Green Bay Run

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 toward 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.

As he spun, out of the corner of his right eye he detected a shadow materializing in the doorway above. He tried to reverse his spin, but something heavy slammed into his right shoulder and knocked him from his feet, upending him, and he somer-saulted out of control onto the hard floor below, landing on his left side. The jarring impact racked his ribs with an intense spasm of excruciating pain, doubling him over and causing him to inadvertently release the Wilkinson. Through the haze of agony he heard something clatter onto the floor, then the patter of rushing feet. He places his right hand on the floor and tried to push erect, surprised at the degree of pain he felt, surmising he must have jammed his ribs on the carbine’s stock.

The Wilkinson!

Yama reached his knees, but someone else beat him to the weapon.

“Don’t move!” the brunette ordered. She was standing near the stairs, the Wilkinson clenched firmly in her slim hands, her green eyes ablaze with hatred. Dirt and grime streaked her pear-shaped face. Her brown blouse had been torn on the left side from the bottom hem almost to her arm. Mud spots dotted her jeans and her brown leather shoes. Her disheveled hair hung to her shoulder blades. Within inches of her feet lay a large, overturned toolbox.

Yama froze, straining his ears to catch the sound of gunshots, but all he heard was her heavy breathing.

“I’ve got you, you murdering son of a bitch!” she snapped. “And now I’m going to make you pay!”

“I’m not who you think I am,” Yama informed her.

“Shut your face!” she growled, and took a menacing stride toward him.

“Don’t tempt me to pull this trigger, because by God I will!”

“I believe you,” Yama said, his mind racing. How could he get out of this fix? His friends might be in desperate need of assistance. He had to disarm her, and swiftly. His ribs were already beginning to feel better. If only he could draw her closer. “What’s your name?”

“Why the hell should you care?” the brunette responded bitterly. “All you’re interested in is seeing me dead.”

“That’s not true.”

Her face became a livid red. “Liar!” she exploded. “All of you Technics are rotten, filthy liars!”

Yama looked her in the eyes. “I’m not a Technic.”

An acidic, mocking laugh burst from her lips. “Sure you’re not. I suppose you’re a farmer!”

“I’m a Warrior.”

She cocked her head and scrutinized him closely.

“Do I look like a Technic?” Yama asked her. “Am I wearing the kind of clothes a Technic would wear? You saw the van I came here in. Is that the kind of vehicle the Technics use?”

The corners of her eyes crinkled, betraying her incipient doubt. “If you’re not a Technic, why were you chasing me?”

“The man who heads the Warriors wants to talk to you.”

“I’ll bet he does,” she said sarcastically, then glanced at the revolver and pistol. “All right, bastard. Place your guns on the floor and do it very slowly.”

“You’re making a mistake,” Yama advised her.

“No, you made the mistake, you and the rest of your Technic buddies, when you had my dad, mom, and brother murdered! But those things didn’t get me. My dad told me to run, told me he would hold them off, and my brother shoved me into the woods. I tried to go back, but it was all over in—” she stated, and her voice broke as tears moistened her eyes.

Taking advantage of the opportunity, Yama began to rise.

“Don’t!” she screamed, waving the Wilkinson wildly. “Stay put or else!”

Yama sank down and sighed.

“I’m going to alert the whole countryside to what you’re up to,” the brunette declared. “Somehow, some way, you’ll be stopped. Those things will be wiped out.”

“What things?”

“Don’t play innocent with me,” she admonished him. “You know what things I’m talking about. Those poor people that the Mad Scientist changed into… the walking dead.”

“These walking dead killed your family?”

“You know they did!” the brunette responded angrily. “Now do as I told you. Put your guns on the floor.”

Yama hesitated. He wanted to rejoin Blade and Samson, and he wouldn’t be able to leave until he gained the upper hand. Jumping her was an option, and although he felt confident he could reach her before she shot him, he opted to try a different tack. “No,” he replied.

“What?” she asked, startled.

“I’m not putting my guns on the floor. I’m going to stand up, slowly, and leave.”

“You’ll do no such thing.”

“I can’t stay here any longer,” Yama said. “My friends are in trouble and I must go to them.”

“I’ll shoot.”

“Have you ever shot anyone before?”

Uncertainty crept into her countenance and she shook her head. “But there’s always a first time.”

“Believe me, you don’t want to kill another person if you can possibly avoid it. Killing changes you, marks you for life, sets you apart from almost everyone else.”

She started at him, obviously bewildered. “Strange words coming from a Technic.”

“I’m not a Technic,” Yama reiterated, and straightened, holding his arms out from his sides to demonstrate his peaceful intent.

“Don’t!”

“You can come with me if you desire,” Yama said.

Her green eyes flashed. “You’re not going anywhere, damn you.”

Taking a calculated gamble, the Warrior took a step backwards. “I mean you no harm.”

“I’m warning you,” she said, pointing the Wilkinson at his midriff.

“You can keep the carbine if you want,” Yama commented, and took another step.

“Please don’t force me to shoot you,” she said, her voice wavering.

“I don’t believe you’ll fire.”

“You’re wrong,” she assured him.

“Am I?” Yama countered, then tensed when a metallic crash arose from downstairs.

The brunette started in alarm and gazed past him at the stairway to the ground floor. “What was that?” she whispered.

“How should I know?” Yama said.

“Don’t talk so loud,” she cautioned. “It could be them.”

“Who?”

“The things,” she said, and licked her lips. “They used to only come out at night,but now they hunt in the daytime too.”

“Let’s go see,” Yama suggested.

“Don’t be crazy,” she stated, her forehead creasing, gazing at him in transparent confusion.

Yama listened to more noise, to clanging and banging and loud pounding, and he deduced there must be someone throwing pots and pans around in the kitchen. “I’ll be back in a bit,” he said, and took a pace.

“No!” the brunette exclaimed, coming closer, the Wilkinson dipping half a foot.

“Make up your mind, would you? First you’re all set to blow me away, and now you’re afraid I’ll be killed. Which do you want?”

She uttered a strangled whine indicative of the turbulent state of her mind, her lips compressing. “I don’t know!” she hissed. “But don’t go downstairs.”

“I have to,” Yama stated, and turned to leave.

“Please!” she blurted out, stepping after him, her left arm reaching out to grab his wrist.

Which was the opening for which he’d been waiting. Yama whirled, his right hand streaking to the Wilkinson, and wrenched the weapon from her grasp.

She turned into a statue, too frightened to twitch a finger, her wide eyes on the carbine, her breath caught in her throat.

“Stay put while I investigate,” Yama directed.

The racket in the kitchen had grown progressively louder, as if there were more than one person involved in producing the clamor.

“Aren’t you going to shoot me?” she queried tremulously.

“I have this standard policy. I never shoot bunny rabbits and damsels in distress. Now if you’ll excuse me,” Yama said, but before he could move the din downstairs suddenly ceased.

“Dear God!” the brunette breathed, staring at the stairs.

Yama heard it too.

The pounding of heavy boots on the steps.