David Robbins - Atlanta Run

The light had not changed yet.

“It’s only been twenty minutes or so since we made our break,” Blade noted. “I doubt they’ve had the time to spread our descriptions to every trooper in the city.”

“I hope you’re right,” Glisson said.

The light changed and a WALK sign lit up.

“Let’s go,” Blade stated. “And try not to act jittery.”

“Tell that to my bladder.”

The groups of pedestrians on the curbs started across the street.

Blade stepped from the curb, his head held high, projecting a carefree air, purposely refraining from staring at the Storm Policeman. He held the blackjack in his right hand, tucked against his fatigue pants.

The trooper was coming straight at them.

Blade pretended to scan the far sidewalk, his eyes flicking over the Storm Policeman and assessing the man’s disposition. The trooper appeared to be wrapped up in his own thoughts, oblivious to those around him.

They were ten feet apart.

Glisson bumped into the Warrior’s left arm. He had scooted to Blade’s left side to partially screen himself with the giant’s body, and he was walking as close to Blade as he could get.

They were seven feet apart.

The Storm Policeman looked up and noticed the Warrior. His brown eyes narrowed as he examined Blade’s features, and then he shifted his gaze to Glisson.

Five feet apart.

If the pores on Blade’s skin had been large enough, Glisson would have crawled inside. He saw the trooper halt, and he gripped Blade’s arm in desperation.

Blade felt the tramp’s fingernails digging into his skin. He disregarded the pain and looked at the trooper.

Just as the Storm Policeman motioned with his right arm. “Hey, you!”

Hickok’s breath whooshed from his lungs as the incredibly powerful creature plowed into him, wrapped its spidery arms about his chest, and bore him to the hard ground. Putrid breath assailed the gunman’s nostrils, and beady, malevolent eyes glared into his.

“Hickok!” Chastity screamed, checking her flight and whirling.

“Run!” the gunfighter bellowed, squirming in the mutant’s grasp. His arms were pinned to his sides and he couldn’t raise his Pythons.

The beast snarled and bared his fangs.

“Eat this, sucker!” Hickok declared, and angled the Colt barrels inward until they were flush with the creature’s ribs. He squeezed both triggers.

Muffled by the mutant’s hair and flesh, the Pythons blasted, their twin slugs penetrating the beast and searing the creature with overwhelming agony. It relinquished its hold and rolled to the left, roaring mightily.

Hickok rose to his knees, ready to add more shots if necessary, but the thing was still rolling. Suddenly it leaped up and darted into the undergrowth.

“Hickok!” Chastity cried.

“Stay put!” Hickok ordered, slowly standing. Where the dickens did the brute go? He backed toward the girl, surveying the vegetation. A puddle of red liquid drew his attention. Blood. The creature was undeniably hurt, seriously injured. Would the genetic deviate go off to lick its wounds, or would it hover and await an opportunity to pounce?

“There!” Chastity shouted.

“Where?” the Warrior asked, glancing at her.

“There,” she repeated, pointing to their right. “I saw something move.”

Hickok scrutinized the wall of vegetation enclosing the clearing. “I don’t see anything.”

“I saw it,” Chastity insisted.

The gunman edged to the pit rim, Chastity by his right side.

“What do we do?” she inquired.

“We stay here for the time being.”

“Why?”

“That critter can’t take us by surprise here,” Hickok informed her.

“We’ll sit tight and see if it skedaddles.”

“Skedaddles? Is that bad or good?”

“We’ll sit tight and see if it leaves,” Hickok clarified.

From the forest to their right, concealed in the prolific greenery, the mutant growled.

“I’m scared,” Chastity said.

“I won’t let it get you,” Hickok promised.

Chastity hugged his right leg. “Think there could be more?”

The gunman pursed his lips. He hadn’t given the matter any brainwork.

“I don’t think so,” he said to assure her.

Another growl punctuated his statement.

“Do you think it got Rikki?” Chastity inquired.

“I doubt it,” Hickok replied. “Mutants don’t like stringy meat.”

“Is that a joke?”

“Keep quiet,” Hickok directed her.

There was the crackle of brush and the rustling of leaves as the creature moved about, changing position.

“What’s it doing?” Chastity asked.

“I don’t know,” Hickok confessed, trying to come up with a solution to their dilemma. He didn’t like the idea of being stuck in the clearing when Blade and Rikki needed his help. But if he tried to lead Chastity through the forest, the beast would undoubtedly attack. A ruse was called for, a foxy scheme to outwit the critter.

But what?

“Maybe we can hide in the hole?” Chastity suggested.

“Don’t be…” Hickok said, starting to admonish her. Then he cut himself off, looking into the pit.

Hold the fort.

The pit was ten feet deep, circular, with sheer sides to prevent any hapless captive from clambering to freedom. Which was all well and good.

But how did those doing the capturing haul their prisoners from the hole?

Did they use a rope? Not likely, because the nearest tree capable of supporting a long, sturdy rope was 20 yards off. They would need to lug a lot of rope with them and assist their captive in exiting the trap.

No.

There had to be another way.

The gunfighter edged around the rim, his keen eyes inspecting the vegetation at the perimeter of the clearing.

Chastity hung onto his leg and shuffled with him.

“You can leave go of me,” Hickok said softly.

“No way.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“No.”

“I can’t walk with you clingin’ to me,” Hickok observed.

“I won’t let go,” Chastity declared.

“Suit yourself,” Hickok said. “But if that varmint comes after us again, I can’t fight it very well with you slowin’ me down.”

Chastity stared up at him, indecision etched on her countenance.

“And there’s something else you’d best keep in mind,” Hickok told her.

“What?”

“If I tinkle my pants, it’ll run all over your hands.”

Chastity released his leg and scrunched up her nose. “You wouldn’t tinkle your pants,” she said.

“I certainly hope not,” Hickok stated. “My missus would clobber me.”

He stepped nearer to the foliage on the far side. Maybe he was wrong.

Maybe the…

There it was.

The gunman hurried to the weeds bordering the clearing, Chastity in tow. He grinned as he knelt next to an 11-foot pole the thickness of his arm.

“What’s that?” Chastity queried.

“Have you ever played hide and seek?”

Chastity nodded. “Lots and lots of time. Why?”

“We’re going to play it again,” Hickok said, holstering his left Colt. He grabbed one end of the pole and dragged it to the pit, then knelt and slid the end he’d held to the bottom of the hole, slanting the shaft so over two feet protruded above the lip.

“I don’t get it,” Chastity commented.

“You will.” Hickok unslung the Uzi and placed the weapon on the ground near the pole.

“What are you doing?”

“Hush.” Next, Hickok slid his right Python into its holster and unslung the M-16. After insuring the magazine was loaded and flipping off the safety, he turned to the girl. “Climb on my back.”

“Why?”

The gunman sighed. “It’s nice to know that women start at an early age.”