David Robbins - Green Bay Run

Yama crouched in the shelter of a hillock, studying the layout and planning their assault on the Technic stronghold.

“We have about thirty minutes of daylight left,” Samson whispered as he came up on the right.

“We’re pushing it too close,” Melissa commented, kneeling on the left.

“The walking dead will be out in force soon. I’m surprised we haven’t seen some by now.”

“Count your blessings,” the Nazarite said.

“We won’t be able to scale that fence without being detected,” Yama stated.

“How will we get onto the campus?” Melissa inquired.

“We’ll go under the fence. Find a couple of thick, broken limbs or sticks we can use.”

“Me?”

“Why not you? You’re the one who can look out for herself, remember?”

Melissa frowned but obeyed, slipping off to the west.

The moment the brunette was out of sight, Yama turned to his friend.

“Promise me something.”

“Anything for you, brother.”

“No matter what happens once we’re in there, no matter what it takes, you’ll protect her at all costs.”

“Never fear. I know what to do.”

“It’s strange. I hardly know her, and yet I’m extremely attracted to her.”

“You’re kidding!”

Yama’s eyes narrowed slightly. “For someone who is about to confront superior odds in a fight to the death, you’re in a very good mood.”

“A healthy sense of humor preserves the sanity.”

“Can I quote you?”

“Anytime, brother.”

“Just remember what I said about Melissa.”

“What did you say?” the lady in question asked, coming around a bush on their left, several sticks in her arms.

“That was fast,” Yama commented.

“What did you say about me?” Melissa probed, refusing to let him divert her from the topic.

“That you ask too many questions and never know when to be quiet.”

Melissa glared and dropped the sticks at his feet. “Here. You know where you can shove these.”

“Feisty wench, isn’t she?” Samson commented appreciatively.

“Don’t call me a wench.”

“Sorry. I meant no insult.”

An uncomfortable silence descended for all of ten seconds, at which point Yama scooped up the sticks and moved to the top of the hillock, where he flattened and scrutinized the campus again.

“I didn’t mean to snap at him,” Melissa whispered to the Nazarite.

“He understands, I’m sure.”

“Really?”

“Well, no, but I thought I’d try and cheer you up.”

They crept to the crest and joined the man in blue. The Technic soldiers were still going about their daily routine, and a change of guard was taking place at the gate. Four new troopers were relieving those who had been on duty.

“It must be time for a shift change,” Samson said softly. “This could be the opening we need.”

Pairs of soldiers appeared to replace those patrolling the barbed-wire fence. Idle conversations were started, and none of the Technics were paying the slightest attention to the outer perimeter. Believing they had the population cowed, and after months without a disturbance, they had grown careless and smug.

“Follow me,” Yama directed. He crawled toward the fence, using every bit of available cover, skirting bushes and thickets. In five minutes he came to a clump of weeds and paused to take his bearings. He parted the weeds and received two swift shocks.

Not ten feet away, between the park and the campus, was a wide road.

And approaching from the east, shuffling in a compact mass, their eyes empty and their arms limp at their sides, were hundreds of the walking dead.

“Once you see my accomplishment with your own eyes, you won’t be so skeptical,” Quinton Darmobray stated proudly.

“I wouldn’t count on it,” Blade responded.

They were following a cement walk toward a long, low building situated in the center of the campus. The sun hung above the western horizon and a cool breeze blew in off Green Bay. Trailing behind them came an armed escort consisting of six Technic troopers.

“I should think that you, of all people, should have learned by now not to underestimate our technological accomplish-ments,” the Director commented. “You’ve seen Technic City. You know what we’re capable of.”

“You’re accomplished marvels with science and technology,” Blade admitted, “but you’ve lost sight of fundamental spiritual values in the process.”

“Spiritual?” Darmobray repeated, and uttered a snorting noise. “Oh, yes. I must remind myself that the Family still clings to outdated concepts of truth, goodness, and spirituality. Your people even believe in a supreme Spirit Being, don’t they?”

Blade nodded.

“Fascinating. Perhaps, after we have subjugated the Home, I’ll prepare a dissertation on the superstitious beliefs of your primitive band of do-gooders,” Darmobray said sarcastically.

The Warrior glanced at the Director, who stood six and a half feet in height and weighed a muscularly proportioned 250 pounds at least. “You should live so long.”

“Is that a threat?”

“A prediction. Any society that denies the reality of the Spirit is doomed to extinction.”

Darmobray snickered. “Is that another sophist tidbit taught by your vaunted Elders?”

“It’s the truth.”

“Of course it is. And there’s a jolly old fat man who lives at the North Pole with his wife, eight reindeer, and one hundred and ten elves.”

“What?”

“Santa Claus.”

“Who?”

The Director almost broke his stride. “Your Family doesn’t believe in Santa Claus, that demented fart who travels around the world in a sleigh once a year scattering reindeer droppings all over the place and delivering shabby gifts to selfish brats?”

“Oh. Him. We read about him during out schooling years, but our Founder didn’t perpetuate the practice,” Blade disclosed.

“And what about the Easter Bunny?”

“Rabbits don’t lay eggs.”

“Maybe there’s hope for your Family, after all,” Darmobray joked. He stared at the structure ahead, his visage sobering. “The Technics don’t believe in any of that garbage either. Ever since the war we’ve discarded all such juvenile notions.”

Blade took advantage of the opportunity to glean more information on the Technics’ background. “The Technic society first came into being right after World War Three, right?”

“Wrong. During the war. A few dozen scientists at the Chicago Institute of Advanced Technology refused to evacuate when the U.S. government gave the order. They held on, using their superior knowledge to forge a new type of society out of the shambles of the old. Instead of exalting the profit motive as the fundamental drive of existence, they exalted the glories of logic and technology. New laws were formulated, designed to promote their philosophy. Those people remaining in Chicago were encouraged to step into line with the new order of things.”

“Encouraged? You mean they became Technics or they died.”

“If they were too stupid to see the light, then they deserved to die,” the Director stated.

“How convenient.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand our motives and policies. They’re as alien to you as the planet Mars, but they have produced a city and a culture that surpasses any known on earth.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Blade said. “I’ve seen a few in my travels that would rival Technic City.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Blade asked.

“Our factories and homes are futuristic in the extreme. Our machines and appliances are all computerized and miniaturized. Our people enjoy a standard of living that is the envy of the Russians and the Civilized Zone.”