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?”