ACT TWO (continued)
Spartacus temporarily traded his six-shooters for a whip hanging on the wall. In front of the cowboy was Whitecrow, who rid himself of his spent crossbow and drew his knives, the Indian's weapons of choice. In a flurry of kicks and knife-moves, Spartacus' second-in-command brought doom to over twenty of the enemy. Once Whitecrow had finished the deed, the cowboy used the whip to grab hold of some small pipes that were fastened to the large vent-pipe on the ceiling, then he jerked the whip's handle, bringing the pipes, large one included, down between them and the legionnaires.
Steam and hot water from the pipes scorched the heads of several beasts and cooked the heads of several more.
“Amin,” Ike said to one of the two men that had helped tempt the enemy in the beginning, “when they get past those pipes, you and Hakim get them to follow you through the side tunnel leading to the banquet hall; you can blow it once you're safely through the fourth fireplace. I'll lure them toward the forge while the cowboy and Indian fetch the old man. Once we're out of the mountains, we'll meet-up at Weeping Woman's Spring”
A colonist, reeking of human waste, appeared out of nowhere and grabbed Ike's shoulder from behind.
Ike spun around and nearly took out the other man's two front teeth with the butt of his rifle. “Dammit, Lambert,” he said with a mixture of relief and frustration, “you're supposed to be with the women and children!”
Lambert pulled a piece of toilet paper from his shoulder. “I got separated from the others that were bringing up the rear when one of the barriers came down too soon.” He grinned as he flung the toilet paper into the face of a dead legionnaire. “I had to run through two miles of single-man passages then swim up through the bloody sewers before I hit the first tunnel. It was the shortest way back and it was really bloody awful, okay?”
Ike waved his hand under his nose. “Well, shit, you're comin' with me then. To the forge. And no complaining, Lambert, I mean it. ”
“Don't worry, mate,” said the Englishman,“I gave up complaining when me and God made a deal in tunnel 237. He saved my bloody ass and pulled it out of a bloody fucking nightmare; in exchange, I gave up complaining—and swearing . . . once I get out of this bloody holocaust, that is.
“Bloody hell, where's a goddamn mutant when you need one?! That's what I ran into back there . . . sorry bastards whose ancestors were too close to the impact sites during the Holy Wars. Goddam cannibals! And don't tell me it's all up here!” He tapped the side of his head. “I know what's real and what bloody isn't.”
“O-kay,” Whitecrow said sarcastically. He looked at Spartacus and secretly made the crazy-face then nodded in the Englishman's direction.
“Never mind the mutants,” said Ike. “We've got more important things to worry about, like giving Caesar's men a fiery send off.”
Lambert smiled. “God knows they deserve worst than molten metal, the bastards.” He pulled a filthy handkerchief from his shirt pocket and wiped his scalp with it.
“If one of us doesn't make it to the destination . . .” Ike began.
“The other one knows what to do,” Lambert finished. He gave his face a quick scrubbing before tucking the soiled handkerchief back into his pocket. “By the by,” he added, “I love the choice of music. Must be brother Barnaby's doing; he does love his bloody opera, the pompous little shit.
“Bugger me! Why does it have to be so bloomin' hot? It's like a fucking sauna in here! Usually it's so bloody cold you can't even respond when your woman's rubbing up against you for warmth.” He looked at Ike. “I hope she's all right. She is all right, isn't she? I mean, you don't think one of the mutants got her do you?”
Ike looked at the cowboy. “Me and Lambert have to follow you a-ways. The third tunnel to the right is the only way to the forge; it's also the quickest way to the old man, and to freedom. There's a passage after Kennard's personal chambers that connects to the tunnel leading to the Great Hall of Gnomes. Until we reach it, you and your man, Whitecrow here, are gonna have to re-educate a few more of the schmucks following us.”
“And that wasn't a reference to me by the way,” Lambert told the Indian.
Amin and Hakim snickered.
“Oh, piss off!” Lambert lifted his fist and held it under the youngest man's nose. “Go on, Amin, tell me there are no such thing as bloody mutants. Tell me how crazy I am again. I don't care if I made a deal with God or not, I'll kill ya! So help me, I'll use that mop on top of your head to clean the sewers, you little whelp of a—”
“Dammit, Lambert! Will you shut the hell up about the damn mutants?” said Ike. “We ain't got time for your shit right now!”
Lambert looked from his boots to Ike. “Sure,” he said in a tone that reminded Spartacus of a defiant adolescent telling his elders what they want to hear. “No more talk of mutants.” Lambert then turned his head toward the pipes and said: “Well, until one of the buggers sneaks up on you in the dark and it's me—not God—that shows up to save your bloody ass. Then we'll see who's crazy. You'll be raving about mutants then, believe me brother. Raving.”
Spartacus coiled the whip and draped it over one of his holsters. After drawing Capulet and Montague, he began loading the revolvers manually before moving on to the speedloaders he had managed to save. The cowboy's fingers were so fast that everyone, exuding his second-in-command, found themselves momentarily hypnotized by the movement.
“Where the hell were you during tunnel 237?” asked Lambert.
The six men waited until the legionnaires were past the pipes and then split into two groups, with Amin and Hakim going left and the others going straight ahead. From every tunnel and passage could be heard the echoing of voices and weapons. The sounds traveling throughout the colony, whether created by friend or foe, all had one thing in common: they were all accompanied by the woman's melancholy voice singing the same song again and again over the intercom.
“Come on, you bloody wankers!” Lambert shouted. “This isn't a fucking tea party, is it?! It's a bloody bloody free-for-all. SO COME AND GET ALL YA CAN HANDLE!!!” Lambert waited until the others were near the second tunnel before extinguishing the lights in the current one and tossing a couple of canisters of teargas over his shoulder. When they were in the third tunnel, he picked up an automatic rifle lying next to a colonist that had died when some rocks were shaken loose during one of the blasts, and handed it to Whitecrow.
The Indian patted him on the back then stooped down to take the bullets from the dead colonist's body. Meanwhile, the others took the opportunity afforded to them by Lambert's quick thinking to reload their weapons.
“How far from Kennard's chambers to the forge?” Spartacus asked Ike.
“You just worry about getting the old man out of this mountain.” Ike peaked around the corner of the tunnel to check on the legionnaires' progress. “He might tear your head off when you try separating him from his children, but Kennard would want him safe and his mind used to defeat Caesar. Besides, you need to get back to your own colony. The raiding has begun, and you don't' want to take any chances.”
Spartacus thought of David and Jesse, “No,” he said, “we don't.”
Ike gave a solemn nod. “When you're on the other side of the fireplace, Aldred will tell you what do with the legionnaires that have followed you. You should be able to destroy all of them with a single switch located on the other side of the hearth. Just to make sure no one can follow you further, there are several barriers that can be triggered along the way.”
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” Lambert interrupted. “But perhaps we should be planning some sort of surprise for the scum of the earth, which should be arriving momentarily.”
Whitecrow shot into the dark tunnel. “What do you have in mind, brother?”
“Well,” said Lambert, “how about what your chieftain, here, would call a little 'Southern hospitality'. Something cool and refreshing, so to speak.”
Ike stepped out of the tunnel and threw a grenade at the legionnaires, then stepped back inside. “Such as?”
Lambert tugged his ear and smiled. “The emergency fire hoses. We'll provide cover for the cowboy and Indian, who can shoot the buggers from behind us.” He turned his attention to Spartacus and Whitecrow. “Bloody brilliant idea if you ask me.”
Ike laughed. “Hell ya! Good thinkin', Lambert.”
The four hid several hundred yards from the third tunnel's entrance, allowing plenty of room for the legionnaires that were unlucky enough to put in the first appearance.
Spartacus waited for Lambert and Ike to take up position in the tunnel before turning on the valves connected to the hoses. The legionnaires that found themselves trapped between the water and their comrades behind them, also found themselves to be perfect fodder for the cowboy and the Indian's bullets. After a few moments, Whitecrow, wishing to conserve some of his ammunition, leaned his weapon against the wall and drew his knives a second time. Using the water as camouflage, he crept toward the legionnaires. All that could be seen by Spartacus and the two men that held the hoses was an occasional ghostly figure dancing between the streams of water. When the water appeared to be slicing through the enemy, they knew that the Indian had reached his targets and that his blades were drinking hilt-deep the blood of the unjust. Once Whitecrow was standing gun-in-hand next to the cowboy again, Ike shouted for them to turn down the water.
“Okay, Lambert,” Ike dropped his hose, “let's move!”
Lambert stopped hosing the enemy but continued the verbal assault as he traveled down the tunnel setting up obstacles for them. “Hurry ladies,” he shouted, pushing over a barrel of crude, “I wanna grease you up before Caesar gives you the old willy!” He pushed over a couple of more barrels and then caught up with the others.
“Lambert,” Ike yelled when they were halfway down the tunnel, “go on ahead and get the forge ready.”
“What about my mouth?” Lambert asked. “Won't you be needing it?”
Ike wiped the sweat from his brow. “Very funny, but seeing as how the tunnel ends with the forge, I doubt the legions will be able to miss it; not to mention the fact that you're more qualified than me to operate the machinery, so make sure you set things up to do some real damage.”
“I think I can handle that,” said Lambert. Before leaving, he patted Ike on the shoulder and said, “Good luck, brother. If we don't meet against in this life, we will the next.”
Ike shot several legionnaires that had caught on fire when one of the cowboy's bullets intentionally struck the oil spill. “Go on,” he told Lambert. “We got this end covered.”
Lambert, taunting the legionnaire once again, gave Spartacus and Whitecrow two thumbs up as he ran for the forge.
“In case I die before we get there,” Ike told Spartacus, “Kennard's chambers have a red wooden door. The first passage after it is about ninety-five feet—give or take a foot.”
“Got it,” said Spartacus, who then shot the last remaining barrel of oil. After it exploded, there was a sudden vibration throughout the tunnel, which was far too strong and violent to have come from the barrel alone.
“The banquet hall just et its last meal,” laughed the colonist.
Spartacus, Whitecrow and Ike continued toward their destinations, making sure to leave as much destruction as possible in their wake; however, the odds would all to soon turn against their favor as more of the legionnaires began to fill the tunnel and their options for destroying the enemy became more limited.
Smoke, coming from several different sources behind them, floated eerily down the tunnel like an early morning fog. This allowed the cowboy and the others a moment of cover. Spartacus and Whitecrow ducked into a nook that had been cut into the wall while Ike opted to find his own hiding place a little further up the tunnel.
“Where did they go?” shouted one of the legionnaires.
“I don't know,” replied another. “Keep moving!”
The cowboy and Indian wedged themselves behind some shelves and watched as a legionnaire with a flamethrower sprayed his ammo into the opening of a dark passage. The enemy laughed hardily at the colonist that came running out screaming and on fire. They then proceed to hack him up into little pieces with their machetes. The legionnaire with the flamethrower, job done, moved on with a team of scouts, leaving the others to search the area more thoroughly.
Spartacus holstered Capulet, looked at his second-in-command from the corner of his eye, and grabbed the shelf with his free hand.
Whitecrow released his gun to its strap. When the cowboy gave the signal, he grabbed the shelf with both hands and they ran out into the tunnel, slamming several legionnaires into the wall across from them. To one side of the tunnel could be seen the captain surrounded by his men. To the other side was Ike, refusing to kneel before the scouts. In the fraction of a second it takes to blink, the cowboy and Indian witnessed the gallant death of an honorable human. The scouts surrounding him were surprised at the colonist's ability to deny himself the luxury of crying out as their machete blades cleaved through his body; instead of earning their respect, however, it only angered them further. Standing nearby, with a cigarette dangling between his lips and laughing, was the legionnaire with the flamethrower.
The cowboy shot at the legionnaires and their captain with Montague, then drew Capulet and ricocheted a bullet off of a pipe strap above and into the tank of the flamethrower. Fifty yards of piping fell on the legionnaires that filled the other side of the tunnel while the tank burst into flames, which claimed their master's life with a fiery embrace.
“Man,” said the Indian, “let's get the hell out of here!”
“Right.” Spartacus skirted passed Ike and followed Whitecrow through the flames. Once they were on the other side, Spartacus grabbed his second-in command by the arm and stopped. “He brought us right to it,” said the cowboy, “almost like it was meant to be.”
Whitecrow looked at the red wooden door. “Yeah, I've been getting that feeling a lot lately, especially since we arrived.”
“Me too.” The cowboy reloaded his revolvers and the last two speedloaders. “Some of the passages are hard enough to spot without smoke in front of them, so pay close attention. we don't want to take the wrong one; if we do, there's no telling where we'll end up.”
The two men jogged down the tunnel. When they had traveled ninety feet or more with no sign of the passage they were suppose to take, Whitecrow asked, “Should we double-back? See if we missed it?”
Spartacus waved a hand at the smoke in front of the wall. “Ike might have been a man of few words, but he knew his dwelling well. It should be around here somewhere.” The cowboy stuck out a hand and began feeling the wall.
The Indian watched as Spartacus stuck his hand through stone and pulled it back again. “How did you do that?”
“It's an illusion,” the cowboy told him. “I've seen other passages like this one.” He stepped inside the single-man passage— only wide enough for one human to walk abreast at a time—and called to his second-in-command. After what seemed like an eternity, they finally squeezed out the other end. “To the old man,” said Spartacus. The cowboy and Indian moved past the bodies of both legionnaire and colonist alike as they crept quietly up to the door of the Great Hall of Gnomes. Littering it's welcome mat were shotgun shells and the remains of many legionnaires that had been refused admittance to the colony's holy ground.
Spartacus pulled Whitecrow against the wall. “Hand me a some of that rebar,” he said, ripping a strip of cloth from the shirt of a dead legionnaire.
Whitecrow grabbed a piece of rebar lying on the floor and held it while Spartacus tied the cloth to one end, creating a flag. “Good idea,” said the Indian. “Do you think he's still alive?”
The cowboy, his back against the wall, reached out a hand and swung open the door.
“DIE, SONSABITHCES!!!” Aldred shouted. The old man then fired his shotgun, blowing a whole in the wall directly across from them.
“It's me, old man,” yelled Spartacus. “We need to—”
“We need to get the hell out of here!” Whitecrow finished for him.
Spartacus waved the flag in front of the door. “We're comin' in, so—”
“Like hell!” The elder shot at the cloth, shredding it and another piece of the wall.
“Dammit, Aldred!” Spartacus dropped the rebar and sucked out a few bits of buckshot.
“Did I say, 'crazy white man' earlier?” Whitecrow asked sarcastically. “What I meant to say was, 'crasyass white man'.”
“Well, we knew this wasn't going to be easy.” Then: “Aldred? It's Spartacus and Whitecrow. The women and children are safely away—including your grandsons, but Kennard is dead. He died an honorable death when he glided Iris into the gorge, buying the warriors and those they protect more time.”
A second went by.
“Alright, get yer asses in here,” shouted the elder.
Both men entered the hall. Whitecrow stood at the door watching for the enemy while Spartacus approached the elder as he always did: with caution.
The elder looked at Spartacus with a father's pride. “I never doubted that the human I raised to be an alpha would die an alpha's death.”
“Yes, and now we must go.” Spartacus walked around the old man and up to the fire place. There was indeed a passage hidden within. “The children and women are safe for the time being,” he continued. “And now you must come with us back to our colony to help plan Caesar's defeat.”
“Nonsense,” sniffed Aldred. “I'll not abandon my children and my warriors, or slow you down in your race to preserve your own colony. Besides, I always knew it would be you.” The old man's back stiffened at the sound of shots being fired in the tunnel.
Spartacus ran up and grabbed Aldred by the shoulders. “Dammit, Aldred, your children aren't real. Look at them! They're just relics from a world long forgotten, like us. Nothing more than that. But unlike these things that have no flesh to hurt or souls to crush, we can make a difference. And perhaps one day, long after we are dust, it will be real children and real children's laughter that fills these cavern walls once again.”
“Don't you think I know their lawn ornaments? Hell, some of 'em were takin' from my own damn yard!”
Spartacus jerked his head backward—shocked by the revelation.
“Yes,” said Aldred, “I know they're not real. But they brought an old man—the grieving father of a thousand sons and daughters—peace for a while. That isn't such a bad thing, is it?”
“No,” answered Spartacus. “However I insist, not just for my friend's sake, but for the sake of humankind, that you come with us.”
Whitecrow fired into the tunnel. “Hurry!” he shouted to some colonists that were fighting their way to the hall. “You can make it!”
The elder lifted the shotgun, knocking away the cowboy's hand and hitting him in the nose. “The raiding has only just begun. Now get you to the innocent ones who have fallen under your protection. And when I say that I will only slow you down, I do not say it with the stubbornness of a senile old man, but with the stubbornness of an old warrior that knows his limits. I'll only hinder the cause at this point in the game. You, on the other hand, are meant to see the game through to the very end.”
Tears from being struck in the nose, and from a quickly acquired epiphany, surfaced in the cowboy's eyes. “Whitecrow, how far are those colonists?”
There were more shots from the Indian's weapon. “Almost here! Is the old man comin'?”
Spartacus looked at the elder. “No, the captain's going down with his ship.” Turning away from a man that had been a friend and fellow warrior of his elders, the cowboy went to the door and traded places with Whitecrow.
“Their captain's with them.” The Indian glanced warily at the elder.“Tough bastard. He and the others must've seen us enter the passage.”
The cowboy shot over a colonist that was bending over to help a fallen brother and into the heart of one of the enemy. Then another. And another. When the two colonists were at the door, he stepped out into the tunnel to provide more room for them to pass through and to provide some cover for the remaining four warriors still on the way.
“How many's left?” asked Whitecrow.
“Four, including Ox,” answered Spartacus.
“There were more. What happened to the others?”
The warrior with the wounded side steadied himself against one of the hall's natural columns and allowed his friend to quickly bandage his midsection. “They died trying to save one another.” His dark, graceful hands, which would have been as fast as the cowboy's had he been given the proper training during his youth, checked the rounds in his gun.“I'm guessing you've already received news of Kennard,”—he looked from his gun to the elder— “and that you'll not be leaving.”
“Yes,” said the elder. “And no, Monroe, I won't be.”
Monroe gave a bitter smile. “Neither shall I.”
The colonist bandaging his side looked up. “What do you mean you're not going?”
“I'm wounded,” said Monroe, “and the old man, here, has slowed with age. Even if we make it out of the mountains, there will still be a need for haste. Someone will have to warn the other colonies that the raiding has begun and that they are no longer safe within their own lands; the enemy's reach has increased two-fold and his legions have become plentiful. Their people will either have to move on or stand and fight. New Haven, we have all agreed, must move on—and so should the cowboy and Indian's.” He looked at Spartacus. “For the benefit of humankind.”
Spartacus traded places with Whitecrow and loaded the last of his bullets. “Indeed,” answered the cowboy. “However, if we return to find our colony intact, we'll send the meek to New Haven then take what warriors we do not send with them to seek out the clans that have no children, but whose men and women still share our beliefs.” He grabbed a flashlight near a crate of comic books and entered the fireplace. Once he located the switch that would bring down the Great Hall of Gnomes, he exited and headed for the center of the room.
“We lost another brother,” Whitecrow told them. “But if it's any consolation, the enemy's captain has ran out of bullets.”
Monroe looked down at his freshly bandaged side. “Thanks, Bradford.” He laid his hand on the other man's shoulder. “Now gab some ink and paper. Michael should still be in the eyrie. If he's not, it'll be up to you to send the messengers to the other colonies.”
“But I don't know anything about falcons,” said Bradford.
“You'll learn,” Monroe said. “Now go.”
“Dammit, man!” Aldred snapped. “Get yer ass to the eyrie!”
Monroe nodded his head. “It's okay; you're not abandoning us. This is just how the story was written, and so, it is here that we must part in order to fill our space in the puzzle and take our place among the dead, whether today in the great hall, or tomorrow beyond the drylands.”
Bradford grabbed his friend's head and kissed the side of it, then he disappeared into the fireplace, carrying a handful of deadly metal in one hand and ink and paper in the other.
Spartacus tucked the flashlight into his belt and looked around the hall. “Aldred, is there any way to bring down that first column after the other brothers are safely inside?”
“Just some rope and our backs,” answered Aldred. The elder left to fetch a length of rope. Upon his return, he caught Spartacus in the act of desecrating the archives by throwing books and magazine in big piles beyond the second column.
“What the hell do ya think you're doin'?!”
Spartacus moved onto the crates of comics books. “Making things harder for the enemy.”
Aldred snatched away one of the crates. “Not with these ya ain't! You know how long it took me to find each issue for this series?” He handed the crate to Ox, who entered the room short of breath. “You can do what ya want with the rest, though.” The elder snapped his fingers. “Kerosine! We need kerosine”
Ox watched the elder pass by before carelessly tossing the crate onto the table. “What's next?” he asked.
Spartacus looked him over. “You look strong. Are you wounded?”
“Nope,” said the giant of a man. “Good to go.” He pounded a meaty fist into his palm. “And I'm strong as an ox; hence the name, Ox.”
The cowboy handed him the rope. “Do you think you can raze that first column to the ground after the others are safely inside?”
Ox looked at the column. “Sure, no problem. But don't we want the enemy to come in? Isn't that the whole point of being here?”
“The point,” said Spartacus, as he tied one end of the rope to the column, “is to help the Fates kill as many of Caesar's legionnaires as possible.”
Spartacus turned to Whitecrow. “How many left to go?” he called.
“Two,” answered Whitecrow. Then, “Make that one.”
The cowboy took the kerosine from Aldred and began dowsing the piles of books and magazines with it. As soon as he was finished, there came a scream from the tunnel.
The elder swore under his breath as he watched the last colonist fall outside the entrance. He then lit the bottom of a gnome and tossed it to Whitecrow. “You'll be wantin' to get rid of that in a hurry,” he told the Indian.
Whitecrow threw the gnome down the tunnel like a football, and then ran over to assist Ox. When the column was down, Spartacus lit the piles of bound paper that had once belonged to the elder's archives.
Within seconds of an explosion in the tunnel, the enemy arrived at the door. Spartacus looked for the captain but was unable to see him among the legionnaires that filled the room beyond the first column. The elder opened fire, choosing to shoot a gnome on a table near the door instead of directly targeting the beast that were entering. The lawn ornament exploded, sending nails flying everywhere. “Shoot the gnomes!” shouted the elder, as he took aim at another one on the other side of the door. A ball bearing from the lawn ornament grazed the side of Spartacus ear before embedding itself in the column behind him.
The cowboy reached up and touched his ear, then began shooting at the gnomes closest to the legionnaires. The hall, like the rest of the underground dwelling, echoed with the sound of the woman's tragic voice and the sound of men killing and dying.
Aldred lifted his shotgun toward the ceiling and shot at a stalactite, bringing it down upon the legionnaires climbing over the the column. The elder, weaving a web of the most colorful profanities Spartacus had ever heard, reloaded his weapon.
“Maybe its time to invite your guests in for tea,” said the cowboy to the elder.
The old man laughed and cocked his shotgun. “Of course, where are my manners? Sometimes I get carried away when I start killing these bastards.”
Everyone held their fire, giving the enemy enough time to climb over the column and fill the hall. The five warriors then worked as a team against the enemy, which ran blinded by hate and greed to their own deaths.
“Should we save the last bullets for each other?” Monroe asked the elder.
“Hell no!” said Aldred. “Why waste the bullets when we'll all be dyin' soon enough.”
Monroe kicked a legionnaire toward Ox, who was wielding a table leg in his hands. The large colonist crushed the man's skull with the table leg before dropping to one knee and delivering a powerful uppercut to another legionnaire's groin. Whitecrow meanwhile, in the middle of the room, kicked his empty assault rifle at the feet of some oncoming ruffians and brought out his knives; the bodies of the enemy quickly began to pile up around the Indian as he engaged his adversaries in a dance of both limb and blade.
Spartacus holstered Montague. He was able to grab a small wooden table with the whip in time to block a dagger that had been thrown at his heart. The cowboy then used Capulet to shoot the leg out from under a chair behind Whitecrow. The thug standing on it fell forward: Whitecrow slit his throat in mid-air.
Spartacus jumped on top of the table holding the triceratops skull and began to lash at Caesar's beasts of burden with the whip while shooting at them with Capulet. When he was out of bullets, he picked up several of the gnomes and threw them into the flames—including the one with the broken red hat, which immediately exploded.
“Spartacus—catch!” Whitecrow punched a legionnaire in the face and pushed him in the cowboy's direction.
Spartacus leapt down from the table and grabbed the filthy varmint by the collar before shoving his head into the triceratops mouth and slamming it shut. Just then, a painful cry issued forth from not only the legionnaire whose head was clamped in the most peculiar of vises, but Monroe and Ox as well.
The cowboy turned to see Aldred sitting slumped in his chair with a large knife protruding from his forehead.
“YOU BASTARDS!!!” Ox bellowed.
The enemy's captain, the one who had thrown the knife, dropped his voice to its deepest base and barked like a dog.
Monroe fired the last of his bullets and then died at the blood-stained hands of Caesar's dark soldiers. Ox tried to come to his fellow colonist's rescue, but he was quickly subdued by the enemy—who, even armed with blades, had to overcome many obstacles while trying to slay the giant.
Spartacus ran to the fireplace. “Time to exit the scene, Whitecrow,” he shouted at his second-in-command. The cowboy looked over one shoulder to see the Indian trapped in a bear hug with his knives lying soulless at the feet of the captain. Whitecrow reached inside his shirt and pulled out a tent stake that doubled as his back-scratcher and stabbed the captain in the eye with it. The captain stiffened, then relaxed, letting Whitecrow drop to the ground where he retrieved his weapons. The Indian, his movements flowing as smoothly as liquid being poured carefully into a glass, spun up from the ground and slew Caesar's man. The last thing Spartacus saw before the armory was blown and the barriers throughout the colony fell, was Whitecrow surrounded by the enemy.