Green Bay Run

by David Robbins

  “They’re not supposed to, but the renegades do.”

  “Let me see if I’ve got this straight. You transformed some of the residents of Green Bay into Automatons, then used them to abduct more and more people. But about twenty percent of the Automatons developed malfunctions, becoming deranged killing machines.”

  “That’s it in a nutshell. The Automatons have been programmed not to harm anyone unless they receive a specific command from me,” Darmobray said.

  “And where’s this transmitter of yours located?” Blade queried.

  “On the east side of the campus. We erected the special two-hundred-foot-tall tower next to the transmitter. The effective radius is approximately fifty miles, but we plan to increase the range once our system is perfected.”

  “Amazing,” was the only comment Blade could think of to adequately sum up his reaction to the scheme.

  Darmobray grinned. “I knew you’d be impressed.”

  “Do you really intend to insert implants into every citizen of Technic City?”

  “Once all the kinks are ironed out, of course. The Minister will pass a law requiring every citizen to visit a hospital so they can receive a shot, an inoculation against a fictitious strain of virulent flu. In reality, the shot will knock them out. While they’re unconscious, my staff will insert the implants. We should be able to transform ninety-eight percent of the population into Automatons within a two-month span.”

  “But the people who haven’t been transformed are bound to catch on,” Blade noted.

  “Not at all, because by then my Automatons will be almost normal in every respect.”

  Blade stared ahead at a wide door blocking the corridor. “So where are you taking me now? To see where you house your Automatons?”

  The Director came to the door and halted, his lips creased by a smirk.

  “No. The obedient Automatons are housed in several buildings in the vicinity of the transmitter. I have something special planned for you.”

  “Like what?” Blade asked, disturbed by the man’s sardonic tone.

  “I’m going to implant a transistor in your brain stem and transform you into an Automaton.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Before Yama could let go of the weeds and conceal himself, several of the walking dead gazed in his direction. He knew they could see him, and he expected them to lumber toward him. Instead, they tramped dutifully to the west, heading for the heart of the city. Puzzled, he remained in view, trying to count the number of empty-eyed zombies.

  They just kept coming and coming.

  The Warrior slid backwards, bumping into Melissa. She gaped at the horde in consternation, her skin pallid. “Snap out of it,” he instructed her in a whisper. “We have work to do.”

  “What do you have in mind?” Samson inquired.

  “Let’s find out where the walking dead are coming from,” Yama proposed.

  “An excellent suggestion.”

  Together they took hold of Melissa and half-carried, half-dragged her into the denser brush farther from the road. She barely resisted until the vegetation screened the walking dead from view, then she shoved them from her and stood. “I don’t need your help, thank you very much.”

  “You could have fooled us,” Yama said. “You were petrified.”

  “I’m fine now.”

  “Then stick with us,” Yama advised, and hunched over, jogged to the east. Through the undergrowth he could see a line of walking dead stretching for hundreds of yards. They were sticking to the road, apparently venturing forth on their nightly ghoulish prowls. None of the Technics patrolling the fence were in the least bit concerned about the stalking legion.

  Why not?

  For several hundred yards the trio bore to the east, crouching even lower once they passed the boundary of the former park. Using every available cover, whether it might be a bush, a tree, the rusted hulk of an automobile, a ditch, or an overgrown hedge, they continued until they came to a junction where another road angled to the north.

  At the southeast corner of the fence encircling the university stood a second gate, which hung wide open. Through the gate came the last of the walking dead.

  Yama dropped flat 20 yards from the road. The sun had started to dip below the western horizon and ever-lengthening shadows were creeping across the countryside. He gazed at the gate, confused. Why did these walking dead totally ignore the Technics guarding the campus, and yet the woman he had seen earlier had almost killed that noncom? Did the Technics possess a means of controlling the ghouls? If so, what was it?

  The four guards posted at the southeast corner swung the metal gate closed and locked it.

  Samson crawled to within inches of Yama’s right arm. “This is becoming stranger and stranger by the minute.”

  “What do we do now?” Melissa asked, sliding up to the man in blue from the left.

  “The first step is to get inside,” Yama said softly.

  “Do you have a brainstorm on how we can accomplish that little feat?”

  Melissa cracked.

  Yama gazed at the backs of the walking dead, then at the gate, and smiled. “As a matter of fact, I do,” he replied, and began removing his weapons.

  “What are you doing?” Melissa asked, perplexed.

  “Watch and learn,” Yama advised her. He placed the Wilkinson, the Browning, and the scimitar next to Samson. “Don’t let anything happen to these.”

  “I’ll guard them with my life,” the Nazarite responded, and he meant every word.

  “Are you planning to surrender?” Melissa asked sarcast-ically, and received a shock when the man in blue nodded.

  “Yep,” Yama said, and crawled closer to the road, his eyes on the Technic quartet at the gate. They had turned and were staring at a small building approximately 50 yards to the north of their post. Only then, when he glanced at the same structure, did he spot the tower. Surprise made him pause. Why hadn’t he noticed the thin metal spire earlier?

  Two hundred feet in height, the strange spire had been painted to blend into the sky, to be invisible on the skyline. Only six inches wide at the base and less than an inch from the 100-foot mark on up, the tower was an engineering marvel, reminding the Warrior of a sewing needle, an enormous sewing needle.

  What purpose did it serve? Yama wondered, and stood, allowing his arms to hang limp at his sides. He adopted the blankest expression he could, widening his eyes and letting his mouth droop open, and plodded forward onto the road, making a beeline for the gate.

  One of the guards happened to look over his shoulder. The Technic pivoted, his forehead furrowing in bewilderment, and blurted, “What the hell is this action?”

  His three companions swung around.

  “Look at that geek!” the heaviest of the soldiers said, and snickered.

  “They are the biggest bunch of morons on the planet,” chimed in another.

  “This one doesn’t have the brains of a shrimp. He’s going in the wrong direction.”

  “They don’t have any brains, stupid,” declared the first guard. “That’s why they’re called Automatons.”

  “Well, what the hell does this one want?”

  “Maybe he has to take a leak,” the heavyset soldier joked.

  Ignoring their taunts, Yama shuffled right up to the gate and halted.

  “Get lost, freak!” snapped one of the men.

  “Yeah,” added heavy butt. “Go the other way, damn your hide!”

  The first guard, who seemed to be in charge of the detail, moved closer to the man in blue. “He can’t understand you. The things get their instructions from the Director.”

  “Oh yeah? How, Mr. Scientist?” demanded the heavy trooper.

  “I don’t know all the details, but the transmitter has something to do with it,” the leader said, and gestured absently at the building to the north.

  Interesting news, Yama thought, his visage a stony, hopelessly stupid, mask.

  “Why don’t you shoot the jerk, T
ed?” suggested the heavy Technic.

  “Oh, sure, Yoder,” Ted replied. “And have my ass hauled in front of Colonel Hufford? Are you crazy?”

  “So what do we do with it?” Yoder inquired. “Turn it around and give it a boot in the ass?”

  “It couldn’t hurt,” said another.

  “Whatever we do, we can’t harm the thing,” Ted stated. “You know the orders. No wasting these Automatons unless they’ve turned renegades.”

  Yoder came to the gate and peered at the Warrior. “How do we know this freak hasn’t gone over the edge?”

  Ted chuckled. “When they blow a fuse, you know it. They go wacko. This one would be clawing at the fence or trying to climb over to get us.”

  “Maybe so,” Yoder said. “But I still don’t like them. The Automatons give me the creeps.”

  “Hey, Yoder,” spoke up one of his fellows, “did you ever think that the feeling might be mutual?”

  Everyone except Yoder enjoyed a hearty laugh.

  “Have your fun, dipshits,” Yoder snapped. “You’ll all get yours one day.”

  Ted reached for the lock, produced a key from his fatigue pants, and sighed. “What worries me is the rumor that the Director plans to create more of these things.”

  “What the hell for?” Yoder asked. “Aren’t there enough already?”

  “I wish I knew. The whole project is hush-hush,” Ted remarked. He inserted the key, twisted, and the lock snapped open.

  “Tell us about it,” muttered the leanest Technic. “How come they won’t let us contact our wives? I’d like to write Martha, but we’re not permitted to send letters until the Director gives the okay.”

  “Which could be next year,” Yoder said.

  “I’ll tell you this,” Ted mentioned as he pulled the gate inward. “This is the last damn time I volunteer for a special assignment. I know they promised us extra pay if we took this rotten duty, but I had no idea what I was getting myself into. Hell. I’ve been here since day one and I still don’t have any idea.”

  “Join the club,” Yoder declared.

  Digesting the information they were inadvertently revealing, Yama stood perfect still. Let them come to him. Under his blue uniform his arms tensed.

  Ted motioned for the silver-haired Automaton to enter. “Come on,” he beckoned. “This is what you want, right?”

  The Warrior didn’t budge.

  “I still say we should shoot the thing,” Yoder cracked.

  “Maybe we should let the Director know,” suggested the lean trooper.

  “I’d rather call Perinn. At least he’s decent,” Yoder said.

  Ted stepped out and grabbed the Automaton’s left wrist. He tugged, then tugged again when his first effort had no effect. “Come on. Let’s go,” he prompted, and yanked hard.

  “What’s the matter? Can’t you handle one of these freaks?” Yoder baited him.

  “I’d like to see you do any better.”

  “Oh, hell. Let’s do it, fellas,” Yoder proposed, and they converged on the man in blue. Yoder took hold of the thing’s right arm, his mouth scrunched up distastefully. “I just hope whatever this geek has got isn’t contagious.”

  “I can safely say that’s the least of your worries,” Yama told him, assuming his normal poised posture, and in the seconds it took them to react to the startling development, before they could unsling their Dakon II’s, he went into action. The tip of his right boot slammed into Ted’s crotch, doubling the trooper over, even as he whipped his right arm free of Yoder’s grasp and knifed the rigid tips of his fingers into the heavyset soldier’s throat.

  The remaining two Technics went for their weapons.

  Yama leaped into the air, wrenching his left arm loose from Ted in the process, and kicked, lashing out with his right foot. The sole caught one of the troopers on the chin, snapped the man’s head back, and sent him stumbling backwards. In midair Yama twirled, driving his left leg down and out, and rammed his foot into the last soldier’s chest, knocking the Technic to the pavement.

  Ted tried to connect with an undercut aimed at the Warrior’s groin.

  But Yama twisted, evading the punch, and alighted in the cat stance, coiled to strike. A swordhand chop into Ted’s nose flattened the trooper’s nostrils and flipped Ted onto his back. A snap kick spiked Yoder under the chin, lifted the heavy man from his feet, and toppled him to the ground.

  Still game, the other two were clutching at their Dakon II’s.

  Yama took a stride and delivered a spin kick to the head of the Technic on the pavement, flattening his foe. The only soldier in any condition to fight had managed to unsling his Dakon and attempted to point the barrel. With a slight hop and a vaulting leap, Yama reached his adversary, his right foot connecting against the trooper’s sternum.

  A loud snap sounded, the Technic gasped and bent in half, and the last sensation he felt was the calloused edge of the Warrior’s right hand arcing into the back of his neck.

  In the horse stance now, Yama stood ready to attack or counter, and surveyed the quartet. All four had been rendered temporarily or permanently insensate. Satisfied, he scanned the campus, expecting to hear a cry of alarm. None sounded, and he promptly stooped and began dragging the Technics to the side of the fence.

  Footsteps pounded and Samson and Melissa appeared, the Nazarite bearing Yama’s arms.

  “You were sensational!” Melissa breathed in awe. “How did you do that?”

  “Ants in my pants,” Yama replied, lugging Yoder from the gate opening.

  “You’ve got to teach me how to do that,” Melissa stated.

  “Teach you the martial arts?”

  “Is that what it’s called? Yeah. Teach me the arts.”

  Yama almost made the blunder of erupting in laughter. Instead, he toted the lean trooper to one side. “Which one of the… arts… would you like to learn?”

  “There are different ones?”

  “All kinds of styles and disciplines.”

  Melissa shrugged. “I don’t know. Teach me the deadliest art.”

  Yama grabbed Ted and dragged the Technic off. “The dead-liest art, huh? That would be the Leonardo.”

  “Yeah. Sounds great. When we get out of here, show me how to do the Leonardo.”

  “You’ve got it,” Yama promised, keeping a straight face only with a monumental effort. He noticed that Samson had developed an inordinate interest in the darkening sky.

  “So what do we do next?” Melissa asked eagerly.

  “We?” Yama nodded at the Nazarite, who promptly returned his weapons.

  “Well, you know what I mean.”

  “I would suggest that Samson and you stay here and watch this gate while I go find Blade,” Yama recommended.

  “Why should we be stuck at the dumb gate?” Melissa inquired.

  “Because we will need an avenue of escape once Blade is free. Ensuring the Technics don’t block our retreat is critically important,” Yama noted.

  “Oh. In that case, we’ll watch the gate. No one will take it from us,” Melissa vowed.

  “Tell that to them,” Samson interjected, and nodded at the road bordering the south side of the university.

  Yama glanced in the indicated direction, and despite his years of experience he felt a knot form in his stomach at the sight of the horde of walking dead who had, incredibly, reversed direction and were coming toward the southeast corner of the fence, toward the very gate through which they had departed and which now hung wide open.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “If you don’t lie down on the table now, I’ll have you shot,” Quinton Darmobray vowed.

  Blade stared at the six Technic troopers, at the six Dakon II barrels pointed at his chest, then at the metal table in front of him. A thin sheet composed of a rubberlike substance covered the top. On the other side of the table, arranged in a neat row on a small stand, were surgical instruments.

  “This is the last warning you’ll receive,” the Director said.

/>   Reluctantly, fully aware the scientist meant every word, Blade complied and reclined on the table. His legs dangled over the bottom edge from his knees down.

  Darmobray smiled and stepped alongside the small stand. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  “Get stuffed.”

  “I would expect a more mature riposte from a man like you,” Darmobray stated. He reached under the edge of the rubber sheet, which hung several inches below the table’s rim, and pulled a leather restraint into view, drawing it higher. The other end was obviously attached to the metal table.

  Blade blinked twice. “What’s that for?”

  “Don’t be naive. What do you think it’s for? I told you a simple surgical procedure is used to insert the transistor, and I need you to lie perfectly still while I’m placing one in your brain stem.”

  A flinty light seemed to animate Blade’s gray eyes as he coldly regarded the restraint. If he allowed his arms and legs to be fastened to the table, he’d be unable to prevent the Director from implanting the device that would transform him into an Automaton. But if he resisted, the six troopers would shoot him.

  Or would they?

  Blade looked at Darmobray, who stood on the right side of the table, then at the soldiers, who were all standing to the left and within two yards of his dangling legs. An idea occurred to him, a means of possibly thwarting the Director’s plans and regaining his freedom.

  “Why do you think I went to so much trouble to explain my operation at you?” Darmobray was saying. “You’re an exceptional man, an adversary I can respect. I wanted you to fully appreciate the extent of my genius while you were still in possession of your faculties.” He paused, smiling expansively. “And imagine what a victory this will be for the Technic order when the mighty Blade is reduced to the status of a mindless slave!

  The Minister will be delighted. I might even receive the Royal Order of Service, the highest award a Technic can receive, for this.”

  Absently listening to the Director babble, the Warrior scanned the room, searching for possible weapons. The dimensions were 24 feet by 24 feet, with a ceiling ten feet high. Banks of computers and other electronic equipment lined three of the walls. The fourth, the west wall, contained the wide door. There were three other tables in the room, aligned to the right of the one on which he reclined. His was the nearest to the doorway.