R.D.’s were swarming toward the town square from several directions at once. They appeared to the west, the north, and the east, hollering exultantly as they spied the four men near the fountain.
“This is it,” Rudabaugh said, drawing his pistols, forcing his left arm to obey his mental bidding.
Orson quickly unslung his shotgun. “Remember what I told you,” he stated, directing his comment at Rudabaugh, grimacing from the pain in his right shoulder.
Geronimo caught Hickok’s eye. “I’ve loved you like a brother,” he informed his friend, “which goes to show you how warped my taste is.”
Hickok was in a quandry. He couldn’t believe what Geronimo had just said, the words only serving to aggravate his confusion. He wanted to aid Blade and Bertha, but he couldn’t leave Geronimo.
Some of the approaching troopers opened fire, their rounds smacking into the fountain.
Hickok risked a last glance at the command post. The creep with the cape and Blade had vanished! And Bertha was climbing over the tailgate of the half-track, evidently intending to use the machine gun.
More bullets were striking the fountain.
Hickok raised the Henry and fired, his aim rewarded by the sight of a reptilian G.R.D. taking a slug in the head.
Geronimo downed several antagonists with a burst from his FNC.
Orson began blasting away with his shotgun.
Rudabaugh picked up the lethal refrain with his pistols.
The onrushing throng scarcely slowed.
Hickok emptied his Henry and threw it aside. Into the fountain!” he bellowed over the noise of the gunfire. The basin rim might afford some shelter from the withering hail of lead.
Orson, his shotgun booming, went to take a step over the rim. His whole body suddenly jerked to the left and he was knocked over the basin and into the water. He fell on his stomach, splashing the water over the sides of the fountain, and didn’t move.
“Orson!” Rudabaugh turned and stepped over the rim. He reached down and gripped Orson’s flannel shirt.
Hickok leaped over the rim to help Rudabaugh. He distinctly heard a thup-thup-thup, and Rudabaugh arched his back, gasped, and pitched into the pool.
Geronimo backed up, stepping over the basin into the pool while still firing the FNC. He crouched behind the rim, shooting the closest foes, the gravest threats, as they presented themselves. As he twisted to mow down three G.R.D.’s charging from the west, he realized Hickok was standing and staring at Rudabaugh and Orson.
Enemy gunfire was chipping away at the basin and pockmarking the pool with dozens of concentric ripples.
“Get down!” Geronimo shouted.
Hickok, miraculously untouched so far, looked up, his mouth a thin slit, his blue eyes glaring.
Geronimo abruptly stiffened and toppled across the rim of the fountain, his legs in the water, his head dangling outside.
“Geronimo!” Hickok took a step toward him, then stopped. His hands flashed to the Pythons, the barrels glinting in the sunlight as they cleared leather. Heedless of his personal safety, he left the pool, deliberately walking toward the soldiers and the G.R.D.’s. His right Colt cracked, and a furry G.R.D. clutched at a hole where its left eye had been and tumbled to the ground. The left Colt bucked, and a trooper took a slug between the eyes.
A genetic deviate resembling a walking lion bounded up from the west.
Hickok whirled, both Pythons blasting, and the lion-man was flung backwards to crash to the turf.
A bullet creased the gunman’s right leg.
Hickok spotted a soldier sighting his M-16 for a second shot, and let him have a bullet in the brain for his efforts.
A monkey-like G.R.D. waving an axe rushed the gunfighter, gibbering crazily.
Hickok, a twisted smile on his face, let the creature get within three feet before he angled a slug into the G.R.D.’s mouth.
Something stung the gunman’s right forearm.
A pack of G.R.D.’s swarmed in from the west, at least ten of them working in concert.
Hickok spun, thumbing the hammers and squeezing the triggers on his Colts with a precision few men could equal. Three, four, five, six of the pack were down, contorted in their death throes, and he was leveling the Colts at a seventh when a hard object struck his right temple, stunning him, jolting his senses and causing him to drop to his knees.
The world was spinning.
Move! he mentally screamed.