Green Bay Run

by David Robbins

  “What is this guy’s name?” Blade queried.

  “No one knows. He’s real secretive. All we do know is that he’s involved in some kind of scientific research. That’s why everybody started calling him the Mad Scientist.”

  “How do you know he’s engaged in research?” Plato questioned.

  “Because he let it slip. When he first arrived, some of the city folk went to pay him a visit. He joked that if they didn’t mind their own business, they’d be sorry. Told them the research he was doing might be contagious, then laughed.”

  “You’re certain about this?” Plato asked, pressing him.

  “Positive. I talked to a couple who were there.”

  Yama leaned forward. “And you’re sure this scientist is tied in with the Technics?”

  Andrew scowled. “How many times do I have to tell you? Let me spell it out. Green Bay drains into Lake Michigan, in case you didn’t know, and on the south end of Lake Michigan, only two hundred miles away, is Technic city. Or Chicago, as they used to call it. The Technics have contacted farmers all along the lake, offering to trade for crops. I’ve dealt with them dozens of times.”

  Oddly, Yama smiled and seemed to relax. “Excellent,” he remarked cryptically.

  “What puzzles me is why the Technics would establish a research station in Green Bay,” Plato said. “What does the University of Wisconsin have to offer that the Technics don’t already have in Technic City? They adulate technology and science. Their own research facilities must be some of the best on the planet.”

  “I wish I could answer that,” Andrew said. “But no one has a clue as to what those slime are up to.”

  “If you think they’re slime, why did you deal with them?” Blade asked.

  Andrew shrugged. “I couldn’t afford to be choosy. The Technics could supply clothes, tools, kerosene, matches, and a whole lot of other stuff that was hard to come by otherwise.”

  “You still haven’t told us how your wife and daughter are in danger,” Blade noted.

  The farmer’s shoulders sagged. “They’ve disappeared.”

  “Explain,” Blade said.

  “About a month after the Technic scientist arrived, people began to vanish. At first, no one wanted to believe the reports. When some of the folks living in the city disappeared, and the stories started circulating, everyone assumed the missing persons had left because they didn’t want to be anywhere near the creepy scientist. Then more and more people vanished into thin air. City folks. Indians. And even some of my neighbors.”

  “Didn’t anyone do anything?” Blade asked.

  “What could we do? We had three choices. We could march up to the barbed-wire fence and demand to know what was going on, in which case the Technics would have shot us. We could pack our belongings and get the hell out of there. Or we could stay and hope for the best,” Andrew said.

  “Most of my neighbors were in the same boat I was in. We had too much invested in our property to run off.”

  “How many persons have disappeared, all told?” Blade inquired.

  “As near as I could guess, and bear in mind this was three weeks ago, over thirty people have vanished without a trace.”

  “What happened to your wife and daughter?”

  Andrew slumped into the pillows, his sorrow self-evident. “Three weeks ago, about an hour before sunset, a neighbor’s son rode over to our place and let me know that his dad had busted a leg. My neighbor, Ed, had fallen off a ladder while cleaning a gutter on his house. He needed someone to help set the broken bones, so I rode over with the son.” He stopped and took a deep breath. “Two hours later, when I got home, no one was there. Sandra and Nadine weren’t anywhere to be found.

  Everything in our house was in perfect order. None of the furniture was disturbed, and there was no sign of a struggle. Supper was simmering on the stove. I scoured our house from the attic to the basement, but my wife and daughter had disappeared.”

  Blade crossed his arms on his chest, the corners of his mouth curling downward. He could sympathize with the farmer. If anything ever happened to his beloved Jenny and little Gabe, he’d be devastated.

  “I went crazy,” Andrew went on. “I called my neighbors together and we searched every square inch of my farm. No one found a clue. But I knew it had to have been the Technics who were responsible. I wanted to go to the University and demand to see the man in charge, but my friends talked me out of the idea. They told me that I’d be committing suicide, that it wouldn’t help Sandra and Nadine one bit.” He fell silent, his eyes moistening.

  “Take your time,” Plato said. “We can wait.”

  Andrew cleared his throat. “There’s not too much left to tell. I was frantic. I tried to organize my friends and the Indians to go after my wife and daughter, but they wouldn’t agree. They were scared. I can’t say as I blame them.”

  “When did you decide to come here?” Blade queried. “Four days after Sandra and Nadine vanished, I saddled up my mare, packed all the supplies I figured I’d need, and lit out. All went well until seven days ago. A band of scavengers ambushed me. My mare was killed and I barely got away with my life. I decided to keep going, no matter what. And here I am,” Andrew concluded.

  “Back up a bit,” Blade said. “Why did you decide to come to the Home? Why us?”

  “Because I’d heard stories about how the Family had tangled with with the damn Technics and won. A Warrior reportedly killed the Technic Minister and his First Secretary. Technic City was in turmoil for weeks. I first heard about it from a drunk at a tavern.”

  “Where did he hear the story?”

  “From some Technic soldiers who had stopped there to wet their whistles,” Andrew replied. “Naturally, when my wife and daughter were taken, when I desperately needed aid, I thought of the Family. You’re the only ones I know of who have ever beaten the Technics. Everyone else is too afraid to take the bastards on.”

  “What do you want us to do?” Blade asked.

  “Let your Warriors come to Green Bay with me. Help me find Sandra and Nadine.”

  Blade lowered his arms. “Your wife and daughter have been missing for three weeks. As difficult as it might be to accept, they could be dead by now.”

  “They could still be alive,” Andrew said, his voice strained. “I believe they are. Call it wishful thinking if you want, but deep down inside I know Sandra and Nadine haven’t been killed. Yet.”

  “You ask a lot of us,” Blade stated softly.

  “I don’t have anyone else I can turn to,” Andrew responded plaintively.

  “You’re my last hope.”

  “I say we go,” Yama unexpectedly declared.

  Blade glanced at his fellow Warrior. “The decision is mine to make, not yours.”

  “I know,” Yama said. “I mean no disrespect. And if you decide not to assist him, then I’d like to request a leave of absence so I can return to Green Bay with him.”

  “You’d do that for me?” Andrew blurted.

  Yama looked at the farmer. “For both of us.”

  “I don’t understand,” Andrew said, puzzled by the intensity of Yama’s expression.

  “First things first,” Plato interjected authoritatively. “Blade and I must discuss your appeal.”

  “Whatever you want,” the farmer stated.

  Plato headed for the doorway. “Blade, would you join me outside?”

  “In a minute,” Blade responded. He faced Yama. “I know what you went through, but I’m not about to let you go traipsing off by yourself. A Warrior should never allow his actions to be dominated by his emotions.

  You know as well as I do that going into combat with your head clouded by hatred will make you careless. And carelessness can make you dead.”

  “I don’t hate them.”

  “Oh? You could have fooled me. If it isn’t hatred, then it’s the next best thing.”

  Andrew shifted on the cot. “What is this all about?”

  “None of your business,”
Yama snapped.

  “Oh.”

  “See what I mean?” Blade queried. “You wouldn’t last ten seconds.”

  “Have I ever failed to perform my duties properly?” Yama asked earnestly.

  “No. But there’s always a first time.”

  “At least give me the benefit of the doubt.”

  “I won’t stand by and let you kill yourself.”

  “Fair enough. But if you decide to go, and I expect you will, I’d like to go along,” Yama said. “You know how much this means to me. If the situation were reversed, if it had happened to you, you’d be the first one over the drawbridge.”

  Blade went to reply, then changed his mind. Yama had a valid point.

  “I’ll think about it,” he offered, and strode from the infirmary.

  Plato stood 20 feet off, his countenance troubled, absently tugging at his beard. He looked up as the giant approached, and sighed. “You have to go. You know that, don’t you?”

  “I know,” Blade stated stiffly.

  “If the Technics are hatching a new plot, we must discover their plan.

  The future safety of the Family is at stake.”

  “I know.”

  The Family Leader gestured at C Block. “And although the very notion runs counter to my better judgment, I believe you owe it to Yama to take him along.”

  “I know,” Blade said yet again, then added harshly, “Damn!”

  “How many other Warriors will you take with you?”

  “Just one.”

  “Are you certain three Warriors will be enough?”

  “Every Warrior I take reduces our defensive capability that much more.

  Usually only three Warriors go on a run, and I see no need to change the procedure this time around,” Blade said.

  “Who will you take then? Hickok?”

  “No. Hickok will be in charge of the Warriors while I’m gone. I have someone else in mind, someone who can help keep Yama in line,” Blade answered.

  Plato’s brow knit, and he pondered for several seconds. He gazed to the west, in the direction of the dozens of log cabins aligned from north to south in the center of the compound, and nodded. “Oh. An appropriate choice.”

  “Who else?”

  Chapter Four

  “So what’s the name of this vehicle again?” Andrew asked.

  “The SEAL,” Blade responded, his eyes on the stretch of State Highway 46 ahead, his hands gripping the steering wheel lightly. Cracks, ruts, potholes, and an occasional crater several feet deep had transformed the highway into an obstacle course. Although the SEAL could negotiate any type of terrain with relative ease, he skillfully avoided the craters to spare his passengers from being unduly jostled. The air coming through his open window stirred his hair.

  “Why would anyone name a gigantic van after an animal that swims around in the water?” Andrew queried.

  “SEAL is an acronym. It stands for Solar Energized Amphibious and Land Recreational Vehicle.”

  “Recreational?”

  “Yeah. Kurt Carpenter spent millions of dollars to have the transport developed by automakers in Detroit before the war. Carpenter foresaw the collapse of mass transportation. He knew the Family would have need of a special type of vehicle. So he had the SEAL built according to his specifications. The auto-makers viewed him as a harmless eccentric with gobs of money,” Blade elaborated, feeling grateful for his ancestor’s wisdom. Without the SEAL to convey them long distances, the Family would never have ventured into the outside world and met their allies in the Federation.

  As a prototype, the SEAL incorporated revolutionary design elements in its construction. As its name denoted, the van was solar-powered. A pair of solar panels attached to the roof collected the sunlight, which was converted and stored in unique batteries housed in a lead-lined case under the SEAL. Fabricated to be virtually indestructible, the body of the vehicle consisted of a shatterproof, heat-resistant plastic, and the floor was composed of an impervious metal alloy. To traverse the roughest landscape, the van rode on four huge tires, each four feet high, two feet wide, and puncture-resistant.

  “But what happens if we run into trouble?” Andrew inquired. “What good is a recreational vehicle against armed enemies?”

  Blade smiled. “Any enemy who attacks the SEAL is in for a big surprise,” he said, thinking of the special modifications the Founder had made on the transport. Or rather, Carpenter had hired mercenaries to make the modifications. Four toggle switches located on the dash would activate the SEAL’S armaments. Hidden under each front headlight in a recessed compartment was a 50-caliber machine gun. Mounted in the roof over the driver’s seat was a miniaturized surface-to-air missile, a heat-seeking Stinger with a range of ten miles. An Army Surplus Model flamethrower had been installed in the middle of the front fender. Layers of insulation surrounded the flamethrower to protect the vehicle from the extreme heat when the device was triggered. And finally, a rocket launcher had been placed in the center of the front grill.

  “I’ve never seen a vehicle like this one,” Andrew said. He glanced to his left at the giant, who sat behind the wheel in the other bucket seat. A console separated them. “Why is the body tinted green?”

  “So we can see out but no one can see inside,” Blade answered.

  “Carpenter didn’t miss a trick.”

  “The Lord blessed us with a provident Founder,” commented a deep voice to his rear.

  Blade looked into the rearview mirror. Behind the bucket seats was another seat running the width of the vehicle. Yama sat on the passenger side, morosely staring out at the countryside. Under the silver-haired Warrior’s left arm rested a Smith and Wesson Model 586 Distinguished Combat Magnum; under his right arm a Browning Hi-Power 9-millimeter Automatic Pistol. Dangling from Yama’s right hip was a Razorback survival knife, and from the left side his scimitar. Cradled in his lap was a Wilkinson Carbine fitted with a 50-shot magazine.

  Directly behind Blade sat the speaker. He wore a camouflage uniform tailored to fit by the Family Weavers, and the snug fabric accentuated his massive, broad-shouldered build. His eyes were brown, his features ruggedly handsome. His square jaw lent him an aspect of forceful decisiveness. But his most striking feature was his light brown hair, which hung to the small of his wide back and had been braided from the neck down. A pair of Bushmaster Auto Pistols were strapped to his waist, each one in a specially crafted swivel holster. Propped against his right leg was a Bushmaster Auto Rifle. In size and stature he appeared to be Yama’s twin, although at six feet three inches he stood a shade shorter than the man in blue. His musculature, however, had been developed to a slightly higher degree and he was thicker through the middle.

  “This is the first extended run you’ve been on, Samson,” Blade remarked. “How do you like it so far?”

  Samson patted the seat. “It’s a cushy job. We have all the comforts of home. No wonder Hickok and Geronimo like to take off with you all the time.”

  “Enjoy the peace and quiet while it lasts,” Blade advised, and glanced at Yama. “What about you? How are you holding up?”

  “I’m bored to tears. I can’t wait to reach Green Bay.”

  Andrew twisted in his seat. “You wouldn’t say that if you knew the Technics like I know the Technics.”

  Yama’s lips became a thin line. “I know them.”

  “Were you involved with the run-in your Family had with them?” Andrew inquired.

  Yama simply nodded.

  “Say! Were you the one who killed the Minister and the First Secretary?”

  “No,” Yama responded.

  “Hickok was the Warrior who took care of the Minister,” Blade disclosed.

  “Wasn’t he the one I met right before we left? The guy wearing the buckskins? The one who talked funny?” Andrew queried.

  Blade grinned. “That was Hickok.”

  “He’s weird.”

  “So everyone keeps telling me.”

  Andrew looked at the silver-h
aired Warrior, puzzled by Yama’s moody behavior, then turned his attention to the one they called Samson. “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

  “Be my guest, brother.”

  “Why do you wear your hair so long? Doesn’t it get in your way when you’re fighting?”

  Samson chuckled and reached back to pull his braided locks over his left shoulder. “I wear my hair in this style because I’m a Nazarite.”

  “A Nazarite? I thought you were a Warrior,” Andrew mentioned.

  “I’m both.”

  “So what’s a Nazarite? The name sounds vaguely familiar.”

  “Have you read the Bible?” Samson asked.

  “Parts of it,” Andrew said.

  “Well, the order of the voluntary Nazarites stems from Biblical times. I took the Nazarite vow when I was seven, pledging to live according to the will of the Lord, every second of every day. As a token of that vow, as a symbol of my devotion, I’ve never let a razor touch the hair on my head,” Samson detailed.

  The farmer blinked a few times, glanced at Blade, then at Samson. “Are you putting me on?”

  “I would never mock the Lord.”

  “Wow. I’ve never heard of anyone doing such a thing,” Andrew stated.

  “The original Samson, the one in the Bible who slew the Philistines, was a Nazarite. So was John the Baptist. I’ve merely carried on the tradition,” Samson said.

  “I believe in God, but you must really be religious to go this far. What else is part of your vow?”

  “I’ve never drunk intoxicating beverages.”

  “Never?” Andrew asked, and idly brushed at a dirt smudge on the blue shirt the Family had given him, along with pants and a box of ammo.

  “If I permit alcohol to touch my lips, I violate my vow,” Samson explained. “And if I break my pledge, I will break the spiritual bond linking me to our Maker. If that were to happen I’d lost my strength and power.”

  Andrew did a double take. “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

  “With all my heart, mind, and soul,” Samson said solemnly. “Are you familiar with the story of Samson in the Bible?”