David Robbins - New Orleans Run

Jacques did the opposite. In his haste to get away from the giant, he stroked for the surface and neglected to look overhead to ensure the boat had completely passed by.

A fatal mistake.

The Warrior saw the propeller catch the sergeant in the top of the head, the blades shearing through his cranium as if his skull was so much putty, sending a stream of hair, bone fragments, pulpy brain matter and blood into the bayou.

Jacques only convulsed once, then sagged, his arms and legs limp.

Blade twisted and dived deeper, anticipating the next move of the men in the boats. The water was cool and murky, but he could see the bottom less than eight feet below. Thankful he had taken a deep breath before going under, he swam down another six feet, then reversed direction and headed under the boats.

The tonton macoutes had stopped their craft. The muted chattering of high-powered weapons broke out, and dozens of rounds zipped into the bayou.

Blade glanced down and saw the thin trails of the bullets crisscrossing the water. The men in black were concentrating their fire to the south, where he had last been seen. He swam onward, bearing to the north, wondering if his lungs would hold out long enough for him to reach cover.

The frenzied firing went on unabated.

His arms and legs cleaving the water smoothly, Blade put ten yards behind him. Then 15. And 20. His chest began to ache, but he ignored the pain and kept pumping his limbs rhythmically.

Thirty yards.

Forty.

The Warrior could feel the pressure building in his lungs, and the pangs became sharper, almost unbearable. He angled upward, slowing as he neared the surface, and it took all of his considerable self-control to refrain from gasping loudly for air when he finally stuck his head up. He inhaled deeply, yet quietly, and seldom had he treasured the simple experience of breathing as he did now. The shooting had ceased.

Blade looked at the craft and saw the tonton macoutes searching the water in the vicinity of the boats. Two of them were fishing Jacques from the bayou.

Ferret and Gremlin were seated on their respective craft, both leaning forward intently. The humanoid happened to glance to the north.

Blade wanted to wave, but the motion might be seen by the tonton macoutes . He knew the hybrids possessed remarkable eyesight, so he simply grinned and winked and submerged again. With the Bowies still clutched in his hands he stroked on, losing track of the distance, seeking a temporary sanctuary. Reinforcements were bound to arrive from the estate at any minute and a massive manhunt would undoubtedly be launched.

He had no intention of being caught again.

The Warrior swam for another 15 minutes, surfacing when necessary to inhale fresh air, skirting solitary trees and isolated mounds of dense vegetation. Twice he saw snakes. Neither came within striking range. And once he saw an alligator, a small one less than six feet in length swimming from east to west. The reptile never paid any attention to him.

The underside of an island appeared ahead, approximately 70 yards wide.

Blade made for the rather steep bank, rising to the surface when he was 20 yards away. He discovered the island was not much larger than an acre in all and covered with thickets and cypress trees, a perfect spot to hide out until nightfall. He spied a limb jutting downward near the water and made for it.

Brightly colored finches flew by overhead.

In a minute the Warrior came within reach of the limb and paused, dog-paddling, about to slide the Bowies into their sheaths. Out of the corner of his left eye he detected movement, and he glanced around to discover a large black snake bearing down on him, not six feet off.

There was no time to determine if the serpent was poisonous or not.

Blade lifted both Bowies and hacked at the snake the second it came close enough. The keen edges penetrated its head, splitting the reptile open. A second swipe of his right hand decapitated the reptile.

The sinuous body continued to writhe and thrash despite the absence of its brain.

Blade quickly wiped the knives on his pants, placed them in their sheaths, and grabbed the limb. Another moment saw him safely out of the water and stepping onto dry land. He turned to stare to the south.

The boats were no longer in sight.

Good.

He pivoted and scrutinized the vegetation all around him. If the tonton macoutes came this far, he’d be difficult to find. If they didn’t, once dark settled he planned to head for the estate of Baron Laveau. He disliked the idea of being separated from the hybrids, but he had no choice.

Something rustled in the brush.

Blade rested his hands on his Bowies, thinking of the huge snake known as Damballah. Where did the creature hole up when not on the prowl? Of all the animals in the bayou, , felt confident he could handle every one with just his knives except the so-called Snake God. His Bowies would hardly make a dent in such a tremendous aberration of nature. Yet the thing must be killed.

But how?

How could he slay such an awesome monstrosity? The Warrior shook his head and walked inland, parting the undergrowth with his forearms, treading carefully, constantly on the alert for snakes. When he had traversed a dozen yards a thin green form slithered off to the east. Minutes later he spied a rabbit bounding away.

Shortly the shadows began to lengthen as the sun dipped partly below the horizon.

Blade came to a wide clearing. Lying in the center was a large log, the slowly rotting remnant of a once-towering tree. He walked over and sat down, relieved at the opportunity to rest and formulate his, strategy. Birds sang in the nearby woods. Insects buzzed noisily. Long minutes dragged by without any sound of pursuit. The serene setting lulled Blade into a sense of complacency. He thought of Jenny and Gabe, wishing with all of his soul that he would be with them soon. First things first, however.

Eradicating the Black Snake Society was paramount. He speculated on whether simply terminating the Baron would suffice to end the tonton macoutes , and he concluded they would probably appoint another leader or one would merely take over where the Baron had left off. So killing the Baron wasn’t enough. He must exterminate the entire Society in order to free the people of New Orleans. Considering the odds, the task promised to be formidable.

Maybe the key lay in Damballah.

The huge snake was more than a mere symbol of the Black Snake Society’s power; it was their Deity Incarnate, tangible proof of their masterful magic, physical evidence of the efficacy of their voodoo. Their living god rendered them invincible in their own eyes and cowed the populace of New Orleans. If Damballah could be destroyed, if someone could prove the Black Snake Society wasn’t omnipotent, their days would be numbered.

Which brought him back to square one.

How do you kill a snake bigger than a killer whale?

Blade put his hands on the log and stared thoughtfully at the grass, mulling his options. His ears registered a faint scraping noise to his rear, but he paid no attention to the sound. Absorbed in contemplation, he racked his brain for a means of slaying Damballah. A machine gun might do the trick, provided the gun fired at point-blank range and the snake stayed still long enough to take a few dozen rounds in the head. A hand grenade would definitely do the job, but he didn’t have one.

The scraping noise intruded on his reflection again, only louder this time.

Idly curious, Blade shifted and looked behind him. The moment he laid eyes on the creature, stalking him and saw its iron jaws spread wide to chomp on his back, he threw himself forward into a smooth roll and rose with his Bowies out and ready.