New Orleans Run

Chapter Sixteen

The bozos were candy.

Lynx took out the first one, Louis, with a swipe of his rigid nails, tearing the man’s throat open from side to side before Louis could recover from the shock of having the cottonmouth hurled at him. He shoved, sending Louis backwards, causing the tonton macoute to stumble into Alex.

The second man in black endeavored to push his friend aside and aim at the hybrid, but he found his human reflexes were no match for the uncanny speed of the cat-man.

Lynx darted around Louis and swatted Alex’s weapon aside with his left forearm. His right hand streaked to Alex’s neck and clamped tight, and with a surge of his shoulder and arm muscles he lifted Alex clear off the ground, pivoted, and slammed the man down.

Alex gamely tried to bring his weapon into play.

Not today, chump! Lynx thought, and lashed out with his right foot, catching Alex on the temple, stunning the tonton macoute. A second kick, planted on the tip of Alex’s chin, rendered the man in black unconscious.

What a couple of wimps!

Lynx looked at Louis, who convulsed wildly on the dank earth, then stepped over and knelt beside Eleanore.

A hasty check verified the woman was still out like a light. Her skin felt extremely hot to the touch, a certain indication of a fever. Which annoyed him no end. As if he didn’t have enough to worry about, now she required medical attention.

The old saying was right.

When it rained, it poured.

Lynx lifted Eleanore and deposited her in the boat. He collected the fallen weapons, an M-16 and an M3A1 submachine gun, and stripped the tonton macoutes of the ammo they carried in pouches attached to the rear of their belts. The weaponry went in the boat, and a moment later he was pushing the boat into the water. He undid the line, reached for the outboard, and paused.

Alex groaned and struggled to his elbows, blood trickling from his mouth. He looked at Louis, then at the boat. “Stop!”

“You’ve got to be kidding turkey,” Lynx replied, and lowered his right hand to the submachine gun.

“If it’s the last thing I ever do, man, I’ll kill you,” Alex vowed, trying to rise.

“Afraid not, chuckles. You’ve got it all backwards,” Lynx told him. “And don’t bother getting up on my account.” He raised the M3A1, worked the cocking handle, and fired.

Alex’s eyes widened the instant the weapon appeared. He scrambled feebly away from the bayou, but he had gone only a yard when the submachine gun chattered and the .45-caliber rounds smashed into his torso and flattened him on his back in a growing puddle of his own blood.

“Since you’re a magician, maybe you can bring yourself back to life,” Lynx remarked to the corpse, and placed the submachine gun at his feet.

He experimented with the outboard, adjusting the throttle and turning the small gray key before the motor kicked over. A satisfied smile creased his lips. He’d driven vehicles with manual chokes on many occasions, and the outboard was no different.

Eleanore shifted but didn’t awaken.

Frowning, concerned for her welfare, Lynx revved the motor and headed out across the murky water. He had no idea in which direction the tonton macoutes had taken Blade, Ferret, and Gremlin. His best bet, therefore, called for heading to New Orleans, where he could find assistance for Eleanore and hopefully elicit information concerning the Baron’s estate.

Only the top rim of the sun was visible to the west.

Lynx made himself as comfortable as he could and stared straight ahead, fascinated by the swampy domain so different from any he had ever seen. Birds were everywhere. So were snakes. He saw many before the darkness encroached enough to limit visibility. The descent of nightfall posed an inconvenience. There were countless isolated trees and mounds and logs dotting the bayou. Hitting any one of them would send the boat to the bottom. If it became too dark, he’d have to pick his way slowly or go on foot. And with Eleanore unconscious, walking was impractical. Not to mention unhealthy, what with all the damn snakes.

Lynx had been able to fix the position of the city in his mind before it became too dark to see the former metropolis, and he relied on his unerring feline instincts to guide him once it did. Lacking a watch, he had to estimate the passage of time and distance, and initially he calculated New Orleans to be four or five miles away. He also assumed the bayou would take him directly to the outskirts, but after progressing only two miles, and just as twilight began to give way to the deeper inkiness of night, he spied land ahead.

What was this?

He stood in the boat for a better view, surprised to discover the land was actually that: the mainland, not a mere island. An ancient pier jutted into the water, extending 50 feet from the bank, and four other boats were tied at dock. None of Them resembled the type of boats used by the tonton macoutes. Beyond the pier a paved road led off to the east.

Lynx directed the boat toward the land, wondering if he would be able to locate a functional vehicle he could “borrow” to transport Eleanore into the city. Movement below a stand of trees near the pier arrested his attention, and he stared at the spot for a second before his sharp eyes recognized the shape of the tethered horse.

Wow!

Maybe he did have a guardian angel like the Elders claimed.

Chuckling at his good luck, Lynx brought the boat in next to the end of the pier. He cut the outboard and grabbed hold of the narrow ladder leading upward from the water. Working rapidly, he secured the boat to the pier, and was bending to lift Eleanore when an unexpected sound stiffened him in consternation.

Someone coughed.

Lynx leaped to the ladder and climbed to the top. As he cleared the rim he was amazed to behold an elderly man sitting 15 feet off, fishing from the edge of the pier. The man’s dark clothing blended into the darkness, rendering him almost invisible except at close range.

“Hi, there.”

The friendly greeting was the last thing Lynx expected. He straightened warily and walked toward the thin figure. “Hey, mister. How’s it hanging?”

“Oh, about nine inches.”

Lynx halted in surprise, then cackled. “Nine inches! I like that. Almost as big as mine.”

The fisherman regarded Lynx with an air of curious fascination. He wore jeans and a blue shirt, both of which had seen their prime decades ago. His receding hairline gave him a distinguished aspect. “Sounds like you’ve got a regular snake in your drawers.”

“Do me a favor and don’t talk about snakes,” Lynx said, moving forward. “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

“Not at all, Gramps. Shoot.”

“What the hell are you?”

“You ever heard of mutations?”

“Who hasn’t? But I ain’t never heard of one that talk. Where are you from?”

“Would you believe Mars?”

“Nope. I heard about them octopuses when I was whippersnapper. We kicked their keisters but good.”

“You too, huh?”

“What?”

“Nothin’. What’s your name, gramps?”

“Bob. Bob Wells.”

“Do you live around here?”

“Just down the road a piece.”

Lynx nodded at the horse. “Is that yours?”

“Yep. I call him Saddlesore. Had him for going on eleven years.”

“I need to borrow him.”

Bob Wells placed his fishing pole by his left leg. “I don’t know as how I’d like that.”

“It’s not for me,” Lynx explained. He started toward the end of the pier.

“Come here a sec.”

“What for?” Wells responded suspiciously.

“I want to show you something.”

“I don’t know.”

Lynx stopped and put a friendly smile on his face. “Look, if I wanted to harm you, you’d already be dead. There’s a woman here who needs to see a doctor, and fast.”

Wells slowly stood, his head cocked to one side, eyeing the hybrid skeptically. “A woman?”

“Yeah. See for yourself.” Lynx stepped to the south side of the pier, giving the elderly man plenty of room to pass. “I won’t move.”

“I guess I can trust you,” Wells stated with the same degree of confidence he might use in referring to a ravenous gator. He edged cautiously to the end and peered over the side.

“Well?” Lynx prompted.

“I’ll be damned. You were telling the truth. Who is she?”

“Her name is Eleanore DeCoud.”

“What happened to her? Did you hurt her?”

“Me?” Lynx snapped, and moved over beside the oldster, “Are you crazy? I don’t make a habit of beatin’ up on bimbos. The tonton macoutes were after her and—” he began and was immediately interrupted.

“Those bastards! They did this to her?”

“More or less. She’s a member of the Resistance.”

Wells gaped at Eleanore, then reached out to touch the hybrid’s arm.

“Hell, man. If she’s with the Resistance, you can keep my horse. Do what you need to.”

“Thanks,” Lynx said. He hurried down the ladder to get her.

“Those vermin killed my boy about fourteen years ago,” Wells detailed.

“If I was a bit younger I’d be with the Resistance myself. There’s a lot of us who would jump at the chance to do what we can to help them.”

Lynx draped Eleanore over his left shoulder and began the ascent.

“You’re not gettin’ any younger, Gramps. What’ve you got to lose if you join them now?”

The question caused Wells to think for a moment before answering.

“Nothing but my life. What little is left of it.”

“Like I said. What have you got to lose?” Lynx stressed. He came over the top and accepted a hand of assistance from the fisherman. “Thanks.”

“Come on. I’ll make sure you get on Saddlesore,” Wells offered, hastening toward the stand of trees.

“Do you think your horse will spook? Some horses aren’t able to handle being ridden by someone who smells like an animal.”

“There’s just one way to find out.”

Lynx cradled Eleanore in his arms and followed. “Where’s the nearest doctor?”

“Do you mean like in the old days? Hell, man, there ain’t none of them around anymore. The smartest thing you can do is get your lady-friend to Marie. Her place is about a mile and a half from here. Marie will have your friend on her feet in no time.”

“Is this Marie a nurse or an herbal healer?”

“Nope. Marie is a mambo.”

“What’s that?”

“She practices voodoo.”

Lynx abruptly halted. “Are you out of your gourd, gramps? Didn’t you hear me? Those voodoo types are out to kill this woman.”

“Not Marie,” Wells said, pausing. “Marie practices good voodoo, the kind that heals people, not the black magic practiced by the Black Snake Society.”

“Are you sure it’s safe for us to go there?”

“Trust me. Marie has been helping the folks in these parts for damn near thirty years. She’s the salt of the earth.”

“If you say so.”

Wells continued to his horse. The animal shied and he had to grip the reins tightly to prevent it from fleeing. “Whoa, boy! What’s the matter with you?”

“It’s me,” Lynx said from six feet away. “I was afraid of this.”

“Do you want a suggestion?”

“Anything.”

“Put the woman down and climb on Saddlesore. If you can show him who’s boss, he’ll let you ride him, no problem.”

Lynx hesitated. Trying to break in the animal seemed like a monumental waste of time. But if he succeeded, he’d get to the mambo’s place that much sooner. “All right,” he said, and gently lowered Eleanore down once more.

“Just climb right up,” Wells advised, straining on the reins.

“Climb, hell,” Lynx declared. He took two steps and sprang, his wiry form gracefully sailing through the air to come down squarely in the saddle. The horse seemed to freeze. “This might be easier than I thought,” he remarked and took the reins.

He spoke too soon.

Saddlesore suddenly erupted into violent motion, bucking twisting like the wildest mustang that ever lived, reverting to the instinctual level of its evolutionary ancestors, neighing all the while.

Lynx clamped his legs on the horse and held onto the reins with all of his strength, his body jarred by every buck and wrenched by every twist.

He had only limited experience with horses, and none whatsoever at breaking the animals. Still, he felt confident his feline prowess would enable him to weather the equine storm.

Saddlesore moved away from the trees and into the middle of the road, his legs stiff, his back arched, bucking even harder and higher.

The world spun before Lynx’s eyes, a vague swirl of shadowy contours.

He thought he heard Wells yelling at him but the words were indistinct.

His complete concentration was devoted to the task of staying on the horse. Never, ever would he allow a dumb animal to defeat him, so he clung to Saddlesore tenaciously and endured agonizing torment in the process. Time stood still. He had no idea whether he rode the horse for three minutes or ten. Gradually, his legs began to tire and his arms to ache.

Then the light appeared.

Lynx didn’t know what to make of the bright light that suddenly enveloped both the animal and himself. The brilliant whitish glow grew brighter and brighter, dazzling his eyes when the horse turned in a certain direction. Somewhere, Bob Wells shouted muddied words. Lynx had about had enough. The combination of the strange illumination and the shouting convinced him something must be wrong. He prepared to vault from Saddlesore, but in the second before he leaped, the steed abruptly and astonishingly stopped in its tracks, wheezing in great sighs.

“Congratulations!” someone cried out in a gruff voice, and clapped in appreciation.

For a moment Lynx experienced disorientation. He was facing directly toward the source of the lights, which he now recognized as the twin headlights of a military-style convoy truck parked only 20 feet off. And he also perceived another chilling fact.

Tonton macoutes completely surrounded him.