But how?
How could he slay such an awesome monstrosity? The Warrior shook his head and walked inland, parting the undergrowth with his forearms, treading carefully, constantly on the alert for snakes. When he had traversed a dozen yards a thin green form slithered off to the east. Minutes later he spied a rabbit bounding away.
Shortly the shadows began to lengthen as the sun dipped partly below the horizon.
Blade came to a wide clearing. Lying in the center was a large log, the slowly rotting remnant of a once-towering tree. He walked over and sat down, relieved at the opportunity to rest and formulate his, strategy. Birds sang in the nearby woods. Insects buzzed noisily. Long minutes dragged by without any sound of pursuit. The serene setting lulled Blade into a sense of complacency. He thought of Jenny and Gabe, wishing with all of his soul that he would be with them soon. First things first, however.
Eradicating the Black Snake Society was paramount. He speculated on whether simply terminating the Baron would suffice to end the tonton macoutes, and he concluded they would probably appoint another leader or one would merely take over where the Baron had left off. So killing the Baron wasn't enough. He must exterminate the entire Society in order to free the people of New Orleans. Considering the odds, the task promised to be formidable.
Maybe the key lay in Damballah.
The huge snake was more than a mere symbol of the Black Snake Society's power; it was their Deity Incarnate, tangible proof of their masterful magic, physical evidence of the efficacy of their voodoo. Their living god rendered them invincible in their own eyes and cowed the populace of New Orleans. If Damballah could be destroyed, if someone could prove the Black Snake Society wasn't omnipotent, their days would be numbered.
Which brought him back to square one.
How do you kill a snake bigger than a killer whale?
Blade put his hands on the log and stared thoughtfully at the grass, mulling his options. His ears registered a faint scraping noise to his rear, but he paid no attention to the sound. Absorbed in contemplation, he racked his brain for a means of slaying Damballah. A machine gun might do the trick, provided the gun fired at point-blank range and the snake stayed still long enough to take a few dozen rounds in the head. A hand grenade would definitely do the job, but he didn't have one.
The scraping noise intruded on his reflection again, only louder this time.
Idly curious, Blade shifted and looked behind him. The moment he laid eyes on the creature, stalking him and saw its iron jaws spread wide to chomp on his back, he threw himself forward into a smooth roll and rose with his Bowies out and ready.
On the far side of the log, its squat bulk supported by four stout legs, its head extended and its tapered mouth all the way open, its spiteful brown eyes glaring at him in inexplicable primal rage, stood a snapping turtle four feet in height at the curved crest of its shell.
Blade marveled at the animal's size and slowly backed away. With the log interposed between them, he felt safe, The turtle's head came even with the top of the fallen tree, but its legs were too short to push it over.
The snapper hissed.
"I didn't know this island was occupied," Blade quipped, and halted eight feet from the log. In the bayou, it seemed, a person couldn't turn his back for a second. He studied the reptile, estimating it to be three times the normal size, yet another example of radiation- or chemical-induced giantism. If he hadn't looked back when he did, the thing would now be tearing him to shreds and gulping his flesh down. Thank the Spirit turtles were notoriously slow!
A rustling came from his right. Blade glanced in that direction and saw another snapper coming toward him. It moved ponderously, and he could easily outrun the animal. More rustling came from the left. Goose bumps broke out on the Warrior's skin as he observed two more snappers lumbering toward him. What in the world was going on? Had he stumbled onto their breeding island? He pivoted, decided to get away from the clearing, and there were three more spaced about a yard apart and charging in their own lethargic fashion.
The largest of freshwater species, snappers were renowned for their fierce dispositions and jaws like steel traps. Distinguished by massive heads, long tails, and heavy carapaces, snappers would eat anything they could catch. Blade decided to beat a hasty retreat. He spun to the east and ran straight at the lone snapper blocking his path. The turtle extended its neck as far as it could go, eager to rip into him. But at the last second he leaped, arcing five feet into the air and sailing over the snapper, its jaws snapping shut within inches of his combat boots. He landed lightly and chuckled, then darted into the vegetation bordering the clearing.
And promptly realized he had only compounded his problem.
There were many more snappers lurking in the weeds and the thickets, dozens of them all around him.
The Warrior darted aside as a head lanced at him from out of a clump of high grass. He ran a few yards and was compelled to dodge to the left when another turtle materialized in front of him.
A universal, irate hissing broke out.
Blade paused, seeking a safe avenue through the snappers. None existed. His best bet was to keep moving, to run the gauntlet of vicious jaws as quickly as he could. Instantly he took off, sprinting in short steps, wary of accidentally blundering into one of the ponderous reptiles.
A small snapper appeared on the left and bit at him.
Blade darted to the right, nimbly skirting a partly concealed snapper, and ran due east for five yards before he was compelled to dance to the left once again.
And so it went.
For over five minutes Blade weaved and twisted and sidestepped as never before, evading gaping mouth after gaping mouth, listening to the constant hissing and the loud snap of the powerful jaws that could rend him as easily as if his body was made of soft clay. The darkening shadows complicated his escape, distorting his perception, causing him to go even slower than he might otherwise have gone. His legs began to tire, his reflexes to slow.
How many more were there?
Aware a single misstep could cause his death, Blade dashed to the north to avoid a squat shape, and only after he passed it did he realize he had just successfully avoided the stump of a tree.
Now his mind was playing tricks on him!
The Warrior covered eight more yards. Abruptly, the snappers dwindled. He found himself on a narrow strip of clear land on the east side of the island, the water not ten feet away, and halted, glancing right and left.
Not a turtle in sight.
Overjoyed at his deliverance, Blade slid the Bowies back in their sheaths and gazed at the underbrush behind him, waiting to see if the snappers would pursue him. After 30 seconds he judged himself to be safe, so he focused his attention on the twilight-enshrouded bayou.
The harsh whine of an outboard unexpectedly shattered the stillness, and around the southeast corner of the island sped a boat filled with armed tonton macoutes.
Chapter Sixteen
The bozos were candy.
Lynx took out the first one, Louis, with a swipe of his rigid nails, tearing the man's throat open from side to side before Louis could recover from the shock of having the cottonmouth hurled at him. He shoved, sending Louis backwards, causing the tonton macoute to stumble into Alex.
The second man in black endeavored to push his friend aside and aim at the hybrid, but he found his human reflexes were no match for the uncanny speed of the cat-man.
Lynx darted around Louis and swatted Alex's weapon aside with his left forearm. His right hand streaked to Alex's neck and clamped tight, and with a surge of his shoulder and arm muscles he lifted Alex clear off the ground, pivoted, and slammed the man down.
Alex gamely tried to bring his weapon into play.
Not today, chump! Lynx thought, and lashed out with his right foot, catching Alex on the temple, stunning the tonton macoute. A second kick, planted on the tip of Alex's chin, rendered the man in black unconscious.
What a couple of wimps!
Lynx looked at Louis, who convulsed wildly on the dank earth, then stepped over and knelt beside Eleanore.
A hasty check verified the woman was still out like a light. Her skin felt extremely hot to the touch, a certain indication of a fever. Which annoyed him no end. As if he didn't have enough to worry about, now she required medical attention.
The old saying was right.
When it rained, it poured.
Lynx lifted Eleanore and deposited her in the boat. He collected the fallen weapons, an M-16 and an M3A1 submachine gun, and stripped the tonton macoutes of the ammo they carried in pouches attached to the rear of their belts. The weaponry went in the boat, and a moment later he was pushing the boat into the water. He undid the line, reached for the outboard, and paused.
Alex groaned and struggled to his elbows, blood trickling from his mouth. He looked at Louis, then at the boat. "Stop!"
"You've got to be kidding turkey," Lynx replied, and lowered his right hand to the submachine gun.
"If it's the last thing I ever do, man, I'll kill you," Alex vowed, trying to rise.
"Afraid not, chuckles. You've got it all backwards," Lynx told him. "And don't bother getting up on my account." He raised the M3A1, worked the cocking handle, and fired.
Alex's eyes widened the instant the weapon appeared. He scrambled feebly away from the bayou, but he had gone only a yard when the submachine gun chattered and the .45-caliber rounds smashed into his torso and flattened him on his back in a growing puddle of his own blood.
"Since you're a magician, maybe you can bring yourself back to life,"
Lynx remarked to the corpse, and placed the submachine gun at his feet.
He experimented with the outboard, adjusting the throttle and turning the small gray key before the motor kicked over. A satisfied smile creased his lips. He'd driven vehicles with manual chokes on many occasions, and the outboard was no different.
Eleanore shifted but didn't awaken.
Frowning, concerned for her welfare, Lynx revved the motor and headed out across the murky water. He had no idea in which direction the tonton macoutes had taken Blade, Ferret, and Gremlin. His best bet, therefore, called for heading to New Orleans, where he could find assistance for Eleanore and hopefully elicit information concerning the Baron's estate.
Only the top rim of the sun was visible to the west.
Lynx made himself as comfortable as he could and stared straight ahead, fascinated by the swampy domain so different from any he had ever seen. Birds were everywhere. So were snakes. He saw many before the darkness encroached enough to limit visibility. The descent of nightfall posed an inconvenience. There were countless isolated trees and mounds and logs dotting the bayou. Hitting any one of them would send the boat to the bottom. If it became too dark, he'd have to pick his way slowly or go on foot. And with Eleanore unconscious, walking was impractical. Not to mention unhealthy, what with all the damn snakes.
Lynx had been able to fix the position of the city in his mind before it became too dark to see the former metropolis, and he relied on his unerring feline instincts to guide him once it did. Lacking a watch, he had to estimate the passage of time and distance, and initially he calculated New Orleans to be four or five miles away. He also assumed the bayou would take him directly to the outskirts, but after progressing only two miles, and just as twilight began to give way to the deeper inkiness of night, he spied land ahead.
What was this?
He stood in the boat for a better view, surprised to discover the land was actually that: the mainland, not a mere island. An ancient pier jutted into the water, extending 50 feet from the bank, and four other boats were tied at dock. None of Them resembled the type of boats used by the tonton macoutes. Beyond the pier a paved road led off to the east.
Lynx directed the boat toward the land, wondering if he would be able to locate a functional vehicle he could "borrow" to transport Eleanore into the city. Movement below a stand of trees near the pier arrested his attention, and he stared at the spot for a second before his sharp eyes recognized the shape of the tethered horse.
Wow!
Maybe he did have a guardian angel like the Elders claimed.
Chuckling at his good luck, Lynx brought the boat in next to the end of the pier. He cut the outboard and grabbed hold of the narrow ladder leading upward from the water. Working rapidly, he secured the boat to the pier, and was bending to lift Eleanore when an unexpected sound stiffened him in consternation.
Someone coughed.
Lynx leaped to the ladder and climbed to the top. As he cleared the rim he was amazed to behold an elderly man sitting 15 feet off, fishing from the edge of the pier. The man's dark clothing blended into the darkness, rendering him almost invisible except at close range.
"Hi, there,"
The friendly greeting was the last thing Lynx expected. He straightened warily and walked toward the thin figure. "Hey, mister. How's it hanging?"
"Oh, about nine inches."
Lynx halted in surprise, then cackled. "Nine inches! I like that. Almost as big as mine."
The fisherman regarded Lynx with an air of curious fascination. He wore jeans and a blue shirt, both of which had seen their prime decades ago. His receding hairline gave him a distinguished aspect. "Sounds like you've got a regular snake in your drawers."
"Do me a favor and don't talk about snakes," Lynx said, moving forward. "Do you mind if I ask you a question?"
"Not at all, Gramps. Shoot."
"What the hell are you?"
"You ever heard of mutations?"
"Who hasn't? But I ain't never heard of one that talk. Where are you from?"
"Would you believe Mars?"
"Nope. I heard about them octopuses when I was whippersnapper. We kicked their keisters but good."
"You too, huh?"
"What?"
"Nothin'. What's your name, gramps?"
"Bob. Bob Wells."
"Do you live around here?"
"Just down the road a piece."
Lynx nodded at the horse. "Is that yours?"
"Yep. I call him Saddlesore. Had him for going on eleven years."
"I need to borrow him."
Bob Wells placed his fishing pole by his left leg. "I don't know as how I'd like that."
"It's not for me," Lynx explained. He started toward the end of the pier.
"Come here a sec."
"What for?" Wells responded suspiciously.
"I want to show you something."
"I don't know."
Lynx stopped and put a friendly smile on his face. "Look, if I wanted to harm you, you'd already be dead. There's a woman here who needs to see a doctor, and fast."
Wells slowly stood, his head cocked to one side, eyeing the hybrid skeptically. "A woman?"
"Yeah. See for yourself." Lynx stepped to the south side of the pier, giving the elderly man plenty of room to pass. "I won't move."
"I guess I can trust you," Wells stated with the same degree of confidence he might use in referring to a ravenous gator. He edged cautiously to the end and peered over the side.
"Well?" Lynx prompted.
"I'll be damned. You were telling the truth. Who is she?"
"Her name is Eleanore DeCoud."
"What happened to her? Did you hurt her?"
"Me?" Lynx snapped, and moved over beside the oldster, "Are you crazy? I don't make a habit of beatin' up on bimbos. The tonton macoutes were after her and—" he began and was immediately interrupted.
"Those bastards! They did this to her?"
"More or less. She's a member of the Resistance."
Wells gaped at Eleanore, then reached out to touch the hybrid's arm.
"Hell, man. If she's with the Resistance, you can keep my horse. Do what you need to."
"Thanks," Lynx said. He hurried down the ladder to get her.
"Those vermin killed my boy about fourteen years ago," Wells detailed.
"If I was a bit younger I'd be with the Resi
stance myself. There's a lot of us who would jump at the chance to do what we can to help them."
Lynx draped Eleanore over his left shoulder and began the ascent.
"You're not gettin' any younger, Gramps. What've you got to lose if you join them now?"
The question caused Wells to think for a moment before answering.
"Nothing but my life. What little is left of it."
"Like I said. What have you got to lose?" Lynx stressed. He came over the top and accepted a hand of assistance from the fisherman. "Thanks."
"Come on. I'll make sure you get on Saddlesore," Wells offered, hastening toward the stand of trees.
"Do you think your horse will spook? Some horses aren't able to handle being ridden by someone who smells like an animal."
"There's just one way to find out."
Lynx cradled Eleanore in his arms and followed. "Where's the nearest doctor?"
"Do you mean like in the old days? Hell, man, there ain't none of them around anymore. The smartest thing you can do is get your lady-friend to Marie. Her place is about a mile and a half from here. Marie will have your friend on her feet in no time."
"Is this Marie a nurse or an herbal healer?"
"Nope. Marie is a mambo."
"What's that?"
"She practices voodoo."
Lynx abruptly halted. "Are you out of your gourd, gramps? Didn't you hear me? Those voodoo types are out to kill this woman."
"Not Marie," Wells said, pausing. "Marie practices good voodoo, the kind that heals people, not the black magic practiced by the Black Snake Society."
"Are you sure it's safe for us to go there?"
"Trust me. Marie has been helping the folks in these parts for damn near thirty years. She's the salt of the earth."
"If you say so."
Wells continued to his horse. The animal shied and he had to grip the reins tightly to prevent it from fleeing. "Whoa, boy! What's the matter with you?"
"It's me," Lynx said from six feet away. "I was afraid of this."
"Do you want a suggestion?"
"Anything."
"Put the woman down and climb on Saddlesore. If you can show him who's boss, he'll let you ride him, no problem."
New Orleans Run Page 13