“I told you that I need to ponder the notion,” Hickok reminded her.
“You’ll say yes,” Chastity predicted.
“You sound very confident,” the gunfighter observed.
“I’ll pray to God,” Chastity said. “Mommy always said God will answer our prayers.”
Hickok looked at the rim of the pit. “Time for us to mosey on. Let’s climb to the top. Hang onto my neck,” he advised, squatting so she could climb aboard.
Chastity attached herself to his neck. “All set.”
The Warrior reclaimed the M-16 and slung the automatic rifle over his left arm. “Here we go,” he said, and gripped the pole. With deceptive ease, moving hand over hand, he ascended the shaft to the surface. After swinging his legs onto the edge, he clambered to a standing position.
“Carry me piggyback,” Chastity prompted.
“I can’t,” Hickok said. “Climb down.”
“Why can’t you?” she inquired.
“I need to have my arms and hands totally free in case we’re attacked again,” Hickok answered. “So climb down.”
“You’re no fun,” Chastity groused, but she slipped to the ground.
Hickok gazed at the deceased mutant. “We were fortunate. The Spirit smiled on us.”
Chastity scanned the forest. “Which way do we go?”
“We head east for a spell,” Hickok replied. “First we’ll locate Rikki, and then we’ll go after Blade.”
“Which way is east?”
Hickok pointed in the appropriate direction. “The sun always rises in the east and sets in the west. Remember that, and you’ll be able to keep track of your location.”
Chastity went to take a step, then paused and stared at the corpse.
“Where do you suppose it came from?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. Get going.”
“I’ve never seen one like it before,” Chastity remarked.
“Me neither. Let’s go,” Hickok urged her.
“Do you think there are more just like it?”
“Most likely,” Hickok said impatiently. “Where there’s one, there are bound to be others.”
Chastity glanced at the vegetation. “Would they be near here?”
“Don’t fret,” Hickok responded. “Any other critters are miles from this spot.”
A roar of unbridled rage proved the gunman wrong a moment later as a trio of mutated apes charged from the forest, converging in a feral fury on the man and the girl.
There was no time to unsling the M-16. Hickok drew the Colts and fired the right Magnum, then the left, and each shot was on target. One of the mutants was hit between the eyes and flipped backwards. The second mutant angled to the right as the Warrior fired, bearing down on Chastity, and the movement saved its life. The bullet intended for its forehead instead perforated the fleshy portion of its cheek and exited through its ear. Stunned, the beast doubled over in agony.
Chastity bolted for the woods.
Hickok pivoted and triggered the Pythons, both slugs tearing into the third ape, ripping into its chest and spinning it around in its tracks. He thumbed the hammer on his left Colt and sent a shot into the creature’s brain, and as the mutant crumpled he turned his attention to the injured ape. Too late.
The wounded brute rammed into the Warrior and encircled him with its skinny arms, the impact of its assault propelling both of them rearward.
Hickok felt his feet leave the ground, and with a start he realized they were going over the edge of the pit. The beast’s lurid features were within inches of his own, its yellowish fangs spearing for his throat. If those glistening teeth didn’t get him, the ten-foot plunge just might. He smashed his forehead into the ape’s nostrils and twisted, jerking his body in a spin to the left, his momentum upending the creature and reversing their placement so that the mutant was on the bottom when they landed with a bone-jarring impact.
The beast released its prey, arched its back in torment, and tossed the human aside.
Hickok rolled to a stop on his abdomen, dazed, the Pythons clenched in his hands. If he didn’t recover before the mutant, he was a goner. His chest ached terribly, but he suppressed the pain and forced his arms and legs to function, rising slowly and facing his bestial foe.
The mutant was already up.
Hickok elevated the Colts, his reaction sluggish, and he was unable to shoot before the ape took two steps and swung its left arm, connecting with his right temple and knocking him over.
The thing uttered a triumphant howl.
On his left side in the dirt and debris, dust swirling about him, Hickok looked up at the creature as it advanced. He raised his right arm.
With a savage snarl, the ape pounced, its knobby knees driving into the Warrior’s midriff, its right fist pounding the gunman on the jaw.
Hickok nearly blacked out. A wave of vertigo washed over him, and he could taste his blood on the tip of his tongue. Another blow snapped his teeth together, and he abruptly perceived that he was on the verge of losing his life. What a stupid way to die, he mentally noted, killed by a deformed monkey!
The ape locked its fingers on the gunman’s throat.
“Leave him alone, you bad monster!”
The pressure on his neck unexpectedly loosened, and Hickok took deep breaths to clear his head. He gazed upward, astonished to behold Chastity at the pit rim.
“You leave my new daddy alone!” she shouted defiantly.
Distracted by the yells, the ape was glaring at the child, its lips twitching, crimson flowing over its chin and ear.
“Leave him alone, you meany!” Chastity hollered.
The mutant roared and beat its fists on its chest.
Momentarily ignored, Hickok used the reprieve to gather his strength, feeling his senses returning to normal. He blinked rapidly, and happened to glance at the earthen floor in front of him. A tingle of excitement galvanized him as lie spied a veritable godsend: the Uzi! He’d forgotten all about it during the fight!
Having decided the girl was not a threat, the ape was turning toward its original adversary.
Hickok dropped the Colts, seized the Uzi, and tucked the stock against his chest as the mutant completed its turn; he flicked off the safety as the creature bent forward; he squeezed the trigger when the ape’s nails were within a hand’s-breadth of his throat.
The burst stitched into the mutant and flung it backwards to crash into the pit wall, snarling insanely.
His lips compressed tightly, Hickok rose to his right knee, firing all the while, the 9-mm slugs perforating the beast’s face and torso and causing it to dance like a puppet on strings. The gunfighter kept the trigger depressed until all 25 rounds in the magazine were expended, and he only ceased firing after the gun clicked empty.
The sudden silence was unnerving.
“Hickok? Are you okay?”
The Warrior licked his dry lips and looked up, mustering a weary grin.
“I’m fine. Thanks to you.”
“I couldn’t let him hurt you,” Chastity said. “You haven’t made up your mind yet.”
Hickok started to laugh, but an intense spasm in his left side checked his mirth. He wondered if one of his ribs was cracked or broken, and he vaguely recalled a searing pang when he fell into the pit, as if he had landed on a hard object. But the mutant had cushioned his descent. Or so he’d thought. He scanned the floor as he recovered his Colts and found the answer.
The M-16. The rifle was lying in the dirt at the exact spot of impact.
The gunman winced as he moved to the gun. He speculated that the stock of the M-16 had been wedged between the mutant’s body and his own as they landed, and the weapon had slid from his shoulder before the creature had thrown him off.
“Are you coming up?” Chastity asked. “There may be more of those icky things.”
Hickok snatched up the M-16 and stepped to the pole. She could be right, and he didn’t want to tangle with another one of those mutants if he could help it
. He aligned the Uzi over his left shoulder, the M-16 over his right, and painfully climbed from the pit.
Chastity was staring at the forest as he came over the rim.
“You saved my life, princess,” Hickok said, pausing on his hands and knees. He needed to reload his weapons, but a minute of rest couldn’t hurt.
Or could it.
“There’s something out there,” Chastity said fearfully.
Hickok pushed himself erect. “Are you sure?” he asked, and then he heard the noise too. The unmistakable sound of something approaching through the undergrowth. Blast! How many mutants were there?
Chastity moved closer to him and gripped his right pants leg. “We’ve got to get out of here!”
Hickok agreed. He was opening his mouth to tell her to take off when the figures materialized in the trees.
Chapter Fifteen
He wasn’t certain if he was awake or dreaming. Confused, he listened to unfamiliar voices while he grappled with a strange mental fog.
“…most extraordinary. I doubt we have his equal anywhere in the city.”
“He does have superb musculature, I’ll grant you that.”
“We should permit the science techs to examine him.”
“What? And ruin a perfect specimen by having him dissected? What a waste.”
“Do you have a preference, Lilith?”
“Yes, Sol. As a matter of fact, I do.”
“Then let’s hear it.”
“Give him to me. My psychology staff will turn him. I guarantee it.”
“Is that the only reason you want him?”
“What’s that supposed to mean, Clinton?”
“You don’t fool us. We all know about your amorous predilection for his type.”
“So? You have the same predilection.”
“That’s enough. Stick to the issue at hand.”
“Sorry, Sol.”
Blade’s intellectual clarity returned in a rush. He perceived he was flat on his back, his arms and legs outstretched, his ankles and wrists secured firmly to—what?
He opened his eyes and squinted in the bright glare of brilliant overhead lights.
“Our Adonis has awakened,” someone announced.
“Greetings, outsider.”
Blade took his bearings as his vision adjusted. He was lying on a smooth, brown-tiled floor in the center of a circular amphitheater. A green wall eight feet in height encompassed him, and rising above the wall were twelve rows of wooden seats, each tier successively elevated. Seated on the lowest level, their heads and shoulders visible over the wall, were seven people, four men and three women, each one attired in a shimmering golden gown.
“Greetings,” repeated the tallest man, a leonine figure with a mane of white hair. “I am Sol Diekrick.”
Blade surveyed the seven. “You must be the Peers,” he deduced.
“We are,” Sol confirmed imperiously.
“He has an intellect to complement his physique,” commented a woman with tresses of a sepia hue.
“Behave yourself, Lilith,” remarked a portly man to her left.
“Up yours, Clinton,” Lilith responded sweetly.
Sol Diekrick raised his right hand and commanded instant silence. He smiled at the giant. “My apology for the conduct of my associates. They sometimes forget themselves.”
A bespectacled, gaunt man seated between Diekrick and Lilith leaned forward and glared at the prisoner. “What is your name? Where are you from?”
“My name is Jack Snow,” Blade said.
“You lie!” snapped the man with the glasses. “We know you gave that fabrication to the Storm Police, but our files indicate there never was a cousin of Llewellyn Snow by the name of Jack.”
“Your computer is incorrect.”
“Our computer system is virtually infallible, you primitive!”
“Eldred, please control yourself,” Sol interjected in a paternal tone. He smiled down at the Warrior. “You must forgive our lack of manners.”
Blade glanced at his wrists and found wide strips of an orange material binding him to the floor.
Sol noticed. “Simply a security precaution, I assure you, necessitated by your disinclination to cooperate with duly constituted authorities.”
“In other words,” Lilith said with a smirk, “we had to tie you up because the Storm Police were afraid you’d strangle us to death.”
Blade thought of the tramp. “Where’s Glisson?”
“Who?” Sol replied. “Oh. You mean the filthy degenerate taken into custody with you? He’s being held in a cell until we have rendered a final disposition of your case.”
“Where am I?” Blade asked.
“You are in the Civil Directorate,” Sol Diekrick answered. “My Directorate. You’re on the ninth floor in a room we reserve for special interrogations.”
“How long was I out?”
“A few hours,” Sol divulged. “Your recuperative powers are amazing.
You must have exceptional stamina.”
“I’ll bet that’s not all he has,” Lilith said.
Sol sighed and leaned back. “Allow me to introduce my associates.
Lilith Frickan here, the one with the raging hormones, heads the Orientation Directorate.”
Lilith grinned and winked.
“Eldred Morley is in charge of the Euthanasia Directorate,” Sol revealed.
The man with the glasses scowled at the Warrior.
Dietrich nodded at the portly Peer. “Clinton Brigg handles Ethics.”
“Hi, handsome,” Brigg remarked.
“As for the rest,” Sol said, and indicated a brunette, “Rebecca Sanger heads the Life Directorate.” He pointed at a man with black hair and a cleft chin. “Alec Toine has Progress.”
Toine nodded.
“And last, but definitely not least,” Sol said, gazing at an elderly woman with aquiline features, “Dorothy Coinnak is responsible for the Community Directorate.”
Blade studied each of them critically, then shook his head.
“What is it?” Sol inquired.
The Warrior stared at Diekrick. “Appearances can be deceiving. All of you appear to be sane.”
“Implying we are not,” Sol said.
“You’re warped.”
Sol chuckled and rested his chin in his right hand on the wall. “By whose standards? Yours?”
“By anyone’s standards,” Blade replied. “I’ve seen and heard enough to convince me that you’re either off the deep end, or all of you are power-hungry, petty dictators.”
“We are neither,” Sol stated.
“Says you.”
Eldred Morley stood. “Let’s dispose of this cretin now, Sol. Why should we sit here and allow him to insult us?”
“Sit down, Eldred,” Sol Diekrick ordered.
Morley reluctantly complied.
“That’s better,” Sol said. “Your immaturity is appalling. If you can’t rebut the arguments of a musclebound oaf, perhaps you don’t deserve to hold the exalted post of Peer.”
Morley blanched. “I didn’t mean—”
“I know what you meant,” Sol said, cutting him short. “And don’t insult my intelligence ever again.”
“I won’t,” Morley said hastily.
Sol looked at the giant. “Now where were we? Ahhh, yes. You claim that we’re warped, as you so quaintly phrased it.”
“Convince me otherwise,” Blade stated.
Diekrick folded his arms across his chest. “You erred when you accused us of being petty dictators. We actually view the welfare of our people as our paramount concern.”
Blade laughed.
“You don’t believe me?”
“You have the people of Atlanta right where you want them,” Blade mentioned. “Under your thumb. This Civil Council has stripped the citizens of their freedom. You control every aspect of their lives. You decide what is best for them, and you’ve even gone so far as to regulate the clothes they wear.” He paused. “You’re di
sgusting.”
“My dear fellow, you misconstrue our intent,” Sol said with an air of condescension. “And your knowledge of America is deficient.”
“America?”
“Yes. Specifically the history of America in the decades preceding World War Three. We have merely continued and improved upon the reforms instituted by our ancestors, and we have succeeded in achieving the goal they dreamed of.”
“What goal?” Blade queried.
“The creation of the world’s first fully humanistic society,” Sol said loftily. “America was becoming increasingly humanistic with each generation. The humanists were effectively organized, and the rank and file, the masses on the street, had no idea what was happening to them.
The average American didn’t know that most of their leaders, their politicians and educators, were humanists. They were unaware that humanism was the prevalent doctrine at a majority of the universities and colleges. Had they known, they would have rebelled because they were strongly opposed to everything humanism stands for.”
“And what does humanism stand for?” Blade questioned.
“Read the humanist manifestos,” Sol replied. “The humanists made no secret of their beliefs, only of the means they employed to restructure society. Humanism has certain basic tenets. There is no God, no spirit reality of any kind. Prayer and worship are meaningless practices, and consequently we have outlawed them. Humanism asserts religion is an obstacle to human progress, not an aid.” He paused and gazed thoughtfully at the Warrior. “The early humanists clearly outlined the design for a secular society, and we’ve implemented their design. Religion has been eliminated. Science is our guidepost and experience our teacher.
Our moral values and ethics are not limited by childish concepts of right and wrong. There is no right and wrong. There is only the good life, what we feel is best for us at any given moment. The quest for the good life is good for all.”
“And you really believe all that garbage?”
“Wholeheartedly,” Sol responded. “Our society is perfect. Our citizens can satisfy their every need and interest. If it doesn’t harm others, they’re free to do whatever they want consistent with their civil liberties. Sexual expression, abortion, birth control, divorce, you name it.”
Atlanta Run Page 12
