David Robbins - Green Bay Run

The Wilkinson!

Yama reached his knees, but someone else beat him to the weapon.

“Don’t move!” the brunette ordered. She was standing near the stairs, the Wilkinson clenched firmly in her slim hands, her green eyes ablaze with hatred. Dirt and grime streaked her pear-shaped face. Her brown blouse had been torn on the left side from the bottom hem almost to her arm. Mud spots dotted her jeans and her brown leather shoes. Her disheveled hair hung to her shoulder blades. Within inches of her feet lay a large, overturned toolbox.

Yama froze, straining his ears to catch the sound of gunshots, but all he heard was her heavy breathing.

“I’ve got you, you murdering son of a bitch!” she snapped. “And now I’m going to make you pay!”

“I’m not who you think I am,” Yama informed her.

“Shut your face!” she growled, and took a menacing stride toward him.

“Don’t tempt me to pull this trigger, because by God I will!”

“I believe you,” Yama said, his mind racing. How could he get out of this fix? His friends might be in desperate need of assistance. He had to disarm her, and swiftly. His ribs were already beginning to feel better. If only he could draw her closer. “What’s your name?”

“Why the hell should you care?” the brunette responded bitterly. “All you’re interested in is seeing me dead.”

“That’s not true.”

Her face became a livid red. “Liar!” she exploded. “All of you Technics are rotten, filthy liars!”

Yama looked her in the eyes. “I’m not a Technic.”

An acidic, mocking laugh burst from her lips. “Sure you’re not. I suppose you’re a farmer!”

“I’m a Warrior.”

She cocked her head and scrutinized him closely.

“Do I look like a Technic?” Yama asked her. “Am I wearing the kind of clothes a Technic would wear? You saw the van I came here in. Is that the kind of vehicle the Technics use?”

The corners of her eyes crinkled, betraying her incipient doubt. “If you’re not a Technic, why were you chasing me?”

“The man who heads the Warriors wants to talk to you.”

“I’ll bet he does,” she said sarcastically, then glanced at the revolver and pistol. “All right, bastard. Place your guns on the floor and do it very slowly.”

“You’re making a mistake,” Yama advised her.

“No, you made the mistake, you and the rest of your Technic buddies, when you had my dad, mom, and brother murdered! But those things didn’t get me. My dad told me to run, told me he would hold them off, and my brother shoved me into the woods. I tried to go back, but it was all over in—” she stated, and her voice broke as tears moistened her eyes.

Taking advantage of the opportunity, Yama began to rise.

“Don’t!” she screamed, waving the Wilkinson wildly. “Stay put or else!”

Yama sank down and sighed.

“I’m going to alert the whole countryside to what you’re up to,” the brunette declared. “Somehow, some way, you’ll be stopped. Those things will be wiped out.”

“What things?”

“Don’t play innocent with me,” she admonished him. “You know what things I’m talking about. Those poor people that the Mad Scientist changed into… the walking dead.”

“These walking dead killed your family?”

“You know they did!” the brunette responded angrily. “Now do as I told you. Put your guns on the floor.”

Yama hesitated. He wanted to rejoin Blade and Samson, and he wouldn’t be able to leave until he gained the upper hand. Jumping her was an option, and although he felt confident he could reach her before she shot him, he opted to try a different tack. “No,” he replied.

“What?” she asked, startled.

“I’m not putting my guns on the floor. I’m going to stand up, slowly, and leave.”

“You’ll do no such thing.”

“I can’t stay here any longer,” Yama said. “My friends are in trouble and I must go to them.”

“I’ll shoot.”

“Have you ever shot anyone before?”

Uncertainty crept into her countenance and she shook her head. “But there’s always a first time.”

“Believe me, you don’t want to kill another person if you can possibly avoid it. Killing changes you, marks you for life, sets you apart from almost everyone else.”

She started at him, obviously bewildered. “Strange words coming from a Technic.”

“I’m not a Technic,” Yama reiterated, and straightened, holding his arms out from his sides to demonstrate his peaceful intent.

“Don’t!”

“You can come with me if you desire,” Yama said.

Her green eyes flashed. “You’re not going anywhere, damn you.”

Taking a calculated gamble, the Warrior took a step backwards. “I mean you no harm.”

“I’m warning you,” she said, pointing the Wilkinson at his midriff.

“You can keep the carbine if you want,” Yama commented, and took another step.

“Please don’t force me to shoot you,” she said, her voice wavering.

“I don’t believe you’ll fire.”

“You’re wrong,” she assured him.

“Am I?” Yama countered, then tensed when a metallic crash arose from downstairs.

The brunette started in alarm and gazed past him at the stairway to the ground floor. “What was that?” she whispered.

“How should I know?” Yama said.

“Don’t talk so loud,” she cautioned. “It could be them.”

“Who?”

“The things,” she said, and licked her lips. “They used to only come out at night,but now they hunt in the daytime too.”

“Let’s go see,” Yama suggested.

“Don’t be crazy,” she stated, her forehead creasing, gazing at him in transparent confusion.

Yama listened to more noise, to clanging and banging and loud pounding, and he deduced there must be someone throwing pots and pans around in the kitchen. “I’ll be back in a bit,” he said, and took a pace.

“No!” the brunette exclaimed, coming closer, the Wilkinson dipping half a foot.

“Make up your mind, would you? First you’re all set to blow me away, and now you’re afraid I’ll be killed. Which do you want?”

She uttered a strangled whine indicative of the turbulent state of her mind, her lips compressing. “I don’t know!” she hissed. “But don’t go downstairs.”

“I have to,” Yama stated, and turned to leave.

“Please!” she blurted out, stepping after him, her left arm reaching out to grab his wrist.

Which was the opening for which he’d been waiting. Yama whirled, his right hand streaking to the Wilkinson, and wrenched the weapon from her grasp.

She turned into a statue, too frightened to twitch a finger, her wide eyes on the carbine, her breath caught in her throat.

“Stay put while I investigate,” Yama directed.

The racket in the kitchen had grown progressively louder, as if there were more than one person involved in producing the clamor.

“Aren’t you going to shoot me?” she queried tremulously.

“I have this standard policy. I never shoot bunny rabbits and damsels in distress. Now if you’ll excuse me,” Yama said, but before he could move the din downstairs suddenly ceased.

“Dear God!” the brunette breathed, staring at the stairs.

Yama heard it too.

The pounding of heavy boots on the steps.

Blade placed his left arm on the window, drew the .44 Magnum, nestled the barrel under his arm pointing outward, and cocked the hammer. He looked into the side mirror, watching the oncoming jeep, and saw the driver slant the vehicle toward his side of the SEAL. “Slip out your door,” he ordered Samson. “Cue on me.”

“May the Lord guide your hands,” the Nazarite said. He cracked the passenger door, then slid to the ground.