“Oh? Is that all?” Blade said facetiously.
“Fifteen floors, with Zombies dogging our heels every step of the way?”
Geronimo chuckled. “Sounds like fun.”
Captain Wargo picked up a map from the console between the bucket seats. He unfolded the map and consulted the coordinates, then looked up and pointed. “Do you see that?”
Spanning the Hudson ahead was the skeletal framework of an ancient bridge. The central section was gone, and the supports and ramp on the east bank were a mass of pulverized scrap, but the segment on the west bank, bent but intact, served to reveal the purpose of the construction.
“That, if my calculations are correct, was once called the Tappan Zee Bridge,” Captain Wargo informed them. “We’re getting close to our goal.”
The SEAL puttered forward, its powerful outboard maintaining a sustained speed of fifteen knots.
Blade thought of his wife and child, Jenny and Gabriel, and wished he was with them instead of on this insane quest. He wondered how Hickok was faring in the hands of the Technics, and whether the gunman was even alive. If the Technics killed the gunfighter, he would personally insure they paid for the act. So far, in the constricted confines of the SEAL, he’d been unable to make a break for it. But, if Wargo supplied Geronimo and him with firearms, Blade was determined to dispatch the soldiers and head for Technic City. One opening was all it would take, one brief instant when the troopers were diverted by something else. Like a Zombie, perhaps. Blade almost hoped the cannibals would attack.
“Make for the east bank,” Captain Wargo curtly ordered.
Blade turned the wheel, bearing toward the eastern hank.
“We should see a small hill,” Captain Wargo said, his nose pressed to his window. “There! Do you see it?”
“I see it,” Blade said. He surveyed the bank for any hint of movement.
The SEAL bounced as it cruised toward the bank, a rhythmic up and down motion caused by the small waves on the Hudson and welling of the water the transport diplaced.
Captain Wargo looked at Private Kimper. “Pass out our helmets,” he directed.
Kimper handed a helmet to each Technic soldier.
“Don’t we get one?” Blade asked.
“When we reach the site,” Wargo said.
“What about guns?” Blade inquired.
“What about them?”
“Do Geronimo and I get one?” Blade asked hopefully.
“Don’t make me laugh!” Captain Wargo rejoined.
“But a while ago you said you want one of us to drive the SEAL to Technic City,” Blade said.
“I do,” Wargo confirmed. “Don’t you worry. My men will look after you.”
“I hope they do a better job than your other teams have done in dealing with the Zombies,” Blade stated.
The SEAL was 20 yards from the bank.
Blade reached up and flicked the appropriate switch to shut down the outboard motor. The throbbing sound abated. Carried forward by its momentum and the flow of the river toward the bank, the transport kept going. Quickly, Blade ran his fingers over the control panel, securing the outboard and opening the wheel ports so the huge tires could assume their usual position.
The SEAL slowly approached the east bank. The tires crunched into the riverbed ten yards from shore.
Blade tramped on the accelerator and the transport wheeled from the Hudson River onto the bank.
“Go straight,” Captain Wargo instructed the Warrior.
Blade cautiously drove into the ravaged remains of New York City. He checked his window to insure it was up and locked, then verified Wargo’s was also secure. Being this close to the wretched ruins was strange, like driving on an alien planet. Oddly, a cloud of red dust hung suspended in the air, cloaking the city in a mysterious shadow. Some of the molten mounds were several stories high, others squat knolls on the ground. He couldn’t determine where the streets and avenues had once been located.
Everything was sort of welded together, fused by the intense heat of the thermonuclear blast.
“Keep going straight,” Wargo said.
“I’m glad you know where we’re going,” Blade remarked.
Each of the Technic commandos was now armed with a Dakon II and wearing a camouflage helmet.
Blade noticed a clear plastic area on the front of the helmet, and small holes dotting the helmet area covering their ears. “It looks like your helmets are as elaborate as your guns,” he commented.
“They are,” Captain Wargo affirmed, keeping his eyes on the fantastic landscape. “Each one is outfitted with a lamp,” and he tapped the clear plastic on the front of his helmet, “and sensitive microphones imbedded in the ear flaps. They amplify all sound, giving us superhuman hearing. Nothing can sneak up on us, catch us unawares.”
“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—
What was that?
Geronimo tensed. He’d distinctly detected a faint scratching.
“Something!” Private Kimper suddenly shouted, focused on his pulse scanner.
“What is it?” Captain Wargo asked.
“Now it’s gone!” Private Kimper said. He was young, inexperienced in combat, and scared out of his wits.
“Keep scanning,” Captain Wargo commanded. He began to doubt the wisdom of bringing Kimper on the mission. But Kimper, amazingly, had friends in high places, and one of those “friends” was influential with the Minister. No less a personage than Arthur Ferguson had personally requested to have Kimper taken on the mission. Ferguson knew what success would mean to Kimper’s career.
“There it is again!” Kimper exclaimed. “But I don’t get it! The images keep fading in and out. How can they do that?”
Captain Wargo frowned. How could they indeed? They might, if the life-forms were continually passing between a solid object or objects containing steel and the scanner.
“The reading is getting stronger!” Kimper warned them.
“How many do you read?” Captain Wargo asked.
Private Kimper glanced at his superior, his skin pale. “It’s off the scale!”
Geronimo, momentarily distracted by Wargo and Kimper, heard another scraping noise. He turned, perplexed, because all he could see was rubble and the abandoned jeeps and trucks.
The abandoned jeeps and trucks!
“They’re here!” Geronimo yelled in alarm, even as a macabre form hurtled from the cab of the nearest truck directly toward him and a horde of repellant apparitions charged from the gloom of the benighted hole.
Chapter Twelve
He almost had it!
Only an inch to go!
Hickok strained against the manacles binding his wrists, his sinewy muscles rippling, his shoulders corded knots, sweat coating his skin and blood dribbling down his wrists. It’d taken two days, two days of strenuous effort, secretly exerting himself to the maximum whenever the chamber was empty. Fortunately, a guard only checked on him four times a day, and he always announced his arrival by rattling his keys as he unlocked the door. Twice daily the guard would bring a tray of food and feed the prisoner.
And, by Hickok’s reckoning, it was close to feeding time.
The gunman grunted and groaned as he wrenched his arms from side to side, twisting his wrists back and forth, torturously endeavoring to free his arms.
He could do it!
Hickok knew his escape was only a matter of time. Sooner or later, if he could maintain his frantic contortions, the combination of sweat and blood would provide the lubrication necessary for his wrists to slide from the manacles.
But could he do it before the guard arrived?
He must, the gunman told himself. Otherwise, the guard might notice the ring of crimson around his wrists.
He had to do it Now!
Hickok’s hair was plastered to his head, drops of sweat drip
ping from his chin, as he toiled at his task, his chest heaving from his laborious exertion. His eyes roamed about the room and settled on the white plastic bucket at his feet.
The bastards wouldn’t even unlock the manacles and permit him to relieve himself!
They’d pay!
Dear Spirit, how they’d pay!
Hickok’s mouth curved downward, exposing his grit teeth as he grimaced in agony.
It felt as if his arms were being torn from their sockets!
Hickok savagely jerked his right arm.
Come on!
With a pronounced squishing sound, the gunman’s right wrist popped loose of the steel manacle restraining his arm. The momentum swung him around in a circle, tearing at the tendons in his left shoulder as his body sagged.
Bingo!
Hickok reached up and clasped the right manacle, still imbedded in the wall. Using the manacle for support, he pulled his left wrist free in moments.
Just as keys jangled at the door.
Perfect timing! Hickok gripped the left manacle, then drooped his body and lowered his chin, assuming his usual resigned position. A smile touched the corners of his mouth.
Now he was ready.
Let the son of a bitch come!
The guard entered the chamber, a tray of food in his right hand, his keys in his left. He wore a camouflage uniform, black boots, and an automatic pistol attached to his green web belt.
Hickok, feigning dejection, glanced up.
The guard, a solidly built soldier in his forties with brown hair and brown eyes, closed the door. “Well, how’s our hick doing today?”
Hickok didn’t respond. He was accustomed to being baited; the guards took perverted delight in amusing themselves at his expense.
The trooper advanced toward the gunman. “What’s wrong with you? Antisocial or something?”
Hickok didn’t answer.
The guard stopped in front of the gunman and stared at his weary face.
“You look awful, stupid. Are you getting your beauty rest?” He cackled at his joke.
Hickok’s blue eyes darted over the food tray. A glass of juice. A plate containing potatoes and a slice of meat. One fork and one knife, a dull butter knife from the looks of it. Not much, but it would have to do.
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