David Robbins - Green Bay Run

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 let 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.

A shadow flitted along the wall at the base of the stairs.

What were the devils up to now? Yama inched to the doorway and peeked into the corridor, which turned out to be empty. Hoping the walking dead had opted for easier prey, he hastened toward the front door. The closed front door. Yet he recalled leaving the door open when he’d entered the farmhouse.

“Maybe we should go out the back,” Melissa whispered. “They might be expecting us to use the front door.”

For, the first time since taking off in pursuit of her, Yama thought of his Near Death Experience and smiled. “Good. I hope they are waiting for us.”

“Are you nuts?”

“Whatever these things are, they must be stopped. The more I kill now, the fewer innocent lives will be lost later,” Yama stated.

“You can’t kill them all.”

“I can try.”

“You’re a hardheaded cuss, you know that?” Melissa remarked softly.

“If you say so,” Yama said.

“Don’t get me wrong. I like that trait in a man.”

“And I like a woman who knows when to keep quiet.”

“Is that a subtle hint?” Melissa inquired.

Yama ignored her. He came to the door and opened it without a second thought. The bright sunshine caused him to squint, and he waited a few seconds for his eyes to adjust before striding into the open, surprised to discover no one around. The walking dead, evidently, had departed.

“They’re gone,” Melissa said. “I don’t believe it.”

“Do you want me to call them back?”

“Cute. Real cute.”

Yama headed in the direction of the highway, retracing his route, but he managed a paltry three yards when the inevitable transpired.

From around both corners of the house, clustered in two groups containing over a dozen men and women each, tramped the walking dead.

Silently, balefully, they walked toward the Warrior and the brunette.

“What do you suppose happened to them?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Do you want me to go see?” Samson asked.

“No. I will,” Blade said. “You stay here with the SEAL.” He glanced at the Nazarite, who had concealed himself behind a maple tree a few yards to the east, then left the shelter of the oak he had squatted next to for the past 15 minutes. What could have happened to the Technics? he mused.

Why hadn’t they given chase to the SEAL?

“May the Lord guide your steps,” Samson said.

Blade nodded and hurried toward the highway, visible through the trees 50 yards to the south. To his rear, 20 feet beyond Samson, camouflaged with limbs and brush and parked in a clearing where waist-high weeds predominated, rested the transport. He’d driven the van into the forest to lose the Technics.

So where were the soldiers?

He’d sped off after the heavyset trooper had shot the elderly woman, and driven approximately a mile before wheeling into the woods, expecting the three jeeps would be in prompt pursuit. But they’d never materialized.

Most strange.

Why would the Technics give up so easily? Normally, the soldiers would have hounded the SEAL relentlessly. Which convinced Blade that the Technics must have a trick up their collective sleeve.

But what?

He looked in both directions when he reached State Highway 54. The belt of asphalt mocked him with its emptiness. Frustrated, he walked westward, listening for the sound of vehicle engines. His combat boots slapped on the hard surface. A flock of starlings winged overhead.