Atlanta Run

by David Robbins

  Rikki-Tikki-Tavi sighed, removed the scabbard from under his belt, and slowly placed the katana on the ground. He straightened, resigned to yet another delay. Resistance would be foolish.

  The man with the red mustache and beard grinned. “That’s better. I’m glad you have some common sense.” He strolled toward the Warrior. “My name, by the way, is Locklin.”

  “I am Rikki.”

  Locklin stopped and extended his right hand. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  Rikki shook. “Do you treat all your prisoners with such hospitality?”

  “No,” Locklin admitted. “But we don’t often snare someone like you.”

  “Why am I special?” Rikki asked, releasing Locklin’s hand, impressed by the man’s firm handshake.

  “Because we usually trap police or Terminators looking for us,” Locklin said. “Only once before have we caught someone who wasn’t from Atlanta.”

  “And you’re certain I’m not?”

  “For several reasons,” Locklin stated. “Anyone from Atlanta would be wearing a prescribed uniform. You’re not. Citizens are not permitted to leave the city unless they obtain a special pass, and the Peers never issue such a pass. And finally, no one in Atlanta would be able to use their hands and feet like you do. What was that?”

  “I’m somewhat proficient at the martial arts,” Rikki answered. He nodded at the two forms sprawled on the turf. “I did not harm them. They will awaken shortly.”

  Locklin looked at several of his band. “Rouse them,” he ordered. Then, to the rest, he made a twisting motion with his left hand and all the bows were lowered.

  “Hand signals,” Rikki remarked.

  Locklin nodded. “They come in handy at times.”

  “You are the leader of these Freedom Fighters?” Rikki asked.

  “That I am,” Locklin confirmed. “I started the band fourteen years ago, in the heady days of my youth.”

  Rikki scanned the men and women. “Are all of them from Atlanta?”

  “Yes,” Locklin said. “Each and every one was a victim of persecution, or their family was. Each and every one has a score to settle with the Peers.”

  “Who are these Peers?”

  Locklin pointed eastward. “Our camp is five miles off. Join us for a meal, and I’ll tell you everything of importance about the Peers and Atlanta.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?” Locklin questioned.

  “I am with two friends,” Rikki said. “I won’t leave without them.”

  “Where are they?”

  Rikki watched three men engaged in awakening Big John and Dale. His instincts told him Locklin was trustworthy, but he was not about to needlessly endanger Hickok and Blade by exercising a premature confidence. He looked at the rebel leader. “Sorry. I’m not at liberty to say.”

  Locklin shrugged. “A person can’t be too trusting nowadays. I won’t press the issue.” He paused. “I will insist on your accompanying us to our camp. On my word of honor, you will not be harmed.”

  “I will go with you,” Rikki said. For the moment, he was outnumbered and constrained to comply.

  Big John was rising and rubbing his sore neck. His gaze rested on the man in black and his face went crimson. “You! You did this to me!” He clenched his fists and took a step toward the Warrior.

  Locklin moved between them. “John! No!”

  Furious, Big John glared at the diminutive stranger. “He hurt me!”

  “He could have killed you,” Locklin commented.

  “I want to tear him apart,” Big John declared.

  “He is our guest,” Locklin said. “I’ve given my word that he will not be harmed.”

  Big John gaped at Locklin. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Very.”

  The big man’s hands relaxed and he frowned. “This isn’t fair. I want another crack at him.”

  “You heard me,” Locklin said harshly.

  “Yeah,” Big John stated, pouting. “I heard.”

  Locklin glanced at the martial artist. “I want your word that you will hear me out.”

  Rikki did not respond.

  “Look, I know you’ll try to escape the first chance you get,” Locklin said.

  “I’m no dummy. And I’m a shrewd judge of character. If you give your word, I know you’ll keep it. So I want your word you’ll listen to what I’ve got to say. Do I have it?”

  Rikki-Tikki-Tavi realized all eyes were upon him. If he declined, Locklin would still demand he accompany them to their camp, probably under close guard. If he accepted, he might be able to name his own terms. “If I agree, I want your word in return.”

  “On what?”

  “You will allow me to leave without interference,” Rikki said.

  “Is that all? You have it,” Locklin vowed.

  “Then I give my word I will hear you out.”

  Locklin beamed. He looked at Big John. “Give him his weapons.”

  “What?”

  “Do you need your ears checked?” Locklin quipped. “Give the man his weapons.”

  Big John’s features reflected utter bewilderment. “But, boss—”

  “There are no buts about it,” Locklin said testily. “Do it!”

  With manifest reluctance. Big John retrieved the katana and the Uzi and gave them to the man in black.

  “Thank you,” Rikki said, taking his weapons.

  Locklin stared at Dale. “And how are you doing?”

  “I feel like I was flattened by a two-ton boulder,” Dale replied. “But I can walk.”

  “Then we head out,” Locklin commanded. He raised his right arm and gestured to the east. “To camp. Scarlet and Jane on point. Partington and Stutely, the rear. Move it people.”

  The band mobilized rapidly, forming a column of twos, the rear guard and the point pair hurrying to their respective positions.

  “Your band is highly trained,” Rikki said, complimenting their leader.

  Locklin smiled proudly. “They’ve worked hard. Our lives are on the line every day. If we don’t stay on our toes, we’re dead.”

  The Freedom Fighters marched to the east, Locklin and Rikki at the head of the column.

  “Why bows?” Rikki asked after they had traversed a mile.

  Locklin chuckled. “It does seem an odd choice, doesn’t it? Bows and arrows against guns and flamethrowers—”

  “Flamethrowers?” Rikki asked, interrupting.

  “The Terminators use flamethrowers,” Locklin disclosed. “They can burn you to a crisp at three hundred feet.”

  Rikki thought of the words Chastity had used concerning her mother.

  The child had claimed the Bubbleheads burned her mom. “Are these Terminators known by other names?”

  “Like what?”

  “Bubbleheads.”

  Locklin did a double take, then laughed. “Where did you hear that?

  Bubbleheads is the word the children use to describe the Terminators.”

  “Unusual name,” Rikki observed.

  “Not really. The Terminators wear fireproof outfits, including oversized helmets. The headgear makes them look like beings from another planet.”

  “Or Bubbleheads,” Rikki said.

  Locklin grinned. “You’ve got it.”

  “And you fight them with bows?”

  “Guns are a scarce commodity,” Locklin explained. “We’ve appropriated a few, but obtaining ammunition is next to impossible. Bows are easier to locate or construct, and they’re relatively silent.”

  “The odds would seem to be stacked against you,” Rikki mentioned.

  “Forty against an entire city.”

  “Forty against the police and the Terminators,” Locklin said, correcting the Warrior. “True, there are several hundred Storm Police and a score of Terminator squads. But justice is on our side. We’ll triumph eventually.”

  “I know nothing of conditions inside Atlanta,” Rikki said.

  “Then allow me to fill
you in,” Locklin proposed. “Atlanta is ruled by seven people, five men and two women, known as Peers. They form a body called the Civil Council, and everyone in Atlanta is under their thumb. The city has become a police state. Liberty has died and been replaced by legalistic fascism.”

  “Why do the residents tolerate such a situation?” Rikki inquired. “Why don’t they revolt en masse?”

  “You don’t understand the first thing about revolutions,” Locklin said.

  “It’s not as simplistic as that.”

  “Enlighten me,” Rikki prompted.

  Locklin stared at a fluffy white cloud overhead. “Study history. There have been countless oppressed societies. Dictators have come and gone.

  Fascists, Communists, and despots of every stripe have left their legacy of hatred and death. Millions, no, billions of men and women have lived under autocratic regimes. Most of them never revolted. Why? Because they accepted the status quo. They were indoctrinated into complacency.

  They valued having food on the table more than they valued their freedom.”

  “Aren’t you being a bit hard on them?” Rikki inquired. “Dictatorships invariably have powerful military machines to enforce governmental edicts.”

  Locklin looked at the man in black. “You know your history. Then you know about the American Revolution. The colonies threw off the British yoke because the majority of the colonists considered their freedom worth any price.” He paused. “When I was twelve, I found a shelf of ancient books in a library. The paper was yellow and threatened to crumple at the touch. One of the books was a history of the American Revolution, and I still feel a tingle every time I remember the words of Patrick Henry.”

  Rikki’s mind drifted back to his schooling days at the Home. “What about Henry?”

  “His words fired my soul,” Locklin declared, and his eyes lit up as he quoted his favorite passage: “I know not what course others may take; but for me, give me liberty, or give me death!”

  Rikki recognized Locklin’s sincerity; the rebel leader was ardently devoted to his cause.

  “I’d like to have those words engraved on my tombstone,” Locklin was saying. “A man couldn’t have a finer epitaph.”

  A flock of starlings abruptly winged from a stand of trees 75 yards ahead of the column.

  Rikki casually unslung the Uzi and cradled the automatic next to his waist. He scrutinized the trees, then glanced at the pair on point. Scarlet and Jane were 30 yards off, advancing cautiously, and they did not appear to be unduly concerned about the starlings.

  “People become conditioned to a way of life,” Locklin stated. “When you get down to the nitty-gritty, most people don’t want to rock the boat.

  They’d rather roll with the flow.”

  A bush near the stand of trees quivered for a few seconds. Scarlet and Jane did not notice.

  Sliding his finger over the Uzi trigger, Rikki glanced at Locklin. “We’re walking into a ambush,” he calmly announced.

  “I know,” Locklin said, unruffled.

  “You know?”

  “Of course. Scarlet signaled me over a minute ago.”

  “I didn’t see him signal you,” Rikki said.

  “When he scratched his nose with his left hand,” Locklin detailed. “I told you, hand signals are essential to our operation.”

  “If you know the ambush is there,” Rikki mentioned, “why are we walking into it?”

  Locklin smiled and slowly unslung his long bow. “You’ll see. When I give the word, flatten.”

  “Any idea who is in those trees?”

  “It’s probably a Storm Police patrol,” Locklin replied. “A dozen troopers with automatic rifles, M-16s and AR-15s.”

  “And you’re going to take them on with just bows?” Rikki asked skeptically.

  “Pay close attention,” Locklin said. “You may learn something.”

  The two on point tramped eastward without betraying their knowledge of the ambushers, hardly paying any attention to the stand of trees.

  Scarlet, a lean man with brown hair, and Jane, a woman with sandy tresses, came abreast of the stand, then passed it.

  Rikki evaluated the ambushers as professionals. Whoever was concealed in the brush was letting the point pair pass, waiting for the main column to get closer. A routine tactical ploy. He felt uncomfortable as he drew nearer, knowing a rifle sight might be trained on his body.

  “Get ready,” Locklin whispered.

  The column reached a point approximately 20 yards from the stand.

  They were crossing a strip of high weeds.

  Rikki detected a faint click.

  “Now!” Locklin bellowed, and every Freedom Fighter dove for the dirt.

  And not a split second too soon.

  The metallic chatter of automatic gunfire erupted from the trees, creating an instant din as the ambushers all fired simultaneously. Four men in dark blue uniforms materialized, spraying the weeds ineffectually.

  On their sides below the hail of gunfire, the Freedom Fighters were quickly notching arrows. They stayed down until the ambushers momentarily ceased firing for a lack of targets, and then half of the band sprang erect and loosened a volley of glimmering shafts while the remainder slid into the undergrowth and vanished.

  Rikki popped up in time to see a pair of the men in blue fall, one screeching with an arrow through his throat, the second with a shaft jutting from his chest. The Warrior cut loose with an indiscriminate burst at the stand and was rewarded by the sight of a trooper pitching from the branch of a tree. He ducked low again as the ambushers resumed their withering fire. Around him the Freedom Fighters were doing likewise.

  Locklin was smiling, actually enjoying himself. He looked at Rikki and winked.

  The man in black could guess Locklin’s strategy. The rest of the band was circling around the ambushers, coming at the troops from the rear. If the Freedom Fighters were adept at stealth, the battle would be over within a minute unless the ambushers had a surprise of their own.

  They did.

  Rikki saw Locklin’s eyes widen as the rebel leader stared skyward, and the Warrior swiveled his gaze in the same direction. His abdominal muscles inadvertently tightened.

  A plane was making a strafing run toward them!

  Chapter Ten

  Blade’s plan, formulated on the spur of the moment, was elementary and direct: overpower the patrol, grab Glisson, and head for the hills or some semblance thereof. By taking the initiative when they were 35 yards from the Euthanasia Directorate, out in the open and not hemmed in, he maximized the advantage of his superior size and reach. His attack was totally unexpected. Captain Yost and two of the troopers were flattened by roundhouse haymakers before the trio still standing awoke to the fact they were under assault. The shortest of the three grabbed for the blackjack in its holster on his right hip, only to find himself toppling over after the giant delivered an excruciating kick to his testicles.

  “Get him!” hissed the heaviest of the two patrolmen left. He whipped his blackjack from its holster and swung at the giant’s chin, but failed to connect. The standard police blackjack was seven inches in length, consisting of a circular metal knob attached to a flexible handle, encased in brown leather. In the hands of an expert, the weapon could incapacitate or kill, and the trooper was adept at its use. He closed in, aiming another blow at the Warrior, foolishly expecting to end the fray quickly.

  The second trooper drew his blackjack and waited for an opening.

  With pantherish speed and grace, Blade side stepped the policeman and used the edge of his right hand to crush his foe’s throat. The man gagged and stumbled, his knees buckling, his arms waving wildly. Blade wrenched the blackjack free and turned to confront the final trooper.

  Voicing an inarticulate cry of rage, the last policeman lunged.

  Blade used his left forearm to block a descending swipe of the trooper’s blackjack, then countered with a brutal smash to the man’s nose. The cartilage crushed and blood spurte
d, and with a whine of despair the man threw himself backwards. Blade brought the blackjack up from his right knee, the metal ball smacking into the trooper’s chin and crunching his teeth together.

  The policeman tottered and went down.

  Every pedestrian within 50 yards was immobile, watching the tableau in horrified astonishment.

  Time to hit the road.

  Blade glanced to the right and the left, and it was his turn to feel astonished as he saw that Glisson was gone. He glimpsed the tattered tramp hastening away to the east, weaving through the throng, and he sprinted in pursuit.

  The transfixed citizens galvanized into frightened activity, scurrying from the giant’s path.

  Annoyed at Glisson’s departure. Blade quickened his pace behind the hobo. From the direction of Glisson’s travel, Blade deduced that the old-timer was heading for the gate they’d entered, possibly hoping to get out of Atlanta before being apprehended by another police patrol. Blade increased his pace again as he spotted Glisson’s head and shoulders.

  The oldster was moving at a spry clip. He looked over his left shoulder once, his face a mask of fear as he saw the giant. At the next intersection he took a left into a narrow street, sticking to the sidewalk.

  Blade was gaining. The farther they went, the fewer people they encountered who had witnessed the fight with the police. Many of the amblers stared at him as he passed, but not one tried to interfere. He saw Glisson take a right and pounded after him. The old-timer was moving faster than Blade would have thought Glisson was capable of.

  The pedestrians on the packed sidewalk were inadvertently slowing the Warrior, compelling him to proceed prudently to avoid a collision.

  Glisson wasn’t so careful.

  The hobo looked back once more, and that act proved his undoing. He crashed into a woman in a brown jumpsuit and they both took a tumble.

  Blade reached them before either could rise. He grabbed Glisson by the scruff of the collar and hauled the man erect.