David Robbins - Atlanta Run

“Most of it,” Yost disclosed. “We mint our money, grow most of our food, and produce the clothes on our backs. We’ve established trade relations with several other cities.”

“Which ones?”

Captain Yost ignored the query. He turned left, heading along a narrow street.

Blade looked back. Glisson was walking between two of the troopers, his features downcast. The pedestrians all studiously minded their own business; not one gave the patrol any attention.

“So who are you searching for in Atlanta?” Captain Yost inquired.

“I was told that a cousin of mine, Llewellyn Snow, lives here,” Blade lied. “I hoped I can find her.”

“You don’t know her address?”

“No,” Blade said.

“The Central Directory in the Civil Directorate should be able to help you,” Captain Yost commented. “Your Escort will assist you in using the Directory.”

Blade heard the sound of an engine coming from above him and to the left. He glanced skyward and spotted another plane, a different model than the one the Warriors had seen previously. “Does Atlanta have an airport?”

“Sure does,” Yost confirmed. “The Peers and other executive types use them on a regular basis.”

“Where do they fly?”

“Oh, here and there.”

Blade received the distinct impression the officer was being evasive when it came to the subject of possible trade and diplomatic contacts.

Again, why? Was the information a secret?

The first monolith towered over the structures directly ahead. The seven Directorates were arranged in a line from north to south along a broad boulevard.

“That’s the Community Directorate,” Captain Yost divulged. “Then comes Euthanasia and Civil.”

Blade gazed at the nearest structure. People were coming and going through a half-dozen glass doors, bustling about their business.

Ninety-eight percent of the citizens wore jumpsuits. The rest were either police or men and women in red suits. “Why does almost everyone wear jumpsuits?” he asked.

“For identification purposes,” Captain Yost replied.

“How do you mean?”

“The practice was started after the war when there was a shortage of clothing,” Yost detailed. “Each person was allotted a few uniforms and that was it. Dewey instituted the custom of having the uniforms color coded according to trade or profession. For instance, anyone wearing a brown uniform is in a manual-labor field. Green uniforms denote lower-level Admin types, like file clerks or accountants or secretaries.

Light blue is for middle-management positions.”

“What about the red suits?” Blade inquired.

“Upper echelon.”

“How convenient,” Blade remarked. “I even saw children wearing jumpsuits.”

“Everyone must wear the color of their class,” Captain Yost said. “It’s illegal to do otherwise.”

“The people don’t mind?”

Yost seemed surprised by the question. “Why should they mind? Our system is logical and effective. Everyone knows their place, and there’s a place for everyone.”

They passed the first monolith, headed for the second.

“Give me a break, Yost,” Glisson spoke up. “Why don’t you let me go?

I’ll never return to Atlanta. My word on it.”

Captain Yost laughed. “Do you think I’m an idiot? I wouldn’t trust you as far as I could throw you.”

“Please. Let me go.”

“I can’t,” Captain Yost said. “You know that. You’ve made your bed.

Now lie in it.”

“I don’t want to die!” Glisson cried.

“Everyone dies sooner or later,” Captain Yost philosophized. “Death is inevitable.”

“Can’t you spare him?” Blade interjected.

Captain Yost shook his head. “I have my responsibility to the citizens of Atlanta. And the Civil Council has made it clear that social parasites must be eradicated.”

Blade stared at the glass doors to the Euthanasia Directorate, not more than 40 yards off. What should he do? Allow the police to stick Glisson in a Sleeper Chamber? If he intervened on the hobo’s behalf, what would the police do? Finding Llewellyn Snow was his main priority. Trying to rescue Glisson would only jeopardize his task and his life.

But what other choice did he have?

“How many travelers have you disposed of this way?” Blade queried, calculating the distance to the doors and studying his surroundings.

“I thought you understood,” Captain Yost said. “We only dispose of bums like Glisson.”

Blade looked at the officer and smiled. “Thank you.”

Captain Yost paused. “For what?”

“For making my mind up for me,” Blade said, and struck.

“Where the blazes are those cow chips?”

“What’s a cow chip?”

Hickok glanced at Chastity. “Never you mind, missy.” He faced the metropolis, surveying the highway. A stand of trees and brush obstructed his view of Blade. He’d seen his friend reach the road and head for the city, and he’d expected Rikki to intercept Blade before the giant had gone very far. But Blade had proceeded for hundreds of yards, with Hickok keeping his eyes glued to his sidekick every step of the way until the vegetation blocked his view. “Rikki should have caught up with Blade by now,” he commented.

“He didn’t,” Chastity said.

“How do you know?”

“Because there’s Blade,” Chastity stated, pointing at the wall.

Hickok swiveled, recognizing, even at such a distance, Blade’s unmistakable form near a gate. Figures in blue were visible. “Blast!”

“What’s wrong?” Chastity inquired.

“Rikki was supposed to stop Blade,” Hickok said. “What went wrong?”

“I don’t know. What do we do now?”

The gunman looked at the child, then at the city. Blade was entering Atlanta, escorted by troopers!

“Do we stay here?” Chastity questioned.

“I need to chew this over a bit,” Hickok said.

Chastity’s forehead creased and she gazed at his hands. “I don’t see any food.”

“I didn’t mean food.”

“Do you have candy?” Chastity asked hopefully.

“Nope.”

“Then what are you going to chew?”

Hickok sighed and patted her head. “You’re lucky that you weren’t born a cat.”

“Why?”

“Never mind.”

“Do you know something?” Chastity queried.

“What?”

“Sometimes you say the weirdest things.”

“Hush,” Hickok told her. “I’m tryin’ to think.” He scratched his chin and stroked his mustache, debating his options. His initial impulse was to go into Atlanta after Blade, but he would need to tote the girl, risking her capture or worse. He could stay put until Blade and Rikki returned, but he didn’t cotton to the notion of twiddling his thumbs when his buddies might be in trouble. Or he could search for Rikki. He decided the third course was best. “Come on,” he directed, rising.

Chastity stood. “Where are you taking me?”

“We need to find Rikki,” Hickok said.

“Is he lost?”

“Either that or taking a nature break.”

Chastity cocked her head to the left. “What’s a nature break?”

“Never mind.”

“You sure say that a lot.”

“Walk right behind me,” Hickok instructed her. “Be as quiet as you can.”

“Like a little mouse?”

Hickok nodded, grinning. “Like a mouse.” He slung Blade’s M-16 over his right shoulder, insured the Uzi was snug under his left arm, and loosened the Pythons in their holsters.

“I can carry one of your guns,” Chastity offered.

“No thanks.”

“Aren’t they heavy?”

“No.”

“Then why can’t I carry one?”

“Because I don’t want you shootin’ yourself in the foot,” Hickok said.