David Robbins - New York Run

Blast!

The gunman unslung the FNC, then draped the Arminius’s shoulder holster under his left arm. Finally, he slung the FNC over his left shoulder and took hold of the Commando.

He was ready.

Hickok walked over to the guard.

The Technic blanched. “I did everything you wanted!” he said, his voice rising.

“And I appreciate it,” Hickok remarked. “I surely do. But I’m afraid our friendship has reached the end of the line.”

“Are you going to kill me?” the trooper timidly inquired. “I have a wife and son.”

Hickok paused, thinking of Sherry and Ringo. “If you care so much for your missus and young’un, what are you doing in the Army?”

“I didn’t have any choice,” the guard replied.

“Everybody has a choice,” Hickok said.

“We don’t,” the Tecnnic revealed. “We’re given tests when we’re teenagers, about sixteen. The jobs we’re assigned are based on the test results.”

“They tell you what kind of work you’ll do?” Hickok asked.

The Technic nodded. “We don’t have any say in it. They say our system is best because the service we perform for the community, for the common good of all, is based on our demonstrated ability, not on what we might like to do.”

“But a person can have talent in more than one field,” Hickok noted.

“How do they know what’d make you happiest?”

“Make us happy?” The Technic snorted derisively. “Do you know what we’re taught? Individual happiness is an illusion,” he quoted from memory. “The good of all is the goal of the many. What is best for all brings real happiness.”

“So they tested you and told you the Army was going to be your career, whether you liked it or not?” Hickok concluded.

“You got it.”

“Pitiful. Just pitiful. Sort of makes me feel sorry for you. So I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do. I’m not gonna whack you upside the head like I planned,” Hickok said.

“Thanks,” the Technic said, manifestly relieved.

“But on the other hand…” Hickok crouched and began unlacing the guard’s right boot.

“What are you doing?” the Technic asked.

“Hold onto your hat,” Hickok said. He removed the boot, then the black sock underneath.

The guard perceived the gunman’s intent. “But that sock is dirty!” he protested.

Hickok rose. “Say Ahhhhhh.”

“But—”

Hickok raised the Commando in his left hand. “Say Ahhhh.”

The Technic opened his mouth wide. “Ahhhh—”

Hickok jammed the sock into the guard’s mouth, all the way in. He hastily removed the lace from the black boot, lopped the lace around the guard’s face, and tied it tight, the knot situated in the middle of his open mouth to prevent the sock from being spit out. “I reckon that ought to hold you for a spell. Adios.”

The gunman crossed to the door. If all went well, he’d find a flight of stairs lickety-split and vacate the Central Core before they realized he was missing. If he could find an unattended jeep or truck in the parking lot, he’d swipe it and make for the western gate.

Yes, sir.

Things were finally going his way.

It was beginning to look like busting out of Technic City would be a piece of cake!

Hickok opened the door and peeked around the jamb. The corridor, white tiles on the floor and walls, yellow panels on the ceiling, was deserted.

Like he said.

A piece of cake.

Hickok stepped into the corridor and closed the door behind him, just as a squad of four Technic soldiers, each armed with an automatic rifle, rounded a corner to his right!

The Zombies were walking nightmares.

Each Zombie was naked, its gray flesh pitted and filthy, with peculiar patches of greenish blisters randomly distributed over the body. Their eyes were reddish and unfocused, their mouths gaping maws of yellow, tapered teeth. Although they stood well over six feet in height, they were emaciated, their arms and legs resembling broomsticks.

Geronimo nearly gagged as a putrid stench filled the air. He backpedaled as more Zombies poured from the abandoned vehicles.

Something collided with his back.

Geronimo whirled, and found Blade alongside him. “What do we do?” he asked.

The Technics opened up with their Dakon IIs, their fragmentation bullets tearing into the hissing Zombies and ripping them apart, blowing their chests and skulls to shreds or tearing limbs from their bodies.

Greenish fluid sprayed everywhere.

The Zombies never broke stride. Their grisly arms extended, their yellow fingernails glinting in the sunlight, their thin lips quivering in anticipation of their next meal, saliva pouring from their mouths, they advanced on the Technics, row after ravenous row, undeterred even when an arm or leg was shattered by a dumdum bullet. Nothing short of their chest or head exploding into smithereens stopped them.

The thup-thup-thup of the Dakon IIs mixed with the sibilant hissing of the Zombies.

Blade and Geronimo found themselves pressed against the SEAL’s grill, the Technics in a ring in front of them, the horde of Zombies beyond.

“What do we do?” Geronimo said in Blade’s left ear.

Blade was about to reply when iron-like fingers clasped his legs and he was brutally wrenched to the ground.

One of the Zombies had crawled under the SEAL and grabbed him!

Blade, prone on his back, saw the hunched-over creature about to bite into his left calf. He drew his right foot up and drove it down, catching the Zombie on the chin.

The Zombie blinked once, shook its head, and hissed as it clutched at the Warrior’s groin.

Blade reached up, gripped the fender, and tried to haul his body from under the transport.

The Zombie snatched his belt buckle and started pulling the Warrior down, its mouth inches from his thighs.

Private Kimper suddenly appeared, stooped over to the left of Blade, his Dakon II pointed at the Zombie. He pulled the trigger, the Dakon II recoiling as the heavy slugs tore into the Zombie’s face.

Blade was spattered by shredded flesh and green mush as the Zombie’s head burst apart. A pulpy substance landed on his right cheek. He swiped at the gore and wriggled his shoulders past the fender. Stout hands clasped his armpits and helped draw him to his feet.

“Are you all right?” Geronimo inquired apprehensively.

Blade nodded.

The Technics had dispatched the Zombies hidden in the trucks and jeeps, and were concentrating their fire on the monstrosities flowing from the hole.

“See?” Captain Wargo cried gleefully. “What did I tell you? We can handle these freaks!”

So it appeared. The Zombies disgorging from the hole were becoming fewer and fewer; stacks of their dead covered the ground between the Technics and the underground entrance.

Four more Zombies charged from the dark hole, and were promptly decimated by fragmentation bullets.

Captain Wargo turned to Blade, smirking triumphantly. “These Zombie’s aren’t so tough! I can’t understand why the other squads had so much trouble.”

Blade was concerned by Wargo’s overconfidence. Overconfidence bred carelessness. “We’re just getting started,” he reminded the officer. He pointed at the hole. “Who knows what it will be like down there?”

“Let’s find out,” Captain Wargo said. “Kimper, watch that scanner! Stay near me! Gatti, take the point!”

The oldest trooper nodded and moved to the edge of the black hole.

“Stay close to me,” Wargo said to Blade and Geronimo.

“Do we get a gun?” Blade asked.

“I told you before. No,” Wargo replied.

“After what just happened?” Blade said.

“No gun,” Captain Wargo stressed. “Let’s move out! Check your Com-Links! Don’t stray!”