Liberty Run

Chapter Seven

The SEAL wheeled off the road, its huge tires pulverizing all the weeds, bushes, small trees, and every other minor obstruction in its path. The transport cut across a field and into a dense forest.

Blade, carefully negotiating a path between the larger trees, glanced at Bertha. “We did it!” he said, elated.

“We’ve been lucky,” Bertha declared.

“Either that, or there aren’t as many Russians in this area as we were led to believe,” Sundance chimed in.

The afternoon sun was in the western sky. White clouds floated on the air. A rabbit, startled by the mechanical behemoth plowing through the woods, hopped off in fright.

“If this map is right,” Bertha said, hunched over the map in her lap, “then we’re in what was once called Valley Forge National Historical Park.”

“This was a park?” Blade queried, braking under an immense maple tree.

“That’s what the map says,” Bertha insisted.

Blade turned the engine off. He thought of their good fortune since the firefight in Huntsburg. Two days of travel, two days of sticking to the secondary roads and bypassing every town, no matter how small, and they were now close to their goal, to Philadelphia. Twice they’d spotted helicopters in the distance. In both cases, the copters were flying on the southern horizon. Both times, Blade had pulled the transport into nearby trees until the helicopter disappeared.

“So what’s the plan?” Sundance inquired.

“We hide here until dark, then start walking,” Blade answered.

“We’re leavin’ the SEAL here?” Bertha queried.

“We don’t have any choice,” Blade said. “Even at night, the SEAL would stand out as being completely different from anything the Reds have. We’ll leave it here and commandeer a jeep or truck or a civilian vehicle if necessary.”

“Why didn’t we run into any roadblocks in the last hundred miles or so?” Sundance asked. “We know the Soviets control southern Pennsylvania. Why didn’t we bring that radio along to monitor them?”

“It’s too valuable to the Family to risk our losing it,” Blade said. “As for any roadblocks, they’d be on the highways, and we’ve stuck to the less-traveled roads. Maybe, as you said, there aren’t many troops in this area. Maybe they’re concentrated in Philadelphia. Or maybe they don’t use roadblocks anymore. Remember, it’s been a century since the war. This area has been under their thumb for a hundred years. Resistance probably died out long ago. They haven’t been attacked here in decades. Maybe security is lax because they don’t have any need for it.”

“I hope you’re right, Big Guy,” Bertha said. “It’ll make our job a little easier.”

“How will we find where these Vikings are being held?” Sundance questioned.

“We’ll find a way,” Blade stated.

Bertha snickered. “I love a person with confidence!”

Which explained her affection for Hickok, Blade mentally noted as he turned in his bucket seat. “Sundance, look in the rear section, in the right-hand corner.”

Sundance shifted and began climbing over the top of his seat. “What am I looking for?”

“Find a green blanket,” Blade directed. “It’s folded in half.”

Sundance, on his hands and knees, gingerly moved over their mound of supplies. “I see it,” he said.

“Lift up the green blanket,” Blade directed. “What do you see?”

Sundance raised the folded blanket. “I see uniforms.” He leaned closer.

“Russian uniforms.”

“Bring them here,” Blade ordered. “There should be one for each of us.”

“Russian uniforms?” Bertha said. “Did the Weavers make them?”

“We took them from the bodies of the four soldiers killed near the Home,” Blade detailed. “The Weavers did a rush job on them the night before we left. Washed them. Patched up the bullet holes and tears. The hard part was constructing a serviceable uniform for me. All of them were way too small. The Weavers had to sew two of the uniforms together, and they did a dandy job.”

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.

Bertha flipped him the finger.

The boy’s mouth dropped.

Bertha turned, grinning. That ought to teach the little snot! She began retracing her path up the hill.

There was a loud scream from across the field.

Bertha spun.

The boy was gone.

Bertha frowned as she moved to the edge of the field. For some reason, the fire had not scorched the weeds and brush below the hill. She squinted, trying to see the trees on the far side clearly.

There was no hint of what had happened to the boy.

Bertha hesitated. She should get back to the SEAL, return to Blade and report. But what if the kid was really in trouble? She couldn’t just leave. If the brat was trying to fake her out, she’d give him a lesson he’d never forget.

Like a bust in the chops.

Bertha jogged toward the woods, constantly scanning for movement.

The farther she went, the more concerned she became about the boy. The forest was too dangerous, what with all the wild animals and the mutants, for a young boy. His threads had been pitiful. He must be on his own, wresting an existence from the land as best he could.

A shadowy shape materialized in the forest ahead.

Bertha halted, raising the M-16. Whatever it was, the thing was enormous. She waited for it to move. And waited.

What the hell was it?

Bertha cautiously advanced. She suddenly realized the shape wasn’t that of a monstrous creature.

It was a log cabin!

The cabin was situated approximately 30 yards into the trees. The surrounding forest served to render it invisible except at close range. Two windows, both with their glass panes intact, fronted the field. Between the windows was a door.

An open door.

Bertha tensed, suspecting a trap. Maybe the boy had deliberately led her here. She stepped toward the cabin, determined to get to the bottom of this. Her boots eased forward, step by step.

The cabin seemed to be uninhabited.

Bertha reached a cleared space, a strip about ten yards wide, forming a semicircle in front of the door. She advanced toward the cabin, proceeding cautiously. Her M-16 at the ready, she would take a pace, then pause and survey the cabin and the trees. Take a step and pause. Take a step and pause. She was on her fourth step, her left boot about to contact the ground, when she realized her mistake, when a startling insight flooded her mind. If there was a cleared space in front of the cabin, someone must have cleared it! Someone who used the cabin on a regular basis! And anyone who went to all the trouble to clear the vegetation around the door would hardly leave the cabin unattended with the door open! So if the door was open, then someone must be inside!

Bertha placed her left foot on the soil, intending to spin and race for cover. But she never made it. Her left boot touched the ground and didn’t stop, sinking into the earth, into a gaping hole, almost spilling her off balance. She caught herself before she could plunge forward, and she was on the verge of pulling back from the edge of the hole when something slammed into the small of her back.

They had her.

Bertha received a fleeting glimpse of figures dashing from the cabin and the woods surrounding her, and then she pitched into the hole, into a large pit, crashing through a layer of dirt supported by a framework of branches and woven reeds and weeds.

Someone was laughing.

Bertha tried to clutch the rim of the pit, but her fingers slipped, unable to retain a purchase. She was aware of falling, of darkness, of dirt stinging her face and eyes, and then she landed with a jarring crash on her right side, the M-16 flying from her hands.

More laughter and giggling arose above her.

Stunned, Bertha rolled onto her back, gazing up at the rim of the pit seven feet away. Faces were looking down at her, but she couldn’t focus on them. She shook her head, trying to correct her vision, and struggled to rise to her hands and knees.

“Not so fast, bitch!” shouted a harsh voice.

A hard object struck Bertha on the forehead, and she sprawled onto her face. Her last mental image before passing out was of Sundance.