The distant gunfire attained a crescendo. Screams and shrieks were distinguishable.
Bertha abruptly forgot all else in her concern for the Claws. She hadn’t considered them to be in any grave danger until that very instant. After all, those kids had spent years surviving in the wilderness of Valley Forge, fighting Hunters and other Packrats, stealing food and guns and whatever else they required. She knew there existed a violent rivalry among the Packrat gangs for control of the large but limited tract of land comprising Valley Forge. But the Packrats were, for the most part, young children, and she’d never seriously considered them as being decidedly deadly.
She was about to have her impression changed.
Bertha was still hundreds of yards from the log cabin when the shooting died down. A ghastly screech reached her ears, then all was unnaturally quiet. She ran a little faster. Eddy and Libby were about 20 yards ahead of her. They reached the field at the bottom of the burned-out hill and started across. Bertha was breathing heavily, and her left side began hurting as she neared the base of the hill. Ignoring the pain in her side, she took a deep breath and plunged forward across the field.
Cole was nowhere in sight, but Libby and Eddy were 30 yards in front of her.
Bertha poured on the steam, and was again only 20 yards behind the duo when they entered the trees.
Someone screamed.
Bertha clutched her M-16 in both hands and jogged into the woods. She darted through the brush and among the trees until she spied the clearing and the cabin, and then she halted, stunned.
The log cabin resembled a sieve. The door had been shot to pieces, riddled with bullets until whole sections had fallen off. The windows had fared worse; all of the glass panes were gone, and the edges where chipped and pockmarked. Even the cabin walls had been perforated again and again and again by heavy-caliber slugs. Bodies were everywhere. Bodies of the Claws. Most of them were congregated near the door, as if they’d been gunned down in the act of fleeing the cabin. A few had tumbled into the pit. Blood soaked the ground.
“Lordy!” Bertha exclaimed, walking up to the clearing.
Cole was on his knees to the left of the cabin door. The body of the young girl, Milly, was cradled in his lap. Her forehead had been blown off.
Tears streaked his cheeks as he rocked back and forth. His lips were trembling. “No!” he cried. “No! No! No!”
Libby and Eddy stood near the pit. Libby appeared to be in a state of shock. Eddy, by contrast, was livid, his pudgy features contorted in rage.
“They’re… all… dead!” Libby stated in a dazed, surveying the massacre.
“How?” Eddy demanded. “Where were the guards? We posted guards before we left!”
“Maybe,” Libby said, her eyes watering, “maybe the guards were killed before they could sound the alarm.”
Eddy pointed at the log cabin. “And what the hell did that? Those walls were thick! They could stand up to an AK-47! That’s why we picked this place. But look at them! Look at the size of those holes!”
“Who cares about the holes?” Libby asked, sniffling.
“I do!” Eddy rejoined. “I want to know what the hell I’m going up against when I catch up with whoever did this!”
“What?” Libby said, glancing at Eddy.
“You heard me!” Eddy declared. “They can’t have gotten far! I’m going after them right now!”
Libby grabbed Eddy’s left arm. “No! You can’t!”
“And why the hell can’t I?” Eddy retorted.
“You won’t stand a chance,” Libby protested.
Eddy motioned toward the corpses. “And what chance did they have, Libby? Look at them! Some of them weren’t even armed! We can’t let the bastards who did this get away!”
“No,” Libby objected. “That isn’t the way.”
“Yes, it is!” Cole thundered, rising to his feet, his face an iron mask.
“Eddy’s right! We’re going to waste the sons’ of bitches responsible for this!”
Libby took a few steps toward Cole. “But, Cole…”
“There’s no buts about it!” Cole cut her off. “We’re going to avenge them!” He pointed at Milly’s pathetic body. “This was our fault, Libby! We owe it to them!”
“Our fault?” Libby repeated. “How was it our fault? We’ve left the younger ones alone before. Burt was with them, and he was twelve. He knew the score. All of them did! So how do you figure this was our fault?
We weren’t even here!”
“We should have been,” Cole said softly.
“But we weren’t,” Libby persisted.
Cole pressed his right hand on his forehead and looked around. “We were all so damn excited about getting out of here! About finding a place where we could live free! And we forgot where we were! We forgot what could happen if we dropped our guard.”
“But you did everything you could have done!” Libby said. “You can’t blame yourself!”
Cole wiped his hand across his eyes. When he stared at Libby, his gaze was flinty. “Can’t I?” He paused, sighed wearily, then inspected his AK-47.
“Eddy and I are going after the bastards. Are you coming?”
“We don’t have to do this!” Libby pleaded. “We can still leave with Bertha and her friends!”
Cole glanced at Bertha. “This isn’t your fight. You don’t have to come.”
“There’s nothin’ I can do to talk you out of goin’?” Bertha asked.
Cole shook his head. “Don’t even try. You’d be wasting your breath!”
Tears were flowing down Libby’s face. “Cole! Please! You know what will happen!”
Cole gazed into Libby’s eyes. “I know.”
Bertha didn’t know what to say. She knew Cole was determined to get his revenge. What could she do to stop him, short of shooting him herself?
She admired him, even felt a peculiar kinship to Cole. Maybe, she speculated, it had something to do with her gang days in the Twin Cities.
Oh, her life had been different in several ways. Cole and many of the other Packrats had come from good homes where they usually had enough food and even enjoyed some luxuries. Luxuries like decent clothes, and shoes, and even schooling. The Packrats had lost it all when their parents had been executed or imprisoned by the Communists. Bertha and her companions in the Twin Cities had never had it so good, never enjoyed even the basic necessities on a regular basis, never known what it was like to have a stable home environment in their early years. But in others respects, her former gang and the Packrats had a lot in common. There were always enemies out to get them, and no one outside the gang could be trusted.
You survived if you were quick and alert. You died if you slipped for an instant. Under such harsh conditions, strong bonds were forged. Deep friendships. And in Cole’s case, the affection was compounded by the fact many of the Packrats were so young, so vulnerable, and had relied on his judgment. Bertha saw the anguish on his face, and recognized she couldn’t begin to appreciate the depth of the torment he must be feeling.
Libby turned to Bertha. “Please! Don’t let them go!”
Bertha frowned. “There’s nothin’ I can do.”
Libby uttered a whining noise and covered her eyes with her left hand.
Eddy was checking his AK-47.
“Eddy,” Cole said.
“Yeah?” Eddy responded.
“Find their trail,” Cole directed, and entered the cabin.
Eddy smiled. “You got it.” He began searching the ground near the edge of the woods.
Bertha moved over to Libby and draped her right arm across the girl’s shoulders.
“I don’t want him to go,” Libby mumbled. “He’ll be killed!”
“Maybe not,” Bertha said.
Libby looked up, her eyes red, her cheeks moist. “Yes, he will! I just know it!”
“You love him, don’t you?” Bertha asked gently.
Libby sniffed and nodded, glancing at the cabin.
“
Does he love you?” Bertha inquired.
“I don’t know,” Libby admitted. “I think so. I feel he does, in my heart.
But he’s never shown it. Never come right out and said he does. I don’t know why. Maybe he’s afraid. Afraid of losing me like he did his mom and dad. You don’t have any idea what it’s like to love someone, and not have them love you!”
Want to bet? Bertha almost said. Instead, she held her peace, contemplating her own relationship with the Family’s superlative gunfighter, Hickok. But could she justify calling it a relationship? She’d pined after that dummy for what seemed like ages! And where had it gotten her? True, Hickok had been the first man she’d ever fallen for, head-over-heels in love. True, he was the choicest specimen of manhood she’d ever seen. Hunk de la hunk, so to speak. How long, though, could she justify yearning for a man unable to reciprocate her devotion? Hickok was married to Sherry, and Bertha knew the gunman well enough to know he would remain loyal to Sherry while Sherry lived, and maybe even afterwards. The Family ardently believed life did not end with death. The Elders taught that death was merely the technique of ascending from the material level to a higher, more spiritual plane. Even if Sherry passed on, Hickok was just the type to stay loyal to her, firmly expecting he would see her again after his own earthly demise. So what the hell am I doing, Bertha asked herself, wasting my time with someone I’ll never have a chance with? She studied the miserable Libby, and finally acknowledged how very lonely she’d been while yearning for Hickok. Maybe it was about time she faced facts; sometimes, love was one-sided; sometimes, a person could deeply love another, and the feeling wouldn’t be mutual.
Cole emerged from the log cabin, his features set in grim lines. “All the ones left inside are dead,” he remarked. “Whoever did this took all of our weapons.”
“Whoever did this is heading to the south,” Eddy announced, joining them.
Cole stared at Eddy. “The Bobcats?”
“I think so,” Eddy confirmed.
“Let’s do it,” Cole said, and started to the south.
Libby dabbed at her eyes with her fingers. “Wait for me!”
Cole stopped and turned. “You stay here with Bertha.”
“I’m coming,” Libby declared.
“I’d feel better if you didn’t,” Cole said. “Go back to Bertha’s buggy and wait for her friends.”
“I’m coming,” Libby reiterated.
“Let her come, Cole,” Eddy chimed in.
Cole frowned. “All right. But stay close to me! I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
“You don’t?” Libby responded, brightening.
“Let’s go!” Cole directed. He wheeled and stalked into the woods, followed by Eddy.
Libby took off after them. “I hope I see you again, soon,” she stated to Bertha over her right shoulder.
Bertha hesitated. This wasn’t her fight. Cole was right. But she was, in a sense, partially to blame for the slaughter. Her presence, and her promise of salvation for the Claws, had distracted them, had diverted Cole from his responsibilities as Claw leader. She looked at little Milly. That child’s death was on her shoulders, whether she liked it or not.
Libby vanished in the trees.
Maybe she owed it to them to help. Maybe she owed it to them to keep Cole, Libby, and Eddy alive, so they could savor the freedom the others had dreamed about. And maybe she owed it to herself, because they were her newfound friends, and once she was attached to someone, she never abandoned them. Hickok was a case in point.
“Oh, hell!” Bertha exclaimed. She jogged toward the forest. “Wait up!”
she called.
Libby, ten yards into the woods, stopped. “What are you doing?” she inquired as Bertha ran up.
Bertha could see Cole and Eddy, waiting for them 30 yards off. “I’m comin’ with you.”
“Go back!” Libby urged. “We can do this alone!”
Bertha shook her head. “No one,” she said emphatically, “should ever have to be alone.” She paused for emphasis. “Not ever! Now let’s teach these Bobcats a lesson they’ll never forget!”
Chapter Eighteen
What was keeping Blade?
Sundance sighted on the officer and the ten troopers, and waited until they were in the middle of the lawn before he fired. The officer pitched to the ground, and the rest were decimated, six of them dropping in a row.
The rest took cover, scattering in all directions.
So far, so good! Sundance leaned against the wall on the right side of the gate and peered into the complex. He wondered if the Soviets would bring up a tank or other big guns. Perhaps, since it was a scientific establishment, the barracks garrison was the only military force on the premises. Even so, those inside could undoubtedly call outside for assistance. Reinforcements might arrive any second.
So what was keeping Blade?
A slug suddenly plowed into the wall next to Sundance’s face, and a sliver of stone sliced his left cheek as it exploded from the wall. Sundance spun to the left, and there was a Russian trooper on top of the wall at the other end of the gate. He threw himself backwards as the soldier fired again, then aimed and squeezed the trigger on the FN-50-63. His burst caught the soldier in the abdomen, ripping his guts open, and the Russian screeched as he toppled from the wall to the field below.
They would be closing in now.
Sundance thoughtfully chewed on his lower lip. His position was rapidly becoming untenable.
A faint crackle sounded to the right.
Sundance crouched and whirled, leveling the FN, finding a pair of patrol guards coming at him along the base of the wall. One of them must have accidentally stepped on a twig. He let them have it, hitting the first Russian in the face as the trooper cut loose with an AK-47. The rounds fell short, spraying the dirt at Sundance’s feet. He killed the second guard with several shots to the head.
Where the hell was Blade?
Sundance leaned his back on the wall and hastily ejected the spent magazine from the FN. He slipped in a fresh clip, then glanced into the ministry.
Company was coming.
Four of the soldiers had reached the trees bordering the road, the road winding to the right of the gate, and they were advancing toward the iron gate, going from tree to tree, using the trunks for cover.
Nice move.
Sundance carefully sighted on the foremost soldier, and when the trooper tried to race from one tree to the next, exposing himself for the space of eight feet, Sundance sent a slug into his brain.
The Russian catapulted to the turf between the trees.
The other three halted, all hidden from view.
Sundance hoped his ploy was working. The gunfire must be attracting every guard, every last trooper in the complex. Blade would have a free reign.
What was that?
Sundance twisted to the left, and there was another soldier on top of the wall, trying to fix a bead on him. So he dropped to his knees, and the shot went over his head, missing by mere inches. Sundance was more accurate. His return slug slammed into the soldier’s chest and flipped him from the wall, screaming all the way to the ground.
That was close!
Sundance stood and scanned the driveway.
A second trooper was darting from tree to tree.
Idiot!
Sundance aimed and patiently waited for a glimpse of the soldier’s head. His bullet tore into the trooper’s left cheek and blew out the rear of his cranium, splattering a nearby tree with crimson and fleshy gook.
Sooner or later, one of them would get the range!
Sooner or later.
Sundance inhaled deeply, steadying his nerves. Be vigilant, he told himself. Don’t slack off for an instant!
He stiffened as the growl of a motor arose from within the complex.
What were they up to now? Bringing up a tank? He scanned the length of road to the right.
It wasn’t a tank.
But it was almost as bad.
The two soldiers sheltered behind the trees opened up with their AK-47’s.
Sundance was compelled to duck from sight. He realized what the pair of soldiers were attempting to do. They were keeping him pinned down until the jeep reached the gate. If the jeep could get close enough, there was no way his FN would stand up to the jeep’s machine gun.
This was becoming hairy.
Sundance dropped to the ground, onto his stomach, and rolled from cover, his automatic rifle trained on the trees.
The two troopers, concentrating their fire on the wall near the gate, were taken unawares.
Sundance squeezed the trigger, and the first trooper jerked backwards and collapsed. His second round tore through the throat of the other soldier, and the trooper clutched at his ruined neck and fell to his knees, gurgling, blood spurting between his fingers.
The jeep was 50 yards off and closing.
Sundance sighted between two of the iron bars, fixing on a point 30 yards away, a 15-foot tract between two trees.
The soldier manning the machine gun on the jeep cut loose, firing bursts between trees, the barrel of the machine gun elevated to achieve a greater range, but his first shots fell short.
A few rounds struck the edge of the wall, but the majority hit the road near the gate, smacking into the asphalt with a distinct thud-thud-thud.
Sundance waited.
The machine gunner did not spot the man lying prone at the base of the gate. He only knew a sniper was near the front gate, and he was aiming his rounds accordingly, at about waist to chest level, focusing on the edge of the stone wall near the gate. At 40 yards his hursts consistently struck the wall, sending broken bits of stone flying.
Sundance waited.
The jeep roared to within 30 yards of the gate.
Sundance squeezed the trigger and kept it squeezed.
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