Green Bay Run Read online

  “Just peachy,” Yama responded sullenly. His right elbow was propped on his leg, his chin in his hand, the picture of gloom.

  Blade wished he could say something—anything—to soothe his friend’s melancholic soul. If Yama didn’t snap out of his depression before they tangled with the Technics, he might never be afforded the opportunity to recover.

  “Will we go around New London?” Samson inquired.

  Blade nodded. Prior experience had taught him the prudence of bypassing every city and town on the map. The gangs, raiders, and scavengers tended to congregate in or near the inhabited centers, although they could be encountered anywhere. And even in those towns still under the control of generally peaceable residents, the citizens were often inclined to greet strangers by shooting first and questioning intent second. So although the runs invariably took much longer because of the practice, Blade insisted on skirting cities and towns wherever possible.

  “Will we try to locate Andrew’s farm?” Samson queried.

  “What good would it do? No one is living there now.”

  “We could look for one of his neighbors and get the latest information on the Technics,” Samson suggested.

  “Is it wise to advertise our presence?” Blade responded. “For all we know, the neighbor might run into Green Bay and inform the Technics that we’re here. I’d rather surprise them. We’ll hide the SEAL on the outskirts of the city and go in tonight. Under the cover of darkness we should be able to sneak right up to the University of Wisconsin and see for ourselves what’s going on.”

  “Fine by me.”

  Blade spotted a field on the right side of the highway and angled the transport off the road. Its huge tires crushed all the weeds and brush in their path. He crossed the field and entered a belt of woods, skillfully threading a course among the trees. Once the transport spooked a buck and two does from a dense thicket and they bounded away with their white tails upraised.

  Ten minutes went by.

  “We should be well past New London by now,” Blade commented, and slanted their path to the north and the highway. The SEAL emerged from the forest at a curve in the road. Nearby, still legible after so many years, stood a sign stating they were on State Highway 54.

  Blade increased speed, pushing the SEAL as fast as the road conditions warranted. He wanted to reach Green Bay before nightfall so they would have plenty of time to conceal the van. Thoughts of Jenny and Gabe brought a smile to his lips. He looked forward to completing the assignment and returning to the Home. Being away from his loved ones for even a short spell made him homesick.

  “Thinking of your better half?” Samson unexpectedly asked.

  Blade glanced at the Nazarite. “Are you psychic?”

  “No, but I was thinking of Naomi, Benjamin, and Ruth, and I smiled at the same moment you did. Just a lucky guess,” Samson said.

  “How did they take your leaving on this run?”

  “They weren’t overjoyed about it, but they know that my duties as a Warrior require that we make certain sacrifices from time to time,” Samson answered. Am impish twinkle came into his eyes and he cleared his throat. “By the way, I heard about the conversation between Jenny and Naomi. I was rather surprised to hear the news.”

  “What news?” Blade asked idly.

  “About Jenny and you trying for another child soon,” Samson said. He had to repress a laugh when the giant clenched the steering wheel tightly and did a remarkable imitation of a stranded fish gulping air.

  “Another child?” Blade blurted out, stunned by the revelation. “Jenny wants another baby?”

  “So she told Naomi. She’s getting the urge, as she put it,” Samson elaborated.

  A frustrated grunt issued from Blade’s throat. “Jenny hasn’t said a word to me.”

  “Maybe she’s hoping to surprise you,” Samson mentioned.

  “Some surprise,” Blade muttered.

  “Well, you know how women are.”

  “Boy, don’t I.” Blade shook his head in astonishment. “Why don’t wives ever come right out in the open with what’s on their minds? Why do husbands always have to pry the information out of them with a crowbar?”

  “It’s traditional, I believe.”

  Blade snorted. “How do you figure?”

  “Haven’t you heard? Husbands are always the last to know.”

  “If you ask me—” Blade began, then checked his statement when he spied the wagon on the highway several hundred yards off. He slowed and leaned forward.

  “Dear Lord!” Samson exclaimed.

  The wooden wagon partly obstructed the road. Lying in front of it, still attached to their harnesses, were the carcasses of two horses. Several bodies were lying on the ground close by. And perched on the corpses or standing about them, flapping their wings and pecking at the putrid flesh, were a score of large black birds distinguished by bare, reddish necks and heads.

  “Are those turkey vultures?” Samson asked.

  “Yes,” Blade replied, and floored the accelerator, reducing the distance rapidly. A few of the vultures took to the air, but the rest of the flock stubbornly feasted until the transport was almost upon them. Then, in a swirling, fluttering mass, they swooped into the air and rose high above the highway. Blade braked, put the SEAL in park, and grabbed the Commando from the console. “Let’s go,” he said, and opened his door.

  The turkey vultures were circling far overhead.

  Cradling his Commando, Blade dropped to the cracked asphalt and walked toward the wagon. A revolting stench assailed his nostrils and he almost gagged. He covered his nose with his left hand and walked to within a few yards of the first body.

  Samson and Yama joined him.

  “What could have caused this!” Samson exclaimed, aghast.

  “I don’t know,” Blade replied, his eyes on the two men and one woman.

  All three of the bodies had been, quite literally, torn to pieces. Heads were severed from necks. Arms and legs were lying inches from the forms to which they had been attached. One of the victims, a man in his fifties, had sustained a split skull. The woman lay on her back, a homespun dress pulled up around her breasts, her stringy intestines piled on her ruptured abdomen.

  Yama stepped over to the woman and studied her remains, his countenance clinically inscrutable. “There aren’t any claw marks. I doubt animals were responsible.”

  “What then?” Samson asked. “A mutation of some kind?”

  Blade moved to the wagon and discovered three battered suitcases in the bed. None of the suitcases had been opened, which eliminated robbery as a motive. If scavengers had been the culprits, the contents would have been scattered all over and everything of value would be missing.

  Yama turned his attention to the dead horses. Both were intact, but their heads were horribly swollen and discolored. “These horses were beaten to death,” he announced. “There are multiple contusions around the eyes and ears.”

  “Any teeth or claw marks at all?” Blade inquired.

  “None,” Yama replied.

  Blade gazed to the east, the direction from which the wagon had been heading when the occupants were overtaken by their grisly fate. Did the hapless trio hail from Green Bay?

  “Did you see these suitcases?” Samson asked while looking into the wagon bed.

  “Yeah,” Blade answered thoughtfully.

  “Maybe they were taking a trip or a vacation,” the Nazarite speculated.

  “Or maybe they were fleeing for their lives,” Blade said, “and whatever they were fleeing caught up with them.”

  Yama walked over to the wagon. He glanced at the suitcases, then the corpses. “I’d guess they were killed sometime last night, between midnight and three A.M.”

  Blade nodded, pleased that the man in blue had temporarily shaken off his doleful mood. “And whatever killed them might still be in the area. Let’s get in the SEAL and keep going.”

  They returned to the transport, climbed inside, and a minute later were e
n route once again to Green Bay. They sat in silence, reflecting on the horror they had witnessed. Shortly another town appeared directly ahead, a small hamlet named Shiocton, which Blade skirted.

  “Twenty-four miles to Green Bay,” Samson declared when they were again on Highway 54 and driving eastward.

  “How far to Seymour, the town Wolski lived near?” Blade asked.

  “In less than six miles there will be a turnoff on the left. If you took that for a mile or so, you’d reach Seymour.”

  “We’ll stick to this highway,” Blade said. “Barring un-foreseen complications, we should be at Green Bay within the hour.”

  “And how far to the Indian reservation?” Yama threw in.

  Samson shrugged. “Oh, about six and a half miles tops, if our map is accurate.”

  “It’s been accurate so far,” Blade remarked. He spotted the roofs of two structures visible above the trees on his side of the road and judged the buildings to be situated 50 yards from the highway. A farm or ranch, he reasoned, and did not bother to let up on the accelerator. If they were to make Green Bay before nightfall, they couldn’t afford any distractions. He inadvertently yawned, covering his mouth with his left hand.

  “Look!” Samson cried, and pointed at Highway 54.

  Blade almost missed the sight. He stopped yawning and stared ahead, and there was a young woman attired in jeans and a torn brown blouse dashing across the road from south to north, her long brunette hair flying.

  He stuck his head out and yelled, “Hey! We won’t hurt you!” But she had already crossed the road and vanished in the forest.

  “Do we go after her?” Samson inquired.

  “One of us does,” Blade said as he applied the brakes. “Yama, go get her. We’ll wait for you. Don’t take long. I want to question her and take off right away for Green Bay.”

  “Roger,” Yama responded, scooping up the Wilkinson from the seat.

  The instant the SEAL stopped, he was out of the door and racing in pursuit of the woman. In seconds the undergrowth swallowed him up.

  “Shouldn’t we go with him?” Samson asked.

  “I don’t want to leave the SEAL unattended on the highway,” Blade replied. “Yama can handle her.”

  The Nazarite studied the giant for a moment. “Very shrewd, if I do say so myself.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “By letting Yama go after her alone, you’re demonstrating to him that you have confidence in his ability. And by giving him something to do, you’re helping him to get his mind off his problems,” Samson said. “I never quite realized how tactful you are.”

  “I try.”

  They waited expectantly for their silver-haired friend to return.

  “I never got around to thanking you properly for bringing me on this mission,” Samson commented after a bit.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Why me, Blade?”

  “Haven’t you heard? I’ve implemented a new policy. I plan to take Warriors who don’t have extensive combat experience on more assignments in the future.”

  Samson draped his left arm on the console. “I know about the policy you implemented after your return from Boston. But are you sure there wasn’t another reason you brought me along on this particular mission?”

  Blade glanced at the Nazarite. He hadn’t bothered to tell Samson his ulterior motive because he had wanted to avoid possibly embarrassing Yama. And too, he’d never expected Samson to ascertain the truth. He had to remind himself that underneath all those bulging muscles was a mind as keen as his own. “There was another reason,” he confessed.

  “I figured as much.”

  “I was hoping you would help keep an eye on Yama.”

  Samson stared at the point where Yama had entered the forest. “Why didn’t you come right out and tell me?”

  “I should have. I apologize,” Blade said. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, his eyes glued to the forest. Yama should be returning soon, he told himself. He knew how fast Yama could move, and he doubted the woman they’d seen would be able to outdistance the fleet-footed Warrior. In just a few minutes Yama would be back with the woman in tow.

  The time seemed to drag by.

  “Maybe I should go look for him?” Samson proposed five minutes later.

  “No.”

  “What if he’s in trouble?”

  “Yama can take care of himself. Besides, we’d hear gunfire if he ran into any serious opposition.”

  “You hope.”

  The corners of Blade’s mouth curved down and he scanned the woods for any movement. All he saw was a robin and a butterfly. His impatience mounted as the minutes ticked past. He wondered if he had made another mistake, and if he should drive the SEAL into the forest, camouflaging the transport with broken limbs and brush, then search for Yama. Engrossed in his deliberations, he didn’t hear the approaching vehicle until Samson suddenly poked him in the shoulder.

  “Behind us!”

  Blade turned, his gray eyes widening when he saw the four soldiers wearing dark green uniforms who were riding in a topless jeep. He recognized those distinctive uniforms instantly.

  Technics!

  Only 30 yards away and closing rapidly!

  Chapter Eight

  Yama raced through the forest with all the swiftness and stealth of a mountain lion, effortlessly vaulting obstacles in his path such as downed trees and small boulders. He ran around a thicket and glimpsed the woman far ahead, angling to the east. Her speed impressed him. She moved as someone who was accustomed to the terrain. He sped after her, his legs pumping.

  The brunette came to the crest of a low rise and paused to look over her right shoulder. She spotted the man in blue and promptly plunged ahead.

  Yama held the Wilkinson in his left hand. He could feel the scimitar swaying on his thigh. A pine tree loomed in front of him and he swung past it on the right. When he reached the rise, he stopped, getting his bearings.

  Still fleeing with the surefootedness of a deer, the brunette was heading in the direction of several structures visible through the trees.

  Yama sped after her. Those were the same buildings partly observable from the highway. He speculated that she might be making for her home, where she could elicit the aid of her family. The trees thinned the farther he went, and in a minute they gave way entirely to a wide field. Beyond the field were a farmhouse, a red barn, and a shed.

  The woman had already covered three fourths of the distance.

  Boy, could she ever move!

  With a flat stretch in front of him, Yama went all out. Of all the Warriors, only Rikki-Tikki-Tavi, Blade and Spartacus— once—had ever bested him in a foot race. And had they been with him there, they would have been hard-pressed to match his lightning pace. With his arms and legs flying, he seemed to flow over the ground, and he quickly narrowed the brunette’s lead.

  She came to the edge of the meticulously trimmed yard and looked at her pursuer again, then bolted for the three-story white farmhouse. To the north of the house stood the barn. The brown shed was situated between the two, only a dozen yards from the rear of the farmhouse.

  No one else was in sight.

  Yama gripped the Wilkinson with both hands and scrutinized the buildings carefully. He was approaching from the south-west, and the house, shed, and barn all fronted to the south. A gravel drive led from the farmhouse toward the highway.

  The brunette ran to the front of the farmhouse and dashed inside.

  Wary of being shot at from one of the windows, Yama slowed, his eyes flicking from pane to pane, the Wilkinson trained upward. He crossed the yard quickly, puzzled by the lack of activity in the house. If there were people living inside, surely one of them would challenge him. Or were they hiding, afraid he would slay them? He stayed far enough from the farm-house to keep every window on the side he approached within his field of view.

  No one appeared.

  The front door hung slightly open. He started towar
d it, then stopped abruptly when he spied the black form lying in the grass 15 yards to the east of the home. A hairy leg, resembling a bent stick, projected a foot and a half into the air.

  A dog?

  Yama cautiously advanced toward the form, his eyes narrowing when he saw the blood-spattered body clearly. The canine turned out to be a dead collie, its head transformed into a crimson pulp. Right away he remembered the dead horses, and he wondered if there might be a correlation. But why would anyone go around beating horses and dogs to death? And if the animals had been slain by whoever—or whatever—had killed those three people in the wagon, why were only the people torn apart?

  A muffled crash sounded inside the farmhouse.

  Pivoting, Yama darted to the entrance and kicked the door wide. He scanned a long hallway, then eased over the threshold with his back pressed firmly against the right-hand wall. There were three doorways on the right, two on the left, and he went from one to the other, searching the rooms he found: a living room, a dining room, a spacious kitchen in which a wood-burning stove squatted in the middle of the tiled floor, and a sewing room containing an antique sewing machine. When he opened the last door on the right, his finger caressing the Wilkinson’s trigger, he smiled at the sight of a narrow flight of stairs leading to the upper floors.

  Had the brunette taken refuge upstairs?

  Yama ascended hastily, well aware his friends would be anxiously awaiting his return. On the second floor he discovered three bedrooms and a bath.

  But no brunette.

  He walked to a closed door at the end of the hall. A sharp twist of his left wrist and a brisk tug sufficed to disclose another flight of stairs. These were even narrower than the first flight, with barely enough room for a person to walk comfortably. At the top, ten steps up, an open door framed a patch of sunlight that apparently streamed in from a nearby window.

  An attic maybe?

  Yama started toward the sunlight. On the fifth step he abruptly halted, listening to the crackle of gunfire in the distance, from the direction of the highway and the SEAL.

  Blade and Samson!

  Without considering his personal safety, he wheeled, about to bound down the stairs and race to the aid of his companions.