Twin Cities Run

Chapter Eleven

“Where are the others?”

“Be quiet.”

“But we can’t desert the others!”

“We’ll find them. You’ve got to stay silent, Joshua.”

“It’s so hard for me to think,” Joshua complained, his head reeling.

“You’ve been hurt,” Geronimo stated. “You need rest. I don’t know how bad your injury is.”

Geronimo, supporting Joshua with his brawny left arm, led him deeper into the trees they had discovered on the other end of the wide paved area.

“I don’t think I can stay awake,” Joshua mumbled sleepily.

“Just for a little bit more,” Geronimo urged him.

“I’ll try,” Joshua feebly promised.

Geronimo glanced back, extremely concerned. Blade should have caught up with them by now. Had he been killed or captured? What did the Wacks do with their victims? Bertha had told them the Wacks ate other people. Great Spirit! How disgusting!

“I can’t go on,” Joshua muttered drowsily. “I’m sorry, ’ronimo.”

Joshua passed out.

Geronimo lowered Joshua to the grass. They were in a small space between two large trees. The two trunks would provide some shelter and seclusion. Geronimo flattened and pressed his right ear against the ground.

Footsteps. Coming their way!

Geronimo squatted, holding the Browning. He wasn’t about to leave Joshua. If the Wacks found them, he would go down as a Warrior should.

He gazed at Joshua. Funny. Joshua wasn’t a Warrior, but he’d performed superbly back on University Avenue, despite his pacifist, spiritual convictions.

Someone grunted.

Geronimo tensed, ready.

“Any sign of them?” a voice fifteen yards away asked.

“Nope,” replied another.

“Clorg not be happy,” said a third.

“Clorg will be happy with one we got.”

“Not much food,” complained the second man.

“But is big one.”

“Not much food,” the second man insisted. “Maybe two feeds if that.”

“We find more tonight.”

“Let’s go back.”

“Okay.”

“Say, Miffle?”

“Yes?”

“Seen my finger? I dropped it.”

“Your own fault,” Miffle said. “Should not carry with.”

“Didn’t mean to cut it off,” apologized the Wack. “Was skinning skunk.”

“We knew.”

“Let’s get big man back to Fant.”

All three laughed.

The voices faded.

Geronimo, puzzled, stood. They hadn’t made much sense, but he did gather they had captured a “big man.” Had to be Blade. What should he do now? Stay with Joshua or go aid Blade? His mind whirled. If he stayed here, the Wacks would cart Blade off to wherever they lived and eat him.

But, if he left Joshua to follow the Wacks, something might find Joshua in the dark and finish him off. There was no telling how long it might be before he had an opportunity to free Blade, even if he did trail the Wacks.

Great Spirit, preserve him!

Geronimo sat, cross-legged, and moodily contemplated their predicament. They were separated. They were cut off from the SEAL. They were in hostile territory with one Warrior a prisoner and Joshua hurt.

Where were Hickok and Bertha?

Joshua moaned in his sleep.

Geronimo placed his right hand on Joshua’s forehead. Just what they needed! Joshua had a fever.

Geronimo made up his mind. He would stay with Joshua until morning, tend to his wound, leave him the Browning, and track the Wacks to where they were holding Blade. He’d rather take the Browning, but the Smith and Wesson was gone, probably dropped by Joshua when he was hit on the head.

His thoughts took a morbid turn. What if they never returned? What would the Family do? Send out more Warriors to find them, although Plato had promised not to? What if the Wacks ate Blade before he got there? What if Hickok and Bertha were dead? He stared up at the stars, praying for the sun.