First Blood (Rambo: First Blood Series Book 1)

by David Morrell

All because she was a Catholic. The fetus had been poisoning her, the Church had refused an abortion, so of course she had obeyed and died and the baby with her.

Except that it was no more home, just the place where he had grown up,

Food had never tasted better, nor had he slept sounder or his body felt greater, the calluses on his hands making him proud, the stiffness in his legs and arms turning to strength and smooth-moving ease.

racing through the trees out into the grass, breath rasping, sweat stinging, he felt so good that he wondered why he had ever stopped taking care of himself.

Always choose a route that won’t trap you. Never run where you might cut yourself off.

He deserved to be caught. He deserved the shit that Teasle would do to him if he let himself be caught.

All right, he told himself. It’s your goddamn mistake, you pay for it. Let’s see just how tight your ass-end really is.

A gentle squeeze on the trigger. Bull’s eye.

without realizing, smiled—this sort of thing was what he had been trained to do—the

What was the matter with him? He had never misjudged like that before.

Sure. Like a cock. That’s what you are, Teasle. A cock.

He was getting used to death again.

know he can’t help it, but Christ what a smell.” “Never so scared.” “Leave him alone,” Teasle said,

“Jesus, if you’ve got something to say, then say it clear like a man.”

Buck fever. The first day of hunting season a man could get so excited when he saw his target that he stupidly pumped out all his shells without first pulling the trigger, completely mystified why he wasn’t hitting what he was aiming at.

“I don’t like this one bit.” “Nobody asked you to like it.”

Personal now. For himself. Father, foster father. Both shot.

And sure it was funny, and Teasle started laughing too. Then Orval coughed more blood and Teasle saw the pain on Orval’s face and nothing seemed funny after that.

A man shot in the chest or stomach would vomit water he drank, and the wound would rip larger, and the pain would get worse.

“…sure picked…guy to try and hunt…Green Beret…Medal of Honor.”

He had done a lot of this kind of work in the rain and he knew exactly how to hunt men down in it.

for the moment he was determined not to run anymore, whether he was being chased or not.

for now, by God, he was going to turn the game and make Teasle run from him, show him what the hell it felt like.

But you asked for some of it yourself. It wasn’t only Teasle. You could have backed off.

Admit you wanted all this to happen. You asked for it—so you could show him what you knew, surprise him when he found you were the wrong guy to try and handle. You like this.

It was a Colt Python: a thick four-inch barrel with a big sighting pin at the end. The plastic handle it was always sold with had been replaced by a stout wooden grip designed not to be slippery if it got wet.

It was worth two hours to teach that bastard.

They had been so easy to get that he had better watch himself. He knew how these things worked and how they evened out.

Something like that had happened to his father too—but he could not let himself think about it, remember it.

Why hadn’t the kid explained more? Would that have made a difference? Would you have handled him different from anybody else? No. I couldn’t.

He was surprised to be lying on the ground. He didn’t remember diving there. He was surprised that he had his pistol out.

He’ll expect me to run, not attack.”

So how could Shingleton understand why he couldn’t bring himself to let anybody else die for him?

Shingleton ought to have been dead. He had been shot in the skull.

That was the pattern for an hour: running, stopping, listening, crawling, running.

Teasle had given him a good race, that was sure. He had figured to tag him several miles ago, and here they were still at it. But not for long. A few minutes now. That was all.

Because I’m a, but then the idea fell apart on him.

The kid’s a better fighter. But I know how…to organize.

as many men could die this time as at the start, and somebody ought to be around to share the responsibility. Kern was that sort of weak leader.

“How they’re dying to help.” “Dying is about the word for it.”

You’re thinking about all your men shot and you’re straining your body to punish yourself.

from the bearing of this man as he walked across the field toward the truck, steady and lithe and straight, Teasle knew even without being able to make out his clothes that this was no reporter, nor any state policeman coming back with motor trouble. This was the man he had sent for.

“You sound almost proud of him,” Teasle said.

He remembered career officers he had come up against in Korea, professional killers, men totally at home with death, and they always made him want to stand back.

“It’s nothing I can explain. A kind of extra sense I’ve been having after what he put me through.

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.”

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.

Well then, don’t stand here telling yourself how weak you are. Do it.

The men he had just killed. It was in self-defense, Father. But did you enjoy it, my son? Was it an occasion of sin?

Christ, don’t you wish there was another way to do this, that it was just you and the kid again. How many others are going to die before this is over?