The Doktor’s sneering visage came into view directly overhead. “You’re still alive? Remarkable. The shock would have terminated any ordinary man,” the Doktor said.
No matter how hard he tried. Blade couldn’t stop his body from quaking.
“Aren’t you the least bit curious about how I did it?” the Doktor inquired.
Blade’s feet abruptly ceased shaking.
The Doktor held up his left hand. It held the small dart and several coils of thin wire. “Do you see this? Do you know what it is? Law enforcement agencies once used a crude, cumbersome version of this device. I, of course, have improved on the original design and incorporated many advanced refinements.”
Blade’s legs stopped their shuddering.
The Doktor nodded at his left forearm. “There’s a tube under my sleeve. The dart is fired by means of a compressed gas cartridge.”
Blade felt his hips halt their vibrating.
“This insulated wire,” the Doktor explained, dangling the wire in Blade’s eyes, “runs up my sleeve and over my shoulder to a portable power pack strapped to the small of my back.”
Sensation returned to Blade’s arms and hands. He realized his right Bowie was gone, but he had retained his grip on the left knife.
“All I need do,” the Doktor was saying, “is move my hand a certain way and, presto! My target receives enough juice to kill a horse! Simplicity itself!”
Blade glared at the Doktor, his intense hatred welling up inside of him.
The man had assassinated his father and claimed to have murdered Joshua; he had caused untold hardship and suffering to the Family; he had used countless infants as fodder for his rejuvenation technique. Who knew the extent of his atrocities?
It was time for the Doktor to die.
His bulging muscles rippling, Blade surged upward, his left arm driving the Bowie up and in, planting the blade in the Doktor’s groin, imbedding the knife to the hilt.
The Doktor gasped and dropped the dart and wire. He uttered a feeble, rasping squeak and looked down at his ruined loins.
Blade gripped the Bowie in both hands and drove the keen blade upwards, slicing through the abdomen and reaching the ribs.
Whining, wimpering in abject fear at the prospect of his own demise, the Doktor managed to grab Blade’s wrists. “Please!” he pleaded, his eyes silently begging for his life. “Spare me!” he entreated the grim-faced Warrior.
Blood was pouring from the Doktor’s ruptured body, raining from his abdomen and spattering the floor with continual red drops. His intestines were seeping from their cavity, oozing slowly toward the concrete below.
“We can make a deal!” the Doktor cried in desperation. “We can make a deal!” A crimson rivulet suddenly spurted from the right corner of his mouth.
Blade allowed himself the luxury of having the last word. “A deal, Doktor? You want to bargain with me, a man who represents everything you loathe? Plato has told me a little about the contents of your journals. I know you don’t believe in the Spirit, Doktor. I know you think faith is for simpletons. You see humans as nothing more than animals. You consider love fit only for weaklings.” Blade paused.
The Doktor was breathing heavily and starting to sag.
“Well, I don’t, Doktor!” Blade stated, his voice hardening. “I was raised to appreciate love as the greatest of all strengths. I see all men and women as spiritual children, all part of one vast cosmic family. And I value my faith, Doktor. It’s the foundation of my life. And do you know what else?”
Blade growled. “I value wisdom, and my wisdom tells me you will never see reality as I see reality. You will always be as warped and perverted as you are now. You will always be a menace, Doktor. People like you think they have the right to reshape the world in their own wicked image. And you don’t!”
The Doktor’s chin was drooping.
“And so,” Blade said in conclusion, “there’s only one way to deal with people like you.” He tightened his hold on the Bowie. “And this is it!”
The Doktor’s head snapped up, his eyes locking on Blade’s.
Blade rammed the Bowie upward, angling the blade over the sternum and burying the knife in the Doktor’s neck below the chin. Warm blood flowed over his hands and arms and sprayed on his face.
With a protracted, labored wheezing sound the Doktor expired, his arms falling limply at his sides. He started to fall forward.
Blade wrenched his Bowie free and stood aside.
The Doktor toppled over like a giant tree plummeting to the ground in the forest, smacking onto the floor and making an odd squishing noise.
“I admire your style, bub,” someone said from the doorway.
Blade looked up.
Lynx was leaning on the jamb, his arms folded across his hairy chest.
His body was covered with red splotches. “I wanted the Doc for myself,” he remarked. “But I didn’t want to interrupt your work of art.” He chuckled, gazing at the form on the floor. “I couldn’t of done better, chuckles.”
“What’s happened?” Blade queried. “Where are the rest.”
“Come take a look,” Lynx responded.
Blade spotted his other Bowie on the floor near his feet. He scooped it up, wiped the knife he used to slay the Doktor on his pants, and slid both Bowies into their sheaths.
Lynx stood to one side as the Warrior strode past.
Blade stopped just outside the front door, surveying the scene before him.
The town square was packed. Bodies littered the ground, the majority of them G.R.D.’s or troopers. Cavalry riders were everywhere, tending to wounded comrades or mopping up, checking on the prone figures of their enemies to ascertain if any were still alive. A veritable stack of soldiers and genetic deviates was piled on the east side of the half-track.
Blade glanced up at the rear of the vehicle.
Bertha was slumped over the machine gun, her arms dangling in midair.
“Bertha!” Blade ran to the back of the halftrack and vaulted over the tailgate. He took her in his arms and examined her.
Blood was trickling from her right thigh and the wound on the left side of her head. There was an additional injury, a bullet hole in her shirt on the left side of her chest.
Blade pressed his right ear to her bosom.
Thank the Spirit!
Bertha was breathing, but barely.
Blade scanned the crowd below and recognized Yama walking toward the half-track.
“Yama!” Blade shouted.
The man in blue immediately ran to the vehicle and climbed up to Blade’s side.
“Take care of her,” Blade ordered. “I’ll locate Kilrane and have him send over one of his men skilled in medicine.”
“I will tend her,” Yama promised, then added, “Rikki needs to see you at the fountain.”
Blade jumped from the half-track and headed for the fountain. The strain of the combat was beginning to be felt; his left side was a mass of torment, his right side along the ribs ached, and his body was feeling extremely fatigued.
The Cavalrymen readily parted for the crimson-coated apparition moving among them, many gaping at his barbarous appearance.
A cool breeze was blowing in from the northwest.
Somewhere nearby, a man was groaning in agony.
The fountain abruptly loomed directly ahead.
Blade stopped, shocked, forgetting his pain at the sight before him.
Rikki-Tikki-Tavi, Teucer, and Kilrane were standing near the fountain.
Lying on the ground at their feet were four bodies.