Green Bay Run

by David Robbins

  “It’s symbolic of my vocation.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’ll explain later,” Yama said. “Right now we should get you to the Home. Your right side is bleeding.”

  Andrew glanced down. He had forgotten all about his wound in his excitement over being rescued from the pack. The wolf had torn his T-shirt and the flesh underneath, leaving a cut two inches long. “So it is,” he responded. He walked over to the man in blue. “You saved my life. I’m in your debt.”

  “Any Warrior would have done the same.”

  “Are you a Warrior?”

  “Yes.”

  An uncontrollable outburst of laughter erupted from Andrew and he slapped his left thigh in merriment.

  “Did I say something funny?”

  “No,” Andrew replied, chuckling heartily. “Not at all.”

  “Then why are you laughing?” Yama asked. “Because I’ve definitely come to the right place!”

  Chapter One

  The Home turned out to be a 30-acre compound enclosed within 20-foot-high brick walls topped by barbed wire. A draw-bridge situated in the middle of the west wall afforded access to the stronghold. As Andrew crossed the bridge, spanning an inner moat, he gazed at the western section of the retreat in wonder. Six enormous concrete buildings were arranged in a triangular configuration and positioned one hundred yards apart. Dozens of people were in evidence. Men and women were talking or walking, many couples romantically linked arm in arm, while near the southernmost concrete building a group of musicians played a moving melody. Children played and laughed. “I’ve died and gone to Heaven,” he declared in amazement.

  Yama glanced quizzically at the thin man. “I beg your pardon?”

  “This is incredible,” Andrew said, and nodded at the tranquil scene.

  “Everyone looks so happy.”

  “Why shouldn’t they be?”

  Andrew snorted and jerked his left thumb at the drawbridge opening.

  “Do you know what life is like out there?”

  “I’ve been into the Outlands.”

  “Then you must know how different your Home is from the rest of the country. I mean, mutations and scavengers are every-where. Even when a person lives in a relatively settled area near a big city, like I did on my farm near Green Bay, there’s always the ever-present danger of being jumped while going about the daily chores,” Andrew said, and sighed. “All that damn radiation and chemical crap unleashed during the war really screwed up the world, didn’t it?”

  “No,” Yama answered, heading toward the building positioned at the northwest corner of the triangle.

  “No?” Andrew repeated skeptically.

  “Blame those who used the instruments of death, not the instruments themselves.”

  Andrew pondered for a moment. “Never thought of it quite that way before.”

  “One of our Elders teaches a course on various aspects of World War Three, including an in-depth study of the causes and the military strategy of both sides,” Yama mentioned. “It’s quite interesting.”

  “Wait a minute. You’re a Warrior, right? Isn’t it your job to bust heads? And yet you attend classes? Do you mean you go to school?”

  “My job, Andrew, is to defend the Home and protect the Family at all costs,” Yama said, correcting him. “And yes, I attend classes whenever I can. Everyone in the Family does. There’s an ancient saying many of us have taken to heart: Use it or lose it. If we don’t use our minds to better ourselves, we run the risk of becoming mental vegetables.” He paused.

  “Every child in the Family is required to attend formal schooling until he or she turns sixteen. After that, the classes are optional.”

  “My folks taught me practically everything I know,” Andrew said.

  “Public schooling in America died with the war.”

  “I know.”

  Andrew looked at the building they were approaching. “What is this place?”

  “The infirmary,” Yama divulged. “Each of our Blocks, as we call them, is devoted to a specific purpose. This is C Block. One of our Healers will tend to you.”

  “I must speak with someone in authority. It’s critically urgent,” Andrew stated.

  “Blade went to get Plato, the Family Leader. I’m sure they’ll join us soon.”

  “Who is this Blade you’ve mentioned?”

  “The head Warrior.”

  “From what I saw of you in action, I’m a bit surprised you’re not the top Warrior,” Andrew said.

  Yama smiled. “Thanks for the compliment, but that honor is reserved for the very best Warrior in the entire Family.”

  “And Blade is better than you?”

  “Without a doubt.”

  “I’ll believe it when I see it,” Andrew commented, and stared at the doorway to the infirmary. “Who built these buildings? They’re gigantic.”

  “The man we refer to as our Founder had the Home constructed according to his specifications. Kurt Carpenter was his name, and he was born about four decades before the outbreak of World War Three. He wisely foresaw that war would be inevitable, and he invested millions from his personal fortune to have the Home built. In Carpenter’s time, forward-looking people like him were considered to be weird and labeled survivalists.”

  Andrew nodded. “I know about survivalists,” he said, pleased that the information he had received was proven to be accurate. He glanced at the many Family members milling about in the spacious area between the concrete Blocks, and noticed he had become the focus of attention. “A lot of them are staring at me.”

  “You’ll probably be the main topic of conversation over supper for most of the Family this evening.”

  “How do they feel about outsiders?”

  “It depends on the outsider. Scavengers and raiders are handled by the Warriors. Occasional visitors such as yourself must first demonstrate their trustworthiness before they’re given the run of the compound,” Yama said.

  “But I walked into the Home without any problem,” Andrew noted.

  “That guy with the strange haircut on the west wall never challenged me when I came over the moat. No one has inter-fered in any way. And you let me waltz in here carrying a rifle, for crying out loud.”

  “First of all, that guy on the west wall is Ares, a fellow Warrior. Don’t allow his Mohawk haircut to fool you. He can riddle a tin can at one hundred yards. If you were believed to be an enemy, you would never have made it to the drawbridge. Second, it would be rude of the Family to badger you when you’re obviously in need of medical attention and rest.

  Third, I don’t see any reason why you can’t bring an empty Winchester into the Home,” Yama responded.

  Andrew looked at the man in blue. “How did you know my rifle is empty?”

  “Why else were you using it as a club instead of shooting at those wolves?” Yama rejoined. His voice lowered. “Besides, even if the Winchester was fully loaded, you’re with me.”

  Andrew pursed his lips, appreciating the significance of the statement.

  After the incident with the wolves, he knew Yama could terminate him as readily as he might swat a fly. And if the other Warriors were equally as competent as the man beside him, then his plan just might succeed.

  They came to the entrance to the infirmary and Yama paused to open the door. “I believe Nightingale is on duty,” he commented, and stepped inside.

  “Nightingale?” Andrew said. “Ares. Yama. No offense, but you people have unusual names.” He stopped and studied the interior. Dozens of cots were aligned in two rows down the center of the chamber. Medical cabinets lined the walls. The sole occupant was a brown-haired woman dressed in white who sat at a desk near the doorway. She looked up and smiled.

  “Hello, Yama. What have we here?”

  “His name is Andrew,” the Warrior replied. “Wolves tried to turn him into a snack.”

  The woman stood and motioned at the cot closest to the desk. “Have a seat, Andrew. I’ll be right with you,” she i
nstructed him, then walked to a medicine cabinet along the west wall.

  “So you think our names are unusual,” Yama said.

  “I’ve never heard them before,” Andrew responded as he moved to the cot and slowly, wearily, sat down.

  “You must not do much reading.”

  “I can read,” Andrew stated. “But I never have the time. And too, we only own a few books. They’re hard to come by, you know.”

  “The Family possesses hundreds of thousands of books in our library in E Block.”

  “Really? Hundreds of thousands?”

  “And every volume was stocked by Kurt Carpenter. There are history books. Geography books. How-to books. Fiction. Nonfiction. You name it, it’s probably in our library,” Yama elaborated. “Most of us have taken our names from those books.”

  “What?”

  “Our Founder instituted a formal Naming ceremony for every Family member when he or she turns sixteen. Carpenter was afraid his followers and descendants would lose sight of the factors contributing to the holocaust, so he started the Naming as a way of encouraging them to stay in touch with their roots. Originally, names were only taken from historical volumes. Later, the practice was expanded to include any type of book. Some Family members have even adopted a new name of their own choosing, like Blade.”

  “Where did you take your name from?” Andrew inquired.

  “The Hindu King of Death.”

  “Why would—” Andrew began to say, then thought better of the question, recalling vividly the two slain wolves.

  “Here we are,” Nightingale announced, returning with a first-aid kit and a large bottle of antiseptic. She knelt in front of the cot and inspected the wound. “You have quite a nasty bite there.”

  “Don’t I know it.”

  “I’ll clean the cut and stitch it for you,” Nightingale offered. “You’ll be as good as new in no time.”

  “I don’t want to put you to any bother.”

  “Nonsense. I’m a Healer. Ministering to the sick and the injured is my job.”

  Andrew gazed at the rows of empty cots. “You don’t have very many patients.”

  Nightingale placed the first-aid kit on the cot and opened the lid. “Not at the moment, no. By and large, the Family is blessed with abundant health.”

  “But how can all of you be so healthy? Disease is widespread in the Outlands.”

  “So I’ve been told,” Nightingale said. She removed a box of cotton balls and set it alongside the kit. “Fortunately, our Tillers and Hunters provide us with the vegetables, grains, and meat we need to have a nutritional diet. We don’t have the proper climate to grow abundant fruit, but the Tillers do their best during the growing season and supply us with apples, pears, and others.” She pause to unscrew the cap on the antiseptic. “With the proper diet and regular exercise, maintaining optimum health is a simple task.”

  “If you say so,” Andrew replied, “but I’m a farmer, lady. I grow crops for a living and so do my friends. We eat better than most in the Outlands, but we still come down with disease from time to time.”

  “Are you afflicted with negative attitudes?”

  “What do our attitudes have to do with anything?”

  “Plenty. Our Elders teach that our attitude can literally make the difference between life and death.”

  “It sounds as if these Elders of yours spend all their time spouting words of wisdom,” Andrew quipped.

  “Doesn’t it make sense to benefit from the seasoned experience of those who are older than you are?” Nightingale asked.

  “Yeah. I guess you have a point. But I get the impression the Family has put their Elders on pedestals.”

  “We respect their judgment. We don’t worship them,” Nightingale said.

  “Now would you be so kind as to take off your shirt?”

  “No problem,” Andrew assured her. He placed the Winchester on the cot to his right, then gingerly stripped off his torn T-shirt, wincing as sharp pangs stabbed his right side. “Is everyone at the Home the same as you two?”

  “How do you mean?” the Healer queried, examining the bite carefully.

  “I don’t know how to describe it, but you’re different than most folks I know. Are you sure you’re from this planet?”

  Nightingale smiled. “We don’t have negative attitudes.” She applied antiseptic to a cotton ball and dabbed at the wound. “This might sting a little,” she warned.

  Andrew grunted and flinched. “Just a tad.” He watched her clean the cut, then did a double-take when she removed a thin needle from the first-aid kit. “What’s that for?”

  “What do you think it’s for?” Nightingale rejoined. She took a roll of shiny thread from the kit. “This is nonabsorbable silk material which is used in making sutures. I’m going to sew the torn skin back together.”

  “Couldn’t we just let it heal naturally?”

  “You’re not afraid, are you?”

  “Who, me?” Andrew responded nervously, and addressed Yama to distract himself from the mental image of the needle penetrating his flesh.

  “So tell me. How many Warriors are there?”

  “There are currently seventeen,” Yama said, and frowned. “We lost one two months ago and a replacement hasn’t been selected yet.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Andrew said out of courtesy. “So there are normally eighteen, all told?”

  “There have been ever since the three hybrids were permitted to join the Warrior ranks.”

  “Hybrids? Do you mean mutations?”

  “Yes.”

  Andrew’s surprise showed. “You have mutant Warriors?”

  “Lynx, Ferret, and Gremlin were genetically engineered by the infamous Doktor. They rebelled against him and joined us in our war against the madman. They’re outstanding Warriors.”

  “I’ll bet the damn Doktor isn’t the only one your Family has had trouble with,” Andrew commented, hoping to sound the Warrior out, to prompt Yama to relate the details of the conflict with the Technics.

  “There have been others,” Yama admitted.

  Andrew waited for additional details, but when the man in blue simply stood there observing the Healer, he decided to take the initiative. “I was told that the Family had a run-in with the Technics once,” he said, and was startled to see the big man’s features harden.

  “Yes,” Yama laconically replied, the word almost a hiss.

  Andrew opened his mouth, about to question Yama further, when two events occurred simultaneously that completely derailed his train of thought. The Healer, without warning, began to insert the needle into his skin just as a veritable giant strolled into the infirmary.

  Chapter Two

  “Son of a bitch!” Andrew blurted out, and recoiled from the needle, his wide eyes locked on the new arrival.

  The giant stood seven feet in height and possessed a truly herculean build. He wore a black leather vest, green fatigue pants, and combat boots, and his exposed arms, shoulders, and abdomen rippled with layers of bulging muscles. He radiated an almost palpable aura of power and virility. A comma of dark hair hung above his gray eyes. Strapped around his lean waist were a matched pair of Bowie knives. He came directly over to the cot.

  Yama had swiveled to face the giant. “Here he is, Blade.”

  Blade halted and placed his brawny hands on his Bowies. “What’s your name?” he asked in a husky voice.

  “Andrew, sir.”

  “Your whole name?”

  “Andrew Wolski, sir,” Andrew said, awed by the head Warrior’s intimidating presence. He’d seen some large men in his time, and had deemed Yama to be one of the largest, but this titan made all the others seem like midgets, and even surpassed the man in blue.

  “Call me Blade,” the giant said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And stop calling me sir.”

  “Whatever you say. Anything you want, you get.”

  “How accommodating of you, Andrew,” stated a gray-haired
man who stepped from behind Blade, smiling pleasantly. “I’m Plato, the Family Leader.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Andrew said, noting the kindly, weathered visage on the man who might well determine the fate of his wife and daughter. The Leader wore a green shirt and faded corduroy pants, and sported a full gray beard to complement his shoulder-length hair. “I must talk to you right away.”

  “Certainly,” Plato said.

  “I’d like to stitch this wolf bite first,” Nightingale interjected.

  “In a minute,” Blade told her, studying the thin man from head to toe.

  “Is he packing?” he asked.

  “Just the rifle,” Yama answered.

  Blade nodded, his gray eyes boring into Wolski. “Who sent you?”

  “What?”

  “Who sent you here?”

  Andrew blinked a few times, disturbed by the edge of the giant’s tone.

  “Nobody. I came here on my own. I’ve been looking for the Home for weeks.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “I live on a small farm west of Green Bay, Wisconsin.”

  “Then you claim you’re a farmer?”

  Andrew straightened, his eyes narrowing. “I am a farmer,” he asserted indignantly. “What else would I be?”

  “An assassin,” Blade said.

  “A what?” Andrew declared in disbelief.

  “An assassin. The Family has made a number of enemies, any one of whom would go to great lengths to kill Plato and myself,” Blade stated.

  “You might be an assassin sent here to eliminate us.”

  “But I’m not,” Andrew protested vigorously.

  “Prove it,” Blade told him, his right hand sweeping up and out, drawing his right Bowie. He lanced the knife at the thin man’s neck.

  Fear flooded through Andrew. He saw the glistening tip coming at his throat and he frantically tried to throw himself to the left. Dizziness assailed him as all the blood seemed to abruptly drain from his face. His frayed emotional state, his weariness and hunger all conspired to produce an unexpected effect. He fainted, sinking onto his side on the cot.

  Several seconds of silence elapsed.

  “I guess he isn’t a professional assassin,” Yama remarked and laughed.