Atlanta Run

by David Robbins

  From somewhere deep within Atlanta a siren wailed.

  Blade advanced boldly, never slackening his pace. He saw the six guards fan out the width of the road, blocking the gate, and he knew they would stop him. Undaunted, he continued, and when he was within 60 yards of the waiting men in blue he noticed one other person near the gate, sitting on the left side, back to the wall.

  A person he’d seen earlier.

  The elderly man in the bedraggled clothes.

  One of the guards took two strides forward, his hands on his hips.

  Blade smiled as he approached the men in blue. None of the guards sported firearms. Every man, though, had a thin leather holster attacked to his belt, some with the holster on their right hip, others on their left.

  The guard in front was a burly character with bushy brows and a glowering countenance.

  Blade glanced at the elderly man, who was observing him sadly. Why?

  “Halt!” the burly guard barked when the giant was ten yards off.

  Blade complied.

  “Raise your arms straight out and turn around slowly,” the guard directed.

  The Warrior obeyed.

  “Okay, stranger,” the guard said when the giant had made a complete revolution. “Come here.”

  Blade walked to within a foot of the head guard. “Hello,” he said pleasantly.

  “Where are you from?” the man demanded.

  Obviously, they knew he wasn’t from Atlanta. “I’m from Miami,” Blade replied.

  “Miami, huh?” the guard commented. “We get about a dozen from the Miami area each year. What’s your business in Atlanta?”

  “I’m trying to find a cousin of mine,” Blade lied.

  “You have a relative here?”

  “I was told that my cousin lives here,” Blade answered. “Maybe you know her. Her name is Llewellyn Snow.”

  “The name doesn’t ring a bell,” the man said. “What’s yours?”

  “Jack. Jack Snow.”

  “Well, Mr. Snow,” the guard stated, “I’m Officer Connery. And I’m going to tell you how it is. Although you’re not a Citizen of Atlanta, you’re entitled to certain rights by decree of the Civil Council. You have the right to an attorney at any time. Should you violate a law, you have the right to a preliminary hearing within twenty-four hours of the offense. Bear in mind, an accused person is always considered guilty until proven innocent. This—”

  “Guilty until proven innocent?” Blade repeated. He had the impression Officer Connery was reciting memorized information. “Isn’t that backwards? Before the war, a person was viewed as innocent until proven guilty.”

  Officer Connery studied the giant. “You must be literate.”

  “I can read,” Blade acknowledged.

  “Be sure and tell that to your Escort,” Officer Connery suggested. “If you decide to apply for Citizenship Status, it will be a plus in your favor.”

  “My Escort?”

  “Every visitor to Atlanta is assigned an official escort,” Officer Connery said. “The Escort will be with you at all times. After all”—he smiled—“we wouldn’t want you to wander around by yourself and get lost.”

  “How very thoughtful,” Blade noted dryly.

  “Now where was I?” Connery commented. “Oh, yes. An accused person is always considered guilty until proven innocent. This is because the Civil Rights of the majority outweigh the rights of any one individual.”

  Blade listened in fascination, now convinced the officer was giving a standard speech, one delivered by rote to each newcomer.

  “If you have any questions, ask your Escort,” Officer Connery said. “All visitors are granted a forty-eight-hour stay in Atlanta. Should you desire to stay longer, you must receive permission. Ask your Escort about the procedure.”

  “Will the Escort help me find my cousin?”

  “Yes,” Connery answered. “Your Escort is at your service. Anything you need, the Escort will provide. The Citizens of Atlanta want your stay here to be a happy, memorable experience.”

  “I didn’t expect such courtesy,” Blade mentioned.

  “Those who serve are those who are happy,” Connery remarked as if he was quoting from a book.

  “Where do I meet my Escort?”

  “Wait over there,” Officer Connery instructed, pointing at the elderly man sitting to the left of the gate. “A patrol will conduct you to the Visitors Bureau in the Civil Directorate in a few minutes. You will be assigned to an Escort there.”

  “Thanks,” Blade said, and took a stride toward the wall.

  “Just a moment,” Officer Connery declared, holding aloft his right hand. “There’s one more thing.”

  “What?”

  “You must be frisked. Weapons are not allowed in Atlanta. You can declare any arms here, and they will be held until you are ready to leave the city. Do you have any to declare?” Blade hesitated. If he said yes, they would take his Bowies, leaving him unarmed. If he told them no, they might discover the knives while frisking him and confiscate them or refuse to admit him, or both. There were only six, and he was confident he could take care of them if violence erupted. He glanced at the three on the rampart, startled to observe AR-15s in their hands. Where did the guns come from? Chastity had claimed the police force carried black-jacks, which explained the thin leather holsters on the six officers outside the gate. Was Chastity mistaken, or did only the wall guards use AR-15s and she was unaware of it? This changed the entire situation. If he said no and they found the Bowies, they might shoot him on the spot. Better to lose the knives than risk death or imprisonment. But before he could open his mouth to reply, Officer Connery reached out and patted his waist.

  “This won’t take long,” Connery mentioned.

  The Warrior tensed as the officer’s hands expertly probed his belt and roamed over his black leather vest.

  “Most travelers do carry weapons,” Officer Connery remarked.

  “Although someone your size might not need any.” He leaned down, his hands pressing against the giant’s pockets, feeling for a pocketknife or a derringer.

  Blade casually gazed up at the trio on the rampart.

  “The crime rate is very low here,” Connery went on. “The Orientation and Community Directorates see to that.”

  “What are they?” Blade asked, girding himself to make a bid to escape into the nearby forest.

  “Your Escort will explain everything,” Officer Connery said, lowering his hands to the giant’s knees.

  Blade focused on the right side of the officer’s neck. A single, well-placed strike should do the trick.

  Connery’s hands hovered inches from the Warrior’s ankles.

  There was a sudden commotion at the gate as a half-dozen men in blue marched up to the metal bars. The gate was arranged with the vertical bars spaced six inches apart and with thicker horizontal bars at the top and bottom. A huge, square lock secured the two sections in the center.

  “Sergeant Connery! Open up!” a tall man with a clipped brown mustache and short brown hair bellowed.

  Connery straightened and stood. “Yes, sir.” He hurried over, produced a key ring from his right front pocket, and unlocked the gate. “You’re five minutes early, Captain.” He grabbed one of the vertical bars and pulled the gate open.

  “There were no visitors at the other gates,” the captain commented as he stepped out, his brown eyes raking the giant. “Who is this?”

  “Mr. Jack Snow,” Officer Connery answered. “He’s here looking for a relative.”

  The captain nodded. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Captain Yost.” He caught sight of the elderly man and frowned.

  “Long time no see, Yost,” the elderly man said sarcastically.

  “Glisson!” Captain Yost snapped. “I’d given you up for dead.”

  “Not yet.”

  “What are you doing here?” Captain Yost questioned.

  “The usual.”

  “Once a leech, always a leech,” Captain Y
ost declared.

  “Is that any way for a Citizen to talk to a visitor?” Glisson retorted.

  Captain Yost took a stride toward Glisson. “Have a care, old man. And I do mean old.” He paused. “How old are you, anyway?”

  “Sixty-four.”

  “Do tell?” Captain Yost grinned and looked at Blade. “We will take you to the Visitors Bureau.”

  “Thank you.”

  Captain Yost motioned for Blade and Glisson to precede him through the gate. “After you.”

  The man called Glisson rose slowly and shuffled forward. “If it’s any consolation, Captain,” he said, “the last thing I ever wanted to do was come back here.”

  “Are you becoming noble in your old age?” Yost cracked.

  Glisson walked inside, his lean frame stooped at the waist, his shoulders hunched. His brown shoes were cracked and discolored, his tan pants sported ragged holes on both knees, and his olive shirt had seen better days decades ago.

  Blade waited until Glisson entered, then followed.

  Captain Yost was last. He turned and addressed the sergeant. “Keep your eyes peeled. The OCI has received word of a rebel band in the area.”

  “Has the report been confirmed?” Officer Connery asked.

  “No,” Captain Yost said. “But you never can tell.”

  “We’ll stay alert,” Officer Connery promised.

  “You’d better,” Yost declared. “It’s your ass if you don’t.” The five men with him had formed into a straight file and were standing at attention, facing the inner city, the skyscrapers on the horizon. He moved to the lead position, then glanced at Blade and Glisson. “Follow us. And don’t stray.”

  So saying, he waved his right arm and the squad began to march to the west.

  Blade tramped on the last patrolman’s heels.

  Glisson kept pace on the giant’s right. “So this is your first visit to Atlanta?” he inquired after they had covered 15 yards.

  “Yes,” Blade confirmed.

  “I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation with Connery,” Glisson remarked.

  Blade was busy surveying his surroundings, his first glimpse of the metropolis close up. Trees lined the road. They were in a residential area, with immaculately maintained frame homes and neatly trimmed lawns.

  Children played in the front yards. Sidewalks bordered the asphalt, but Yost was leading his men along the right side of the road, next to the curb.

  There was no vehicular traffic.

  “Do you know anything about Atlanta?” Glisson queried in a low tone.

  “Not much.”

  “Do you plan to stay here after you locate your relative?” Glisson asked.

  Blade glanced at the man. “Why all the questions?”

  Glisson looked at the backs of the squad, then at the giant. “I’m not being nosy. No, sir! A person doesn’t live to my age by prying into the affairs of others.”

  Blade spotted two youngsters tossing a blue ball.

  “If you want to stay here, that’s fine by me,” Glisson continued. “I’m not about to tell anyone what to do.”

  “How many times have you been here?” Blade inquired.

  “I’ve lost count,” Glisson said.

  “If you like Atlanta so much, why don’t you live here?”

  Glisson snickered. “I wouldn’t be talking to you right now if I’d lived here.”

  “I don’t understand,” Blade admitted.

  “You will.”

  The road curved to the north, then angled westward again. A panoramic vista of the city spread before them, the skyscrapers rearing skyward at the very heart of Atlanta. Approximately a mile from the center of the municipality, in contrast to the older edifices, loomed seven eerie silver structures, ten-story monoliths constructed of a lustrous synthetic.

  “What are those?” Blade asked in amazement. From a distance, from beyond the outer wall, the monoliths had blended into the skyline, indistinguishable and unexceptional.

  “They’re the Directorates,” Glisson disclosed.

  “Do people live there?”

  “No,” Glisson said, chuckling. “The Directorates are government buildings.”

  “Why are there so many?”

  “Each Directorate is different,” Glisson said. “Each one has a separate function.” He paused and scratched his grizzled chin. “Let’s see. There’s the Civil Directorate, the Ethics Directorate, the Community Directorate, the Euthanasia Directorate, the Life Directorate, the Progress Directorate, and the Orientation Directorate.” He smiled. “Damn! I remembered them all!”

  “Is the mayor in the Civil Directorate?”

  “The mayor?”

  “I read about city governments,” Blade said. “Most cities were governed by a mayor.”

  Glisson laughed and shook his head. “Mister, that was ages ago, before the war, when there was such a thing as democracy. Times have changed.

  Most cities are city-states, and democracy died with the launching of the missiles.”

  “There are a few pockets of democracy left,” Blade mentioned.

  “They’re few and far between,” Glisson said. “And Atlanta isn’t one of them.” He glanced at the squad, at Captain Yost, dread flitting across his features.

  “So who is in charge of Atlanta?”

  “The Peers.”

  “And who are they?” Blade questioned.

  “The seven heads of the Directorates,” Glisson replied.

  “They run the show?” Blade remarked.

  “Mister, they are the show. They control the whole shebang. Whatever they say, goes.” Glisson stared at the monoliths and shuddered. “The seven Peers, collectively, are called the Civil Council. If you like being healthy, don’t ever cross them.”

  “How are these Peers picked? Are they elected by the people?” Blade probed.

  Glisson snickered. “Elected? Don’t make me laugh! The Peers are appointed for life. Whenever a vacancy occurs, the remaining members get together and pick a replacement. This way, they can keep it in the family.”

  “I don’t understand,” Blade admitted.

  The elderly man studied the giant. “They sure grow ’em stupid where you come from.”

  “Bear with me,” Blade said. “This is my first time here, remember?”

  “And it could be your last,” Glisson muttered.

  Blade gazed at four children playing in a nearby yard. “Atlanta seems peaceful enough to me.”

  “Looks can be deceiving,” Glisson responded.

  “Are you sure that you’re not exaggerating?”

  “May God strike me…” Glisson began, abruptly stopping as the patrol came to a sudden halt.

  Captain Yost was holding his right arm aloft and glancing over his left shoulder at Glisson.

  “Damn!” Glisson muttered. “I’m in for it now.”

  Captain Yost smiled maliciously as he strolled toward the old man.

  “I didn’t do anything,” Glisson blurted.

  Yost halted, his smile widening. “I had no idea you want to become an Escort.”

  Glisson did a double take. “What the hell are you talking about? The last thing I would do is kiss ass for a living.”

  “Don’t be shy,” Captain Yost said. “If you want to be an Escort, I’ll put in a word for you.” He chuckled.

  Blade listened to the exchange in perplexity. Yost was baiting Glisson for some reason. Obviously, the good captain disliked the elderly gent intensely. But why?

  “What game are you playing?” Glisson demanded. “I’ll never be an Escort and you know it.”

  “You could have fooled me,” Captain Yost stated bitterly. “You’ve been acting just like an Escort for Mr. Snow here. I’m impressed by your knowledge of Atlanta’s governmental structure. I really am. I didn’t think your pea brain was capable of retaining anything.”

  “Screw you!”

  Captain Yost made a smacking noise with his tongue. “How typically crude! And I was trying
to be nice!”

  “Why don’t you shove a broom up your butt?” Glisson snapped. “It might improve your disposition.”

  Yost straightened and clasped his hands behind his back. “I have you, you bastard! After all these years I have you!”

  “I know my rights!” Glisson exclaimed. “Good,” Yost sneered. “Where I’m taking you, a knowledge of your rights will come in handy.” He laughed. Glisson gulped and glanced at the monoliths. “Where are you taking me?”

  Captain Yost ignored the question and looked at the giant. “I trust you will bear with me. We must make a slight detour, and then I will conduct you to the Civil Directorate.”

  “Where are you taking me?” Glisson asked anxiously. Yost faced the man in the tattered clothing. “Where else, you lying degenerate? You’re not sixty-four. You’re sixty-seven.”

  Glisson took a step backwards, his right hand rising to his throat. “You knew?”

  Captain Yost nodded. “I’ve been waiting to nail your ass for a long time!

  I despise leeches like you.” He paused. “No, you won’t be freeloading off the citizens of Atlanta any more. You’re not going to the Civil Directorate.”

  “No!” Glisson cried.

  “Yes,” Captain Yost said, gloating. “I’m taking you to Euthanasia.”

  Chapter Six

  In his eagerness to reach Blade and warn his colossal companion not to enter Atlanta, Rikki-Tikki-Tavi was uncharacteristically careless. He dashed through the undergrowth, angling toward the road, certain he would overtake Blade easily.

  He didn’t count on the pit.

  Rikki reached a wide clearing halfway between Hickok’s position on the rise and the highway. The Uzi flapped against his right shoulder and his katana scabbard bumped his left thigh. He gripped the hilt of his cherished sword to keep the weapon in place, his eyes surveying the vegetation ahead for the clearest path. In two more bounds the trap was sprung. His left foot landed and started to sink as the ground buckled under his weight. He realized his mistake, gauged the danger, and reacted in milliseconds; even as his left leg sagged he was throwing himself into the air, launching his steely form as far forward as he could manage, hoping his outstretched fingers would find a purchase on solid turf.

  He was almost successful.