Memphis Run

Chapter Two

Rikki-Tikki-Tavi approached the trees cautiously. He suppressed an impulse to yawn and gripped the hilt of his katana with his right hand.

The days and weeks of sustained tension, he realized, were beginning to take their toll. No matter how superbly conditioned the Warriors might be, they were not machines; they could not function at their peak level, at full alertness, 24 hours a day, every day, without a letup. And they were being forced to do just that. During the day they had to be constantly on guard for animals, mutants, and human foes. At night their sleep was fitful. Each one was required to take a three-hour shift tending the campfire, and those attempting to catch a few hours of badly needed slumber were continually awakened by snarls and shrieks emanating from the darkness.

He would be glad when they reached the Home.

The forest ahead seemed ominously still.

Rikki slowed, searching for indications of movement. His concentration flagged, and he thought of his friends. Hickok had performed a noble deed in giving a home to Chastity. The poor girl had been devastated after her parents were killed by Terminators from Atlanta. The Family would receive her with open arms.

What was that?

The martial artist paused, his eyes focusing on a dense thicket to his left. Had something moved? He grasped the katana tighter and advanced to the tree line.

No birds were chirping.

No insects were buzzing.

The woods were like a tomb.

Why?

Rikki mentally debated whether to continue or return to Blade and report. But report what? He chided himself for unnecessary nervousness and walked into the timber. Blade had displayed periodic bouts of uncharacteristic impatience during their trek, and Rikki did not want to contribute to the head Warrior’s testiness by failing to discharge his duties. Ever since Miami and their battle with the drug lords, Blade had been on a short fuse. Normally, the giant maintained a cool head even in the direst of situations.

So why the change?

A twig snapped to the right.

Rikki crouched and pivoted. His skin was prickling, as if his sixth sense, an attribute honed after years of combat, was trying to warn him that unseen eyes were watching him. If so, whoever they were, they were good.

He couldn’t see any sign of enemies lurking in the vegetation.

As it turned out, they weren’t lurking in the vegetation— they were lurking above it.

Annoyed at his unease, filled with self-reproach over not centering his attention solely on the task at hand, Rikki moved farther from the field where his friends awaited his return. He was beginning to think his imagination was getting the better of him when someone sneezed.

Directly overhead.

Rikki was passing under the spreading branches of a mighty hardwood, and he glanced up in surprise, the katana a gleaming streak as it flashed from its scabbard. But as quick as he was, he was not quick enough.

They dropped on him from their perches of concealment, a half-dozen figures dressed in black: black shirts, black pants, and black boots. They were armed with an assortment of weaponry. Some bore rifles or machine guns over their shoulders, and most had holstered handguns. All were cleanshaven, their hair closely cropped. They did not shout or chatter.

Silently, efficiently, they struck.

Rikki arced his katana into the abdomen of the nearest falling form, the ancient blade cutting deep into the man’s stomach, slicing fabric and flesh. The man grunted and doubled over as he landed, clutching at the blood and organs spewing forth. Rikki put him out of his misery with a neck slash, crimson spurting everywhere as the man toppled to the grass.

The rest closed on the martial artist.

In the first fleeting seconds of the fight, Rikki realized his antagonists weren’t even trying to use their holstered or shouldered firearms.

They wanted him alive!

A man charged from the left, and Rikki whipped his katana across the figure’s chest. Strong hands clasped his right arm before he could strike a second time, and he slammed his right elbow into the face of the beefy form restraining him.

Three others piled on the Warrior.

Rikki felt hands on both of his arms, and a sturdy head-lock was being applied from the rear. He drove his head backwards and was rewarded by the crunch of his cranium against nostrils or teeth. The headlock was relinquished, leaving the two on his arms. He suddenly dropped to his right knee and twisted to the left, causing the black-garbed opponent on his right to stumble forward, momentarily off balance. The man’s hold on Rikki’s forearm slackened, and the martial artist drove his right hand up and in, using a Tegatana blow, a handsword strike, the outer edge of his calloused hand connecting with his adversary’s ribs. There was a sharp crack and the man staggered off.

The one on the left was clinging to the Warrior’s sword arm for dear life.

His right hand rigid, his thumb tucked tightly against the inner edge, his fingers slightly apart and curving, Rikki twisted, delivering a Tegatana-sakotsu-uchi, a handsword collarbone chop, to the man’s right side. Again there was a pronounced snap. The man grimaced and stepped away.

He was free!

Rikki turned, intending to race to the field and warn Blade and Hickok.

There might be more of these commandos nearby, and they were obviously disciplined and well-trained. No one had cried out.

“Going somewhere?” demanded a gruff voice behind him. “The fun is just beginning.”

Rikki whirled, his sword at the ready.

“I’m impressed, pip-squeak, and it takes a lot to impress me,” said the newcomer. He was tall, almost as tall as Blade, but much leaner. On the shoulders of his black shirt was a pair of small gold insignia. His face was pear-shaped, his forehead wide and sloping. A chipped upper tooth was revealed when he smiled. “The King will be pleased with you. Very pleased.” He hefted an unusual object in his left hand.

Rikki tensed as more forms materialized from hiding, dropping from nearby trees. He glanced at the object in the tall man’s hand, a black, oblong affair with a pair of pointed tips projecting from the front end.

One of the others walked over to the tall man and saluted. “Sir, the girl and the two men haven’t moved.”

“We’ll take them in a minute, Captain.”

“Yes, sir. General.”

The General grinned at the Warrior. “This will be quite a haul. The girl will be a special treat.”

Rikki had heard enough. Warning his companions was imperative. He started to spin, his eyes on the tall man.

There was a distinct click as the General pressed a button on the object in his left hand. One of the small tips, trailing a slim, thread-like wire, shot from the oblong affair.

Reacting instinctively, Rikki attempted to dodge to the right. His lightning reflexes, in this instance, failed him. The tiny dart speared into his left shoulder, causing a fleeting, stinging sensation, and he wondered why the General had employed such a ineffectual weapon.

The answer came with shocking intensity.

Rikki’s entire body was racked by an inexplicable jolt of incredible magnitude. He lost all ability to control his muscles and fell to the ground, his arms and legs quivering in torment, his features twitching. The katana slipped from his limp fingers. Vertigo engulfed him.

“Bind him,” the General ordered with a snap of his fingers.

A trio of men in black promptly complied, using handcuffs to secure the Warrior’s wrists. One of them produced another set, which was applied to Rikki’s ankles. He then removed the brown pouch, letting the scabbard drop, and refastened the Warrior’s belt.

“Stand aside,” the General commanded, moving closer and smirking triumphantly. “How do you feel, pip-squeak?”

Rikki tried to reply, but his mouth refused to cooperate. The trembling in his limbs, though, was slowly subsiding.

“This stun gun does the trick every time,” the General remarked as he leaned over and extracted the dart from the Warrior’s shoulder. “You’ll be as good as new in five minutes.” He straightened and pressed a different button. The thin line began to retract into the oblong object. “We ambushed a Technic trade convoy about two years ago between Chicago and St. Louis. There was a crate of these on one of the trucks.”

The one who had saluted came nearer. “Your orders for the girl and the two others, General Thayer?”

“Send the half-track and a squad out after them,” General Thayer directed. “The half-track should scare them shitless. They’ll be easy to take. Lead the squad yourself.”

“Yes, sir,” the captain said. He saluted and hurried away.

Rikki saw the general insert the tiny dart into a hole in the stun gun as the line fully rewound. The officer slid the weapon into a custom-made holster on his left hip.

“What kind of sword is this?” General Thayer inquired, retrieving the katana. He studied the blade, admiring the craftsmanship. “It looks old.

Real old. I think I’ll add this one to my collection.” So saying, he leaned down and scooped up the scabbard from the ground. “You won’t be needing this anymore either.”

Rikki watched helplessly as his cherished possession was confiscated.

He endeavored to strain against the handcuffs binding his wrists in front of him, but the effort was wasted. Just then, from somewhere beyond his range of vision, a motor sputtered and died. The noise was repeated, and on the third try there was a great crashing and rumbling.

“Your friends will be my prisoners within minutes,” General Thayer gloated. He motioned at one of the men.

“Yes, sir,” the man said, coming over, an HK-33 over his left arm.

“Carry this one to my jeep,” General Thayer instructed. “Stand guard over him while I tend to his friends.”

The man in black saluted. “Yes. sir. Right away.”

“Thank you, Sergeant Boynton.” With a curt nod, the general walked in the direction of the field.

“You, you, and you,” Sergeant Boynton said, pointing at three others.

“Carry this scumbag to the general’s jeep.”

Rikki was lifted and borne to the northwest. He heard a machine gun cut loose, and he closed his eyes and clenched his teeth, furious at himself.

Blade, Hickok, and Chastity were endangered because of his blunder. He should have perceived the trap. His lack of rest, his overtaxed vitality, was no excuse.

Sergeant Boynton, gazing at the Warrior’s face, laughed. “Don’t feel so bad, scumbag. The Hounds of Hades are invincible.”

With a supreme effort of sheer willpower, Rikki managed to speak.

“The Hounds of Hades?” he croaked.

“Nifty name, isn’t it?” Sergeant Boynton said. “The King came up with it. He wanted us to have a name that would strike fear into the hearts of our enemies. Those were his own words.” He chuckled. “The Hounds of Hades has a real ring.”

Rikki listened to the machine gun chatter, wishing the firing would stop. It did, and a few seconds later resumed.

“Where are you from?” Boynton asked.

The Warrior refused to respond.

“Suit yourself, turkey,” Sergeant Boynton stated with a shrug. “The King will get the info out of you. But you must not be from this area, or you’d know all about us. We have a heavy rep. Hell, we’ve even beaten Technic goons and Leather Knights a few times. We’re one hundred and twenty strong and growing.”

Rikki, perplexed by the sergeant’s comments, heard the machine gun abruptly cease. What had happened? Surely Blade, Hickok, and Chastity were alive? After all, the general had indicated he wanted them as prisoners. “Are you a professional mercenary?” he queried absently.

“No way, man,” Sergeant Boynton answered. “I was drifting from town to town, barely staying alive like everybody else, when I waltzed into Memphis and met the King. That was about three years ago. I was there at the beginning. Thayer—sorry—General Thayer trained us. He made us what we are today.”

“Kidnappers.”

“No, butt-head. An army.”

“An army of kidnappers,” Rikki said, relieved his vocal chords were functioning normally again.

“Are you pushing for a fat lip?” Sergeant Boynton demanded. “You’re the one who violated our territorial boundary. We’ll take you to the King and he’ll decide what to do with you. Thank your lucky stars you’re not a Technic or a Leather Knight. They’re usually executed immediately.”

Rikki knew about the Technics and the Leather Knights. The former were a society of autocratic technocrats in Chicago. The Leather Knights were a biker gang controlling St. Louis. Both had fought the Warriors. He opened his mouth to speak, but the booming of revolvers from the direction of the field arrested his attention. Hickok?

“Here we are,” Sergeant Boynton announced as they arrived at a clearing containing two parked jeeps.

The trio bearing the Warrior moved toward the nearest vehicle. One Hound held Rikki around the knees, the second around the waist, and the third supported his shoulders. They conveyed him to the rear of the topless jeep and unceremoniously dumped him in the back.

Rikki thudded against a spare tire and a gas can, landing on his back.

Sergeant Boynton leaned on the jeep. “It sounds like one of your pals is putting up a fight. Pretty stupid, if you ask me. Our half-track will make mincemeat out of him.”

“You don’t know my friend,” Rikki said.

“Get real. A handgun can’t stop a half-track,” Boynton declared, and laughed.

As if in confirmation of the noncom’s statement, from the southeast arose a ghastly shriek.

A child in anguish.