Twin Cities Run

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.

A bearded Wack suddenly sprang from the darkness, trying to tackle Blade. Blade sidestepped, backing away, wary, expecting others. The Wack scrambled to his feet, growling, and lunged. Blade brought both knives up and in, burying them in the Wack’s chest, holding the crazy at arm’s length until he stopped moving, and then dropped him. He turned, scanning for a way out, alert for more adversaries. There had to be more Wacks in the hospital. He just knew it.

From somewhere in the depths of the building came a maniacal laugh.

Damn!

From the frying pan to the fire!

Blade held the Bowies ready at his waist. The tile felt cool on the soles of his naked feet as he padded down the hall. He stopped when the corridor branched in three directions, one branch proceeding straight ahead, the second leading to the left, the third to his right.

Which way to go?

Blade selected the central corridor, telling himself the fastest way between two points is always the straightest. He hoped.

A rustling sounded from the black hallway to his right as he passed it.

Blade treaded cautiously, uneasy. The Wacks hadn’t bothered to light the inside of the hospital. Considering their exceptional night vision, they probably didn’t need any illumination. But he did, and he had another problem to contend with. The enforced lack of food and water and rest, combined with the beatings and the fights, had taken a terrible toll on his body. He was weak and unsteady, and he couldn’t afford prolonged combat in his current condition.

The sooner he got out of this madhouse, the better!

Feet were shuffling along the corridor behind him.

Blade whirled. He could see several moving shadows about ten yards to his rear. They were holding back, waiting for the right moment to strike.

Blade broke into a run, keeping to the center of the hallway, figuring the middle was least likely to be cluttered with obstacles. He passed countless rooms, even darker than the corridor. From some of the rooms came sounds, low moans and groans and sighs, coughing, and in one instance, a scream.

The pursuit was picking up.

His legs were balking at the sustained pace, cramps lancing his calves and thighs, the arrow wound throbbing.

Damn!

Where was an exit? There had to be some! How long was this mental hospital, anyway?

A swath of sunlight ahead gave him hope.

Thank the Spirit! Maybe it was an exit.

It was, the door in the same condition as the front entrance.

Blade bolted through the doorway and onto a parking lot, devoid of vehicles, littered with trash and debris. He stopped and doubled over, his lungs heaving, the strain taking its toll.

That was when the Wacks hit him.

They piled out of the doorway, four men, each armed, and tackled him before he could defend himself.

Blade spun as they struck him, one of them pinning his legs, another grabbing him around the waist, the other two going for his arms, attempting to clasp them and restrain him. The loony on his left managed to grip his wrist, but the one on his right missed, and as they went down in a tumbling heap the Wack clutching his abdomen bit his stomach, tearing the flesh, ripping the skin from his body and gulping the morsel down his throat.

Furious, Blade lunged with his right Bowie, the point of the blade piercing the throat of the Wack on his right and drawing a flow of blood, continuing to sweep the knife in a smooth arc, burying the Bowie in the neck of the crazy holding his left wrist. The man screeched and released his arms, leaping to his feet and pressing his hands against the hole in his neck.

Don’t stop! Keep calm!

Blade reversed both knives, sweeping the Bowies in and imbedding them in the neck of the Wack chewing on his stomach, the blades slicing the neck in half. The man convulsed as his blood poured over Blade’s chest and belly. Blade heaved, dislodging the Wack, concentrating on the one holding his legs.

The Wack let go and jumped up, an axe in his left hand.

Blade rolled as the loony brought the axe down, the handle brushing his left shoulder. He lunged to his feet and stood braced, his heart pounding in his chest.

He couldn’t take much more of this!

One of the Wacks was dead, the one who’d tried to eat him alive. The other two were seriously injured, and one of them ran into the hospital, screaming.

Damn! Reinforcements would be coming soon! He had to end this, now!

The Wack wielding the axe was playing it safe, staying out of Blade’s reach, biding time until help arrived.

This was getting him nowhere!

Voices were raised in alarm in the building.

Time for a desperate move!

Blade tried a basic knife-fighter’s ploy, feinting with his left Bowie, slashing at the Wack and causing him to bound to one side to avoid the blow. The man was off guard and off balance in the second it took him to move, and in that instant Blade drew his right arm back behind his ear and flung the Bowie with all his might, the knife clearing the four feet between them and sticking into the Wack’s chest above the left breast.

The man’s eyes bulged and he wildly tugged at the Bowie, withdrawing several inches of the blade before he collapsed on the pavement.

Blade wrenched his knife loose, and ran, bearing for the far end of the parking lot, avoiding the ruts and cracks in the aged tarmac. His lungs were hurting, and he had to limp, the wound on his left thigh open again and bleeding profusely. He reached the edge of the parking lot and paused, glancing back, his breathing labored.

Damn!

A score of Wacks were outside the rear exit, standing around the men he’d cut. One of the crazies, a woman, spotted him.

“There he go! After him!”

Yelling and screaming in anticipation of their next meal, they came after him.

Blade pivoted and hurried along the street bordering the parking lot, searching for a hiding place or a suitable position to make a stand. Not that he entertained any delusions about his ability to withstand another onslaught. If they caught up with him now, he was as good as dead.

He reached an intersection and bore right, frantically seeking any cover.

The Wacks were out of sight, coming up the street from the parking lot, still a distance from the intersection.

Blade slowed as he neared a ruined automobile. The hood and all four doors were gone, and the inside had been set afire, the seats a charred wreck. The tires were gone, but the body was supported on cinder blocks.

Cinder blocks?

Had someone placed the car on the blocks for a purpose?

Blade stopped and knelt. There was a foot of space between the floor of the car and the ground. It would be a tight fit, but it was his best hope! He lay on his back and quickly pulled himself under the automobile, out of sight.

The Wacks reached the intersection, and there was momentary confusion as they argued over which direction their prey had taken.

“This way!” a man shouted. “Me saw him go this way!”

They poured down the street Blade had selected.

Blade held his breath, his body tense, considering the merits of his move. If they found him now, he wouldn’t have room to move, to fight back.

A moot point.

The Wacks came alongside the destroyed vehicle, and kept running.

Blade twisted his neck and watched the dirty feet pound the pavement, racing away from his hiding place. He craned his head out from under the car.

The Wacks reached the end of the block and paused at another intersection.

“This way!” a woman yelled. “This way!”

As one, they made off to the left, disappearing from view, the sound of their cries fading.

Blade wearily clambered from under the vehicle and stood on shaky legs. He required rest and nourishment, but where would he find it in the Twin Cities? Everyone he met would be a potential enemy, prepared to kill him on sight.

A wave of dizziness struck him and he leaned against the car for support, breathing deeply until the sensation passed.

Blade noticed an alley ten feet away and he shuffled into it. Maybe he could locate a secluded spot where he could lay down and sleep for a spell.

The alley was packed with old, rusted trash cans, broken furniture, and other articles.

Blade weaved between the obstructions, forging ahead.

Loud cries abruptly broke the silence behind him.

Had the Wacks returned?

Blade worriedly glanced over his right shoulder. He couldn’t see any of the crazies, but they might have returned, backtracking, realizing he had given them the slip.

He had to hide!

Blade stumbled forward, bumping into a trash can and knocking it over, creating a racket, but not caring anymore. He was too tired, and depressed. He’d failed. Failed miserably. Failed Plato, and he hit another can, and Jenny, and he was picking up momentum, and Hickok, and he kicked another can out of his path, and Joshua, and…

He saw the end of the alley coming up, and he ran, drawing his Bowies in case they were waiting for him, catching a glimpse of a leg suddenly poking out and tripping him, and his vision spun as he went down, hard, knowing the Wacks had caught him and determined to give them an accounting they would recall for generations to come.

Blade scrambled to his feet, surprised to discover the business end of a revolver staring him in the face.

“Blade?”

It took Blade a moment to recognize the man standing in front of him.

He was covered with sewage and filth and grime, his skin almost black from the dirt.

“Geronimo?” Blade asked incredulously.

“Blade! It’s you!” Geronimo impetuously embraced his friend, hugging him close.

Blade returned the affection. “I can’t believe it,” he mumbled.

“Believe it!” Geronimo elatedly exclaimed.

Blade held Geronimo at arm’s length, and stared into his eyes. “I’ve never been so happy to see anyone in my whole life.”

“The feeling is mutual.” Geronimo’s brown eyes twinkled. “Where have you been? I thought the Wacks had you.”

The Wacks!

“It’s a long story.” Blade glanced at the alley. “Right now we’ve got to get the hell out of here or we’ll wind up being the prime rib on someone’s plate!”

“Are they after you?”

“Yeah. And I don’t mind telling you, I’m running out of steam.”

“Don’t worry,” Geronimo assured him, smiling, the white of his teeth a stark contrast to the smudged dirt all over his face. “We’ll get out of this mess in one piece.”

“I hope,” Blade stated as they jogged away from the alley, “the same can be said for Hickok, Joshua, and Bertha.”

“You and me both!”