David Robbins - Green Bay Run

With her heart pounding in her chest and her blood pulsing in her temples, Melissa Vail saw the silver-haired Warrior whip his scimitar from its scabbard and, without breaking stride, hurtle into the midst of the walking dead. The flashing blade gleamed in the glow from the perimeter lights, and in the space of six seconds, a half-dozen Automatons were sent to the turf with their necks nearly severed or their faces split asunder.

The scimitar seemed to be in perpetual motion as Yama ripped into the horde of ghouls, spinning from one side to the other, always spinning, his keen blade biting deep and drawing blood with every stroke. His unexpected onslaught temporarily stemmed the inhuman tide, and he actually succeeded in fighting his way to Samson’s side. The Automatons checked their attack, disoriented.

“What kept you, brother?” the Nazarite quipped, panting from his exertion, a grin twisting his lips.

“I was darning my socks,” Yama quipped, and took up a position behind his friend, his back almost touching Samson’s.

“Seen Blade?”

“Nope.”

“Figures. Maybe Hickok is right after all.”

“About what?”

“About us doing all the work and Blade goofing off all the time.”

And then there was no more time for words. The Automatons renewed their bestial, mindless assault, pressing in from all sides, reaching for the two Warriors, their sheer force of numbers creating a living ring of impending death around the man in blue and the Nazarite.

To Melissa, watching the unequal conflict in impotent despair, the outcome could never be in any doubt. Yama and Samson were felling the walking dead in droves, but for every two they killed there were four more to take the place of the dead ones. Sooner or later, the Warriors would be overwhelmed. She rose, intending to aid them in whatever way she could.

That was when she spied the four Automatons coming for her!

Blade saw the Technic’s finger tighten on the trigger and he twisted a millisecond before the pistol discharged. He felt a stinging sensation in his right side, and then he had his hands on Perinn’s neck and his right knee drove up and in, sinking into the captain’s ribs. There came a loud snap, and the officer gasped and doubled over, the pistol pointing at the ground.

Colonel Hufford had collapsed again.

With his right thumb extended and rigid, Blade swept his right hand in a tight loop. He buried the thumb all the way to the knuckle in Captain Perinn’s throat.

The Technic’s eyes bulged and he clutched at his neck.

Aware that more soldiers might arrive at any moment and thwart his escape attempt, Blade grabbed both sides of Perinn’s head and wrenched his arms in a vicious twist.

Another snap sounded, louder this time, and Captain Perinn slumped and sprawled onto his stomach.

Blade never bothered to examine his handiwork. He hurried inside and over to the closet, and within a minute had the Bowies in their sheaths, the Dan Wesson in its shoulder holster, and the Commando in his hands.

Now let the Technics try to stop him!

He stepped from the building and moved to the right. Off to the southwest, visible between two trees and illuminated by perimeter lights, was the gate through which he had entered the campus. Amazed, he watched a convoy of Technics preparing to depart. Evidently, every trooper assigned to the Research Facility was leaving.

But why?

Blade surveyed the university, studying the stately structures and the surrounding grass. No more Technics were in evidence. Thoroughly puzzled, he happened to glance to the southeast.

What was that?

He took several paces, his eyes narrowing as he tried to make sense of the bewildering jumble of swirling people. They were too far off for him to identify any faces. It looked as if a general melee was in progress. Were the Technics involved? He listened for gunshots, but there were none.

What in the world?

Blade advanced farther, and his eyes detected the glimmering flicker of a long, bladed weapon, a sword perhaps, or a— scimitar! He darted forward, his legs flying, a feeling of foreboding arising and lending speed to his limbs.

Dear Spirit!

Let him be in time!

He covered the ground with a speed belying his size. The scene he observed when he finally came close enough to distinguish details confirmed his worst fears. The pair of stalwarts in the middle of the conflict were unmistakable.

Samson and Yama were laying about them with all the lethal expertise at their command. Automaton bodies lay in piles. Some of the zombies were convulsing and thrashing, waving the stump of an arm or trying to secure their head in place when they had been almost decapitated.

Blade was about to toss the Commando aside and join the fight when motion off to his left drew his attention to a solitary woman who was about to take on four Automatons. She was fumbling with a weapon, Yama’s Wilkinson, and if she didn’t fire soon they would have her. “Get down!” he bellowed.

She looked up, saw him, and instantly flattened.

The giant aimed carefully and squeezed off a burst, aiming high, going for the heads of the Automatons. His rounds smacked into them from an angle slightly behind and to the left, propelling them forward onto their knees or flat on their chests. One of them almost hit the woman.

Blade placed the Commando at his feet, drew both Bowies, and sprinted toward his fellow Warriors. The automatons were concentrating on their intended victims, and none of them realized a new menace had arrived until he flew into them, the Bowies slicing right and left, impaling them from the rear or the side, taking them any way they came, never still for a second, always slashing, slashing, slashing. He towered over them, a veritable colossus, his rippling muscles splattered with their blood and gore.

Samson saw the head Warrior first. His arms and shoulders ached from his continual barrage of blows, and his reflexes were slowing. “Hear your servant, O Lord!” he prayed. “Grant me the strength of twenty!” With the thought came a surge of power to his limbs, and he fought on, crushing Automaton after Automaton to the earth. He spun to the left, and a thrill ran through him at the sight of Blade, not ten feet away, pressing toward them, cutting like a madman with his prized Bowies. Samson let out a whoop and flattened an adversary.

Yama heard the yell, and in the back of his mind he was astounded that the Nazarite would vent a cry of delight when they were being pressed upon on all sides by the walking dead. He arced the scimitar into the neck of a burly Automaton, then pivoted to slice his blade into the head of a deranged woman. As he tugged the scimitar loose, he found himself facing to the west.

And there was Blade.

“Back to back!” the giant shouted, and fought to their side in an awesome display of primal savagery.

“Glad you could make it,” Yama yelled.

Blade, Samson, and Yama formed into a triangle, their wide shoulders within two feet of one another, leaving just enough space for the giant and the man in blue to wield their blades effectively and for the Nazarite to employ his fists. They took on all comers, rooted in place, refusing to be budged despite the dozens who charged each of them. The Bowies, the scimitar, and those malletlike fists downed Automatons with staggering rapidity. The corpses formed into heaps around the triumvirate of death and destruction, and the walking dead who tried to clamber over their slain comrades found themselves at a fatal disadvantage. All the Warriors needed was the slightest opening and their enemies were doomed.

Stupefied by the sight, Melissa Vail knelt on the cool grass and witnessed a tableau the likes of which few mortals had ever laid eyes on.