David Robbins - New Orleans Run

Majesta was a woman in her thirties, possessed of a full figure, long black hair, and features akin to chiseled marble. She wore an unusual green dress that scarcely covered her jutting breasts, the shape of the fabric resembling the twisted coils of a snake.

The Baron wore all red. His hawkish, cruel visage perfectly fit the man.

Dark, malevolent eyes regarded the approaching party without a hint of friendly emotion. From his right hip, suspended in an ornate sheath, hung a dagger with a bejeweled golden hilt. “So these are the genetic deviates,” he declared by way of a greeting.

“You’re not exactly the cream of the crop yourself, sucker,” Ferret responded, and instantly regretted his rash impulse when a man in black spun and clubbed him on the right temple. He staggered but stayed erect.

“Leave him alone, yes!” Gremlin spoke up.

“Neither of you will talk unless addressed,” the Baron informed them imperiously. He came down the steps slowly, examining the prisoners intently. “Amazing. Truly amazing. You’re the first mutations I’ve seen who are so closely similar to man.”

“They not only have the power of speech, your lordship,” Captain Francois stated with a slight bow, “but they can also operate firearms.”

“Really?” the Baron responded. “If we’re not careful, someday these deviates will rise up against us and try to take over.”

Ferret had taken all the insults he could tolerate. “Who are you calling a deviate, you misfit? We’re half human, and we—”

A stocky tonton macoute , at a curt nod from the Baron, began beating the hybrid on the head with a vengeance. Ferret tried to raise his hands to protect his face, but another man in black struck him in the small of the back, causing him to fall to his knees.

“No!” Gremlin cried, stepping to his friend’s aid. He stepped between the stocky assailant and Ferret, using his own body as a shield.

“Enough!” the Baron commanded, and grinned. “How touching. They claim to be part human and demonstrate brotherly loyalty. But in the final analysis they are still genetic aberrations. These two are quite unique, but they would pose too many problems if I added them to my menagerie. You were right in your estimation, my dear captain, but I had to see for myself.” He paused and glanced at the woman. “What do you think, Majesta?”

“Damballah would enjoy them.”

“My thoughts exactly. They would be delightful appetizers,” the Baron said, and faced the officer, “Very well. Take them back to their cell. It’s ten-thirty now. In forty minutes bring them here so they can join our procession to the houmfor . We must be on time and commence the ceremony at midnight.”

“As you wish, my lordship,” Captain Francois said.

Ferret heard the words through a veil of pain. He grimaced and managed to straighten with Gremlin’s assistance. Footsteps pounded on the walk to their rear and another man in black raced past them to halt in front of the Baron.

“What is it?” the head of the Black Society demanded brusquely.

“Forgive this intrusion, Great One,” the man stated, and bent at the waist. “A speedboat has just arrived from New Orleans.”

The Baron frowned. “I gave specific orders that the speedboat is only to be employed on special occasions. It uses too much of our precious fuel to be utilized without proper justification. Who has committed this oversight?”

“Sergeant Valmy, sir. He sent me on ahead to tell you the news and explain his reason.”

“This had better be good.”

“The sergeant has captured another mutation like these two, your lordship.”

“What?” the Baron exclaimed.

“Yes, sir. He was on routine patrol along the shore of the bayou. The creature he has captured is a cat of some kind. He also has a woman with him, and he suspects she is a member of the Resistance.”

“Does this woman have a name?”

“Sergeant Valvy told me she was unconscious when he found her, but she has been revived and persuaded to talk. Eleanore DeCoud is her name, great one.”

The Baron placed his hands on his hips and laughed uproariously, then twisted to stare at Majesta. “All things come to those who worship Damballah.”

“Indeed,” the mambo said, smirking wickedly. “The Snake God will feast well tonight.”

The tonton macoutes spotted him.

Blade had only one option. Retreating into the undergrowth where the snappers lurked was out of the question. Trying to outrun the boat along the shoreline couldn’t be done. Since the enemy had seen him and now voiced loud shouts while slanting their boat in his direction, he decided to use the time-tested strategy advocated by skilled fighters down through the centuries.

The best defense is always a good offense.

The Warrior raced the ten feet to the edge of the bayou and dived into the water, his huge form cleaving the surface smoothly. He found the depth to be a mere five feet and quickly made for the deeper area farther out.

From the south came the distinctive buzzing drone of the boat’s outboard.

Blade stayed close to the bottom, sweeping strands of underwater vegetation aside with his forearms. He gazed upward, gauging the depth, pleased when it increased to ten feet, then 15.

The underside of the craft appeared, moving quite slowly, and the heads and shoulders of several men in black were visible although distorted by the water. They were in the boat and peering into the bayou.

Would they see him? Blade wondered, holding steady, hands moving back and forth. He placed his feet on bottom, testing to determine its sponginess. Once assured that his legs wouldn’t sink in the mud, he crouched and waited for the right moment.

The craft weaved slightly from side to side, coming ever closer.

Blade watched the boat creep almost directly overhead, its motor making a put-put noise, and he launched himself at the underside like a human missile, his arms sweeping up out, hoping the element of surprise would enable him overcome his six armed foes.

The boat was barely moving.

Kicking powerfully, the Warrior swam for the starboard side. He girded himself to act swiftly, decisively, and he was ready when his arms broke the surface right next to the craft. In that very instant he gripped the upper edge and hauled downward, counting on the fact that all the tonton macoutes were standing to unbalance their boat and possibly tip it over.

The strategy succeeded.

Caught totally off guard, the voodoo cult members on the port side were thrown against those on the starboard, together their combined weight served to tip the boat at an almost vertical angle and dump all of them into the swamp.

Blade had already released the top when the first man in black hit the water. The rest followed suit in a confused mass and he whipped the Bowies from their sheaths and tore into them, taking advantage of their momentary disorientation as they went under. Their first reaction was to thrash and make for the surface again, leaving them vulnerable to his attack.

Arcing to the left, Blade buried both knives in the chest of the first man under, then wrenched them out and turned, going for three foes at once, his movement impeded by the water but still forceful enough for him to slash one tonton macoute across the throat and stab the other pair.

Leaving just two.

The Warrior twisted and saw the remaining duo trying to clamber onto the stalled boat. He came at them from below, spearing his right Bowie into the unprotected abdomen of the nearest man in black, ripping the stomach wide open, and then attacked his final adversary.

Displaying remarkable agility, the last tonton macoute , who was dangling over the starboard side, flipped his legs up and rolled into the craft. In another moment he reappeared at the side, an M1 carbine pressed to his right shoulder.