Geronimo reached the door to the second floor and pushed it open, holding it with his right hand so it wouldn’t bang when it swung closed.
He heard feet pounding on the stairs and saw the faint beam of a light.
“You asshole!” another voice snapped. “You shot Spotted Elk!”
Geronimo raced down the hallway, carefully avoiding furniture and equipment left abandoned along the hall. He knew it was only a matter of moments before they came after him. If he could get to the SEAL, he’d be safe inside its protective bulletproof body. He was almost at the end of the hall, yards away from a door leading to another flight of stairs to the first floor, when the men after him, hot on his heels, came through the first door, the one he’d used to reach this floor. The door forcefully’ crashed into the wall behind it.
At the sound, Geronimo glanced over his right shoulder, taking his eyes from the hallway ahead. He failed to see the discarded wheelchair in his path, and he flinched as his knees smashed into the wheelchair, his momentum carrying him forward and lifting him from the floor. He frantically tried to correct his balance, but it was too late. The wheelchair toppled over, Geronimo on top. He landed hard, one arm on the wheelchair gouging him in the ribs.
“Down here!” someone shouted.
His pursuers didn’t seem much concerned with stealth any more.
Geronimo twisted and aimed the FNC at several figures hurrying toward him. He fired and watched them dive for cover.
Keep moving!
Geronimo scrambled to his feet and reached the door. He shoved his way through it and hastened down the stairs, limping now, his left knee throbbing. He could hear a commotion on the floor above him.
They were still coming.
He was three steps from the bottom and the door to the first-floor hall, when the door suddenly opened, framing an armed Flathead with a rifle in his hands.
Geronimo didn’t hesitate. He went for a head shot, as Hickok constantly advocated, the slugs rupturing the Indian’s forehead. The Flathead fell to one side and Geronimo jumped over his body and raced toward the front entrance, a beacon of hope at the far end of the hall. He was going to make it! There was no way they could stop him now!
The bright sunlight caused him to squint as he exited the hospital, and it took him a moment to adjust before he spotted Rainbow.
She was standing at the bottom of the steps in a wide stance, holding the Dan Wesson .44 Magnum, Blade’s revolver, in her hands.
Geronimo started down the stairs, surmising she was there to aid him, that she’d heard the gunfire and grabbed the revolver to help. He was on the third step when a thought struck him. How could she have heard the shooting if she had the windows rolled up as he’d instructed? He glanced at her and noticed her peculiar smile.
“Rainbow…?” he began.
She fired, the .44 Magnum bucking in her slender hands.
Geronimo felt the impact of the slug as it penetrated his left shoulder and jerked him from his feet. He was dimly aware of falling onto the concrete steps, the brutal contact jarring his entire body. In shock, his senses reeling, he raised his head and tried to focus on Rainbow.
She was slowly walking toward him, smiling in triumph.
Geronimo wanted to speak, but couldn’t. His lips twitched and his head dropped, and as his eyes closed his mind was filled with one burning question: Why?
Chapter Fourteen
“Don’t you ever get tired?”
“You ask too many questions, yes? Stop, yes?”
“My teacher once told me you only learn things if you’re curious, if you constantly thirst for answers. He told us to always ask questions.”
“That would be Plato, yes? The Family Leader, no?” Blade angrily squirmed in the creature’s grasp. “Damnit! How the hell do you know so much about the Family?”
Gremlin, carrying the Warrior south on Highway 35, grinned. “Told you before, yes? For one who asks so many questions, you don’t listen to answers!” This struck him as hilarious and he laughed in genuine delight.
Blade grit his teeth and fumed. He looked to their right, to the west, noting the sun sinking toward the far horizon, the fiery star reflected on the surface of Flathead Lake. The beautiful lake was placid, its blue waters fringed by dense conifer forests. He recalled Geronimo mentioning the lake on their trip to Kalispell. What was it Geronimo said? Something about Flathead Lake being the largest freshwater lake west of the Mississippi River, almost forty miles long with one hundred and eighty miles of shoreline. According to a paragraph at the bottom of the map, Flathead Lake had been a popular tourist resort before the Big Blast. Now nature had reclaimed the lake and the surrounding shoreline and beaches.
Disintegrating summer homes and crumbling docks lined the shore.
“Why so quiet? Mad, yes?” Gremlin snickered.
Blade glanced at his captor. “Why bother talking to you? You won’t tell me what I need to know.”
“Already did, yes?” Gremlin stated.
“You speak in riddles, Gremlin. I can’t understand you.”
“Sorry, but speak truth, yes?”
“If you say so,” Blade mumbled.
“Don’t believe Gremlin?” The creature seemed hurt by the insinuation he would lie.
“You expect me to trust you?” Blade asked, shaking his head.
“Why not, yes? Gremlin trustworthy.”
“Well, excuse me for doubting your integrity,” Blade said in a mocking tone.
Gremlin stopped and hissed. “No insults, yes? Not my fault Gremlin do this.”
“Oh? Whose fault is it?” Blade asked sarcastically.
Gremlin resumed their trek, staring straight ahead. “Must do as told, yes? Not up to me, no?”
“If it’s not up to you,” Blade suggested, “why don’t you let me go?”
“Can’t.”
“Why not? No one will ever know.”
“Doktor know, yes? Hurt Gremlin, yes? Hurt him bad.”
Blade was about to request an explanation when he remembered their fight in Kalispell. He’d had the impression Gremlin’s heart wasn’t in their struggle, and the creature had actually pleaded with him to drop his weapons to avoid hurting him. Hardly the trademark of a killer. But Gremlin’s behavior had changed drastically after the blue light on the metal collar glowed; he had transformed into a rampaging demon. Why?
How was the collar able to alter his conduct?
“Listen, Gremlin,” Blade said, “I’m sorry if I offended you. But you can’t blame me. How would you act if you were in my shoes?”
“Wouldn’t fit, yes?” Gremlin grinned. “Your feet too big.”
Blade smiled.
The road was hugging the shoreline. As they rounded a curve, a cluster of buildings appeared fifty yards ahead.
“Wonder where we are,” Blade absently noted.
“Planet Earth, yes?”
Blade chuckled. “You missed your calling. You should be a comedian.”
“Gremlin wa…” The creature froze, scanning the structures in front of them.
“What is it?” Blade asked.
“Quiet!”
Gremlin advanced warily. The buildings, several summer homes, were in decay, the windows gone, the wood rotting, and the shingles on one roof sagging.
Blade marveled at Gremlin’s keen senses. What had the creature heard?
Was there someone lying in wait for them? An ambush?
They were twenty yards from the first home when six men burst from cover, automatic rifles in their hands.
“Don’t move!” one of the six shouted.
Blade recognized the men. They all wore green uniforms and carried M-16’s, they all conveyed the professional air of a trained military man, and they all could only be one thing: Watchers.