“Amazing,” Lysenko mentioned.
Hickok abruptly stopped and glared at Geronimo.
“What’s wrong with you?” Geronimo asked.
“Why the blazes are you being so nice to this prick?” Hickok demanded.
“What’s the harm in a little conversation?” Geronimo retorted.
Hickok stabbed his right thumb toward Lysenko. “This bastard killed two of our sisters!”
“I know that,” Geronimo said slowly.
“Then how the hell can you be so friendly toward him?” Hickok queried angrily.
“Just because I’m talking to the man doesn’t make me his friend!” Geronimo stated defensively.
“It does in my book!” Hickok snapped, and marched several feet ahead.
They walked in an uncomfortable silence for several minutes.
“I know it’s not any consolation,” Lysenko said in a restrained voice, “but I deeply regret what happened to the two women.”
“Sure you do, you mangy varmint!” Hickok barked over his left shoulder.
“I do!” Lysenko insisted. “I was merely following orders—and I know that’s no excuse—and I see that it was wrong.”
Hickok snorted.
Lysenko glanced at the stocky Indian. “You believe me, don’t you?”
Geronimo laughed. “Doesn’t matter what I believe.”
“But I’m sincere!” Lysenko said. “I’ve never felt like this before. Never felt remorse over the slaying of an enemy.”
“Enemy!” Hickok exploded, whirling. “They were Healers, you Red scum! They were devoted to helpin’ others! They wanted to relieve suffering and pain! And you and your rotten henchmen killed ’em!”
Lysenko blanched.
Hickok’s right hand dropped near his right Python. “Not another word out of you, you hear? Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to! You got that?”
Lysenko nodded.
Hickok wheeled and stalked off.
Geronimo studied the broad back of his best friend, worried. He had never seen Hickok so emotional over the death of a Family member, or in this case two, before. The gunman was hotheaded at times, even reckless on occasion. But he rarely permitted his feelings to impair his better judgment. So why was Hickok acting so temperamentally now? Was it because Sherry had nearly been abducted? Was Hickok regretting having agreed to Sherry becoming a Warrior? Or was it something else? Hickok had loved another woman before Sherry, a Warrior named Joan. Joan had been slain in the line of duty, despite Hickok’s efforts to protect her from harm. Had the unsettling incident with Sherry and the Russians rekindled his anxiety? Was the gunman tormented by the prospect of losing Sherry too? Geronimo increased his speed, caught up with his friend.
“What do you want?” Hickok barked. “Why don’t you stick with your Commie buddy?”
Geronimo’s brown eyes narrowed. “That crack was uncalled for, and you damn well know it!”
Hickok didn’t reply.
“Nathan,” Geronimo said, “I’m sorry.”
“You should be!” Hickok said.
“Not for talking to Lysenko,” Geronimo stated. “You know as well as I why I did it.”
“Oh? Do I?” Hickok rejoined acidly.
“Yeah. We covered it in our Warrior Psychology Class, remember? How if you engage an enemy in idle chitchat, sometimes they’ll let an important fact slip without realizing it,” Geronimo elaborated.
“Whoop-de-do for psychology!” Hickok commented.
Geronimo frowned. “Cut the crap and listen to me! I said I was sorry. Not about Lysenko. But about you.”
“Me?”
“Yeah, dimwit. I should have realized sooner how upset you were about Sherry. I should have been more sensitive to the hurt you’re feeling inside. For that, I’m sorry,” Geronimo declared.
Hickok glanced at the man who knew him better than anyone else, except perhaps Blade. His blue eyes were troubled. “I almost lost her!” he exclaimed in a tortured whisper.
“But you didn’t,” Geronimo reminded him.
“I would have,” Hickok said, “if it hadn’t been for Lynx and the others. They could trail the Russians by scent, and do in minutes what would have taken us hours tryin’ to find tracks.” He paused, then visibly shivered. “I almost lost her, Geronimo!”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Geronimo advised. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“You know,” Hickok said softly, for once neglecting to use his Wild West jargon, “I don’t know if I could stand to have it happen again. Losing Joan was terrible, the worst experience in my life. When Sherry first told me she wanted to become a Warrior, I really came close to telling her we were through if she did. But I decided I couldn’t put a leash on her, couldn’t make her live the kind of life I figured was right for her. She has a mind of her own. She can make her own decisions.”
“I think you did the right thing,” Geronimo remarked.
“I thought so too,” Hickok concurred. “But now I’m not so sure.” He stared into Geronimo’s eyes. “If I lose her, I don’t know what I’ll do.”
“Why worry about it?” Geronimo asked. “Like you said, Sherry has a mind of her own. You couldn’t have stopped her from becoming a Warrior, even if you wanted to. The best you can do now is to hang in there, to be there when she needs you, and pray nothing happens to her.”
“I reckon you’re right,” Hickok observed. He exhaled noisily. “Danged contrary females!”
“Look!” Geronimo suddenly exclaimed, pointing directly ahead.
Hickok looked.
Spartacus was hiding behind a tree trunk, motioning for them to take cover.
Hickok whirled. He saw Bertha and Shane, about 15 yards off, watching him intently. He waved for them to go to ground.
Geronimo grabbed Lysenko’s right arm and pulled the officer around a dense bush.
Hickok spotted a low boulder five yards to his left. He ran to the rock and crouched. What in the blazes was it? he wondered. He cradled the Henry and peered over the top of the boulder.
Just in time.
The cause of Spartacus’s alarm plodded into view. Once, the monstrosity might have been a whitetail buck, hardly a menace to humans. But now the hapless buck had been transformed, changed into a hairless, pus-covered horror by the regenerating chemical clouds, one of the many biological-warfare elements employed during World War Three.
Ordinary mammals, reptiles, and amphibians could undergo the same revolting metamorphosis. Hair and scales would fall off, and be replaced by blistering sores. Green mucus would spew from their ears and nose.
Their teeth would yellow and rot. And they would become rabid engines of destruction, existing only to kill every living thing in their path.
The buck had stopped ten yards from Spartacus’s tree loudly sniffing the air.
Hickok hoped the critter wouldn’t detect their scent. This buck sported a huge rack, six points on one side alone, more than enough to inflict a fatal wound. And he knew the mutate would charge at the slightest provocation.
The Family employed different, but similar, terms to describe the various mutations proliferating since the Big Blast, as they called World War Three. The pus-covered chemically spawned creatures were known as mutates. The mutations resulting from the massive amount of radiation unleashed on the environment, producing aberrations like two-headed wolves and snakes with nine eyes, were simply labeled mutants. Insects were subject to inexplicable strains of giantism. And, finally, there were the scientifically manufactured mutations, the genetically engineered deviations. The nefarious Doktor had been responsible for Lynx, Ferret, and Gremlin, and a horde just like them. But the Doktor hadn’t been the only one to tamper with nature. Hickok had read books in the Family library, books detailing the experiments conducted by dozens of scientists shortly before the Big Blast. Experiments intended to create new life forms. Better life forms. They hadn’t always worked as designed. Hickok remembered reading about one such experiment in particular, one conducted in a laboratory in New York City. The genetic engineers had endeavored to bring into being a superior chimpanzee by fusing a chimp and human embryo; the resultant insane deviate had murdered 14 innocent people before it was brought to bay. The gunman ruminated on all of this as the mutate advanced several steps in his direction, still sniffing the air.