New Orleans Run

Chapter Seven

In a twinkling Blade decided on his course of action. He couldn’t stand idly by and let Ferret or Gremlin be killed, not even with a potentially toxic spider clinging to his forearm. So at the same instant the guy in black pivoted, Blade raised the Thompson and fired. But his sacrifice, as it turned out, was unnecessary.

No sooner had the man started to rotate than Ferret executed a prodigious leap, and just as the man in black completed his revolution, before he could hope to react, Ferret alighted with all the force of a furry cannonball.

The startled object of the hybrid’s attack could do no more than utter an astounded gasp and try to bring his MAC 10 into play.

Ferret wouldn’t let him. Snarling deep in his throat, Ferret batted the Ingram aside with his left arm and sank the nails on his right hand into the man’s shoulder.

Gremlin was also in motion. Less than a second after Ferret hit their adversary high, causing the man to stumble rearward, Gremlin took the man low, hitting him below the knees, wrapping his arms around the man’s legs and driving forward in a timely tackle.

The guy in black went down with the hybrids on top.

Blade saw all of this transpire even as he braced for the anticipated spider bite. He focused on the arachnid, feeling its hairy legs rubbing on his skin, elated to see it going down his arm instead of up. In another few seconds it would drop to the ground and he could go aid the hybrids.

Not that they needed any help.

Ferret and Gremlin made short work of their opponent. The mammalian hybrid tore the MAG 10 from the man’s grasp, then clamped his right hand on the man’s throat. The humanoid delivered a smashing blow to the midsection that made the man sputter and wheeze and effectively nipped all resistance in the bud. Working together, each taking an arm, Ferret and Gremlin yanked their vanquished enemy erect and headed toward the Warrior.

Blade watched them approach, still loathe to move until the spider took its leave. The arachnid had halted an inch from his elbow and appeared in no particular hurry to vacate its newfound home.

Of all the dumb luck!

Ferret and Gremlin hastened over, supporting the man in black between them, the MAC 10 dangling from Ferret’s left hand.

“Good job,” Blade commented, looking up.

“If you don’t mind my saying so, this is a hell of a time to be taking a nap,” Ferret cracked.

“Nice of you to help us, yes?” Gremlin added.

“Do either of you know anything about spiders?” Blade casually inquired, staying perfectly still.

“They’re uglier than Lynx. That’s all I know,” Ferret replied.

“And they have a better disposition, no?” Gremlin said.

“Why do you ask?” Ferret questioned the Warrior.

Blade nodded at his left arm. “I was hoping one of you could tell me whether my new pet is poisonous.”

The hybrids glanced down.

“Damn!” Ferret blurted out.

“Don’t move, yes?” Gremlin advised.

“Wouldn’t think of it,” Blade assured them.

The man in black was struggling to break free, but his strength amounted to virtually nothing when compared to the combined might of the hyhrids, beings who had been genetically bred to possess the power of any three ordinary men. He spied the arachnid and ceased struggling to voice an exclamation. “Mon Dieu!”

“What did he say?” Ferret queried.

“I don’t know, no,” Gremlin answered. He leaned down a few inches, studying the spider. “Do you want me to flick it off, yes?”

“I don’t want to touch it,” Blade said. “If we wait a minute or two, it’s bound to go somewhere else.”

“You hope,” Ferret remarked.

Abruptly, from the north, came a harsh shout. “Corporal Pétion?”

The prisoner promptly responded, “Je—!”

Gremlin whipped his left fist down and in, planting another punch in their prisoner’s stomach, doubling the man in half and rendering him temporarily incapable of yelling again.

But the harm had already been done.

“What was that? Where are you?” a man called out.

“This way!” cried another. “Je pense.”

Blade listened intently to the language being used. He recognized the last two as French words from lessons taken during his schooling years at the Home, brief lessons encompassing only four months and merely intended as an introduction to the language. Why were the men in black speaking both English and a little French? English, as far as he knew, had been the official language in New Orleans before the war. Did it have something to do with the Cajuns and the Creoles?

“We’ve got to get out of here,” Ferret declared.

“I couldn’t agree more,” Blade concurred, and stared at the spider.

Enough was enough. He couldn’t afford to wait any longer. Still holding the Thompson with his left hand, he released the trigger and brought his right hand over to his immobile forearm. He drew back his middle finger and let fly, his nail connecting with the spider’s side and flicking the arachnid over a foot.

Straight at Ferret, who adroitly dodged the kicking projectile, “Hey! Watch where you’re flicking your spiders!”

Blade grinned and shoved to his feet, “Let’s go.”

“What about this guy, yes?” Gremlin asked, “He’ll slow us down, no?”

“No,” Blade answered, and stepped forward to deliver a right uppercut to the tip of the man’s chin. The prisoner sagged, and would have fallen if not supported by the hybrids. “Give him to me,” Blade directed, and crouched so they could drape the now-unconscious man over his right shoulder.

“You’re going to carry this guy all by yourself?” Ferret inquired doubtfully as he let go.

“Yep,” the giant replied, and straightened.

“He’s at least one hundred and seventy pounds, no?” Gremlin noted.

“I can use the exercise,” Blade told them. He faced to the south and ran.

“If you get tired we’ll take over,” Ferret offered.

“Thanks, but I can manage,” Blade said.

They covered the terrain rapidly, vaulting logs and skirting thickets with deceptive ease, heading deeper into the forest, bearing to the south.

Several minutes elapsed. To their rear, growing fainter and fainter, were the yells of the ambushers.

Blade jogged for almost ten minutes, until he was convinced they had put enough distance between them to preclude the possibility of being overtaken. He came to a small clearing and halted. “I think we’ve lost them, “he said.

“Gremlin agree,” the humanoid mentioned.

“Then we’ll take a break and question our captive.” Blade stated, Ferret started sniffing the air. “I smell water. Close. Real close.”

“We’ll check it out,” Blade proposed. “Lead the way.”

Demonstrating the unerring instincts of his bestial inheritance, Ferret led them 15 yards farther and stopped at the top of a sloping bank.

Below them stretched a marshy tract, part of the bayou visible from the air. Intermittent small islands, consisting of wet, spongy mounds overgrown with trees and dense undergrowth, dotted the lily-choked surface of the water. Cranes, ducks, and other waterfowl could be seen going about their daily routines. Here and there the tall reeds moved, stirred by creatures lurking in the swamp.

“Nice place for a vacation,” Ferret said.

Blade deposited his burden on the bank. He leaned down to remove the man’s sunglasses, and discovered the temple pieces were attached to an elastic black band, which explained why the glasses hadn’t fallen off when the man had been slugged. Blade slipped the band off the left temple piece, pulled off the sunglasses, and straightened.

“What are you going to do with those, yes?” Gremlin queried.

“Toss them.”

“Gremlin would like them, please.”

“Be my guest,” Blade said, and handed them over.

“What do you want them for?” Ferret asked his friend.

“What else, no?” Gremlin rejoined, and donned the mirrored lenses, carefully reattaching the elastic band to ensure the glasses would stay in place. He lowered his arms and grinned. “What do you think?”

“I think you look like a space alien,” Blade commented.

“Gremlin never heard of them, no.”

“I saw pictures of them in an old magazine in our library,” the giant related. “Actually, they were an artist’s rendering of space aliens people claimed to have seen. With the shape of your head and those dark glasses, you look just like an alien.”

“What was the name of the magazine, yes?”

“I believe it was called UFO.”

“Gremlin would like to read it when we get back. Gremlin has always believed there is intelligent life on other planets.”

Ferret snickered. “There sure isn’t any on this planet.”

The prisoner groaned and rolled over onto his back.

“Time to play Forty Questions,” Blade said. He knelt and drew his right Bowie, then held the gleaming blade directly over the black man’s right eye.

A few moments later the captive awakened and automatically tried to rise. His dark eyes widened to the size of walnuts when he beheld the sharpened steel tip of the Bowie, and he froze.

“Hi there,” Blade said amiably. “We need some answers.”

The prisoner swallowed, licked his lips, and replied in a strange tongue.

Blade waited patiently until the man finished. “I don’t understand your language. Speak English.”

Again the prisoner spoke in the peculiar language.

“Listen closely,” Blade told him coldly. “I won’t repeat this.” He paused.

“I suspect that you’re playing us for fools. You know English, probably almost as well as I do. So if you don’t tell me what I want to know, right this second, I will bury this knife in your socket.” He paused once more for effect. “Now tell us your name.”

The answer was immediately forthcoming. “Henri Pétion. And yes, I speak English perfectly. I should. It’s the most common language.”

“Henri,” Blade repeated. “It sounds French.”

“My ancestors were Haitian,” Pétion revealed in a tone that implied the revelation explained everything.

The Warrior mentally envisioned a globe kept in the Family library, its representation of the world somewhat faded after decades of steady use.

“If memory serves, isn’t Haiti an island in the West Indies?”

Pétion nodded.

“And your ancestors moved to New Orleans?”

“Oui. Many years before the big war.”

Blade snatched at the black shirt with his left hand. “What’s with the uniform!”

“I am one of the tonton macoute,” Pétion declared proudly, almost arrogantly…

“The what?”

“The magicians.”

Perplexed, Blade looked at the hybrids, who were viewing the interrogation with interest, then back down at their prisoner. “I don’t get it. Are you saying you practice some form of magic?”

“Oui. One day I will move up in rank from a tonton macoute to a boko, a sorcerer. Perhaps, many years from now, I may even become the houngan of our houmfor.”

“Whoa. Slow down,” Blade stated. “You’re getting ahead of me. What’s a houngan?”

“A high priest.”

“In what?”

“The Black Snake Society.”

The Warrior recalled the information given by the party who had placed the distress call, and his gray eyes narrowed. “I’ve heard that the Black Snake Society controls New Orleans.”

“Oui, and for many miles around,” Pétion said with his haughty air.

“The invincible magic of the Black Snake Society has made us the masters.”

“Wait a minute,” Ferret interjected. “What’s all this bull about magic?

This guy must be an idiot if he believes in such mumbo jumbo.”

Pétion glared at the hybrid. “Voodoo is not mumbo jumbo,” he snapped, emphasizing the last two words distastefully. “Voodoo is the way.”

Ferret laughed.

“Mock me all you want animal. But I will have the last laugh. I will use voodoo to call on the spirit world, and you will die a horrible death for scoffing at the true way.”

“I’m trembling in fear,” Ferret said.

Pétion’s voice rose shrilly. “I will call on Damballah, and our god will come to slay you in the night. You will be consumed alive and suffer the torments of Hell.”

“Don’t get your hopes up, turkey.”

Blade noticed unchecked fury contorting Pétion’s features, and he concluded the man firmly believed in whatever magic was practiced. He’d heard about voodoo many years ago, but his knowledge of the religion was scant. He opened his mouth to probe further into the matter.

From behind them, from the bayou, issued a sibilant hissing.