David L. Robbins - Endworld 22 - Green Bay Run

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2024-12-23 0 0 376.26KB 182 页 5.9玖币
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Green Bay Run
#22 in the Endworld series
David L. Robbins
Prologue
The wolves would feast on his corpse soon.
He reached the top of a low hill and glanced over his right shoulder at
the pack of seven dark forms flitting through the forest. A shudder rippled
along his spine at the thought of their glistening teeth crunching into his
body. He gazed up at the afternoon sun, sweat caking his skin, then
hastened down the hill.
How much farther?
After coming so very, very far, after traveling hundreds of miles and
having survived encounters with scavengers, mutations, and wild beasts,
the idea that he might die brought tears of frustration to the corners of his
brown eyes.
Not now!
Not when he might be close to his goal!
His weariness caused him to stumble over a limb lying on the ground in
his path. He maintained his balance with an effort and forged ahead, his
hands gripping his Winchester tightly, his knuckles white.
One bullet.
All he had left was one lousy bullet!
If worse came to worst, if he continued to weaken and the wolves made
their move, he could always use the last bullet on himself. At least he
wouldn't be eaten alive. The horror of dying alone, lost somewhere in the
wilderness of northwestern Minnesota, weighed heavily on his heart. The
fact that he had failed his loved ones, that a terrible fate would befall
them—if it hadn't already—contributed to his melancholy.
If only he could find the Home!
He surveyed the dense woods ringing him on all sides and frowned.
Three weeks ago when he had departed Green Bay on his prized mare,
locating the Home had seemed feasible. Now, he felt as if he were looking
for the proverbial needle in a haystack. How could he hope to contact the
Family without the exact location of their compound? He'd known the
odds were against him when he started on his mercy mission, but he'd
always entertained the optimistic belief that he would succeed despite the
odds.
He had to succeed.
If he didn't, his wife and daughter were doomed.
A throaty growl sounded to his rear.
Startled, he spun and spotted a large gray wolf less than 15 feet away,
standing there and regarding him intently.
"Beat it!" he shouted, thinking the sound of his voice might drive the
animal off. "Go eat a rabbit!"
The wolf simply stood there, its black nose twitching, seemingly
unaffected by the blistering August heat despite its heavy grizzled gray
coat and long, bushy tail.
"Leave me alone!" he bellowed. He took a step toward the wolf and
swung his rifle by the barrel. "Go!"
With an air of calm indifference, the wolf turned and padded softly into
the undergrowth. In seconds the vegetation closed around its streamlined
form.
But where were the others?
Were they preparing to attack?
He turned and resumed his trek to the northwest, ignoring the hunger
pains in his stomach. When was the last time he'd eaten? Two days ago?
Three? He shook his head, deciding his appetite didn't matter. He couldn't
afford to stop to eat with the wolves on his trail. Even if the wolves quit
their tireless, stealthy shadowing, he was reluctant to use his sole
remaining bullet on game.
Now what had he been thinking about before the wolf inter-rupted
him?
Oh, yes.
The Home.
His brow knit as he tried to remember every fact he had ever been told
about the Home and the Family. A survivalist guy had constructed the
30-acre retreat before World War Three. Since the damn war had
transpired 106 years ago, the Home's continued existence testified to the
tenacity of its occupants, descendants of the survivalist and those he had
selected to join him at the compound prior to the launching of the
missiles.
Think.
What else did he know?
The Home, so the story went, was located in an isolated area not all
that far from the Canadian border, on the outskirts of the former Lake
Bronson State Park. According to the map he'd lost when his horse was
killed, the Home must be north of State Highway 11 and east of U.S.
Highway 59. He'd crossed over State Highway 11 an hour and a half ago,
so if his calculations were correct, and if the whole tale about the Home
wasn't a blatant Technic lie, then he must be close.
What if the story was a lie? he asked himself.
If so, he'd come all this way for nothing.
He shook his head, his lips compressing in a thin line, and resolved to
quit being so negative. Sure, the story had sounded farfetched when he'd
first heard a version of it from that drunken sot at the tavern he
frequented on the outskirts of Green Bay. But then others had related
similar accounts, and despite his better judgment he'd gradually accepted
the reports as accurate.
Imagine!
Someone had actually beaten the Technics at their own ruthless game!
The various accounts all agreed on certain basic points. As always, the
treacherous Technics had been up to no good. They'd learned about the
existence of the Home and had deviously endeavored to extract an
important secret from the Family. The exact nature of the secret was a
mystery, but in light of the Technics' well-known interest in expanding the
area under their control, it must have been important to their war
preparations. The Family, somehow, had thwarted the Technics. Not only
that, a Warrior from the Home had slain the Technic leader and thrown
Technic City into turmoil. Once called Chicago, the metropolis was now
enclosed within an electri-fied fence and the people were forced to abide
by the autocratic dictates of their technocratic masters.
Thank God he didn't live in Technic City!
He would rather live on his small farm, rather have to contend with the
uncertainties of rural life, than reside in a city where the people were
subservient to technology, where machines mattered more than the
persons running them. On the farm, at least, he enjoyed genuine freedom.
A raspy snarl came from the right.
Leveling the Winchester, he turned and saw two wolves watching him.
They were growing bolder and bolder as the minutes passed. How long
before they tried to bring him down? He realized they were probably as
hungry as he was, other-wise they wouldn't be stalking him. Wolves
seldom went after humans unless empty bellies prompted them to
disregard their customary caution where homo sapiens were concerned.
A yelp sounded to the left.
He looked, and the skin on his back tingled when he saw two more
wolves near a thicket. Incipient panic welled within him, but he swallowed
hard, wheeled, and hastened to the northwest. Maybe the wolves would
leave him alone for a while longer. Maybe they would wait for nightfall.
Maybe he could hold them off if he climbed a tree.
Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.
A narrow stream materialized several dozen yards ahead, a ribbon of
water flowing from north to south.
He increased his pace, licking his dry lips, eager to taste the cool liquid.
If only he hadn't lost his canteen and all of his provisions when that band
of scavengers shot his mare out from under him a week ago! Since then,
he'd subsisted on whatever he could shoot for food, and he had been lucky
enough to find a spring or a creek every other day or so to quench his
thirst. Right at the moment his throat was parched.
A lone wolf appeared on the far side of the stream.
He halted and raised the Winchester to his right shoulder. If the wolves
thought they were going to keep him from the water, they had another
thing coming. He'd use his last bullet, if necessary, to slake his thirst.
The wolf, a huge beast sporting a white streak down its tail, walked to
the water and began lapping greedily, its eyes on the man.
So the heat was getting to them, as well. He grinned and waited until
the wolf finished and retreated into the brush, then he hurried to the
water and dropped on his hands and knees. His craving made him
careless. Without considering his safety, he set the rifle on the grass to his
left and plunged his hands into the stream.
How refreshing the slowly flowing water felt on his fingers!
He laughed and leaned down to splash his face and neck, savoring the
relief, feeling the liquid trickle under his tattered blue T-shirt and down
his chest. The stream was four feet wide from bank to bank and half again
as deep. Pebbles and loose gravel were on the bottom.
What if there were fish?
He lowered his mouth to the stream and sipped, knowing he might
become sick if he drank too fast. Oblivious to all else, he swallowed and
stared at his reflection on the surface. His unkempt black hair stuck out at
all angles. The water distorted his hooked nose, giving him a birdlike
aspect enhanced by his scarecrow frame. He looked down at himself, at his
ragged jeans, estimating he had lost 20 pounds on the journey.
At that moment, when he was totally distracted, the patter of rushing
feet arose behind him.
He tried to grab his rifle and straighten, but his pervasive fatigue
hampered his reflexes. His left hand wrapped around the Winchester
barrel, and then a heavy form crashed into his right hip and drove him
forward.
Into the stream.
Water enveloped him, and under any other circumstances he would
have welcomed the sensation, but now he was fighting for his life against a
pack of feral foes who wanted his flesh to fill their stomachs. Sharp teeth
tore into his right side. If he hadn't been underwater, he would have
screamed. Instead, he flung his legs and right arm down, checking his
descent, and surged erect, gasping for air when he broke the surface.
On his right a wolf snapped furiously at him while striving to secure a
foothold.
He lifted the rifle, both hands on the barrel, intending to club the beast
in the head, when a second wolf materialized on the west bank and
crouched to spring. His arms whipped the Winchester in a downward arc
and the stock caught the animal on the head, smashing into the wolf
above the right eye and flinging the beast against the bank.
The second wolf scrambled to right itself, but its rear legs kept slipping
on the side of the stream.
He took several strides to the south, backing away from both wolves,
then darted to the west bank and clambered from the water. An
adrenaline rush had supplanted his fatigue with a burst of energy, and he
took advantage of his newfound vigor, shoving to his feet and fleeing to the
northwest before either wolf could climb out. They would be on his trail in
seconds, but he had a greater worry.
Where were the other five?
All day there had been seven wolves hounding him. He scanned the
forest for them as he ran, his heart thumping in his chest. Would they leap
from concealment or chase him, wear him down as they invariably did
with deer and elk? Wolves customarily dogged a herd or individual victim,
waiting for their quarry to exhibit any sign of weakness. They were
Nature's gleaners. Their purpose in the natural order of things was to
eliminate the sick, injured, and defective specimens they came across. A
healthy deer, elk, or moose had nothing to fear from a wolf pack.
A short bark came from the south.
He looked over his left shoulder and gulped at the sight of a pair of
wolves loping after him. They were deliberately holding back, running just
fast enough to keep him in view.
The bastards!
His legs pumped strenuously as he weaved through a stand of saplings
and reached a wide field. On the far side, at the north edge, reared a
towering oak tree.
Salvation!
He made for the tree, confident he could resist the pack once he
climbed beyond their grasp. An intense pain racked his right side where
the wolf had bitten him. He knew he was bleeding, but he couldn't afford
to take even a second to examine the wound. He singlemindedly focused
on the oak to the exclusion of all else. A quick check to his rear brought
goose bumps to his skin.
There were four wolves now.
And they were ever so slowly narrowing the gap.
No!
He breathed in great gasps as he sprinted toward the tree. A smile
curled his mouth upward when he saw there were two low-hanging limbs
he could use to vault to a safe perch. The wolves could howl and growl all
they wanted, but he would be safe.
Or so he thought.
Until three wolves ran from behind the tree and fanned out in front of
the trunk.
Stunned, he slowed and hefted the Winchester, uncertain of what to do.
They had him cut off and hemmed in, at their mercy, and wolves weren't
notorious for their compassion.
The trio near the tree had halted and were waiting for him. their
mouths hanging open, their large, tapered canines and red tongues visible.
He stopped 20 feet from them and turned sideways so he could see
both groups. The four pursuing him likewise stopped and gazed at his
wheezing form. He aimed at one of the wolves to the north, then at one to
the south, debating whether to shoot one in the hope the rest would take
off.
A wolf to the north suddenly crouched, then charged straight at him.
Acting more on instinct than conscious design, he twisted, sighted, and
squeezed the trigger. The booming retort and the bullet striking the
ground inches from the wolf caused the beast to veer to the west and run
several yards. He lowered the rifle and frowned in exasperation. He'd
missed! His life was on the line and he'd missed!
None of the wolves had fled.
He reversed his grip and grasped the barrel, prepared to go down
fighting.
One of the wolves to the south launched itself forward, hurtling at the
human's legs.
Scarcely breathing, he elevated the stock and swung with all of his
strength. The wolf easily evaded the blow, darting to the right and
bounding beyond his reach.
Were they toying with him?
Several of the pack sat on their haunches.
Bewildered by their behavior, he scrutinized them, glancing from wolf
to wolf, waiting for the first one to come at him. But they stayed where
they were, staring, always staring, and if he didn't know better he would
have sworn they were grinning at him, mocking him, well aware that all
they had to do was bide their time and he would weaken enough for them
to finish him off at their leisure. He looked at the tree, thinking he might
try to break through them, and his eyes widened in astonish-ment when
he saw a man standing less than a dozen yards to the left of the oak.
The newcomer wore a one-piece, seamless, dark blue uniform that fit
snugly on his immense physique. His eyes were a penetrating blue, his
short hair and sweeping mustache both an unusual silver shade. Over his
left shoulder was slung a carbine. A revolver rested in a brown leather
holster under his left arm, an auto pistol in a similar holster under his
right. On his left hip rode a curved scimitar in a scabbard, and on his
right a survival knife. "Hello," this walking arsenal said. "My name is
Yama. Can you use some assistance?"
The wolves all swung toward the newcomer at the sound of his low
voice. Not one of them, evidently, had sensed his approach.
"I sure can! My name is Andrew," he blurted out, relief pervading his
being. He intuitively felt that the man in blue was someone he could rely
upon. "I'm on my last legs. These wolves have been after me all day."
Yama strode toward the helpless traveler, seemingly unconcerned about
the presence of the pack. "You look exhausted. I'll take you back to the
Home with me."
"The Home!" Andrew exclaimed, and then stiffened in alarm when two
of the wolves snarled and bounded at the intruder. "Look out!" he cried.
The warning proved unnecessary.
Displaying dazzling speed and consummate skill, the man called Yama
assumed a squatting posture even as the scimitar flashed from its
scabbard. The gleaming blade swung once, twice, both strokes nearly
invisible to the naked eye and with each swing a wolf toppled to the grass,
blood spurting from its neck, almost decapitated. Yama straightened, his
scimitar held vertical, the dripping blade next to his right cheek, and
looked at the remaining wolves.
For a few seconds the pack returned the stare, then, one by one, they
spun and raced for the woods to the southeast. They disappeared into the
forest without so much as a backward glance.
"I don't believe it!" Andrew declared.
Yama squatted and wiped his scimitar on a dead wolf. "Wolves are
intelligent creatures. They don't press a fight if they know they can't win."
"Are you really from the Home?" Andrew asked.
"I'm not in the habit of lying," Yama said. He rose and replaced the
scimitar in its scabbard.
"How did you know I was here?"
Yama shifted and pointed to the northwest. "The Warrior on the south
wall saw you through his binoculars. I was target-shooting at the firing
range, so he called down to me. I notified Blade, and he sent me to
investigate."
Andrew gazed in the direction indicated and spied the top of a brick
wall off in the distance. "Is that the Home?" he inquired eagerly.
"Yes."
"Then I've made it!" Andrew said in disbelief.
"You've been searching for the Home?" Yama questioned, and started
to turn to lead the way.
"You don't know how hard and long I've been looking," Andrew replied.
"I need—" he began, then froze in surprise when he saw the ebony
silhouette of a skull stitched onto the fabric of Yama's uniform over the
shoulder blades. "Why in the world do you have that skull on your back?"
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