Hickok sighted the Henry, but the form receded behind the tree before he could fire.
There was a muffled thump followed by a strange hissing noise as something struck the top of the knoll five feet below the rim.
What the blazes was going on?
Wispy smoke tendrils began filling the night air, spiraling upward, assuming the proportions of a hovering gray cloud.
More distinct whooshing sounds came from the forest below the knoll, one after the other, nine in all.
More thumping noises ringed the knoll.
The mysterious gray cloud grew bigger and bigger, completely enshrouding the knoll.
Confounded by the odd sounds and wary of the clouds, Hickok eased over the boulders and crawled toward the woods. The gray cloud descended to ground level. Caught by the smoky substance, the gunman almost gagged as he breathed in his first mouthful. An intense burning sensation erupted in his throat and chest and his eyes started watering.
He coughed and held his breath, rolling down the knoll, trying to get well out of the cloud before he would need to take another breath.
Was it a poison gas of some kind?
Hickok resisted an impulse to gag, his lungs heaving. He rolled into a boulder and was jarred by the impact. Unable to control himself, he accidentally inhaled.
It was as if he had swallowed a handful of red hot coals.
Hickok doubled over as his body was rocked with painful spasms, his breathing impaired, his breaths coming in great, ragged gasps. The burning sensation in his chest increased, becoming acute, nearly unbearable.
Poison gas! It had to be!
The Warrior staggered to his feet and stumbled toward the trees.
Fortunately, the lower he went the thinner the cloud became, until he reached the bottom of the knoll and clear, fresh air.
Hickok inhaled the cool, crisp air, endeavoring to pump the poison from his system.
Black figures were advancing toward him from the woods.
The lousy varmints! They couldn’t take him fair and square! They had to resort to their poison gas! They may have succeeded in killing him, but they had horse patties for brains if they expected him to lie down and die without so much as a whimper of protest! By the Spirit! He’d show them what it meant to tangle with a Warrior! Despite the reluctance of his limbs to comply with his mental commands, he managed to raise the Henry.
Someone was yelling in the unfamiliar language.
Hickok squeezed the trigger, his effort rewarded by the collapse of one of the approaching forms.
That’d show the curs!
His eyes moist from his copious tears, his arms feeling leaden and burdened by the heavy Henry, Hickok opted for a change in tactics.
If it was his time to buy the farm, he might as well go in style!
Hickok dropped the Henry and drew his Pythons, his arms sluggish, his draw a mere fraction of its normal speed. His feet shuffled forward, directly at his foes.
There were more of them than he’d imagined. Ten or more, closing in from all sides.
Why weren’t they shooting?
Hickok swiveled the Colts, going dead center on one of the figures. The Pythons cracked and bucked in his unsteady hands.
Another opponent bit the dust.
Why weren’t they returning his fire?
Hickok turned, wobbly, and fired his right Python.
Yet another form screamed and fell.
What was going on? Why didn’t they fight back?
Hickok’s ears detected a slight rustling behind him, and he tried to swing around to confront the source.
He never made it.
The gunman felt a hard object slam into his head, and he was knocked forward onto his hands and knees. He wheezed as he struggled to stand, but before he could rise someone leaped onto his back and strong hands gripped his blonde locks and yanked.
Hickok grunted as his head was snapped backwards.
What were they trying to do? Break his neck?
Something soft and reeking of an obnoxious odor was pressed over the gunman’s nostrils and mouth.
What the-!
Hickok knew they were expecting him to try and stand, to toss the attacker from his back. Instead, he did the opposite, allowing his body to pitch forward, hoping the unexpected motion would dislodge or disorient the person on his back.
He was right.
The man on the gunman’s back lost his hold and toppled to the left.
Hickok rolled to the right, extending his Colts.
There was more shouting in the weird lingo.
A bulky form reared above the Warrior.
Hickok let the vermin have it. Both Pythons from point-blank range.
The blurry figure was hurtled backward by the impact.
Hickok rose to his knees, relieved because his vision was beginning to return.
They converged on the gunman in a rushing mass, piling on him from everywhere. Powerful hands grabbed his arms and legs. Someone had him by the hair again.
Hickok was knocked onto his back. A knee rammed into his stomach.
Fingers were tugging on the Colts, striving to strip them from his hands.
The obnoxious odor penetrated his nostrils as the soft material was again pressed over his mouth and nose.
What were they doing?
Hickok thrashed and heaved for all he was worth, knowing he was dead if he didn’t break free.
There were simply too many of them.
The gunman’s last thoughts were of his wife and son.
Chapter Eight
“On your feet. It’s time to leave.”
“You’ll never make it.”
“You let me worry about that,” Blade said. He gazed out the window at the night sky. Darkness had enveloped the city long ago. Lacking public utilities, St. Louis was plunged into an inky abyss. The towering skyscrapers seemed like brooding monoliths. Streets and alleys resembled lighter ribbons in a tapestry of black fabric. All outside activity ceased as residents took to their dwellings, families to their homes and singles, for the most part, to their apartments. After he had questioned Mel, Blade had learned more concerning the Leather Knights and their domination of St. Louis. Because structurally sound houses were at a premium, the Knights had ruled only families could reside in individual homes. The single men and women tended to live in clusters, in apartment buildings relatively unscathed by the ravages of time and the elements.
Blade glanced down at the woman. “Take me directly to the library where they are holding my friend. One false move and I’ll slit your throat.”
“You sure have a way with the ladies,” Melissa quipped.
Blade stepped away from the window and motioned with the Commando. “Let’s go.”
Melissa slowly stood, her legs cramped from her prolonged sitting.
“Do the Knights patrol the streets at night?” Blade asked.
“Yeah,” Mel replied. “But the patrols are few and far between.”
“I would think you’d want to insure the Reds don’t sneak into the city after dark,” Blade said. “You must have a lot of patrols.”
Mel snickered. “After dark? Are you nuts? The… things… come out after dark. The Reds aren’t any more likely than we are to run around at night. It’s bad enough having to look out for the mutants in the daytime. At night it’s worse because you can’t see them coming.”
“Haven’t you cleared them out of the city?” Blade inquired.
“We’ve tried,” Mel answered. “But it’s not that easy. The giant rats are impossible to control. There are too many of them. Some of the things, like Slither and Grotto, are too big to handle. And although we can keep many of the monsters out during the day, some of them sneak back into the city at night looking for food. Most people stay inside at night with their doors locked. And one of the first rules you learn as a child is this: never go outside at night alone.” She paused. “No, you don’t have to worry about running into anybody this late at night.”