Seattle Run by David Robbins

Author:David Robbins [Robbins, David]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: sf_postapocalyptic, sf_action
ISBN: 9780843927252
Publisher: Leisure Books
Published: 1988-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

He came awake slowly, his head throbbing.

“He’s coming around!” someone shouted.

Blade opened his eyes, confused at first, gazing at the spacious room with the opulent furnishings. Where was he? The last he remembered was… Hickok! Hickok was dead! Everything came back to him in a rush and he sat up, his hands dropping to his Bowies.

They were gone!

“Are these what you’re looking for, asshole?” a gruff voice asked.

Blade suddenly perceived he wasn’t alone. There were others in the room. He also realized he was sitting on the edge of a bed.

Five men stood at a respectful distance from the giant. Each was armed with a gun, three with rifles, two with revolvers. Their clothing was ragged, their bodies badly in need of a washing. One of them, a portly fellow with a stubbly beard and piggish brown eyes, attired in a grubby green shirt and filthy black corduroy pants, was holding Blade’s Bowies in his left hand, a Marlin .30-30 in his right.

“You won’t be needing these toothpicks, shithead,” the portly man declared.

“Where am I?” Blade asked.

“Wouldn’t you like to know!” the portly character taunted the Warrior.

“That’s why I posed the question,” Blade said calmly.

Portly Butt cackled. “Posed the question?” he said, mimicking Blade. “Well la-de-da! We’ve got us an educated shithead on our hands!”

Several of the others started laughing.

Until a deep voice spoke up from the rear of the chamber. A commanding voice with an edge about it.

“Did I miss the joke?” the speaker demanded.

The laughing abruptly ceased.

“Tiger!” the portly man exclaimed, spinning around, nearly falling over in the process.

Blade looked toward the rear of the room. A pair of wide doors were open at the very back. The light in the room was patchy, supplied by the sunlight streaming in two large windows above his head, and the section near the doors was obscured by shadows. A tall figure was framed in the doorway, but his features were indistinct.

“You were expecting maybe Edgar Allan Poe?” the figure asked sarcastically.

“No, Tiger,” the portly fellow said obsequiously. “Of course not.”

The figure came into the light.

Blade’s eyes narrowed as he studied the newcomer. The man was about six and a half feet in height, and must have weighed 210 pounds. His physique radiated power; his arms rippled with layers of muscles. Yet his most outstanding feature was not his build, but his face. His features were decidedly feline. Slanted blue eyes and brows, narrow nostrils, rounded cheeks and hairline, and curled lips all contributed to his uncanny appearance. His meticulously combed mane of hair completed the picture: reddish-orange with black stripes. Blade could readily comprehend why they called this man Tiger.

Tiger stalked into the room. He wore black boots, custom-tailored orange pants, and a clean black shirt. A wide black leather belt girded his slim waist. He moved with a supernal economy of motion, seeming to glide across the floor.

“He just woke up!” the portly man blurted.

“I can see that,” Tiger said disdainfully. He scrutinized the giant as he walked up to the bed.

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