David Robbins - New York Run

“I trust the Zombies know that,” Geronimo said.

“Speaking of the Zombies,” Wargo mentioned, “where the hell are they? We should have seen them by now.”

“Count your blessings,” Geronimo declared.

The SEAL was going deeper and deeper into the ruins.

Blade fidgeted in his seat. He didn’t like this one bit. Wargo had a point. Where were the blasted Zombies?

“That’s it!” Captain Wargo yelled, leaning forward. “Stop there!”

Their destination was easy to spot. It was the only parking lot in the city. Three jeeps and four trucks were parked near a gaping hole in the ground.

“Those are the vehicles our other teams used,” Captain Wargo detailed.

“Why didn’t the Zombies drive them off?” Blade asked.

“The Zombies don’t have brains enough to come in out of the rain,” Wargo replied. “They wouldn’t know what to do with those vehicles.”

“What about the Soviets?” Geronimo inquired. “They’d drive them off if they found them.”

“If they found them,” Wargo agreed. “But our intelligence indicates the Russians never enter New York City. And why should they? Do you see anything here worth risking your life for? They’re not stupid.”

“What does that make us?” Blade wondered aloud. He eased the SEAL in a tight circle, drawing as near to the hole as he could. The closer, the better! The less ground to cover, the fewer Zombies they’d encounter. He braked the SEAL and stared at Wargo. “What next?”

“Stop the engine,” Captain Wargo ordered.

“If you say so,” Blade said, sighing, and turned the keys in the ignition.

After the sustained whine of the prototypical engine, the abrupt silence was oddly unsettling.

Captain Wargo stared at each of his men. “We’ve rehearsed this again and again. We’ll make it in and out again if we play it by the numbers. Remember. You’re the best of the best! Technic commandos! We never fail!”

Blade gazed at the three jeeps and four trucks, but kept his mouth closed.

Captain Wargo glanced at Private Kimper. “Hand me the extra helmets.”

Two helmets were forwarded to the officer.

Wargo gave one of the helmets to Blade, the second to Geronimo.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” Geronimo asked. “Grow plants in it?”

“Wear it,” Wargo said. “It could save your life. Each helmet contains a miniaturized communications circuit, what we call a Com-Link. We can keep in constant touch without having to shout. Everything you say will be picked up, overheard by the rest of us.”

“I hope I don’t burp,” Geronimo quipped.

Captain Wargo turned to Blade. “What is this guy? The Official Family Comedian?”

“It’s a tossup between Geronimo and Hickok,” Blade replied.

“Well, I don’t want anyone talking unless I give them an order,” Captain Wargo instructed them.

“There is one thing I would like to bring up,” Geronimo said.

“What is it?” Wargo impatiently snapped.

“I never did get a potty break,” Geronimo reminded him. “If I don’t go right now, I’ll burst.”

“Damn. I forgot,” Captain Wargo said. “All right. Everyone will exit the SEAL and form at the front. Blade, be sure the doors are locked and pocket the keys. I want you to stay close to me during this operation. Everyone ready?”

Wargo’s men nodded.

“Okay. First, check your Com-Link. Do you see those two buttons under the helmet lamp?” Wargo said for the benefit of the two Warriors. “Press the one on the right for the Com-Link, and the one on the left for the lamp. But don’t flash your lamp until we enter the hole. I don’t want you draining your helmet batteries.”

Blade and Geronimo each donned a camouflage helmet and pressed the Com-Link button.

“Can you hear me?” Captain Wargo asked.

Blade could hear Wargo’s voice in his left ear. “I can hear you on the left,” he responded.

“Me too,” Geronimo added.

“Perfect. The right ear is your amplifier for detecting the tiniest noise. You’ll find the control knob for it on your right ear flap. But wait until we’re down below to use it. Got it?” Wargo questioned them.

“Got it,” Blade said.

“Ditto,” came from Geronimo.

“Okay.” Captain Wargo clutched his Dakon II and took a deep breath.

“Here we go.”

The six men hurriedly bailed out of the SEAL. Blade verified the doors were locked. The three Technic soldiers under Wargo’s command were professionals; they deployed in a skirmish line around the front of the SEAL, their Dakon IIs at the ready.

“Alright,” Captain Wargo said. “Our first squad opened this passage leading to the underground vault. We go in one at a time, single file, Kimper on the point. Do you have the scanner?”

“Affirmative,” Kimper replied, waving a device strapped to his right wrist.

“Then we’re all set,” Captain Wargo said.

“You’re forgetting something again,” Geronimo stated.

Captain Wargo, preoccupied with their impending descent to the exclusion of all else, stared at Geronimo in confusion.

Geronimo placed his right hand on his gonads and jiggled his pants up and down.

“All right!” Wargo snapped. “Go!”

Geronimo unzipped his green pants, then paused. “Well?”

“Well, what?” Captain Wargo demanded.

“Aren’t you going to turn around?” Geronimo asked.

“Turn around? Turn around!” Captain Wargo cried in extreme annoyance. “What are you, bashful or something? We’ve all seen a pecker before, you dimwit!”

“Not my pecker,” Geronimo said, and moved off to the left, near one of the abandoned trucks. He turned his back to the Technics and commenced relieving himself, grateful for the opportunity at long last.

He’d had to go so bad his testicles had ached.

Blade grinned at the anger on Wargo’s face. He shifted his attention to the large hole not ten feet away. A pile of metal, stones, bricks, and other rubble was stacked behind the hole. Evidently, the first Technic squad on the scene had spent hours uncovering the shaft.

“Activate your scanner,” Captain Wargo directed Private Kimper.

Blade watched as Kimper pressed a button and turned several knobs on the black device attached to his right wrist. The scanner was rectangular, with a lot of dials and switches and a grid-laced plastic template.

“Calibrated, sir,” Kimper announced.

“Anything?” Wargo queried anxiously.

“Just us,” Private Kimper responded.

Blade glanced at his fellow Warrior. Geronimo was still saturating the dust at his feet with a steady stream of urine, a happy grin creasing his features.

“Hurry it up!” Wargo barked.

“Some things can’t be rushed,” Geronimo retorted.

Blade placed his hands on his hips, wishing he had his Bowies. But the Technics had refused to bring them. His prized knives and Commando and Geronimo’s tomahawk, FNC, and Arminius were all in Technic City.

The prospect of confronting carnivorous humanoid mutations without weapons was singularly distasteful. He could only pray the Technics knew what they were doing.

“All done,” Geronimo said, zipping his pants. He examined the nearest slag mounds and ruins. Great Spirit, preserve them! He fervently craved a weapon, any weapon. The Zombies had to be lurking out there, somewhere. He contemplated the likelihood of being injured, or worse, and dreaded the idea. The last time he’d been hurt was in Catlow, Wyoming, when he’d been shot twice. Once in the head, a surface scratch, and once in the left shoulder. He’d mistakenly assumed his collarbone was broken, but it turned out the bullet had only penetrated the flesh near the collarbone. Still, the discomfort and pain had lingered for months, requiring consummate concentration on his part to prevent the injury from temporarily incapacitating him. All of the Warriors were required to take a course taught by a Family Elder entitled “The Mental and Spiritual Mastery of Pain.” But even with such training, sometimes it was hard to—