“What about her gun?” Libby pressed him. “Ever seen a Hunter packing a gun like hers?”
Cole’s forehead creased. “No, can’t say as I have. They always use an AK-47 or a pistol.”
“And,” Libby added triumphantly, pointing at their prisoner, “have you ever seen a black Hunter before? Ever heard of a black Hunter before?”
Cole slowly shook his head, studying the woman swinging from the rope.
“Cole…” said the little girl named Milly.
“Not now, Milly,” Cole barked irritably.
“You finally seein’ the light?” Bertha asked him.
“What’s your name?” Cole inquired.
“Bertha.”
“You gottta see it my way, Bertha,” Cole said. “I’m the head of the Claws. Fifteen Packrats depends on me. If I make a mistake, they’ll die.”
“I’m not here to hurt you,” Bertha reiterated.
“But I don’t know that for sure,” Cole mentioned. “If I go easy on you, cut you down, we could all wind up dead. I can’t take the chance.
Somebody is always after us. If it ain’t the Red Hunters, then its one of the other Packrat gangs, or the mutants.”
“Cole,” Milly said, interrupting.
“Not now!” Cole told her. He gazed up at Bertha and shook his head.
“Sorry, lady. But I can’t let you live. You could be lying through your teeth for all I know. You could be some kind of new Hunter. We’re just gonna have to leave you here for the mutants.”
“Cole!” Milly cried.
Cole turned toward Milly, clearly annoyed. “Haven’t I told you before not to butt in when I’m talking to someone else? What the hell is it now?”
Milly extended a trembling finger to their right.
“Eyes.”
“Eyes?” Cole repeated, starting to pivot in the direction Milly was indicating.
Bertha glanced to the right, and she saw them first. A pair of reddish orbs, balefully staring at the youngsters from the stygian depths of the forest.
“A mutant!” Cole shouted. “Get to the cabin! Quick!”
The Claws responded to his order, dashing past Bertha toward the log cabin 20 yards away. One of them dropped a lantern.
Bertha glanced over her left shoulder and spotted the cabin, and saw Libby leading Milly and the others in a mad sprint for the cabin’s front door. She swung her head around, just in time to see the mutant burst from cover and charge Cole.
The mutant was a canine, or would have been had its parents not been affected by the widespread chemical and radiation poisoning of the environment and given birth to a defective monstrosity. It was four feet high and covered with brown hair, and its features resembled those of a German shepherd. Its jaws slavering, its six legs pumping, its two tails curved over its spine, the mutant pounced.
Cole stood his ground. He crouched and fired, the stock of the AK-47 pressed against his right side. His shots were rushed, but effective.
The mutant staggered as the heavy slugs ripped into its body. It was wrenched to the right, but immediately recovered and renewed its attack.
Cole never let up. He kept firing as the mutant took a bounding leap, and he was still firing as the mutant slammed into him and knocked him to the ground.
The mutant recovered before Cole, and slashed at him with its tapered teeth.
Cole, flat on his back, brought the AK-47 up to block those cavernous jaws.
Enraged, the mutant clamped onto the AK-47, snarling as it strived to wrench the weapon from the human’s hands.
Cole was clinging to the Ak-47 for dear life.
Bertha, suspended five feet from the savage struggle, saw her chance.
She whipped her legs forward, then back. Once. Twice. Gaining momentum with each swing. And on the third try she tucked her knees into her chest, then lashed her legs out and down, hurtling at the combatants.
The mutant’s senses were incredible. Furiously engaged as it was in attempting to tear the AK-47 loose and rip into its opponent’s neck, it saw the woman sweeping toward it and tried to evade the blow. But in doing so, the mutant released the AK-47 and drew back, its head momentarily elevated.
In that instant, Bertha struck. Her black boots plowed into the mutant’s face, into its feral eyes, and it was propelled for a loop, catapulted through the air to crash onto its left side six feet from Cole.
Cole took immediate advantage of the situation, rising to his knees, aiming the AK-47, deliberately going tor the mutant’s head, squeezing the trigger and holding it down.
The mutant twisted as it was struck, frantically scrambling erect. But the heavy slugs drove it to its knees, its left eye exploding in a spray of hair and blood. It reared back and howled as it was hit again and again and again.
The AK-47 went empty.
The mutant flopped onto its right side, its body convulsing. It whined once, then lay still.
Cole slowly stood, his eyes riveted on the mutant.
There was a commotion from the direction of the cabin, and the seven oldest Claws ran up, all of them armed.
“You got it!” shouted the pudgy Eddy.
Cole simply nodded.
Libby was with them, carrying an AK-47. She glanced at Cole, worry in her eyes. “It almost got you,” she stated.
Cole exhaled loudly.
“You came close,” Libby said.
“I know,” Cole agreed in a soft voice.
“I saw the whole thing,” Libby mentioned. “You’d be dead right now, if she hadn’t helped you!” And Libby pointed at Bertha.
Cole pivoted, gazed up at the Warrior.
“I couldn’t let that freak eat you,” Bertha said. “You might of given it indigestion!”
Cole almost grinned. He glanced at Eddy. “Cut her down.”
“But I thought you said—” Eddy objected.
Cole whirled on the startled Eddy. “Cut her down! Now!”
“Thank goodness!” Bertha exclaimed. “I’ve really got to weewee!”
Chapter Twelve
Blade had to hand it to Nick. The old Freeb was as good as his word. Nick seemed to know every alley, every ditch, every unfrequented street, within 20 miles of Valley Forge. His endurance and agility were remarkable for a man his age. He maintained a steady pace, never flagging, and they reached their destination two hours before dawn. They approached Norristown from the north. Nick guided them through the fields and across yards adjacent to Highway 363, then parallel to Egypt Road until they reached Ridge Pike. They continued to the south, sticking to the shadows, to the alleys and the side streets, skirting Jeffersonville, until they reached Norristown.
Blade was amazed by his first glimpse of Soviet-occupied territory.
People appeared to be going about their daily business without hindrance.
Traffic on the main arteries was light but steady. Civilian and military vehicles shared the roads. A checkpoint was posted between Jeffersonville and Norristown, but the Russians stationed at the checkpoint performed their duties in a desultory fashion. Squatting behind a hedgerow a block to the west, Blade saw the soldiers joking and laughing, and only occasionally stopping vehicles to verify papers. Again, he had to remind himself of the time frame involved. The Soviets had controlled this area for over 100 years. They were bound to be complacent after such a protracted interval. Which suited him fine, because their careless attitude increased the odds of successfully completing the run to Philadelphia.
Four times the trio inadvertently encountered civilians, and each time the civilians took one look at the Russian uniforms on Blade and Sundance and promptly made themselves scarce.
Once in Norristown, Nick increased their pace. They bore south on Lafayette, then turned left on Hawes Avenue, and dashed across Main Street to the far sidewalk. A military truck appeared in front of them, and Nick hastily led them into a side street. They traversed a succession of side streets and alleys, on the alert for patrols, until Nick abruptly stopped.