The rotten Doktor deserved the dubious credit for his condition.
Ahhhh, yes.
The Doktor.
Lynx smiled at the memory of how the Doktor had looked after Blade got through with the scumbag. He only wished he could have done the job himself. He’d tried to assassinate the Doktor once and wound up in a cage, slated for extermination. If not for a Warrior named Yama, who had infiltrated the Doktor’s Citadel in Cayenne, Wyoming, where Lynx was being held, he wouldn’t be alive today. Yama had turned out to be one tough mother, and together they had set the Doktor’s plans back decades.
Those were the good old days.
Now he was lucky if he saw action once a month, and even then the
“action” usually consisted of dealing with a wild animal or a rampaging mutation, such as a bear with two heads or a wolf with six legs. Deformed animals were quite common due to the massive amounts of radiation that had saturated the environment during and after World War Three.
Engrossed in reflection, Lynx advanced another 25 yards. To his left, perhaps 50 feet distant, stood a small stand of trees, not more than half a dozen, and he wouldn’t have paid them more than fleeting attention if not for an unexpected bright gleam from among the trunks, the glinting of a metallic object in the brilliant sunlight.
Lynx reacted instinctively by vaulting forward with his arms extended, and he was in midair when the crack of automatic gunfire rent the humid atmosphere. He came down hard and heard the rounds zipping through the weeds all around him.
A trap!
They’d walked into a stinking trap!
Lynx rose into a crouch, staying below the top of the vegetation, and turned, intending to speed back to the others. His keen eyes registered movement in the weeds 15 yards to his rear, and he realized hidden foes had lain concealed while he passed them by. The wind would not have carried their scent if they were lying flush with the ground in the dense growth.
He’d been outfoxed.
Angered at his failure to detect the attackers, and frustrated because he couldn’t retrace his route with an unknown number of enemies blocking his path, Lynx pivoted and dashed eastward, staying bent in half. His small stature worked to his advantage. He could move at two thirds of his top speed easily without having to worry about being seen.
After 30 feet he drew up short and gazed along his back trail. Vague, black forms were in hot pursuit. They were sticking to the weeds so he couldn’t see them clearly. Just for sheer spite, Lynx pointed his AR-15 at one of the indistinct forms and squeezed the trigger.
The target screamed and pitched into the weeds.
Score one for our side! Lynx thought, and slipped into the vegetation on his right. If he couldn’t return to the cabin using the path, he’d circle around the SOBs and rejoin his companions.
A burst of automatic fire erupted from the vicinity of the cabin.
Alarmed, Lynx angled to the west. The volume of noise sounded as if World War Four was being conducted. What if Ferret or Gremlin were killed? The horrifying prospect galvanized him to increase his speed. He sped at a reckless pace, heedless of the risk, parting the weeds with the barrel of the AR-15, and moments later blundered into one of their foes.
A squat figure materialized directly in front of him, a figure who had been facing in the opposite direction but was beginning to turn at the sound of Lynx’s approach. A large black man dressed in some sort of black uniform and wearing mirrored sunglasses, he tried to bring a compact submachine gun into play.
Lynx had scant time to be surprised at the unexpected meeting. One second weeds were before him, the next the man in black was raising his weapon not inches from the tip of the AR-15. Lynx did the only thing he could do under the circumstances. He fired at point-blank range.
The big black man took the slugs in the forehead and was hurled backwards.
Other black shapes appeared, scattered in the weeds at varying distances, and they cut loose at the hybrid. Lynx threw himself rearward, then scrambled on his elbows and knees to the south. There were more of them than he initially assumed, and he had to swing farther around to bypass them.
“Which way did he go?” someone shouted to the north.
“Why don’t you tell the freak where you’re at, you idiot!” another man replied, then added what sounded like curses in an unknown tongue.
What language was that? Lynx wondered. French, maybe. But he couldn’t be certain. He’d only listened to French spoken once by a linguist at the Home who specialized in learning every frigging language on the planet. The language that guy had used might as well be Martian as far as he was concerned. At least he had a general idea of their position thanks to the lame-brain with the big mouth.
And there was one more good thing.
The firing had stopped.
Then again, Lynx thought, crawling rapidly, the silence could be a bad sign. It could mean Blade and his buddies were dead. If so, somebody would pay.
Oh, how they’d pay!
A voice louder than all the rest roared out a few words in the alien tongue, and suddenly the weeds were shrouded in total quiet.
Spooky. Real spooky.
Lynx shook his head to dispel the sensation of unease that gripped him.
He was up against humans, and humans were hardly a threat to worry about. They were no match for his hypersenses; they couldn’t hope to rival his speed or his steely sinews. Well, Blade could, but he didn’t count because they were on the same side. And so could Yama, and Rikki-Tikki-Tavi, and—
Something crunched to the west.
Lynx halted, and castigated himself for allowing his mind to drift from the critical matter at hand. Who the hell cared whether a few of the Warriors were his equal? Now was not the time for pondering such nonsense.
Not if he wanted to live.
He rose up on his knees and peered intently through the green mat of slender strands, flowers, and bushes. At the limits of his vision someone or something moved, bearing to the north and away from him.
Good riddance, sucker!
Lynx pressed onward, keeping low, losing all track of time, although he guessed that 15 minutes elapsed before he halted, then swung to the west once more. Surely the men in black were all well north of his position?
Who were they anyway?
And what was with the black uniforms?
Lynx traversed 20 yards and unexpectedly came to a clearing. At least he believed the narrow track of open ground was a clearing until he brushed aside the last of the weeds and discovered he had emerged on the shallow bank of a body of stagnant water. He glanced to the south and found a bayou stretching for as far as the eye could see. A projecting arm of the marsh extended into the field. All he had to do was go around it.
A splash ruffled the placid surface of the water.
Startled, Lynx glanced down, studying the dark water, noting a few tiny fish swimming near the shore,, where the pool was marginally clear, and an abundance of water lilies covering the top, concealing anything that might be lurking below. Further out were high weeds.
There could be snakes down there.
Poisonous snakes.
Scowling distastefully at the likelihood, Lynx moved to the north.
A loud rustling occurred in the brush to the northwest, coming closer.
One of the men in black was heading straight for him!
Lynx grinned and slipped into the weeds. He crept to the north and paused near the point where the water ended. Instead of killing this one, he planned to take the man prisoner. Perhaps he could make the turkey talk. Any facts he could glean would improve his chances.