David Robbins - New York Run

Spartacus grinned. He could deduce the cause for her happiness. He knew she’d been after Yama to sponsor her boyfriend for Warrior status when another opening developed. Yama had wavered, and he’d confided to Spartacus he wasn’t positive the boyfriend was Warrior material.

Evidently, he’d changed his mind.

Marian suddenly released Yama and dashed toward her boyfriend, who was just emerging from B Block.

Spartacus nodded with satisfaction at the accuracy of his deduction.

He glanced down and saw the Technic, Farrow, staring at Yama with a pained expression on her face.

Now what was that all about?

Spartacus shrugged. It was none of his business. He’d heard the rumor going around, linking Yama and Farrow. Perhaps they were having a lover’s spat. If so, he definitely wasn’t about to stick his big nose into it. He was a Warrior, not a Counselor.

Besides, Yama kept that scimitar of his real sharp.

“Why are you slowing down?” Captain Wargo demanded.

“I’m going to wait until they leave the roadway,” Blade replied.

“No, you’re not,” Captain Wargo snapped. “You’re going to drive right through them.”

Blade’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. They were three days out of Technic City, bearing east toward New York City. So far, the going had been frustratingly slow. Most of the major highways were in deplorable condition, ruined as much by the war as 100 years of neglect and abandonment. Lengthy sections, miles at a stretch, had buckled or collapsed or were in scattered hits and pieces, necessitating countless detours. In addition to the wrecked roads, they’d encountered a surprising number of inhabited outposts, some large towns. Wargo knew where each was located; they were marked on a map he carried, along with the approximate boundary of the corridor the Soviets controlled to the south.

Wargo insured Blade stayed well north of the area under Soviet domination. But the innumerable detours, to bypass the demolished roads and avoid all occupied settlements as well as the Soviets, markedly delayed their progress. They had traveled for 12 hours both days, averaging approximately 45 miles an hour. Now, by Blade’s reckoning, they were within 20 miles of New York City, to the northwest of the metropolis.

Or what was left of it.

Wargo was seated in the other front bucket seat. Behind Blade and Wargo sat Geronimo and two Technic troopers, Geronimo sandwiched between them to prevent him from causing trouble. And reclining on top of the pile of supplies in the rear third of the transport was a fourth soldier, his automatic rifle in his arms.

“Well, what the hell are you waiting for?” Wargo said. “Mow them down!”

Blade surveyed the road ahead.

About 70 yards from the SEAL, walking down the middle of the highway, were two dozen men and women. They were armed with rifles and handguns, none of which posed a threat to the SEAL. Their attire was scarcely more than crudely stitched rags.

It was obvious what they were.

Scavengers.

Looters.

A motley mob preying on anyone and anything. Such marauding bands were the scourge of the post-war age, raiding established settlements and robbing and killing hapless wayfarers, like a scourge of destructive locusts.

Blade paused, not out of any sympathy for the scavengers, but because he disliked taking lives without ample justification. If the scavengers were assaulting the Home, he’d mow them down without another thought. But this was different. This would amount to nothing more than cold-blooded murder.

“Do it!” Captain Wargo barked.

Blade was about to tramp on the accelerator when the issue was resolved for him.

A mutant abruptly appeared from the trees lining the right side of the road and plowed into the scavengers.

Blade applied the brakes.

Two forms of genetic deviations had resulted from World War III. One form, designated as mutants by the Family, was the product of genetic dysfunction and aberration caused by excessive amounts of radiation unleashed on the environment. Mutants were deformed progeny of normal parents, whether human or animal. The second form, on the other hand, was the result of chemical warfare compounds distrupting ordinary organic growth, creating the creatures the Family called the mutates.

Mutates were former mammals, reptiles, or amphibians transformed into ravenous, pus-covered horrors by the synthetic toxins infesting their systems.

As Blade watched what might have once been a feral dog, but was now a slavering mutate, pounce on a female scavenger and tear her neck apart with a savage wrench of its yellow fangs, he thought of one more form of genetic deviation. The type intentionally developed by the scientists, the genetic engineers, in their quest to manufacture superior life forms.

Gene-splicing had been quite common before the Big Blast, and the nefarious Doktor, the Family’s one-time nemesis, had refined the technique into a precision procedure, breeding a personal army of deviate assassins.

But that was then, and this was now.

The mutated canine had dispatched four of the scavengers, and the rest had fled into the trees on the left side of the road without firing a shot.

The mutate pursued them.

The road ahead was clear, except for the bloody bodies.

“Get going,” Captain Wargo ordered.

Blade drove forward, weaving the transport around the forms on the highway. He saw one of them as he passed, an elderly bald man whose throat was ruptured, his blood pulsing onto the highway, his lifeless brown eyes open and gaping skyward.

“I suppose now is a bad time to mention I need to wee-wee?” Geronimo asked, grinning impishly.

Captain Wargo turned in his seat. “Are you serious?”

“When Mother Nature calls,” Geronimo said, “there’s not much you can do about it.”

“Well, it’s too bad, but you’ll have to hold it for a while,” Wargo told him. “We’re not stopping just because you need to take a leak.”

“I hope I can hold it,” Geronimo said. “If not, then I hope these two clowns next to me don’t mind yellow stains on their uniforms.”

“Just for that,” Captain Wargo retorted, “you can hold it until doomsday.”

“I thought that was the date of World War III,” Geronimo remarked.

Wargo turned toward Blade. “Sometimes I wonder if we would have been better off leaving Geronimo behind and bringing Hickok.”

“They’re two of a kind,” Blade mentioned.

“A kind I can do without,” Wargo said. He pointed at the windshield.

“Watch out for more of those scum.”

“Where exactly are we?” Blade inquired, steering the SEAL around a gaping hole in the highway.

“Almost to our destination,” Captain Wargo revealed. “And it didn’t take us the five days you estimated it would.” He smiled. “The Minister will be pleased. We’ll make it back to Technic City in record time.”

“If we make it back,” Geronimo interjected.

“You still haven’t told us where we are,” Blade declared.

“That last big town we bypassed was once known as Newburgh,” Captain Wargo disclosed.

“Do we take this road all the way into the city?” Blade asked.

“No.” Wargo shook his head for emphasis. “The previous squads we sent in ran into a ton of trouble by using the roads. The lousy Zombies are all over the place. No. We’ll play it safe and use a new approach.”

“What approach?” Blade wanted to learn.

“The Hudson River,” Captain Wargo said.

“The Hudson River?” Blade repeated in surprise.

“Yes,” Captain Wargo affirmed. “Why do you look so shocked? We know the SEAL possesses amphibious capability. By taking the Hudson south into the heart of New York City, we reduce the number of Zombies we’ll have to face. Pretty clever, I think.”