David Robbins - Liberty Run

Sundance clambered into the middle seat, the uniforms under his left arm. “Here.” He handed one to Bertha. “And this looks like the big one,” he said, extending the uniform toward Blade.

“Thanks.” Blade took the uniform. “This is it. We’ll change into these.”

“Now?” Bertha asked.

“Just so you get it done before dark,” Blade replied. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” Bertha said uncertainly. “I think I’ll change outside.”

“Whatever you want,” Blade commented. “Or we can change outside and you can stay here.”

“No. No need.” Bertha opened her door, put the Russian uniform under her left arm, and grabbed the M-16 in her right hand. “I’ll be back in a sec.” She slid to the grass, then closed the door behind her.

A squirrel stared at her from the top of a nearby tree.

Frowning, Bertha moved away from the transport. What the hell was wrong with her? Since when did she become bashful about her naked body? She’d never cared one way or the other before. Before joining the Family.

The squirrel started chattering.

Bertha walked around a large trunk. Off to her left was a thicket. She slowly stepped toward it, musing. The Family had changed her, that was for sure. And she didn’t know if she liked all the changes. Being able to read was terrific, the thrill of her life. But what about the rest of the changes? What about being more subdued, about being less prone to speak her mind when something or someone bugged her? What about being embarrassed to change her clothes in front of two men? Two friends!

Or were they?

Blade was a friend. There was no doubt about that. One of the best she had. But what about Sundance? She hardly knew the man well enough to call him a friend. And if he wasn’t a friend, then what was he? A fellow Warrior, of course. But beyond that? She had to admit to herself she was attracted to Sundance, and the disclosure bothered her. A lot. She had intentionally avoided becoming involved with anyone for ages. After what had happened with Hickok, who could blame her? she asked herself. She had given her heart to the blond gunman, and he had inadvertently hurt her to the depths of her soul. Her heart had been crushed. She’d never let on, never let Hickok or anyone else know how torn apart she felt.

Surprisingly, the ache hadn’t diminished with the passage of time. Every time she saw Hickok and Sherry together, she wanted to run off somewhere and cry. The “old” Bertha would have punched Sherry’s lights out and forced herself upon the gunfighter.

What had happened to her?

Was it really the influence exerted by the Family? Or was the cause some quality inside of her? Had she matured? Was that it? She remembered Plato saying once that a person had to mature to grow. Was she becoming wiser, or dumber? What woman in her right mind would allow the man of her dreams to slip through her fingers?

Bertha sadly shook her head.

There were so many questions, and never enough answers.

Bertha stopped, concealed from the transport by the dense thicket. She dropped the uniform onto the ground, then leaned the M-16 on a low branch. Preoccupied with her reflection, she removed her green fatigue shirt and her belt.

The underbrush to her rear rustled.

Bertha scooped up the M-16 and twirled, her alert eyes scanning the vegetation.

Nothing.

Her nerves must be on edge, she decided, and lowered the M-16 to the ground. It served her right for acting like a damp wimp, for leaving the SEAL to change her clothes. She stooped and picked up the shirt to the Russian uniform.

Footsteps pounded on the earth behind her.

Bertha released the uniform shirt and bent over, grabbing at the M-16.

Before she could grip it, arms encircled her waist and drove her to her knees. She instinctively rammed her left elbow back and up, and was gratified when she connected and someone grunted. The arms encircling her slackened slightly, and she repeated the move with her right arm. At the same time, she butted her head backwards.

Both blows landed.

There was a gasp, and the arms holding her slipped away.

Bertha lunged for the M-16, sweeping it into her hands and rolling to her feet, her fingers on the trigger. She glimpsed her assailant and froze.

“Son of a bitch!” she exclaimed.

It was a kid!

Her attacker was a boy of 12 or 13, a pudgy youth dressed in tattered rags. He was on his hands and knees, blood trickling from his nose, peering up at her in abject fear.

Bertha started to lower the M-16.

The boy bolted. He was up and gone like a panicked colt, racing back the way he came, heading into the brush.

“Wait!” Bertha called.

The youth ignored her. He darted between two trees and disappeared.

“Damn!” Bertha muttered, starting after him. She took three steps, then realized she was naked from the waist up. “Doubledamn!” She turned, spied her fatigue shirt, and snatched it from the grass. What the hell was a kid doing out here in the middle of nowhere? She jogged after him, donning her shirt as she ran, reaching the two trees and pausing to button her front.

Where was he?

Bertha studied the ground, wishing she could read tracks like Geronimo. A twig snapped, and she looked up in time to see the boy duck around a boulder ten yards in front of her.

There was no way she was going to let him escape!

Bertha took off, sprinting to the boulder and around it, but the boy was gone.

Now where?

The youth came into view 20 yards to the right, visible as he passed a tree and scurried into a patch of high weeds.

Bertha ran to the weeds and stopped, surveying the terrain. The weed patch was 15 yards in diameter, and the weeds were 3 to 5 feet in height. A hill rose on the other side of the weeds, its slope covered with trees and brush.

The boy appeared about ten yards up the hill. He glanced over his left shoulder at Bertha, then kept going.

The sucker sure could run! Bertha hurried after him, crossing the weeds and reaching the base of the hill. Close up, the hill was a lot steeper than it had seemed. She hurried up the slope, her powerful legs churning.

The fleeing boy became visible again, this time near the crest of the hill.

He stopped, watching her ascend.

“Wait!” Bertha yelled.

To her surprise, the boy grinned.

“I won’t hurt you!” Bertha shouted. “I just want to talk to you!”

The boy flipped her the finger.

“Wait there!” Bertha cried.

Instead, the boy turned and continued over the crest of the hill.

Smart-ass kid!

Bertha chugged up the slope, halting when she reached the top. The other side of the hill was an eerie landscape. A fire, probably caused by a lightning strike, had fried the vegetation to a cinder. Dozens of blackened, charred trunks dotted the hillside.

The boy was almost to the bottom. He stopped, gazed up at her, and laughed.

What the hell did he think this was? A game? Bertha pounded down the slope after him. Below the hill was a field, and she saw the boy reach it and accelerate. For a pudgy kid, he sure could move! Her black boots crunched on the brittle burnt grass as she raced to the bottom of the hill. A sudden pain in her left side caused her to check her pursuit. She doubled over, breathing heavily.

Pudgy was nearly to the far side of the field.

Bertha inhaled deeply, trying to alleviate the discomfort. How far was she from the SEAL? she wondered. Too far. She couldn’t keep following this kid, not when Blade and Sundance might become worried and come looking for her. If the brat didn’t want to talk to her, that was his business.

She was on a mission.

Besides, her chest ached like crazy!

Bertha slowly straightened.

The boy was on the other side of the field, simply standing there, his hands on his hips, watching her.