The woman who screamed was the first to fall. Yama saw the mutate disembowel her with a sweep of a paw. She shrieked and clutched herself and melted to earth with her insides spilling through her splayed fingers.
A child was next, a boy younger than Yama who turned to run and was raked from neck to hip, exposing his backbone and pink flesh in a welter of blood.
By then Lionheart was in motion. He planted himself in front of the charging mutate, the shotgun pressed to his shoulder. Once, twice, three times the Mossberg boomed. At each shot the mutate recoiled but it didn’t stop, and it didn’t go down. Lionheart tried to get off a fourth shot but the mutate was on him. A blow sent him flying. He lost his hold on the shotgun and came up on his feet holding his broadsword in both hands.
The mutate had turned toward a woman frozen in fear. Its maw had gaped wide.
Yama remembered Lionheart throwing himself at the thing and seeking to cleave its neck with a mighty swing. The sword sheared partway in, and stuck fast. Lionheart sought to wrench it out and received a cuff that sent him staggering. Before he could set himself, the mutate reared, and with the broadsword still imbedded in its neck, it spread its jaws as far apart as they would go and closed them on Lionheart’s head. The helmet offered little protection. Lionheart stiffened and tried to push free, and the mutate opened his neck with a vicious swipe.
That was when Yama’s father ran at the monstrosity, yelling and waving his arms in an effort to drive it off. Yama’s heart had leaped into his throat and he went to shout to his father not to do it, that it would get him killed. But it was too late. The mutate spun and was on his father in a fury of claws and teeth. His father had uttered a single strangled cry and went down spouting blood from several wounds.
The next instant, the mutate rushed at Yama.
Yama had thought for sure he was dead. He remembered bracing himself, and thinking that he would try to be brave and not scream. The bear’s hideous head filled his vision and the foul stench from its open mouth assailed his nose. He almost didn’t hear the blast of the shotgun. Part of the mutate’s head exploded and the thing stopped short. It turned, seeking the source of its pain, and another shot caused a red eye to shatter in a spray of gore.
Lionheart, on his knees and covered with blood, had reclaimed his shotgun. He worked the pump to fire again but his eyelids fluttered and he folded in on himself. His helmet fell off, his forehead struck the ground, and he went limp all over.
The mutate was down, too, and violently quaking. Gnashing its teeth, it attempted to sink its teeth into Yama but couldn’t quite reach him.
Anxious for his father, Yama went to him. The lump in his throat grew bigger, and his vision blurred with tears. “Dad?”
His father’s exposed ribs and hip bone gleamed white, and he lay in a spreading scarlet pool.
That was the day Yama made his first acquaintance with death. He was never the same.
Yes, he was grim.
He had good cause.
And yes, he had a fascination with death. He had good cause for that, as well. Hickok’s jibe aside, there was nothing he wanted more than to meet the being who had usurped the name of the Death God, and put him to the test.
CHAPTER 14
Hickok wasn’t happy and didn’t care if anyone knew. The mission they would soon embark on was fraught with more peril than most, and he’d rather be teamed with the two Warriors he knew best. It increased the odds of their survival. “So you won’t change your mind about going along?” he now asked.
“It’s not up to me,” Yama said.
“No,” Blade said to Hickok. “It’s not. I made the decision. You’ll have to learn to live with it.”
“Or die by it.’” Hickok looked Yama up and down, and grunted.
“Why are you taking this so personally?” Yama said.
“Don’t pay him any mind,” Geronimo said. “I don’t, and I’m one of his best friends.”
“I respect how tough you are,” Hickok said to Yama, and meant it, for the Death Warrior, as the others had taken to calling him, was one of the toughest of them all, “But I’d rather have my pard at my side. Him and me make a great team. I’m the brains and he’s the cannon fodder.”
“Wait. What?” Geronimo said.
Yama turned to Blade. “Are they always like this?”
“You have no idea,” Blade said.
Yama did as the gunfighter had done; he looked Hickok up and down, and grunted. Then he made his way around the cage.
Hickok followed.
At one of the consoles, Tesla and A.l.v.i.s were in earnest conference. They appeared to be disagreeing over something or other, and Tesla appeared perturbed.
“Something?” Yama said.
“My synthezoid friend has just informed me of a possible delay,” Tesla said.
“My apologies, sir,” A.l.v.i.s said in that toneless voice of his. “But with our preoccupation with the time machine itself, I overlooked the chest plate.”
“The what?” Yama said.
A.l.v.i.s dipped slightly, as if bowing his metallic head. “It functions as a synchronous link between MABEL and those she projects into the space-time field. My Master always wore it on his own explorations. Without it, whoever is sent into time can’t be retrieved.”
“Wonderful,” Hickok said.
“I’m sure we packed it, sir,” A.l.v.i.s said. “I distinctly recall seeing one of your crew place it in a box.”
“Then where did it get to?” Tesla asked, rising. To Yama he said, “Excuse us while we go look. Hopefully, we find it, and it’s in serviceable shape.”
Hickok nudged Yama. He was determined to find out why the other Warrior was so wound up about going. “We need to talk, chuckles.”
“About what? You heard Blade. He’s the
