“The gas was developed by the Institute of Advanced Technology for the Defense Department at the outset of World War Three,” Captain Wargo elaborated painfully, wheezing between words. “They planned to use it on the Soviets, but New York was hit before they could transfer the canisters of the gas from here to a military installation.” He paused, gathering his breath. “The New York branch wired the Chicago branch of the shipment’s readiness minutes before New York was hit. The canisters have been in the underground vault since.”
“What does this gas do?” Blade probed.
“Makes a person susceptible to any command they’re given,” Captain Wargo said. “The Minister… intends to make more of it. Use it on the Freedom Federation and the Soviets.”
“He wants to conquer the world,” Blade observed.
“For the greater glory of the Technics,” Wargo stated. “Needs samples to duplicate, like your SEAL.”
Blade placed his right hand on Wargo’s chest. “The SEAL? What does the SEAL have to do with it?”
Wargo was slipping fast. “Make… machines… tanks… from the same substance…”
“Why are you telling us this?” Geronimo asked.
Wargo’s eyes fluttered. “Least I could do.” His eyes widened, and for a moment he was mentally alert and in full possession of his faculties. He stared at Blade and, unbelievably, laughed, a hard, brittle tittering.
“Besides… doesn’t matter anymore… does it?” His body straightened and fluttered, he gasped once, and died.
“I can’t say as I’ll miss him,” Geronimo remarked.
“Me neither,” Blade confessed. “But we owe him for telling us about the mind-control gas.”
“So what do we do now?” Geronimo questioned.
Blade stood. “We get out of here.”
“Now you’re talking!”
“Go through Kimper’s clothes and gear,” Blade directed. “We’ll need all the spare magazines and ammunition for these Dakon IIs we can find.”
“Got you.”
The two Warriors searched Wargo and Kimper and found a total of six spare magazines and four boxes of ammunition.
“We’ll each take three magazines and two boxes,” Blade told Geronimo as he crammed one of the magazines into his right front pocket. He loaded his pockets, then crossed to Private Kimper and crouched next to his body.
“What are you doing?” Geronimo asked.
Blade unfastened the pulse scanner from Kimper’s right wrist. “It looks like this gizmo is still on,” he said. The screen contained a network of black lines.
“Do you know how to read it?” Geronimo queried hopefully.
“Not really,” Blade admitted. “But…” He paused. Small, white blips had sprouted on the screen along its outer edge. They were swiftly converging inward the center. “I think company is coming.”
“Zombies?”
“Who else?” Blade rose and hurried to the large hole in the wall.
Geronimo followed. “We don’t want a canister as a keepsake?”
“The stairs may well be intact on the lower levels,” Blade said, “but we’re not going to bother finding out. We’re going up. And fast.”
“I like a man who knows his mind.”
They reached the corridor and raced back the way they’d came. Blade saw additional white blips appear on the pulse scanner. If he was reading the thing right, the Zombies were moving toward the room they’d just vacated. And there didn’t seem to be any blips corresponding to the hallway they were in. If he was correct, they’d reach the hole allowing access to the level above them without being attacked.
They did.
“How are we going to get up there?” Geronimo asked as his helmet lamp swept the opening 12 feet overhead.
“Easily,” Blade said, slinging his Dakon II over his right shoulder.
“Oh? Are we going to fly?” Geronimo quipped, studying the hole.
“One of us is,” Blade responded. Before Geronimo quite knew what had happened, Blade stepped behind his companion, grabbing Geronimo by the back of his belt and the fabric of his green shirt at the nape of his neck.
“Hey! What are you doing?” Geronimo demanded.
“Relax and enjoy the trip,” Blade told him. His bulging arms lifted Geronimo and swung his friend down and up, twice in fast succession, gathering speed with each swing. “Get set,” he advised.
Geronimo, marveling at Blade’s prodigious strength, clasped his Dakon II and grinned.
A third time Blade swung his fellow Warrior, and then he heaved and released his grip.
Geronimo was propelled through the opening, landing on his stomach with his legs suspended from the hole. He used his elbows to crawl to his feet, then looked down at Blade. “And how are you going to make it?”
Blade gauged the distance. “It’s too high to jump.”
“You’d best hurry,” Geronimo cautioned him.
Blade glanced at the pulse scanner. “I agree.” White blips were moving his way. He unslung the Dakon II.
“I’ve got an idea,” Geronimo said.
“Make it fast,” Blade stated. The blips were much closer.
Geronimo placed his Dakon II on the floor and removed his shirt.
“Here!” He held onto one sleeve and dropped the shirt through the hole.
Blade scanned the corridor behind him, then looked at the shirt. The other sleeve was dangling about nine feet over his head. An easy jump for one of his enormous stature.
Footsteps pounded in the hallway to his rear.
Blade whirled, his helmet light illuminating four hissing Zombies closing in, four more of the detestable deviates with a craving for healthy human flesh. Blade blasted them with the Dakon.
The Zombies danced spasmodically as they were struck, then fell.
More blips filled the pulse scanner. Blade reslung the Dakon, crouched, and leaped, his arms stretched to their limit, his fingers clamping on the shirt and holding last. “Pull!”
Geronimo was nearly upended. The weight was almost too much for his arms to bear. Crouched at the rim, he sagged, about to pitch forward, but caught himself in the nick of time. He gritted his teeth as his arms strained to raise Blade a couple of feet, hoping the shirt would hold. The Family Weavers had constructed his clothing, and their garments were renowned for their durability. But Blade felt as if he weighed a ton!
“Hurry!” Blade prompted him.
Every muscle on Geronimo’s stocky body quivered as he rose an inch, then several more.
Swaying below the hole. Blade waited, his body taut. If Geronimo could get him close enough to the rim…
Something suddenly encircled the Warrior’s legs.
Blade looked down, dumbfounded to see a Zombie clinging to his ankles. The creature’s teeth were exposed as it snarled and snapped at his leg, tearing into his fatigue pants but missing the skin underneath.
Geronimo felt the shirt wrench to one side, and he glanced down.
Blade twisted, striving to extricate his legs, hoping the Zombie would not succeed in taking a chunk out of him. An insane idea occurred to him, a desperate maneuver to disentangle his legs and reach the level above. He balled his right fist and lashed downward, his left hand bearing the brunt of his massive weight, and crashed his fist into the Zombie’s hairless skull.
Staggered by the blow, the Zombie released its grip and glared up at its dinner.
Which was exactly what Blade wanted.
The giant Warrior drew his legs up to his chest, then lashed his feet down, deliberately driving his boots onto the Zombie’s slim shoulders. In the instant his soles made contact, Blade pushed upward, using the Zombie as a springboard, uncoiling and springing through the hole in the floor to sprawl beside Geronimo.
Geronimo tumbled backwards, landing on his posterior. He yanked on his shirt and smiled at Blade. “What? No full gainer?”