Twin Cities Run

Chapter Nineteen

If they didn’t kill him soon, the blistering heat would.

Blade tried to avert his eyes from the sun, now directly over his head, at the midday position. Another hot August day was halfway done, another day of baking and sweltering and suffering.

How much longer would they keep him in suspense?

Blade recalled his shock upon awakening after the attack on University Avenue. He had found himself completely naked, tied to four stakes imbedded in the earth, his body spread-eagled, face up. Before him had loomed a large gray structure, six stories in height, with most of the windows broken out, the entire building in disrepair. Twenty feet off the ground, no doubt still intact because it was out of reach, had hung a faded, dirty sign. Some of the letters had been smudged, others missing, but sufficient had remained to inform Blade that he was outside a division of the Minnesota State Hospital, a subbranch called The Minnesota Hospital for the Criminally Insane.

Damn!

For over two days he’d lain there in the open, exposed and vulnerable, waiting for the Wacks to finish him.

Why hadn’t they?

A shadow fell across his face and he squinted up, recognizing Clorg, the Wacks’ leader, a lumbering mass of solid muscle. Clorg wore tattered rags, and his body reeked. Blade doubted the hulking lunatic had taken a bath in his entire life.

Clorg flashed a toothless grin at Blade. “Big Man hungry? Big Man hungry?”

Blade frowned, angry. Clorg came by several dozen times a day to ask questions, to tease him the way a child would tease an adult. He refused to respond.

Clorg drew back his right foot and kicked Blade in the side.

Blade squirmed, pain spinning his vision, the tight ropes around his wrists and his ankles tearing into his flesh. He wondered if he would lose the use of his extremities. Whoever had tied him to the stakes while he was unconscious had done an excellent job. The rope was so secure, so taut, his circulation was almost cut off. His hands and feet were numb.

“Is thirsty? Is thirsty?” Clorg leaned over the captive, leering.

Blade elected to avoid another blow by answering. “I could use some water,” he admitted.

Clorg roared with laughter. “Funny! Funny! Funny!”

If I could just break free, Blade thought, grimacing, I’d throttle your stinking neck!

Another Wack joined them, a weasel of a man with a twitching walk and a missing left ear.

Clorg slapped the newcomer on the arm. “Big Man wants some water!”

The other man grinned. “Does he now?”

Clorg glared down at Blade. “Fant come soon!” he bellowed. “Won’t need water! Won’t need food! Be our food!” He ambled away.

“I’m truly sorry about all this,” said the weasel.

“You are?” Blade’s throat was parched and dry, his tongue swollen. He had to strain to talk.

“Any decent person would be.”

Blade smiled, his dehydrated, split lips stretching in agony. “My name is Blade,” he offered. “What’s yours?”

The man drew himself up and, with a flourish, placed his right hand on his narrow chest. “I, sir, am a tree!”

“What?”

“Can’t you tell?” The Wack bent his arms and legs at bizarre angles from his body. “My leaves always give me away.”

Blade closed his eyes, sighing, frustrated again. How much longer? Who the hell was Fant? When would he get there? What would happen when he did?

Someone giggled.

Blade looked up. The tree was gone, and he had been replaced by a young woman and a small girl, the child not more than ten or twelve. The woman had long, filthy black hair, and wore green shorts and a blue top.

Holes had been cut in the front of the blouse, permitting the woman to stick her nipples out. Her left nipple was partially gone, and there were teeth marks on the visible portion of her breast. The girl had on a brown smock.

“I show you,” the woman said to the girl. “Watch me good and I tell you.”

“Okay, Mommy,” the girl replied.

The mother knelt next to Blade, pulling the girl down beside her.

“This important,” the woman stated. She glanced at Blade and grinned.

Blade smiled in return. He tried licking his lips. “Hi. My name is Blade.”

The mother hauled off and slapped him across the face. “You shut up!”

Blade could feel blood trickling from his mouth.

The girl reached out and touched a finger to his lips. She raised the finger, covered with blood, and placed it into her mouth.

“Watch!” the mother ordered.

The girl nodded, sucking on her finger.

What in the world did they want? Blade lowered his chin so he could keep an eye on them.

The mother, without warning, grabbed his flaccid penis and held it for the daughter to see.

No!

Blade surged against his bonds, heaving, his muscles bulging, hoping this time the ropes would break.

They didn’t.

The woman punched him on the chin, knocking him back to the ground.

Dear Spirit! Don’t let them mutilate him!

“See?” The mother pointed at his organ.

The girl nodded, still savoring the blood.

“Man,” the woman said, shaking Blade’s manhood. “Man.” She reached between her legs and touched herself. “Woman.”

The girl watched her mother’s hand.

“Woman not have sticker,” the mother stated. “See?”

The girl removed her finger from her mouth. “I see.”

“Good.”

The girl leaned over, touched Blade, then herself. “Like that?”

“Yes,” the mother nodded, releasing Blade’s penis.

Blade exhaled a sigh of relief.

“Why, Mommy?” the young girl asked earnestly. “Looks very yucky to me!”

The mother considered the question for a moment, finally smiling.

“Feels fun,” she said.

“Really?”

“Really.” The mother stood, drawing her child up.

Blade didn’t like the way the girl was staring at his organ, as if an idea had occurred to her.

“Mommy.” The girl grinned at her inspiration. “Wanna keep it.”

“What?”

“Want to cut it off and save it,” the girl stated. “Show it to friends.”

“No,” the mother replied, turning away.

The girl stamped her left foot. “Want it, Mommy! Want it!”

The mother glanced over her shoulder at her offspring. “No.”

“Want it, Mommmy!” the girl shouted, her face reddening, beginning to throw a tantrum.

“No.”

“Yes! Yes! Yes!”

The mother backhanded the daughter across the face. “I say no! Clorg get it! He always do.”

The girl fell silent, glaring at Blade.

“Come.” The mother walked away, the girl in reluctant tow.

Dear Spirit! It had been close! What did the woman mean, saying Clorg would get it? Blade’s mind drifted, focusing on Jenny. How he missed her!

If he managed to make it back to the Home, he would never leave again.

He’d relish Home life, with Jenny keeping him warm at night, and lots of little ones underfoot to provide some spice for their domestic life. Maybe he’d quit the Warriors. After all, who needed this aggravation? This unwarranted grief? He should never have agreed to this foolish venture in the first place! Why had he let Plato talk him into it?

Wait a minute!

What was the matter with him? A little hardship, a bit of adversity, and he’s ready to buckle, to give up every value he’s cherished?

Blade concentrated, resisting the negative, defeatist thoughts. His battered condition was starting to take its toll, sapping his strength and his mental equilibrium.

There was a growing commotion around him, an increasing number of voices and movement.

What was going on?

Blade glanced in both directions, surprised to see the Wacks converging into a group, surrounding him on three sides. They had staked him in the center of a grassy area, the grass stunted by the frequent stomping of their feet and the weight of their bodies. This grassy tract was a congregation point, a meeting ground, for the Wacks. During the day, at any given time, no fewer than a dozen would be resting or conversing or be engaged in ridiculous antics on the grass. At night, they went inside the building and left him alone. The first night of his captivity he’d stayed awake the entire night, fearing an animal would creep up on him in the dark and feast on his defenseless body. Inexplicably, he hadn’t been attacked. Not a thing had disturbed him then or since, and he continually asked himself why.

There had to be a reason. What would keep predators out of this area?

Another predator? Or something they dreaded even worse?

The number of Wacks gathering about him grew.

Blade roughly estimated those present at one hundred. Based on the activity he’d seen the past several days, he guessed the total Wack population stood at between one hundred and fifty and two hundred. He hadn’t seen this many together at one time before.

Clorg emerged from the crowd, carrying the Commando in his right hand. Six of the Wack men followed him as he came up to Blade and angrily waved the Carbine in Blade’s face.

“Not work!” Clorg fumed. “Why?”

Blade wondered where the rest of his arms were. Scattered among the Wacks, no doubt, along with his clothes and moccasins.

Clorg pounded on his chest. “Clorg want to know why?”

“It’s jammed,” Blade told him.

“What?”

“Jammed.”

Clorg gripped the Commando in both hands and stared at the gun, confused. “What is jammed?”

Blade realized there was no use attempting to explain. “It won’t work,” he answered.

Clorg shook the Commando. “Want it work. Make it work!”

“I can’t,” Blade said. “Not with my hands tied.”

“Make it work!” Clorg roared. He swung the barrel at Blade and pulled the trigger.

Instinctively, Blade tried to twist aside, unable to move because of the ropes.

The Commando was still jammed.

Enraged, Clorg brought the barrel of the Commando down on Blade’s injured left thigh, on the arrow wound.

Blade thrashed and squirmed, gritting his teeth, the pain washing over his brain in successively weaker waves of agony. Damn that crazy bastard!

Clorg smiled, watching Blade writhe. “Serves right!”

The other men were laughing.

“Is time for Fant,” Clorg announced, turning to face the assembled Wacks. “Time to call on great one! Time for feed on Big Man!”

The Wacks cheered, clapped, and uttered cries of delight at the prospect of another feed, a subtle frenzy transforming the already insane crowd into demented demons.

Blade, sensing his time was running short, tried to break his bonds again, to no avail. What was happening? What did it all mean?

“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!

“No! You die!” Clorg raised the Carbine over his head, carefully aiming this time, wanting to be sure. He froze as a shadow fell across both men, and he bent his neck and looked up into two evil black eyes. “No!”

Senselessly, he spun and struck the creature known as Fant across the left leg.

Blade fell back as the left-hand stake came out of the ground. He leaned down and applied both of his arms to the stake securing his right foot.

“No! Not now!” Clorg shouted at the hideous, spidery Fant. “Go away!

Feed later!” Clorg struck Fant a second time.

Fant hissed, revealing pointed fangs, and grabbed Clorg by the neck, lifting him clear off the ground and high into the air. Clorg gasped and gurgled, his legs thrashing.

Blade’s right foot jerked free and he immediately turned his attention to the final stake.

The assembled Wacks, thoroughly unnerved and terrified, broke and ran in all directions, screaming and shrieking.

The last stake was extracted, and Blade frantically tore the stakes from his limbs. He ran to the south, toward the hospital thirty yards away, and glanced back over his shoulder.

Fant had crushed Clorg’s neck and dropped the body to the earth.

Snarling, the disfigured freak began pounding the corpse with its left fist, pulverizing the remains to a pulp.

The Wacks, searching for places to hide and take cover, were trampling one another in their haste and panic. A crowd of them was jammed together at the hospital entrance.

Blade had reached a paved area in front of the Hospital. He stopped to gather his energy and his breath, an intense spasm lancing his left side.

He looked back.

Fant dipped his left hand into the bloody mess at his feet, then stuffed a chunk of flesh into his mouth. He chewed slowly, emitting slurping sounds. The moonish face swung sideways, and Fant spotted the group in front of the hospital. Hissing, Fant charged directly at them, directly at Blade.