“What’s that?” Hickok whispered.
“Footsteps,” Geronimo answered. He rose and joined them, the Winchester at his shoulder.
Blade peered into the dark woods. Although he knew an unknown creature was bearing down on them, he involuntarily stiffened when he detected movement at the limits of his vision. The thing’s bulk was tremendous; a great, hulking mass of a brute almost as wide as it was tall, it appeared to be over ten feet in height.
“Dear Spirit,” Geronimo exclaimed softly.
Reddish eyes the size of apples glared at them, and a rumbling, sustained growl issued from its throat.
“If it attacks, go for the head,” Hickok recommended.
“I’d rather run,” Geronimo said.
Blade agreed. An almost palpable aura of evil radiated from the beast, even at that distance, chilling him to the core. He tried to convince himself the sensation was all in his head, but couldn’t. The size alone staggered him. Because of his own prodigious build, he’d rarely encountered any menace larger than himself. This thing dwarfed them all. Up close, it would even dwarf him.
“You guys have the rifles,” Hickok said. “Why don’t one of you take a shot?”
“I don’t want to make it mad,” Geronimo replied.
“Be serious, pard.”
“I am.”
The creature moved to the east, its red eyes fixed on their camp, plowing through the vegetation as if there weren’t any. When it was nearly out of sight it vented a ferocious roar that caused every insect and animal within a mile’s radius to fall silent. Then it departed, the thump of its feet receding to the southeast and finally fading away.
Geronimo expelled a sigh of relief. “That was too close for comfort.”
“Didn’t faze me none,” Hickok claimed. “I could’ve taken it down, easy.”
“Dream on,” Geronimo said.
“Piece of cake.”
Blade stared at the last spot he’d seen the thing, troubled by his reaction. Rarely had he known the feeling of genuine fear, but while watching the creature he’d felt just that, a fleeting instant of stark panic.
He shook his head to clear his mind of his apprehension.
Hickok glanced at the giant. “Are you okay, pard?”
“Fine.”
“You sure? You look a bit peaked.”
“I’m fine,” Blade repeated sternly. He sat down in the lean-to, relishing the warmth of the flames.
“Why didn’t it come after us?” Geronimo asked.
“The fire, maybe,” Hickok said.
“A thing that big?”
“Maybe one of us has bad breath.”
“Speak for yourself.”
Blade swallowed water from the canteen and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Do you want to draw lots to see which one of us pulls the first shift?”
“I’ll take the first watch, if you don’t mind,” Hickok said.
“I’ll take the second,” Geronimo chimed in.
“Leaving me the third,” Blade stated. “Fine by me.”
The gunfighter took a seat, and after a minute Geronimo did likewise.
“This trip of ours is turnin’ into quite an adventure,” Hickok remarked.
Blade chewed on more jerky, engrossed in thought. When he’d expressed an interest in staying overnight, he hadn’t foreseen they might have to take on a monster. He’d fought his share of genetic abominations in his time, but never anything as immense as the brute they’d just seen. If they were getting in over their heads, wouldn’t the wise course of action entail returning to the Home? Sure, he was a Warrior, but he was new at his trade and had a lot to learn. The same with Hickok. He scanned the forest and realized they were stuck there whether they liked it or not, at least until morning.
“We should check the tracks that thing made at first light,” Geronimo advised. “It might be the creature responsible for those strange three-toed footprints.”
“If that critter comes back, let’s offer it some grub and try to train it,” Hickok said, smirking. “If it cooperates, we’ll have it kick in the castle door.”
The conversation drifted from the monster to a discussion of certain girls at the Home, with Hickok and Geronimo debating their assets and attractiveness for over an hour. Blade rarely spoke. His eyes darted to the woods whenever a noise was heard, and he kept the fire going high.
“Well,” Hickok said at length, “I suppose the two of you will want to turn in soon.”
“I’m beat,” Geronimo commented.
“I’m not,” Blade fibbed. “I’ll stay up a while yet.”
Hickok laughed. “Don’t worry. I won’t let the boogeyman slit your throat while you sleep.”
“Not funny,” Blade said sternly.
“Lighten up, Mikey. I was only kiddin’.”
The giant leaned toward the gunfighter, his flinty eyes mere slits. “This is the last time I’ll tell you. Don’t ever call me that name again.”
Shock registered on Hickok’s face. He glanced at Geronimo, who shrugged, then nodded at Blade. “Sure, big guy, whatever you want. I didn’t mean to get your goat.”
“No offense taken,” Blade said, although his tone contradicted the statement. He crossed his arms and hunched against the lean-to, glowering into the fire.
Geronimo spread out on his back and draped his left arm over his eyes.
For a minute Hickok regarded the giant intently, then he took a position on the east side of the fire where he could see in all directions and not have their makeshift shelter obstruct his view.
Blade idly gnawed on his lower lip, annoyed at himself for losing his temper over a trifle. He had no reason to jump down the gunfighter’s throat, and he attributed his lapse to a bad case of nerves after the incident involving the monster. To cover his chagrin, he thought about other subjects—his dad, his budding friendship with Plato, his feelings for Jenny, and his new duties as a Warrior.
He appreciated his good fortune in having his dad as the Leader, but he disliked the extra attention directed his way because of it. The Elders all expected great things out of him. Plato claimed he possessed the spark of greatness within. Their compliments, however, fell on skeptical ears. As far as he was concerned, the only exceptional quality he possessed was size, which in itself hardly indicated any outstanding potential. On top of that, his whole goal in life was to serve as a Warrior until he reached retirement age and could sit on the council of Elders. Hardly a career that would result in terrific accomplishments.
Blade reflected on the comments his friends made about Jenny and recalled her asking him to bind. To say the least, he’d been surprised.
Sure, they cared for each other. But they were only 16, and in his estimation they weren’t mature enough yet to assume the awesome responsibilities of husband and wife. Jenny disagreed. She felt they were mature enough, but since girls invariably matured faster than guys, she was justified in making such a claim. He felt bad about disappointing her, but he wasn’t about to say yes until he was certain they were both ready.
An image of Attila filled his mind—tall, lean, attired in black leather pants and a wolfs hide shirt, hair hanging to the small of his back and lively green eyes. There was a man! Of all the Warriors, of all the people at the Home next to his dad and possibly Plato, Attila impressed Blade the most.
The head Warrior possessed a carefree attitude that Blade keenly admired. Attila never lost his cool and always took everything in stride.
Blade wished he could be the same way, wished others would refer to him as a man who lived life to the fullest and never got bent out of shape.
Instead, everyone who knew him well claimed he was moody, an introvert, in a good frame of mind one minute and troubled the next. Maybe they were right. Ever since the death of his mom he’d been changed inside.