Green Bay Run by David Robbins

Author:David Robbins [Robbins, David]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: sf_postapocalyptic, sf_action
ISBN: 9780843929799
Publisher: Leisure Books
Published: 1990-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

“What do you suppose happened to them?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Do you want me to go see?” Samson asked.

“No. I will,” Blade said. “You stay here with the SEAL.” He glanced at the Nazarite, who had concealed himself behind a maple tree a few yards to the east, then left the shelter of the oak he had squatted next to for the past 15 minutes. What could have happened to the Technics? he mused.

Why hadn’t they given chase to the SEAL?

“May the Lord guide your steps,” Samson said.

Blade nodded and hurried toward the highway, visible through the trees 50 yards to the south. To his rear, 20 feet beyond Samson, camouflaged with limbs and brush and parked in a clearing where waist-high weeds predominated, rested the transport. He’d driven the van into the forest to lose the Technics.

So where were the soldiers?

He’d sped off after the heavyset trooper had shot the elderly woman, and driven approximately a mile before wheeling into the woods, expecting the three jeeps would be in prompt pursuit. But they’d never materialized.

Most strange.

Why would the Technics give up so easily? Normally, the soldiers would have hounded the SEAL relentlessly. Which convinced Blade that the Technics must have a trick up their collective sleeve.

But what?

He looked in both directions when he reached State Highway 54. The belt of asphalt mocked him with its emptiness. Frustrated, he walked westward, listening for the sound of vehicle engines. His combat boots slapped on the hard surface. A flock of starlings winged overhead.

Moments later a bee buzzed past him. He inhaled, savoring the tranquil scene, knowing all too well the respite from the seething violence so prevalent in the postwar era would be fleeting.

It was.

A raspy snarl rent the humid air to his left.

Blade whirled, bringing up the Commando, and spied a slavering mutation standing at the edge of the forest, a two-headed lynx further deformed by a grotesque hump bulging above its front legs. Although nowhere near as big as a mountain lion, a typical lynx was deadly in its own right. And this one wasn’t typical. Almost four feet in height and weighing close to 60 pounds, the mutation combined the feral attributes of a wild feline with the deranged thirst for blood of a genetic deviate.

And how Blade despised the deviates!

Ever since his father had been slain by one of the mutated variety, he had hated all mutants with a vengeance. Because of the massive amounts of radiation and chemical-warfare toxins unleashed on the environment during the war, the entire ecological chain had been disrupted, genetically poisoned for generations to come, and the Outlands were infested with the creatures. Everywhere he went, he encountered them. Every-where he went, he vented his hatred. And like now, he met them head-on, a grim smile plastered on his countenance.

Growling from one mouth and hissing from the other, the lynx crouched and padded forward. A tawny coat of hair covered its body, except for the black tufts at the tip of its pointed ears and the patch of black at the end of its short tail.

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