David Robbins - Green Bay Run

“Hey! This door is locked! Maybe he’s in here!” called out one of the soldiers.

“That’s a closet, you idiot!” the Director snapped. “A man like Blade is not about to allow himself to be trapped in a utility closet. Check all the rooms, all the windows!”

“Yes, sir,” the Technic responded.

The pressure on the doorknob eased and Blade relaxed, listening to the troopers pound off in the direction of the entrance. Temporarily, at least, he had a respite, and he used the reprieve to plot his next move. Acquiring weapons was paramount, and the weapons he wanted the most were his Bowies and the Commando. According to Darmobray, they were in Colonel Hufford’s office in the dorm the Technics had converted to a barracks. But which building would it be? There were so many on campus it would take him an hour to go to every one.

The corridor had gone quiet.

Blade eased the door out a crack and peeked to his left, toward the exit at the far end. None of the troopers or the Director was in sight. Muffled voices came from several of the rooms as they conducted a thorough search. If he attempted to sneak past them, they were bound to spot him.

And eventually, Darmobray notwithstanding, they would get around to checking the utility closet.

Where was the one place they would least likely expect him to be?

The operating room.

Blade scanned the corridor again, then slipped from the closet, closed the door, and raced to the operating room, trying to avoid slapping his combat boots on the tile. He intensely disliked turn-ing his back to his enemies, but it couldn’t be helped, and now he had done it twice in as many minutes. His shoulder blades tingling, he came to the operating room, ducked within, and shut the door.

Whew!

The Warrior hurried to the window and inspected the sill, finding a latch which he promptly released. He raised the window enough for him to pass through, then leaned out and surveyed the lawn and the nearest structures. The encroaching darkness shrouded the landscape in benighted shadows. There were no troopers in sight, so he slid over the sill and dropped to the ground.

Which way?

Staying in the gloom at the base of the wall, he bore to the right, constantly alert for Technics. When he reached the corner he paused, then cautiously inched his eyes to the edge.

Thirty feet away, their weapons slung over their shoulders, conversing idly, slowly approaching the rear of the building, were two soldiers.

Blade retreated several yards into the blackest shadow and crouched, his brawny hands flat on the ground. He was surprised that the Director hadn’t sounded an alarm, and he wondered if the Technics simply hadn’t bothered with a security system because of the logistics involved. The huge size of the campus and the number of buildings would have entailed expending a lot of time and resources, and perhaps they had figured the fence and their patrols were sufficient.

The pair of troopers stepped into view at the corner.

Just as a siren cut loose with an ear-splitting whine.

So much for his bright ideas! Blade thought, and sprang from concealment. The Technics had spun and were staring back the way they had come, sitting ducks. He leaped behind them, took hold of each man by the scruff of the neck, and pounded their heads together before either of them knew what was happening. Both sagged, but neither was unconscious, and they tried to reach over their shoulders to grasp his arms. With a powerful sweep of his titanic sinews, he bashed them together once more. The trooper in his left hand slumped, but the one in the right still struggled.

The siren continued to wail.

Impatient to be off, Blade rammed the Technic in his right hand against the buildings, then let them both drop. He appropriated their Dakon II’s and ran to the west.

Shouts arose in different directions.

Go! Blade’s mind shrieked.

Go!

Go!

Go!

He flew to the front of the building, and as he bounded into the open he glanced to his right and saw his sparring partners from the operating room. His abrupt advent took them un-awares, and five of the six merely gaped. The sixth, Old Crafty Face, exhibited astonishing reflexes, bringing his Dakon II up the instant he saw Blade.

But the Warrior was quicker.

Blade fired both Dakon II’s simultaneously, his initial rounds boring into crafty puss and flinging the trooper to the grass. He swept the assault rifles back and forth, mowing the five others down, their chests and heads exploding in miniature crimson geysers, and emptied the Dakon II’s into them. They died without screaming.

The Warrior dropped the assault rifles and headed to the southwest, in the direction of the gate through which he had entered the university. If he couldn’t locate the dorm soon, he intended to at least escape the Technic’s clutches.

“Over this way!” yelled a man off to the right.

“What’s going on?” demanded another.

Blade heard them clearly, and he suddenly realized the siren had ceased. Thankful for small blessings, he sprinted onward and spied a long two-story structure directly ahead. Through the double doors at the west end came four troopers, two in the act of donning their uniforms.

Was that the barracks?

The Warrior doubled over, minimizing his outline, and hoped they wouldn’t see him. They were glancing every which way, clearly perplexed, not knowing where the campus might be under attack. One of them said something and they all moved to the southwest.

How convenient.

Blade grinned and poured on the speed. When he was ten feet from the double doors another Technic emerged, this one buttoning his shirt.

The soldier heard the Warrior and looked up.

“Surprise!” Blade quipped, and delivered a devastating right to the man’s nose. The impact hurled the trooper into the doors, his nostrils crushed, his eyelids fluttering. A second right drove him to the ground.

A hasty scrutiny verified no other Technics were in the vicinity, so Blade went through the double doors into an office containing a desk and several chairs. Past the office, extending the length of the building, was a hall lined with a dozen doors on each side. He halted near the desk and looked at a closet in the left-hand corner, the only likely spot where his weapons might be stashed.

Blade darted to the closet and tried the knob, which turned readily, and a moment later he stared happily at the Commando, propped against the right side, and his Bowies and the Dan Wesson on the floor. He stooped to scoop up the knives, and as he did the double doors were flung outward and in came Colonel Hufford and Captain Perinn.

“Dear God!” Melissa exclaimed in horror. “What do we do now?”

“You shouldn’t take the name of the Lord in vain,” Samson said.

“More to the point,” Yama remarked, “why are the Automatons returning now? The guards weren’t expecting them back to soon.” He closed and locked the gate.

“Automatons?” Samson repeated quizzically.

“That’s what those things are called,” Yama disclosed. He stared at the legion of the dead, now 75 yards distant, and remembered the comment the Technic named Ted had made about the transmitter in the building to the north, the structure next to the strange spire. If the transmitter somehow controlled the Automatons, then perhaps the transmitter could be used to stop them.

“Let’s get the heck out of here!” Melissa proposed.

Yama glanced at the Nazarite. “Can you hold this gate?”

“Until Hell freezes over.”

“Hopefully, I won’t be gone quite that long,” Yama said. He pointed at the building housing the transmitter. “I have reason to believe I might be able to stop them from there.”