David Robbins - Atlanta Run

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!