In the back of his mind Blade wished the dummy would shut up. If a sledgehammer wouldn’t do the job, what good would his rifle do? He wrenched on the flatworm, his right arm bulging, and his hands slipped off. There was no way he could remove it unless he got a firm footing.
Which brought him back to square one.
He spied another of the creatures swimming slowly on the other side of the tank.
Dear Spirit, what should he do? He pounded the plastic in frustration, and then inspiration struck. Sure, a sledgehammer wouldn’t work, but a sledge delivered its force over a broader area than a bullet. A 45-70 was one of the most powerful rifles ever made. Its thick, blunt bullet could plow through thick brush to bag a deer or an elk. At point-blank range, what would the effect be on the plastic?
There was only one way to find out.
Twisting, Blade jammed the barrel against the glass several inches below the water line. If he was wrong, the ricochet might well kill him. But it was either that or let the mutations slowly suck him lifeless.
He fired.
The shot was muffled by the water. His arms were driven backwards by the recoil.
Blade leaned closer and saw a dent in the plastic. The bullet hadn’t penetrated. He guessed the slug had flattened and sank to the bottom. But the dent was encouraging. The creature’s tongue fluttered around inside his stomach, adding incentive to his limbs as he worked the lever. He placed the barrel directly on the dent and squeezed the trigger.
The 45-70 did its job. The high-powered round drilled through the plastic, trailed by a stream of water that splashed onto the floor below.
One hole wouldn’t suffice. Blade levered the fourth round home, then groped in his back pocket and extracted three more shells. He quickly loaded and pressed the rifle to the wall again, only this time three inches below the hole. Once more he fired, expecting to dent the plastic.
This time the first shot bored through, producing a second stream, but it did something more. The concentration of pressure at the two holes as the water gushed out put an immense strain on the plastic between and surrounding the holes, and the pressure accomplished what the Marlin alone never could.
A resounding snap sounded, and suddenly a network of fine lines mushroomed in the wall. The next moment those lines became cracks, the water hissing and cascading from the tank.
Blade tried to paddle away from the wall, but he was too late. The whole section buckled and split, and an irresistible wave carried him through the gaping opening onto the chamber floor. He fell to his knees, nearly losing his grip on the rifle, and was buffeted by the escaping water. The reeking liquid enveloped his momentarily, then dispersed across the chamber.
“Blade!” Geronimo shouted.
His stomach on fire, Blade slowly stood and staggered toward the cages.
The water was up to his ankles, and he had to be careful not to slip. He halted and stared at the repulsive thing hanging from his abdomen.
Grimacing, he wrapped his right hand around it, squeezed with all of his might and wrenched savagely.
The upper edge of the mutation’s mouth peeled off, but it still hung on.
Blade grit his teeth, closed his eyes and pulled like he had never pulled on anything before. For half a minute nothing happened, then abruptly the creature popped loose, its blood-covered tongue sliding out and flopping in the air. In a frenzy of rage, he repeatedly smashed the rifle stock on the thing until its body and tongue both hung limp. Disgusted by the violation of his body and still not satisfied the mutation was dead, he placed the flatworm under his boot and ground it into the stone until a sarcastic voice made him realize what he was doing.
“I think the sucker is a goner, pard.”
Blade stopped grinding his heel and looked at his friends. “I guess you’re right,” he said softly.
“Why don’t you find a way to get us out?” Hickok suggested. “And hurry it up before the runt and his ugly pals show up.”
The reminder sparked Blade to action. He hurried to the cages and searched the nearby wall and the table for keys. There were none.
“You might need to get the keys from Morlock,” Geronimo said.
“No,” Blade responded.
“Then how do you figure to get us out?” Hickok asked.
Before Blade could answer, Geronimo extended his right arm between the bars and pointed. “Look!”
Turning, Blade beheld a sight that chilled his blood.
Most of the floor was now covered with water, and swimming about in search of prey were a dozen or so mutations, going every which way, their slim forms easy to spot.
“We don’t have to worry about them,” Blade declared. “They can’t suck blood unless they touch flesh, and all of us have on footwear.”
“But what if they can crawl as well as swim?” Geronimo remarked.
“They could come right up our legs.”
The idea intensified Blade’s nausea. “Take this,” he said, handing the rifle to Hickok.
“What are you fixin’ to do?”
“Watch.” Blade planted both feet firmly in front of the door and gripped the bar, one hand above the lock, the other below it. He winked at the gunfighter, inhaled and applied all of his prodigious strength to forcing the door open. His muscles rippled and contorted, his neck swelling and the veins expanding. Breathing in short, loud spurts, he battled the metal bar for a minute. Two. Then slowly, creaking noisily, the bar began to bend. Next the lock tilted outward. At last, with the sweat pouring down Blade’s face and his chest aching terribly, the lock gave way with a grinding retort.
“Took you long enough,” Hickok muttered, stepping out and surveying the chamber. “You work at freeing Geronimo, and I’ll keep you covered.”
Despite being weary to his core, Blade moved to the next cage and repeated the procedure. This door resisted longer, draining his flagging energy, and just when he thought he couldn’t do it, the lock snapped, making him stumble backward. He caught himself and swayed.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Geronimo asked, emerging.
“Fine,” Blade said. “Just give me a chance to catch my breath.”
“We don’t have much time, pard,” Hickok mentioned and returned the Marlin. He ran to the table, picked up his cherished Colts and grinned.
“Let’s get to kickin’ butt.”
Geronimo went over to retrieve his weapons. “What’s our first move?”
he asked.
“We’ll search this castle from top to bottom,” Blade said, arching his back to relieve a cramp.
“And when we find the runt?” Hickok inquired, walking back. He twirled the Colts into their holsters.
“The Morlock rein of terror ends today,” Blade vowed, glancing over his shoulder to check on the mutations. His eyes widened at the sight of five of the grotesque genetic deviations converging on him from all directions.
Chapter Seventeen
Blade raised the rifle and aimed at the nearest creature, feeling sick again at the thought of one of those things inserting its tongue into his body. Try as he might, he couldn’t seem to hold the barrel steady.
“Let me,” Hickok stated, stepping past the giant, a grin curling his lips.
“Eat these, bloodsuckers,” he said and drew both Colts in a blur of ambidextrous speed. Five shots boomed in succession.
Blade was astonished by his friend’s accuracy. With each shot a mutation flipped into the air or skidded backwards, its thin form neatly punctured, then thrashed wildly in its death throes, spraying water right and left.
“Let’s skedaddle, pard,” the gunfighter proposed. He began reloading the spent rounds, his gaze constantly roving over the floor.
No urging was necessary. Blade hurried to the wooden stairs and climbed them to the door. Surprisingly, Morlock hadn’t bothered to lock it, but with those vile creatures sucking blood from his face, he’d probably been too preoccupied to give thought to the door.