David Robbins - Green Bay Run

“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 into 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.