Accustomed as he was to the sight of mutations and the even worse mutates, Yama nevertheless repressed a shudder as he closed on the deviate duo.
Both wolves were over five feet at the shoulder. Both were covered with a coat of gray fur. But after that, any resemblance to a real wolf was strictly coincidental. Each had six legs instead of four, and each leg was tipped with tapering talons instead of paws. By a curious genetic quirk, both creatures had two tails and, incredibly, two heads. The second head extended from the front of each mutant’s neck. It was somewhat smaller than the original head, but its mouth was equally filled with a glistening array of pointed teeth. Red, baleful eyes were fastened on the Tillers. Both were slavering and growling, standing side by side next to the dead man sprawled before them.
Yama never hesitated.
The wolves were 30 yards away when he unslung his Wilkinson and aimed into the air. The two Tillers still alive were between the wolves and him, and Yama didn’t want to risk accidentally winging one of them. He elevated the Wilkinson barrel and fired a short burst into the air.
Neither wolf so much as flinched.
The mutants shifted their attention to the approaching man in blue.
Four heads raised skyward, and four husky throats bayed their defiant challenge. They bounded forward, separating, one to the right and the other to the left, temporarily forgetting the two Tillers as they concentrated on the human in blue.
“Get down!” Yama shouted to the Tillers.
They didn’t budge, gaping at their fallen companion.
Yama angled to the left, wanting a clear line of fire. He dropped to his right knee, raised the Wilkinson, and fired.
The mutant on the left was caught in mid-stride. It was knocked onto its side by the impact of the heavy slugs and lay still.
Yama shifted to cover the other wolf.
The first one sprang to its feet and resumed its charge.
Yama waited for the second wolf to get closer, his finger on the trigger of the Wilkinson. Focused on the second wolf, he mistakenly neglected to verify the first was dead.
The oversight cost him.
Yama was squeezing the trigger to fire at the second mutant, when someone behind him shrieked a warning.
“Yama! Look out!”
Yama swiveled, too late. He glimpsed a heavy body and a lot of fur, and then something slammed into his chest, sending the Wilkinson flying, and he landed on his broad back with the first wolf straddling his legs and snarling.
The second wolf was 15 yards distant and bounding toward its mate.
Yama tensed, his hands at his sides, waiting for the mutant to make a move. He knew if he so much as twitched, the wolf would be on him ripping and tearing with its strong teeth and talons. He didn’t want to do anything to provoke it. He was tempted to grab his survival knife, but realized the consequences.
The mutant inched toward its prey’s neck, puzzled by the human’s inexplicable immobility.
A pistol cracked, four times in swift succession.
Yama saw the bullets hit the wolf straddling him. He could see the thing jerk as the shots hit home.
Who was doing the shooting? Ares?
The wolf growled and leaped to the attack, vaulting over the prone Warrior after this new assailant.
Yama rolled to his feet, drawing his scimitar. His blue eyes widened when he found his benefactor. It wasn’t Ares or one of the other Warriors.
It was Lieutenant Farrow.
The Technic officer was holding her automatic pistol in her right hand and using her left hand to brace her right wrist. Her legs spread wide, her left eye closed, she aimed and fired again.
The nearest mutant twisted, blood spurting from its ruptured throat, but it kept coming, saliva dripping from its lower jaws.
Lieutenant Farrow blasted the wolf two more times.
Yama raced after the mutants. They were almost upon Farrow, and her shots weren’t having any apparent affect.
Farrow fired twice more, then her pistol clicked on empty.
Yama was too far away to lend her assistance.
The first mutant leaped for Farrow’s jugular.
The Technic dodged to the right, narrowly evading the slashing talons of the genetic deviate. She turned, keeping her eyes on the first wolf, inadvertently exposing her back to the second.
Yama was ten feet off, still too far away to be of any use. Unless he could distract the mutants. “Try me!” he shouted savagely. “Me!”
The second wolf, bounding between Yama and the Technic, abruptly spun at the sound of the harsh voice to its rear. Its fiery eyes alighted on the Warrior in blue, and it charged.
Yama stopped, holding his scimitar at chest height, waiting, gathering his strength. If he missed, the mutant wouldn’t give him a second chance.
The wolf was on him in a gray streak, its jaws snapping at his waist and legs, snarling ferociously.
Yama’s bulging muscles powered the scimitar in a vicious arc, the curved sword gleaming in the bright sunlight as it whisked through the air and into the springing mutant, connecting, slicing into the creature’s top head, into its forehead, neatly severing a section of the wolfs scalp in a spray of crimson, hair, and flesh.
The wolf went down in a disjointed heap.
Yama knew the thing was still alive, but he couldn’t waste a precious second.
The first mutant had Farrow on the ground, its lower jaw locked on her left forearm, and was brutally wrenching her from side to side while its top head attempted to bite her neck.
Yama reached them in four strides. The scimitar drove up and down in a shining glitter of light, the razor edge entering the wolf behind its upper ears and penetrating six inches into its skull.
The mutant stiffened, released Farrow, and spasmodically tore to the right, away from the man in blue. The force of its momentum yanked the scimitar from Yama’s hands. It staggered from the wound, its upper eyes glazing over but its lower orbs alert and enraged.
Yama reached down and hauled Farrow erect. Her left forearm was bleeding profusely, and her features were pale, although she tried to muster a reassuring grin.
Yama reached for his Browning, but even as he did Farrow pointed over his right shoulder and started to scream a warning. He turned, the Browning coming clear of its holster.
The second wolf, the one with the missing scalp, was nearly on them, eight feet distant and sweeping forward.
A small figure in black suddenly hurtled past Yama and Farrow, a katana gripped in both hands, darting toward the raging mutant. Without hesitating, without missing a beat, Rikki-Tikk-Tavi assumed the horse stance, squatted, and swung his katana with the blade close to the ground.
Surprised by the appearance of another foe, dazed from the blow Yama had inflicted, the second wolf was unable to react in time. It felt a searing pain in all six legs as its lower limbs were hacked from its body. It instantly collapsed, its means of locomotion gone, and landed on its stomach. The mutant endeavored to flip onto its left side, to evade the human in black.
It failed.
Rikki reared over the second wolf, the katana held aloft, and slashed once, twice, three times, each stroke splitting the mutant’s body further, almost severing the twin heads from its bulky form.
Yama, fascinated by Rikki’s skilled dispatching of the second wolf, suddenly remembered the first mutant and turned.
The scimitar imbedded in its top head, the first wolf lurched at the man in blue and the injured woman.
A lanky shape dressed in brown ran into view behind the first mutant, his red Mohawk, bobbing as he jogged nearer, his face a study in primal fury. “Get out of the way!” he bellowed.
Yama looped his left arm around Farrow’s trim waist and leaped, drawing her with him, dropping to the ground and flattening, glancing over his right shoulder and seeing Rikki performing a similar maneuver.