Liberty Run

Chapter Eleven

Bertha slowly regained consciousness. She became aware of an acute pain in her wrists and arms. A cool breeze was blowing on her face. She could smell the fragrant scent of pine and dank earth. And she realized she wasn’t on the table in the cabin; she was suspended by her wrists, her body dangling in the air.

What had happened?

Bertha opened her eyes, confirming her assessment. A rope secured her wrists. She glanced up, and found the rope was looped over the stout limb of a tree. Looking down, she discovered her feet were swaying about three feet above the ground. And she wasn’t alone.

Six of the youngsters were facing her, three of them holding lanterns.

The other three each held an AK-47.

Bertha recognized the oldest boy, the one called Cole. She also saw the girl with the stringy hair, Libby, and the little girl named Milly. The 10-year-old boy with the blonde hair was there, as was old Pudgy Butt himself, the brat who had led her into the trap. The other two she didn’t know, a boy and a girl, both about 12 years old.

“Glad to see you joined us, bitch!” Cole greeted her.

Bertha glared down at him. Her headache had subsided, but her forehead was sore. “That ain’t no way to talk to a lady, you snotnosed shithead!”

Cole bristled, leveling his AK-47 at Bertha’s belly. “I should waste you right now, bitch!”

“While my hands are tied?” Bertha taunted him. “Ain’t you the brave baby!”

Cole took a step toward her. “I’m not a baby!”

“Could of fooled me!” Bertha retorted.

Cole jammed the AK-47 barrel into her gut. “Damn you!”

“Cole! No!” The girl called Libby cried.

“Why not?” Cole demanded, glowering up at Bertha. “She’s a damn Hunter! Who cares if it’s quick or slow?”

Bertha remembered the squabble in the cabin. She glanced at Libby.

“What’s a hunter?”

“Don’t you know?” Libby responded.

“Nope,” Bertha said.

“Bullshit!” Cole exploded. “You expect us to believe you?”

Libby gazed at Cole. “She might be telling the truth.”

“Are you going to let her trick you?” Cole snapped. “You know what the Hunters are like! They’ll do anything to catch one of us! Lie! Wear disguises! Shoot us in the back! Anything!”

Libby stared at Bertha, her youthful face betraying her doubt.

Bertha recognized a possible ally in the girl. “Look. I ain’t no lousy hunter! I’m a Warrior.”

“What’s a Warrior?” Libby asked.

“A Warrior protects others from harm,” Bertha explained.

Cole laughed. “Can it, bitch! Nobody is going to believe a word you say!”

“I wasn’t talkin’ to you!” Bertha stated stiffly. “I was talkin’ to Libby.”

“You’re not here to hurt us?” Libby inquired.

“Nope,” Bertha answered.

Cole turned on Libby, waving his AK-47. “Come on, Libby! You’re not falling for this shit, are you?” He spun toward Bertha. “If you’re not here to harm us, then why’d you chase Eddy?”

“I thought he was in trouble,” Bertha answered.

“Yeah! Right!” Cole rejoined.

Bertha looked at Eddy. “Didn’t you attack me, Fatso?”

Eddy seemed confounded by the unexpected query.

“Didn’t you attack me first?” Bertha prompted him. “Wasn’t I mindin’ my own business, and you jumped me from behind?”

“I wanted your gun!” Eddy blurted.

“And wasn’t I turnin’ back when you screamed?” Bertha asked.

“Yeah,” Eddy admitted.

“There!” Bertha glanced at Cole. “I thought he was in trouble. If I’d wanted to waste Fatso, I could have shot him anytime!”

“It doesn’t mean a thing!” Cole stated defiantly.

“Yes, it does,” Libby chimed in.

“What?” Cole said.

“I believe her, Cole,” Libby declared.

“Give me a break!” Cole quipped.

“I think she’s telling the truth,” Libby stated.

“Why?” Cole wanted to know.

“Lots of reasons,” Libby said. “Have you ever seen a woman Hunter before?”

“No,” Cole answered reluctantly.

“And have you ever seen a Hunter dressed like her?” Libby asked.

“No,” Cole said. “but they wear all sorts of disguises!”

“What about her gun?” Libby pressed him. “Ever seen a Hunter packing a gun like hers?”

Cole’s forehead creased. “No, can’t say as I have. They always use an AK-47 or a pistol.”

“And,” Libby added triumphantly, pointing at their prisoner, “have you ever seen a black Hunter before? Ever heard of a black Hunter before?”

Cole slowly shook his head, studying the woman swinging from the rope.

“Cole…” said the little girl named Milly.

“Not now, Milly,” Cole barked irritably.

“You finally seein’ the light?” Bertha asked him.

“What’s your name?” Cole inquired.

“Bertha.”

“You gottta see it my way, Bertha,” Cole said. “I’m the head of the Claws. Fifteen Packrats depends on me. If I make a mistake, they’ll die.”

“I’m not here to hurt you,” Bertha reiterated.

“But I don’t know that for sure,” Cole mentioned. “If I go easy on you, cut you down, we could all wind up dead. I can’t take the chance.

Somebody is always after us. If it ain’t the Red Hunters, then its one of the other Packrat gangs, or the mutants.”

“Cole,” Milly said, interrupting.

“Not now!” Cole told her. He gazed up at Bertha and shook his head.

“Sorry, lady. But I can’t let you live. You could be lying through your teeth for all I know. You could be some kind of new Hunter. We’re just gonna have to leave you here for the mutants.”

“Cole!” Milly cried.

Cole turned toward Milly, clearly annoyed. “Haven’t I told you before not to butt in when I’m talking to someone else? What the hell is it now?”

Milly extended a trembling finger to their right.

“Eyes.”

“Eyes?” Cole repeated, starting to pivot in the direction Milly was indicating.

Bertha glanced to the right, and she saw them first. A pair of reddish orbs, balefully staring at the youngsters from the stygian depths of the forest.

“A mutant!” Cole shouted. “Get to the cabin! Quick!”

The Claws responded to his order, dashing past Bertha toward the log cabin 20 yards away. One of them dropped a lantern.

Bertha glanced over her left shoulder and spotted the cabin, and saw Libby leading Milly and the others in a mad sprint for the cabin’s front door. She swung her head around, just in time to see the mutant burst from cover and charge Cole.

The mutant was a canine, or would have been had its parents not been affected by the widespread chemical and radiation poisoning of the environment and given birth to a defective monstrosity. It was four feet high and covered with brown hair, and its features resembled those of a German shepherd. Its jaws slavering, its six legs pumping, its two tails curved over its spine, the mutant pounced.

Cole stood his ground. He crouched and fired, the stock of the AK-47 pressed against his right side. His shots were rushed, but effective.

The mutant staggered as the heavy slugs ripped into its body. It was wrenched to the right, but immediately recovered and renewed its attack.

Cole never let up. He kept firing as the mutant took a bounding leap, and he was still firing as the mutant slammed into him and knocked him to the ground.

The mutant recovered before Cole, and slashed at him with its tapered teeth.

Cole, flat on his back, brought the AK-47 up to block those cavernous jaws.

Enraged, the mutant clamped onto the AK-47, snarling as it strived to wrench the weapon from the human’s hands.

Cole was clinging to the Ak-47 for dear life.

Bertha, suspended five feet from the savage struggle, saw her chance.

She whipped her legs forward, then back. Once. Twice. Gaining momentum with each swing. And on the third try she tucked her knees into her chest, then lashed her legs out and down, hurtling at the combatants.

The mutant’s senses were incredible. Furiously engaged as it was in attempting to tear the AK-47 loose and rip into its opponent’s neck, it saw the woman sweeping toward it and tried to evade the blow. But in doing so, the mutant released the AK-47 and drew back, its head momentarily elevated.

In that instant, Bertha struck. Her black boots plowed into the mutant’s face, into its feral eyes, and it was propelled for a loop, catapulted through the air to crash onto its left side six feet from Cole.

Cole took immediate advantage of the situation, rising to his knees, aiming the AK-47, deliberately going tor the mutant’s head, squeezing the trigger and holding it down.

The mutant twisted as it was struck, frantically scrambling erect. But the heavy slugs drove it to its knees, its left eye exploding in a spray of hair and blood. It reared back and howled as it was hit again and again and again.

The AK-47 went empty.

The mutant flopped onto its right side, its body convulsing. It whined once, then lay still.

Cole slowly stood, his eyes riveted on the mutant.

There was a commotion from the direction of the cabin, and the seven oldest Claws ran up, all of them armed.

“You got it!” shouted the pudgy Eddy.

Cole simply nodded.

Libby was with them, carrying an AK-47. She glanced at Cole, worry in her eyes. “It almost got you,” she stated.

Cole exhaled loudly.

“You came close,” Libby said.

“I know,” Cole agreed in a soft voice.

“I saw the whole thing,” Libby mentioned. “You’d be dead right now, if she hadn’t helped you!” And Libby pointed at Bertha.

Cole pivoted, gazed up at the Warrior.

“I couldn’t let that freak eat you,” Bertha said. “You might of given it indigestion!”

Cole almost grinned. He glanced at Eddy. “Cut her down.”

“But I thought you said—” Eddy objected.

Cole whirled on the startled Eddy. “Cut her down! Now!”

“Thank goodness!” Bertha exclaimed. “I’ve really got to weewee!”