David Robbins - Atlanta Run

“Can’t you make an exception in our case?”

Rikki contemplated a moment. “On the other hand, my Family is now a member of the Freedom Federation, and the Federation is devoted to restoring liberty to the land.”

“What’s the Freedom Federation? I’ve never heard of it,” Locklin said.

“There are seven factions banded together in a mutual self-defense pact,” Rikki explained.

“Would they help us fight the Peers?”

“They might,” Rikki answered. “But I honestly can’t guarantee they would.”

Locklin ran his left hand through his hair. “In any event, we’re not waiting to find out. Tomorrow night the Civil Council meets. Tomorrow night we will put an end to their evil, or we will perish in the attempt. Are you with us or not?”

Rikki-Tikki-Tavi was a long time in responding. When he did, his mouth was curled wryly. “I’ll tell you what. I must go into Atlanta to find a friend of mine—”

“One of those you mentioned earlier?” Locklin said, interrupting.

“Precisely,” Rikki said.

“Why is he in Atlanta?”

“He’s looking for a relative of a young girl we found,” Rikki elaborated.

“Her parents were killed. She blamed her father’s death on the Peers, and she told us her mother was slain by the Bubbleheads.”

“Does this girl have a name?”

“Chastity Snow.”

Locklin exchanged glances with several of his band.

“Do you know her?” Rikki asked.

“I know of her,” Locklin replied. “Rather, I know of her father. His name was Richard Snow, and he was the publisher of The Atlanta Tribune .”

“Why would the Peers have killed him?”

Locklin shook his head. “Beats me. All a person has to do is cross them once, and the Peers make sure they are never crossed again.”

“Would the Peers eliminate a whole family because one member aroused their wrath?”

“If the Peers were angry enough, they’d eliminate the entire Snow family tree,” Locklin stated. “Sons, daughters, cousins, in-laws, you name it. The Peers are ruthless.”

Rikki’s expression became thoughtful. “So if my friend starts asking questions about Chastity’s relative, he could wind up in trouble?”

“He could wind up dead.”

The Warrior faced in the direction of the metropolis. “Then I must enter Atlanta as quickly as possible. Every moment of delay increases the danger to my friend.”

“You mentioned two friends,” Locklin reminded the man in black.

“My second friend is with Chastity Snow,” Rikki disclosed. “We must inform him of our plans.”

Locklin smiled. “Then you’re going in with us?”

“Technically, I won’t lead you,” Rikki said. “But I must go into the city anyway. And if your band wants to tag along, I would have no objection.”

Locklin chuckled. “I like the way your mind works. Let’s find your friend with Chastity and go kick ass. Where are they anyway?”

From perhaps a mile away, maybe less, came the blast of gunshots.

“I think I know,” Rikki stated.

Blade’s grip on the blackjack tightened as the Storm Policeman stepped up to them. The trooper was staring intently at the hobo.

“Hey! Glisson! It is you, isn’t it?” the policeman asked.

Blade nudged the old-timer with his elbow.

“Yeah, it’s me,” Glisson answered in a fearful tone.

“Don’t you remember me?” the trooper inquired. “Corporal Schwartz? I conducted you to the Civil Directorate about seven or eight years ago. Remember?”

Glisson studied the trooper’s features, then beamed. “Sure. I remember you. You were the young private who was asking me a lot of questions about life on the road.”

Corporal Schwartz grinned. “I always was the curious sort.” He glanced at the light. “I’d better cross before the light changes.”

“Nice seeing you,” Glisson said.

Corporal Schwartz took a stride, then stopped. “Where’s your Escort?”

Blade quickly nodded at the far curb. “Already crossed.”

“Oh.” Schwartz began to turn, to look at the opposite curb, when the light changed. He hesitated for a second, smiled, and hastened on his way.

Blade hurried to the sidewalk with Glisson right behind him.

“That was too damn close!” the hobo declared once they were safely on the curb.

“Didn’t you know you’re famous?” Blade quipped.

“Very funny,” Glisson snapped.

“Lead on,” Blade instructed. “We’d better reach the Visitors Bureau before another of your fans spots us.”

“Smart-ass son of a bitch,” Glisson mumbled.

“Let’s go,” Blade said impatiently.

They strolled toward a row of glass doors at the base of the Civil Directorate, mingling with a constant stream of humanity flowing into and exiting the structure.

“The Visitors Bureau is on the ground floor,” Glisson informed the giant. “We go in those doors and hang a right.”

“Do the Storm Police frisk everyone who enters the Direcorate?” Blade asked, thinking of the blackjack in his right hand.

“No. Why should they?” Glisson responded. “There’s never any trouble inside the wall. The rebels only hit patrols on the outside.”

“Play it cool once we’re inside,” Blade advised.

“Joe Cool, that’s me,” Glisson said.

Blade was both perplexed by, and grateful for, the manifest lack of interest the citizens of Atlanta displayed in Glisson and himself. They all seemed to be too wrapped up in their own lives to care about a pair of strangers. He attributed their attitude to the hectic lifestyle prevalent in the metropolis; the people were constantly on the go. Aside from a few cursory stares engendered by his exceptional size and physique, the residents of the city ignored him.

Glisson slowed as he approached the glass doors, dragging his heels apprehensively.

“Keep going,” Blade commanded.

“Maybe we should reconsider,” Glisson commented. “We could be asking for grief.”

“We see this through,” Blade stated. “I have someone to find.”

“We could try and find this person by ourselves,” Glisson proposed.

“In a muncipality this big?” Blade retorted skeptically. “It would take years.”

Glisson frowned and walked to the glass doors, hesitating briefly before yanking on the handle and stepping inside.

Blade followed, feeling a degree of comfort in the sea of citizens busily hurrying to and fro. A huge lobby fronted the glass doors, crammed with people. On the opposite wall were five elevators, all in use. Underfoot was a plush green carpet.

“This way,” Glisson declared, turning to the right. After 40 feet they came to an amply lit corridor containing an apparently endless succession of office doors.

“Which one?” Blade queried.

The tramp marched over to a closed door on the right. “This is it.”

In large black letters on the door were the words “VISITORS BUREAU: Open 24 Hours.”

“They’re open twenty-four hours a day?” Blade queried.

“Atlanta never shuts down,” Glisson said. “Many of the people are assigned to shift work.” He opened the door and went in.

A wooden counter ran the width of the room within two yards of the door. Handling paperwork or fielding questions behind it were six employees. Another four pencil-pushers were at desks beyond the counter.

“May I help you?” offered an attractive woman in a smart yellow dress.

Pinned to the fabric below her right shoulder was a small gold and white badge with a single word imprinted on the plastic: “ESCORT.”

Glisson sauntered to the counter. “You sure can, sweet lips.”

The woman took instant umbrage, her thin nose crinkling distastefully, her mouth twisting downward for a second until she caught herself and forced a mechanical smile on her lips. “Tolerance for all, sir, is a virtue,” she said pleasantly. Her alert brown eyes matched her complexion, and her curly hair formed an oval cap to her heart shaped face.