New Orleans Run

by David Robbins

  "I do now," Blade said.

  "Don't be hard on Lynx," Ferret stated. "He can't help himself. The damn Doktor bred all of us to be exactly as we are. I'm a moody cuss, Gremlin is always Mr. Cheerful, and Lynx just naturally believes he's right all of the time. Unfortunately for his ego and the rest of us, he's correct about eighty-five percent of the time. And if you ever tell him I said so, I'll deny every word."

  Blade smiled and rested the Thompson in his lap. He debated whether to open the backpack and remove a few strips of jerked venison, but before he could reach a decision a series of sharp retorts from the direction Lynx had taken brought him to his feet.

  Gunshots!

  Chapter Four

  Lynx chuckled as he jogged eastward. So far the mission had been on the dull side, although he had been able to alleviate the monotony by baiting Blade. His conscience nagged at him about taunting the giant so much, but he simply couldn't help himself. Contrariness was an integral part of his feline nature, as much a part of him as his fur or his razor-sharp nails.

  Besides, Blade invited such treatment by his somber attitude and strict devotion to proper procedure. The giant was a perfectionist, and perfectionists just naturally got Lynx's goat.

  A garter snake slithered across the path four feet in front of him.

  Abruptly slowing, Lynx warily watched the reptile even though it was harmless. He disliked snakes intensely. They gave him the creeps. And he invariably went out of his way to avoid them where possible. He chided himself for not realizing there would be a lot of snakes in Louisiana.

  The tip of the garter snake's thin tail disappeared in the weeds.

  Good riddance, sucker! Lynx thought, and forced onward.

  The presence of the snake prompted him to think of other unsavory creatures, like alligators and spiders. He'd never encountered a gator before, but spiders ranked high up there with snakes as creatures the planet could better do without.

  The scent of deer wafted to his sensitive nostrils.

  Lynx almost turned aside to stalk the animals. He was starting to become hungry, and fresh venison would taste delicious. Just thinking about a mouthful of raw, bloody meat made him salivate. He'd have to talk to the Big Dummy about allowing them to do some hunting after he returned to the cabin. Neither he nor his friends had brought backpacks; they'd opted to travel light and fast; to live off the land as befitted their bestial natures.

  Even Gremlin.

  Which was odd.

  Lynx wondered why Gremlin tried so hard to emulate Ferret and him.

  Of the three of them, Gremlin possessed the least animalistic nature.

  While Ferret and Lynx were half-man, half-beast, Gremlin was essentially a strange-looking human. A human endowed with exceptional strength and stamina, true, but nonetheless more like Homo sapiens than Lynx or Ferret could ever hope to be.

  Sometimes Lynx found himself envying Gremlin, but only in extremely rare moments of emotional weakness when he pondered the stigma attached to his own state of being. Most humans regarded hybrids with either disdain, mistrust, or outright hatred for no other reason than the fact that hybrids were different. And Lynx had never been able to tolerate such a repugnant attitude. It wasn't his fault he was a damned mutation.

  The rotten Doktor deserved the dubious credit for his condition.

  Ahhhh, yes.

  The Doktor.

  Lynx smiled at the memory of how the Doktor had looked after Blade got through with the scumbag. He only wished he could have done the job himself. He'd tried to assassinate the Doktor once and wound up in a cage, slated for extermination. If not for a Warrior named Yama, who had infiltrated the Doktor's Citadel in Cayenne, Wyoming, where Lynx was being held, he wouldn't be alive today. Yama had turned out to be one tough mother, and together they had set the Doktor's plans back decades.

  Those were the good old days.

  Now he was lucky if he saw action once a month, and even then the

  "action" usually consisted of dealing with a wild animal or a rampaging mutation, such as a bear with two heads or a wolf with six legs. Deformed animals were quite common due to the massive amounts of radiation that had saturated the environment during and after World War Three.

  Engrossed in reflection, Lynx advanced another 25 yards. To his left, perhaps 50 feet distant, stood a small stand of trees, not more than half a dozen, and he wouldn't have paid them more than fleeting attention if not for an unexpected bright gleam from among the trunks, the glinting of a metallic object in the brilliant sunlight.

  Lynx reacted instinctively by vaulting forward with his arms extended, and he was in midair when the crack of automatic gunfire rent the humid atmosphere. He came down hard and heard the rounds zipping through the weeds all around him.

  A trap!

  They'd walked into a stinking trap!

  Lynx rose into a crouch, staying below the top of the vegetation, and turned, intending to speed back to the others. His keen eyes registered movement in the weeds 15 yards to his rear, and he realized hidden foes had lain concealed while he passed them by. The wind would not have carried their scent if they were lying flush with the ground in the dense growth.

  He'd been outfoxed.

  Angered at his failure to detect the attackers, and frustrated because he couldn't retrace his route with an unknown number of enemies blocking his path, Lynx pivoted and dashed eastward, staying bent in half. His small stature worked to his advantage. He could move at two thirds of his top speed easily without having to worry about being seen.

  After 30 feet he drew up short and gazed along his back trail. Vague, black forms were in hot pursuit. They were sticking to the weeds so he couldn't see them clearly. Just for sheer spite, Lynx pointed his AR-15 at one of the indistinct forms and squeezed the trigger.

  The target screamed and pitched into the weeds.

  Score one for our side! Lynx thought, and slipped into the vegetation on his right. If he couldn't return to the cabin using the path, he'd circle around the SOBs and rejoin his companions.

  A burst of automatic fire erupted from the vicinity of the cabin.

  Alarmed, Lynx angled to the west. The volume of noise sounded as if World War Four was being conducted. What if Ferret or Gremlin were killed? The horrifying prospect galvanized him to increase his speed. He sped at a reckless pace, heedless of the risk, parting the weeds with the barrel of the AR-15, and moments later blundered into one of their foes.

  A squat figure materialized directly in front of him, a figure who had been facing in the opposite direction but was beginning to turn at the sound of Lynx's approach. A large black man dressed in some sort of black uniform and wearing mirrored sunglasses, he tried to bring a compact submachine gun into play.

  Lynx had scant time to be surprised at the unexpected meeting. One second weeds were before him, the next the man in black was raising his weapon not inches from the tip of the AR-15. Lynx did the only thing he could do under the circumstances. He fired at point-blank range.

  The big black man took the slugs in the forehead and was hurled backwards.

  Other black shapes appeared, scattered in the weeds at varying distances, and they cut loose at the hybrid. Lynx threw himself rearward, then scrambled on his elbows and knees to the south. There were more of them than he initially assumed, and he had to swing farther around to bypass them.

  "Which way did he go?" someone shouted to the north.

  "Why don't you tell the freak where you're at, you idiot!" another man replied, then added what sounded like curses in an unknown tongue.

  What language was that? Lynx wondered. French, maybe. But he couldn't be certain. He'd only listened to French spoken once by a linguist at the Home who specialized in learning every frigging language on the planet. The language that guy had used might as well be Martian as far as he was concerned. At least he had a general idea of their position thanks to the lame-brain with the big mouth.

  And there was one more good thing.

 
The firing had stopped.

  Then again, Lynx thought, crawling rapidly, the silence could be a bad sign. It could mean Blade and his buddies were dead. If so, somebody would pay.

  Oh, how they'd pay!

  A voice louder than all the rest roared out a few words in the alien tongue, and suddenly the weeds were shrouded in total quiet.

  Spooky. Real spooky.

  Lynx shook his head to dispel the sensation of unease that gripped him.

  He was up against humans, and humans were hardly a threat to worry about. They were no match for his hypersenses; they couldn't hope to rival his speed or his steely sinews. Well, Blade could, but he didn't count because they were on the same side. And so could Yama, and Rikki-Tikki-Tavi, and—

  Something crunched to the west.

  Lynx halted, and castigated himself for allowing his mind to drift from the critical matter at hand. Who the hell cared whether a few of the Warriors were his equal? Now was not the time for pondering such nonsense.

  Not if he wanted to live.

  He rose up on his knees and peered intently through the green mat of slender strands, flowers, and bushes. At the limits of his vision someone or something moved, bearing to the north and away from him.

  Good riddance, sucker!

  Lynx pressed onward, keeping low, losing all track of time, although he guessed that 15 minutes elapsed before he halted, then swung to the west once more. Surely the men in black were all well north of his position?

  Who were they anyway?

  And what was with the black uniforms?

  Lynx traversed 20 yards and unexpectedly came to a clearing. At least he believed the narrow track of open ground was a clearing until he brushed aside the last of the weeds and discovered he had emerged on the shallow bank of a body of stagnant water. He glanced to the south and found a bayou stretching for as far as the eye could see. A projecting arm of the marsh extended into the field. All he had to do was go around it.

  A splash ruffled the placid surface of the water.

  Startled, Lynx glanced down, studying the dark water, noting a few tiny fish swimming near the shore,, where the pool was marginally clear, and an abundance of water lilies covering the top, concealing anything that might be lurking below. Further out were high weeds.

  There could be snakes down there.

  Poisonous snakes.

  Scowling distastefully at the likelihood, Lynx moved to the north.

  A loud rustling occurred in the brush to the northwest, coming closer.

  One of the men in black was heading straight for him!

  Lynx grinned and slipped into the weeds. He crept to the north and paused near the point where the water ended. Instead of killing this one, he planned to take the man prisoner. Perhaps he could make the turkey talk. Any facts he could glean would improve his chances.

  The noise was surprisingly loud. Either whoever approached entertained no qualms about his lack of stealth, or the person must be a first-rate klutz. Or an amateur, which essentially amounted to the same thing.

  A figure appeared, only this one wore blue garments, not black.

  Lynx tried to distinguish this person's features, but the compact vegetation prevented him. He deduced the amateur would pass within a yard of his position, and he eased slightly lower and released the AR-15.

  Keep coming, dirtbag!

  As if eager to oblige, the person advanced swiftly. Once a head of long, black hair was revealed for an instant, and then the weeds concealed the newcomer again.

  Lynx beamed in anticipation. His steely sinews coiled, and when the person in blue was three feet away he suddenly rose up and pounced, leaping onto the human and bearing the amateur to the ground. They rolled several times, the person struggling furiously, and they wound up with Lynx astride his captive's chest, his knees pinning the captive's arms, his fingers formed into claws. He took one look and his eyes widened in amazement. "You're a woman!"

  She was young and, as humans went, attractive, her own green eyes reflecting her shock. Her mouth hung wide and she scarcely breathed.

  Bewildered, Lynx gazed all around them. There wasn't anyone nearby.

  He stared at his prisoner again and realized she did not have a weapon.

  "Who are you? What are you doing here?" he asked in a whisper.

  Her lips moved but produced no words.

  "I won't hurt you," Lynx assured her.

  The woman abruptly opened her mouth as if to scream.

  "No!" Lynx hissed, and clasped his right hand over her lips. "Not a peep out of you, sister. There are guys in black close by who are tryin' to waste me. If you make a sound, I'll rip your throat apart." He paused to give his words time to sink in. "If you understand, nod once."

  She nodded.

  "Good. I'm going to lift my hand, but if you try any tricks the same thing applies. Nod if you promise to keep your yap shut."

  Again the woman nodded.

  "Okay. Here goes nothing. Just remember I've warned you," Lynx advised her. He slowly removed his palm from her mouth, ready to shut her up if she double-crossed him.

  Not a peep came out of her. She regarded him with a mixture of resentment and curiosity.

  "What's your name?" Lynx demanded.

  "Eleanore. Eleanore DeCoud."

  "Well, my name is Lynx. Do you mind tellin' me what you're doing way out here in the boondocks all by your lonesome?"

  Apprehension dominated her visage. "Why should I answer you?"

  "Because if you don't I'll rip your throat to shreds."

  Eleanore blinked, but her resolve stayed firm. "Is that all you think about? Ripping people apart?"

  Lynx studied her for a moment, trying to gauge her character. "Look, lady, all I want to do is get to the bottom of this. Here I am, stuck in the middle of a freakin' swamp, cut off from my pals, with jokers in black tryin' to blow me away, and I bump into you. Put yourself in my shoes.

  Wouldn't you want some answers?"

  "You're not wearing shoes," Eleanore noted.

  "What difference does it make?" Lynx snapped. "It was a figure of speech, for cryin' out loud."

  The woman scrutinized his face, her brow knit in perplexity. "How do I know I can trust you?"

  "If I'd wanted to kill you, you'd already be dead," Lynx pointed out to demonstrate his reliability.

  "I don't even know what you are!" Eleanore exclaimed. "For all I know, you could be one of the Baron's creatures."

  "Who's this Baron?"

  "You really don't know?"

  Lynx hissed lightly. "Look, bimbo. I don't have time for this crap. My friends are in trouble and I've got to find them, pronto. So you're comin'

  with me."

  "No."

  "It wasn't a request, lady," Lynx stated. "You're comin' whether you want to or not." He rose and grasped her right wrist, about to haul her erect.

  Eleanore frowned and gazed past him, at the bayou, at the pool to his rear, and her eyes suddenly widened in abject terror. She pointed with her left arm and uttered a strangled shriek.

  Suspecting she might be trying to trick him, Lynx twisted his head to look over his right shoulder. The sight he beheld transfixed him with dread.

  Rising out of the pool, its scaly body dripping water, its baleful reptilian orbs riveted on them, its huge maw parted to reveal its glistening teeth, was an enormous alligator.

  Chapter Five

  Blade took several strides to the east, intending to rush to Lynx's aid, when Ferret abruptly yelled a warning.

  "Blade! To the south!"

  The Warrior swung around and saw a half-dozen men dressed all in black charging toward the cabin. Each man held a weapon, either a rifle, an assault rifle, or submachine gun, and the expressions on their faces were anything but friendly. Blade whipped the Thompson up, worked the cocking handle, and fired a short burst, gratified at seeing three of the figures drop.

  "More to the north, yes!" Gremlin shouted.

  Both hybrids cut loose with their
AR-15's.

  Gunfire erupted all around them, coming from every direction, the rounds smacking into the ground or thudding into the cabin walls.

  Blade backpedaled, glancing eastward again, and discovered over a dozen of the uniformed forms coming through the weeds, far too many to try and take head-on. The three of them were drastically outnumbered and the enemy had the element of surprise. Under such circumstances only one option was viable. Retreat. "Back the way we came!" he commanded, loosing a hail of lead at the onrushing men.

  "What about Lynx?" Ferret responded, and shot into the trees to the north.

  Blade came to the corner of the structure and ducked behind it, firing all the while. "We'll be back for him!" he bellowed.

  "I'm not leaving him!" Ferret declared, sighting on a man in black and dispatching him with a single shot.

  "We have no choice!" Blade cried. "Now move it!"

  Both Ferret and Gremlin, displaying obvious reluctance, backed to the relative shelter of the north wall, where they were screened from the figures to the east and south.

  "On me!" Blade directed, and ran westward as five or six bullets smacked into the wood near his head. He bent down as he sprinted to minimize his profile, and he was almost to the northwest corner when he saw four more foes emerging from the trees 40 yards distant, two white men and two blacks.

  Damn.

  The Warrior pressed the stock to his right shoulder and aimed high to compensate for the range, then squeezed the trigger. The model he used had been fitted with a Cults compensator and a superior-quality Lyman rearsight by the Family Gunsmiths, ensuring exceptional accuracy in the hands of a seasoned combat veteran. And when it came to warfare, Blade had more experience than most men alive. He mowed the quartet down just as they were bringing their weapons to bear. "Let's go," he prompted, and sped toward the woods.

  Ferret and Gremlin stayed hard on the giant's heels, providing covering fire to their rear, compelling their mysterious assailants to duck or die.

  Blade expected to feel a slug bore into his back at any instant, but he reached the sanctuary of the forest in safety, and spun to protect his companions as they darted in beside him.