New York Run

by David Robbins

  The oldest trooper nodded and moved to the edge of the black hole.

  “Stay close to me,” Wargo said to Blade and Geronimo.

  “Do we get a gun?” Blade asked.

  “I told you before. No,” Wargo replied.

  “After what just happened?” Blade said.

  “No gun,” Captain Wargo stressed. “Let’s move out! Check your Com-Links! Don’t stray!”

  Gatti flicked on his helmet lamp and vanished over the brink.

  Captain Wargo led the rest to the rim, sidestepping gory Zombie remains all the way. He crouched, turned on his helmet lamp, and stared downward.

  Blade and Geronimo joined the officer, activating their own lamps.

  Private Gatti was one flight of stairs below them, sweeping the tunnel with his head lamp. “Nothing,” he said softly, the word crisply audible to those perched above him, amplifed by their Com-Links.

  “Wait for us,” Captain Wargo ordered. He stood and started down the stairs.

  Blade frowned, exchanged glances with Geronimo, and followed Wargo, Geronimo on his heels and Kimper behind Geronimo.

  “Scanner’s clean,” Kimper said, his eyes glued to the grid.

  “Keep me posted,” Wargo directed.

  They reached the first landing and paused.

  Blade’s helmet lamp illuminated dusty, cobweb-covered walls and railings. The light from the lamps penetrated 20 feet into the inky gloom; beyond loomed a curtain of ominous black.

  “We take the stairs to the bottom,” Captain Wargo said. “The vault is near the stairs, so we should be in and out before the Zombies can regroup.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Geronimo said. “Those Zombies give me the creeps!”

  “No talking!” Wargo snapped. “Move out!”

  Gatti headed downward.

  “Still nothing,” Kimper informed them.

  Captain Wargo waved his right arm and resumed their descent.

  As they passed landing after landing, six in succession without encountering more Zombies, Blade wondered if Wargo was right after all.

  Had the Zombies called it quits? The cannibals had taken quite a beating up above; the Dakon IIs had destroyed them in droves. Maybe the Zombies weren’t as fierce as their reputation alleged. But if that was the case, then what had happened to the earlier Technic squads?

  “Trouble,” Private Gatti said from a flight below.

  “What is it?” Captain Wargo demanded.

  “I think you should see this for yourself, sir,” Gatti replied.

  The party hastened to the next level.

  “See what I mean?” Gatti asked.

  “Oh, no!” one of the other troopers complained.

  Captain Wargo stared at the problem, dazed.

  Blade looked at Geronimo.

  “Now what do we do?” Geronimo inquired.

  The stairs came to an abrupt termination; jutting struts and bars were suspended in midair, and pieces of debris lined the landing; a heavy steel girder protruded from the north wall, hanging in space; beyond was a stygian void.

  “What could have caused this?” Captain Wargo questioned.

  “Maybe a little thing like a nuclear war,” Geronimo remarked.

  “Do we turn back?” Blade queried the Technic officer.

  Captain Wargo shook his head. “No, we don’t,” he declared obstinately.

  “The stairs may still be intact farther down.”

  “And how do we reach them?” Blade asked.

  Captain Wargo slowly pivoted, his helmet light playing over the stairs and the surrounding walls. “There must be…” He pointed at the west wall.

  “Look! A door! I knew there’d be one.”

  “Just our luck,” Geronimo groused.

  The door was ajar several inches. A faded sign read “STAIRWELL EXIT LEVEL #8.”

  “Gatti. Point,” Captain Wargo directed.

  Private Gatti hesitated for a moment, then cautiously pushed the door open. “There’s a hallway here,” he announced.

  “Let’s go!” Captain Wargo barked.

  Blade detected a visible reluctance in the Technic soldiers. Their pensive features accurately reflected their growing apprehension. And who could blame them? The lower they descended, the more certain they were to encounter more Zombies. He followed Wargo through the doorway, stepping over a skeleton on the floor, a skeleton wearing a dust-covered camouflage helmet. “One of yours?” he asked Wargo.

  “Must be,” Captain Wargo answered. “I don’t see his dog tags, but the helmet is definitely ours.”

  “The bones were picked clean,” Geronimo observed.

  “And if you let the Zombies catch you,” Captain Wargo said, “the same fate will befall you.”

  “Do you always look at the cheery side of life?” Geronimo rejoined.

  “Captain!” Private Gatti stated from up ahead.

  “What is it?” Wargo asked.

  “A junction,” Gatti replied.

  “On our way,” Captain Wargo said.

  They found Gatti 20 yards further ahead, shielded by the corner of a wall at the junction of two corridors.

  “Scanner?” Captain Wargo declared.

  Private Kimper studied his pulse scanner. “Faint readings, sir. Almost undetectable. Nothing close.”

  Wargo pondered for a minute. “Take that branch,” he commanded Gatti, indicating the corridor to the left.

  The point man took off.

  “How do you know which one to take?” Blade inquired.

  “I don’t,” Captain Wargo responded.

  They slowly moved down the hallway, their helmets constantly becoming entangled in cobwebs, their feet kicking up puffs of dust with every step.

  “May I make a comment?” Geronimo said.

  “What is it?” Captain Wargo asked.

  “Do you see all these cobwebs we keep bumping into?” Geronimo mentioned.

  “Yeah. What about them?”

  “So where are all the spiders?” Geronimo commented. “Hundreds of spiderwebs and not one spider. Doesn’t that strike you as strange?”

  “I never gave it much thought,” Wargo admitted.

  “Maybe the Zombies eat the spiders,” Blade said.

  “Yuck,” Geronimo stated. “You could be right. The Zombies must have some sort of dietary staple if they’re surviving in large numbers. Spiders would be as nutritious as anything else.”

  A disturbing speculation registered in Blade’s mind. “Say, Wargo.”

  “What?”

  “How many Zombies are there in New York City?” Blade inquired.

  “I’m not sure,” Captain Wargo replied. “Our experts estimate in the neighborhood of four or five thousand. Why?”

  “Is that all?”

  “Isn’t that enough?” Wargo retorted.

  “You’re missing my point,” Blade said. “Only four or five thousand. Why aren’t there more of them?”

  “How the hell should I know?” Wargo said stiffly. “Why don’t you ask the next one you run into?”

  “What is your point?” Geronimo wanted to know.

  “The Zombies have been here since the Big Blast, right?” Blade answered. “They’ve had over a century in which to breed. So why aren’t there more of them? Only four thousand in one hundred years doesn’t seem like much.”

  “Maybe they have a hard time getting it up,” Captain Wargo said.

  “Or perhaps there is something else down here,” Blade noted.

  “Something eating the Zombies and keeping their population down.”

  “Eating the Zombies?” Captain Wargo reiterated in disbelief. “What could possibly do that?”

  “Let’s hope we don’t have to find out,” Blade declared.

  “Captain Wargo!” It was Gatti.

  “What is it?” Captain Wargo answered.

  “I’ve found a hole in the floor,” Gatti informed his superior.

  “Stay put,” Wargo ordered.

  They reached the
point man within a minute, squatting at the rim of a jagged opening in the corridor floor.

  “It leads to the floor below,” Private Gatti told them.

  Captain Wargo crouched and peered through the hole. The floor of another corridor was 12 feet below. “We go down one at a time,” he instructed them. “Hang by the arms and drop. You won’t have more than six feet or so to fall. Gatti, you first.”

  Private Gatti slung his Dakon II over his right shoulder and slid his legs over the edge of the hole.

  Captain Wargo leaned down so he could see the hallway below. “Go ahead. I’ll cover you.”

  Gatti eased from sight and released his grip. He landed unsteadily, but righted himself instantly, quickly unslinging his Dakon II.

  “Cover us,” Wargo told Gatti. He motioned for the rest to take their turn.

  Private Kimper was the next to drop, then Blade and Geronimo. While the two Warriors waited for Wargo and the last soldier to reach the lower level, Blade tapped Geronimo’s right shoulder and moved to one side.

  Blade turned off his Com-Link, and Geronimo did the same. “We’re going to make a break for it,” Blade whispered. “The first chance we get.”

  “What about the Genesis Seeds?” Geronimo said softly.

  “I doubt they even exist,” Blade murmured. “This whole affair has been fishy from the start.”

  “Just give the signal,” Geronimo stated.

  “There will be no signal!” Captain Wargo said sharply, advancing on the Warriors with his Dakon II leveled. “How stupid can you be? Did you think by deactivating your Com-Links I couldn’t hear your conversation?

  You forgot the amplifier on the right side of our helmet. I could hear you fart at one hundred yards!”

  “I wish I had some beans,” Geronimo quipped.

  “If you attempt to escape,” Captain Wargo warned them, “we will shoot to kill. We’d prefer to take you back to Technic City with us. But the bottom line, gentlemen, is this: you are expendable.”

  “Now you tell us,” Blade said sarcastically.

  “Let’s move out!” Captain Wargo said.

  Gatti moved along the inky corridor until his lamp was lost to view.

  Captain Wargo shoved Blade with the barrel of his Dakon. “You two will stay in front of us. Move!”

  Blade and Geronimo started forward.

  “And switch on your damn Com-Links!” Captain Wargo ordered.

  As Blade depressed the correct button, a shrill voice filled his helmet.

  “Captain!” Private Kimper needlessly shouted. “Readings, sir!”

  “How many?”

  “Off the scale! Dozens!”

  “At what range?”

  “They’re on the floor above us!” Kimper answered. “And they’re heading for the hole we just came through!”

  “On the double!” Wargo instructed them.

  They began jogging after the point man.

  Even as Gatti’s terrified scream blasted their ears.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Hickok had seen those automatic rifles before: once at the Home when Plato had displayed the weapon appropriated from the spy slain by the Moles, and again at the fence bordering Technic City in the hands of the guards. He recognized a distinctly lethal armament when he saw one, and finding himself confronted by four troopers ten feet away, each with one of the rifles, he automatically reacted as his years of arduous training and experience dictated: he swept up the Commando and squeezed the trigger.

  The corridor rocked to the booming of the Commando, the four soldiers taken unaware by the onslaught, their bodies jerking and writhing as they absorbed the large-caliber slugs. Only one of them uttered a sound, a gurgling screech, as he toppled to the tiled floor.

  Time to make tracks!

  Hickok whirled and ran, his speed impeded by the combined weight of the guns he was carrying. He saw an elevator ahead and paused, mentally debating. The elevator could be rigged, just like the one before. But it might take a minute or so for more troopers to arrive, and by then he could be far away. Besides, how would they know he was using the elevator? It could be any Technic.

  Go for it!

  The gunman sprinted to the elevator and pressed the down button. He didn’t know exactly where he was in the Central Core, but odds were he was on one of the higher floors. How many did the Central Core have? Ten, wasn’t it?

  The elevator arrived with a loud ping and the doors hissed open.

  Hickok ducked inside and examined the control panel. A circular button with an 8 imprinted on it was lit up. That must mean he was on the eighth floor! He stabbed another button, the down button, the one with an arrow pointing straight down, and the elevator doors closed.

  So far, so good.

  Hickok watched the lights flicker, apprehensive, praying he could reach ground level before the Technics realized he was making a bid for freedom.

  The button for the sixth floor came on.

  “Can’t you go any faster?” Hickok asked aloud, and kicked the door.

  Why was the blamed contraption dropping so slowly? Was this typical of an elevator? A mare could deliver a foal in the time it was taking the blasted elevator to reach the ground!

  The elevator had reached the fourth floor.

  “Hurry it up!” Hickok said.

  The third floor.

  Somewhere in the distance a klaxon wailed.

  They were on to him! Someone had sounded the alarm!

  Second floor.

  Hickok tensed, clutching the Commando. He must ignore the odds against him. So what if he was alone and outnumbered millions to one? So what if the entire Technic Army and Police Force would be after him? He was a Warrior, and Warriors never quit. Never. Ever.

  The elevator reached the ground floor and the doors whisked open.

  The lobby was crammed with people: soldiers, police in their blue uniforms, government officials, and civilians. Waiting outside the elevator was a Technic officer and one other, a man in a brown uniform with gray hair, blue eyes, and a hefty build. The gunman recognized him as the man from the interrogation room.

  Not the one who’d showed up with the Minister!

  “Howdy! Guess who?” Hickok said.

  The Technic officer was completely confounded, frozen, but the man in brown reacted; his blue eyes widened fearfully and his mouth sagged.

  “You!” he exclaimed.

  “Bingo! You get the prize!” Hickok declared, and fired.

  The Commando cut them in two, their chests exploding in a spray of crimson flesh.

  Hickok burst from the elevator, heading for the gold doors visible on the other side of the spacious lobby.

  A Technic policeman loomed ahead, blocking the gunman’s path, clawing at an automatic pistol in the holster on his left hip.

  Hickok cut loose, ripping the Technic from his crotch to his sternum.

  A woman nearby was screaming her lungs out.

  Another woman, with a young girl at her side, stood five yards in front of the racing Warrior, gaping.

  Blasted bystanders!

  Hickok skirted the pair, weaving and twisting as he ran, the crowd parting to allow his passage.

  But not all of them.

  Another Technic policeman was standing before the gold doors, pistol in his right hand.

  Hickok leaped behind a potted fern as the policeman fired. A high-pitched shriek added to the general din. Hickok rolled to the left, and as he did he saw the little girl he’d bypassed falling to the floor with a hole in her forehead.

  The rotten bastard!

  Hickok came up on his knees, the Commando pressed to his right shoulder, and pulled the trigger.

  The Technic in front of the gold doors was slammed backward by the impact, crunching into the doors and slipping to the floor, leaving a red swath in his wake.

  Hickok sprinted to the doors. He paused, kicking the dead Technic in the face, crushing his nose. “I can’t abide a lousy shot!” he growled, and pushed on th
e nearest door.

  Nothing happened.

  What the blazes! Hickok tried one more time with the same result.

  What the heck was going on? Why wouldn’t the door open? He suddenly recalled Wargo using a button to the left of the doors when they entered the Central Core.

  There!

  Hickok was to the bank of buttons in an instant.

  They weren’t marked!

  The gunman stabbed the first button on the right.

  The doors remained closed.

  Blast!

  A bullet whined off the doors not six inches away.

  Hickok punched the button on the far left.

  The gold doors slid open.

  Move it! his mind thundered, as he scurried outside. The doors slid closed again as he spun, the Commando bucking, the bullets striking the outside button bank and destroying it in a shower of plastic, metal, and fiery sparks.

  Let ’em try and get those doors open now!

  Hickok crouched and turned to face the parking lot, shocked by the sight he beheld.

  Two dozen Technic police were lined up 15 yards away, at attention, their stunned faces focused on the Warrior. Between the formation of police and the gunman was a solitary jeep, and sitting in the rear of the topless vehicle, his features frozen in horrified shock, evidently paralyzed by the abrupt advent of the Warrior, was the Minister.

  For the space of a heartbeat it was as if the tableau were in suspended animation. Hickok was hardly aware of a green truck parked alongside the yellow curb not ten feet to his right, or the squad of Technic commandos 40 yards off and approaching on the run. All he saw, the only object of his concentration, the sum total of his world, was the man responsible for subjecting him to the most acute humiliation he’d ever felt, the callous, egotistical tyrant who’d degraded him, who’d caused him to lose face, as Rikki would say, who’d made him eat crow and reveled in the gunman’s debasement: the Minister.

  For the space of a heartbeat no one moved.

  And then the Minister opened his mouth to shout orders to his assembled men, his personal guard, and all hell broke loose.

  Hickok fired, the Commando chattering, and the Minister’s eyes and nose dissolved as his face was torn to gruesome shreds.

  The Technic police went for their weapons.

  The Technic commandos were now 30 yards distant.