New Orleans Run

Chapter Fifteen

Blade had slanted to the right as he leaped, intending to come down in the water on the south side of the boat well clear of the outboard. But he hadn’t counted on Jacques suddenly resisting just as they went over the edge, causing them to roll as they went under, to sink directly under the craft He released the sergeant, grabbed his Bowies, and kicked to put distance between himself and the tonton macoutes up above.

Jacques did the opposite. In his haste to get away from the giant, he stroked for the surface and neglected to look overhead to ensure the boat had completely passed by.

A fatal mistake.

The Warrior saw the propeller catch the sergeant in the top of the head, the blades shearing through his cranium as if his skull was so much putty, sending a stream of hair, bone fragments, pulpy brain matter and blood into the bayou.

Jacques only convulsed once, then sagged, his arms and legs limp.

Blade twisted and dived deeper, anticipating the next move of the men in the boats. The water was cool and murky, but he could see the bottom less than eight feet below. Thankful he had taken a deep breath before going under, he swam down another six feet, then reversed direction and headed under the boats.

The tonton macoutes had stopped their craft. The muted chattering of high-powered weapons broke out, and dozens of rounds zipped into the bayou.

Blade glanced down and saw the thin trails of the bullets crisscrossing the water. The men in black were concentrating their fire to the south, where he had last been seen. He swam onward, bearing to the north, wondering if his lungs would hold out long enough for him to reach cover.

The frenzied firing went on unabated.

His arms and legs cleaving the water smoothly, Blade put ten yards behind him. Then 15. And 20. His chest began to ache, but he ignored the pain and kept pumping his limbs rhythmically.

Thirty yards.

Forty.

The Warrior could feel the pressure building in his lungs, and the pangs became sharper, almost unbearable. He angled upward, slowing as he neared the surface, and it took all of his considerable self-control to refrain from gasping loudly for air when he finally stuck his head up. He inhaled deeply, yet quietly, and seldom had he treasured the simple experience of breathing as he did now. The shooting had ceased.

Blade looked at the craft and saw the tonton macoutes searching the water in the vicinity of the boats. Two of them were fishing Jacques from the bayou.

Ferret and Gremlin were seated on their respective craft, both leaning forward intently. The humanoid happened to glance to the north.

Blade wanted to wave, but the motion might be seen by the tonton macoutes. He knew the hybrids possessed remarkable eyesight, so he simply grinned and winked and submerged again. With the Bowies still clutched in his hands he stroked on, losing track of the distance, seeking a temporary sanctuary. Reinforcements were bound to arrive from the estate at any minute and a massive manhunt would undoubtedly be launched.

He had no intention of being caught again.

The Warrior swam for another 15 minutes, surfacing when necessary to inhale fresh air, skirting solitary trees and isolated mounds of dense vegetation. Twice he saw snakes. Neither came within striking range. And once he saw an alligator, a small one less than six feet in length swimming from east to west. The reptile never paid any attention to him.

The underside of an island appeared ahead, approximately 70 yards wide.

Blade made for the rather steep bank, rising to the surface when he was 20 yards away. He discovered the island was not much larger than an acre in all and covered with thickets and cypress trees, a perfect spot to hide out until nightfall. He spied a limb jutting downward near the water and made for it.

Brightly colored finches flew by overhead.

In a minute the Warrior came within reach of the limb and paused, dog-paddling, about to slide the Bowies into their sheaths. Out of the corner of his left eye he detected movement, and he glanced around to discover a large black snake bearing down on him, not six feet off.

There was no time to determine if the serpent was poisonous or not.

Blade lifted both Bowies and hacked at the snake the second it came close enough. The keen edges penetrated its head, splitting the reptile open. A second swipe of his right hand decapitated the reptile.

The sinuous body continued to writhe and thrash despite the absence of its brain.

Blade quickly wiped the knives on his pants, placed them in their sheaths, and grabbed the limb. Another moment saw him safely out of the water and stepping onto dry land. He turned to stare to the south.

The boats were no longer in sight.

Good.

He pivoted and scrutinized the vegetation all around him. If the tonton macoutes came this far, he’d be difficult to find. If they didn’t, once dark settled he planned to head for the estate of Baron Laveau. He disliked the idea of being separated from the hybrids, but he had no choice.

Something rustled in the brush.

Blade rested his hands on his Bowies, thinking of the huge snake known as Damballah. Where did the creature hole up when not on the prowl? Of all the animals in the bayou, , felt confident he could handle every one with just his knives except the so-called Snake God. His Bowies would hardly make a dent in such a tremendous aberration of nature. Yet the thing must be killed.

But how?

How could he slay such an awesome monstrosity? The Warrior shook his head and walked inland, parting the undergrowth with his forearms, treading carefully, constantly on the alert for snakes. When he had traversed a dozen yards a thin green form slithered off to the east. Minutes later he spied a rabbit bounding away.

Shortly the shadows began to lengthen as the sun dipped partly below the horizon.

Blade came to a wide clearing. Lying in the center was a large log, the slowly rotting remnant of a once-towering tree. He walked over and sat down, relieved at the opportunity to rest and formulate his, strategy. Birds sang in the nearby woods. Insects buzzed noisily. Long minutes dragged by without any sound of pursuit. The serene setting lulled Blade into a sense of complacency. He thought of Jenny and Gabe, wishing with all of his soul that he would be with them soon. First things first, however.

Eradicating the Black Snake Society was paramount. He speculated on whether simply terminating the Baron would suffice to end the tonton macoutes, and he concluded they would probably appoint another leader or one would merely take over where the Baron had left off. So killing the Baron wasn’t enough. He must exterminate the entire Society in order to free the people of New Orleans. Considering the odds, the task promised to be formidable.

Maybe the key lay in Damballah.

The huge snake was more than a mere symbol of the Black Snake Society’s power; it was their Deity Incarnate, tangible proof of their masterful magic, physical evidence of the efficacy of their voodoo. Their living god rendered them invincible in their own eyes and cowed the populace of New Orleans. If Damballah could be destroyed, if someone could prove the Black Snake Society wasn’t omnipotent, their days would be numbered.

Which brought him back to square one.

How do you kill a snake bigger than a killer whale?

Blade put his hands on the log and stared thoughtfully at the grass, mulling his options. His ears registered a faint scraping noise to his rear, but he paid no attention to the sound. Absorbed in contemplation, he racked his brain for a means of slaying Damballah. A machine gun might do the trick, provided the gun fired at point-blank range and the snake stayed still long enough to take a few dozen rounds in the head. A hand grenade would definitely do the job, but he didn’t have one.

The scraping noise intruded on his reflection again, only louder this time.

Idly curious, Blade shifted and looked behind him. The moment he laid eyes on the creature, stalking him and saw its iron jaws spread wide to chomp on his back, he threw himself forward into a smooth roll and rose with his Bowies out and ready.

On the far side of the log, its squat bulk supported by four stout legs, its head extended and its tapered mouth all the way open, its spiteful brown eyes glaring at him in inexplicable primal rage, stood a snapping turtle four feet in height at the curved crest of its shell.

Blade marveled at the animal’s size and slowly backed away. With the log interposed between them, he felt safe, The turtle’s head came even with the top of the fallen tree, but its legs were too short to push it over.

The snapper hissed.

“I didn’t know this island was occupied,” Blade quipped, and halted eight feet from the log. In the bayou, it seemed, a person couldn’t turn his back for a second. He studied the reptile, estimating it to be three times the normal size, yet another example of radiation- or chemical-induced giantism. If he hadn’t looked back when he did, the thing would now be tearing him to shreds and gulping his flesh down. Thank the Spirit turtles were notoriously slow!

A rustling came from his right. Blade glanced in that direction and saw another snapper coming toward him. It moved ponderously, and he could easily outrun the animal. More rustling came from the left. Goose bumps broke out on the Warrior’s skin as he observed two more snappers lumbering toward him. What in the world was going on? Had he stumbled onto their breeding island? He pivoted, decided to get away from the clearing, and there were three more spaced about a yard apart and charging in their own lethargic fashion.

The largest of freshwater species, snappers were renowned for their fierce dispositions and jaws like steel traps. Distinguished by massive heads, long tails, and heavy carapaces, snappers would eat anything they could catch. Blade decided to beat a hasty retreat. He spun to the east and ran straight at the lone snapper blocking his path. The turtle extended its neck as far as it could go, eager to rip into him. But at the last second he leaped, arcing five feet into the air and sailing over the snapper, its jaws snapping shut within inches of his combat boots. He landed lightly and chuckled, then darted into the vegetation bordering the clearing.

And promptly realized he had only compounded his problem.

There were many more snappers lurking in the weeds and the thickets, dozens of them all around him.

The Warrior darted aside as a head lanced at him from out of a clump of high grass. He ran a few yards and was compelled to dodge to the left when another turtle materialized in front of him.

A universal, irate hissing broke out.

Blade paused, seeking a safe avenue through the snappers. None existed. His best bet was to keep moving, to run the gauntlet of vicious jaws as quickly as he could. Instantly he took off, sprinting in short steps, wary of accidentally blundering into one of the ponderous reptiles.

A small snapper appeared on the left and bit at him.

Blade darted to the right, nimbly skirting a partly concealed snapper, and ran due east for five yards before he was compelled to dance to the left once again.

And so it went.

For over five minutes Blade weaved and twisted and sidestepped as never before, evading gaping mouth after gaping mouth, listening to the constant hissing and the loud snap of the powerful jaws that could rend him as easily as if his body was made of soft clay. The darkening shadows complicated his escape, distorting his perception, causing him to go even slower than he might otherwise have gone. His legs began to tire, his reflexes to slow.

How many more were there?

Aware a single misstep could cause his death, Blade dashed to the north to avoid a squat shape, and only after he passed it did he realize he had just successfully avoided the stump of a tree.

Now his mind was playing tricks on him!

The Warrior covered eight more yards. Abruptly, the snappers dwindled. He found himself on a narrow strip of clear land on the east side of the island, the water not ten feet away, and halted, glancing right and left.

Not a turtle in sight.

Overjoyed at his deliverance, Blade slid the Bowies back in their sheaths and gazed at the underbrush behind him, waiting to see if the snappers would pursue him. After 30 seconds he judged himself to be safe, so he focused his attention on the twilight-enshrouded bayou.

The harsh whine of an outboard unexpectedly shattered the stillness, and around the southeast corner of the island sped a boat filled with armed tonton macoutes.