David Robbins - Green Bay Run

“I saw one of your Automatons try to kill a trooper,” Blade mentioned.

The Director frowned and nodded. “I’m not surprised. Eighty percent of the implant recipients obey the commands, but the other twenty percent seem to experience some sort of short circuit resulting in aberrant, violent behavior.”

“Like the woman I saw.”

“Yes. The renegades will kill anyone and everyone they encounter. And they won’t respond to the command to return to the Research Facility. They wander aimlessly, in mindless packs, possibly linked in some manner by a subliminal affinity.”

“What about all the people who have disappeared? Have you turned them into Automatons?” Blade inquired.

“They were abducted by the Automatons. And the majority have received the implants. Dozens have been used on my experimental tables.”

Blade pondered for a moment. “There’s something I don’t quite understand. Can the Automatons function if the transmitter isn’t on?”

“They’re not supposed to, but the renegades do.”

“Let me see if I’ve got this straight. You transformed some of the residents of Green Bay into Automatons, then used them to abduct more and more people. But about twenty percent of the Automatons developed malfunctions, becoming deranged killing machines.”

“That’s it in a nutshell. The Automatons have been programmed not to harm anyone unless they receive a specific command from me,” Darmobray said.

“And where’s this transmitter of yours located?” Blade queried.

“On the east side of the campus. We erected the special two-hundred-foot-tall tower next to the transmitter. The effective radius is approximately fifty miles, but we plan to increase the range once our system is perfected.”

“Amazing,” was the only comment Blade could think of to adequately sum up his reaction to the scheme.

Darmobray grinned. “I knew you’d be impressed.”

“Do you really intend to insert implants into every citizen of Technic City?”

“Once all the kinks are ironed out, of course. The Minister will pass a law requiring every citizen to visit a hospital so they can receive a shot, an inoculation against a fictitious strain of virulent flu. In reality, the shot will knock them out. While they’re unconscious, my staff will insert the implants. We should be able to transform ninety-eight percent of the population into Automatons within a two-month span.”

“But the people who haven’t been transformed are bound to catch on,” Blade noted.

“Not at all, because by then my Automatons will be almost normal in every respect.”

Blade stared ahead at a wide door blocking the corridor. “So where are you taking me now? To see where you house your Automatons?”

The Director came to the door and halted, his lips creased by a smirk.

“No. The obedient Automatons are housed in several buildings in the vicinity of the transmitter. I have something special planned for you.”

“Like what?” Blade asked, disturbed by the man’s sardonic tone.

“I’m going to implant a transistor in your brain stem and transform you into an Automaton.”

Before Yama could let go of the weeds and conceal himself, several of the walking dead gazed in his direction. He knew they could see him, and he expected them to lumber toward him. Instead, they tramped dutifully to the west, heading for the heart of the city. Puzzled, he remained in view, trying to count the number of empty-eyed zombies.

They just kept coming and coming.

The Warrior slid backwards, bumping into Melissa. She gaped at the horde in consternation, her skin pallid. “Snap out of it,” he instructed her in a whisper. “We have work to do.”

“What do you have in mind?” Samson inquired.

“Let’s find out where the walking dead are coming from,” Yama proposed.

“An excellent suggestion.”

Together they took hold of Melissa and half-carried, half-dragged her into the denser brush farther from the road. She barely resisted until the vegetation screened the walking dead from view, then she shoved them from her and stood. “I don’t need your help, thank you very much.”

“You could have fooled us,” Yama said. “You were petrified.”

“I’m fine now.”

“Then stick with us,” Yama advised, and hunched over, jogged to the east. Through the undergrowth he could see a line of walking dead stretching for hundreds of yards. They were sticking to the road, apparently venturing forth on their nightly ghoulish prowls. None of the Technics patrolling the fence were in the least bit concerned about the stalking legion.

Why not?

For several hundred yards the trio bore to the east, crouching even lower once they passed the boundary of the former park. Using every available cover, whether it might be a bush, a tree, the rusted hulk of an automobile, a ditch, or an overgrown hedge, they continued until they came to a junction where another road angled to the north.

At the southeast corner of the fence encircling the university stood a second gate, which hung wide open. Through the gate came the last of the walking dead.

Yama dropped flat 20 yards from the road. The sun had started to dip below the western horizon and ever-lengthening shadows were creeping across the countryside. He gazed at the gate, confused. Why did these walking dead totally ignore the Technics guarding the campus, and yet the woman he had seen earlier had almost killed that noncom? Did the Technics possess a means of controlling the ghouls? If so, what was it?

The four guards posted at the southeast corner swung the metal gate closed and locked it.

Samson crawled to within inches of Yama’s right arm. “This is becoming stranger and stranger by the minute.”

“What do we do now?” Melissa asked, sliding up to the man in blue from the left.

“The first step is to get inside,” Yama said softly.

“Do you have a brainstorm on how we can accomplish that little feat?”

Melissa cracked.

Yama gazed at the backs of the walking dead, then at the gate, and smiled. “As a matter of fact, I do,” he replied, and began removing his weapons.

“What are you doing?” Melissa asked, perplexed.

“Watch and learn,” Yama advised her. He placed the Wilkinson, the Browning, and the scimitar next to Samson. “Don’t let anything happen to these.”

“I’ll guard them with my life,” the Nazarite responded, and he meant every word.

“Are you planning to surrender?” Melissa asked sarcast-ically, and received a shock when the man in blue nodded.

“Yep,” Yama said, and crawled closer to the road, his eyes on the Technic quartet at the gate. They had turned and were staring at a small building approximately 50 yards to the north of their post. Only then, when he glanced at the same structure, did he spot the tower. Surprise made him pause. Why hadn’t he noticed the thin metal spire earlier?

Two hundred feet in height, the strange spire had been painted to blend into the sky, to be invisible on the skyline. Only six inches wide at the base and less than an inch from the 100-foot mark on up, the tower was an engineering marvel, reminding the Warrior of a sewing needle, an enormous sewing needle.

What purpose did it serve? Yama wondered, and stood, allowing his arms to hang limp at his sides. He adopted the blankest expression he could, widening his eyes and letting his mouth droop open, and plodded forward onto the road, making a beeline for the gate.

One of the guards happened to look over his shoulder. The Technic pivoted, his forehead furrowing in bewilderment, and blurted, “What the hell is this action?”

His three companions swung around.