Miami Run

by David Robbins

  Blade pursued his lips, contemplating.

  El Gato stared at the Warrior with a strange expression.

  “I’ll hand it to you,” Blade said after a minute. “Even with your warped perspective, you’re more intelligent than I’d expected. But you’re totally wrong. People are not inherently selfish, and if you give them half a chance, they’ll prove it. The Elders teach us that a lot depends on the leaders of a society. If there isn’t wise leadership, the society will suffer.

  And many of the leaders before the war were…” He paused. “How shall I say it?”

  The Director grinned. “They had their heads up their butts.”

  “They lacked wisdom,” Blade amended. “And worse, they were more concerned with lining their own pockets than with public service. They tried to promote a system without values, and such systems produce people without values. They saw everything as a shade of gray, when reality is a contrast of white and black. They prided themselves on a neutral educational system, not realizing that neutral systems breed neutered citizens.”

  Paolucci slowly rose, smiling. “Fascinating! Everything I was told about you is true. The Warrior with an intellect. What a pity you must be terminated!”

  “When?”

  The Director stared at the rising sun. “You have about six hours to live.

  You see, I radioed the Masters last night after I received the call about Barbish. They ordered me to contact them again at sunrise with an update.” He smirked. “They are quite interested in learning the reason for your presence in Miami. An emergency session of the Directors has been called for noon. I imagine the Masters will interrogate you personally, and no one ever survives an interrogation.”

  “The Masters are coming to Happy Acres?”

  “No,” Paolucci said. “The other Directors will come here, then we’ll travel by airboats to the Shrine.”

  “The Shrine?”

  “You’ll see for yourself, soon enough,” Paulucci commented. He glanced at El Gato. “Keep him covered while I make my calls and change.”

  “He will be here,” Cat promised.

  The Director strolled toward the portico.

  Blade looked at Cat. “How can you live with yourself working for a man like that?”

  El Gato’s mustache curved downward. “I suggest, amigo, that you keep your mouth closed until the Director returns.”

  Blade started to speak…

  “Unless, of course, you do not want to enjoy the six or seven hours of life left to you.” So saying, Cat aimed the M-16 at the Warrior’s head.

  Blade shifted in his seat and stared at the fiery orb in the eastern sky.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Oh, God! Help me!”

  Rikki-Tikki-Tavi could do nothing to aid the hapless mercenary. Any sudden motion would result in sinking faster; accordingly, he stayed as immobile as possible, lying on his right side and watching his foe flounder.

  Gehret was immersed in the quicksand almost to the neck. Only his right shoulder and head were above the clinging, slippery ooze. His eyes were saucer-shaped from stark terror, and his breathing was ragged. He glanced at the side of the drop-off a mere three feet distant. The firm ground might as well have been on the moon. The quicksand extended for yards in every other direction. He frantically sought salvation in the form of a trailing vine or a projecting log, but such a deliverance was to be denied him . The mercenary whined.

  Inhaling and exhaling slowly, shallowly, Rikki still had three-fourths of his body above the quicksand . The sand had not yet seeped into his nostrils, but it was only a matter of time. The nearest terra firma was the drop-off. But how could he reach it? He suddenly realized that the mercenary was looking at him.

  Gehret was measuring the space separating them, an estimation he pegged at three feet, maybe less. He girded his muscles and raised his right arm high overhead, about to implement a wild design intended to extricate himself from his smothering grave.

  Rikki saw the reckless set of the mercenary’s features, he saw his adversary’s uplifted arm, and he guessed what was coming next. The mercenary was going to try and grab hold of him and use his body to stay afloat!

  Sergeant Gehret took a deep breath, then rose as far as he could and lunged at the Warrior. And missed. The man in black flipped onto his back as Gehret’s hand descended, and the mercenary, unable to check his swing, was horrified as his arm sank into the quicksand up to his elbow.

  He attempted to jerk his arm free; instead, the sandy substance enclosed him to his chin.

  The Warrior turned his head to the right.

  Gehret gazed into the martial artist’s eyes, his own conveying his overwhelming desperation. “I don’t want to die,” he said plaintively.

  “We are all called to the higher mansions eventually,” Rikki said softly.

  The quicksand was rising toward Gehret’s lower lip. He mustered a halfhearted grin. “I never thought it would be like this, you know?”

  Rikki did not respond.

  Inexorably, the quicksand reached Gehret’s lower lip and he sputtered.

  For the last time his eyes locked on the man in black. “Life is so damn unfair!” he stated, and went under.

  Rikki observed the quicksand swirl and roil as the mercenary fought his fate to the end. A grimy hand poked from the ooze, its fingers stiffening, clawing at the sky as if the very air could somehow provide support. For a moment the hand waved back and forth, and then the fingers went limp and the arm was claimed by the primeval muck.

  Somewhere, a bird was greeting the new day with a cheery song.

  Somewhere, crickets were chirping.

  Somewhere, a frog croaked.

  Flat on his back on the surface of the quicksand pool, Rikki-Tikki-Tavi suddenly felt very, very alone. He gazed at the steadily brightening sky, at the arrival of the new day, and he wondered if he would be alive to see the sun set. Such a morbid thought disturbed him. A Warrior must maintain a positive attitude; anything less could result in the Warrior’s premature demise.

  A beautiful yellow and black butterfly flitted over the pool, passing within several inches of the Warrior’s nose.

  Rikki admired the insect’s delicate structure and the beating of its frail wings. Life could be so sublimely glorious, so full of promise and marvels.

  He was not yet ready to interrupt his quest for perfection by passing to the other side. He would not forsake life while a breath remained.

  But how was he to escape the quicksand?

  Rikki’s feet were nearer to the drop-off than his head. He tilted his chin, tucking it against his chest, and peered between the black shoes especially constructed for him by the Family Weavers at the earthen slope. His only hope lay in reaching that four-foot-high drop-off.

  A bee buzzed past his head.

  What were his options? Simply surging to his knees and diving was out of the question; the quicksand would not bear his weight and his doom would be sealed. Wriggling toward it was an attractive idea, but he ran the risk of working his body lower into the mire before he reached the drop-off and becoming inextricably trapped. What was left? Swimming?

  Ridiculous.

  There was movement to his right.

  Rikki glanced in that direction and spotted a small green snake moving across the quicksand to the far side. The snake’s negligible weight was insufficient to cause it to sink, and lacking appendages or limbs to be sucked under the surface, it traversed the pool with indifferent ease.

  What was the lesson learned?

  Rikki stared at the drop-off again, pondering the significance of the snake’s safe passage. As he’d learned from his study of Zen, enlightenment was a state of being attained by blending the soul with the cosmos. And life’s lessons were learned by a scrupulous attention to details; even the smallest, most inconsequential happening could be fraught with import.

  So what had the snake taught him?

  Stay flat. Keep the head up. Keep the arms close to the body and
the legs tucked tight together. Distribute the weight as evenly as possible. And don’t stop. Not for a second.

  What about technique?

  Should he wiggle toward the drop-off or roll? Rolling would bury his shoulders in the quicksand. Therefore, wiggling was the only alternative.

  He hunched his shoulders, tightened his superbly muscled abdomen, and tentatively slid his legs toward the drop-off. The soles of his shoes crept less than an inch closer. He relaxed, breathing rejularly. At this rate, hours would be encompassed in the effort.

  A red-shouldered hawk winged above the landscape.

  Rikki recalled a comment Geronimo had once made: “My ancestors saw signs in everything. They viewed the sighting of a hawk as a particularly good omen.” He hoped Geronimo was right.

  The drop-off beckoned.

  With the focused determination of a skilled martial artist, Rikki-Tikki-Tavi applied himself to the task at hand. The technique was always the same: a barely perceptible compacting of his slim shoulders, then a bunching of his stomach, followed by stretching his legs as far as they would go. Over and over and over he repeated the procedure. Sweat coated the pores of his face and neck.

  The minutes lengthened into hours.

  Three times he paused to rest and gather his strength. His abdomen became sore, and his shoulder muscles periodically cramped. He resisted the discomfort, concentrating on the drop-off.

  Hour succeeded hour.

  The sun angled toward the meridian.

  Rikki narrowed the gap to ten inches. He halted, taking a brief break.

  Muffled footsteps sounded from the north, the tread of someone advancing stealthily through the undergrowth.

  Alarmed, the Warrior craned his head. The footsteps were drawing ever closer to the pool. If the mercenaries found him stuck in the quicksand, rendered powerless, they wouldn’t hesitate to finish him off.

  He had to hurry.

  Rikki renewed his effort, moving twice the speed as before. The ache in his stomach became increasingly severe. Earlier he’d aligned the katana and the M-16 along his left leg. The strain of insuring they were held horizontal and not allowed to dip into the quicksand was taking an acute toll on his left arm.

  Nine inches separated him from the drop-off.

  Eight inches.

  Seven.

  Rikki scanned the underbrush bordering the quicksand to the north.

  The footsteps slowed, then seemed to cease.

  So close, and yet so far!

  Rikki stared at the drop-off, calculating. If he stayed where he was, he risked being slaughtered. He was near enough now to justify a gamble, a move that would either succeed in liberating him from the muck or result in a decidedly distasteful outcome. The quicksand gave the impression of being firmer near the bank, augmenting his chances.

  A twig snapped in the woods to the west. Had the mercenaries changed direction?

  Further delay could prove fatal.

  Rikki-Tikki-Tavi launched himself toward the dropoff, elevating his body from the waist up and lunging, his arms at full extension. His fingers dug into the yielding soil, but even as they did, his legs were sucked under, the sandy ooze enveloping him to the waist. He struggled to get a firm grip on the drop-off, but his hands were slipping through the dirt.

  The quicksand was pulling him down.

  Rikki employed all of his strength, his fingers buried in the earth to the knuckles.

  With the irresistible force of gravity on its side, the quicksand was winning the elemental battle. The sand rose to the Warrior’s arms.

  A heightened resolve flooded over the martial artist, and he released his right handhold and speared his arm upward, trying for a higher grip.

  As if the quicksand was a living entity endowed with a malevolent will, the suction intensified at that precise moment.

  Rikki felt himself sliding under, and the grainy sand was up to his neck, his arms above his head, when a hand clamped on his right wrist, arresting his descent. He looked up.

  “You Zen types sure are loco,” commented the figure in buckskins above him.

  “Hickok!”

  “You were expecting maybe the tooth fairy?” the gunman retorted. He was lying flat, his right hand gripping Rikki, his left arm looped over the edge of the drop-off.

  Rikki’s elation changed to dismay as he beheld the gunfighter’s bandaged right shoulder. Blood was seeping from the bandages, and Hickok’s face was distorted in profound pain.

  The gunman grunted as he hauled on Rikki’s arm, straining to the maximum.

  Rikki, the focus of the tug of war between the gunfighter and the quicksand, racked his brain for something he could do to aid his friend.

  The lighter the load, the easier it would be for Hickok to pull him out.

  With the idea came action; he used his left hand to unsling his M-16 and allowed the rifle to drop into the mire.

  Hickok’s neck muscles were quivering and his face was beet red. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. “And I thought Blade was overweight,” he muttered.

  There was one more item he could discard. Rikki used his left hand and drew his katana, his arm protesting the sharp angle required to draw the sword straight up. Once the blade was clear of the scabbard, he glanced over his left shoulder at the backpack strap. Working swiftly, he slid the katana under the strap, pressed the razor edge against the fabric and sliced. The strap parted, the backpack dangling from his right side. He gazed over his right shoulder, locating the strap, then bent his left arm behind his head as he slanted the blade under it.

  Two seconds later the backpack fell into the quicksand.

  “Your katana!” Hickok exclaimed.

  “Never!” Rikki responded.

  Hickok grunted once more as he nodded at the bank. “The katana!” he repeated urgently.

  And Rikki abruptly understood. He brought his left arm back and drove the sword into the drop-off, all the way to the hilt. The katana held fast, and Rikki had the added leverage he needed to combine his strength with the gunman’s.

  Together, the Warriors achieved the success denied them singly. Inch by laborious inch, with the quicksand resisting every gain, Rikki’s body came clear of the sandy ooze. Once his elbows were out, he dug them into the ground and arced his hips upward. With an airy hiss the suction was broken and Rikki scrambled free. Hickok kept pulling, drawing the martial artist up and over the drop-off, Rikki tugging the katana free as he went, and as one they sprawled on the crest, breathing deeply.

  “Thank you,” Rikki said softly, sincerely.

  Hickok made a waving gesture with his left hand. “Piece of cake.”

  Rikki stared at the quicksand, thinking of the mercenary. “I came close…” He didn’t finish the sentence.

  “Just one thing I need to know,” Hickok remarked breathlessly.

  “What is it, my friend?”

  “What the blazes were you doing takin’ a mud bath at a time like this?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “So those are airboats?” Blade commented.

  Arlo Paolucci nodded, his red hood bobbing. “They are the only practical mode of transportation for navigating in the Everglades. They have a very low draft and can maneuver in shallow water. They’re powered by aircraft engines.”

  Blade was intrigued by the unusual craft. They were box-shaped, a dull, gray metal. There were two flat seats the width of the boat, one a few feet from the prow, the second situated in the center. Immediately behind this second seat was a platform affair, an elevated chair for the person operating the craft. And to the rear of the platform chair was a huge fan or propeller enclosed in a circular housing of wire mesh. Attached aft were the large metal fins used for steering the airboat. Eight of the fifteen airboats secured to the dock had two tail fins, the rest only one.

  “It will take us about an hour to reach the Shrine,” Paolucci remarked, stepping onto the dock in front of the Warrior.

  Blade paused and glanced over his shoulder
at the 12 Directors walking toward the dock on the southern boundary of the estate. All 12 were attired in red robes, as was Paolucci.

  “Keep going,” El Gato directed. Cat and two mercenaries were right behind the giant.

  Blade strolled after Paolucci. The swamp stretched to the east, west, and south as far as the eye could see. “Where is this Shrine, exactly?” he asked.

  “A man about to die should not be concerned over trifles,” Paolucci said. He was holding the Bowies in his right hand.

  “Do the Masters live at the Shrine?”

  “No. They live elsewhere, on an island deep in the Everglades. Not even the Directors are privileged to know its location,” Paolucci replied.

  “How do the Masters get to the Shrine?” Blade inquired.

  Paolucci looked at the Warrior. “Didn’t you ever hear about what curiosity did to the cat?”

  “What have I got to lose?” Blade responded.

  Paolucci chuckled. “I see your point. The Masters use airboats, just like we do.”

  “What do the Masters look like?”

  Paolucci grinned. “In due time.” He halted next to one of the airboats and faced those following. Everyone else stopped. “Cat,” he said. “You know what to do.”

  El Gato reached into his left rear pocket and produced a set of handcuffs.

  Blade’s eyes narrowed. “For me?”

  “I’m afraid so, amigo,” Cat said.

  “It’s standard procedure,” Paolucci explained. “The Masters require all prisoners to have their wrists secured.”

  “They don’t like their victims to fight back?” Blade said, baiting the Director.

  El Gato reached into the same pocket and extracted a small key. “Your wrists, Blade.”

  The two mercenaries elevated the barrels of their machine guns.

  The Warrior frowned as he offered his wrists to Cat.

  “Were it up to me, you would die like a man,” El Gato stated. “Not like an animal.” He snapped the handcuffs onto the giant’s wrists, then handed the key to the Director.

  Blade studied the cuffs for a moment.