First Blood (Rambo: First Blood Series Book 1)

by David Morrell

“You came sooner than I expected,” Teasle told him. “Thank you. We need all the help we can get.”

“You do need all the help,” Trautman said. “To be honest I was planning to come even before you called. He’s not in the service anymore, this is strictly a civilian matter, all the same I can’t help feeling partly responsible. One thing though—I’m not about to involve myself in any butcher job. I’ll only help if I see that this thing is done properly, to capture him, not to kill him without a chance. He might get killed yet, but I wouldn’t like to think that was the point. Are we together on that?” “Yes.” And he was telling the truth.

“Games,” Trautman said. “Christ, everybody loves a game. What makes you sure he’s still around?” “Because every road around these hills has been watched since he went up there. He can’t have gotten down without being seen. Even if he had, I would have felt it.” “What?” “It’s nothing I can explain. A kind of extra sense I’ve been having after what he put me through. It doesn’t matter. He’s up there all right. And tomorrow morning I’ll be pouring men after him until there’s one for every tree.” “Which isn’t possible of course, so he still has the advantage. He’s an expert in guerrilla fighting, he knows how to live off the land, so he doesn’t have the problem that you do of bringing up food and supplies for your men. He’s learned patience, so he can hide somewhere and wait out this fight all year if he has to. He’s just one man, so he’s hard to spot. He’s on his own, doesn’t have to follow orders, doesn’t have to synchronize himself with other units, so he can move fast, shoot and get out and hide some place else, then do the same all over again. Just like my men taught him.” “That’s fine,” Teasle said. “Now you teach me.”

3

The night was very cold, and there were no insects sounding nor any animals moving around in the brush, just a slight wind that was rustling fallen leaves and scraping bare branches together. He hugged his outside wool shirt and shivered and then he heard the helicopter chugging up from his left, building to a roar, dimming as it flew off far behind him. There was another one behind it, and another to his right, and to his right as well, he heard the faint echoes of dogs barking. The wind shifted then, coming toward him from the direction of the lights down there, bringing with it the yelp of more dogs, and the accumulated far-off murmur of heavy truck engines.

But Rambo did not want to fight him anymore. He was sick and in pain, and sometime between losing Teasle in the brambles and waking in this cave, his anger had gone. It had started to go even as the chase for Teasle had drawn on, him exhausted, wanting desperately to catch the man, not anymore for the pleasure of teaching him, but just so he could do it and get it over and be free. And after killing all those men, after sacrificing so much time and strength that he needed for escape, he had not even won. The stupid useless waste, he thought. It made him feel empty and disgusted. What had it all been for? He should have taken his chance in the storm and run away.

Heat—that’s what he needed. And shelter, someplace to sweat out the fever and rest his ribs. And food, he had not eaten since he had found the dried meat on the body of the old man who had been washed off the cliff, however long ago that was. He shook and swayed and had to put out a hand to steady himself against the cave entrance. This was it then, the cave would have to do, he didn’t have the strength to find anyplace better. He was going weak so fast that he wasn’t even sure he would have the strength to get the cave ready.

This part of the cave was clammy, and he hurried to pile the dead leaves on the floor and spread chips of wood on them and lit the leaves with the matches the old man with the still had given him nights before. The matches had been soaked in the rain and the stream, but there had been time enough for them to dry, and while the first two wouldn’t strike, the third did, going out, and the fourth stayed lit, setting flame to the leaves. The flame spread, and he patiently added more leaves, more chips of wood, nursing each lick of fire until they all came together in a blaze that was big enough to add larger chunks of wood and then the dead branches.

He did not believe in sin, and he did not like to entertain ideas about it. But the question repeated itself: was it an occasion of sin? And his mind drowsing with comfort from the fire, he wondered what he would have said as a child. Probably yes. The sequence of killings was very complicated. He could justify to the priest that it was self-defense to kill the dogs and the old man in green. But after that, when he had his opportunity to escape, when instead he went after Teasle and shot his deputies while they were in rout, that was sin. And now Teasle would be coming for good, he thought as he had before, and now it was time for his penance. Down the tunnel the water was dripping hollowly.

He managed as far as the entrance before he swayed so dizzily that he had to sit down. This had to be it. He didn’t have a choice. He was going to have to stay for a while. Just for a while.

4

Trautman returned from where he had been speaking with the shadowed forms of National Guardsmen down the road. He took one look at Teasle and told him, “You ought to be in bed.” “Not until this is over.” “Well, that’s likely going to take a while longer than you expect. This isn’t Korea and the Chosin Reservoir all over again. A mass-troop tactic would be fine, provided you had two groups against each other: if one flank got confused, your enemy would be so large that you could see it coming in time to reinforce that flank. But you can’t do that here, not against one man, especially him. The slightest bit of confusion along one line and he’s so hard to spot he can slip through your men without a signal.”

“What I want to know,” Trautman asked Teasle, “was Rambo aware that you were in that retreat?” He shrugged. “The citation and the medal are on my office wall. He saw it. If it meant anything to him.” “Oh, it meant something to him, all right. That’s what saved your life.” “I don’t see how. I just lost my head when Shingleton was shot, and ran like a goddamn scared rat.”

“What’s wrong? What’s happened?” Teasle said. “Our man who was shot in the head. He just died.” Sure, Teasle thought. Dammit, sure.

“If it was just you and the kid again,” Trautman said, “he’d know how to come after you this time. On a straight run. He’d kill you for sure.” “No. Because I wouldn’t run now. Up there I was afraid of him. I’m not anymore.” “You should be.”