Nausea brought bitter bile to Blade’s mouth, and he closed his eyes to ward off an assault of dizziness.
Dropping the blood-soaked shaft on the grass, Geronimo picked up the rifle and crouched. “Why don’t you stay put and leave the chasing to me?”
“We stick together,” Blade stressed, gingerly touching his shoulder, his fingertips becoming damp and sticky. He wiped them on his pants and retrieved the Commando.
“You’re in no condition to be taking on anyone,” Geronimo said. “And if you lose a lot of blood you’ll be too weak to do either of us any good.”
Blade stood with an effort, the veins on his neck swelling. “Don’t worry about me. Lead the way. I’ll keep up.”
“Sometimes you can be as hard-headed as Hickok,” Geronimo muttered, rising and cradling the FNC. He warily surveyed the woods, then began moving toward their camp.
Keeping his right arm tucked against his abdomen, Blade stayed on his companion’s heels. Both his front and back were sticky with blood. If the bleeding didn’t cease soon he’d have to cauterize the entry and exit wounds.
Not a sound came from the surrounding vegetation. Their attackers apparently had fled when Geronimo cut loose.
Every few steps Blade’s shoulder would experiencne an excrutiating spasm. He used the psychological training he’d received in preparation for becoming a Warrior to compartmentalize the pain, to suppress it by sheer force of will. To a degree the technique worked.
Most of the campfire had gone out. Those flames still reaching for the sky were only several inches high.
Geronimo reached it first and halted. “Look,” he whispered, pointing at the ground.
Bending forward, Blade saw that many of the limbs used to make the fire had been pulled out and scattered about. Most bore red tips or tiny glowing embers. Had their attackers deliberately tried to extinguish the fire? It would have been smarter for whoever was responsible to leave everything as it was and set an ambush.
“Let’s have a look at your shoulder,” Geronimo proposed. He reached down and removed a short branch with flames rising from one end.
Reluctant to comply when there might be more bowmen lurking in the forest, Blade hesitated.
“Get on your knees,” Geronimo said.
“What if we’re jumped?”
“I doubt whether anyone is out there,” Geronimo said, looking both ways along the road and then at the trees. “Even so, we both know what could happen to you if you don’t let me examine the wound.”
Clenching his fists against the pain, Blade did as the Blackfoot requested.
Geronimo scanned their vicinity once more, placed the FNC on the ground, then stepped up and gently lifted the right side of the giant’s vest.
He held the burning branch as near as he dared and frowned.
Tilting his chin, Blade saw the bad news for himself. A pencil-thin stream of crimson continued to seep from the entry hole.
“How do you want to do this?” Geronimo asked.
“We’ll do it now before the fire goes out,” Blade said, and began to remove his vest.
“The conditions aren’t very sanitary. We don’t even have any water.”
“So we’ll make do,” Blade said, grimacing as he eased his left arm from the leather garment.
“Allow me,” Geronimo offered. He slowly eased the vest off his friend’s right shoulder, then set it aside. Moving behind the giant, he inspected the neat circle of pinkish flesh constituting the exit hole and announced, “You’re bleeding here too.”
“Then get it over with.”
“Want to lie down?”
“No.”
Geronimo leaned down, his eyes roving over the grass, and selected a piece of limb about six inches of length. “Here. Bite on this.”
Nodding, Blade aligned the piece horizontally between his lips and clamped down hard, his teeth digging into the soft wood, which was still warm from the fire. The taste of charred bark filled his mouth.
“Are you ready?” Geronimo asked.
Blade nodded again.
Gripping the fireband firmly, Geronimo placed his left hand on Blade’s shoulder to hold it steady, then began counting. “One. Two. Three.” With a flick of his right wrist he speared the burning branch directly into the hole.
Unbelievable anguish racked Blade’s shoulder and he involuntarily arched his spine and gasped. The pungent odor of burning flesh tingled his nostrils. He wanted to scream, but didn’t, and thought he would bite clear through the wood.
After several seconds Geronimo yanked the branch away and smiled.
“Looks good, if I do say so myself.” He came around in front. “Let me heat this up and we’ll have you cauterized in no time.”
Blade wanted to tell him to hurry, that their attackers might return at any second, but he felt oddly sluggish, his arms dangling limply, the Commando lying at his side. He watched as the end of the branch was placed in the center of the fire and promptly burst into flames again.
Pivoting, Geronimo held the firebrand up. “It might be better if you closed your eyes.”
Blade shook his head. He steeled himself, heard the three count, and looked at his shoulder just as the branch made contact. He saw the reddish-orange fiery fingers lick at his skin, heard the sizzling of his blood and flesh, and felt exquisite torment. Tendrils of smoke curled into the air.
His teeth gnashed into the wood and he shuddered violently.
Geronimo grimly applied pressure for half a minute. Only when the skin around the hole had been burned black did he pull the branch away and examine his handiwork. “That should do it.”
Swaying slightly, Blade opened his mouth wide and let the charred limb fall out. He licked his dry lips and said, rather hoarsely, “Thank you.”
“Any time. Just don’t make it a habit of being shot with an arrow,” Geronimo responded. He tossed the extinguished firebrand aside and reclaimed the FNC.
Weakness pervaded Blade’s body and he struggled to regain his mental acuity. He tried to lift the Commando twice before he succeeded.
“You’d better rest a bit,” Geronimo advised, his eyes alertly roaming in a circle, probing the sinister shadows. “I’ll let you know if I see anything.”
“Can’t rest now,” Blade mumbled. His brain sent the mental command to rise down his spine and along his nerves to his legs. Oddly, both limbs acted as if they were disembodied entities and didn’t budge. Undaunted, and not a little furious at his body for its betrayal of his mind, he shifted the submachine gun to his right hand, put his left palm on the grass, and shoved to his feet, where he stood swaying, a mighty oak about to crash to the earth.
Geronimo took a tentative step, ready to grab the giant if necessary.
Blade languidly waved him off. He gripped the Commando in both hands and bent his neck to gaze at the awe-inspiring celestial display.
Inhaling deeply, he felt renewed vigor slowly energize his body. Once the recovery process started, his strength returned swiftly. He donned the vest.
Far in the distance a wolf howled.
“Was that an omen?” Geronomi quipped.
Grinning, Blade looked at him and said, “Let’s check out that house.”
“Now?”
“Unless you have an urgent appointment.”
Geronimo glanced at the giant’s shoulder. “Why not give yourself more time?”
“Time is a luxury we can’t afford. Whoever attacked us might have Hickok. Since that house is the only habitation we’ve seen for miles, logic dictates we check it out.”
“Aye, Mr. Spock.”
“Who?”
“Haven’t you read those books in our library written by that Blish guy?”
Blade thought for a moment. The Family’s Founder had constructed six enormous concrete bunkers at the Home, and in one of those Carpenter had collected hundreds of thousands of volumes of every conceivable subject. Aware that his followers and their descendants would require certain critical knowledge to survive in a world deranged by the ultimate insanity, Carpenter had devoted one of the largest sections in the Library to books dealing wth survival skills. Reference books on any and every subject had been amassed. Gardening books, hunting and fishing books, woodworking and weaving books were all included. There were volumes on natural medicine, on healing, on metal-smithing; on history, geography, and the sciences; and scores of books dealing with military tactics and strategies. To provide relaxation there were humorous books and novels by every fiction author who ever lived. Edgar Rice Burroughs was a perennial favorite, as was Roy Rockwood. The Warriors quite naturally showed a predilection for the many martial arts books and those related to various weapons. Blade had read all of the latter. Where fiction was concerned, he tended to restrict himself to a few favorites like Burroughs, Doyle, Fleming, and others. “I haven’t read them,” he confessed.