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.
Chapter Eight
“She should have been back by now,” Blade declared, impatiently scanning the forest.
“Should we go look for her?” Sundance asked.
“You go,” Blade said. “I’ll stick with the SEAL. Take the autoloading rifle you brought from the Home with you.”
Sundance twisted, leaned over, and retrieved his automatic rifle from the rear section. It was an outstanding piece of military hardware, an FN Model 50-63. The rifle featured a folding stock, an 18-inch barrel and 20-round magazine, and was chambered for the .308 cartridge. The FN 50-63 had initially been a semiautomatic, but the Family Gunsmiths had coverted it to full automatic. Next to his Grizzlies, Sundance preferred the FN over any other weapon in the massive Family armory.
“Be careful,” Blade advised.
Sundance nodded, and exited the transport. He felt uncomfortable in the Russian uniform. The Grizzlies were in their shoulder holsters, nestled under the uniform shirt. He would need to unbutton the shirt to reach the Grizzlies, and he didn’t like having them tucked away. Frowning, he hefted the FN and moved away from the SEAL. He had last seen Bertha walking to the west, and he hurried to a tree he remembered seeing her near.
There were her boot tracks, in the soft soil near the base of the tree.
Sundance searched the forest, then jogged to a thicket to the left of the tree. If Bertha had wanted privacy while she changed, the thicket would have screened her from the SEAL. He rushed to the far side of the thicket.
Bertha’s Russian uniform was lying on the ground behind the thicket.
Sundance stopped, his penetrating green eyes sweeping the woods.
Bertha was nowhere in sight. He grabbed her uniform and raced to the SEAL.
Blade was waiting for him outside the transport, standing near the front grill.
“I found this,” Sundance announced as he approached, holding aloft the Russian uniform.
Blade took the uniform, scowling. He glanced at the woods.
“Do you want me to go look for her?” Sundance inquired.
“No,” Blade replied.
“You’re going to look for her?” Sundance asked.
“No,” Blade said.
“We’re not just going to leave her out there?” Sundance demanded, his tone rising.
“That’s exactly what we’re going to do,” Blade stated.
“Like hell we are!” Sundance stated.
Blade stared at Sundance. “You’ll do what I tell you to do.”
Sundance gestured toward the trees. “But how can we just up and leave her? She could be in trouble! She could be counting on us to help her!”
“There’s no doubt in my mind that she’s in trouble,” Blade said. “She wouldn’t walk off and leave this uniform. But whatever fix she’s in, she’ll have to get out of by herself.”