David Robbins - New Orleans Run

Twenty feet separated the hybrids from the man in black.

Blade forced himself to stop thinking about his lovely wife, and concentrated on covering the mutations. Of late his mental discipline had been more lax than was usually the case, and he determined to work on his self-control at every chance.

Ferret and Gremlin had now diverged, Ferret moving to the right, the humanoid to the left. The grass scarcely stirred as they advanced. Thanks to the Doktor’s manipulation of their genetic codes, they were the ultimate development in the lethal arts, living liquidators par excellence.

Blade sighted down the Thompson, then stiffened when he detected motion underneath the barrel. The next moment something began crawling up his naked forearm, and he glanced down to behold a spider the size of his fist clinging to his skin. Goose bumps broke out all over his flesh and he almost flung his arm out to dislodge the arachnid. To do so, however, might alert the man in black to the fact others were nearby, might give Ferret and Gremlin away, so he gritted his teeth and remained motionless.

The spider, with a rust color and sporting a peculiar orange design on its back near its multiple eyes, climbed in a leisurely fashion, its hairy legs rising and falling slowly.

Was it toxic?

The mere thought served to make Blade tingle all over. He watched the spider inch upward, then looked at the hybrids to mark their progress.

They were drawing steadily nearer to the guy in the sunglasses, and soon they would be within pouncing range. At that point they would be the most vulnerable and be dependent on him to down the man if necessary.

But how could he fire, with the spider perched on his arm? The slightest movement could prompt the arachnid to bite.

The spider stopped five inches from his left palm.

Blade scarcely breathed. If the arachnid stayed on his arm much longer, he’d be forced to make a decision that could cost him his life. He glanced at Ferret and Gremlin and saw them suddenly spring toward the figure next to the tree.

Just as the man turned in their direction.

For several heartbeats Lynx stood transfixed by the terrifying sight, until a sharp cry roused him from his astonishment.

Eleanore screamed.

Lynx roughly hauled her erect and shoved, sending her into the weeds to the north. He followed, backpedaling, watching the armored leviathan lumber up the bank and bear down on them, its thick, short legs pumping, its tail weaving from side to side.

“Oh, God!” Eleanore wailed, fleeing in abject horror.

How fast could alligators run? Lynx wondered as he raced after her.

The broad, rounded snout of the gator parted the vegetation as the reptile barreled toward them, moving at a surprisingly swift pace.

Lynx stayed on the woman’s heels. They had a 12-foot lead and were gaining ground slowly, but 12 feet didn’t seem like very much at all when a creature akin to a prehistoric dinosaur was in hot pursuit. He estimated their pursuer to be a whopping 18 feet in length, a primordial colossus.

Alarmed that she might indeed trip, Lynx concentrated on her movements, ready to assist at the first hint of trouble. If the woman did go down, he would be compelled to defend her, and he entertained grave reservations over whether his nails could inflict much damage on the alligator’s tough reptilian hide. Even using the AR-15—

The assault rifle!

Lynx suddenly realized he had foolishly left the weapon lying somewhere near the pool. Now all he had to rely on were his nails and his teeth against this bestial denizen of the swamp they hardly seemed enough. He looked over his left shoulder and almost laughed in relief.

The alligator had stopped and was simply standing there, balefully regarding their flight.

Wary that the reptile would renew its charge, Lynx kept his eyes on the animal until they were at least 30 yards away and he could no longer see the creature. “You can stop now,” he said.

Eleanore seemed not to hear him. She gasped for air, her legs driving hard, swatting at the bushes that clawed at her clothing.

“You can stop, bimbo,” Lynx repeated, and batted her on the left shoulder.

Startled, Eleanore slowed down and glanced at him, then to their rear.

“Where is it?”

“Takin’ a dump.”

“What?” Eleanore asked, not quite comprehending. She halted and peered to the south. “It’s gone?”

“That’s what I’ve been tryin’ to tell you, lady.”

“I’ve got a name, you know.”

“Good for you,” Lynx snapped, surveying the field around them. “I don’t see any sign of those bozos in black, but I don’t feel safe here what with Tyrannosaurus rex just waitin’ for a chance to nip our tootsies.”

Eleanore regarded him quizzically. “Tie-ranny-who?”

“Tyrannosaurus rex, a dinosaur. A big buddy told me all about them.”

“Never heard of them. Are you sure you know what you’re talking about?”

“What?”

“Everybody and their grandmother knows the animal we saw is called an alligator. Maybe the folks where you come from call them tie-rannies, but in these parts we just call them gators.”

Lynx smirked and shook his head. “Yep. No doubt about it.”

“About what?”

“The fact you’re a bimbo.”

“Stop calling me that!”

“What are you going to do if I don’t? Stamp your foot?” Lynx cracked, and took hold of her left wrist.

“Leave go of me,” Eleanore protested, and tugged, striving to break free.

“Don’t start again,” Lynx warned. He headed westward, hauling her along, and made for an expanse of woodland 70 yards distant.

“You’re awful strong for such a little thing,” Eleanore remarked.

“And mean too, lady. Mean enough to break your arm if you give me any grief.”

“Didn’t you tell me your name is Lynx?”

“Wow. I’m impressed. You can remember something for more than two seconds. Maybe you’re not a bimbo after all.”

“I wish you’d stop insulting me.”

“Can’t help myself,” Lynx said. “It’s been a lousy day so far, and bumpin’ into you hasn’t made matters much better.”

“What are you doing here? Where are you from?”

“I’ll ask the questions.”

Eleanore frowned and studied his feline visage. “I don’t know what to make of you.”

Lynx didn’t bother to respond. He gazed to the northwest, trying to spot the cabin, but a stand of trees blocked his view.

“I mean, you certainly don’t act like one of the Baron’s creatures.”

“There’s that name again. Who is the Baron?”

“He’s the houngan .”

Lynx glanced at her. “The what?”

“The high priest.”

“High priest? Is he some kind of religious yo-yo?”

“You really don’t know, do you?”

“I wouldn’t ask if I did.”

Lines creased Eleanore’s forehead as she pondered for several seconds.

“All right,” she finally declared. “I believe you’re not connected to Baron Laveau. No one could pretend to be as dumb as you are.”

“Thanks, twit.”

“I’m not trying to bad-mouth you.”

“You could’ve fooled me.”

Eleanore glared at him. “Why are you always so hostile?”

“Maybe because I learned an important lesson when I was knee-high to a kitten.”

“A lesson?”

“Yeah. I learned that the world will stomp you into the dust unless you stomp back. Life is hard, lady. Most humans don’t give a damn about anything but themselves, and they hate hybrids like me with a passion.

The only exceptions I’ve ever met are the sicky-sweets at the Home.”

“I don’t understand. Who are the sicky-sweets?”

“Never mind.”