Green Bay Run

by David Robbins

  “I remember reading it as a kid.”

  “Then allow me to refresh your memory. My namesake was the mightiest Nazarite who ever lived. When the Spirit of the Lord came upon him, he was invincible. He slew a lion with his bare hands. He took on a Philistine army and killed a thousand of their soldiers—”

  “Surely you don’t take all of that literally,” Andrew said, interrupting.

  A scowl creased Samson’s mouth. “I believe wholeheartedly in the Word of the Lord. If the Bible says that Samson defeated a thousand Philistines, then that’s exactly what he did.” He paused. “No one could best Samson until his Nazarite vow was violated. Delilah nagged him into revealing the secret of his strength, and the seven locks on his head were shaved off while he slept with his head resting on her knees. Thanks to her treachery, the Philistines were finally able to capture him. They put out his eyes, but they couldn’t put out his passion for his Lord. Eventually his hair grew in again, and at a Philistine celebration where they were honoring their false god, Dagon, Samson took hold of the pillars supporting their temple and brought the building crashing down. He died true to his faith.”

  “Are any of the other Warriors Nazarites?” Andrew inquired.

  “I’m the only one.”

  Andrew looked at the man in blue. “What about you, Yama? What do you believe in?”

  The silver-haired Warrior roused himself from his intro-spection and glanced at the farmer. “I believe in the Spirit, but my beliefs are different from Samson’s. I attribute whatever strength I possess to the years I’ve spent building up my physique by weight lifting and daily strenuous exercise.”

  “Yama is unique among the Warriors,” Samson said. “He is preoccupied with the subject of death.”

  “Have you been talking to Rikki?” Yama responded defensively. “I am not preoccupied with the subject of death.”

  “You took the name of the Hindu King of Death,” Samson noted.

  “True. But only because dealing in death is our business, our stock in trade. We’re responsible for protecting everyone at the Home, and our responsibility entails eliminating anyone or anything that would harm those we love. Yama is a fitting name for someone who dispenses death for a living.”

  Samson nodded. “I agree with you there. But some of us think that you have carried the dispensing of death to an extreme.”

  “You’re crazy,” Yama snapped, and looked at the head Warrior. “You tell him, Blade. Tell him I don’t go overboard.”

  “Don’t get me involved in this,” Blade replied, grinning.

  Samson leaned toward his silver-haired companion. “There’s no reason to be upset, brother. I’m not trying to insult you. Actually, I’m paying you a high compliment.”

  “You could have fooled me.”

  “I mean it. Of all the Warriors, you have achieved near perfection in your death-dealing skills,” Samson said.

  Yama’s eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about? Many of the Warriors are more skilled than I am. Hickok, for instance, is a better shot with a revolver. Rikki-Tikki-Tavi is a better martial artist. Blade is better with a knife than I could ever hope to be. Teucer makes me look pitiful with a bow. And even in physical strength, you’re stronger than I am.”

  “You’re missing the point,” Samson said. “I’m not talking about individual skills. You are recognized as the best all-around Warrior in the Family. You have honed your skills to an exceptional degree. All of your skills, not just one or two. Yes, Hickok is a better shot, but only by a hair.

  Yes, Rikki is a better martial artist, but only by a shade. You’ve beaten him many times in sparring contests. And yes, Teucer can split a stick at one hundred yards with an arrow, but you can do the same feat at eighty yards. Of all the Warriors in the Family, you come closest to matching Blade’s accomplishment with a knife.”

  “What about you?”

  “My physique has developed naturally. You’ve had to work diligently to perfect yours. And that’s the key to your philosophy. You’re a perfectionist.

  Your preoccupation with the techniques of dispensing death has made you the perfect Warrior.”

  “Bull.”

  “Suit yourself. But I know I’m right, and deep down in your heart, you do too.”

  Yama snorted and resumed staring at the passing scenery.

  “You know,” Andrew said, turning to the giant, “you Warriors sure aren’t anything like I would have expected.”

  “How so?” Blade asked without taking his eyes from the road.

  “Well, after staying at the Home for two days, I got to know how your Family runs things. And quite frankly, I’m surprised that the Warriors are so different from one another. You were all raised in the same compound, or most of you were anyway. You were taught by the same Elders. You went through your Schooling years, as you refer to them, side by side in many cases. All of the Warriors had essentially the same childhood, and yet you’re all so unlike each other.”

  “Why should our differences surprise you?” Blade responded. “Our differences are based on our personalities, not on our backgrounds. No two human personalities are ever alike, Andrew.”

  “I’ve been meaning to tell you. Most folks call me Andy.”

  “All right, Andy. Are you hungry?” Blade questioned. He gazed upward through the windshield at the golden orb hovering at its zenith. “We can break out some venison jerky for lunch.”

  “We’d better hold off on the food,” Yama advised.

  “Why’s that?” Blade asked, glancing over his right shoulder.

  Yama nodded to the southeast. “We have suddenly become very popular.”

  Blade looked in the direction Yama had indicated and spied four leather-garbed figures on motorcycles. The riders were poised on a knoll 50 yards from the highway, and they were obviously watching the transport.

  “There’s more on this side,” Samson declared.

  Blade swiveled and discovered another eight or nine riders crossing a field, riding parallel to the road, keeping abreast of the SEAL. “This spells trouble,” he stated.

  “You don’t know the half of it,” Yama said, and pointed straight ahead.

  A dozen motorcycles suddenly pulled out from the forest on both sides of the highway less than 70 yards from the van. They immediately formed a blockade across the road, and the riders quickly dismounted. A burly man in the middle took several steps and pointed a long object at the approaching transport.

  Blade held off applying the brakes. He knew the SEAL’S shatterproof body could withstand a bullet from any rifle. Then he peered intently at the long object, bothered by the unfamiliar contours of the weapon the biker held. For a second he thought the man might have a bazooka. Then recognition dawned and he stiffened.

  The biker possessed a portable ground-to-ground missile launcher!

  Chapter Five

  Blade tramped on the brake pedal and brought the SEAL to a screeching halt. In his mind’s eye he reviewed all of the books, magazines, and journals on military hardware that Kurt Carpenter had stocked in the Family library. He’d read every one, and he recalled a journal article on the state-of-the-art portable missile launchers in use at the time of World War Three. The weapon held by the burly biker was identical to a photograph in the journal. The man had a Dart, which fired a missile packing enough punch to knock out a tank. And the SEAL was the proverbial sitting duck.

  “What are we going to do?” Andy asked nervously.

  Blade glanced to the right and the left. The groups of riders on both sides were converging slowly on the transport. He studied their motorcycles, comparing the cycles to those used by a biker gang based in St. Louis known as the Leather Knights. He’d ridden on one of the mammoth machines driven by the Leather Knights. Hogs, he believed they were called. But these motorcycles weren’t hogs. They were much smaller and sported thinner tires. What kind were they? he wondered.

  “They’re riding dirt bikes,” Andy declared.

  “Thanks,�
�� Blade said.

  “For what?” Andrew asked as he picked up his rifle from the floor.

  “Nothing,” Blade replied. The man holding the Dart did not appear to be in any great hurry to fire the missile. Why not? Blade shifted his right foot from the brake to the accelerator and drove at under five miles an hour toward the bikers blocking the highway.

  “What’s your plan?” Yama asked.

  “We’ll play it be ear,” Blade said.

  “Why don’t you just blow them to kingdom come?” Yama suggested.

  “You know what they want.”

  “We should try to save our rockets and missiles for the Technics,” Blade stated. “There might be another way to take care of these clowns.”

  “I can take them out,” Yama offered.

  “Samson and you will stay put in the SEAL while I talk to them,” Blade directed.

  “You’re not going to go out there alone?” Yama responded in disbelief.

  “Yep.”

  “That’s too risky. One of us should go with you.”

  “I agree with Yama,” Samson chimed in. “You shouldn’t go alone.”

  “You guys are worse than Hickok,” Blade muttered, scrutin-izing the bikers ahead. All of them were armed, either with a rifle, an assault rifle, or a machine gun. Most of them seemed to prefer black leather attire similar to the garments worn by the Leather Knights. Why did bikers have such a penchant for leather clothing?

  “They must be scavengers,” Andy opined, and looked at the giant. “If you step outside, they’ll never let you climb back in.”

  Blade sighed and glanced at his fellow Warriors. “All right. Yama, you’ll come with me.”

  “Why did you hesitate?” Yama inquired.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Blade told him, facing front.

  “Yes, you do,” Yama persisted. “It’s not like you to be so indecisive. It’s almost as if you don’t trust us. Or one of us, anyway.”

  Samson turned toward his silver-haired friend. “I don’t under-stand.

  Do you mean me?” he asked innocently.

  “No. Me. Blade has his doubts about my reliability,” Yama stated testily.

  “I didn’t say that,” Blade declared.

  “You didn’t have to. I know you were reluctant to bring me on this run.

  You’re worried I won’t be able to pull my weight because of the way I feel about the Technics.”

  “How do you feel about the Technics?” Andy interjected.

  “None of your business,” Yama said.

  “If I truly had grave doubts about your reliability, I wouldn’t have brought you along,” Blade said. “Yes, I’m worried about you. But I don’t know if I’m more worried because of the Technics or the NDE you experienced in Seattle.”

  “What does my NDE have to do with this?” Yama queried.

  “Everything. You’ve been behaving rather recklessly ever since,” Blade said.

  “What in the world is an NDE?” Andy inquired of no one in particular.

  “Now is not the time to be discussing NDEs,” Blade said. “We have more pressing concerns.”

  Yama eased to his left and bent forward, staring at Blade’s profile. His forehead furrowed as he pondered the implications of his friend’s unusual conduct. He recalled the incident in Seattle, marveling once again at the vivid memories the episode provoked. He had gone to the city, along with Blade, Hickok, and Rikki, to investigate the disappearance of a California Navy vessel. While fighting a vicious gang known as the Sharks, he’d taken an arrow in the back. Due to circumstances beyond their control, his companions had been unable to tend the wound and he had nearly bled to death. At one point, he’d experienced the strangest sensation of leaving his body, gliding through a mysterious tunnel, and entering a wonderful realm where peace and love reigned. He’d encountered a dazzling being of light, his inner Guide. And he’d seen—her—again.

  Now, a year and a half later, he still hadn’t come to complete terms with the Near Death Experience.

  The NDE had changed him. Where before he had been quite naturally concerned about the prospect of his own demise and done everything in his power to prevent his passing, after the NDE he found his concerns obliterated. He couldn’t worry about the possibility of dying if he tried.

  After all, of what consequence was death when he knew it was simply the method of passing from this life to the next, from the planet Earth to the higher mansions? He’d tried to explain his newfound perception to several of the other Warriors, but he discovered they were incapable of fully comprehending because they hadn’t been through what he had been through.

  How could an immortal explain the concept of eternal life to those who viewed themselves as mere mortals?

  Yama gazed at Blade as the SEAL narrowed the gap to the bikers, reflecting. Perhaps he was being too hard on the giant. Blade wouldn’t have agreed to bring him on the run if there were any serious doubts about his ability.

  Unless…

  Unless Blade had brought him along to test him, to evaluate his performance, to see if the NDE and his feelings about the Technics had made him too careless, too unstable for the post he held. Which would also explain Samson’s presence. Blade had never taken Samson on a run before. Why now? Why on this trip to Green Bay? Blade knew that Samson and he were good friends. Had Blade brought Samson along to keep an eye on him? Would the head Warrior do such a thing? The notion angered him, and the anger provoked him even more. He prided himself on his consummate self-control. If he felt anger, then maybe Blade was right.

  Maybe he was unstable. He became aware of Blade speaking and shook his head to clear his thoughts.

  “…eyes on the ones on the side of the highway.”

  “Will do,” Samson replied.

  “We’ll leave the front windows rolled down. If we roll them up, the bikers might open fire,” Blade said. He stopped the SEAL 20 yards from the bikers ahead and shifted into park. “Hand my guns to me, would you?”

  Samson twisted in the seat and reached into the storage section comprising the rear third of the SEAL. Their supplies, ammunition, tools, and spare parts were piled high. Lying on top of the pile was a shoulder holster containing a Dan Wesson .44 Magnum and a Commando Arms Carbine. He grabbed the weapons and passed them to the giant.

  “Thanks,” Blade said. He placed the Commando between his legs and swiftly donned the shoulder holster, tucking the .44 Magnum under his left arm.

  The four bikers on the right side of the road drew to within ten yards of the SEAL and stopped. They sat on their cycles, staring malevolently at the transport.

  Blade looked to the left and saw the nine bikers on that side do the same. He lifted the Commando and glanced at the farmer.

  Andrew had his Winchester in his lap, his finger on the trigger.

  “Don’t fire until I give the signal,” Blade told him.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing,” Andy said. “If it was up to me, I’d plow right through them.”

  Blade gestured at the biker armed with the Dart. “Do you see that missile launcher?”

  “Is that what it is?”

  “Yeah. And if that bozo fires, the SEAL will be blown to pieces. Do you still want me to try and plow through them?”

  Andy gulped and shook his head. “Not really. We wouldn’t want to do anything rash.”

  “When the shooting starts, duck down,” Blade advised, and thrust his door open. He slid out with his back to the transport, warily surveying the bikers, ready to fire at the first hint of hostility, and pulled back the cocking handle on the Commando.

  Samson slid into the driver’s seat and poked his head out the window.

  “Be careful.”

  With a nod, Blade stepped to the front of the SEAL just as Yama came around the passenger side.

  The bikers blocking State Highway 46 kept the barrels of their weapons pointed at the ground.

  “The guy with the Dart is mine,” Blade whisper
ed.

  “Got you,” Yama responded softly.

  They advanced cautiously.

  “Howdy!” called out the man holding the portable missile launcher. His fleshy round face split into a broad smile, but his cold brown eyes belied the friendly greeting. He wore a green shirt and faded jeans. “You are two of the biggest sons of bitches I’ve ever seen!”

  Blade did not bother to respond. He halted eight yards from the row of bikers and slanted the Commando downward. One of his favorite weapons, converted to full automatic by the Family Gunsmiths, its original five-shot clip replaced by a 90-shot magazine, the Commando resembled the ancient Thompson submachine gun.

  “My name is Bruno,” the burly biker announced. “Who might you guys be?”

  “What do you want?” Blade responded, ignoring the question. “Why have you blocked off the road?”

  Bruno scowled. His right hand supported the Dart, which rested on his right shoulder, and his left hung by his side. “You’re not being very polite, sucker.”

  “I’m just getting warmed up,” Blade said contemptuously.

  Bruno took a menacing stride forward. “You’d better watch your mouth, prick, or you’re history.”

  “You plan to kill us one way or the other anyway, so what’s the big deal?” Blade replied.

  “Who says we’re going to waste you?” Bruno asked. “All we want to do is talk.”

  Blade sighed and glanced at the skinny biker on the left who shifted nervously from foot to foot and repeatedly hefted an assault rifle, apparently eager to cut loose. “Don’t play games with me, Bruno. I know what you’re up to.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah,” Blade said. “I’ve met your type before. You’re a scavenger. You make a living by taking what you want from those who rightfully own whatever you steal. You prey on anyone and everyone, and you’ve probably killed dozens of fine, innocent people. What you don’t steal, you buy on the black market. Like that Dart, for instance. Where did you find your little toy?”

  Bruno grinned slyly. “You think you know it all, don’t you, smart guy?”

  “Where did you obtain the Dart?” Blade asked, repeating his question.