David Robbins - New Orleans Run

On the far side of the log, its squat bulk supported by four stout legs, its head extended and its tapered mouth all the way open, its spiteful brown eyes glaring at him in inexplicable primal rage, stood a snapping turtle four feet in height at the curved crest of its shell.

Blade marveled at the animal’s size and slowly backed away. With the log interposed between them, he felt safe, The turtle’s head came even with the top of the fallen tree, but its legs were too short to push it over.

The snapper hissed.

“I didn’t know this island was occupied,” Blade quipped, and halted eight feet from the log. In the bayou, it seemed, a person couldn’t turn his back for a second. He studied the reptile, estimating it to be three times the normal size, yet another example of radiation- or chemical-induced giantism. If he hadn’t looked back when he did, the thing would now be tearing him to shreds and gulping his flesh down. Thank the Spirit turtles were notoriously slow!

A rustling came from his right. Blade glanced in that direction and saw another snapper coming toward him. It moved ponderously, and he could easily outrun the animal. More rustling came from the left. Goose bumps broke out on the Warrior’s skin as he observed two more snappers lumbering toward him. What in the world was going on? Had he stumbled onto their breeding island? He pivoted, decided to get away from the clearing, and there were three more spaced about a yard apart and charging in their own lethargic fashion.

The largest of freshwater species, snappers were renowned for their fierce dispositions and jaws like steel traps. Distinguished by massive heads, long tails, and heavy carapaces, snappers would eat anything they could catch. Blade decided to beat a hasty retreat. He spun to the east and ran straight at the lone snapper blocking his path. The turtle extended its neck as far as it could go, eager to rip into him. But at the last second he leaped, arcing five feet into the air and sailing over the snapper, its jaws snapping shut within inches of his combat boots. He landed lightly and chuckled, then darted into the vegetation bordering the clearing.

And promptly realized he had only compounded his problem.

There were many more snappers lurking in the weeds and the thickets, dozens of them all around him.

The Warrior darted aside as a head lanced at him from out of a clump of high grass. He ran a few yards and was compelled to dodge to the left when another turtle materialized in front of him.

A universal, irate hissing broke out.

Blade paused, seeking a safe avenue through the snappers. None existed. His best bet was to keep moving, to run the gauntlet of vicious jaws as quickly as he could. Instantly he took off, sprinting in short steps, wary of accidentally blundering into one of the ponderous reptiles.

A small snapper appeared on the left and bit at him.

Blade darted to the right, nimbly skirting a partly concealed snapper, and ran due east for five yards before he was compelled to dance to the left once again.

And so it went.

For over five minutes Blade weaved and twisted and sidestepped as never before, evading gaping mouth after gaping mouth, listening to the constant hissing and the loud snap of the powerful jaws that could rend him as easily as if his body was made of soft clay. The darkening shadows complicated his escape, distorting his perception, causing him to go even slower than he might otherwise have gone. His legs began to tire, his reflexes to slow.

How many more were there?

Aware a single misstep could cause his death, Blade dashed to the north to avoid a squat shape, and only after he passed it did he realize he had just successfully avoided the stump of a tree.

Now his mind was playing tricks on him!

The Warrior covered eight more yards. Abruptly, the snappers dwindled. He found himself on a narrow strip of clear land on the east side of the island, the water not ten feet away, and halted, glancing right and left.

Not a turtle in sight.

Overjoyed at his deliverance, Blade slid the Bowies back in their sheaths and gazed at the underbrush behind him, waiting to see if the snappers would pursue him. After 30 seconds he judged himself to be safe, so he focused his attention on the twilight-enshrouded bayou.

The harsh whine of an outboard unexpectedly shattered the stillness, and around the southeast corner of the island sped a boat filled with armed tonton macoutes .

The bozos were candy.

Lynx took out the first one, Louis, with a swipe of his rigid nails, tearing the man’s throat open from side to side before Louis could recover from the shock of having the cottonmouth hurled at him. He shoved, sending Louis backwards, causing the tonton macoute to stumble into Alex.

The second man in black endeavored to push his friend aside and aim at the hybrid, but he found his human reflexes were no match for the uncanny speed of the cat-man.

Lynx darted around Louis and swatted Alex’s weapon aside with his left forearm. His right hand streaked to Alex’s neck and clamped tight, and with a surge of his shoulder and arm muscles he lifted Alex clear off the ground, pivoted, and slammed the man down.

Alex gamely tried to bring his weapon into play.

Not today, chump! Lynx thought, and lashed out with his right foot, catching Alex on the temple, stunning the tonton macoute . A second kick, planted on the tip of Alex’s chin, rendered the man in black unconscious.

What a couple of wimps!

Lynx looked at Louis, who convulsed wildly on the dank earth, then stepped over and knelt beside Eleanore.

A hasty check verified the woman was still out like a light. Her skin felt extremely hot to the touch, a certain indication of a fever. Which annoyed him no end. As if he didn’t have enough to worry about, now she required medical attention.

The old saying was right.

When it rained, it poured.

Lynx lifted Eleanore and deposited her in the boat. He collected the fallen weapons, an M-16 and an M3A1 submachine gun, and stripped the tonton macoutes of the ammo they carried in pouches attached to the rear of their belts. The weaponry went in the boat, and a moment later he was pushing the boat into the water. He undid the line, reached for the outboard, and paused.

Alex groaned and struggled to his elbows, blood trickling from his mouth. He looked at Louis, then at the boat. “Stop!”

“You’ve got to be kidding turkey,” Lynx replied, and lowered his right hand to the submachine gun.

“If it’s the last thing I ever do, man, I’ll kill you,” Alex vowed, trying to rise.

“Afraid not, chuckles. You’ve got it all backwards,” Lynx told him. “And don’t bother getting up on my account.” He raised the M3A1, worked the cocking handle, and fired.

Alex’s eyes widened the instant the weapon appeared. He scrambled feebly away from the bayou, but he had gone only a yard when the submachine gun chattered and the .45-caliber rounds smashed into his torso and flattened him on his back in a growing puddle of his own blood.

“Since you’re a magician, maybe you can bring yourself back to life,” Lynx remarked to the corpse, and placed the submachine gun at his feet.

He experimented with the outboard, adjusting the throttle and turning the small gray key before the motor kicked over. A satisfied smile creased his lips. He’d driven vehicles with manual chokes on many occasions, and the outboard was no different.

Eleanore shifted but didn’t awaken.

Frowning, concerned for her welfare, Lynx revved the motor and headed out across the murky water. He had no idea in which direction the tonton macoutes had taken Blade, Ferret, and Gremlin. His best bet, therefore, called for heading to New Orleans, where he could find assistance for Eleanore and hopefully elicit information concerning the Baron’s estate.