Atlanta Run

by David Robbins

  GROUND LEVEL.

  Blade tried the doorknob and it twisted in his grasp. With a smile creasing his features, he stepped boldly outside, into the night.

  Only to find two figures rushing at him.

  Chapter Twenty

  “We won’t go down without a fight,” Locklin said, notching an arrow on his bow string.

  “Do you ever use guns?” Hickok asked.

  Locklin did a double take. “What difference does it make at a time like this?”

  Hickok glanced at the two groups of approaching Storm Police.

  “Answer me. Do you ever use guns?”

  “Once in every blue moon,” Locklin answered. “Why?”

  The gunman looked at Rikki. “Do you get my drift, pard?”

  Rikki-Tikki-Tavi nodded.

  “Are you with me?” Hickok queried.

  “Need you ask?”

  “Will one of you tell me what’s going on?” Locklin demanded.

  “The Storm Police expect rebels to use bows,” Hickok said. “We might rattle them a mite with our irons.”

  “All you have are a pair of Uzis and two revolvers,” Locklin noted.

  Hickok nodded at the troopers in front of them, now about 50 yards distant. “They don’t know how many guns we have.” He paused. “I never should’ve left the M-16 with your man Scarlet.”

  “You wanted him to be able to protect Chastity properly,” Rikki reminded the gunfighter.

  “Cryin’ over spilt milk never helped anyone,” Hickok stated. “Are you ready?”

  “Ready,” Rikki confirmed.

  “What’s your plan?” Locklin inquired.

  “Simple. We’ll charge the varmints.”

  Locklin couldn’t seem to believe his ears. “We’re going to charge them?”

  “Yep.”

  “There are sixteen of us and dozens of them,” Locklin pointed out.

  “Good. We won’t need to aim as hard.”

  Locklin shook his head. “You’re crazy.”

  The gunman looked at Rikki. “Why the blazes does everyone keep saying that?”

  The martial artist shrugged. “Beats me.”

  “If we’re going to charge, why don’t we charge them!” Locklin asked, and pointed at the Storm Police drawing nearer from their rear, from the direction of the outside wall. “If we break through, we’ll be in the forest before they can catch us.”

  “You can charge them if you want,” Hickok said. “But we’re chargin’ the turkeys in front. We’re not leavin’ without Blade.”

  “You can come back for Blade another time,” Locklin suggested.

  “A Warrior never deserts another Warrior,” Hickok stated. “Never.”

  Locklin gazed at his band. “You heard him. Stay close to me.”

  “What about me?” Dale inquired.

  “What about you?” Locklin answered. “You’re a member of the Freedom Fighters. Behave like one.”

  Dale blinked a few times and swallowed hard.

  “On me,” Hickok directed. He glanced at Rikki. “If something should happen to me, make sure Chastity finds a nice home.”

  “She will,” Rikki promised.

  Hickok grinned and faced the Storm Police 40 yards away. “Don’t fire until you can see their britches,” he said, and raced forward.

  “Britches?” Locklin repeated quizzically as he followed.

  The gunman concentrated on the flashlight beams sweeping the drain.

  Those beams illuminated a 25-to-30 yard stretch of conduit ahead of the advancing troopers. He would need to time this just right.

  Rikki was staying abreast of the gunfighter.

  Hickok cradled the Uzi. “This is for Chastity’s mom and dad,” he said under his breath. He sprinted into the outer fringe of light cast by the beams and opened fire.

  Beside the gunman, Rikki promptly added his Uzi to the din.

  “Remember the Alamo!” Hickok shouted, his moccasins pounding on the concrete.

  The flashlights began waving frantically, and several shattered and blinked out. Screams and yells punctuated the gunfire. A milling of shadows cast eerie reflections on the drain as the Storm Police wavered. A half dozen dropped in the initial seconds of the attack, and those unharmed seemed to believe that a horde of rebels was pouring toward them. A few desultory rounds were expended, and then the rest broke and bolted.

  “Halt! Stand your ground!” a captain bellowed, and was flattened by a hail of slugs.

  “Take no prisoners!” Hickok whooped.

  “For freedom!” Locklin chimed in.

  The Storm Police did not show any appetite for combat. Except for a few hardy souls who snapped off occasional shots, the majority of the troopers appeared to be more interested in saving their skins then in dying in the line of duty.

  Hickok slowed as he slapped a fresh magazine into the Uzi. “What a bunch of wimps!” he commented.

  Rikki abruptly stopped.

  “What is it?” Hickok asked, halting. The Freedom Fighters also drew up short.

  “This is too easy,” Rikki remarked. “Why are they fleeing?”

  “Most of the Storm Police are not accustomed to resistance,” Locklin said.

  “But patrols are sent out to engage your band all the time,” Rikki noted.

  “They send their older troopers out to get us,” Locklin responded. “The younger recruits are kept in the city. Only the older ones are assigned to rebel hunts, as the Peers call them. Evidently, the older troopers are considered more expendable. The younger ones, as a result, don’t have much experience.”

  “Do we keep chasing them?” Big John inquired.

  Hickok gazed at the fleeing Storm Police, their forms outlined by their receding flashlight beams. “No. They could be runnin’ because they’re greenhorns, and they could be leadin’ us into another trap.”

  “What do we do then?” Locklin wanted to know.

  “We get the blazes out of here,” Hickok said.

  “How?” Locklin inquired.

  Rikki’s lighter flicked on. “We must find an open manhole.” He started walking deeper into the tunnel.

  Hickok cocked his head to one side. “What about the troopers behind us? Are they still on our heels.”

  “I don’t hear them,” the last rebel in line replied.

  “They must be tryin’ to figure out what the dickens is happening,” Hickok said. “Good. We’ve bought us a few minutes. Now—”

  “Hickok,” Rikki called from eight yards off.

  The gunman hastened to his friend’s side. “Have you found one, pard?”

  For an answer, Rikki held the lighter aloft, revealing another manhole cover.

  “Big John,” Locklin directed.

  Once again the biggest Freedom Fighter applied his brawny shoulder to the task, but with different results. As Big John grunted and arched his broad back, the manhole cover slowly eased to the left with a grinding noise. In less than a minute the cover was removed.

  “I can see trees,” Big John remarked, peering over the rim.

  “Let me take a gander,” Hickok said.

  Big John moved to one side.

  Holding the Uzi at chest height, just in case, Hickok stood on his toes and looked around. The conduit was situated in a sloping gully with cement sides and bordered by a chain-link fence. He glanced at Locklin.

  “Why is there a fence?”

  “To keep the public out, especially the kids,” Locklin replied. “When the drains were installed, the construction crews dug a trench, poured the concrete, and enclosed the whole deal as a safety measure.”

  Hickok placed the Uzi on the outer rim, then pulled himself to his knees. Beyond the fence on the right was a residential area, and on the left was a park. Streetlights at periodic intervals supplied a diffuse illumination, the closest light being 30 feet to the right. Thanks to an intervening tree, the manhole section was obscured by shadows. “The coast is clear,” Hickok announced softly. “Everybody out.” He wa
lked a few yards from the manhole and scanned their surroundings.

  Rikki, Locklin, and the rest of the band clambered speedily from the drain.

  “Which way to the Civil Directorate?” Hickok asked the rebel leader.

  Locklin pointed to the southwest. “It’s not far.”

  “I just hope Blade is there,” Hickok said.

  “If you friend has been captured, the odds are he’s there,” Locklin stated. “But our first priority is taking care of the Peers.”

  “Your first priority is takin’ care of the Peers,” Hickok said, correcting him. “Ours is findin’ our pard.”

  Locklin nodded at the park. “We can cut through here. That’s Piedmont Park.”

  “Head ’em out,” Hickok instructed.

  Working in concert, with Big John providing a boost to everyone who needed it, the Warriors and Freedom Fighters scaled the chain-link fence.

  Big John came over without assistance.

  “Lead the way,” Hickok said to Locklin.

  Motioning for his band to fan out, Locklin headed into the lush park.

  They crossed a grassy knoll and reached a walkway, and there encountered their first citizens, a young couple strolling arm in arm. The man and woman took one look at the Freedom Fighters, with their unusual green attire, and took off to the southeast.

  “Now we’re in for it,” Locklin said. “They’ll report us to the police.”

  “I could catch them,” Big John offered.

  “We don’t harm civilians,” Locklin responded. “You know that.”

  “I could tie them up,” Big John proposed.

  “We keep going,” Locklin declared.

  They increased their pace, with Dale supporting a rebel with a wounded leg.

  Several minutes went by.

  “We have company,” Rikki informed them.

  Approaching from the southeast were more flashlights.

  “Storm Police,” Locklin said.

  “We stand and fight,” Hickok stated. “We don’t want them doggin’ us every step of the way.”

  Locklin headed toward a row of trees nearby. “Take cover!” he commanded. “Don’t loose a shaft until I do.”

  Hickok and Rikki ran for cover behind a large maple tree. The gunman leaned on the trunk and watched the shining beams, estimating the troopers were within 50 yards. “I’m gettin’ real tired of these cow chips.”

  “They know they have the rebels cornered in the city,” Rikki observed, “and they will stop at nothing to eliminate the Freedom Fighters.”

  “Not if I can help it,” Hickok vowed.

  “What will we do if Blade is not in the Civil Directorate?” Rikki asked.

  “We’ll grab one of the Peers and throttle Blade’s whereabouts out of him. Or her, if they have such female polecats.”

  “You never have been one for subtlety.”

  “Beatin’ around the bush is for the birds,” Hickok said. “Roll with the flow, I always say.”

  “Can you translate that?”

  “When I was eight, I learned one of the most important lessons of my life,” Hickok explained. “There was this bully by the name of Greer—”

  “I remember him,” Rikki said, interrupting. “He was always picking fights with the younger children in our Family.”

  “And he picked one with me,” Hickok detailed. “I got in a few licks, but he walloped me good. My mom couldn’t help but notice my swollen cheek and black eyes, so I had to tell her everything. She told me to go to Greer and offer my hand in friendship. She said that Greer would respond if I was sincere. ‘Blessed are the peacemakers’ was the creed she lived by.”

  “What happened?” Rikki whispered.

  “I walked up to Greer, smilin’ and sincere, and informed him I wanted to be his good buddy.”

  “What did Greer do?”

  “What else? He busted me in the chops.” Hickok paused. “I tore into him, and the second time around I came out on top. Greer left me alone after that. I…” He stopped, gazing at the troopers.

  The Storm Police were filing under an overhead park light. There were two dozen plus an officer, and all of them were armed with automatic weapons. Ten troopers in front were probing the vegetation with flashlights. Although 20-foot-high overhead lampposts were situated along the walkways, darkness enveloped most of Piedmont Park.

  Hickok crouched and stared at the nearby trees. He had to hand it to the Freedom Fighters; he knew they were hiding there, but he couldn’t see hide nor hair of one of them. At that moment, to his amazement. Big John walked brazenly into the open and hailed the troopers.

  “Hey, you murdering slime! Here’s what I think of you!” bellowed the big man, who then flipped them the finger, turned, and ran off.

  Predictably, the Storm Police captain yelled, “Get him!” and the troopers raced in pursuit.

  Hickok grinned at the success of the ruse. He saw the Storm Police pounding across the grass. The fleetest troopers were almost to the row of trees when the rebels stepped from cover and released their arrows.

  Thirteen shafts sped true to their mark, and with their first volley the Freedom Fighters downed half of the police.

  The remainder recovered quickly.

  A precious second was wasted as the rebels pulled arrows from their quivers and notched the shafts to their bows, and six of the Freedom Fighters were stitched by trooper fire before they could pull their bow strings.

  “Let’s join the fun,” Hickok said, and leaped from behind the tree. He perforated the nearest policeman with a burst from the Uzi. Pivoting, he shot another.

  The rebels and the troopers were now intermixed and fighting hand to hand. Some of the Freedom Fighters were using knives, while bayonets were being wielded skillfully by many of the Storm Police. At such close range the troopers could not bring their automatic rifles into play, and the brutal battle was waged in terms of survival of the deadliest.

  A tall trooper suddenly appeared out of the melee and charged the gunman.

  Hickok glimpsed the policeman out of the corner of his eye and tried to turn, but a smashing blow from the trooper’s rifle stock on his chin knocked him to the ground, dazed. The Uzi fell from his fingers, and he looked up to see the Storm Policeman drawing a bayonet. He shook his head and tried to rise.

  “I’m going to gut you like a fish,” the trooper gloated, stabbing the bayonet at the Warrior’s midsection.

  But the bayonet never connected.

  A gleaming streak of steel intercepted the trooper’s bayonet arm, slicing through the Storm Policeman’s wrist as easily as a hot knife through butter. The trooper’s eyes bulged and he straightened, screaming, as the steel blade arced into his neck, partially severing his throat. Blood spurted everywhere, and the trooper toppled backwards.

  Hickok’s senses returned in a rush, and there was Rikki-Tikki-Tavi standing over him.

  “Will you quit goofing off?” the martial artist quipped, his crimson-covered katana in his right hand. Before the gunman could respond, he whirled and waded into the conflict. A stroke of the katana ruptured a trooper’s abdomen, and a second swipe hacked off a policeman’s left arm.

  Hickok shoved to his feet, and as he rose he heard a loud whomp-whomp-whomp from above. Puzzled, he craned his neck skyward, surprise registering on his features.

  A large green helicopter was hovering over the swirling combatants, training a spotlight on the grim fight. On one side was an open sliding door, and perched in the doorway was a marksman in a Storm Police uniform, a rifle with an infrared scope pressed to his right shoulder.

  Hickok saw the marksman fire, and one of the rebels fell as a high-caliber slug penetrated his skull.

  The marksman sighted on another target, the helicopter poised 50 feet above the grass.

  Embroiled in their savage contest, the Freedom Fighters were unaware of this new threat. Three more of the rebels were lying on the turf, their lifeblood seeping into the soil.

  Hickok took two s
trides to the left to give himself a better shot and drew his right Python, his thumb cocking the hammer even as the Colt came clear of its holster. The Magnum boomed once, and the marksman reacted as if he had been slammed in the head by a sledgehammer.

  Stiffening, the rifle dropping from his limp arms, the trooper pitched from the chopper.

  With a whirring of its rotor, the helicopter banked and flew to the south.

  What next? Hickok wondered, facing the fray. He saw Rikki slice open a trooper’s chest, the martial artist moving with superb precision and control. And as he scanned the battlefield, he spied a quartet of silvery forms coming from the west. The four were 30 yards distant and nearing the row of trees.

  Why were they all silver?

  Hickok suddenly recollected the Bubbleheads, and he dashed to a tree and pressed his back to the bole. He bolstered the right Python, counted to ten, and on ten strolled into view, his thumbs hooked in his gunbelt.

  Twenty yards off the Bubbleheads stopped, leveling their flamethrower nozzles.

  “Howdy, gents,” Hickok said, his hands seemingly invisible as both Pythons swept up and out. Each gun cracked twice, and with each retort a silvery figure was thrown backwards by the impact of a .357 slug striking his forehead. “Piece of cake,” the gunflghter commented, and turned.

  The combat had ended.

  Bodies sprawled in attitudes of violent death littered the landscape.

  Groans and feeble cries filled the air. Puddles of blood splotched the grass.

  Only four of the rebels still stood. Locklin was gazing at his fallen companions somberly. Big John, a jagged wound in his left shoulder, was wiping his knife on his left pants leg. The two other rebels were exhausted but uninjured.

  Hickok glanced to his right and spotted Rikki. The martial artist stood in the middle of a ring of three trooper corpses, his katana clenched in both hands, blood dripping from the blade. “Are you okay, pard?” Hickok asked.

  Rikki nodded.

  The gunman hurried to Locklin. “What about you?”

  “I’m fine,” Locklin said, picking up a discarded AR-15.

  Hickok surveyed the bodies, and two yards away he beheld the rebel called Dale with a bayonet jutting from his thorax. “Your band has been decimated,” he remarked.