David Robbins: Liberty Run

They ranged in ages from about 10 to 16 or 17. Like the Claws, their clothing consisted of tattered rags. They were smiling, joking with one another, evidently happy over their presumed defeat of the Claws.

“Look at the sons of bitches!” Cole snapped. He stood behind a pine tree to Bertha’s right.

“Let’s get the scum!” Eddy stated from his spot to Bertha’s left, crouched near another elm.

“What’s that big gun?” Libby asked. She was standing next to a pine on Cole’s right.

Bertha was asking herself the same question. It was a huge machine gun, mounted on a tripod, and it took four Bobcats to carry the weapon, tripod and all. The Bobcats must have swiped the machine gun from the Russians and decided to use it on their enemies, the Claws.

“Who cares what it is?” Cole retorted. “It won’t stop us from wasting those creeps.”

The corners of Bertha’s mouth turned downward. She didn’t like this.

Didn’t like it one bit. It was all well and good to talk about teaching the Bobcats a lesson. But it was another matter to seriously contemplate shooting a 10-year-old. Or 11. Or 12. Try as she might, Bertha could only view the Bobcats in one light: as children. Savage little murderers, perhaps, but still children. She compared them to the children at the Home. The difference was incredible. The Family’s children were taught to reverence all life, to exalt love as the highest form of personal expression, and to strive for an inner communion with the Spirit. The Packrats, whether it was the Bobcats, the Claws, or any of the other gangs, by contrast had reduced all life to the primitive level of kill-or-be-killed. They didn’t have the slightest idea of the true nature of mature love. And of spiritual affairs they were pitifully ignorant. The disparity was like night and day. It was amazing, Bertha reflected, the difference the Family and the Home made in the lives of the children. She suddenly became aware Cole was addressing her.

“…us or not?” Cole demanded.

Bertha turned. “What did you say?”

“I want to know if you’re with us or not?” Cole repeated.

Bertha glanced at the Bobcats. “I don’t know,” she confessed.

“I thought you were on our side!” pudgy Eddy interjected.

“I am,” Bertha said. “But…” She paused, uncertain.

“But what?” Cole pressed her.

“But I don’t think I could kill the Bobcats,” Bertha stated, nodding toward the base of the hill.

“Why not?” Libby inquired.

“They’re just kids!” Bertha declared. “Look at ’em! Half of ’em aren’t much over twelve!” She frowned, staring at Cole. “I’m sorry. I just can’t do it.”

Surprisingly, Cole shrugged. “Suit yourself. You stay here, then.”

Bertha leaned toward the Claw chief. “Why don’t you forget about this vengeance bit? One of you could get hurt, or even killed. Drop it, Cole.

Come back to the Home with me.”

Cole averted his eyes. “I can’t,” he said.

“You could if you wanted to,” Bertha prompted him.

Cole stared at Bertha, his expression one of profound sorrow. “I can’t,” he reiterated, and motioned to Eddy and Libby. He moved from cover and started down the slope.

Eddy winked at Bertha, then followed Cole.

Libby stepped over to Bertha. “I’ll miss you,” she stated sadly.

“Don’t do it!” Bertha said. “Please!”

“I’ve got to go,” Libby asserted. “I can’t let Cole and Eddy do it alone.”

“Talk to Cole some more,” Bertha suggested. “You can talk him out of it, if anyone can!”

“I can’t,” Libby said. “I’ve already tried.”

“Try again!” Bertha urged. “What harm can it do?”

“It’s no use,” Libby insisted.

“How do you know. What makes you so damn sure?” Bertha asked.

Libby looked into Bertha’s eyes. “Milly was Cole’s sister.” She whirled and dashed after Cole and Eddy.

His sister! Bertha sagged against the elm. Sweet little Milly had been Cole’s sister! No wonder he was out for blood! Bertha watched the three Claws cautiously descend the hill. She’d never even considered some of the Packrats might be related. But how else would the younger ones have made it to Valley Forge, unless they were accompanied by an older brother or sister?

Cole and Eddy had halted and were waiting for Libby. Cole glanced up once at Bertha and smiled wanly.

Libby reached them, and together they continued their descent, utilizing the trees, boulders, and weeds as cover as they crept ever nearer to the unsuspecting Bobcats.

Bertha felt queasy in her stomach. Lordy! She had a bad feeling about this!

Cole, Eddy, and Libby reached a maple tree 60 yards from the bottom of the hill.

Bertha didn’t want to watch, but she couldn’t bring herself to tear her eyes away. Indecision racked her soul. What if she was wrong? What if she should be helping the Claws? They’d befriended her, hadn’t they? Spared her, when they could have killed her? Back at the cabin, she’d believed she was partly to blame for the butchery committed on the other Claws. Now, she wasn’t so sure. She was torn between her desire to aid her friends, and her repugnance at the mere thought of killing a child.

The three Claws attained a boulder 40 yards from the Bobcats, still undetected by their quarry.

Bertha scrutinized the Bobcats. They were strung out over a 20-yard stretch of trail. The quartet bearing the heavy machine gun was bringing up the rear, at least ten feet behind the rest. The apparent leader, a tall youth with black hair, armed with an AK-47, was about five feet in front of the group. AK-47’s were the standard weapon, except for two boys who were toting rifles.

Bertha tensed as she saw Cole, Libby and Eddy creep to within 20 yards of the Bobcats. They crouched behind a spreading pine. Cole wagged his hand to the right and the left, and Eddy and Libby started off in the corresponding directions.

The Bobcat leader unexpectedly paused, scanning the hill.

Bertha held her breath.

Cole, Libby, and Eddy froze in their tracks.

The Bobcat leader looked over his shoulder at the gang, then resumed his journey.

Bertha took a deep breath.

Cole, Libby, and Eddy were crawling down the hill, silently parting the brush in their path, stopping whenever a Bobcat idly gazed up the hill.

The Bobcat leader halted beside a maple tree and leaned down, doing something with his right shoe.

Cole was now within 10 yards of the Bobcats, close to the center of their column. Libby was 12 yards from the four carrying the machine gun. And pudgy Eddy was 12 yards from the Bobcat leader.

What were they waiting for? Bertha craned her neck for a better view.

The Claws should strike before the…

Cole suddenly rose to his feet from a clump of weeds, his AK-47 leveled.

“You slime!” he shouted, and fired.

Three of the Bobcats in the middle of the line were ripped to pieces by the automatic barrage, the slugs slamming into their bodies and exploding out their backs, ravaging their torsos. Their limbs jerked and flapped as they were struck and knocked to the ground.

The other Bobcats lunged for the nearest cover.

Libby popped up from behind a log, and her sweeping spray of lead caught the four with the machine gun in their chests. They died in midstride, crumpling under the weight of the machine gun.

Eddy rose, aiming at the Bobcat leader.

Only the Bobcat leader was quicker. He must have sensed something was wrong, must have been toying with his shoe as a ruse, because he was already in motion as Eddy stood, and both fired at the same instant.

Eddy’s head snapped back, a crimson geyser erupting from his left ear, and he toppled to the grass.