The mutate had slowed and was shaking its head, disoriented, a gaping hole in its forehead.
Once more for good luck!
Geronimo carefully aimed and fired, the fourth slug penetrating the bison an inch from the third.
This one finally did the job. The mutate quivered violently, threw its head back, seemed to gasp for air, and then collapsed. Its body shook twice before sagging into an inert heap.
Geronimo slid from the black and ran to Cynthia. “Are you all right?” he asked as he knelt by her side.
“No,” she replied, rubbing her injured ankle.
“Is it broken?” he solicitously inquired.
“The ankle? It’s okay. Sprained a bit, I think.”
“But you said…” Geronimo began.
“Did you hear me?” Cynthia demanded in a disgusted tone. “I wimped out! I screamed! Did you hear me?”
“Yes, but…”
“I did it earlier too.” She frowned and shook her head. “When the Legion men were after me. Funny. I never thought of myself as a coward.”
“You’re not a…”
“Well, I can tell you one thing,” she promised him. “I’m not going to turn chicken again.”
“You’re not a…”
“Yes, sir,” she went on, oblivious to his attempts to respond. “You’ll never hear me scream again.”
“You can’t blame yourself,” Geronimo said, about to elaborate when Cynthia’s eyes suddenly widened and she gaped in dread at something over his right shoulder.
She screamed.
Had the bison revived? Geronimo tossed the empty Marlin aside and whirled, going for the Arminius under his right arm. He saw the deceased mutate, the prone, quavering paint, and the nearby black.
What…?
Something chittered, something at ground level, and Geronimo glanced down.
A mutated prairie dog was perched on the rim of the hole Cynthia had tripped in.
Even as he spied the rodent, it launched its sixteen-inch body toward them. In sheer reflex, Geronimo snapped off a shot, surprised when it struck the prairie dog in the head and toppled it head over heels to the grass.
“Nice shot,” Cynthia commented, her composure regained.
“Just don’t ask me to do it again,” Geronimo said, watching the rodent for any signs of life.
“I may have to,” Cynthia remarked, an edge to her voice.
“What? Why?” Geronimo looked at her, puzzled by her tone.
“Didn’t you know?” Cynthia asked. “Prairie dogs live in colonies. Look!” She raised her left hand and pointed.
Another mutated rodent was just emerging from a burrow twelve feet away.
Geronimo shot it in the head.
“There’s another!” Cynthia squealed, pushing to her feet.
He sighted and fired, downing it with four feet to spare.
“We better get out of here,” Cynthia suggested, limping toward the black.
“Look out!” Geronimo shoved her aside and shot another prairie dog emerging only inches from her feet.
The black was moving away from them, its ears laid back, spooked by the gunfire and the activity.
“We can’t let him get away!” Cynthia cried.
Geronimo paused, wondering if he should reload the Arminius. He had two shots left in the cylinder. What if more prairie dogs appeared? His mind drifted, recalling his schooling days at the Home and his studies of the mammals of North America. He remembered learning they were part of the squirrel family. The lived in towns or colonies and were highly gregarious. But it didn’t make any sense! If all the prairie dogs in this particular town were mutated, they should be attacking one another in a feeding frenzy. These seemed to be working in concert.
Impossible.
“Geronimo!” Cynthia yelled in alarm, shattering his recollections.
Three prairie dogs were issuing forth from three different burrows, all within twenty feet of the Warrior and his frightened friend.
“Kill them!” Cynthia urged, backing toward him.
He tried his best.
The first shot took out the nearest rodent. His second blast caught a mutated dog as it leaped at Cynthia, saliva dripping from its open mouth, pus covering its putrid form.
That left one prairie dog… and the Arminius was empty.
Geronimo dropped the Magnum and whipped his tomahawk from under his leather belt. He would only have one chance! If he missed, if the mutate punctured their skin and some of the pus entered their bloodstream, they wouldn’t live longer than a few days.
The prairie dog was ten feet away and closing, its normally placid features transformed by feral lust.
Geronimo raised the tomahawk, gauging the distance, waiting for the instant the prairie dog would jump. While in midair the rodent would be unable to change direction, to duck or dodge the tomahawk. It would be his best bet, a fleeting twinkling of vulnerability.
The prairie dog screeched and launched itself into the air, but instead of arrowing toward Geronimo it zeroed in on Cynthia.
Geronimo swung the tomahawk, slightly off balance, the edge of the weapon slicing into the mutate’s left side. The blow deflected the prairie dog, but it didn’t stop the horrific deviate.
The rodent caught Cynthia on her right foot as it descended, its razor-sharp incisors lacerating an inch of skin near her big toe. She was wearing sandals, and the straps were composed of thin, durable strips of deer hide.
The mutate landed and twirled, about to pounce again.
Geronimo buried his tomahawk in the mutate’s cranium, the skull splitting like a rotten cantaloupe.
Cynthia had collapsed on the ground and was staring at her injured foot in utter amazement.
Geronimo wrenched the tomahawk free and knelt beside her.
“I’m dead,” Cynthia said, shocked. “I’m as good as dead!”
“Maybe not.” Geronimo leaned over the foot and examined the wound.
“Maybe none of the pus got into your blood.”
“The way my luck has been running today,” Cynthia remarked, “I wouldn’t count on it.”
“There don’t seem to be any more prairie dogs,” Geronimo commented, glancing at the nearest visible burrows. “Maybe your luck has changed.”
“I wouldn’t count on it,” interjected a husky male voice.
Geronimo and Cynthia turned as one, registering their astonishment as they suddenly realized they were completely surrounded by a circle of horsemen quietly sitting on their mounts twenty-five yards away.
One of the riders, a handsome man in buckskins on a golden Palomino, was only ten yards off, a Winchester 94 Lever Action Carbine cradled in his big hands and pointed at the hapless duo.
“This just isn’t my day,” Cynthia said, sadly shaking her head.
“There still may be a way out,” Geronimo stated, grinning.
The Palomino rider overheard the statement. “A way out?” he repeated.
“How?”
Geronimo indicated the encircling patrol with a toss of his head. “I could always ask you to surrender.”
The Legion captain cocked the hammer on the Winchester.
Chapter Four
The western half of the Home was extensively used by the Family for various purposes. Kurt Carpenter had located the six main structures, the reinforced concrete buildings known as Blocks, in a triangular formation centered in the western section. The Block furthest south was A Block, the Family armory, personally stocked by Carpenter with every conceivable weapon. One hundred yards to the northwest was B Block, the sleeping quarters for single Family members. Another hundred yards in a northwesterly line was C Block, the infirmary. One hundred yards due east of C Block was D Block, serving as the Family’s carpentry shop and all-purpose construction facility. Another hundred yards further was E