Miami Run

by David Robbins

  Hickok shrugged and accelerated. The gravel road was bumpy, filled with shallow ruts, causing the car to bounce and vibrate with each bump and jar.

  “Arlo had this road built,” Barbish commented. “One day he may get around to blacktopping it.”

  “Does every Director live out in the country?” Blade inquired.

  “Some live in Miami,” Barbish replied. “Some, like Arlo, prefer the rural life.”

  “How many guards protect his estate?”

  “I don’t know,” Barbish said.

  Blade sighed and placed his right hand on the Paratrooper in his lap.

  “I don’t know!” Barbish insisted. “I’ve never counted them! I’ve seen a dozen or so, but there are probably more.”

  “Describe the estate.”

  “Most of it, up to the edges of the swamp, is wooded,” Barbish detailed.

  “An eight-foot-high brick wall encloses five acres, the main area. There’s a house to the north, a barn to the east—”

  “A barn?”

  “Arlo raises horses,” Barbish said. “He likes the races. The gate to the compound is located in the north wall.”

  “What about quarters for the guards?”

  Barbish grinned. “Did I forget to mention that? Their quarters consists of a barrackslike building on the west side.”

  “And the southern section of the five acres?”

  “Gardens,” Barbish said. “Arlo fancies himself a horticulturist, another reason he lives in the country.”

  “Do the guards make regular rounds?”

  “Yes,” Barbish responded. “But I don’t know their schedule.”

  Blade peered out the window at the darkened landscape, reflecting. He estimated there were three hours until dawn, ample time to reach the estate and penetrate it before sunrise. The predawn assault would give the Warriors a decided advantage; any guards awake would be sluggish, either just waking up to start their day or closing out a night shift and ready to hit the hay. The delays in Miami had not proven too costly. He recalled the ride across the General Mac Arthur Causeway, and dumping the bodies of the Genie and Hugo in the first alley they’d found. They had driven to the southwest, staying under the posted speed limits, doubling back on themselves repeatedly to insure they weren’t being tailed.

  “What the heck!” Hickok abruptly exclaimed, slamming on the brakes.

  Blade looked ahead.

  Not 15 yards away, vividly revealed by the car’s headlights, was an enormous alligator crossing the road. The reptile lumbered from left to right, ignoring the vehicle.

  “Where the blazes did that critter come from?” Hickok asked.

  “Ever hear of the Everglades?” Barbish responded.

  Blade thought of the century-old map. “Aren’t the Everglades southwest of here?”

  “You’re thinking of the Everglades National Park, as it was once known,” Barbish said. “The Park covered a million and half acres on the southwest tip of the peninsula. But the Park was a small part of the total Everglades. You’re on the eastern edge of the Everglades right now. Five thousand square miles of swamp. Nothing but water, gators, and snakes for miles and miles and miles.”

  “Snakes?” Hickok said.

  Blade watched the alligator disappear in the brush on the right side of the road. “Let’s go?”

  “Snakes?” Hickok said again, driving forward.

  “The Everglades are a haven for snakes,” Barbish elaborated. “Swamp snakes, brown snakes, ribbon snakes, garter snakes. And they’re the harmless ones. Poisonous varieties abound in the Everglades. There are the coral snakes, the cottonmouths, and the rattlers, of course, as well as the exotic types, like the cobras.”

  “Who are you tryin’ to kid?” Hickok demanded. “Cobras live in India and Africa, not Florida.”

  “That was true once,” Barbish said. “But not anymore. You see, a lot of people imported exotic species into Florida before the war. Cobras.

  Piranhas. Others. And some escaped or were deliberately let loose by their owners. The climate in Florida was ideal for breeding. The cobras and piranhas multiplied, despite the best efforts of the authorities to eradicate them. Don’t believe me if you want, but I assure you that there are cobras in the Everglades. One of Arlo’s men was bitten by a cobra a few years ago.”

  “What happened to him?” Hickok asked.

  “What else? He died.”

  Blade remembered a schooling class on Florida and voiced a question.

  “What about the alligators? There seem to be a lot of them, and yet I read that they were almost exterminated before the war.”

  “Not quite true,” Barbish answered. “The alligators made a comeback before World War Three. They were protected by law, and they reproduced so fast that special hunting seasons were set up. After the war, of course, with so few hunters and poachers to reduce their ranks, the gators made like rabbits. Now the damn things are everywhere.”

  “I don’t reckon I’ll retire in Florida,” Hickok joked.

  “The gators and the snakes aren’t the worst of it,” Barbish went on.

  “There are other—things.”

  “What kind of things?” Blade queried.

  “Mutant things,” Barbish said. “Huge things.” His tone changed, becoming filled with awe. “I saw one once, from the south dock on Arlo’s estate. It was splashing in the swamp, heading from east to west. The moon was out, and we could see it fairly well.”

  “What did it look like?” Blade probed.

  “How can I describe it?” Barbish responded. “It was like a dinosaur.

  Think of an alligator fifty feet long, only with spikes on its back and a head like a frog. It was bizarre.”

  The mention of mutants had stimulated Blade’s curiosity. He stared at the Dealer. “And the Masters?”

  “What about them?”

  “They’re mutants. What do they look like?”

  “Only two of the Masters have attended the annual Dealer meetings,” Barbish said. “Orm and Radnor. How can I describe them? Walking nightmares? And,” he emphasized, “they never revealed where their base was.”

  “Weren’t you ever curious? Didn’t you ask Arlo questions?”

  Barbish snorted. “It’s not healthy to ask too many questions of your superiors in my line of work. Yes, I was curious. Yes, I tried to gather as much information as I could on the sly. But I didn’t learn much.”

  “How much?”

  The Dealer looked at the giant for a moment. “Perceptive, aren’t you? All right. What harm can it do? I learned there are seven Masters, and they’re all part of the same family.”

  “They’re all related?”

  “So I was told,” Barbish confirmed. “But I don’t know the specifics.”

  “And that was it?”

  “Trying to discover more would have cost me my life,” Barbish stated.

  “So working for mutant Masters never bothered you?”

  “Maybe a little,” Barbish said. “But the benefits outweighed any qualms of conscience.”

  “So you sold countless souls into a life of drug addiction to line your own pocket and please the Masters,” Blade commented scornfully.

  “We all have to look out for number one.”

  Blade frowned. “That’s twice I’ve heard the same stupid statement. It’s so selfish, it’s disgusting. We’re not put on this planet just to look out for number one, just to think of ourselves first all the time. We’re put here to learn to care for others, to learn the meaning of love and sharing—”

  Barbish laughed. “Where did you ever hear nonsense like that?”

  “Our Elders taught us the importance of possessing fundamental values.”

  “Your Elders? Where are you from?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Your philosophy on life is all backwards,” Barbish commented. “It’s a dog-eat-dog world. Only the strong survive, by any means necessary. If you want something out of life, you have to take it. Lov
e is an illusion. Power is what counts. Power and wealth. And by rising through the ranks of the Dragons, by becoming a Dealer for the Powder of Life, I’m living proof of what I say.”

  “What is the Powder of Life?” Blade asked.

  “Cocaine. The Masters refer to coke as the Powder of Life. They like the Dealers to encourage the pushers to push coke over the other drugs,” Barbish replied.

  “Why?”

  “The profit potential is greater, for one thing,” Barbish said. “Smaller quantities bring bigger profits. Coke is easy to handle, easy to measure and packet. Plus the addiction factor is incredible.”

  “The addiction factor?”

  “Yes. The addiction factor is a primary concern for every Dealer and pusher. If we want to maximize our profits, to increase our pool of repeat customers, we must get them hooked on the hard stuff. Coke is ideal. It has fewer side effects than, say, heroin, and it gives a high like you wouldn’t believe. Coke is the mainstay of the Dragons’ business.”

  “Where do the Masters obtain their coke?”

  “I was never told,” Barbish said. “I suspect they get it from a cartel in South America. I accidentally saw some vouchers once dealing with planeloads of dope coming down the pipeline from Colombia.”

  “Someone should have put the Dragons out of business a long time ago,” Blade remarked.

  Barbish snickered. “Like who, young man? The police? They are paid by the Dragons. They’re in our employ. The same with the politicos. The people think they get a real choice at election time, but every candidate is on the Dragon payroll. We allow elections for mayor and council seats to give the citizens the illusion of freedom. But it’s all a farce, and the people are too stupid to realize it.”

  “Are they stupid, or drugged out of their minds?” Blade asked. “Their entire perception of reality is off.”

  “No one forces them to use our products.”

  “Products? Don’t you mean poisons?”

  “Call it whatever you want.”

  “Someday, someone will come down here and mop up the Dragons,” Blade predicted.

  “Never happen,” Barbish responded.

  They drove in silence for over five minutes.

  “Hey!” Hickok declared. “Look!”

  Blade stared through the windshield. A cluster of lights had appeared far in the distance.

  “The estate, you figure?” Hickok inquired.

  “Must be,” Blade said.

  “It’s the estate,” Barbish verified.

  “Kill our headlights,” Blade advised.

  Hickok promptly complied, slowing down as he did so. “How the dickens am I going to drive? There’s no moon tonight.”

  “Perhaps we should walk from here,” Rikki suggested.

  “Drive another mile or so,” Blade directed. “We want to get as close as we can, but not so close that they’ll hear our engine.”

  Hickpk leaned forward, reducing their speed to under 20 miles an hour. “I just hope we don’t bump into one of those mutant things.”

  Barbish glanced at the lights and grinned, then quickly wiped the grin from his face.

  The swampy land bordering the gravel road was enshrouded in an inky gloom. A breeze rustled the intermittent stands of trees. Insect sounds filled the night accompanied by a chorus of frogs and other creatures.

  “What was all that big grass I was seein’ before we killed the headlights?” Hickok asked.

  “That’s sawgrass,” Barbish disclosed. “It’s all over the Everglades.

  Grows over twelve feet high in some places.”

  “I’ll bet a lot of snakes could hide in it,” Hickok remarked.

  “You don’t sound like you’re very fond of snakes,” Barbish noted.

  “Let me put it this way,” Hickok said. “There are a heap of critters on this planet, and I think I understand the reason the Spirit put a few of ’em here.” He paused. “But snakes aren’t one of them.”

  “He was attacked by a mutated snake when he was twelve,” Blade detailed. “The snake was over eight feet long and had two heads. Ever since then, he hasn’t liked snakes very much.”

  “The only way to conquer a fear is to face it,” Rikki said to the gunman.

  Hickok glanced at the martial artist. “Are you sayin’ I’m afraid of snakes?”

  “No,” Rikki respnded. “But you may be afraid of being afraid of snakes.”

  “One of these bumps must have rattled your noggin’,” Hickok mentioned. “I’m not afraid of anything, least of all a passel of creepy, crawly reptiles.”

  “I’m not fond of snakes either,” Barbish said. “Which is why I’ve seldom visited Arlo unless it was unavoidable. Being situated in the Everglades like it is, there are snakes everywhere.”

  “Just what I wanted to hear,” Hickok muttered.

  “Enough about snakes,” Blade said. “Look for a spot to pull over.”

  Hickok slowed slightly and gazed from side to side. The narrow, cramped road, rimmed by the prolific vegetation, afforded few parking places. He proceeded several hundred yards. “What if I drive this buggy off the road into the brush?”

  “That ‘brush’ could be swampland,” Barbish cautioned. “The car could sink.”

  “Just dandy,” Hickok said.

  Blade rested his right arm on the top of the front seat and peered into the night.

  “Do you see those trees?” Rikki inquired, pointing ahead and to the right.

  A stand of tall trees was silhouetted against the sky 50 yards in front of them.

  “Trees require solid soil,” Rikki observed.

  “He’s right,” Barbish agreed. “The Everglades are dotted with tree islands, clumps of higher ground where myrtles, bays, and willows grow.

  There are also a lot of islands and scattered sections of firm ground, like Arlo’s forty-acre plot.”

  Hickok braked when the car drew alongside the trees.

  “I’ll check it out,” Rikki offered, looking at Blade.

  The Warrior leader nodded. “Be careful.”

  Rikki opened his door and vanished into the dark.

  “We should have about a mile and a half to walk from here,” Blade calculated.

  “Just so we don’t step on any snakes,” Hickok said.

  Blade looked at the Dealer. “You’ll be coming with us. But not a peep out of you, or else.”

  “What? You’re not going to tie me up and cram me in the trunk?”

  Barbish retorted sarcastically.

  “The idea occurred to me,” Blade said. “But we can use you once we reach the estate.”

  “Does this estate have a name?” Hickok asked.

  Barbish chuckled. “Yes. As a matter of fact, it does. Arlo calls it Happy Acres.”

  “You’re jockin’,” Hickok said.

  “I kid you not,” Barbish stated.

  Rikki-Tikki-Tavi materialized at the door. “Twenty yards up ahead is a flat, clear area between the trees. You can park the car there.” He climbed in and closed his door.

  “Did you see any snakes?” Hickok inquired as he drove forward slowly.

  “No,” Rikki said. “But I did hear a ferocious-sounding killer cricket.”

  “You’re gettin’ worse than Geronimo,” Hickok cracked. “Where’s this clear spot?”

  “Right there,” Rikki replied, pointing at a break in the foliage.

  Hickok turned the wheel, moving the vehicle at a snail’s pace, angling the car between the trees and parking on a level stretch of firm turf. He switched off the ignition, and as the muted rumble of the motor died, the nocturnal sounds of the wildlife in the swamp hummed, buzzed, and thrummed to a crescendo. “Noisy bunch of critters,” he remarked.

  A high-pitched cry, a y-eonk, y-eonk, y-eonk, punctuated the general din.

  “What was that?” Hickok queried.

  “A young gator,” Barbish answered.

  “How do you know it’s a young one?” Hickok asked.

  “The big ones
roar,” Barbish said.

  “Oh.”

  “Okay. So much for our class in Everglade zoology,” Blade interjected.

  “Let’s get moving. Check your weapons.”

  Each Warrior dutifully insured his firearms were loaded. Barbish watched them with a scornful stare.

  “Out,” Blade directed, and they exited the car. He glanced in at the Dealer. “That means you too.”

  Barbish sighed and opened his door. He stepped onto the ground and stretched. “The air here is always so fresh.”

  “Should I bring the keys?” Hickok questioned.

  “Leave them under the front seat,” Blade said. “If we get separated, one of us might make it back.”

  The gunman nodded, then tossed the key ring under the driver’s side.

  He closed the door quietly.

  Blade and Rikki shut the other doors.

  Hickok walked up to the Dealer. “You must be feelin’ a bit frustrated right about now.”

  “Not in the least,” Barbish declared.

  “Won’t you get in hot water for bringin’ us to the estate?” Hickok questioned.

  “Time will tell,” Barbish said enigmatically.

  “Hickok, keep him covered,” Blade instructed. “I’ll take the point. Rikki, the rear. Five-yard spread.” He moved toward the road, his boots swishing in the grass, enjoying the invigorating, cool breath of air on his skin. His nostrils detected a musty, earthy odor. The pale gravel outlined the road distinctly, and moments later the small stones and pebbles were crunching underfoot. He turned to the south, the Paratrooper cradled in his arms.

  Barbish’s behavior was troubling him. Why was the Dealer being so congenial? Why wasn’t Barbish terrified at the prospect of betraying his Director and the masters? At the Oasis, Barbish had been petrified by the mere thought. So what was the reason for the Dealer’s changed attitude?

  What did Barbish know that they didn’t?

  They covered over five hundred yards in tense expectation.

  Blade glanced over his left shoulder. Barbish was five yards to his rear, with Hickok’s Henry unslung and pointed at his back. Rikki was almost invisible five yards beyond the gunfighter; his black clothing blended with the night, accenting his facial features and hands.

  A frog croaked to the right.

  Blade faced front and continued toward the lights. He recognized the lights were arranged in the shape of a square, apparently aligned along the wall enclosing the five-acre living area. What was the power source? he wondered. A generator? Or a line from the metropolis? Did the utility company run lines out this far? If so, it was underground. There was no evidence of utility poles.