New York Run

Chapter Eleven

“Why are you slowing down?” Captain Wargo demanded.

“I’m going to wait until they leave the roadway,” Blade replied.

“No, you’re not,” Captain Wargo snapped. “You’re going to drive right through them.”

Blade’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. They were three days out of Technic City, bearing east toward New York City. So far, the going had been frustratingly slow. Most of the major highways were in deplorable condition, ruined as much by the war as 100 years of neglect and abandonment. Lengthy sections, miles at a stretch, had buckled or collapsed or were in scattered hits and pieces, necessitating countless detours. In addition to the wrecked roads, they’d encountered a surprising number of inhabited outposts, some large towns. Wargo knew where each was located; they were marked on a map he carried, along with the approximate boundary of the corridor the Soviets controlled to the south.

Wargo insured Blade stayed well north of the area under Soviet domination. But the innumerable detours, to bypass the demolished roads and avoid all occupied settlements as well as the Soviets, markedly delayed their progress. They had traveled for 12 hours both days, averaging approximately 45 miles an hour. Now, by Blade’s reckoning, they were within 20 miles of New York City, to the northwest of the metropolis.

Or what was left of it.

Wargo was seated in the other front bucket seat. Behind Blade and Wargo sat Geronimo and two Technic troopers, Geronimo sandwiched between them to prevent him from causing trouble. And reclining on top of the pile of supplies in the rear third of the transport was a fourth soldier, his automatic rifle in his arms.

“Well, what the hell are you waiting for?” Wargo said. “Mow them down!”

Blade surveyed the road ahead.

About 70 yards from the SEAL, walking down the middle of the highway, were two dozen men and women. They were armed with rifles and handguns, none of which posed a threat to the SEAL. Their attire was scarcely more than crudely stitched rags.

It was obvious what they were.

Scavengers.

Looters.

A motley mob preying on anyone and anything. Such marauding bands were the scourge of the post-war age, raiding established settlements and robbing and killing hapless wayfarers, like a scourge of destructive locusts.

Blade paused, not out of any sympathy for the scavengers, but because he disliked taking lives without ample justification. If the scavengers were assaulting the Home, he’d mow them down without another thought. But this was different. This would amount to nothing more than cold-blooded murder.

“Do it!” Captain Wargo barked.

Blade was about to tramp on the accelerator when the issue was resolved for him.

A mutant abruptly appeared from the trees lining the right side of the road and plowed into the scavengers.

Blade applied the brakes.

Two forms of genetic deviations had resulted from World War III. One form, designated as mutants by the Family, was the product of genetic dysfunction and aberration caused by excessive amounts of radiation unleashed on the environment. Mutants were deformed progeny of normal parents, whether human or animal. The second form, on the other hand, was the result of chemical warfare compounds distrupting ordinary organic growth, creating the creatures the Family called the mutates.

Mutates were former mammals, reptiles, or amphibians transformed into ravenous, pus-covered horrors by the synthetic toxins infesting their systems.

As Blade watched what might have once been a feral dog, but was now a slavering mutate, pounce on a female scavenger and tear her neck apart with a savage wrench of its yellow fangs, he thought of one more form of genetic deviation. The type intentionally developed by the scientists, the genetic engineers, in their quest to manufacture superior life forms.

Gene-splicing had been quite common before the Big Blast, and the nefarious Doktor, the Family’s one-time nemesis, had refined the technique into a precision procedure, breeding a personal army of deviate assassins.

But that was then, and this was now.

The mutated canine had dispatched four of the scavengers, and the rest had fled into the trees on the left side of the road without firing a shot.

The mutate pursued them.

The road ahead was clear, except for the bloody bodies.

“Get going,” Captain Wargo ordered.

Blade drove forward, weaving the transport around the forms on the highway. He saw one of them as he passed, an elderly bald man whose throat was ruptured, his blood pulsing onto the highway, his lifeless brown eyes open and gaping skyward.

“I suppose now is a bad time to mention I need to wee-wee?” Geronimo asked, grinning impishly.

Captain Wargo turned in his seat. “Are you serious?”

“When Mother Nature calls,” Geronimo said, “there’s not much you can do about it.”

“Well, it’s too bad, but you’ll have to hold it for a while,” Wargo told him. “We’re not stopping just because you need to take a leak.”

“I hope I can hold it,” Geronimo said. “If not, then I hope these two clowns next to me don’t mind yellow stains on their uniforms.”

“Just for that,” Captain Wargo retorted, “you can hold it until doomsday.”

“I thought that was the date of World War III,” Geronimo remarked.

Wargo turned toward Blade. “Sometimes I wonder if we would have been better off leaving Geronimo behind and bringing Hickok.”

“They’re two of a kind,” Blade mentioned.

“A kind I can do without,” Wargo said. He pointed at the windshield.

“Watch out for more of those scum.”

“Where exactly are we?” Blade inquired, steering the SEAL around a gaping hole in the highway.

“Almost to our destination,” Captain Wargo revealed. “And it didn’t take us the five days you estimated it would.” He smiled. “The Minister will be pleased. We’ll make it back to Technic City in record time.”

“If we make it back,” Geronimo interjected.

“You still haven’t told us where we are,” Blade declared.

“That last big town we bypassed was once known as Newburgh,” Captain Wargo disclosed.

“Do we take this road all the way into the city?” Blade asked.

“No.” Wargo shook his head for emphasis. “The previous squads we sent in ran into a ton of trouble by using the roads. The lousy Zombies are all over the place. No. We’ll play it safe and use a new approach.”

“What approach?” Blade wanted to learn.

“The Hudson River,” Captain Wargo said.

“The Hudson River?” Blade repeated in surprise.

“Yes,” Captain Wargo affirmed. “Why do you look so shocked? We know the SEAL possesses amphibious capability. By taking the Hudson south into the heart of New York City, we reduce the number of Zombies we’ll have to face. Pretty clever, I think.”

“Except for one small detail,” Blade said.

“Oh? What’s that?”

“We’ve never operated the SEAL in its amphibious mode,” Blade told the Technic.

Wargo snickered in disbelief. “Yeah. Sure.”

Blade stared at the officer.

Captain Wargo did a double take, examining Blade’s features. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Would I lie to you?” Blade stated in mock earnestness.

“You’ve never operated the SEAL in the amphibious mode!” Captain Wargo reiterated, upset by the news.

“Is there an echo in here?” Geronimo queried.

Captain Wargo unexpectedly pounded the dashboard in anger. “Damn it all! We’ve come so close! We’re almost to our goal!” He glared at Blade.

“Do you realize how much trouble we went to, how much time and manpower was expended to reach this point? Getting you and this vehicle to Technic City? Managing to reach this far? Did you know the Soviet line was only five miles south of us? Sometimes we were less than a mile from their northern perimeter. And we made it past the towns and the mutants and everything else!” His voice started to rise. “I don’t care if you’ve never operated in the amphibious mode before! Because we are not, I repeat, not going to give up now! Not when we’re so damn close! We will adhere to the Minister’s schedule.”

“Your plan sounds okay to me,” Geronimo interjected.

Wargo glanced at the Warrior skeptically. “It does?”

“Sure.” Geronimo smirked. “I can swim.”

Captain Wargo made a hissing sound. He faced forward, then suddenly stabbed his right index finger straight ahead. “There! That’s it!”

“What?” Blade asked.

“There! Turn left there!” Wargo cried.

“Where?” All Blade saw was a crumpled roadway, dense foliage to the right, and an embankment to the left.

“There! Damn it! Turn left now!” Wargo shouted.

Blade complied, wrenching on the steering wheel, sending the SEAL to the left, up and over the embankment, hurtling down a steep slope toward a… river! He slammed on the brakes and the transport lurched to a skidding stop on the grass-covered bank.

“I must be dreaming,” Geronimo said in an awed tone.

Blade gazed at the vista beyond in sheer astonishment. It wasn’t the bank or the blue river causing his stupefication; it was the eerie panorama on both sides of the river to the south.

“That’s the Hudson River,” Captain Wargo stated.

“And what is that?” Blade asked, indicating the wrecked landscape stretching to the far southern horizon.

“That,” Captain Wargo said soberly, “is what’s left of New York City.”

Blade had never seen anything like it in all his journeys from the Home.

He’d encountered ravaged towns and cities, dozens of them. But he’d never been this close to a city struck by a thermonuclear device, and the impression was instantly seared into his mind’s eye. The material he’d read about World War III, the many stories he’d heard over the years, even knowing the mutants and the mutates were by-products of the conflict, none of it had prepared him for… this!

How could it?

Even here, even 20 miles from the heart of New York City, the devastation was awesome. Every building in sight, every former residence or office structure or retail establishment, had been destroyed. Most were mere piles of litter and debris. A few retained one wall, a small minority two walls. It looked as if a gigantic windstorm, a tremendous cyclone of inconceivable magnitude, had ripped into every building and literally blown them apart.

“It got to me the first time I saw it,” Captain Wargo confided.

Blade tore his eyes from the desolation. “Got to you? You never mentioned being here before.”

“Once,” Wargo confirmed. “Shortly before I entered the Civilized Zone to find your Family. I was here on a reconnaisance mission for the Minister.”

“How far did you go?” Blade asked.

“This far,” Wargo said. “But I was told it gets worse the further we go.”

“How could it get worse?” Geronimo wondered aloud.

“There’s one way to find out,” Blade said. He looked up at a control panel imbedded in the roof above his head. The SEAL’s Operations Manual had been explicit in detailing the proper operation of the control panel. Unfortunately, he’d never had the occasion to test the instructions.

Plato had been reluctant to operate the SEAL in the amphibious mode.

What if it sank? he had speculated to the assembled Family. They could not afford to lose the transport, and their timid attitude had restrained them from verifying if the vehicle could function on water as well as land.

Now they had no choice.

Blade reached up and flicked a silver toggle switch. He waited a few seconds until he detected an audible “thunk” from underneath the carriage. With painstaking care, his nerves on edge, he slowly eased the SEAL down the bank to the edge of the river, then braked.

“What are you waiting for?” Captain Wargo demanded.

“We could all end up at the bottom of the Hudson,” Blade commented.

Captain Wargo drew his pistol. “And where do you think you’ll wind up if you don’t keep going?”

Blade shifted his right foot to the accelerator, gently applying pressure.

The SEAL slid into the river.

Blade quickly raised his right hand and deftly punched two buttons. For a moment nothing happened, but then the SEAL bucked in the water and a loud clunking emanated from the rear of the transport.

“What’s happening?” Captain Wargo asked nervously.

“I closed the wheel ports before we entered the Hudson,” Blade replied.

“The tires have just retracted and been elevated above the water line. That clunk you heard was the outboard dropping from under the storage section.”

“What’s next?” Wargo inquired.

“Just this,” Blade said, and flicked a second toggle switch.

From behind and under the SEAL came a muted sputtering and metallic coughing, followed by a steady throbbing.

“Hey! The water back here is churning!” the soldier in the rear of the SEAL yelled.

“Is that the outboard motor?” Captain Wargo asked.

“What do you think?” Blade answered.

The SEAL was moving forward, plowing through the water, bearing due east.

Blade turned the steering wheel, gratified when the bulky transport angled to the south.

“We did it!” Captain Wargo said, elated. “The thing is working!

Nothing will stop us now!”

“Aren’t you forgetting the Zombies?” Geronimo remarked.

“The Zombies!” Wargo snorted. “We’ll make mincemeat out of them.

Here. Let me show you.” He motioned at the trooper in the rear, and the soldier lifted an automatic rifle from the pile of supplies and passed it to the front.

Geronimo’s eyes widened when he saw the gun.

Captain Wargo took the piece and hefted it in his hands. “Have you ever seen a beauty like this?”

Blade glanced to the right, getting his first good glimpse of the automatic rifle. He nearly betrayed his bewilderment. The gun was a carbon copy of the one taken from the man caught spying by the Moles.

The same 20-inch barrel and folding stock, the same short silencer and elaborate scope, the same 30-shot magazine.

“Is something wrong?” Captain Wargo asked suspiciously.

“No. Why?” Blade responded.

“I don’t know.” Wargo shrugged. “Nothing, I guess.” He stroked the rifle. “Isn’t this a beauty?”

“Where did you get it?” Blade innocently inquired.

“We manufacture them, of course,” Captain Wargo said. “They are standard gear for every Technic soldier. They’re state-of-the-art, as far as automatics go. Called the Dakon II. They fire four-hundred-five grain fragmentation bullets. They’ll drop anything!” he boasted.

“Including Zombies, I hope?” Geronimo chimed in.

“Including Zombies,” Captain Wargo declared. He tapped the small plastic panel on one side of the rifle, near the stock. “This is a digital readout. Lets you know exactly how many rounds you have left in the gun—”

“Is that because Technic soldiers can’t count without using their fingers and toes?” Geronimo asked, interrupting.

Wargo ignored the taunt. “See these four buttons here? The first button activates the digital counter. The second is for full automatic, the third for semiautomatic. The fourth button ejects your spent magazines.”

“What’s the fifth button for?” Blade queried. “The one on top of the scope?”

Captain Wargo chuckled. “I told you this was tht ultimate in killing power. The button on the scope activates the Laser Sighting Mode.”

“It’s a laser too?” Blade asked in amazement. He’d read a little about lasers in the Family science classes. Laser technology had been extensively employed prior to the Big Blast.

“Not in the way you mean,” Captain Wargo said. “You see this four-inch tube projecting from the top of the scope? It generates a red light, a laser if you will, and this shows up on your targets as a red dot.”

“Red dots?” Blade repeated questioningly.

“Yeah. When you see a red dot on your target, that’s precisely where your gun is aimed. So to hit the spot you want, all you have to do is raise or lower the red dot to the point you want,” Wargo explained.

“It must take the challenge out of aiming,” Cicronimo noted.

“You don’t need to aim with these,” Captain Wargo stated. “The Dakon II does everything for you.”

“Does it wipe your derriere after you’re done?” Geronimo cracked.

Captain Wargo was about to reply when he paused, gawking at the stark vista ahead.

Blade had seen it too. The SEAL was continuing on its course, staying well to the center of the Hudson River, cleaving the water smoothly as it sailed on a southerly bearing into the depths of New York City.

If “city” was the right word.

Any vestige of the former metropolis was gone. The demolished homes and other buildings had given way to a scene culled from a demented nightmare. The ground was parched, scorched, the earth a reddish tint.

Vegetation was completely absent. Piles of twisted, molten slag were everywhere. Small piles. Huge piles. Isolated metal girders still stood here and there, like blackened steel trees amidst hills of melted structures.

Blade scanned both sides of the Hudson, astonished. From his schooling days at the Home, he knew New York City had once been inhabited by millions of people. Something like 15 or 20 million when the war broke out. He could scarcely conceive of every one of them, millions upon millions, being reduced to smoking ashes in a matter of seconds.

Crisped to nothing in the space of a heartbeat. The very idea was mind-boggling.

“How could they do this to themselves?” Geronimo inquired absently.

“They were idiots,” Captain Wargo said.

“Is that it? Is that the only answer?” Geronimo asked.

“What more do you need?” Captain Wargo encompassed both banks with a wave of his hand. “What else would you call someone who would do this? They were fools, because they possessed great power and they didn’t know how to use it.”

“What do you mean?” Geronimo queried.

“If the Americans had been smart,” Wargo stated, “they would have thrown everything they had at the Soviets without warning.”

“What?”

“I’m right and you know it,” Captain Wargo said. “The Americans blew their chance by letting the Soviets catch up to them. The Americans developed a nuclear capability first. They should have used it before anyone else did the same and conquered the world.”

“You’re putting me on,” Geronimo declared.

“I am not,” Captain Wargo responded. “You have a huge library at your Home. You must be familiar with American history.”

“We studied it,” Geronimo said.

“Right. Then you know what happened to the Americans. They let the Soviets produce their own nuclear arsenal, until it reached the point where neither side had a distinct advantage over the other. And look at what it got them! Mutual destruction. No, the Americans would have been wiser to launch a war before the Soviets built their first nuclear weapon.

They could have conquered the globe in weeks and saved themselves a lot of trouble in later years.” He paused. Patton was right all along.”

“Patton?” Geronimo reiterated.

“An American general during World War II,” Wargo said. “He was all for putting the Russians in their place. He never trusted them. But the civilian leaders refused to subscribe to his opinions. They should have listened to him.”

“I’m curious,” Blade spoke up.

“About what?” Wargo replied.

Blade focused on the river, watching for floating logs or other obstacles.

“I’m curious about the Technics. Do you consider yourselves Americans?”

“No.”

“You don’t?”

“Why should we?” Captain Wargo asked. “America is a thing of the past. They had their opportunity and they blew it. It’s up to us, the Technics, to forge a new world from the rubble the Americans left as their legacy. And you can be certain we won’t commit the same boneheaded blunders they did!”

“The Technics have it all planned out, huh?” Blade casually commented.

“You bet your ass we do,” Captain Wargo stated proudly. “Why, by the time we’re through everyone in North America will—” He abruptly paused, glancing at the giant Warrior in consternation. “Very clever,” he said.

“Very clever indeed.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Blade stated.

“Sure you don’t,” Wargo said, grinning. He gazed out at the expanse of river before them. “Let’s change the subject. Why don’t you give me a rundown on the SEAL’s armaments.”

“Again?” Blade asked.

“Humor me,” Wargo directed. “I’ll need to know what to do in case something happens to you.” He smiled wickedly. “Not that we would want anything to happen to you, of course.”

“Of course.” Blade pointed at a row of silver toggle switches in the center of the dashboard. “Those switches engage our offensive weaponry.

They’re labeled from left to right with an M, S, F, and R. The M stands for the pair of fifty-caliber machine guns we have hidden in recessed compartments under each front headlight. When you flick the M switch, a metal plate slides upward and the guns automatically fire. The S is for Surface-to-Air Missile, a Stinger mounted on a rack in the roof above the driver’s seat. A panel slides aside when the switch is pressed and the Stinger is launched. Our Stingers have an effective range of ten miles, and they’re heat-seeking.”

“And what about the F and R?” Captain Wargo prompted.

“The F is for the flamethrower positioned at the front of the SEAL, behind the front fender, in the center. Press the F and a portion of the fender lowers, the nozzle of the flamethrower extends six inches, and the flame spurts about twenty feet. The SEAL must not be moving when the flamethrower is used, or you run the risk of an explosion. Finally, we have the R switch. It’s for the Rocket Launcher secreted in the middle of the front grill. There you have it.”

Captain Wargo was grinning like a kid with a new toy. “Marvelous! Simply marvelous! There’s no way the Zombies will stop us now!”

“Says you,” Geronimo said.

“They won’t be able to stop the SEAL like they did some of our jeeps and trucks,” Captain Wargo predicted.

“Aren’t you forgetting one little fact?” Geronimo queried.

“What fact?” Wargo responded, shifting in his seat.

“If memory serves,” Geronimo reminded the Technic, “you told us some of your teams didn’t reach the site of the underground vault. But some did, didn’t they? And you said the last word you received was to the effect they were going underground. Am I right?”

“You’re right,” Wargo conceded grudgingly.

“So the real danger isn’t in reaching the site of the New York branch of the Institute of Advanced Technology,” Geronimo said. “The true threat comes when we leave the SEAL and descend to the underground vault. Correct?”

Captain Wargo looked worried. “That’s true,” he admitted.

“Typical white man,” Geronimo said to Blade. “He gets all excited because we may reach the spot in one piece where raving cannibals are waiting to rip us apart and eat us for supper.” He sighed. “How did your race ever defeat mine?”

“Beats me,” Blade said, and laughed.

The SEAL was steadily continuing its southerly course. On both sides of the Hudson River utter desolation prevailed.

“There!” the Technic commando in the rear of the transport shouted. “I see something!”

Everyone glanced to the right, in the direction he indicated.

“I don’t see anything,” Captain Wargo said after a bit.

“I saw something,” the soldier insisted.

“Are you sure, Kimper?” Wargo asked doubtfully.

“I’m positive, sir,” Private Kimper stated. “I saw something moving.”

Blade scanned the mounds of slag, dirt, dust, and rubble. The inhospitable, bleak land seemed to reek of death. “What would be moving out there?” he idly inquired.

“Only one thing,” Captain Wargo said. “The Zombies.”

“What do you know about these Zombies beside the fact they’re cannibals?” Geronimo asked the officer.

“Not much,” Wargo confessed. “We know there are thousands of them, and they eat anything they can get their grimy hands on. We also know they live in a maze of underground tunnels, old sewer and electrical conduit systems, not to mention the subway network.”

“Thousands of them?” Geronimo stared at the wreckage. “How can they find enough to eat, enough to support so many?”

Captain Wargo shrugged. “They find a way.” He thoughtfully chewed on his lower lip, then spoke. “And remember. We have reason to believe the Zombies aren’t the only… things… down there. So when we descend to the vault, watch yourselves.”

“I didn’t know you cared,” Geronimo joked.

“I couldn’t care less about what happens to you,” Wargo said. “But the Minister wants the SEAL returned to Technic City intact, and you two know more about it than I do. I know I could drive it, but I don’t have the extensive experience Blade has accumulated. It would be better for our mission if one of you survives to drive the SEAL back.”

“We’ll do our best,” Geronimo mentioned.

Blade cleared his throat. “How far down is this vault?”

“Far,” Wargo said.

“How far, exactly?” Blade inquired.

“Fifteen stories underground,” Wargo answered.

“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.