The burst stitched into the mutant and flung it backwards to crash into the pit wall, snarling insanely.
His lips compressed tightly, Hickok rose to his right knee, firing all the while, the 9-mm slugs perforating the beast’s face and torso and causing it to dance like a puppet on strings. The gunfighter kept the trigger depressed until all 25 rounds in the magazine were expended, and he only ceased firing after the gun clicked empty.
The sudden silence was unnerving.
“Hickok? Are you okay?”
The Warrior licked his dry lips and looked up, mustering a weary grin.
“I’m fine. Thanks to you.”
“I couldn’t let him hurt you,” Chastity said. “You haven’t made up your mind yet.”
Hickok started to laugh, but an intense spasm in his left side checked his mirth. He wondered if one of his ribs was cracked or broken, and he vaguely recalled a searing pang when he fell into the pit, as if he had landed on a hard object. But the mutant had cushioned his descent. Or so he’d thought. He scanned the floor as he recovered his Colts and found the answer.
The M-16. The rifle was lying in the dirt at the exact spot of impact.
The gunman winced as he moved to the gun. He speculated that the stock of the M-16 had been wedged between the mutant’s body and his own as they landed, and the weapon had slid from his shoulder before the creature had thrown him off.
“Are you coming up?” Chastity asked. “There may be more of those icky things.”
Hickok snatched up the M-16 and stepped to the pole. She could be right, and he didn’t want to tangle with another one of those mutants if he could help it. He aligned the Uzi over his left shoulder, the M-16 over his right, and painfully climbed from the pit.
Chastity was staring at the forest as he came over the rim.
“You saved my life, princess,” Hickok said, pausing on his hands and knees. He needed to reload his weapons, but a minute of rest couldn’t hurt.
Or could it.
“There’s something out there,” Chastity said fearfully.
Hickok pushed himself erect. “Are you sure?” he asked, and then he heard the noise too. The unmistakable sound of something approaching through the undergrowth. Blast! How many mutants were there?
Chastity moved closer to him and gripped his right pants leg. “We’ve got to get out of here!”
Hickok agreed. He was opening his mouth to tell her to take off when the figures materialized in the trees.
Chapter Fifteen
He wasn’t certain if he was awake or dreaming. Confused, he listened to unfamiliar voices while he grappled with a strange mental fog.
“…most extraordinary. I doubt we have his equal anywhere in the city.”
“He does have superb musculature, I’ll grant you that.”
“We should permit the science techs to examine him.”
“What? And ruin a perfect specimen by having him dissected? What a waste.”
“Do you have a preference, Lilith?”
“Yes, Sol. As a matter of fact, I do.”
“Then let’s hear it.”
“Give him to me. My psychology staff will turn him. I guarantee it.”
“Is that the only reason you want him?”
“What’s that supposed to mean, Clinton?”
“You don’t fool us. We all know about your amorous predilection for his type.”
“So? You have the same predilection.”
“That’s enough. Stick to the issue at hand.”
“Sorry, Sol.”
Blade’s intellectual clarity returned in a rush. He perceived he was flat on his back, his arms and legs outstretched, his ankles and wrists secured firmly to—what?
He opened his eyes and squinted in the bright glare of brilliant overhead lights.
“Our Adonis has awakened,” someone announced.
“Greetings, outsider.”
Blade took his bearings as his vision adjusted. He was lying on a smooth, brown-tiled floor in the center of a circular amphitheater. A green wall eight feet in height encompassed him, and rising above the wall were twelve rows of wooden seats, each tier successively elevated. Seated on the lowest level, their heads and shoulders visible over the wall, were seven people, four men and three women, each one attired in a shimmering golden gown.
“Greetings,” repeated the tallest man, a leonine figure with a mane of white hair. “I am Sol Diekrick.”
Blade surveyed the seven. “You must be the Peers,” he deduced.
“We are,” Sol confirmed imperiously.
“He has an intellect to complement his physique,” commented a woman with tresses of a sepia hue.
“Behave yourself, Lilith,” remarked a portly man to her left.
“Up yours, Clinton,” Lilith responded sweetly.
Sol Diekrick raised his right hand and commanded instant silence. He smiled at the giant. “My apology for the conduct of my associates. They sometimes forget themselves.”
A bespectacled, gaunt man seated between Diekrick and Lilith leaned forward and glared at the prisoner. “What is your name? Where are you from?”
“My name is Jack Snow,” Blade said.
“You lie!” snapped the man with the glasses. “We know you gave that fabrication to the Storm Police, but our files indicate there never was a cousin of Llewellyn Snow by the name of Jack.”
“Your computer is incorrect.”
“Our computer system is virtually infallible, you primitive!”
“Eldred, please control yourself,” Sol interjected in a paternal tone. He smiled down at the Warrior. “You must forgive our lack of manners.”
Blade glanced at his wrists and found wide strips of an orange material binding him to the floor.
Sol noticed. “Simply a security precaution, I assure you, necessitated by your disinclination to cooperate with duly constituted authorities.”
“In other words,” Lilith said with a smirk, “we had to tie you up because the Storm Police were afraid you’d strangle us to death.”
Blade thought of the tramp. “Where’s Glisson?”
“Who?” Sol replied. “Oh. You mean the filthy degenerate taken into custody with you? He’s being held in a cell until we have rendered a final disposition of your case.”
“Where am I?” Blade asked.
“You are in the Civil Directorate,” Sol Diekrick answered. “My Directorate. You’re on the ninth floor in a room we reserve for special interrogations.”
“How long was I out?”
“A few hours,” Sol divulged. “Your recuperative powers are amazing.
You must have exceptional stamina.”
“I’ll bet that’s not all he has,” Lilith said.
Sol sighed and leaned back. “Allow me to introduce my associates.
Lilith Frickan here, the one with the raging hormones, heads the Orientation Directorate.”
Lilith grinned and winked.
“Eldred Morley is in charge of the Euthanasia Directorate,” Sol revealed.
The man with the glasses scowled at the Warrior.
Dietrich nodded at the portly Peer. “Clinton Brigg handles Ethics.”
“Hi, handsome,” Brigg remarked.
“As for the rest,” Sol said, and indicated a brunette, “Rebecca Sanger heads the Life Directorate.” He pointed at a man with black hair and a cleft chin. “Alec Toine has Progress.”
Toine nodded.
“And last, but definitely not least,” Sol said, gazing at an elderly woman with aquiline features, “Dorothy Coinnak is responsible for the Community Directorate.”
Blade studied each of them critically, then shook his head.
“What is it?” Sol inquired.
The Warrior stared at Diekrick. “Appearances can be deceiving. All of you appear to be sane.”
“Implying we are not,” Sol said.
“You’re warped.”
Sol chuckled and rested his chin in his right hand on the wall. “By whose standards? Yours?”