“King of Prussia is nearby,” Nick revealed.
“Are there Russians there?” Blade queried.
“Commies? Why do you want to find the Commies?” Nick asked.
“We need to borrow one of their vehicles,” Blade declared.
Nick chuckled. “You don’t say! Well, in that case your best bet would be Norristown. The Commies have a large garrison stationed there. Where are you guys headed?”
“I’d rather not say,” Blade said.
Nick shrugged. “No skin off my nose. This way, if I’m caught, I can’t talk, huh?”
Blade nodded.
Nick stared from the giant to the one with the mustache. “You know, I may be gettin’ senile, but I believe you two. I don’t think you’re Commies. No Commie could play dumb that good.”
“Thanks,” Blade said. “I think.”
“Do you know where Norristown is?” Nick inquired.
“No,” Blade replied. “We’ll find it. I have a map with me.”
“But the map won’t tell you where the Commies like to post checkpoints, and which areas to avoid and which ones are safe.” Nick silently debated for a minute. “Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll go along with you. Guide you. How about that idea?”
Blade shook his head. “It would be too dangerous.”
“Dangerous?” Nick cackled. “I didn’t live this long by takin’ it easy, boy! Danger don’t mean a thing to me.”
“No,” Blade said. He walked toward the stairs, Sundance at his side.
“I could show you some shortcuts,” Nick persisted. “I know this area like the back of my hand.”
Blade paused, reflecting. Since speed was of the essence, any shortcut would greatly facilitate their assignment. “Do you promise to do exactly as I tell you?” he asked.
Nick snickered. “Of course!”
“Then you can come,” Blade said. “But only as far as Norristown. Once we’ve acquired a vehicle, you’re on your own.”
“I’m always on my own,” Nick replied. He rose and hurried to the stairs.
“Say! I never did catch your names.”
“I’m Blade,” Blade said introducing himself. “And this is Sundance.”
“Sundance?” Nick chuckled. “Ain’t never heard a name like Sundance before. What’s your last names?”
“We don’t have any,” Blade answered.
Nick squinted at them. “No last names? Never heard of such a thing.”
“Nobody has last names where we come from,” Blade revealed.
“And where might that be?” Nick casually inquired.
“Sorry,” Blade said. “We’d best keep that information to ourselves.”
Nick shrugged. “Fine by me.” He glanced from Blade to Sundance. “You know, I think we’re goin’ to have a real fun time together!”
Chapter Eleven
Bertha slowly regained consciousness. She became aware of an acute pain in her wrists and arms. A cool breeze was blowing on her face. She could smell the fragrant scent of pine and dank earth. And she realized she wasn’t on the table in the cabin; she was suspended by her wrists, her body dangling in the air.
What had happened?
Bertha opened her eyes, confirming her assessment. A rope secured her wrists. She glanced up, and found the rope was looped over the stout limb of a tree. Looking down, she discovered her feet were swaying about three feet above the ground. And she wasn’t alone.
Six of the youngsters were facing her, three of them holding lanterns.
The other three each held an AK-47.
Bertha recognized the oldest boy, the one called Cole. She also saw the girl with the stringy hair, Libby, and the little girl named Milly. The 10-year-old boy with the blonde hair was there, as was old Pudgy Butt himself, the brat who had led her into the trap. The other two she didn’t know, a boy and a girl, both about 12 years old.
“Glad to see you joined us, bitch!” Cole greeted her.
Bertha glared down at him. Her headache had subsided, but her forehead was sore. “That ain’t no way to talk to a lady, you snotnosed shithead!”
Cole bristled, leveling his AK-47 at Bertha’s belly. “I should waste you right now, bitch!”
“While my hands are tied?” Bertha taunted him. “Ain’t you the brave baby!”
Cole took a step toward her. “I’m not a baby!”
“Could of fooled me!” Bertha retorted.
Cole jammed the AK-47 barrel into her gut. “Damn you!”
“Cole! No!” The girl called Libby cried.
“Why not?” Cole demanded, glowering up at Bertha. “She’s a damn Hunter! Who cares if it’s quick or slow?”
Bertha remembered the squabble in the cabin. She glanced at Libby.
“What’s a hunter?”
“Don’t you know?” Libby responded.
“Nope,” Bertha said.
“Bullshit!” Cole exploded. “You expect us to believe you?”
Libby gazed at Cole. “She might be telling the truth.”
“Are you going to let her trick you?” Cole snapped. “You know what the Hunters are like! They’ll do anything to catch one of us! Lie! Wear disguises! Shoot us in the back! Anything!”
Libby stared at Bertha, her youthful face betraying her doubt.
Bertha recognized a possible ally in the girl. “Look. I ain’t no lousy hunter! I’m a Warrior.”
“What’s a Warrior?” Libby asked.
“A Warrior protects others from harm,” Bertha explained.
Cole laughed. “Can it, bitch! Nobody is going to believe a word you say!”
“I wasn’t talkin’ to you!” Bertha stated stiffly. “I was talkin’ to Libby.”
“You’re not here to hurt us?” Libby inquired.
“Nope,” Bertha answered.
Cole turned on Libby, waving his AK-47. “Come on, Libby! You’re not falling for this shit, are you?” He spun toward Bertha. “If you’re not here to harm us, then why’d you chase Eddy?”
“I thought he was in trouble,” Bertha answered.
“Yeah! Right!” Cole rejoined.
Bertha looked at Eddy. “Didn’t you attack me, Fatso?”
Eddy seemed confounded by the unexpected query.
“Didn’t you attack me first?” Bertha prompted him. “Wasn’t I mindin’ my own business, and you jumped me from behind?”
“I wanted your gun!” Eddy blurted.
“And wasn’t I turnin’ back when you screamed?” Bertha asked.
“Yeah,” Eddy admitted.
“There!” Bertha glanced at Cole. “I thought he was in trouble. If I’d wanted to waste Fatso, I could have shot him anytime!”
“It doesn’t mean a thing!” Cole stated defiantly.
“Yes, it does,” Libby chimed in.
“What?” Cole said.
“I believe her, Cole,” Libby declared.
“Give me a break!” Cole quipped.
“I think she’s telling the truth,” Libby stated.
“Why?” Cole wanted to know.
“Lots of reasons,” Libby said. “Have you ever seen a woman Hunter before?”
“No,” Cole answered reluctantly.
“And have you ever seen a Hunter dressed like her?” Libby asked.
“No,” Cole said. “but they wear all sorts of disguises!”
“What about her gun?” Libby pressed him. “Ever seen a Hunter packing a gun like hers?”
Cole’s forehead creased. “No, can’t say as I have. They always use an AK-47 or a pistol.”
“And,” Libby added triumphantly, pointing at their prisoner, “have you ever seen a black Hunter before? Ever heard of a black Hunter before?”
Cole slowly shook his head, studying the woman swinging from the rope.
“Cole…” said the little girl named Milly.
“Not now, Milly,” Cole barked irritably.
“You finally seein’ the light?” Bertha asked him.
“What’s your name?” C
ole inquired.
“Bertha.”
“You gottta see it my way, Bertha,” Cole said. “I’m the head of the Claws. Fifteen Packrats depends on me. If I make a mistake, they’ll die.”
“I’m not here to hurt you,” Bertha reiterated.
“But I don’t know that for sure,” Cole mentioned. “If I go easy on you, cut you down, we could all wind up dead. I can’t take the chance.
Somebody is always after us. If it ain’t the Red Hunters, then its one of the other Packrat gangs, or the mutants.”
“Cole,” Milly said, interrupting.
“Not now!” Cole told her. He gazed up at Bertha and shook his head.
“Sorry, lady. But I can’t let you live. You could be lying through your teeth for all I know. You could be some kind of new Hunter. We’re just gonna have to leave you here for the mutants.”
“Cole!” Milly cried.
Cole turned toward Milly, clearly annoyed. “Haven’t I told you before not to butt in when I’m talking to someone else? What the hell is it now?”
Milly extended a trembling finger to their right.
“Eyes.”
“Eyes?” Cole repeated, starting to pivot in the direction Milly was indicating.
Bertha glanced to the right, and she saw them first. A pair of reddish orbs, balefully staring at the youngsters from the stygian depths of the forest.
“A mutant!” Cole shouted. “Get to the cabin! Quick!”
The Claws responded to his order, dashing past Bertha toward the log cabin 20 yards away. One of them dropped a lantern.
Bertha glanced over her left shoulder and spotted the cabin, and saw Libby leading Milly and the others in a mad sprint for the cabin’s front door. She swung her head around, just in time to see the mutant burst from cover and charge Cole.
The mutant was a canine, or would have been had its parents not been affected by the widespread chemical and radiation poisoning of the environment and given birth to a defective monstrosity. It was four feet high and covered with brown hair, and its features resembled those of a German shepherd. Its jaws slavering, its six legs pumping, its two tails curved over its spine, the mutant pounced.
Cole stood his ground. He crouched and fired, the stock of the AK-47 pressed against his right side. His shots were rushed, but effective.
The mutant staggered as the heavy slugs ripped into its body. It was wrenched to the right, but immediately recovered and renewed its attack.
Cole never let up. He kept firing as the mutant took a bounding leap, and he was still firing as the mutant slammed into him and knocked him to the ground.
The mutant recovered before Cole, and slashed at him with its tapered teeth.
Cole, flat on his back, brought the AK-47 up to block those cavernous jaws.
Enraged, the mutant clamped onto the AK-47, snarling as it strived to wrench the weapon from the human’s hands.
Cole was clinging to the Ak-47 for dear life.
Bertha, suspended five feet from the savage struggle, saw her chance.
She whipped her legs forward, then back. Once. Twice. Gaining momentum with each swing. And on the third try she tucked her knees into her chest, then lashed her legs out and down, hurtling at the combatants.
The mutant’s senses were incredible. Furiously engaged as it was in attempting to tear the AK-47 loose and rip into its opponent’s neck, it saw the woman sweeping toward it and tried to evade the blow. But in doing so, the mutant released the AK-47 and drew back, its head momentarily elevated.
In that instant, Bertha struck. Her black boots plowed into the mutant’s face, into its feral eyes, and it was propelled for a loop, catapulted through the air to crash onto its left side six feet from Cole.
Cole took immediate advantage of the situation, rising to his knees, aiming the AK-47, deliberately going tor the mutant’s head, squeezing the trigger and holding it down.
The mutant twisted as it was struck, frantically scrambling erect. But the heavy slugs drove it to its knees, its left eye exploding in a spray of hair and blood. It reared back and howled as it was hit again and again and again.
The AK-47 went empty.
The mutant flopped onto its right side, its body convulsing. It whined once, then lay still.
Cole slowly stood, his eyes riveted on the mutant.
There was a commotion from the direction of the cabin, and the seven oldest Claws ran up, all of them armed.
“You got it!” shouted the pudgy Eddy.
Cole simply nodded.
Libby was with them, carrying an AK-47. She glanced at Cole, worry in her eyes. “It almost got you,” she stated.
Cole exhaled loudly.
“You came close,” Libby said.
“I know,” Cole agreed in a soft voice.
“I saw the whole thing,” Libby mentioned. “You’d be dead right now, if she hadn’t helped you!” And Libby pointed at Bertha.
Cole pivoted, gazed up at the Warrior.
“I couldn’t let that freak eat you,” Bertha said. “You might of given it indigestion!”
Cole almost grinned. He glanced at Eddy. “Cut her down.”
“But I thought you said—” Eddy objected.
Cole whirled on the startled Eddy. “Cut her down! Now!”
“Thank goodness!” Bertha exclaimed. “I’ve really got to weewee!”
Chapter Twelve
Blade had to hand it to Nick. The old Freeb was as good as his word. Nick seemed to know every alley, every ditch, every unfrequented street, within 20 miles of Valley Forge. His endurance and agility were remarkable for a man his age. He maintained a steady pace, never flagging, and they reached their destination two hours before dawn. They approached Norristown from the north. Nick guided them through the fields and across yards adjacent to Highway 363, then parallel to Egypt Road until they reached Ridge Pike. They continued to the south, sticking to the shadows, to the alleys and the side streets, skirting Jeffersonville, until they reached Norristown.
Blade was amazed by his first glimpse of Soviet-occupied territory.
People appeared to be going about their daily business without hindrance.
Traffic on the main arteries was light but steady. Civilian and military vehicles shared the roads. A checkpoint was posted between Jeffersonville and Norristown, but the Russians stationed at the checkpoint performed their duties in a desultory fashion. Squatting behind a hedgerow a block to the west, Blade saw the soldiers joking and laughing, and only occasionally stopping vehicles to verify papers. Again, he had to remind himself of the time frame involved. The Soviets had controlled this area for over 100 years. They were bound to be complacent after such a protracted interval. Which suited him fine, because their careless attitude increased the odds of successfully completing the run to Philadelphia.
Four times the trio inadvertently encountered civilians, and each time the civilians took one look at the Russian uniforms on Blade and Sundance and promptly made themselves scarce.
Once in Norristown, Nick increased their pace. They bore south on Lafayette, then turned left on Hawes Avenue, and dashed across Main Street to the far sidewalk. A military truck appeared in front of them, and Nick hastily led them into a side street. They traversed a succession of side streets and alleys, on the alert for patrols, until Nick abruptly stopped.
“There it is,” the Freeb whispered.
They were standing at the end of a side street. Before them were railroad tracks, a wide avenue, and an imposing structure. Floodlights rimmed its roof. A barbed-wire fence enclosed the perimeter. Soldiers patrolled the length of the fence, some with guard dogs on a leash. A gate in the northwest corner of the fence was closed.
“What is it?” Blade asked.
“The Norristown garrison,” Nick disclosed. “About eighty soldiers are headquartered there on a regular basis. There’s a motor pool in the rear.
The place used to be a newspaper. The Times-Something-or-Other. But the damn Commies took it over, like the
y did all the media.”
“You know a lot about it,” Sundance idly mentioned.
“You pick up bits and pieces here and there,” Nick commented.
Blade was appraising the garrison’s fortifications. “There’s no way we can break in there to steal a vehicle.”
“Maybe you won’t have to,” Nick said.
“What do you mean?” Blade inquired.
“Look,” Nick said, pointing.
A guard was unlocking the gate in the northwest corner of the fence. He pushed the gate open and stepped aside, waiting. A moment later, a jeep drove around the corner of the garrison, evidently coming from the motor pool. The jeep braked at the gate, the driver exchanged a few words with the guard, and the jeep accelerated. It took a left.
“Hide!” Nick said, and before the Warriors understood his intent, he moved from the cover of the side street, out into the open, in clear view of the jeep’s driver.
Blade grabbed Sundance’s right arm, and they retreated into the shadows.
“What’s he doing?” Sundance queried.
“I think I know,” Blade said.
Nick was wobbling on his feet, staggering, seemingly inebriated. He glanced at the jeep, then put his left hand in the crook of his right elbow and snapped his forearm up, his right hand clenched into a fist.
The jeep slowed, then swerved, wheeling toward Nick.
Nick laughed and backpedaled, tottering.
The jeep was bearing down on the side street.
Nick stayed on the sidewalk, stumbling away from the wide avenue, leading the jeep further up the side street, out of sight of the garrison gate.
The jeep screeched to a stop, and two Russian soldiers climbed out, leaving the vehicle running.
“Hey, you bloodsuckers!” Nick called and snickered.
“Hello, comrade,” the driver greeted Nick. He was stocky, his complexion florid.
“I ain’t your lousy comrade!” Nick retorted.
“You are drunk, comrade,” stated the second Russian.
Nick laughed. “What was your first clue, butthole?”
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