New Orleans Run

by David Robbins

Blade said nothing. He noticed the cult member spoke with an unusual accent. The word "man" came out as "mon."

  "That Francois will never let me hear the end of it," the guy said.

  Still Blade kept silent.

  "What's the matter? Cat got your tongue, man?" The talkative fellow studied the giant for a bit, then smiled. "Oh, Maybe I should introduce myself. My friends all call me Jacques."

  "Do you mind if I refer to you as Airhead?" Blade finally spoke up.

  "Whoa! A hardass. I like that," Jacques said, and laughed. "You should be fun at the ceremony."

  "What ceremony?"

  Jacques leaned toward the Warrior and smirked. "That's for me to know, man, and for you to find out about the hard way."

  "I can hardly wait."

  "Let's quit playing around with this bastard and take off," the burly man in the doorway suggested? "If we hurry we can catch Francois."

  "Can't wait to get your nose brown, eh?" Jacques said.

  The burly man emerged from the cabin. "Don't talk to me like that."

  "Why not? Everybody knows Francois and you are best buddies,"

  Jacques stated, stressing the last two words sarcastically.

  "I warn you—" the burly man began.

  Jacques swung the Uzi he held in a short arc and pointed the barrel at the other man. "Don't threaten me, Pierre. Don't ever threaten me. I'm the sergeant here, not you. And I say we will catch the good captain when we catch him. Comprenez-vous?"

  Pierre's lips twitched but he made no move to employ his weapon. " Je comprends."

  "Good," Jacques growled, and slowly lowered the Uzi. "Now you will be so kind as to tie our prisoners so we can get going."

  Blade had observed the confrontation with interest. Friction in an enemy camp could sometimes be turned to an advantage. He frowned as Pierre stepped up to him. "What if I give my word to be a good little boy?"

  "Please, man," Jacques said. "Don't be insulting my intelligence. You'll try to escape the first chance you get."

  The Warrior shrugged. "It never hurts to try."

  Pierre pulled a black nylon cord from his right front pocket. "Hold out your hands," he snapped.

  Reluctantly, well aware of the guns leveled in his direction, Blade complied. In a minute his wrists were securely bound.

  "There," Pierre said, and stepped back. "That should hold you." He moved over to Ferret.

  Blade looked at the man called Jacques. "Did I hear correctly? Are you a sergeant?"

  "I sure am."

  "Then the tonton macoutes is a military organization? I was told that you considered yourselves magicians."

  "And where did you hear that bit of news, man?"

  "From someone you probably know. Henri Pétion."

  The mention of the dead man's name caused all of the men in black to glance at the giant.

  "Henri is missing," Jacques stated. "You wouldn't happen to know where he is?"

  "As a matter of fact I do. He should be halfway digested by now," Blade disclosed.

  Jacques's bafflement showed. "Pardon?"

  "Henri is history. He was swallowed by a huge snake," Blade told them, and was immediately surprised by their reactions. Every man appeared stunned and they exchanged startled glances.

  "What do you mean, man?" Jacques asked harshly.

  "Just what I said. Pétion was eaten by an enormous black snake about forty feet long. He let the thing come right up to him. Even talked to it.

  Talk about nut cases."

  Jacques swallowed and moved closer to the Warrior. "Did he call this snake by name?"

  "Yeah. He kept calling it Damballah."

  "Liar!" Pierre suddenly exploded. He aimed his submachine gun at the giant's chest. "You rotten liar! You'll die for your blasphemy!"

  "No!" Jacques cried out, and stepped between them. "Don't shoot him."

  "You heard the lie he just told about Damballah!" Pierre declared. "He deserves to die on the spot."

  "That decision isn't up to us. Only the Baron can determine this man's fate."

  Slowly, demonstrating a marked disinclination, Pierre lowered his weapon and fixed his mirrored sunglasses on the strapping prisoner. "I hope the Baron will give you to me. I'll make you pay for mouthing such foul fabrications."

  "The truth hurts, huh?" Blade cracked.

  "Enough of this," Jacques barked. He nodded at the hybrids. "Finish tying these creatures and we can get the hell out of here. We must inform the Baron about Henri."

  "You don't believe this bastard do you?" Pierre queried.

  Jacques studied the giant critically for a moment. "I don't know what to believe. But I do know we must report to the Baron right away. So get the furry one and the gray one tied, s'il vous plaît."

  "Right away," Pierre said, and moved to obey.

  "What's all the fuss over a reptilian mutation?" Blade casually inquired.

  "Damballah is no mere mutation, man," Jacques replied. "Damballah is our God."

  "You worship a mutant?"

  "Didn't you hear me? Damballah is the Snake God, the living source of our power. Others may worship mere symbols. We worship our god in the flesh."

  "How fitting."

  "What do you mean?"

  "You think you're worshipping your god in the flesh, yet this so-called god will eat your flesh in one gulp if you give it half a chance."

  Thoughtful lines etched Jacques's features. "If it's true what you say, if Damballah truly did eat Henri, then Henri must have done something to displease our great lord."

  "The only mistake Henri made was forgetting the basic rule of dealing with animals."

  "Which rule is this?"

  "Never trust an animal that can eat you for din-din."

  Jacques actually grinned. "You have a sense of humor, Monsieur. Je l'aime beaucoup."

  "You speak French fluently," Blade noted.

  "A little French, a little Spanish. Mostly I speak English. And Creole, of course."

  "Never heard Of it."

  "Then you are not from New Orleans or anywhere within a hundred miles of the city. Everyone in these parts knows about Creole. It's a French dialect, but it includes many Spanish, Indian, and English words,"

  Jacques related, and cocked his head to one side. "So where are you from, big one?"

  "That's for me to know and you to wish you did."

  "Will you at least tell me your name?"

  "Dieneces."

  "A very unusual name, man."

  "Not to Herodotus."

  "Who?"

  "Never mind," Blade said, suppressing a smile.

  Jacques turned toward the hybrids. "And what are the names of these most unusual creatures?"

  "Why don't you ask them."

  "Very well, man. I will." Jacques stepped over to Ferret and Gremlin, who stood side by side with their wrists tied. "Who are you?"

  "I often wonder the same thing," Ferret replied.

  "Sorry, but that's secret information, yes?" Gremlin said.

  Mildly exasperated, Jacques placed his left hand on his hip and hefted the Uzi. "You won't tell me?"

  Ferret looked at Gremlin. "He's pretty sharp for a moron."

  "Must be a fluke, no?"

  "That's enough out of you. Neither of you will speak unless spoken to,"

  Jacques declared.

  "Fine by me, camel-breath," Ferret retorted.

  In one stride Jacques was standing directly in front of the feisty hybrid.

  He brutally rammed the Uzi barrel into Ferret's stomach, doubling the mutant over, and then slammed the submachine gun against Ferret's temple.

  Staggered by the blow, the hybrid dropped to his knees.

  "I'll teach you to badmouth me, man," Jacques said, and raised the Uzi to deliver another strike. Only it never landed. A pair of steely arms unexpectedly looped over his head and constricted around his neck, instantaneously cutting off his air, choking him with frightful rapidity. He started to struggle and a flinty voice spoke in his rig
ht ear.

  "My wrists may be tied but I can still break your neck like a twig if you hit him again. Tell your buddies to lower their weapons."

  Jacques glanced to the right and the left, and saw his companions had swung their weapons to cover the giant. If they fired at such close range, they would inevitably also hit him. The pressure on his neck slacked off slightly and he blurted out, "Don't shoot!"

  "I can nail him in the back," Pierre said from somewhere to the rear.

  "No, you fool! The bullets will pass completely through him and hit me!" Jacques cried. "Don't fire!"

  "Tell them to lower their weapons," Blade repeated.

  Jacques took a deep breath and responded boldly. "No."

  "No?"

  "They won't lower their guns, man. Look, I know you can kill me if you want. But what would it gain you? My men would mow you down where you stand. Why not be reasonable? Release me, and I give you my word I will not hit your furry friend again. What do you say?"

  Blade had no other option. The tonton macoutes held the upper hand for the moment. He was surrounded and outgunned. Besides, he had accomplished his purpose in saving Ferret from a further beating. "All right," he said, and lifted his arms over the sergeant's head, then took a pace backwards.

  Jacques spun, rubbing his sore throat, and appraised the giant with a mixture of anger and fear. He stared at the prisoner's bulging biceps and triceps respectfully, knowing full well he could easily have been killed.

  "Okay," he stated, a bit hoarsely. "Move out. Pierre, take the point. The three prisoners will be in the middle."

  Gremlin helped Ferret to stand.

  "And not a peep out of any of you," Jacques warned the trio.

  Blade moved closer to his friends, and in seconds they were underway, tramping eastward, hemmed in by their enemies. He smiled reassuringly at Ferret when the hybrid glanced back appreciatively. Holding his arms next to his body, he began working at the nylon cord, surreptitiously flexing his arms as far apart as they would go, relaxing, and repeating the action. Sooner or later he would loosen the cord sufficiently so he could slip his hands free.

  Then the tonton macoutes had better watch out.

  There would be hell to pay.

  Chapter Twelve

  "Stay where you are!" the man in black called out.

  Lynx's mind raced. Where there was one scuzzbucket, there were probably more. If he didn't do something—anything—and do it fast, the woman and he were as good as caught. The SOB was too faraway to take out, which meant resorting to evasive action. "No problem!" he shouted, and stood, blocking the man's view of Eleanore.

  "Step aside!" the scuzzbucket ordered.

  "Okay," Lynx replied cheerily, and went into action, whirling and driving his right shoulder into the woman, bearing both of them to the ground.

  The rifle boomed and a slug thudded into the log.

  "Stay close," Lynx said, and crawled quickly to his right, toward the oak tree. Once there, he rose into a squat and peeked past the trunk.

  The man in black was running for the log.

  Snickering, Lynx darted into the undergrowth, pausing just long enough for Eleanore to reach his side. He angled into the densest thicket he could find, squeezing in until he came to an open spot, ignoring the jabs of the short, thin branches.

  Eleanore eased next to him. "What now?" she whispered.

  "Shhhhh," Lynx cautioned, listening.

  Loud voices penetrated the brush.

  "What happened?"

  "I saw two of them. A hairy thing and DeCoud. They got away."

  "Fool! Did you hit them?"

  "I don't think so, Captain Francois."

  "What is that?"

  "What?"

  "No wonder you missed. You can't even see a dead boar lying ten feet in front of you."

  "Mon Dieu!"

  "Simpleton."

  Five seconds of quiet ensued.

  "The hairy one must have done this to the boar. Trés formidable, no?"

  "Nothing human could do this, Captain."

  "Figured that out all by yourself, did you? Come. We must get to the boats. The Baron will be waiting for us."

  "But the hairy creature and the girl?"

  "They are trapped here without a means of navigating the bayou. In a few days we will return and find their putrid corpses. Right now we have the ceremony to consider. Midnight will be here before we know it."

  "I can hardly wait, Captain. Damballah will be very pleased."

  The voices began to fade as the speakers bore to the north.

  "The Baron and Majesta have promised something special for tonight."

  "Did they say—"

  "—multiple sacrifices, which will—"

  "—Snake God—"

  Lynx strained to hear additional details, but the pair of tonton macoutes were too far off.

  "Did they mention multiple sacrifices?" Eleanore queried. "I could barely make out the words."

  "Yeah."

  "Dear God! They must mean Jerry and Adrien. We've got to save them."

  "How? There are dozens of them and only two of us."

  "We can go into New Orleans. Violet will know what to do."

  "Who?"

  "Violet is the leader of the Resistance. She's also an old friend of mine.

  We go back a long way."

  Lynx flattened and squirmed out of the thicket. "I'm not leavin' until I locate my buddies." He stood and waited for her to join him.

  "For all you know they could be dead or captured," Eleanore noted as she rose and ran her fingers through her hair. "It makes more sense to head for New Orleans."

  "Feminine logic never ceases to amaze me," Lynx declared, and grabbed her by the right wrist. "Come on." He marched northward, pulling her along.

  "What's this? I thought we were friends?"

  "We are. If we weren't, I'd slug you and throw you over my shoulder."

  "Please, Lynx. Let go."

  "Just move your tush and quit yakkin'."

  "I can't keep going."

  "Sure you can. It's easy. Just keep puttin' one foot in front of the other."

  "You don't understand," Eleanore said weakly, and unexpectedly collapsed, falling to her knees.

  Lynx turned, his expression contorted in anger until he saw her eyelids fluttering and realized she was about to pitch onto her face. He stooped and caught her in his arms. "What's wrong with you?"

  Eleanore mustered a wan smile. "Haven't eaten for almost two days, remember?" She sagged in his arms, her eyes closing.

  "Damn," Lynx growled. Now what should he do? She needed food, but he wanted to search for Ferret, Gremlin, and Blade. In her weakened state she was bound to slow him down. Either he fed her or carried her. He looked back at the dead boar and contemplated tearing out a large chunk of fresh meat. A steak would undoubtedly revive her. Unfortunately, he doubted she would eat the meat raw like he often did, which meant taking the time to get a fire going and roasting the flesh. Since he didn't have matches, starting a fire would be a bitch.

  Double damn.

  Lynx decided to compromise. He scooped her unconscious form into his arms and jogged to the north. He'd carry her until they came across something edible or his pals, whichever he found first. So resolved, he moved at a swift clip, the pain in his chest having subsided to a tolerable level. His wiry form flowed over the ground with the athletic grace of his namesake, and his nostrils constantly quivered as he tested the air for scent.

  He thought of his mate, Melody, and experienced a twinge of guilt at leaving her alone to traipse off to Louisiana. She had hugged him with tears moistening her lovely eyes just before he stepped out the door and urged him to be careful. Not that he would ever be otherwise.

  Caution was his middle name.

  Well, sort of.

  Lynx pondered on what his next move should be if he failed to hook up with his companions. For the first time the idea that he might wind up stranded in New Orleans occurred to him, and hi
s brow knit in intense contemplation. Talk about gonad-busters. If he wound up stranded, he'd have to fight his way across hundreds of miles of hostile countryside to reach the Home, probably taking on countless scavengers and mutations in the process. A grin creased his thin lips.

  Bop his way over hundreds of miles, huh?

  Maybe being stranded had its plus side too.

  The prospect of going against so many adversaries, instead of filling him with dread or at the least a sense of realistic reservation, actually appealed to his genetically created capacity for action and mayhem. He loved a good fight almost as much as he did anything—maybe even more—and he anticipated such a hazardous journey with relish.

  Bring on the wimps!

  He'd waste every one.

  Lynx glanced at the sun hovering in the western sky, acutely conscious of the dwindling daylight hours, and increased his speed. If he didn't locate the others, he at least wanted to find a safe place to spend the night.

  Not for his sake so much as for the woman. In her frail condition another night exposed to the elements could precipitate an illness.

  That, and the fact a lot of gators and snakes were nocturnal; they did most of their hunting in the cool of the night.

  He definitely didn't want to bump into a snake in the dark. Even little snakes gave him the creeps, and had for as long as he could remember.

  Why, he had no idea.

  For long minutes Lynx continued on his course, and he was about to stop and take a break so he could hunt for food for Eleanore, when from a couple of dozen yards ahead arose the sounds of voices. He was moving through an open stretch of field where the weeds reached past his waist.

  Ten feet to his left a solitary bush reared over six feet in height. He hunched over, holding the woman close to his chest, and darted to the bush.

  The voices grew louder, indicating whoever was doing the talking must be approaching his position.

  Lynx gently deposited Eleanore at the base of the bush and eased to the right until he could peer at the field beyond. He discovered he'd been mistaken; the voices weren't arising directly ahead, they were coming from a point 50 feet to the northwest.

  A party of tonton macoutes was hiking from west to east along the faint trail.

  Lynx vented his low trilling noise at the sight of the three figures in the middle of the file. Blade, Ferret, and Gremlin! Naturally, the dummies had been captured. He watched the group draw closer, thankful the bush must have partially screened him from their view.