Furious, blinded, the reptile freed his foot and sank, agitating the water with its death throes, the blood pouring from its injuries.
Geronimo hastily climbed the ladder, holding fast to the metal rungs, the sunlight hurting his eyes.
Squinting, he managed to reach the circular opening. He squeezed through and rolled to his left, gasping for air, exhausted.
He’d made it!
How long had he been underground? His eyes were stinging and watering like mad. He rested, happy, relishing the fresh air and the warmth from the sun. Never, in all his life, had the sun looked so good as it did now. It was surprising how many blessings you could take for granted.
The pounding of feet alerted him to the fact he wasn’t out of danger yet.
Geronimo sat up, finding himself in the middle of a street. Shabby, crumbling buildings lined both sides of the road. Two gutted automobiles were at the curb twenty feet away. An alley intersected the street about ten feet to his right.
The sound of someone running came from the alley.
Geronimo rose to his feet, a bit unsteady. He still had the Arminius in the shoulder holster under his right arm.
Whoever was coming down the alley was making a lot of racket, knocking cans aside and breathing heavily.
Geronimo slipped his solitary tomahawk under his belt and drew the Arminius, the revolver soaking wet. His left leg and right foot were torn and bleeding. They would require attention as soon as he tended to his new business. He was sick and tired of being the victim, of being set upon again and again and again. This time, it would be different. He’d do the attacking for a change of pace!
Another trash can toppled to the pavement.
Geronimo ran to the alley entrance and hid to one side, the Arminius in his left hand. He tensed, ready, estimating the distance, and when a blurred form hurtled from the mouth of the alley, he flicked his left leg out and tripped the newcomer.
“Damn!”
The runner crashed to the pavement, pinwheeling, the sunlight gleaming from bladed weapons.
Geronimo pointed the Arminius at the target, his finger tightening on the trigger.
They weren’t getting him this time!
Chapter Twenty-Two
The gory fiend was coming in his direction!
Blade reached the hospital entrance, the doorways choked with frantic Wacks, the crazies fighting amongst themselves in their frenzied fear for safety.
“Don’t panic!” Blade shouted. “We can all get inside if we don’t panic!”
The Wacks totally ignored him, tearing and pulling at one another, each one trying to be next through the doors.
“Calm down!”
A woman in front of him turned and spit in his face.
A man kicked him in the shins.
Blade glared at both of them, his lips compressed, his nostrils flaring.
Enraged, he backhanded the man and sent him reeling. He grabbed the woman by the front of her blouse and tossed her aside.
“Move!” he roared, plunging into the crowd, punching and kicking, dispersing those around him, pressing for the doors.
A lean man jumped him from behind and wrapped his skinny arms around Blade’s throat. Blade reached up, gripped the Wack by his black hair, and pulled, sweeping the loony over his shoulder and plowing his face into the pavement. Another crazy took a swing, but missed. Blade socked him in the gut, doubling the Wack over. He jammed his right knee into the man’s face, and the Wack dropped, clutching his shattered nose, blood covering his hands.
Fant roared, the breeze carrying the scent of the Wacks in front of the hospital directly to its sensitive olfactory organ. Fant slowed, observing the Wacks’ pandemonium.
Blade’s attention was arrested by a flash of light to his left. One of the Wacks was wearing the Bowies! He also had on Blade’s pants. The sunlight glistened from the handles and part of the blades as the long knives bounced in their scabbards. The Wack was engaged in fighting his way to the doors, and he hadn’t even remembered to employ the knives!
Blade clasped the man by the right wrist. “Hey, you!”
Snarling, the Wack spun on Blade and lunged at his face. Blade knocked the man’s hands down, formed his own right hand into a Tiger Claw, and gouged the Wack in the jugular. The kung fu blow crushed the Wack’s windpipe and he gagged and fell to his knees. Blade grabbed the man’s head in a steely grip and twisted, sharply, to the right. He heard the spine pop as the vertebra snapped in two.
Blade glanced over his shoulder, afraid Fant was on them.
One of the Wacks, a man braver or more foolish than the rest, had ran in front of the monster. He was jumping up and down and flapping his arms, shouting for Fant to stop.
Which it had. The creature was standing still, the eyes glaring at the prancing Wack.
The Wacks at the door were still wildly attempting to reach the interior of the building and safety.
Blade crouched and quickly stripped the dead Wack of his pants and the prized Bowies. He hastily checked the right front pocket, fearing the worst, but he was elated to discover the keys still there.
Fant had not moved.
Blade hastily slipped into his pants, relieved at being clothed again. He ran his fingers over the Bowie handles, caressing them, the knives snug in their sheaths against his hips. He felt whole once more. A part of him had returned.
A scream of terror sounded behind him.
Blade whirled, drawing his Bowies.
Fant had bowled the Wack over and stepped on his chest. The Wack sputtered and twitched as blood and froth spewed from his gaping mouth.
Blade tried to move the mob with reason one final time.
“Quit shoving! There’s room for all of us if we take our time!”
A fat man pivoted and aimed a club at Blade’s face.
“Damn!”
Blade ducked under the blow, grinning, released from any obligation he might have entertained about not hurting these poor, pathetic, mentally deficient slobs, lunatics who could not be held accountable for their actions.
He gutted the fat man.
A woman shrieked.
Blade dove into the mass of crazies, swinging the Bowies with devastating effect, hacking arms and slashing throats and stabbing with reckless abandon.
Behind him, a sinister, eerie sibilation warned him that Fant was almost on them.
Only two men barred his entrance to the hospital. They were jammed in the doorway, wrestling, striving to be next to enter.
Blade couldn’t afford to waste any time. He plunged his knives into their vulnerable backs, one in each man, and shoved, driving them through the doorway and jerking the blades free. They toppled to the tiled floor, writhing, contorted.
The doors to the hospital had once incorporated glass panels, broken decades ago, leaving the metal strip casings attached to hinges, the frames tilting toward the ground.
Blade entered the gloomy interior of the hospital, stepping over the two Wacks, debating his next move. Was there a rear exit to the building?
Were there more crazies inside, lurking in the dark, ready to pounce on unsuspecting victims?
An uproar behind him drew his attention.
Fant had plowed into the crowd of Wacks in front of the hospital, scattering the ones able to flee, and pounding on those Blade had left lying on the tarmac. Within a matter of two minutes, Fant was the only creature still standing, the only thing still alive, outside the building entrance. Fant savagely mashed the last body into the pavement, the blood and flesh and bones forming a repulsive pile of mush. It gazed into the hospital, and for a moment Blade thought it might try to enter, although it would have a hard time getting through the doorway. Instead, Fant turned and began feeding on one of the bodies.