“Time for food!” Clorg shouted, waving his arms. “We call great one! We call Fant!”
The Wacks were jumping and screaming and spinning and weaving.
“Clorg!” Blade yelled.
Clorg ignored him, staring off into the distance, to the west.
“Clorg!”
Clorg reluctantly glared at Blade. “What you want, Big Man?”
“What is Fant?”
Clorg grinned wickedly. “You see. You see, real soon.”
“Is Fant a Wack?” Blade desperately wanted to achieve an understanding of what was coming.
“Fant?” Clorg slowly nodded. “Was once like us. No more.”
“He’s not a Wack anymore?” Blade asked, perplexed.
Clorg squatted, smiling, in a strangely talkative mood. “Not like peoples now. No. Changed.”
“Changed? How do you mean?”
“You see. Real soon.”
“Is Fant an animal?”
Clorg stood, gazing off. “You see. Fant be hungry. Always is. We give Fant you, then Fant leave us be.”
“You’re going to give me to Fant?”
Clorg lifted his left hand and tapped his head. “Clorg real smart. We feed you Fant, then Fant not eat any of us. Clorg real smart!”
What was all this about? Blade turned his head and scanned the crowd, perceiving the Wacks had enclosed him on only three sides, the north, the east, and the south. Toward the west was open, allowing an avenue of approach. For what? He could see a building about forty yards away to the west, a two-story structure with a section of the facing wall missing, a gaping hole glaring at him like a giant black eye.
The Wacks had quieted and were staring at the building, at the dark opening.
“Cut me loose,” Blade said to Clorg, “and I will fix the gun for you.”
“Quiet! “Clorg barked.
“But I can fix the gun!”
Angrily, Clorg spun and kicked Blade in the ribs. “I tell you keep mouth shut!”
Blade fought to catch his breath. His right side was in agony.
Clorg, beaming, raised his arms. “FANT! FANT! FANT!” he began to chant.
The clustered Wacks followed suit.
“FANT! FANT! FANT!”
The Wacks were dropping to their knees, their voices calling out the name in unison.
“FANT! FANT! FANT!”
Over and over and over they repeated their cry.
Blade kept his eyes on that huge hole in the wall.
“FANT! FANT! FANT!”
Something was moving in the building with the hole, something large, a patch of pale motion visible against the black of the cavity.
“FANT! FANT! FANT!”
Blade detected a motion at the edge of the aperture, a sinuous rising and falling.
What the hell was it?
“FANT! FANT! FANT!”
Clorg abruptly bent over Blade, gloating, his breath stale and putrid, his thick lips close to Blade’s face.
“FANT! FANT! FANT!”
“Now time is come!” Clorg exclaimed. “You die, Big Man!”
“FANT! FANT! FANT!”
The incessant chant was grating on Blade’s nerves.
Clorg glanced down at Blade’s sex organ. He smacked his lips, drooling.
“FANT! FANT! FANT!”
“I eat soon too,” Clorg said in Blade’s right ear. “Clorg hungry. Clorg is after Fant.”
Blade, comprehending, furious, drew his head back, then swept his forehead up, smashing it against Clorg’s nose, feeling the nasal passages collapse and flatten.
“FANT! FANT! FANT!” the Wacks continued their beckoning appeal, oblivious to the conflict between Clorg and Blade, all eyes nervously fixed on the building to the west, on Fant’s lair.
Clorg roared in torment, his right hand covering his shattered nose, blood pouring over his lower face.
“FANT! FANT! FANT!” the Wacks intoned, performing a ritual established over three decades ago. For years they had resigned themselves to Fant’s periodic assaults, too terrified to resist. Finally, it had dawned on one of them, the means to end their torment. All they had to do was keep Fant supplied with fresh meat, and Fant would cease his depredations on them. They hoped.
Clorg stood erect, gawking at the red liquid all over his hand and arm.
Blade struggled against the ropes. His time was running out!
The chanting suddenly stopped, as a petrified hush fell over the Wacks.
Blade gaped at the opening.
Fant was emerging from his den.
Dear Spirit! What was it?
Fant stood in the sunlight, blinking rapidly, surveying the scene ahead, the clustered, reeking, noisy ones, and the new food staked to the ground, ready for the feast.
Blade stared in sheer astonishment. What, in heaven’s name, was it?
Never, not even in his wildest imaginings, would he have envisioned such a deformed monstrosity as now confronted him.
Fant shuffled forward, using its arms and two good legs for support, its third leg dragging on the ground, useless.
The Wacks were all on their feet, moving backward, edging away from the approaching beast.
Except for Clorg. He held his hand in front of his face. “Clorg hurt,” he said to himself, fascinated at the sight of his own blood.
No! Blade surged against the ropes again, fiercely wrenching his arms and legs, asserting his strength to the utmost, his veins bulging on his arms and legs, sweat running from every pore. He wasn’t going to go out like this, helpless, eaten alive! His face turned bright red from his exertion, his temples throbbing with pain. He ignored the discomfort, pushing his body, forcing his muscles to obey his commands. The increased flow of blood and adrenaline began to restore feeling to his hands and feet.
Blade glanced at Fant, now thirty yards away, the grotesque features in clearer detail, vividly, indelibly etched in his mind.
Fant was at least eight feet in height, and at least partially human. The creature was incredibly muscular, undoubtedly endowed with irresistible power. Fant’s skin was ashen, almost white, from a habitual lack of sunshine. Its body was squat and short, out of all proportion to its long arms and legs, and completely naked. Between Fant’s two legs dangled a third limb, a stunted appendage, a congenital defect, useless, thin and ungainly. The left side of Fant’s chest and face consisted of cracked, brown skin, blistering sores, and oozing pus, the trademark of the mutates. Its mouth was a red slit, the nose narrow and flared, the eyes black pools.
Fant was utterly hairless.
What was it, Blade wondered? The product of a deformed human fetus, a new brand of njytate, or both?
“No!” Clorg abruptly bellowed, glaring down at Blade. “You hurt Clorg! You die!” He raised the Commando over his head, gripping it by the barrel with the stock aimed at Blade’s head.
Blade shifted as the stock came at him, the wood crashing into the ground an inch from his right ear. Infuriated, Clorg brought the stock down again and again, growling like a wild dog. Blade desperately dodged each blow, knowing it was only a matter of moments before Clorg connected. The stock fell wide as Clorg slipped, the wood brushing Blade’s right hand as it thumped against the earth. Without thinking, Blade gripped the stock at the point where it narrowed, holding fast, refusing to release the Commando, to relinquish this last hope.
Clorg tugged and jerked on the Carbine. “Let go!” he shouted. He braced his feet and heaved, throwing his exceptionally strong shoulder muscles into the motion.
At the same instant, the one he’d been waiting for, Blade pulled on the stake, his jaw clenched, his right arm strained to the limit, adding his strength to Clorg’s, praying his ploy would be successful.
The combined force yanked the stake clear of the ground, and Blade’s right hand was free. He twisted, tugging on his left wrist, feeling the left stake give a little. Grabbing the top of the stake, he wrenched it back and forth, the dirt crumbling around the edges as the stake inched upward. It was almost loose!