Liberty Run

by David Robbins

  Then the incredible had happened. The tiny Family had defeated the last of the dictators and his cohort, the infamous scientist known as the Doktor, and precious freedom had been restored to the people of the Civilized Zone. According to the files Lysenko had read, the Family had been aided in their epic struggle by several factions. One was an army of superb horsemen from South Dakota called the Cavalry. Another contingent of fighters had come from the subterranean city designated the Mound, located many miles east of the Home. Refugees from the ravaged Twin Cities of Minneapolis and St. Paul, calling themselves the Clan, had abetted the Warriors, as had the Flathead Indians from Montana.

  Afterwards, these six groups had formed into the Freedom Federation, pledging to present a united front to any adversaries and to work toward wresting the country from the savage barbarism prevalent since the collapse of civilization.

  Which worried the Soviets no end. General Malenkov and the other Russian leaders viewed the Freedom Federation as their primary enemy, to be eliminated at all costs, no matter what steps might be necessary. The Family was considered to be the soul of the Freedom Federation; they were the smallest numerically, yet they exerted the greatest influence in the Freedom Federation councils. The files the spy had sent contained extensive information on the Family, but not enough to satisfy General Malenkov. He’d ordered a squad sent to capture a Family member, and then truth serum could extract pertinent information detailing the Family’s exploitable weaknesses.

  And here I am, Lieutenant Lysenko mentally noted as he hurried after Grozny and Serov.

  Several sparrows suddenly flew from a dense bush 20 yards to the rear.

  Lysenko stopped, training his AK-47 on the bush, waiting.

  Nothing else happened.

  Lieutenant Lysenko jogged to the southeast. He knew General Malenkov viewed this assignment as being critically important, especially in light of the recent fiasco in Philadelphia. The Soviets could not afford to conduct campaigns on two fronts. The Family’s destruction was imperative. The Family was the unifying element in the Freedom Federation. Without the wise guidance of the Family, the Freedom Federation would fall apart. Or so General Malenkov believed. But how to accomplish the Family’s elimination? Lysenko had participated in two policy sessions. Some high-ranking officers had wanted to send in a large force and wipe out the Family in one fell swoop. But this had been tried before, and it had signally failed. Others had advocated bombing the Home or using long-range missiles, but this idea contained crucial flaws. Soviet planes and jets were in disrepair, incapable of flying the tremendous distance involved. Their helicopters were marginally functional, too unreliable to undertake a full-scale assault of the compound. None of the aerial means, including missiles, could deliver a payload guaranteed to demolish a 30-acre expanse. And General Malenkov did not want any survivors, any martyrs to stir up the Freedom Federation. So Malenkov had proposed using deadly chemical weapons. To be completely effective, the Russians needed to know the layout of the Home, something their spy had been unable to uncover.

  All of this passed through Lieutenant Lysenko’s mind as he sprinted up a low hill. Fate had smiled on him. If he could pull this off, General Malenkov would be duly impressed. And when an officer was in Malenkov’s favor, the sky was the limit as far as his career was concerned.

  Lysenko grinned. He would give anything to please his superior.

  Lysenko reached the top of the hill and stopped, glancing back. He thought of the sparrows, and he wondered if they were being pursued.

  Except for the startled birds, there had been no other indication of anyone on their trail. The Warriors might be exceptionally competent, but it was doubtful they could chase someone through the thick forest without making some noise. The muted snap of a twig, or the faint rustle of a branch, could betray the stealthiest of professionals. Perfect silence, at the speed Serov, Grozny, and him were maintaining, was virtually impossible.

  Or was it?

  Lieutenant Lysenko started down the far side of the hill, bothered by a fact from the files he had neglected in the excitement of the moment.

  What about the genetic deviates?

  The brilliant Doktor had specialized in genetic engineering, in creating unique test-tube offspring, creatures combining human and animal qualities, aberrations endowed with bestial senses, yet governed by a rational intellect. Three of these genetic deviates, according to the files, now resided with the Family, had actually joined the Family in its fight with the Doktor, rebelling against their demented creator. Lysenko had heard other tales about the deviates, about their grotesque appearance and extraordinary abilities, even reports the deviates consumed humans.

  He quickened his pace.

  The minutes dragged by.

  The helicopter had deposited the squad ten miles to the southeast of the Home, in a spacious clearing in the woods. Lysenko had hidden their radio before departing for the Home. The helicopter had returned to Decatur for refueling and to await their transmission signifying their mission was completed.

  Lieutenant Lysenko spotted Grozny and Serov 40 yards ahead, waiting.

  He ran to join them.

  Grozny was on one knee, breathing heavily, the blonde on the ground beside him.

  Serov was leaning against a tree, scanning the nearby vegetation.

  “Why have you stopped?” Lieutenant Lysenko demanded as he reached them.

  Grozny looked up. “I have carried her eight miles, sir. I am fatigued.”

  Lysenko frowned. “You can rest when we get to the rendezvous point. Not before. On your feet!”

  Grozny slowly stood, his left hand held to his side. “So sorry, comrade, but I have a pain.”

  “You are becoming soft, Grozny,” Lysenko snapped.

  Grozny resented the insult. “Soft? Who else could carry over a hundred pounds for eight miles?”

  “I could,” chimed in a new voice.

  The Russians whirled.

  There were three of them, calmly standing between two trees, not more than ten yards to the west. The one on the right was the tallest, about five feet ten, and humanoid in aspect. The creature was naked except for a brown loincloth. Its skin was gray and leathery. A hawklike skull dominated its squat neck. Its nose was pointed, its ears no more than tiny circles of flesh on either side of its bald head. The mouth was a thin slit.

  The eyes contained bizarre, bright red pupils. Its expression reflected its nervousness.

  The one on the left wore a black loincloth, and its feral features radiated sheer animosity. This deviate only reached four feet in height, and couldn’t have weighed more than 60 pounds. Brown hair, about three inches in length, covered its entire body. Its head was outsized for its diminutive form. A long, tapered nose almost resembled a snout. Beady brown eyes shifted from trooper to trooper.

  In the center was the smallest deviate, just shy of four feet tall, but weighing about as much as the feral one. A thick coat of short, grayish-brown hair or fur encased his wiry physique. A gray loincloth protected his genitals. His eyes were vivid green and slightly slanted. His ears were pointed. He resembled, for all the world, a living cat-man.

  Pointed nails capped his bony fingers. Amazingly, his posture conveyed a supreme nonchalance. He was even grinning, exposing his needlelike teeth. “Hi, there, chuckles!” he said to Lysenko in a high-pitched, lisping voice. “We’re the Three Musketeers. I’m Athos. This”—he indicated his tall companion—“is Aramis. And this”—he nodded at the feral one—“is Porthos. We’re here to shish-kebab your gonads!”

  Lieutenant Lysenko recovered quickly. His initial stupefaction subsided, and he leveled his AK-47 and squeezed the trigger.

  Too late.

  The three… things… darted from view, taking cover behind the trees, moving with astonishing speed. One moment they were there; the next they were gone.

  Lysenko’s burst struck the two trees, splintering the wood, sending chips flying. He ceased firing, glancing at Grozny, jerked his
head to the left.

  Grozny nodded and crouched, stepping to the left of the trees.

  Lysenko motioned for Serov to do likewise to the right. He. waited while his men cautiously neared the trees from opposite sides, prepared to catch the genetic deviates in a cross fire.

  Grozny and Serov paused, exchanged glances, and swept around the trees, weapons at the ready.

  “Well?” Lysenko barked when they failed to fire.

  “They’re gone!” Grozny exclaimed.

  “Gone? Where could they go?” Lysenko queried in disbelief.

  Harsh laughter sounded from the wall of forest beyond.

  Grozny and Serov backpedaled to Lysenko’s side.

  “What are they?” Serov hissed.

  “Mutants,” Lieutenant Lysenko answered. “Man-made mutants.”

  “They’re dead mutants if they show their faces again,” Grozny vowed.

  From in the woods came a low, raspy question: “Should I be scared now, or later?”

  More laughter.

  “What do we do?” Serov asked in a soft whisper.

  “You can drop your guns and give up!” ordered the one with the high, lisping voice, the cat-man. “And we’ll let you live!”

  “You are insane!” Lysenko shouted. “You don’t even carry guns!”

  The cat-man snickered. “I don’t need a gun, bub! My nails will slice you open like a rotten melon!”

  Grozny was peering into the vegetation. “Where the hell are they? I can’t see them!”

  Lieutenant Lysenko looked at the blonde. Inspiration struck. “I know you come from the Home!” he shouted. “I know what you are!”

  “I think we’ve just been insulted,” said the low, raspy voice, seemingly coming from a tangle of brush to the left.

  “If you don’t come out now,” Lieutenant Lysenko warned, “I will kill our prisoner!”

  “I wouldn’t do that, dimples, if I were you!” yelled the cat-man. “Her hubby is after your ass, and he’s one mad son of a gun. His name is Hickok. Maybe you’ve heard of him? He’s got quite a rep. I expect he’ll jam his Colt Pythons up your butt and keep pullin’ the triggers until the cylinders are empty!”

  “I’m serious!” Lysenko repeated his threat. “I’ll kill her!”

  The cat-man uttered a peculiar trilling sound. “Not nice, chuckles! Not nice at all!”

  Silence descended.

  “Do you think they’ve gone?” Serov asked hopefully.

  “Come out!” Lysenko bellowed.

  “Please!” cried a new voice, coming from directly ahead. “Surrender, yes? Avoid bloodshed, no?”

  Lieutenant Lysenko was stymied. He could hear the deviates, but couldn’t see them. And he couldn’t shoot what he couldn’t see. He was bluffing about killing the blonde, because General Malenkov needed her alive. Lysenko suspected the damn mutants were deliberately delaying their escape, hindering them until the Warriors could arrive.

  “What do we do, sir?” Serov asked anxiously.

  Before Lysenko could reply, a high-pitched voice, from directly behind them, answered, “I say we play peekaboo!”

  The Russians soldiers spun.

  The cat-man and the feral one were already in motion. The cat-man leaped onto Grozny, burying the tapered tips of his right fingernails in Grozny’s eyes, even as his left hand, his fingers pressed together, forming a compact point, speared into Grozny’s throat. Grozny screamed as the cat-man tore his eyeballs from their sockets and ripped his neck from chin to chest.

  Serov bravely endeavored to bring his AK-47 into play as the feral creature landed on his chest in one bound. Snarling, the deviate placed a hairy hand on either side of Serov’s astounded face, then brutally wrenched Serov’s head to the left. There was a distinct popping noise, and Serov slumped to the ground.

  Lieutenant Lysenko had retreated several steps, unable to fire without hitting Grozny and Serov. He aimed at the feral one as Serov fell, but before he could shoot, the third mutant intervened. Steely gray arms encircled him, lifted him from the ground. The pressure was unbelievable.

  He felt like his chest was on the verge of being crushed. His AK-47 clattered to the earth.

  The feral one was standing with its arms folded, smirking, staring at Serov.

  The cat-man suddenly rose from Grozny’s body, its hands soaked with blood, dripping crimson. It grinned, then glared at Lysenko. “Put the Red down, Gremlin,” he said. “I want to have some fun.”

  Gremlin twisted his torso, holding the soldier away from his feline friend. “No, Lynx! Blade wanted them alive, yes? Must spare this one, no?”

  Lynx shook his head, his ears twitching. “I just want to have a little fun with him.”

  “Bet me!” interjected the feral one in his low, rasping tone. “I’ve seen that look in your eyes before. You’ve got the blood lust.”

  “Who asked you, Ferret?” Lynx quipped.

  “I know what I’m talking about,” Ferret persisted. “All of us are prone to it. Maybe its part of our genetic constitution. You know as well as I that the damn Doktor designed us as his personal assassin corps.”

  “Yeah,” Lynx concurred. “The Doc was always braggin’ about being the only person able to edit the genetic instructions encoded in DNA, or some such garbage. Odds are, he intended for us to live to kill.”

  Gremlin shook his leathery head. “Gremlin has never had blood lust, yes? Must not be true for all of us, no?”

  Lynx snickered. “Gremlin, you’re such a goody-goody, you’d never kill anyone or anything just for the thrill of it.”

  Gremlin frowned. “There is a thrill in killing, yes?”

  “For some of us,” Lynx confessed. He nodded at the Red. “You’re real lucky, pal. If I hadn’t of given my word to Blade, you’d be mincemeat right about now.”

  “Listen!” Ferret exclaimed.

  There was a crashing in the underbrush, and a man dashed into view, breathing heavily from the strenuous exertion of having run eight miles.

  He was a lean blond, with a sweeping handlebar mustache. Buckskins and moccasins covered his muscular frame. Strapped around his waist were a pair of pearl-handled Colt Python revolvers.

  “Hickok!” Lynx declared. “We’re having a pajama party! Care to join us?”

  The gunman ignored the comment. His blue eyes swept the area, and locked on the unconscious figure of his wife. He ran up to her.

  Lynx glanced at Ferret. “Is this what they mean by true love?”

  Hickok knelt by Sherry’s side and cradled her in his arms. He carefully examined her but couldn’t find any visible injury.

  “Sherry is fine, yes?” Gremlin asked hopefully.

  “She’d best be,” Hickok growled. He took her in his arms, then stood.

  “Do you need some help?” Ferret asked.

  Hickok shook his head. He walked over to the Russian officer, his seething eyes pinpoints of fury. “If you’ve hurt her, you bastard, you’re dead! Nothing will keep me from you! No one will stop me! I’ll kill you inch by miserable inch, until you beg for mercy! You understand me?”

  Lieutenant Lysenko scowled.

  Lynx looked at Ferret, beaming. “I love it when he talks like that!”

  Hickok leaned toward the Russian. “You wipe that off your face, or I’ll kill you right now!”

  “Hickok!”

  The speaker was new to the scene, a giant of a man, striding toward them, his massive arms and legs bulging with raw power. His hair was dark, his eyes a piercing gray, his complexion rugged. He wore a black leather vest and green fatigue pants, as well as moccasins, the typical Family footwear. A pair of Bowies, his favorite weapons, rested in their sheaths, one on each hip.

  “Uh-oh!” Lynx declared. “The party-pooper is here!”

  “I need him alive,” the big man said to Hickok.

  Hickok’s lips compressed. He glanced at the giant, then nodded. “Fine by me, Blade, but I want him when you’re through.”

  “That’s not up
to me,” Blade said, “and you know it.”

  Hickok gazed at the soldier. “I’ll be seein’ you.” He walked off, Sherry nestled in his arms.

  Blade studied the dead men, then stared at Lynx. “I thought I told you I wanted them alive.”

  Lynx shrugged. “Couldn’t be helped. Besides, we did save you one of them.”

  Blade moved over to Gremlin. “I’ll take him from here.”

  “Gremlin can carry to Home for you, yes?” Gremlin asked.

  “Thanks,” Blade responded. “But the Warriors will take over now.” He drew his right Bowie.

  Gremlin released the Russian.

  Lieutenant Lysenko dropped to the ground, landing on his knees. The razor edge of a Bowie was abruptly applied to his neck.

  “You give me any trouble,” Blade stated, “and I’ll let Hickok have you!

  Stand up! Move!”

  Lysenko obeyed.

  Blade started ushering the Russian in the direction of the Home.

  “Hey!” Lynx called.

  Blade paused. “What?”

  “What about us?” Lynx inquired. “No thank you’? No pat on the back?

  No parade in our honor?”

  “I’m sure Hickok will thank you personally,” Blade said. “I appreciate what you did. You three caught up with them much faster than we could have—”

  “You got that right,” Lynx commented. “—but I must get this one locked up, and see how Sherry is doing, and send out a detail for the bodies of Jean and Claudia. Talk to you later,” Blade remarked. He took another step, prodding the Russian officer with his Bowie.

  “What about these dead troopers?” Ferret inquired. “Want us to leave them here?”

  “No,” Blade replied over his right shoulder. “They might attract a mutate, or something worse. Bury them.”

  Lynx watched the Warrior chief and the Red disappear in the trees, then turned, gesturing angrily. “How about that? We pull Sherry’s fat out of the fire, and this is the thanks we get! Bury them? I say we leave ’em for the worms!”