David Robbins - Miami Run

“How do you figure?” Blade was prompted to ask.

“Study history,” Paolucci said. “Take note of the conditions just before World War Three. Crime was rampant, social diseases proliferated, corruption in government was commonplace, and the average turkey on the street was either an addict, a couch potato, or a vain mental midget.”

“I don’t share your low opinion of them,” Blade stated.

“Then you’re denying reality again,” the Director said. “I’ll cite one example I read about in a library in Miami. Did you know that the educational system was in complete disarray? That the students achieved lower and lower grades on aptitude tests each year? The students just didn’t care. And who can blame them? When they had a choice between studying a stuffy old book and partying with their friends, between acquiring knowledge or living it up, the book would lose every time.”

“What’s your point?”

Paolucci smiled condescendingly. “My point, Warrior, is that no one gave a damn about the values you honor. No one cared then, and no one cares now. Oh, there are a few misguided souls around. But Miami is living proof of my point. If people are given a choice between their own selfish interests and the common good, they will pick their selfish pursuits every time.”

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.

“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.