David Robbins - Green Bay Run

How was the Nazarite faring?

The advancing legion of the dead were ten feet from the gate when Samson trained the Bushmaster Auto Rifle on the foremost ranks and shouted, “Stop! I don’t want to harm you!”

Unheedful of his warning, their expressions devoid of all animation, the Automatons tramped closer and closer.

For an instant Samson’s resolve faltered. Melissa had been right. There were so many! Row after row after row of zombielike beings who were impervious of injury. He recalled the woman on the road, clawing at that noncom even though her legs had been crushed, and he inadvertently shuddered.

Five of the walking dead came to the gate and took hold of the metal bars.

Grant me strength, O Lord! Samson prayed, and squeezed the trigger, going for the head in each instance, his rounds drilling through craniums and felling the five where they stood. But as soon as they fell, there were five more to take their place. He shot them, and on came more, seven this time, and even as he fired at them a sobering realization sent a chill down his spine.

What would happen when he ran out of ammo?

Samson’s lips compressed. He saw the Automatons fan out, going to the right and left of the gate, and several started to climb awkwardly up the barbed-wire fence, oblivious to the sharp barbs gouging their hands and tearing into their bodies. The sight filled him with a peculiar, and totally uncharacteristic, dread. They were like persons without souls! For an awful moment he imagined himself to be battling the soulless legions of the Evil One, alone against the Hordes of Hell.

He fired and fired and fired.

At the first sound of the Bushmaster, Yama tensed, recognizing the distinctive chatter.

The Director also heard the shots. “That’s not a Dakon II,” he said, and his eyes narrowed. “It must be one of your friends. Is the fool trying to stop the Automatons?”

Yama knew he had to do something ! If he couldn’t wreck the transmitter, then he might be able to locate an off switch. He stepped to the left-hand wall and motioned with the Wilkinson. “Line up against the right wall,” he ordered.

Darmobray and the pair of technicians did as they were told, lined up with the Director nearest the doorway. “Have another brainstorm, did we?”

The Warrior sidled to the transmitter and scrutinized the dials and meters. One of them must shut the damn thing down! To his consternation, he discovered that none of the controls were labeled. The Technics were thwarting him at every turn. But then, the bastards always were plotting and scheming and conniving to outwit and subjugate innocent people who only wanted to be left alone to live their lives as they saw fit. Just as Alicia and he had wanted to do.

But no.

The Technics could never leave well enough alone.

They were power mongers determined to impose their beliefs on everyone else, no matter the cost in human suffering.

A cold, simmering fury gripped Yama and he swung toward the trio.

They were no longer in front of the transmitter and he didn’t have to worry about accidentally hitting the cabinet. “How do you switch the transmitter off?” he asked once more, his tone flat and hard.

The two technicians blanched. Darmobray only snorted.

“Suit yourselves,” Yama said, and shot the technician on the left, three quick rounds through the man’s green smock high on the chest. The force of the slugs propelled the technician into the wall, and he slumped to the floor trailing crimson streaks on the white paint.

“Having fun?” the Director joked.

Yama turned his attention to the second tech. “How do you switch the transmitter off?”

His eyes widening in abject terror, the second technician trembled and blurted out, “I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you anything you want to know!”

“You’ll do no such thing!” Darmobray barked.

“He’ll shoot me!” the tech wailed.

“Don’t tell him!” Darmobray hissed.

Yama took a step toward them. “Show me how to turn the transmitter off,” he instructed the technician.

“Gladly,” the man said, and went to comply.

Yama glanced at the Director, expecting Darmobray to try and stop the tech, and it was well he did. He saw the scientist look at the doorway and perceptibly stiffen, and the Warrior instinctively threw himself backwards and pivoted.

A Technic trooper stood just outside the doorway, a noncom sporting four black stripes on his uniform, a Dakon II held firmly against his right hip. He had already activated the Laser Sighting Mode, and the red beam of light was centered on the Warrior’s torso when his trigger finger began to squeeze. He thought he had the man in blue dead to rights, which made him all the more astonished when he missed. The Dakon II, on full automatic, sent 15 of its 30 rounds into the transmitter before he could check is fire.

Yama snapped off a burst, the Wilkinson booming in the small building. His shots were accurate, catching the noncom in the neck and head and knocking the man to the ground. He heard a loud crackling and fizzing and glanced at the transmitter, appalled to see the outer casing fractured and smoke wafting toward the ceiling. Tiny reddish-orange sparks and flames sparkled inside. In the moment he was distracted by the sight, he glimpsed movement out of the corner of his right eye.

Quinton Darmobray was ignominiously fleeing through the doorway.

And the second technician, his features contorted by a look of maniacal desperation, bunched his slim fingers into fists and leaped at the Warrior.

Blade’s outstretched fingers were six inches from the Bowies, and the distance might as well have been light years for all the good it did him.

Hufford and Perinn, both of whom wore side arms, were already going for their weapons. In a twinkling, he whirled and sprang, executing a flying tackle, his boots leaving the floor, his body arrow straight.

“You—!” Colonel Hufford blurted.

And then the Warrior plowed into them, angling his body between the two Technics, his broad shoulders ramming into their hips, his huge arms encircling their waists. The momentum drove them backwards, into the double doors, and all three crashed down in the doorway with the soldiers bearing the brunt of the impact.

Blade reared to his knees and whipped his right fist in an arc, his knuckles striking Captain Perinn on the chin just as the officer lifted his head, flattening the trooper.

“You bastard!” Colonel Hufford snarled, scrambling from under the giant and shoving to his feet. His right hand clawed for his pistol.

With all the swiftness of a rattler, Blade jabbed a punch into Hufford’s abdomen, doubling the man over. He surged up off the floor, his left arm rigid, his palm vertical, and raked the heel across the colonel’s face, drawing blood from the mouth and the chin.

Grunting, Hufford staggered rearward, out the partly open doors, still endeavoring to unholster his gun.

Blade went after the Technic, not letting up for an instant. He delivered a right to Hufford’s ribs, then a left, and with each blow the stocky colonel gasped and tottered, spittle dribbling from his mouth. Hufford bent in half, wheezing, and Blade snap-kicked the tip of his right boot into the soldier’s head.

As if struck by a ball peen hammer, Colonel Hufford catapulted onto his back.

“Nice moves.”

The Warrior spun, startled to behold Captain Perinn standing five feet away, a pistol in the Technic’s right hand.

“Damn, you’re fast!” Perinn said, the words distorted by the blood rimming his mouth and flowing out the right corner. The Warrior’s punch had crunched his teeth together, and caused his upper central incisors to tear into his lower lip.