David Robbins - New York Run

“What fact?” Wargo responded, shifting in his seat.

“If memory serves,” Geronimo reminded the Technic, “you told us some of your teams didn’t reach the site of the underground vault. But some did, didn’t they? And you said the last word you received was to the effect they were going underground. Am I right?”

“You’re right,” Wargo conceded grudgingly.

“So the real danger isn’t in reaching the site of the New York branch of the Institute of Advanced Technology,” Geronimo said. “The true threat comes when we leave the SEAL and descend to the underground vault. Correct?”

Captain Wargo looked worried. “That’s true,” he admitted.

“Typical white man,” Geronimo said to Blade. “He gets all excited because we may reach the spot in one piece where raving cannibals are waiting to rip us apart and eat us for supper.” He sighed. “How did your race ever defeat mine?”

“Beats me,” Blade said, and laughed.

The SEAL was steadily continuing its southerly course. On both sides of the Hudson River utter desolation prevailed.

“There!” the Technic commando in the rear of the transport shouted. “I see something!”

Everyone glanced to the right, in the direction he indicated.

“I don’t see anything,” Captain Wargo said after a bit.

“I saw something,” the soldier insisted.

“Are you sure, Kimper?” Wargo asked doubtfully.

“I’m positive, sir,” Private Kimper stated. “I saw something moving.”

Blade scanned the mounds of slag, dirt, dust, and rubble. The inhospitable, bleak land seemed to reek of death. “What would be moving out there?” he idly inquired.

“Only one thing,” Captain Wargo said. “The Zombies.”

“What do you know about these Zombies beside the fact they’re cannibals?” Geronimo asked the officer.

“Not much,” Wargo confessed. “We know there are thousands of them, and they eat anything they can get their grimy hands on. We also know they live in a maze of underground tunnels, old sewer and electrical conduit systems, not to mention the subway network.”

“Thousands of them?” Geronimo stared at the wreckage. “How can they find enough to eat, enough to support so many?”

Captain Wargo shrugged. “They find a way.” He thoughtfully chewed on his lower lip, then spoke. “And remember. We have reason to believe the Zombies aren’t the only… things… down there. So when we descend to the vault, watch yourselves.”

“I didn’t know you cared,” Geronimo joked.

“I couldn’t care less about what happens to you,” Wargo said. “But the Minister wants the SEAL returned to Technic City intact, and you two know more about it than I do. I know I could drive it, but I don’t have the extensive experience Blade has accumulated. It would be better for our mission if one of you survives to drive the SEAL back.”

“We’ll do our best,” Geronimo mentioned.

Blade cleared his throat. “How far down is this vault?”

“Far,” Wargo said.

“How far, exactly?” Blade inquired.

“Fifteen stories underground,” Wargo answered.

“Oh? Is that all?” Blade said facetiously.

“Fifteen floors, with Zombies dogging our heels every step of the way?”

Geronimo chuckled. “Sounds like fun.”

Captain Wargo picked up a map from the console between the bucket seats. He unfolded the map and consulted the coordinates, then looked up and pointed. “Do you see that?”

Spanning the Hudson ahead was the skeletal framework of an ancient bridge. The central section was gone, and the supports and ramp on the east bank were a mass of pulverized scrap, but the segment on the west bank, bent but intact, served to reveal the purpose of the construction.

“That, if my calculations are correct, was once called the Tappan Zee Bridge,” Captain Wargo informed them. “We’re getting close to our goal.”

The SEAL puttered forward, its powerful outboard maintaining a sustained speed of fifteen knots.

Blade thought of his wife and child, Jenny and Gabriel, and wished he was with them instead of on this insane quest. He wondered how Hickok was faring in the hands of the Technics, and whether the gunman was even alive. If the Technics killed the gunfighter, he would personally insure they paid for the act. So far, in the constricted confines of the SEAL, he’d been unable to make a break for it. But, if Wargo supplied Geronimo and him with firearms, Blade was determined to dispatch the soldiers and head for Technic City. One opening was all it would take, one brief instant when the troopers were diverted by something else. Like a Zombie, perhaps. Blade almost hoped the cannibals would attack.

“Make for the east bank,” Captain Wargo curtly ordered.

Blade turned the wheel, bearing toward the eastern hank.

“We should see a small hill,” Captain Wargo said, his nose pressed to his window. “There! Do you see it?”

“I see it,” Blade said. He surveyed the bank for any hint of movement.

The SEAL bounced as it cruised toward the bank, a rhythmic up and down motion caused by the small waves on the Hudson and welling of the water the transport diplaced.

Captain Wargo looked at Private Kimper. “Pass out our helmets,” he directed.

Kimper handed a helmet to each Technic soldier.

“Don’t we get one?” Blade asked.

“When we reach the site,” Wargo said.

“What about guns?” Blade inquired.

“What about them?”

“Do Geronimo and I get one?” Blade asked hopefully.

“Don’t make me laugh!” Captain Wargo rejoined.

“But a while ago you said you want one of us to drive the SEAL to Technic City,” Blade said.

“I do,” Wargo confirmed. “Don’t you worry. My men will look after you.”

“I hope they do a better job than your other teams have done in dealing with the Zombies,” Blade stated.

The SEAL was 20 yards from the bank.

Blade reached up and flicked the appropriate switch to shut down the outboard motor. The throbbing sound abated. Carried forward by its momentum and the flow of the river toward the bank, the transport kept going. Quickly, Blade ran his fingers over the control panel, securing the outboard and opening the wheel ports so the huge tires could assume their usual position.

The SEAL slowly approached the east bank. The tires crunched into the riverbed ten yards from shore.

Blade tramped on the accelerator and the transport wheeled from the Hudson River onto the bank.

“Go straight,” Captain Wargo instructed the Warrior.

Blade cautiously drove into the ravaged remains of New York City. He checked his window to insure it was up and locked, then verified Wargo’s was also secure. Being this close to the wretched ruins was strange, like driving on an alien planet. Oddly, a cloud of red dust hung suspended in the air, cloaking the city in a mysterious shadow. Some of the molten mounds were several stories high, others squat knolls on the ground. He couldn’t determine where the streets and avenues had once been located.

Everything was sort of welded together, fused by the intense heat of the thermonuclear blast.

“Keep going straight,” Wargo said.

“I’m glad you know where we’re going,” Blade remarked.

Each of the Technic commandos was now armed with a Dakon II and wearing a camouflage helmet.

Blade noticed a clear plastic area on the front of the helmet, and small holes dotting the helmet area covering their ears. “It looks like your helmets are as elaborate as your guns,” he commented.

“They are,” Captain Wargo affirmed, keeping his eyes on the fantastic landscape. “Each one is outfitted with a lamp,” and he tapped the clear plastic on the front of his helmet, “and sensitive microphones imbedded in the ear flaps. They amplify all sound, giving us superhuman hearing. Nothing can sneak up on us, catch us unawares.”