David Robbins - Atlanta Run

A flock of starlings abruptly winged from a stand of trees 75 yards ahead of the column.

Rikki casually unslung the Uzi and cradled the automatic next to his waist. He scrutinized the trees, then glanced at the pair on point. Scarlet and Jane were 30 yards off, advancing cautiously, and they did not appear to be unduly concerned about the starlings.

“People become conditioned to a way of life,” Locklin stated. “When you get down to the nitty-gritty, most people don’t want to rock the boat.

They’d rather roll with the flow.”

A bush near the stand of trees quivered for a few seconds. Scarlet and Jane did not notice.

Sliding his finger over the Uzi trigger, Rikki glanced at Locklin. “We’re walking into a ambush,” he calmly announced.

“I know,” Locklin said, unruffled.

“You know?”

“Of course. Scarlet signaled me over a minute ago.”

“I didn’t see him signal you,” Rikki said.

“When he scratched his nose with his left hand,” Locklin detailed. “I told you, hand signals are essential to our operation.”

“If you know the ambush is there,” Rikki mentioned, “why are we walking into it?”

Locklin smiled and slowly unslung his long bow. “You’ll see. When I give the word, flatten.”

“Any idea who is in those trees?”

“It’s probably a Storm Police patrol,” Locklin replied. “A dozen troopers with automatic rifles, M-16s and AR-15s.”

“And you’re going to take them on with just bows?” Rikki asked skeptically.

“Pay close attention,” Locklin said. “You may learn something.”

The two on point tramped eastward without betraying their knowledge of the ambushers, hardly paying any attention to the stand of trees.

Scarlet, a lean man with brown hair, and Jane, a woman with sandy tresses, came abreast of the stand, then passed it.

Rikki evaluated the ambushers as professionals. Whoever was concealed in the brush was letting the point pair pass, waiting for the main column to get closer. A routine tactical ploy. He felt uncomfortable as he drew nearer, knowing a rifle sight might be trained on his body.

“Get ready,” Locklin whispered.

The column reached a point approximately 20 yards from the stand.

They were crossing a strip of high weeds.

Rikki detected a faint click.

“Now!” Locklin bellowed, and every Freedom Fighter dove for the dirt.

And not a split second too soon.

The metallic chatter of automatic gunfire erupted from the trees, creating an instant din as the ambushers all fired simultaneously. Four men in dark blue uniforms materialized, spraying the weeds ineffectually.

On their sides below the hail of gunfire, the Freedom Fighters were quickly notching arrows. They stayed down until the ambushers momentarily ceased firing for a lack of targets, and then half of the band sprang erect and loosened a volley of glimmering shafts while the remainder slid into the undergrowth and vanished.

Rikki popped up in time to see a pair of the men in blue fall, one screeching with an arrow through his throat, the second with a shaft jutting from his chest. The Warrior cut loose with an indiscriminate burst at the stand and was rewarded by the sight of a trooper pitching from the branch of a tree. He ducked low again as the ambushers resumed their withering fire. Around him the Freedom Fighters were doing likewise.

Locklin was smiling, actually enjoying himself. He looked at Rikki and winked.

The man in black could guess Locklin’s strategy. The rest of the band was circling around the ambushers, coming at the troops from the rear. If the Freedom Fighters were adept at stealth, the battle would be over within a minute unless the ambushers had a surprise of their own.

They did.

Rikki saw Locklin’s eyes widen as the rebel leader stared skyward, and the Warrior swiveled his gaze in the same direction. His abdominal muscles inadvertently tightened.

A plane was making a strafing run toward them!

Blade’s plan, formulated on the spur of the moment, was elementary and direct: overpower the patrol, grab Glisson, and head for the hills or some semblance thereof. By taking the initiative when they were 35 yards from the Euthanasia Directorate, out in the open and not hemmed in, he maximized the advantage of his superior size and reach. His attack was totally unexpected. Captain Yost and two of the troopers were flattened by roundhouse haymakers before the trio still standing awoke to the fact they were under assault. The shortest of the three grabbed for the blackjack in its holster on his right hip, only to find himself toppling over after the giant delivered an excruciating kick to his testicles.

“Get him!” hissed the heaviest of the two patrolmen left. He whipped his blackjack from its holster and swung at the giant’s chin, but failed to connect. The standard police blackjack was seven inches in length, consisting of a circular metal knob attached to a flexible handle, encased in brown leather. In the hands of an expert, the weapon could incapacitate or kill, and the trooper was adept at its use. He closed in, aiming another blow at the Warrior, foolishly expecting to end the fray quickly.

The second trooper drew his blackjack and waited for an opening.

With pantherish speed and grace, Blade side stepped the policeman and used the edge of his right hand to crush his foe’s throat. The man gagged and stumbled, his knees buckling, his arms waving wildly. Blade wrenched the blackjack free and turned to confront the final trooper.

Voicing an inarticulate cry of rage, the last policeman lunged.

Blade used his left forearm to block a descending swipe of the trooper’s blackjack, then countered with a brutal smash to the man’s nose. The cartilage crushed and blood spurted, and with a whine of despair the man threw himself backwards. Blade brought the blackjack up from his right knee, the metal ball smacking into the trooper’s chin and crunching his teeth together.

The policeman tottered and went down.

Every pedestrian within 50 yards was immobile, watching the tableau in horrified astonishment.

Time to hit the road.

Blade glanced to the right and the left, and it was his turn to feel astonished as he saw that Glisson was gone. He glimpsed the tattered tramp hastening away to the east, weaving through the throng, and he sprinted in pursuit.

The transfixed citizens galvanized into frightened activity, scurrying from the giant’s path.

Annoyed at Glisson’s departure. Blade quickened his pace behind the hobo. From the direction of Glisson’s travel, Blade deduced that the old-timer was heading for the gate they’d entered, possibly hoping to get out of Atlanta before being apprehended by another police patrol. Blade increased his pace again as he spotted Glisson’s head and shoulders.

The oldster was moving at a spry clip. He looked over his left shoulder once, his face a mask of fear as he saw the giant. At the next intersection he took a left into a narrow street, sticking to the sidewalk.

Blade was gaining. The farther they went, the fewer people they encountered who had witnessed the fight with the police. Many of the amblers stared at him as he passed, but not one tried to interfere. He saw Glisson take a right and pounded after him. The old-timer was moving faster than Blade would have thought Glisson was capable of.

The pedestrians on the packed sidewalk were inadvertently slowing the Warrior, compelling him to proceed prudently to avoid a collision.

Glisson wasn’t so careful.

The hobo looked back once more, and that act proved his undoing. He crashed into a woman in a brown jumpsuit and they both took a tumble.

Blade reached them before either could rise. He grabbed Glisson by the scruff of the collar and hauled the man erect.