The jeeps were still in hot pursuit.
“Why are there so many Technics this far from Green Bay?” Samson wondered aloud. “Why are they concentrating in this area?”
“My guess is they’re searching for someone,” Blade speculated.
“So you think that business about looking for a fugitive was legitimate?”
“Yeah. And if we can find this fugitive before the Technics, maybe we can learn a lot more about their activities in Green Bay,” Blade said. He kept the pedal pressed to the floor, gauging the distance between the transport and the jeeps, estimate he would have ample time to complete his man-euver.
Several of the Technics opened fire and a few rounds whined off the rear of the SEAL.
Blade gripped the steering wheel tightly as he neared the curve. He swung the van wide, taking the turn at 60. The SEAL slewed sharply and seemed about to veer off the road into the trees, but came through the curve on all four tires. He went to slam his foot on the brake.
“Look out!” Samson bellowed.
Blade spotted her at the instant the Nazarite yelled, an elderly woman attired in a beige dress who stood in the center of the highway not 100 feet from the curve. He tramped on the brake pedal and jerked the wheel to the right, frantically hoping he could miss her. In the brief glimpse he had of the woman, she appeared to be in a daze, walking westward with her arms limp at her sides and her eyes wide. As the SEAL streaked toward her, a veritable juggernaut of doom, he could see her lined features and gray hair. The van hugged the outside of the road, and for a second he believed he would shoot past her.
And then she did the unexpected.
The elderly woman deliberately stepped into the transport’s path.
“Dear Lord!” Samson cried.
Blade wanted to echo his companion, but instead he gaped in sheer horror as the SEAL plowed into the woman, catching her squarely in the middle of the grill. He heard a loud thump, and then the van bounced, as if going over an obstruction. Dreading what he would see, he glanced over his right shoulder.
The woman had fallen onto her left side, and the SEAL’s heavy tires had crushed both of her spindly legs to a pulp. Astonishingly, she was trying to push herself up, and her face reflected the same dazed expression. She did not betray the slightest trace of pain.
No screaming.
No hysterics.
Nothing.
“We should help her,” Samson said.
Blade slowed, uncertain, bewildered by her demeanor, sensing an alien quality about her. How could anyone be run over by a vehicle weighing tons and not be a bit bent out of shape by the experience?
The Nazarite gazed at the giant. “What’s wrong? Why aren’t you turning around?”
“Look at her face.”
“What?”
“The woman’s face,” Blade reiterated. He continued to the east at 40 miles an hour, watching in the side mirror.
Moments later the first of the Technic vehicles screeched around the curve. The driver spotted the woman and brought the jeep to an abrupt halt within yards of her still-struggling form. Three other troopers bailed out and hurried to the woman. A lean man, a noncom with four black stripes on his uniform, knelt alongside her. The two other jeeps stopped nearby.
Blade slowed the transport even more, his curiosity getting the better of his prudence. He observed the noncom speaking to the elderly woman, and he was surprised the Technics were so solicitous. His surprise became amazement seconds later when the gray-haired woman reached up and clamped her right hand on the noncom’s throat.
“What is she doing?” Samson exclaimed.
The noncom tried to rise. He released his Dakon II and grabbed her wrist. His fellow soldiers came to his aid, attempting to yank her hand free. But she clung to the noncom tenaciously and endeavored to claw out his eyes with her left hand.
“She’s trying to kill him,” the Nazarite commented, astounded by the development. “Why?”
“I wish I knew,” Blade answered absently.
The woman was holding her own, resisting the efforts of the troopers, her fingers locked on the noncom. He beat her on the arm and face, striving to break her choking grip. Another trooper stepped in close and smashed the stock of his Dakon II on her head. She ignored the blow, concentrating on the noncom.
Blade brought the transport to a halt. He twisted and stuck his head out the window for a better view, confounded by the tableau.
The noncom had risen to a crouching posture, raining punches all the while, swinging his body from side to side, hauling her from the ground.
She clung to his neck, her mangled, bloody legs dangling under her, jagged pieces of bone protruding from her pulverized skin. Other soldiers pummeled her mercilessly, but she hung on and succeeded in ripping open the noncom’s left cheek.
Blade saw a heavyset trooper get out of the second jeep and walk over to the seemingly unequal contest, a pistol clutched in his right hand. The heavyset soldier placed the pistol against the elderly woman’s temple and fired. She stiffened, let go of the noncom, and collapsed on the asphalt.
Thinking the fight was over, Blade went to turn in his seat when the woman suddenly sat bolt upright.
“The Lord preserve us!” Samson breathed.
In complete consternation, Blade watched the heavyset trooper empty the pistol into the woman’s head. Only then did she topple over and stay down. He exchanged glances with the Nazarite.
“What have we gotten ourselves into?” Samson asked.
“I wish I knew.”
Chapter Ten
Yama took two strides toward the stairs.
“Don’t!” the brunette wailed, and snatched at his right arm.
The sincerity in her tone and the abject terror she conveyed drew Yama up short. He stared into her petrified eyes, and despite the circumstances of their meeting and the ominous situation in which they were embroiled, he found himself responding to her beauty instead of her fright. She looked past him and uttered a low groan. “Oh, no!”
Yama faced the stairway.
A man stood framed at the top of the stairs. His clothing consisted of grimy jeans and a faded white T-shirt. Scuffed brown boots covered his feet. His hair and eyes were brown, his hair worn in a crew cut.
“Hello,” Yama said.
The man said nothing.
“We’re dead!” the brunette declared, backing off. “It’s one of them.”
“One of the walking dead?”
The man stepped from the shadows with a slow, deliberate tread, revealing a slack countenance and an eerie, vacant aspect to his eyes.
“Don’t let him get his hands on you,” the brunette warned, retreating toward the stairway to the third floor.
Yama hardly considered the newcomer to be much of a danger. The man possessed the rugged, weathered countenance of a farmer, and although he was slightly over six feet in height and endowed with a muscular build, he came nowhere near matching Yama’s superb physique.
The brunette paused at the foot of the stairs and cast a pleading gaze at the man in blue. “Come with me. We can hold them off easier at the top of the stairs.”
“I’m not running,” Yama said, warily regarding the farmer. “Who are you?” he addressed him. “What do you want?”
No response was forthcoming. The man started forward, raising his arms, and came straight at the Warrior.
Yama trained the Wilkinson on the farmer’s stomach. “Don’t come any closer,” he advised, wondering what the man could hope to accomplish by taking him on unarmed.
The farmer disregarded the warning. Only five feet separated them. His fingers hooked into rigid claws.
“I won’t tell you again,” Yama cautioned, surprised when the man completely ignored him.
“Shoot it!” the brunette shouted.
Still exhibiting a blank expression, the farmer took another step and reached for the Wilkinson.
Yama shot him. He squeezed off a short burst, the rounds ripping i
nto the man and flinging the farmer backwards onto the floor. The blasting of the Carbine caused Yama’s ears to ring. He walked over to the man and nudged the body, staring at the crimson rivulets flowing from the line of holes across the farmer’s midriff.
The man didn’t budge.
“Is it dead?” the brunette said anxiously.
“Why do you keep referring to him as an ‘it?’” Yama inquired, looking at her.
“Didn’t you see its eyes?”
Yama nodded. “He looked as if he was under the influence of drugs.”
“Drugs?” she repeated, and snorted at the notion. “If only the reason was that simple.”
“What is the reason?”
“I told you. The Mad Scientist has been changing people into the walking dead.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
“What proof do you have that the Mad Scientist is responsible?”
“Proof?” she said indignantly. “Who needs proof? Everyone knows the Mad Scientist is behind this. The disappearances didn’t start until after that bastard showed up in Green Bay.”
“Will you come with me and explain everything to my friends?”
She locked her eyes on his as if attempting to probe the depths of his soul. “All right,” she replied after a bit. “I doubt you’re a Technic. Maybe I can trust you after all.”
“You can. My name, by the way, is Yama.”
“Strange name. I’m Melissa,” she divulged. “Melissa Vail.”
The Warrior smiled and motioned for her to follow him. “Let’s go. We must hurry.”
Melissa moved toward him. Her gaze strayed to the floor and she suddenly froze.
The short hairs at the nape of Yama’s neck prickled as he felt a hand close on his left leg just below the knee. He looked down and an inexplicable ripple of revulsion coursed down his spine as he beheld the farmer slowly rising, using his leg for support. Instinctively, he lashed out, kicking the man in the chest and knocking him onto his hands and knees.
The farmer—or was it truly one of the walking dead?—didn’t even blink.
He rose and went to clutch the Warrior, his expression as empty as ever.
Yama swung the Wilkinson up and in, driving the barrel underneath the man’s chin and snapping his head back. Any ordinary foe would have gagged and fallen to his knees, but not this man. The farmer grabbed the end of the barrel and pulled, displaying tremendous strength, and wrested the weapon free.
“Run!” Melissa urged.
But the Warrior wasn’t about to flee. Although he could scarcely believe the Wilkinson had been torn from his grasp, he was confident his years of experience would enable him to prevail. Consequently, as the farmer foolishly let the Carbine drop to the floor, he stepped in close and delivered a palm heel strike to the farmer’s mouth.
The blow rocked the man on his heels. He stayed upright and took hold of the Warrior’s right wrist, striving to draw Yama into a bear hug.
“If he squeezes you, you’re done for!” Melissa yelled.
Yama knew she spoke the truth. His adversary evinced extra-ordinary might, a superhuman power the equal of three average men. How such a feat was possible, he didn’t know. All he cared about was defeating the ghoul as quickly as possible, and he set himself to the task with lethal efficiency.
The man looped his right arm over the Warrior’s left shoulder while continuing to drew Yama’s right arm ever nearer.
“Use your guns!” Melissa cried.
Yama had other ideas. He arced his right knee into the man’s groin, but the farmer only grunted. Pressing his left hand against the thing’s chest, he shoved, but the man only moved backwards an inch. Realizing his foe was on the verge of getting him in an unbreakable embrace and furious at his failure to escape, Yama swept his left arm upward, ramming his first two fingers into the farmer’s eyes, gouging his nails deeply.
The ghoul blinked again and again, blood and tears filling its eyes, and momentarily relented.
Giving Yama the opportunity he wanted. He clamped his right hand on the farmer’s belt, his left on the man’s shirt, then slid his right leg behind the thing and shoved, his steely muscles uncoiling, employing a standard judo move, a kickback throw, to toss the ghoul to the floor.
Blinded by the blood in his eyes, the farmer released the Warrior to wipe his left forearm across his face.
And Yama pounced, his right hand held in the Nukite position, and speared a piercing hand strike at the thing’s throat, his training compelling him to go for one of the softest and most vulnerable areas on the human body. He felt his fingers sink into the yielding flesh halfway to his knuckles. Without missing a beat, as he drew his right hand back, he whipped his left hand in a Tegatana-naka-uchi, a handsword cross-body chop, connecting on the side of his opponent’s neck.
Standing a few feet off, Melissa Vail heard a distinct snap and saw the thing go abruptly limp. “You did it!” she exclaimed in amazement.
The Warrior straightened, his eyes narrowing. “I was lucky.”
“You were magnificent,” Melissa breathed, her eyes sparkling, her cheeks flushed. “No one has ever broken their hold before. Usually, once one of those things grabs you, it’s all over.”
“I’ve never seen anyone behave the way this man did,” Yama commented, moving to retrieve the Wilkinson. “It’s as if he wasn’t responsible for his actions, as if he was a robot.”
“Now you know why we call their kind the walking dead.”
“We?” Yama said, inspecting the magazine in the Carbine.
“All of us who live in the vicinity of Green Bay. All of my neighbors, my friends, and my family,” Melissa said, her voice lowering sadly as she mentioned those dearest to her.
“Did this man live around here?” Yama inquired, gesturing at the slain farmer.
“Probably. He’s not familiar to me, but the Technics may have taken him from north or south of the city.”
“So the Mad Scientest is taking people from the countryside surrounding Green Bay and transforming them into zombies?” Yama said.
Melissa nodded. “You’ve finally caught on:”
Yama remembered the grisly scene at the wooden wagon and stared at her. “Was your family attempting to get away in a wagon last night?”
“Yes,” Melissa answered. “Most of our neighbors had already vanished or been killed, and my dad decided to leave, to abandon this farm instead of staying and being murdered or worse.” She sighed wistfully. “Dad figured we could sneak off in the middle of the night when there were fewer Technic patrols. He thought we could outrun the walking dead, but he was wrong. Dozens of them poured out of the forest, blocking the road.
Dad tried to turn the team, but the horses were spooked and wouldn’t obey him. The next thing I knew, we were being overrun. My older brother fought like a madman and got me into the trees, then went back for Mom and Dad.” She stopped, her lips trembling.
“There’s no need to go on,” Yama told her. “I know what happened next.”
She glanced at him, her green eyes watering. “I wanted to help them, but there was nothing I could do.”
“I know.”
“They were torn to pieces by those things before I could reach them.”
Yama frowned.
“Then they came after me. I fled into the woods, and I was on my way here when you spotted me,” Melissa concluded.
“How many of the walking dead have you seen?”
Melissa nodded at the man on the floor. “He was the first since last night.”
“We’d better be going,” Yama advised. “I must relay this information to my friends.” He turned toward the stairs, then stopped in midstride.
Another of the walking dead, a brown-haired woman attired in green pants and a yellow shirt, appeared at the top step.
“I knew there were more in the house,” Melissa declared.
Slowly, methodically, the woman came toward the Warrior.
Yama le
t her have a dozen rounds in the chest and she tumbled down the stairs. He wondered why the walking dead moved so sluggishly. Thank goodness they did! If they should ever acquire the speed to rival their strength, they’d be unbeatable. He took a step.
“Watch out!” Melissa screamed.
The Warrior had already seen the source of her panic, and the unforeseen development dumbfounded him. For there, between the stairway and them, endeavoring to push up from the floor, was the first walking dead, the farmer, who had propped his hands under him and sat up, his head bent at an unnatural angle. Impossible! Yama’s mind shrieked. He’d killed the man with his bare hands! Yet the thing was trying to stand.
How???
What manner of creatures were these?
What were the Technics doing to the people?
All such considerations were removed from his mind an instant later when a portly man stepped into view on the stairs, lumbering toward them. Yama recovered his composure and trained the Wilkinson on the new threat. He’d tolerated all of the delays he was going to, and he resolved to return to Blade and Samson no matter the odds. His features hardening, he fired, sending the portly ghoul flopping from sight. His next rounds drilled into the farmer’s cranium and splattered brains and hair all over the walls.
The farmer flattened.
“Stay close to me,” Yama instructed Melissa.
“You don’t have to tell me twice.”
With the brunette almost touching his back, Yama advanced to the top of the stairs and peered down. The black-haired woman and the portly man were gone. But where?
“Be careful,” Melissa whispered. “They always travel in packs.”
“Can you use a revolver?” Yama asked.
“I can try.”
“Here,” Yama said, giving her the Smith and Wesson Combat Magnum.
“This is a double-action. You can thumb the hammer or squeeze the trigger. Either way the gun will fire.”
“Can I club them to death if I run out of bullets?” Melissa quipped.
“Whatever you like,” Yama said, and started to descend. Would the things jump them indoors or outside? The creatures would be smarter to attack inside, where the restricted confines would limit Yama’s movements. But the walking dead didn’t impress him as being exceptionally bright in the strategy department, or any other department for that matter.
Green Bay Run Page 9
