David Robbins - Atlanta Run

“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.”

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?”