“You’ve got to be kidding turkey,” Lynx replied, and lowered his right hand to the submachine gun.
“If it’s the last thing I ever do, man, I’ll kill you,” Alex vowed, trying to rise.
“Afraid not, chuckles. You’ve got it all backwards,” Lynx told him. “And don’t bother getting up on my account.” He raised the M3A1, worked the cocking handle, and fired.
Alex’s eyes widened the instant the weapon appeared. He scrambled feebly away from the bayou, but he had gone only a yard when the submachine gun chattered and the .45-caliber rounds smashed into his torso and flattened him on his back in a growing puddle of his own blood.
“Since you’re a magician, maybe you can bring yourself back to life,” Lynx remarked to the corpse, and placed the submachine gun at his feet.
He experimented with the outboard, adjusting the throttle and turning the small gray key before the motor kicked over. A satisfied smile creased his lips. He’d driven vehicles with manual chokes on many occasions, and the outboard was no different.
Eleanore shifted but didn’t awaken.
Frowning, concerned for her welfare, Lynx revved the motor and headed out across the murky water. He had no idea in which direction the tonton macoutes had taken Blade, Ferret, and Gremlin. His best bet, therefore, called for heading to New Orleans, where he could find assistance for Eleanore and hopefully elicit information concerning the Baron’s estate.
Only the top rim of the sun was visible to the west.
Lynx made himself as comfortable as he could and stared straight ahead, fascinated by the swampy domain so different from any he had ever seen. Birds were everywhere. So were snakes. He saw many before the darkness encroached enough to limit visibility. The descent of nightfall posed an inconvenience. There were countless isolated trees and mounds and logs dotting the bayou. Hitting any one of them would send the boat to the bottom. If it became too dark, he’d have to pick his way slowly or go on foot. And with Eleanore unconscious, walking was impractical. Not to mention unhealthy, what with all the damn snakes.
Lynx had been able to fix the position of the city in his mind before it became too dark to see the former metropolis, and he relied on his unerring feline instincts to guide him once it did. Lacking a watch, he had to estimate the passage of time and distance, and initially he calculated New Orleans to be four or five miles away. He also assumed the bayou would take him directly to the outskirts, but after progressing only two miles, and just as twilight began to give way to the deeper inkiness of night, he spied land ahead.
What was this?
He stood in the boat for a better view, surprised to discover the land was actually that: the mainland, not a mere island. An ancient pier jutted into the water, extending 50 feet from the bank, and four other boats were tied at dock. None of Them resembled the type of boats used by the tonton macoutes. Beyond the pier a paved road led off to the east.
Lynx directed the boat toward the land, wondering if he would be able to locate a functional vehicle he could “borrow” to transport Eleanore into the city. Movement below a stand of trees near the pier arrested his attention, and he stared at the spot for a second before his sharp eyes recognized the shape of the tethered horse.
Wow!
Maybe he did have a guardian angel like the Elders claimed.
Chuckling at his good luck, Lynx brought the boat in next to the end of the pier. He cut the outboard and grabbed hold of the narrow ladder leading upward from the water. Working rapidly, he secured the boat to the pier, and was bending to lift Eleanore when an unexpected sound stiffened him in consternation.
Someone coughed.
Lynx leaped to the ladder and climbed to the top. As he cleared the rim he was amazed to behold an elderly man sitting 15 feet off, fishing from the edge of the pier. The man’s dark clothing blended into the darkness, rendering him almost invisible except at close range.
“Hi, there.”
The friendly greeting was the last thing Lynx expected. He straightened warily and walked toward the thin figure. “Hey, mister. How’s it hanging?”
“Oh, about nine inches.”
Lynx halted in surprise, then cackled. “Nine inches! I like that. Almost as big as mine.”
The fisherman regarded Lynx with an air of curious fascination. He wore jeans and a blue shirt, both of which had seen their prime decades ago. His receding hairline gave him a distinguished aspect. “Sounds like you’ve got a regular snake in your drawers.”
“Do me a favor and don’t talk about snakes,” Lynx said, moving forward. “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”
“Not at all, Gramps. Shoot.”
“What the hell are you?”
“You ever heard of mutations?”
“Who hasn’t? But I ain’t never heard of one that talk. Where are you from?”
“Would you believe Mars?”
“Nope. I heard about them octopuses when I was whippersnapper. We kicked their keisters but good.”
“You too, huh?”
“What?”
“Nothin’. What’s your name, gramps?”
“Bob. Bob Wells.”
“Do you live around here?”
“Just down the road a piece.”
Lynx nodded at the horse. “Is that yours?”
“Yep. I call him Saddlesore. Had him for going on eleven years.”
“I need to borrow him.”
Bob Wells placed his fishing pole by his left leg. “I don’t know as how I’d like that.”
“It’s not for me,” Lynx explained. He started toward the end of the pier.
“Come here a sec.”
“What for?” Wells responded suspiciously.
“I want to show you something.”
“I don’t know.”
Lynx stopped and put a friendly smile on his face. “Look, if I wanted to harm you, you’d already be dead. There’s a woman here who needs to see a doctor, and fast.”
Wells slowly stood, his head cocked to one side, eyeing the hybrid skeptically. “A woman?”
“Yeah. See for yourself.” Lynx stepped to the south side of the pier, giving the elderly man plenty of room to pass. “I won’t move.”
“I guess I can trust you,” Wells stated with the same degree of confidence he might use in referring to a ravenous gator. He edged cautiously to the end and peered over the side.
“Well?” Lynx prompted.
“I’ll be damned. You were telling the truth. Who is she?”
“Her name is Eleanore DeCoud.”
“What happened to her? Did you hurt her?”
“Me?” Lynx snapped, and moved over beside the oldster, “Are you crazy? I don’t make a habit of beatin’ up on bimbos. The tonton macoutes were after her and—” he began and was immediately interrupted.
“Those bastards! They did this to her?”
“More or less. She’s a member of the Resistance.”
Wells gaped at Eleanore, then reached out to touch the hybrid’s arm.
“Hell, man. If she’s with the Resistance, you can keep my horse. Do what you need to.”
“Thanks,” Lynx said. He hurried down the ladder to get her.
“Those vermin killed my boy about fourteen years ago,” Wells detailed.
“If I was a bit younger I’d be with the Resistance myself. There’s a lot of us who would jump at the chance to do what we can to help them.”
Lynx draped Eleanore over his left shoulder and began the ascent.
“You’re not gettin’ any younger, Gramps. What’ve you got to lose if you join them now?”
The question caused Wells to think for a moment before answering.
“Nothing but my life. What little is left of it.”
“Like I said. What have you got to lose?” Lynx stressed. He came over the top and accepted a hand of assistance from the fisherman. “Thanks.”