New Orleans Run Read online

  The gunfire had ceased.

  "I don't like leaving Lynx," Ferret groused.

  "Gremlin neither, no."

  "Couldn't be helped," Blade said. He distinguished men in black bearing down on them from both sides, and he turned and moved off.

  "Come on."

  "What's your plan?" Ferret inquired, complying.

  "We'll play it by ear."

  "That's a terrific plan," Ferret snapped. "Alexander the Great would be proud of you."

  "Do you have a better idea?" Blade asked. He vaulted a log in his path and bore to the south.

  "Yeah. We should have gone after Lynx."

  "How? They had us cut off."

  "We could have mowed the bastards down," Ferret proposed.

  "Or they might have mowed us down," Blade countered. "We can't help Lynx if we're dead."

  "Good point, yes," Gremlin said.

  Blade moved rapidly, repeatedly looking to their rear to check for signs of pursuit. His mind whirled with dozens of questions. Who were those guys in black? Why had those men attacked without warning? What connection did they have with the party who had sent the plea for aid?

  Were they the reason the message had been sent?

  "Does this happen on all your missions?" Ferret inquired.

  "What?"

  "Does everything usually go wrong right off the bat? I mean, we're not here an hour and we've got some jerks we don't even know trying to riddle us with holes."

  The Warrior went around a thicket and started up a low knoll. "Yeah,"

  he said, staring behind them yet again. "You've heard of Murphy's Law, I take it?"

  "Who hasn't?"

  "I bet you didn't know that Murphy is my second cousin."

  Ferret grinned. "No, I didn't. That explains a lot."

  "Excuse Gremlin, yes?" the humanoid interjected. "Gremlin thought Murphy is make-believe, no?"

  "He is," Blade said.

  "Then how—?" Gremlin began, and fell silent when a loud whistle sounded from 20 or 30 yards to the north.

  Blade reached the crest of the knoll and halted. He squatted in the cover of a verdant bush and scanned their back trail. The hybrids did likewise, one on either side.

  "I can hear them," Ferret disclosed.,

  "Gremlin too, yes!" Gremlin staled.

  "They're well north of us and heading in the wrong direction," Ferret detailed, his head cocked to the right as he listened intently.

  "Dumbbells, no?" Gremlin commented, and snickered.

  "There must be dozens of them," Blade said, calculating the odds and planning their strategy. "We need to know who they are and why they're trying to kill us."

  Ferret smiled in anticipation. "We capture one?"

  "We capture one," Blade confirmed. "You two lead the way. Your hearing is superior to mine. If we can snatch a straggler, we'll persuade him to give us information."

  "What if he doesn't want to cooperate, yes?" Gremlin asked.

  Blade's voice became hard, almost raspy. "He'll cooperate."

  "Let's get cracking," Ferret suggested. "For all we know Lynx could be in their hands by now."

  "Lynx never let himself be captured, no," Gremlin averred.

  "He let himself be captured by the Doktor, didn't he?" Ferret responded.

  "Yes," Gremlin acknowledged.

  "And he got himself caught by the Superiors, didn't he?"

  Gremlin gazed to the north. "Let's get cracking, yes?"

  Blade let the others advance several yards before he fell in. He reflected on Gremlin's peculiar mode of speech, a consequence of operations the Doktor had performed on the humanoid's brain. The sagacious Family leader, Plato, believed the Doktor had been conducting experiments on the area of the brain called the cerebral cortex, the part concerned with such complex mental processes as speech and thought. Somehow, the Doktor's tampering had altered Gremlin's ability to use proper syntax in his verbal communications. Periodically the condition went into a degree of remission and Gremlin would speak in an almost-normal manner. At other times, and for no apparent reason whatsoever, Gremlin's speech would deteriorate dramatically.

  Ferret led them to the northwest at a cautious pace, his short, wiry body navigating the rough terrain with deceptive ease, a fluidity of motion only Lynx or another bestial hybrid could hope to match.

  Gremlin, while able to proceed with consummate stealth, lacked the acrobatic finesse of his diminutive friend.

  Compared to them, and even with years of experience under his belt, Blade felt like a novice in the art of silent stalking. He'd never admit as much to them, and he resolved to improve until he was their virtual equal.

  The forest presented a dense web of luxuriant vegetation of every type and description. Insects buzzed and flitted from plant to plant. The earlier gunfire had caused the wildlife to fall collectively silent, and the quietude of the birds and larger animals lent an eerie, somber quality to the landscape.

  Blade used the opportunity to replace the partially expended magazine in the Thompson with a full one. The 30-round detachable box-type magazines were easy to eject and insert, and he drove the fresh one home with a forceful slap. The rugged performance of the Thompson had impressed him so far. Perhaps, if the gun continued to live up to its prewar reputation, he would consider using it on other missions. He liked the heavily ribbed barrel and the wooden buttstock. To an average man the submachine gun might be a bit heavy; to someone of his massive size the Thompson had the weight of a toy.

  Several oak trees appeared 50 feet ahead of them. Ferret suddenly flattened and motioned for them to do the same.

  Blade dropped and saw the reason.

  A thin black man, garbed in the dapper black uniform, stepped into sight from behind one of the trees and surveyed his surroundings. He clutched an Ingram MAC10 submachine gun fitted with a two-position shoulder piece and a webstrap.

  The Warrior trained the Thompson on the man, just in case they were spotted. But his concern proved unfounded as the man in black rotated to the north and stood there studying the woods. Why did they wear those mirrored sunglasses? Blade mused. To conceal their eyes so an enemy would never know in which direction they were actually looking? If so, whoever they worked for must be very clever.

  Ferret laid his AR-15 down and gestured at Gremlin, and together they crawled toward the man in black.

  Blade could do nothing but wait. He admired the skill the pair displayed, a testimony to the fact they had been created to function as perfect assassins. He scrutinized the trees on all sides, puzzled by the presence of just one foe. Where were the rest? Were there other men stationed at regular intervals?

  The black man coughed lightly and cradled the MAC10 under his right arm. He stretched, arching his back, and turned in a complete circle.

  The hybrids froze in unison, their bodies flush with the ground, blending in with the grass and brush.

  Evidently satisfied that he wasn't in any danger, the man leaned against a trunk and stared idly to the west. He yawned and shook his head vigorously.

  Blade noted the last act with interest. Had the ambushers been awake for an extended period, waiting for someone in particular, or had they been there waiting to see if anyone would show up in response to the distress call? The trap had been thorough, and probably Lynx heading east along the trail had caused them to close in prematurely.

  Ferret and Gremlin were within 30 feet of the trees.

  The Warrior felt a twinge of pain in his left side. Some months back he had been shot and sustained a terrible wound, and any strenuous exertion still aggravated it. The discomfort made him think of his precious Jenny.

  She had extracted the bullet herself, doing a superb job even though she had to improvise and use a screwdriver for a probe. In another four or five months he should be as good as new.

  Thinking about the wound also brought to mind all the other injuries he had sustained since becoming a Warrior. At the rate he was going, what with all the bullet holes, cut
and slash marks, teeth and claw imprints, and sundry other scars, he'd be lucky to have a square inch of unmarred skin by the time he retired from the Warrior ranks. If he lived that long.

  Twenty feet separated the hybrids from the man in black.

  Blade forced himself to stop thinking about his lovely wife, and concentrated on covering the mutations. Of late his mental discipline had been more lax than was usually the case, and he determined to work on his self-control at every chance.

  Ferret and Gremlin had now diverged, Ferret moving to the right, the humanoid to the left. The grass scarcely stirred as they advanced. Thanks to the Doktor's manipulation of their genetic codes, they were the ultimate development in the lethal arts, living liquidators par excellence.

  Blade sighted down the Thompson, then stiffened when he detected motion underneath the barrel. The next moment something began crawling up his naked forearm, and he glanced down to behold a spider the size of his fist clinging to his skin. Goose bumps broke out all over his flesh and he almost flung his arm out to dislodge the arachnid. To do so, however, might alert the man in black to the fact others were nearby, might give Ferret and Gremlin away, so he gritted his teeth and remained motionless.

  The spider, with a rust color and sporting a peculiar orange design on its back near its multiple eyes, climbed in a leisurely fashion, its hairy legs rising and falling slowly.

  Was it toxic?

  The mere thought served to make Blade tingle all over. He watched the spider inch upward, then looked at the hybrids to mark their progress.

  They were drawing steadily nearer to the guy in the sunglasses, and soon they would be within pouncing range. At that point they would be the most vulnerable and be dependent on him to down the man if necessary.

  But how could he fire, with the spider perched on his arm? The slightest movement could prompt the arachnid to bite.

  The spider stopped five inches from his left palm.

  Blade scarcely breathed. If the arachnid stayed on his arm much longer, he'd be forced to make a decision that could cost him his life. He glanced at Ferret and Gremlin and saw them suddenly spring toward the figure next to the tree.

  Just as the man turned in their direction.

  Chapter Six

  For several heartbeats Lynx stood transfixed by the terrifying sight, until a sharp cry roused him from his astonishment.

  Eleanore screamed.

  Lynx roughly hauled her erect and shoved, sending her into the weeds to the north. He followed, backpedaling, watching the armored leviathan lumber up the bank and bear down on them, its thick, short legs pumping, its tail weaving from side to side.

  "Oh, God!" Eleanore wailed, fleeing in abject horror.

  How fast could alligators run? Lynx wondered as he raced after her.

  The broad, rounded snout of the gator parted the vegetation as the reptile barreled toward them, moving at a surprisingly swift pace.

  Lynx stayed on the woman's heels. They had a 12-foot lead and were gaining ground slowly, but 12 feet didn't seem like very much at all when a creature akin to a prehistoric dinosaur was in hot pursuit. He estimated their pursuer to be a whopping 18 feet in length, a primordial colossus.

  Alarmed that she might indeed trip, Lynx concentrated on her movements, ready to assist at the first hint of trouble. If the woman did go down, he would be compelled to defend her, and he entertained grave reservations over whether his nails could inflict much damage on the alligator's tough reptilian hide. Even using the AR-15—

  The assault rifle!

  Lynx suddenly realized he had foolishly left the weapon lying somewhere near the pool. Now all he had to rely on were his nails and his teeth against this bestial denizen of the swamp they hardly seemed enough. He looked over his left shoulder and almost laughed in relief.

  The alligator had stopped and was simply standing there, balefully regarding their flight.

  Wary that the reptile would renew its charge, Lynx kept his eyes on the animal until they were at least 30 yards away and he could no longer see the creature. "You can stop now," he said.

  Eleanore seemed not to hear him. She gasped for air, her legs driving hard, swatting at the bushes that clawed at her clothing.

  "You can stop, bimbo," Lynx repeated, and batted her on the left shoulder.

  Startled, Eleanore slowed down and glanced at him, then to their rear.

  "Where is it?"

  "Takin' a dump."

  "What?" Eleanore asked, not quite comprehending. She halted and peered to the south. "It's gone?"

  "That's what I've been tryin' to tell you, lady."

  "I've got a name, you know."

  "Good for you," Lynx snapped, surveying the field around them. "I don't see any sign of those bozos in black, but I don't feel safe here what with Tyrannosaurus rex just waitin' for a chance to nip our tootsies."

  Eleanore regarded him quizzically. "Tie-ranny-who?"

  "Tyrannosaurus rex, a dinosaur. A big buddy told me all about them."

  "Never heard of them. Are you sure you know what you're talking about?"

  "What?"

  "Everybody and their grandmother knows the animal we saw is called an alligator. Maybe the folks where you come from call them tie-rannies, but in these parts we just call them gators."

  Lynx smirked and shook his head. "Yep. No doubt about it."

  "About what?"

  "The fact you're a bimbo."

  "Stop calling me that!"

  "What are you going to do if I don't? Stamp your foot?" Lynx cracked, and took hold of her left wrist.

  "Leave go of me," Eleanore protested, and tugged, striving to break free.

  "Don't start again," Lynx warned. He headed westward, hauling her along, and made for an expanse of woodland 70 yards distant.

  "You're awful strong for such a little thing," Eleanore remarked.

  "And mean too, lady. Mean enough to break your arm if you give me any grief."

  "Didn't you tell me your name is Lynx?"

  "Wow. I'm impressed. You can remember something for more than two seconds. Maybe you're not a bimbo after all."

  "I wish you'd stop insulting me."

  "Can't help myself," Lynx said. "It's been a lousy day so far, and bumpin' into you hasn't made matters much better."

  "What are you doing here? Where are you from?"

  "I'll ask the questions."

  Eleanore frowned and studied his feline visage. "I don't know what to make of you."

  Lynx didn't bother to respond. He gazed to the northwest, trying to spot the cabin, but a stand of trees blocked his view.

  "I mean, you certainly don't act like one of the Baron's creatures."

  "There's that name again. Who is the Baron?"

  "He's the houngan."

  Lynx glanced at her. "The what?"

  "The high priest."

  "High priest? Is he some kind of religious yo-yo?"

  "You really don't know, do you?"

  "I wouldn't ask if I did."

  Lines creased Eleanore's forehead as she pondered for several seconds.

  "All right," she finally declared. "I believe you're not connected to Baron Laveau. No one could pretend to be as dumb as you are."

  "Thanks, twit."

  "I'm not trying to bad-mouth you."

  "You could've fooled me."

  Eleanore glared at him. "Why are you always so hostile?"

  "Maybe because I learned an important lesson when I was knee-high to a kitten."

  "A lesson?"

  "Yeah. I learned that the world will stomp you into the dust unless you stomp back. Life is hard, lady. Most humans don't give a damn about anything but themselves, and they hate hybrids like me with a passion.

  The only exceptions I've ever met are the sicky-sweets at the Home."

  "I don't understand. Who are the sicky-sweets?"

  "Never mind."

  They covered 20 yards before Eleanore spoke again.

  "I want to know the truth. Are you go
ing to hurt me?"

  "Only if you don't cooperate. I'm fixin' to take you to Jumbo."

  "Who?"

  "You'll see. He'll know what to do with you."

  "Where is he?"

  "That's what I'd like to know. We've got to find him and my other friends."

  "You have friends?"

  "Keep it up, lady."

  "I'm just trying to make sense of what you say. It's not easy. You talk in riddles."

  "Don't strain your brain on my account."

  Eleanore expelled a sharp breath in frustration. "You're impossible. Do you know that?"

  "You sound like my wife," Lynx said, and nearly fell when the woman halted so abruptly that she wrenched on his arm and caused him to stumble. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" he demanded angrily.

  "Did I hear you correctly? Are you married?" Eleanore inquired, her features reflecting her shock at the revelation,

  "Yeah. I've got a main squeeze. Her name is Melody. So what?"

  Eleanore roved her eyes from his head to his toes. "But you're a—a—whatever you are? How could any woman marry you?"

  A shadow seemed to descend on Lynx and his countenance hardened.

  "Oh. Is that it. You can't imagine how a freak like me could have a wife?"

  "I didn't mean to imply—" Eleanore began, but the hybrid never gave her a chance to finish the sentence.

  "Screw you, bimbo," Lynx stated harshly, and resumed walking toward the forest.

  "I don't think you're a freak," Eleanore declared. "But you have to admit you're different."

  Lynx stalked forward without replying.

  "Listen to me, damn you!"

  "Save your breath, bigot."

  Eleanore dug in her heels and tried to wrench her wrist loose. "I am not a bigot!" she protested. "I can't help it if I don't know how to relate to you without hurting your oversensitive feelings. I've never met anything like you before. The only other mutations I've seen are those from the swamps, those the Baron has collected at his estate. He puts them in cages and gets his kicks by tormenting them, by poking them with red-hot irons and whipping them. Things like two-headed black bears or bobcats with three eyes. He's the one who can't stand freaks."

  Lynx digested the information inscrutably. "The Baron does this, huh?"

  "Yeah. And lots worse."