Seattle Run

Chapter Eight

Rikki watched the mob drawing ever closer to the brick building. They were searching every structure they came to, and they would inevitably find Yama and himself. He might be able to escape, but Yama was not in any condition for a fight. They had to depart before they were found. He darted along the hallway to his friend. “Yama?”

There was no answer.

“Yama?”

The silver-haired Warrior was sitting with his back to the wall, hunched forward, his chin on his chest.

Rikki knelt, unable to see Yama’s face clearly in the dark. “Yama? Can you hear me?”

Yama didn’t budge.

Fearing the worst, Rikki groped for Yama’s left wrist and felt for a pulse. It was there, but weak. With Yama unconscious their predicament was compounded. He could not possibly escape the crowd while bearing Yama’s big bulk. Which left him one of two options. Either he made a stand right where he was to protect Yama, knowing he would eventually be overcome by sheer force of numbers, or—

There was shouting outside.

Rikki rose and ran to the front door. The forefront of the mob was twenty feet off, and they were still looking in each building. They would be at the brick one in less than a minute, and they would enter unless they were diverted. Rikki stared in the direction of his helpless companion.

“May the Spirit be with you,” he whispered, then bolted out the front door.

The crowd saw him immediately.

Rikki leaped to the sidewalk, raking his foes with the HK-93 while in midair, landing on his feet and sprinting to the south.

The mob howled and gave chase.

“I want him alive!” someone yelled.

You must catch me first, Rikki thought to himself. He jogged daily and was in superb physical condition. Pouring on the speed, he pulled ahead of those after him. He glanced back once to insure none of them had gone into the brick building harboring Yama.

They were all after him.

Rikki grinned and ran even faster. His scabbard was flapping against his left leg, and he steadied his katana with his left hand.

“Don’t lose him!” a man commanded.

Rikki was pleased with his strategy. If he drew them away from Yama, he could circle back undetected. His friend required medical attention, and the sooner the better. In another block or two he would attempt to shake his pursuers.

But fate intervened in a bizarre manner.

Rikki was abreast of a brownstone when the unforeseen occurred. To his left was the rusted hulk of an automobile, and on the pavement next to the wreckage was the partially devoured carcass of a black cat. Rats were doing the devouring, and a half dozen of them were nibbling at the cat’s putrid meat when Rikki suddenly came upon them. He saw the rodents at the same instant they saw him, and the rats automatically scattered for cover. A pair of the 18-inch long scavengers bounded directly into Rikki’s path.

The Warrior’s reaction was instinctive. He endeavored to vault over the rodents, but he was already in midstride, running at full speed, and his left leg came down short. His black slipper-like shoe, constructed for him by the Family Weavers according to photographs in the library depicting the apparel worn by prewar martial artists, stepped on the back of one of the rats.

The rodent squealed and kept moving.

Rikki felt his left leg slip out from under him. Unable to retain his balance, he sprawled forward onto the side-walk, onto his hands and knees. The HK-93 went flying from his grasp. His palms stung and his kneecaps were racked by unbelievable torture. He tried to regain his footing, but his legs momentarily wouldn’t support him. Stumbling, he tottered forward.

Footsteps pounded to his rear.

Rikki attempted to turn as the fleetest of his pursuers caught up with him. Strong arms encircled his waist and drove him onto his back.

A black-haired man with a jagged scar on his right cheek straddled the Warrior’s chest. “Got you!” he shouted, elated.

Not quite.

Rikki-Tikki-Tavi formed his right hand into a leopard paw and thrust his calloused foreknuckles into the man’s throat.

The man with the scar clutched at his crushed larynx, gurgling and sputtering, and toppled to the right.

Rikki scrambled to his feet, his disciplined mind shutting out the ache in his knees, knowing his foes would be on him like a pack of hungry wolves on an injured bull elk. But like the elk, with its pointed antlers, he possessed a tapered, glistening weapon of his own. He whipped his katana from its scabbard and faced the mob.

Just as they reached him.

The first three never slowed. They expected to bowl the wiry man in black over.

Rikki taught them the error of their ways. His katana flashed once, twice, three times, each stroke a veritable blur, and the three men were dead before their bodies struck the sidewalk. Two were nearly decapitated, and the third’s neck was slit wide open.

A fourth antagonist reached the Warrior, a brown-headed woman with a machete. Apparently she’d forgotten the order to take the Warrior alive because she aimed a vicious swipe at his head.

Rikki ducked under the blow and retaliated, gutting her, her abdominal cavity splitting and her intestines pouring out over her ragged clothing.

She screamed and dropped.

Two men charged the Warrior, one with an axe, the other with a baseball bat, Rikki danced to the right, slicing his katana through the left leg of the man with the axe. As the man started to fall, Rikki rent his face from his forehead to his chin. Blubbering, the man collapsed.

The one with the baseball bat delivered a wicked swing at the Warrior’s head.

Rikki stepped backwards to avoid the bat, then drove the point of his katana into the man’s chest, straight through the heart. As the man stiffened and expired, Rikki yanked the katana free.

“Pretty sharp moves you’ve got there, sucker.”

Rikki pivoted to his right, his katana in front of him at waist level.

A handsome man and a strikingly beautiful woman were calmly standing seven feet away. They resembled each other in every respect.

Both were about six feet in height and both were lean and muscular. Their facial features were angular with prominent chins, thin lips, and thin eyebrows. Both had green eyes. And both had white hair, completely white without a strand of color anywhere. Unlike their crude associates, they were clean and wearing unsoiled black leather pants and shirts. Black boots covered their feet. And both were holding pump-action shotguns trained on the Warrior.

Rikki glanced from the man to the woman, wondering if they were twins.

The man grinned. “Don’t even think it, little man,” he warned. “We’ll take your head off at the shoulders if you so much as blink.”

Rikki said nothing. Other men and women were surrounding him.

“What do you think, Fab?” the man said to the woman. “Do you think he’s worth saving for Tiger?” He snickered.

“I think so, Gar,” the woman responded huskily. “In fact, I think this little man is kind of cute.”

Gar gave the woman a reproachful stare. “Now don’t start! We’re taking him directly to Tiger.”

The woman ignored the man. She winked at the man in black and smiled. “What’s your name, little man?”

Rikki didn’t respond. He counted 21 people ringing him.

“Stuck-up little shit, isn’t he?” Gar stated.

The woman named Fab chuckled. “I bet I could melt him down a peg or two.”

Gar sighed. “So do I. But I repeat: We are taking him directly to Tiger.”

Fab looked at Gar, pretending to pout. “You’re no fun sometimes, do you know that, dear brother?”

“I’m only doing what’s best for us,” Gar said.

Fab giggled. “Best for you, maybe.”

“I’m not going to antagonize Tiger just because you’ve got the hots for some moron in black pajamas,” Gar declared stiffly. He gazed at the man in black. “Okay, fella. Drop that fancy sword of yours.”

Rikki did not move.

“Are you deaf?” Gar demanded. He wagged the shotgun. “There is no way you could reach us before we blow you in half. So be a good little boy and drop the sword. I won’t tell you again.”

Rikki hesitated, reluctant to relinquish his prized katana. He was an astute judge of character, and he knew this Gar would kill him without waivering if he didn’t comply. Obeying, temporarily, was his only option if he hoped to survive and return to Yama. He slowly lowered the katana to the sidewalk.

“Now that’s a smart boy,” Gar said mockingly.

“Put your hands on your head, handsome,” Fab instructed the Warrior.

Rikki did as he was told, hoping for an opening. If they would just move in a bit closer…

“Strip,” Gar commanded.

Rikki looked at Gar.

“I said strip,” Gar repeated. “Take off your clothes.”

“Don’t be shy,” Fab said. “You don’t have anything I haven’t seen before.”

Gar glanced at his sister. “Don’t you have any modesty?”

Fab shook her head, her long white hair swaying. “Nope. Modesty is for losers. I’m not a loser.”

Gar studied the guy in the pajamas, who hadn’t budged. “Strip, asshole.”

“Make up your minds,” Rikki finally spoke up.

Gar did a double take. “Whoa! He can talk! What the hell do you mean, make up our minds?”

“You tell me to remove my clothing, and she tells me to put my hands on my head. I can’t do both,” Rikki noted.

Gar frowned. “A smart ass, sis. We’ve got a smart ass on our hands.”

His tone hardened. “When I tell you to take off your clothes, mister, you damn well better take them off. Now!”

Rikki began removing his backpack and his black shirt.

“Oh, goody!” Fab said, smirking. “A strip show!”

Gar gazed at his sister in disapproval. “Geez! What a nympho.”

“Tiger doesn’t mind the way I am,” Fab retorted.

“Tiger will hump any…” Gar began, then quickly caught himself.

“What was that?” Fab snapped.

“Nothing,” Gar said. “Forget it.”

“I don’t know as I like your attitude sometimes,” Fab commented.

“The feeling is mutual,” Gar rejoined.

Rikki dropped his shirt to the pavement, then raised one leg at a time and took off his shoes.

“Now the baggy pants,” Gar directed.

Rikki slowly peeled off his pants. He was naked underneath.

“Not bad, handsome,” Fab said appreciatively. “You’re well-hung for a little guy.”

Gar scrutinized the pile of clothing and other items on the sidewalk.

“What’s in the backpack?” he asked.

“Rations,” Rikki answered.

“What kind of rations?” Gar wanted to know.

“Venison jerky,” Rikki replied. “A canteen filled with water. The herbs for my tea. A tiny cup. And hardtack.”

“What’s hardtack?” Gar queried. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“Hard biscuits,” Rikki explained.

“Well, we’ll confirm that in a bit,” Gar said. He nodded at the pile.

“What’s in that pouch on your belt? More rations?”

“No,” Rikki admitted.

“Then what?” Gar asked.

“Clips for my automatic rifle, a shuriken, and a kyoketsu-shogei,” Rikki revealed.

“Shuri-what?” Gar questioned. “And what was that last thing?”

“They are weapons,” Rikki said, simplifying his response.

“Oh, really?” Gar pointed his shotgun barrel at the clothes. “You can get dressed, but leave the backpack, pouch, and scabbard on the ground. And no funny stuff.”

Rikki donned his shirt, pants, and shoes. He removed the pouch and scabbard from his belt, then looped the belt around his waist.

The woman was scanning the street. “We’d best haul butt, Gar. The crabs are out again, you know.”

“That fucking Manta!” Gar stated angrily. “I can’t wait for the day when his own damn crabs turn on him and rip him to shreds.”

“Never happen,” Fab said.

“You wait and see,” Gar declared.

“What’s your name, cutey?” Fab asked the Warrior.

“Rikki.”

“Well, Ritchie,” Fab began.

“Not Ritchie,” Rikki corrected her. “Rikki. As in Rikki-Tikki-Tavi.”

“For real?” Fab inquired.

“For real,” Rikki confirmed.

“Never knew anyone with that name,” Fab mentioned, smiling. “It’s original. My name is Fabiana, but everyone calls me Fab.”

“What is this?” Gar interjected stiffly. “The social hour? This clown is our prisoner, sis. Quit being so nice to him.”

“Don’t push me,” Fabiana said.

Gar sighed and looked at the ring of men and women. “We’re taking him to Tiger,” he announced. “Tom and Earl, you take the point. And keep your eyes peeled. Mania’s pets are out again.”

A pair of men with rifles headed to the southeast.

Gar motioned with his shotgun. “Let’s go, little man.”

“What about my katana?” Rikki inquired.

“Your what?”

“My katana,” Rikki said, indicating the weapon bestowed on him by the Family Elders in honor of his martial arts prowess.

“That fancy sword?” Gar stated. “Don’t worry. We won’t leave it behind.” He raised his voice. “Buck! Stick this guy’s sword in the scabbard and bring it! The pouch and the backpack too. Simms! You find that rifle he dropped.” He looked at the Warrior. “Satisfied?”

“Yes,” Rikki said. “I would not leave without my katana.”

“Who cares about a lousy sword?” Gar queried, then laughed. “Where you’re going, that sword will be the least of your worries!”

He laughed even harder.