Was it really the influence exerted by the Family? Or was the cause some quality inside of her? Had she matured? Was that it? She remembered Plato saying once that a person had to mature to grow. Was she becoming wiser, or dumber? What woman in her right mind would allow the man of her dreams to slip through her fingers?
Bertha sadly shook her head.
There were so many questions, and never enough answers.
Bertha stopped, concealed from the transport by the dense thicket. She dropped the uniform onto the ground, then leaned the M-16 on a low branch. Preoccupied with her reflection, she removed her green fatigue shirt and her belt.
The underbrush to her rear rustled.
Bertha scooped up the M-16 and twirled, her alert eyes scanning the vegetation.
Nothing.
Her nerves must be on edge, she decided, and lowered the M-16 to the ground. It served her right for acting like a damp wimp, for leaving the SEAL to change her clothes. She stooped and picked up the shirt to the Russian uniform.
Footsteps pounded on the earth behind her.
Bertha released the uniform shirt and bent over, grabbing at the M-16.
Before she could grip it, arms encircled her waist and drove her to her knees. She instinctively rammed her left elbow back and up, and was gratified when she connected and someone grunted. The arms encircling her slackened slightly, and she repeated the move with her right arm. At the same time, she butted her head backwards.
Both blows landed.
There was a gasp, and the arms holding her slipped away.
Bertha lunged for the M-16, sweeping it into her hands and rolling to her feet, her fingers on the trigger. She glimpsed her assailant and froze.
“Son of a bitch!” she exclaimed.
It was a kid!
Her attacker was a boy of 12 or 13, a pudgy youth dressed in tattered rags. He was on his hands and knees, blood trickling from his nose, peering up at her in abject fear.
Bertha started to lower the M-16.
The boy bolted. He was up and gone like a panicked colt, racing back the way he came, heading into the brush.
“Wait!” Bertha called.
The youth ignored her. He darted between two trees and disappeared.
“Damn!” Bertha muttered, starting after him. She took three steps, then realized she was naked from the waist up. “Doubledamn!” She turned, spied her fatigue shirt, and snatched it from the grass. What the hell was a kid doing out here in the middle of nowhere? She jogged after him, donning her shirt as she ran, reaching the two trees and pausing to button her front.
Where was he?
Bertha studied the ground, wishing she could read tracks like Geronimo. A twig snapped, and she looked up in time to see the boy duck around a boulder ten yards in front of her.
There was no way she was going to let him escape!
Bertha took off, sprinting to the boulder and around it, but the boy was gone.
Now where?
The youth came into view 20 yards to the right, visible as he passed a tree and scurried into a patch of high weeds.
Bertha ran to the weeds and stopped, surveying the terrain. The weed patch was 15 yards in diameter, and the weeds were 3 to 5 feet in height. A hill rose on the other side of the weeds, its slope covered with trees and brush.
The boy appeared about ten yards up the hill. He glanced over his left shoulder at Bertha, then kept going.
The sucker sure could run! Bertha hurried after him, crossing the weeds and reaching the base of the hill. Close up, the hill was a lot steeper than it had seemed. She hurried up the slope, her powerful legs churning.
The fleeing boy became visible again, this time near the crest of the hill.
He stopped, watching her ascend.
“Wait!” Bertha yelled.
To her surprise, the boy grinned.
“I won’t hurt you!” Bertha shouted. “I just want to talk to you!”
The boy flipped her the finger.
“Wait there!” Bertha cried.
Instead, the boy turned and continued over the crest of the hill.
Smart-ass kid!
Bertha chugged up the slope, halting when she reached the top. The other side of the hill was an eerie landscape. A fire, probably caused by a lightning strike, had fried the vegetation to a cinder. Dozens of blackened, charred trunks dotted the hillside.
The boy was almost to the bottom. He stopped, gazed up at her, and laughed.
What the hell did he think this was? A game? Bertha pounded down the slope after him. Below the hill was a field, and she saw the boy reach it and accelerate. For a pudgy kid, he sure could move! Her black boots crunched on the brittle burnt grass as she raced to the bottom of the hill. A sudden pain in her left side caused her to check her pursuit. She doubled over, breathing heavily.
Pudgy was nearly to the far side of the field.
Bertha inhaled deeply, trying to alleviate the discomfort. How far was she from the SEAL? she wondered. Too far. She couldn’t keep following this kid, not when Blade and Sundance might become worried and come looking for her. If the brat didn’t want to talk to her, that was his business.
She was on a mission.
Besides, her chest ached like crazy!
Bertha slowly straightened.
The boy was on the other side of the field, simply standing there, his hands on his hips, watching her.
Bertha flipped him the finger.
The boy’s mouth dropped.
Bertha turned, grinning. That ought to teach the little snot! She began retracing her path up the hill.
There was a loud scream from across the field.
Bertha spun.
The boy was gone.
Bertha frowned as she moved to the edge of the field. For some reason, the fire had not scorched the weeds and brush below the hill. She squinted, trying to see the trees on the far side clearly.
There was no hint of what had happened to the boy.
Bertha hesitated. She should get back to the SEAL, return to Blade and report. But what if the kid was really in trouble? She couldn’t just leave. If the brat was trying to fake her out, she’d give him a lesson he’d never forget.
Like a bust in the chops.
Bertha jogged toward the woods, constantly scanning for movement.
The farther she went, the more concerned she became about the boy. The forest was too dangerous, what with all the wild animals and the mutants, for a young boy. His threads had been pitiful. He must be on his own, wresting an existence from the land as best he could.
A shadowy shape materialized in the forest ahead.
Bertha halted, raising the M-16. Whatever it was, the thing was enormous. She waited for it to move. And waited.
What the hell was it?
Bertha cautiously advanced. She suddenly realized the shape wasn’t that of a monstrous creature.
It was a log cabin!
The cabin was situated approximately 30 yards into the trees. The surrounding forest served to render it invisible except at close range. Two windows, both with their glass panes intact, fronted the field. Between the windows was a door.
An open door.
Bertha tensed, suspecting a trap. Maybe the boy had deliberately led her here. She stepped toward the cabin, determined to get to the bottom of this. Her boots eased forward, step by step.
The cabin seemed to be uninhabited.
Bertha reached a cleared space, a strip about ten yards wide, forming a semicircle in front of the door. She advanced toward the cabin, proceeding cautiously. Her M-16 at the ready, she would take a pace, then pause and survey the cabin and the trees. Take a step and pause. Take a step and pause. She was on her fourth step, her left boot about to contact the ground, when she realized her mistake, when a startling insight flooded her mind. If there was a cleared space in front of the cabin, someone must have cleared it! Someone who used the cabin on a regular basis! And anyone who went to all the trouble to clear the vegetation around t
he door would hardly leave the cabin unattended with the door open! So if the door was open, then someone must be inside!
Bertha placed her left foot on the soil, intending to spin and race for cover. But she never made it. Her left boot touched the ground and didn’t stop, sinking into the earth, into a gaping hole, almost spilling her off balance. She caught herself before she could plunge forward, and she was on the verge of pulling back from the edge of the hole when something slammed into the small of her back.
They had her.
Bertha received a fleeting glimpse of figures dashing from the cabin and the woods surrounding her, and then she pitched into the hole, into a large pit, crashing through a layer of dirt supported by a framework of branches and woven reeds and weeds.
Someone was laughing.
Bertha tried to clutch the rim of the pit, but her fingers slipped, unable to retain a purchase. She was aware of falling, of darkness, of dirt stinging her face and eyes, and then she landed with a jarring crash on her right side, the M-16 flying from her hands.
More laughter and giggling arose above her.
Stunned, Bertha rolled onto her back, gazing up at the rim of the pit seven feet away. Faces were looking down at her, but she couldn’t focus on them. She shook her head, trying to correct her vision, and struggled to rise to her hands and knees.
“Not so fast, bitch!” shouted a harsh voice.
A hard object struck Bertha on the forehead, and she sprawled onto her face. Her last mental image before passing out was of Sundance.
Chapter Eight
“She should have been back by now,” Blade declared, impatiently scanning the forest.
“Should we go look for her?” Sundance asked.
“You go,” Blade said. “I’ll stick with the SEAL. Take the autoloading rifle you brought from the Home with you.”
Sundance twisted, leaned over, and retrieved his automatic rifle from the rear section. It was an outstanding piece of military hardware, an FN Model 50-63. The rifle featured a folding stock, an 18-inch barrel and 20-round magazine, and was chambered for the .308 cartridge. The FN 50-63 had initially been a semiautomatic, but the Family Gunsmiths had coverted it to full automatic. Next to his Grizzlies, Sundance preferred the FN over any other weapon in the massive Family armory.
“Be careful,” Blade advised.
Sundance nodded, and exited the transport. He felt uncomfortable in the Russian uniform. The Grizzlies were in their shoulder holsters, nestled under the uniform shirt. He would need to unbutton the shirt to reach the Grizzlies, and he didn’t like having them tucked away. Frowning, he hefted the FN and moved away from the SEAL. He had last seen Bertha walking to the west, and he hurried to a tree he remembered seeing her near.
There were her boot tracks, in the soft soil near the base of the tree.
Sundance searched the forest, then jogged to a thicket to the left of the tree. If Bertha had wanted privacy while she changed, the thicket would have screened her from the SEAL. He rushed to the far side of the thicket.
Bertha’s Russian uniform was lying on the ground behind the thicket.
Sundance stopped, his penetrating green eyes sweeping the woods.
Bertha was nowhere in sight. He grabbed her uniform and raced to the SEAL.
Blade was waiting for him outside the transport, standing near the front grill.
“I found this,” Sundance announced as he approached, holding aloft the Russian uniform.
Blade took the uniform, scowling. He glanced at the woods.
“Do you want me to go look for her?” Sundance inquired.
“No,” Blade replied.
“You’re going to look for her?” Sundance asked.
“No,” Blade said.
“We’re not just going to leave her out there?” Sundance demanded, his tone rising.
“That’s exactly what we’re going to do,” Blade stated.
“Like hell we are!” Sundance stated.
Blade stared at Sundance. “You’ll do what I tell you to do.”
Sundance gestured toward the trees. “But how can we just up and leave her? She could be in trouble! She could be counting on us to help her!”
“There’s no doubt in my mind that she’s in trouble,” Blade said. “She wouldn’t walk off and leave this uniform. But whatever fix she’s in, she’ll have to get out of by herself.”
“Since when do Warriors desert their own?” Sundance asked bitterly.
“Normally, we don’t,” Blade said.
“Is this a special case?” Sundance queried.
“It is,” Blade responded.
“You mind telling me in what way?” Sundance persisted.
Blade sighed. Sundance was obviously furious. “Our mission takes priority. Every run we go on, the mission is our primary consideration. We’re under a time constraint on this run. We don’t know if the Vikings the Russians captured are still alive, but we’re operating under the assumption they are. Who knows what shape the Vikings are in after being questioned by the Soviets for over two weeks? We know the Reds don’t go easy on their prisoners. The Vikings could be on their last legs.”
Sundance opened his mouth to speak.
Blade held up his right hand. “I’m not finished. We know the Vikings were definitely in Philadelphia about two weeks ago. They could have been moved, but then again, they might still be there. In any event, the sooner we reach Philadelphia, the better.”
“But Bertha—” Sundance began.
“I said I wasn’t finished,” Blade stated, cutting him off. “There’s one more aspect to bear in mind. You’re well aware of how close the Family came to being destroyed by the forces of the Doktor and the dictator ruling the Civilized Zone. You know we barely scraped through intact. And we could find ourselves in a similar situation real soon. The Soviets aren’t to be trifled with. We might have strong allies in the Freedom Federation, but all of us combined are no more powerful than the Russians.” Blade paused. “We have a chance here, Sundance, to turn the tide. If these Vikings are mortal enemies of the Russians, then we might be able to forge an alliance with them. The Soviets would be caught in a vise, between the Vikings on the east and the Freedom Federation in the west.
Together, we might be able to defeat the Russians and drive them from the country.” He paused again. “Knowing all of this, what do you think we should do about Bertha? Should we go after her? Where do we start looking?”
“Where I found the uniform,” Sundance said.
“Okay. But we can’t go waltzing through the forest yelling our lungs out for her. The Russians, or the damn mutants, might hear us and come to investigate. Which means we’d have to track her. Are you an expert tracker?”
“No,” Sundance replied reluctantly.
“Neither am I,” Blade said. “Geronimo is, but he isn’t here. I’m a fair hand at it, but tracking takes time. Lots and lots of time. And time is the one thing we don’t have to spare.”
“I know,” Sundance said, averting his eyes.
“I’d let you go after her,” Blade stated, “but what if something happens to you? What then? I can’t complete our mission by myself.”
“And the mission is our primary consideration,” Sundance quoted, his facial muscles tightening.
“Exactly,” Blade affirmed.
“So we do nothing,” Sundance snapped.
“We wait,” Blade corrected him. “If she returns by nightfall, fine. If she doesn’t, we leave for Philadelphia without her.”
Sundance squinted up at the sun. “That doesn’t give her much time.”
“I know,” Blade acknowledged.
Sundance studied his giant companion. “You know, I don’t envy you.”
“Don’t envy me? Why?” Blade asked.
“I don’t envy the responsibility you have,” Sundance confessed. “I don’t envy the decisions you must make. I don’t think I’d ever want to be top Warrior.”
Blade chuckled.
“What’
s so funny?” Sundance inquired.
“I was just thinking of something Hickok once said,” Blade revealed.
“What did he say?”
“It was shortly after Hickok’s son, Ringo, was born,” Blade recalled.
“Hickok said that being a Warrior is a lot like being a diaper.”
“A diaper?” Sundance responded, surprised. “What in the world do Warriors and diapers have in common?”
Blade grinned. “We both get shit on a lot.”
Chapter Nine
Ohhhhhh! Her aching head!
“She’s comin’ around!” a voice yelled.
Bertha slowly opened her eyes. Acute agony racked her, spreading from her forehead to her chin.
“She’s awake!”
Bertha grit her teeth and turned her head, seeking the speaker. The last thing she remembered was falling into the damn pit. She found herself on a wooden table, flat on her back, her hands and feet securely bound. A sticky sensation prickled her forehead and face.
The table was surrounded.
There were over a dozen of them, kids of varying ages, boys and girls, all dressed in rags, all filthy.
Bertha blinked several times, wondering if she was dreaming. She could see a lantern hanging on a wall next to a closed door, and she realized she must be in the cabin.
“About time you woke up!” declared the oldest boy in the room. He was about 16, and wore a crudely fashioned, torn brown shirt and shredded jeans. His hair was red, his eyes green.
Bertha went to reply, but the mere act of moving her lips sparked an intense spasm in her head.
“I told you she’s been hurt bad,” said the eldest girl, a youth of 14 or 15 with stringy brown hair and brown eyes. She wore a patched, lopsided green shift.
“So what?” the oldest boy retorted. “Hunters are scum! She deserves what she got.”
Bertha managed to elevate her head several inches from the table top.
“Who… are you?” she mumbled.
The youngsters stepped back at the sound of her voice.
“Shut your mouth, Hunter!” the oldest boy barked.
“Hunter? I’m not hunting game,” Bertha said. She closed her eyes as vertigo engulfed her.
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