The martial artist struck the opposite rim with a jarring impact, his forearms hooking on the lip as his body slammed into the hard side. With the crackle of breaking branches and the swish of falling grass mats, the makeshift pit cover collapsed. Rikki dangled from the top, his fingers clawing at the earth, his feet seeking a foothold. Whoever had constructed the trap had known what they were doing; the inner surface was smooth and unyielding.
His hands were his only chance.
Rikki dug his fingernails into the dirt, grimacing at the strain, feeling himself slipping backwards, his mind filled with a vision of poison-tipped stakes waiting to skewer him. Slowly, inexorably, he was losing his grip.
Heavy footsteps sounded to his left. Two pairs of brown leather boots appeared, and stopped inches from his hands.
“Hold it!” someone declared in a low tone.
“What is it?” responded the second man. “Let’s waste the scum and be done with it.”
“Take a look,” urged the first speaker.
There was a moment of silence.
“Son of a bitch!” exclaimed the second one.
Rikki glanced upward to discover two men dressed in green. Both were armed with long bows. The larger of the duo was aiming an arrow at his face.
“You get him out, Dale,” said the larger man. “I’ll cover you.”
The one called Dale, a young man with blond hair and blue eyes, nodded. He slung his long bow over his right shoulder and grasped Rikki’s wrists. “Be still, stranger,” he directed. “I’ll have you out in a jiffy. Just don’t give John cause to let fly.”
John backed up, his sturdy arms steady as he kept the arrow trained on the man in black.
Rikki allowed himself to be drawn from the pit. A moment later he was on his hands and knees, and Dale had moved to the left and drawn a ten-inch survival knife. Rikki realized they each had a camouflage sheath on their right hip.
“On your feet,” Dale directed.
“And be quick about it,” John added brusquely.
Rikki rose, careful to keep his hands away from his weapons.
“Let the Uzi drop,” John ordered.
Rikki complied.
“Now the fancy sword,” John directed.
The Warrior hesitated.
“Do it or die,” the big man said, wagging the tip of the arrow.
“I want this back,” Rikki asserted as he drew the scabbard from under his belt and lowered it to the grass.
“You shouldn’t be worried about your sword,” John mentioned. “You should be concerned about your life.”
Dale stepped in and scooped up both weapons. “We must get out of here.”
“I can’t leave,” Rikki said calmly.
John snorted. “You don’t have any choice.”
“But I must—” Rikki began.
“Move!” John barked, indicating the forest to their right with a jerk of the bow. “Not another word out of you or you’re buzzard meat!”
Rikki knew the big man meant every word. He frowned and turned, walking across the clearing with his captors on his heels. Now what? If he didn’t escape soon. Blade would be in serious trouble. He had to prevent Blade from entering Atlanta. But how?
“Head east,” John ordered.
Rikki followed the big man’s instructions. “I would like to speak,” he said after 15 yards.
“Save it,” John responded.
“A friend of mine is in jeopardy.”
“Sure,” John said sarcastically.
“I’m serious,” Rikki insisted.
“Save it for Locklin,” John advised.
“I would be in your debt if you would permit me to go to my friend,” Rikki said.
“You’re not going anywhere.”
Dale cleared his throat. “I think he’s telling the truth.”
“So what if he is?” John countered. “Locklin told us to watch the pit and use our judgment on the catch. You’re the one who stopped me from killing this clown. If it’d been up to me—”
“Look at his clothes,” Dale declared. “It’s obvious he isn’t a trooper. He’s certainly not a Terminator. I doubt he’s from the city.”
“You’re too gullible, kid,” John commented.
“Don’t call me kid.”
John sighed. “Look. Maybe this guy is telling the truth. But we’re not about to let him go. We’ll take him to Locklin. The boss will know what to do with him.”
“How far must we travel?” Rikki inquired.
“You’ll know when we get there,” John replied.
Rikki looked back. They were staying six feet away, too far to reach before John unleashed his arrow. And Dale had put the survival knife away and was holding the Uzi with his finger on the trigger. The katana was secured under Dale’s brown belt.
“Keep your eyes front,” John said.
Frustrated, the Warrior frowned as he marched eastward. Every stride took him farther from Blade. He hoped Chastity had been wrong, that Blade would not be arrested simply for wearing a different type of attire than the people of Atlanta.
“What’s your name?” Dale asked.
“Rikki-Tikki-Tavi.”
The big man snickered. “What kind of a name is that?”
Rikki didn’t bother to answer.
“Where are you from?” Dale inquired.
“Far from Atlanta.”
“Where exactly?” Dale probed.
“I can’t say.”
“Why not?” John retorted. “Don’t you trust us?” He chuckled at his joke.
“Why have you captured me?” Rikki questioned. “I came here in peace.”
“Why are you here?” Dale wanted to know.
“I can’t say.”
“Locklin will make you talk,” John declared.
“Are you scavengers?” Rikki asked, hoping to elicit more information.
“Scavengers?” John exploded. “We’re not slime-sucking scavengers, you smart-ass.”
“Thieves then?”
“One more insult, buster, and I’ll part your hair with my shaft,” John warned.
“What else can you be?” Rikki asked. “Unless digging a pit is your way of meeting people.”
“Funny man,” John said.
“We dug the pit to catch police or Terminators,” Dale disclosed. “The Peers are always sending them after us.”
“Who are the Peers?”
“If you don’t know who the Peers are, you can’t be from Atlanta,” Dale stated.
“I told you I wasn’t,” Rikki reminded him.
“Quit flapping your gums and keep walking,” John interjected.
Rikki scrutinized the terrain ahead, searching for an advantageous spot. He wasn’t about to let the men in green take him miles from his companions, and he intended to turn the tables at the first opportunity.
“Are you from Memphis?” the youthful Dale queried.
“No,” Rikki said.
“We’re heard about the men in black in Memphis,” Dale commented. “I thought you might be one of them.”
“I’ve never been to Memphis,” Rikki elaborated.
“Me neither,” Dale said wistfully. “I’ve never been more than fifty miles from Atlanta, and I’d like to travel. But I can’t leave, not until the Peers are eliminated and the people of Atlanta are free once again.”
Rikki looked at Dale. “You are revolutionaries?”
“We’re Freedom Fighters!” John thundered. “We’ll make the Peers pay for their crimes! For every child they’ve killed, for every senior citizen they’ve put to sleep, they’re going to pay!”
“You intend to overthrow the rulers of Atlanta,” Rikki deduced.
“Butchers, you mean!” John declared.
“You must forgive Big John,” Dale said. “His passion gets the better of him.”
Big John’s emotions were, indeed, taxing his self-control to the breaking point. His thick lips were clenched and twitching, and he lowered the bow a few inches as he
glared at the Warrior.
Rikki’s eyes narrowed as he recognized the opening he needed. “Is your cause just?” he casually inquired.
“Just?” Big John responded, halting and lowering the bow several more inches.
Rikki stopped and pivoted, his hands at his sides.
“Is it just to fight dictators who control an entire city?” Big John demanded. “Is it just to want to put an end to the slaughter of fetuses and the elderly? Is it just to want freedom for all?”
Dale was standing to Big John’s right, listening attentively, the Uzi pointed downward.
Rikki took a measured step nearer the big man. “I know a little about Freedom Fighters,” he mentioned. “We studied them in our history class at my Home. Before the war there were two types. One was legitimate, men and women who genuinely believed in the right of everyone to be free of all tyranny. The second type was a sham. They were usually Communists who were trying to overthrow an established government.
They would spread death and destruction, claiming to be solely interested in securing freedom for the people, when their main objective was to subjugate the very people they professed to be helping. Which kind are you?”
Big John took a stride closer, his cheeks reddening. “You’re comparing us to the lousy Commies? I should stomp you into the dust!”
Rikki shrugged and held his hands at waist height, palms up. “I was merely making a point.”
“Well, we’re not Commies,” Big John declared angrily.
“So you say,” Rikki observed, deliberately taunting him.
John moved to within a foot of the man in black, the long bow held in front of him. “Are you calling me a liar?”
“No,” Rikki said. “But foolish.” So saying, he went into action with a cool, detached efficiency, wanting to dispatch the duo without causing them grievous harm. His right foot swept up and in, catching Big John on the left shin. The big bowman instinctively doubled over in surprise and pain, and Rikki pressed his initiative. He speared his right hand into John’s groin.
Gasping and gurgling, John tried to cover his privates with his right hand.
As Rikki expected.
The Warrior brought his hands around in an arc, gouging his fingers into John’s neck.
Big John coughed and sputtered and fell onto his left knee.
Stunned by the unexpectedness of the martial artist’s assault, Dale had gaped as Rikki easily handled his associate. Now he took a frantic pace forward, raising the Uzi.
Rikki-Tikki-Tavi sidestepped the panting big man and leaped into the air, flawlessly performing a devastating spinning-wheel kick. He intentionally reduced the amount of force he applied, and instead of breaking Dale’s neck he clipped the rash youth on the chin.
Dale was knocked onto his back by the blow, dazed.
Rikki came down in the Zenkutsu-tachi, the forward stance, and rotated, clipping Big John on the back of the head with the ball of his right foot.
The big man toppled over like a downed oak.
As much as he would have liked to interrogate the two men, Rikki was impatient to return to the highway and ascertain whether Blade had already entered Atlanta. He retrieved his katana, sliding the scabbard under his belt, and reached for the Uzi.
“I wouldn’t, friend, if I were you.”
Rikki glanced up at the sound of the resonant voice, to his right, his right arm frozen in midair.
“If you touch that gun, you’re dead.”
The speaker was a lean man in green apparel. Neatly clipped red hair crowned his handsome features. A full red mustache framed his upper lip, and a jutting, trim red beard projected from his angular chin. A long bow was slung over his back, but he made no move to touch it.
He didn’t need to.
Dozens of men and women in green encircled the Warrior, all of them with bows, some with long bows, others with crossbows, and a few with compounds. Every one of the archers was training an arrow on the man in black.
“If you don’t mind, put your sword on the ground,” said the man with the red hair. “And if you do mind, then I’m afraid my band will see fit to turn you into a pincushion.”
Chapter Seven
Euthanasia? What in the world was Euthanasia? Blade racked his memory, knowing he’d seen the word before, but he couldn’t recall its meaning. He saw Glisson turn white as the proverbial sheet. Captain Yost was chuckling triumphantly.
“I won’t go!” Glisson cried. “You can’t make me.”
“Want to bet?” Captain Yost retorted.
“It’s against the law,” Glisson said. “Only citizens are permitted to be officially extinguished.”
Captain Yost grinned. “Not any more.” He paused. “You’ve been gone a long time, and you would have been better off if you’d stayed away. During your absence the Civil Council amended the Euthanasia Directorate’s admissions policy. And guess what?”
“They can’t!” Glisson protested.
“They can and they will,” Captain Yost stated. “Anyone sixty-six or older is automatically admitted to Euthanasia. After your last visit, I went to records and had them run a computer check on you. That’s how I discovered your age. Frankly, I was surprised to see you show up here again.”
“A man’s got to eat,” Glisson said.
“Where you’re going, you won’t need food,” Yost noted.
Blade ventured to intervene on the elderly man’s behalf.
“Does this have anything to do with the conversation Glisson and I had?”
“Not really,” Captain Yost answered. “I did overhear parts of your talk.
You’d be smart to forget everything he told you. He’s a borderline rebel.”
“I am not,” Glisson said, disputing the officer.
“By law,” Captain Yost went on, disregarding Glisson’s comment, “indigents have their rights too. Until two months ago, the Civil Directorate was required to temporarily feed and clothe all destitute persons, even bums who showed up at our gates begging for a handout.”
He looked at Glisson. “Case in point.”
“I’ve never begged for anything in my life,” Glisson said.
“We’re tired of letting freeloaders leech off us,” Captain Yost declared.
“Listen,” Glisson said, “you can keep your rotten food and moth ridden clothes. Who needs them? Just let me go.”
“Do you hear this bum?” Yost asked Blade. “He has the gall to show up every now and then for a free handout, for hot meals and new clothes, and then he hits the road again. His type has no redeeming social value.”
“That’s me,” Glisson agreed. “Now will you let me go?”
Captain Yost fixed a baleful gaze on the old man. “Not on your life. I told you. The Civil Council has extended the Euthanasia Direcorate’s authority to include indigents. And according to the records, you’re sixty-six.” He smirked. “Are you ready for the Sleeper?”
Glisson abruptly whirled and took off as fast as his spindly legs would carry him.
Blade took a step after him.
“Don’t waste your energy,” Captain Yost said. He motioned with his right arm. “Get him!” he barked.
The five policemen sprinted in pursuit of the fleeing Glisson.
“I don’t know where the fool thinks he’s going,” Captain Yost observed sarcastically.
Blade was trying to comprehend the situation, sorting the information he’d learned. The government of Atlanta was administered by seven Directorates. The heads of the Directorates—the seven Peers, as they styled themselves— formed an executive body known as the Civil Council.
They were ultimately responsible for running the city. But what was this business about being 66 years old? And he still couldn’t recall the definition of “euthanasia.”
The five troopers in blue had caught up with Glisson.
“Once the social parasites are disposed of, we’ll have the perfect society,” Captain Yost commented.
“Disposed of?”
Captain Yost nodded. “That’s what the Sleeper Chambers are for.
Eternal oblivion.”
Blade suddenly remembered the meaning of “euthanasia.” It was the act of putting someone to death! “Glisson will be killed?” he queried, shocked.
“Killed is the wrong word,” Captain Yost said. “Think of it as a mercy disposition.”
“Euthanasia is permitted in Atlanta?” Blade questioned.
“Hell, it’s encouraged,” Captain Yost answered.
“I don’t understand,” Blade admitted.
“What’s to understand?” Captain Yost responded. “American society was leaning toward officially sanctioned euthanasia before the war. We’ve simply put into effect a practice they lacked the balls to implement. Mercy dispositions are essential to a well-managed society. Once citizens have outlived their usefulness, why keep them around to burden everyone else?”
“Here he is, sir,” one of the men in blue announced as they returned.
Two of them were supporting Glisson, their hands holding his upper arms.
“Let me go, damn you!” Glisson snapped.
“Save your breath,” Captain Yost said. “Bring him,” he directed his men. Then he turned to Blade. “Again, I apologize for the slight delay.
Please come with me.” The officer wheeled and headed toward the monoliths.
Blade fell in beside Yost. He saw citizens on both sidewalks, and he noticed they were all wearing jumpsuits of varying colors. Some wore light blue jumpsuits exactly like Chastity’s, while others worn brown or green.
With the singular exception of the dark blue uniforms the police were wearing, everyone was attired in jumpsuits. Why?
“I take it you don’t approve of our mercy dispositions,” Captain Yost commented.
“No,” Blade said.
“Why not?”
“How can you justify killing innocent people?”
“Who says they’re innocent?” Captain Yost rejoined. “If they have outlived their usefulness, then they’re guilty of existing at the expense of the productive members of society.”
“Might makes right, eh?” Blade said.
“Not at all,” Captain Yost replied. “The quest for the good life is good for all, and the good of the many outweighs the good of the few.”
“Did you make that up?”
Atlanta Run Page 6
