Madman Run

Chapter Sixteen

Blade watched Angus Morlock pick up the five-gallon bottle and walk around to the opposite side of the tank where the murky water concealed him from view. He glanced at his friends, neither of whom could see Morlock either, and started to dog-paddle across the tank. A metallic scraping noise caused him to stop, and a moment later he saw the upper end of a ladder being placed against the tank wall. The top rung came within inches of the upper edge.

“Be careful, Blade,” Geronimo yelled.

“Use the rifle,” Hickok urged.

The ladder bounced slightly as Morlock climbed above the water level and beamed at the giant. Secure under his left arm was the bottle. “Did you miss me?” he asked and tittered.

Blade arched his spine, letting his upper back float to relieve some of the strain on his tired legs. He hefted the Marlin, his eyes on Morlock.

“I wouldn’t waste my time using the rifle, if I were you. This plastic in shatterproof. You could smash it with a sledgehammer, and it wouldn’t crack.”

“Has anyone ever tried?”

The question elicited another cackle. Morlock climbed laboriously to the top of the ladder, pausing every three or four rungs to adjust his grip on the bottle.

What was in there? Blade wondered. What was worth such effort? He glimpsed small, dark forms being swished about but couldn’t identify them. Goose bumps broke out all over his skin.

Morlock was careful not to expose himself. He kept his head below the plastic rim and grinned. “You must be curious about my surprise package.”

Blade wasn’t about to give him the courtesy of a response.

“There is a stream about a quarter of a mile south of the castle. Quite by accident I discovered that a marvelous mutation inhabits its water. I went fishing one day, tossed in my line and pulled out one of these amazing creatures.”

Lightly stroking the Martin’s trigger, Blade waited for the madman to lift the bottle above the rim.

“I had no idea what I’d caught and foolishly tried to remove it from my hook. The thing clamped onto me and wouldn’t let go. I was forced to return to the castle and used a candle to burn it off. By then, of course, I’d lost a pint or two of blood.”

Geronimo and Hickok were listening attentively, their countenances reflecting their worry.

Morlock grunted and tightened his hold on the bottle. “My research indicates this particular form of mutation once existed as common flatworms. As you might know, free-living flatworms exist in ponds, streams and oceans all over the world.”

Blade’s forehead knit in perplexity. Worms? The man had worms in there? What possible threat could worms pose?

“Some flatworms closely resemble leeches, which might explain these mutations. Of course, few grow as large or become aggressive, but radiation is notorious for drastically altering genetic traits,” Morlock said, starting to raise the bottle toward the rim.

Blade held the rifle at water level, his stomach muscles tightening. The madman must not be accustomed to having victims fight back, he reasoned, or else Morlock wouldn’t make such blatant mistakes.

The demented lord looked into the bottle and snickered. “Are you thirsty, my little ones?” He glanced at the giant. “They haven’t been fed in days. I’d imagine they’re famished.”

A few more inches, Blade thought, his visage impassive.

“Time for the festivities,” Morlock said and hoisted the container above the edge of the plastic wall. He held it steady in preparation for upending the contents into the tank.

Blade was ready. He snapped the Marlin to his shoulders, took a hasty bead on the middle of the bottle and fired. The booming of the 45-70 almost deafened him.

The slug smashed the bottle to pieces and sent a shower of glass, water and mutations spraying down on both sides of the wall. Most of it struck a shocked Morlock full in the face, and screaming, he brought up his hands to shield his eyes and lost his balance. Desperately he tried to grab a rung, but he plummeted from the ladder.

All this Blade barely noticed. He had problems of his own. Three dark forms had dropped into the tank and disappeared in the soup. He swam to the far corner and pressed his back to the wall, waiting for whatever they were to attack.

They didn’t waste any time.

Something crested the surface and made a beeline for the youth, its slender shape visible as a dark brown blur, throwing off a narrow wake.

Blade levered a fresh round into the chamber, pressed the rifle to his shoulder and tried to track the speeding mutation. He squeezed off a shot when the thing was only inches from the end of the barrel, and the mutation promptly dived. He had no idea whether he’d scored or not.

“What are they?” Geronimo called out.

“Use the rifle on the wall! Use the rifle on the wall!” Hickok stressed urgently.

Feeding in another round, Blade turned right and left, his legs kicking vigorously. He envisioned one of them going for his groin and involuntarily shuddered.

Suddenly Morlock appeared, his features a mask of fury, blood seeping from a half-dozen cuts on his face and neck. Dangling from his left cheek and his forehead were two of the mutations. He shook his right fist at the giant and bellowed, “Damn you! Damn you all to hell!”

Blade couldn’t help but look.

The mutations were a foot in length and two inches in width, except at the center where they tapered to an inch. Their bodies were essentially flat, but their heads were round and the size of a grown man’s fist.

Somehow the creatures had latched onto Morlock and were sucking his blood.

“I’ll be back!” the madman shrieked and ran toward the door, tugging in vain on his unwanted appendages.

Blade gulped and scanned the water. Where were they? Had the shot deterred them? Even more important, how could he get out of there before the things tried again?

He stiffened when he felt a nudge on his right ankle. It had to be one of the mutations! The nudge was repeated on his shin, then his knee and his inner thigh. The thing was working its way up his body, perhaps seeking naked flesh.

Blade stared straight down, transferred the rifle to his left hand and drew his right Bowie. He distinguished the rippling form of the bloodsucker several inches below his belt, writhing snakelike. Elevating the knife above his head, he froze until the thing was level with his belt, then speared the point into the water.

The Bowie connected, slicing the creature open, and black fluid poured from the wound. Instantly the thing angled toward the bottom and vanished.

Two down, or at least wounded, Blade congratulated himself. But he’d been lucky. He couldn’t expect to hold them off forever. Had Morlock succeeded in dumping in the entire bottle, he’d probably have a dozen of the mutations gorging on his blood. He glanced up at the transparent walls, racking his brain for a way out. They were shatterproof, Morlock had boasted. A sledgehammer wouldn’t crack them, which meant his Bowies were useless.

Another thin shape materialized on the surface eight feet away and swam toward the youth as if propelled by a rocket.

Blade saw it coming and braced to meet the slender monster, swinging his right arm on high and bringing the Bowie down again at just the right moment, trying to cleave the creature in two. He missed.

He glimpsed a circular head rearing out of the water, a head consisting entirely of a gaping mouth ringed by tiny, tapered teeth. From the mouth protruded a tubular tongue six inches long. And then the mutation smacked into his abdomen next to his navel, and an incredible pain lanced his gut. Those tiny teem sank in and held fast. He doubled over, feeling as if someone was gouging his midriff with a scorching poker.

It was the thing’s tongue!

Blade realized the creature was seeking a vein or an artery. With a supreme effort he straightened, stuck the knife in his mouth with the sharp edge outward and tried to seize the writhing horror. Its slippery body squished through his fingers again and again. In desperation he seized it near the head and finally succeeded in getting a firm grip. He yanked, but the mutation was locked onto his body.

“Use the rifle on the wall!” Hickok bellowed. “Use the rifle on the wall!”

In the back of his mind Blade wished the dummy would shut up. If a sledgehammer wouldn’t do the job, what good would his rifle do? He wrenched on the flatworm, his right arm bulging, and his hands slipped off. There was no way he could remove it unless he got a firm footing.

Which brought him back to square one.

He spied another of the creatures swimming slowly on the other side of the tank.

Dear Spirit, what should he do? He pounded the plastic in frustration, and then inspiration struck. Sure, a sledgehammer wouldn’t work, but a sledge delivered its force over a broader area than a bullet. A 45-70 was one of the most powerful rifles ever made. Its thick, blunt bullet could plow through thick brush to bag a deer or an elk. At point-blank range, what would the effect be on the plastic?

There was only one way to find out.

Twisting, Blade jammed the barrel against the glass several inches below the water line. If he was wrong, the ricochet might well kill him. But it was either that or let the mutations slowly suck him lifeless.

He fired.

The shot was muffled by the water. His arms were driven backwards by the recoil.

Blade leaned closer and saw a dent in the plastic. The bullet hadn’t penetrated. He guessed the slug had flattened and sank to the bottom. But the dent was encouraging. The creature’s tongue fluttered around inside his stomach, adding incentive to his limbs as he worked the lever. He placed the barrel directly on the dent and squeezed the trigger.

The 45-70 did its job. The high-powered round drilled through the plastic, trailed by a stream of water that splashed onto the floor below.

One hole wouldn’t suffice. Blade levered the fourth round home, then groped in his back pocket and extracted three more shells. He quickly loaded and pressed the rifle to the wall again, only this time three inches below the hole. Once more he fired, expecting to dent the plastic.

This time the first shot bored through, producing a second stream, but it did something more. The concentration of pressure at the two holes as the water gushed out put an immense strain on the plastic between and surrounding the holes, and the pressure accomplished what the Marlin alone never could.

A resounding snap sounded, and suddenly a network of fine lines mushroomed in the wall. The next moment those lines became cracks, the water hissing and cascading from the tank.

Blade tried to paddle away from the wall, but he was too late. The whole section buckled and split, and an irresistible wave carried him through the gaping opening onto the chamber floor. He fell to his knees, nearly losing his grip on the rifle, and was buffeted by the escaping water. The reeking liquid enveloped his momentarily, then dispersed across the chamber.

“Blade!” Geronimo shouted.

His stomach on fire, Blade slowly stood and staggered toward the cages.

The water was up to his ankles, and he had to be careful not to slip. He halted and stared at the repulsive thing hanging from his abdomen.

Grimacing, he wrapped his right hand around it, squeezed with all of his might and wrenched savagely.

The upper edge of the mutation’s mouth peeled off, but it still hung on.

Blade grit his teeth, closed his eyes and pulled like he had never pulled on anything before. For half a minute nothing happened, then abruptly the creature popped loose, its blood-covered tongue sliding out and flopping in the air. In a frenzy of rage, he repeatedly smashed the rifle stock on the thing until its body and tongue both hung limp. Disgusted by the violation of his body and still not satisfied the mutation was dead, he placed the flatworm under his boot and ground it into the stone until a sarcastic voice made him realize what he was doing.

“I think the sucker is a goner, pard.”

Blade stopped grinding his heel and looked at his friends. “I guess you’re right,” he said softly.

“Why don’t you find a way to get us out?” Hickok suggested. “And hurry it up before the runt and his ugly pals show up.”

The reminder sparked Blade to action. He hurried to the cages and searched the nearby wall and the table for keys. There were none.

“You might need to get the keys from Morlock,” Geronimo said.

“No,” Blade responded.

“Then how do you figure to get us out?” Hickok asked.

Before Blade could answer, Geronimo extended his right arm between the bars and pointed. “Look!”

Turning, Blade beheld a sight that chilled his blood.

Most of the floor was now covered with water, and swimming about in search of prey were a dozen or so mutations, going every which way, their slim forms easy to spot.

“We don’t have to worry about them,” Blade declared. “They can’t suck blood unless they touch flesh, and all of us have on footwear.”

“But what if they can crawl as well as swim?” Geronimo remarked.

“They could come right up our legs.”

The idea intensified Blade’s nausea. “Take this,” he said, handing the rifle to Hickok.

“What are you fixin’ to do?”

“Watch.” Blade planted both feet firmly in front of the door and gripped the bar, one hand above the lock, the other below it. He winked at the gunfighter, inhaled and applied all of his prodigious strength to forcing the door open. His muscles rippled and contorted, his neck swelling and the veins expanding. Breathing in short, loud spurts, he battled the metal bar for a minute. Two. Then slowly, creaking noisily, the bar began to bend. Next the lock tilted outward. At last, with the sweat pouring down Blade’s face and his chest aching terribly, the lock gave way with a grinding retort.

“Took you long enough,” Hickok muttered, stepping out and surveying the chamber. “You work at freeing Geronimo, and I’ll keep you covered.”

Despite being weary to his core, Blade moved to the next cage and repeated the procedure. This door resisted longer, draining his flagging energy, and just when he thought he couldn’t do it, the lock snapped, making him stumble backward. He caught himself and swayed.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Geronimo asked, emerging.

“Fine,” Blade said. “Just give me a chance to catch my breath.”

“We don’t have much time, pard,” Hickok mentioned and returned the Marlin. He ran to the table, picked up his cherished Colts and grinned.

“Let’s get to kickin’ butt.”

Geronimo went over to retrieve his weapons. “What’s our first move?”

he asked.

“We’ll search this castle from top to bottom,” Blade said, arching his back to relieve a cramp.

“And when we find the runt?” Hickok inquired, walking back. He twirled the Colts into their holsters.

“The Morlock rein of terror ends today,” Blade vowed, glancing over his shoulder to check on the mutations. His eyes widened at the sight of five of the grotesque genetic deviations converging on him from all directions.