Green Bay Run

Chapter Thirteen

What should I do, O Lord?

Samson crouched under the sheltering branches of a towering pine tree and watched the Technics load Blade into a jeep. He observed other troopers pile into four other vehicles, and he knew they would depart at any second. The soldiers kept Blade covered at all times. If he tried to rescue his friend, the Technics would probably shoot Blade on the spot.

There were simply too many troopers, too many automatic weapons, for Samson to attempt to take them all on alone.

Where was Yama when he needed him?

The five jeeps roared to life. The drivers performed U-turns, and within moments the vehicles were speeding toward Green Bay. Twelve of the soldiers had stayed behind. They were huddled near three parked jeeps, listening to a noncom speak.

Samson couldn’t hear the words, but he suspected the squad was about to search the area for the SEAL. He would have done the same if the situation was reversed. Since Blade had told him to stay with the transport, he felt obligated to protect the van. Consequently, he melted back into the vegetation and headed to the north.

If only he could have reached the highway sooner!

He’d heard shots, the familiar thundering of the Commando, and raced toward Highway 54. By the time he’d covered the yards to the road, the Technics had already arrived and were watching Blade battle a deformed Lynx, their Dakon II’s trained on the giant.

There had been nothing Samson could do.

He came to a thicket and paused to look back. Sure enough, the 12 troopers were fanning out. Six were walking toward the forest bordering the south side of the highway and the rest were coming to the north, coming toward him.

Samson smiled and eased into the thicket. He lowered himself to the ground and waited. A beetle crawled past his right arm, and somewhere a cricket chirped. While he waited, to compose his mind, he mentally recited one of his favorite Psalms. “Save me, O God, by thy name, and judge me by thy strength. Hear my prayer, O God; give ear to the words of my mouth. For strangers are risen up against me, and oppressors seek after my soul: they have not set God before them. Behold, God is mine helper: the Lord is with them that uphold my soul. He shall reward evil unto mine enemies: cut them off in thy truth. I will freely sacrifice unto thee: I will praise thy name, O Lord; for it is good. For he hath delivered me out of all trouble: and mine eye hath seen his desire upon mine enemies.” He smiled, relaxed and ready, and added, “And grant this humble prayer, O Lord. Give me the strength of ten men that your loyal servant might smite those who have transgressed your ordained order.”

A pair of soldiers materialized 15 feet off, walking around a tree, their Dakon II’s held at waist level. They advanced warily.

Samson watched them intently. He gently placed the Bushmaster Auto Rifle on the ground, then snaked silently to the edge of the thicket.

Shielded by the branches and leaves, he put his hands underneath him and coiled his massive arms.

The soldiers came ever nearer, unaware of the proximity of the Warrior, his camouflage clothing rendering him invisible in the thick vegetation.

Samson let them come within a yard of the thicket before making his move. He shoved erect and burst from concealment, stepping between them and looping a brawny arm around each man’s neck. His sinews rippling, he swung them almost back-to-back and squeezed.

Both Technics were startled by the abrupt assault. Feeling their breath choked off and unable to employ their assault rifles, they instinctively clutched at the steel bands encircling their throats, endeavoring to break loose. But they might as well have been striving to pry off a boa constrictor.

Samson lifted both men effortlessly into the air, raising their wildly kicking combat boots six inches from the soil. He gritted his teeth and squeezed, squeezed, squeezed. The Technic on the right succumbed first, twitching and sputtering and then going limp. Seconds later the other soldier gasped loudly and stiffened. Samson applied pressure for an additional ten seconds, to be certain, then allowed both men to sprawl on the grass.

Had the other Technics heard the struggle?

The Warrior crouched and listened. Satisfied he hadn’t been detected, he retrieved his Auto Rifle and moved stealthily through the trees, seeking other foes. He didn’t have far to look.

A lone Technic stood next to an oak tree, yawning, plainly bored by the detail, wishing he was in Technic City instead of a godforsaken forest in the middle of nowhere. Because he considered their search to be a waste of his precious time, he failed to exercise the proper degree of caution.

Consequently, he was more than mildly astonished when a pair of iron hands clamped on the sides of his head and twisted sharply. The last sound he heard was the snapping of his own neck.

Samson released the trooper and continued his hunt. He spotted the three other soldiers two dozen yards to the east. They were moving northward, sticking close together, professionals in every respect. He realized he would be unable to catch them unawares, which left him little recourse. Unslinging the Bushmaster Auto Rifle, he sighted on the Technic on the left and fired.

To their credit, the trio displayed superb reflexes. Each man spun toward the Nazarite, and each man received a hail of lead for his effort.

They were flung to the earth to convulse and die.

There was no time to lose!

Samson turned and raced toward the highway, anticipating that the remaining six Technics on the south side of the road would hasten to the aid of their companions. He traversed ten yards and came abreast of the wide trunk of a deciduous tree. Stepping to the right, he slid behind the tree and pivoted sideways.

Now all he could do was wait some more.

“Where did it come from?” an anxious voice shouted from the vicinity of Highway 54.

“I don’t know,” another soldier responded.

“This way! This way!” cried a third.

The Nazarite stood stock still, listening to the pounding of 12 combat boots as the troopers drew closer to his hiding place. Their concern for their comrades had made them careless. When he judged them to be within range, he popped into view and cut loose, sweeping the Bushmaster from left to right.

The tactic worked flawlessly.

Only one of the Technics snapped off a few rounds from his Dakon II, and the shots went wild and smacked into the tree next to the Nazarite.

The rest all took several rounds in the head or chest and toppled in a ragged line. A tall trooper screamed and thrashed for half a minute before expiring.

Samson ejected his spent magazine and slapped in a fresh one from the pouch he carried on the back of his belt. He ran to the highway, pausing just long enough to ensure all of the Technics were dead. At the edge of Highway 54 he gazed to the east, but the five jeeps were out of sight.

Now what should he do?

His Warrior training dictated his course of action. Whenever a Warrior in the field was separated from his fellows, that Warrior should make every effort to rejoin his companions. The Elder who taught the Warriors had stressed the point repeat-edly. His only problem entailed the fact that he was separated from both of his friends. So which one should he go find?

Blade or Yama?

The answer became obvious.

Since Blade had definitely been taken by the enemy and Yama might not be in any danger at all, and since Blade, as the head Warrior, was less expendable than Yama, and since the Technics were en route to their facility in Green Bay where Blade might be tortured, or worse, Samson had no option.

He must rescue Blade.

So resolved, the Nazarite walked over to the three jeeps. In one of them the keys were still in the ignition. Although he’d never driven a motor vehicle before, he decided to try. He’d witnessed Blade starting the SEAL

many times, so he knew how to get the jeep going. And he’d seen Blade use the brake and the accelerator. He sat down behind the steering wheel and deposited the Auto Rifle in the seat next to his.

Only then did he notice the extra pedal on the floor.

Confused, he stared at the pedal, trying to logically deduce its purpose.

The pedal on the right must be the accelerator, and the pedal alongside it the brake, but what on earth did the third one do? Feeling nervous, he prayed to the Lord for a calm mind, then turned the key.

The jeep promptly rumbled to life.

So far, so good.

Samson pressed on the accelerator, but nothing happened. He remembered the automatic gearshift in the SEAL and correlated the shifter with the black gearshift to the right of his seat. He gripped the knob at the top of the shift and tried to move it, producing a series of metallic growling and grinding noises but no movement. Perplexed, he tried the middle pedal, the one he assumed to be the brake, and again nothing happened.

This was getting him nowhere.

He depressed the third pedal and jiggled the black gearshift, and to his relief the shift actually moved toward the dash and seemed to lock into position. Had he done it? He let up on the third pedal and tramped on the gas, and for a fleeting second he felt a surge of satisfaction as the jeep jerked into motion. Unfortunately, his satisfaction changed to vexation almost instantly because the jeep went into motion backwards.

Samson slammed on the brake and the jeep stopped abruptly, coughed and lurched, and died. When he attempted to restart it, the vehicle would jump and bounce like a bucking horse. Stymied, he sat pondering his dilemma.

If he took off for Green Bay on foot it would take him hours to get there.

Who knows what the Technics would do to Blade in that time? If he could figure out how to drive the jeep, he could reach Green Bay in less than an hour. So whatever time he spent endeavoring to master the vehicle would be well spent if he could get it going.

A big if.

Samson pressed on the third pedal and tried once more. The jeep’s motor roared. He fiddled with the gearshift, sliding the stick from the front to the back. When he tried the accelerator, the jeep barely crept along. He eased his left foot off the third pedal, applied pressure on the gas pedal, and the jeep started forward. Delighted, he floored the accelerator, but the vehicle wouldn’t go over ten miles an hour. The engine appeared to be straining at the limits of its mechanical endurance.

What could he be doing wrong?

The Nazarite spent 15 minutes trying every combination of pedals and gearshift he could think of, and he’d just about decided to give up and jog to Green Bay when a deep voice spoke to his rear.

“What did that jeep ever do to you?”

Grinning, Samson twisted to find Yama and a brunette standing 15 feet away. Both were sweating profusely and were winded, and the woman had doubled over and was gulping in air as if every breath was her last.

“Where have you been?”

“We’ve been running for the last mile or so,” Yama said, coming around to the driver’s side. “The walking dead are after us.”

“The what?”

“I’ll explain later. Where’s Blade?” Yama asked, and glanced at the forest.

“The Technics grabbed him,” Samson stated.

“And the SEAL?”

The Nazarite nodded to the north. “Concealed in the trees. But it won’t do us any good because Blade has the keys.”

“Then we’ll use this jeep.”

“I’ve been trying to do just that. It might be broken.”

“The way you were grinding those gears, I’m not surprised,” Yama said.

“Remind me to give you driving lessons after we return to the Home.”

“You’ve driven a jeep before?”

“Don’t you remember the time I drove from the Home to the Cheyenne Citadel to infiltrate the Doktor’s Biological Center?”

“That’s right,” Samson declared happily, profoundly relieved the chore was out of his hands. “Then you can do the honors and I’ll sit back and relax.”

“Uhhh, fellas,” the brunette interjected.

Both Warriors looked at her.

“I hate to spoil your reunion, but we have company,” she informed them, and pointed at the figures approaching from the west, still 200 yards distant.

“Who are they?” Samson inquired.

“The walking dead,” Yama answered. “Slide over and let me take the wheel.”

“With pleasure,” the Nazarite said, complying.

“Hey, what about me?” the woman demanded, hurrying to the vehicle.

“I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced. My name is Samson,” the Nazarite told her.

“Jeez. You’re as big as Yama. What do they feed you guys at this Home of yours? Giant pills?”

“If you want to see a giant, you should see Blade, the head Warrior,” Samson mentioned. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“Melissa Vail. I’m going with you.”

“You are?”

“She is,” Yama stated, sitting in the driver’s seat and aligning the Wilkinson between his legs. “Let’s take off. Climb in the back.”

“Yes, sir,” Melissa said. She wearily clambered into the back seat.

Samson leaned closer to the man in blue and grinned. “Have you two known each other very long?”

Yama displayed surprise at the question. “About an hour. Why?”

“You seem to have her well trained. Perhaps the two of you should consider marriage.”

“Marriage!” Melissa blurted. “Whoa, there, big guy. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I hardly know the man.” She paused. “And for your information, he doesn’t have me trained at all. I’m my own woman, not some pet to be pampered and led by a leash.”

“Any woman who married me would be treated as an equal partner in all of our decisions,” Yama said, and cranked the jeep over.

“Really?” Melissa responded, leaning forward. “That’s nice to know.”

Samson glanced from the stony Yama to the admiring woman, and chuckled. “I just hope I’m invited to the binding,” he said under his breath.

Yama shifted smoothly and the jeep headed for Green Bay.