David Robbins - Atlanta Run

Locklin pursed his lips and gazed absently at the ground. “I honestly don’t know,” he commented at length. “There are many people who resent the Peers and want a new government, but there are also many citizens satisfied with the status quo. I don’t know what will happen.”

“Those Storm galoots could pose a problem for you,” Hickok remarked.

“How will you deal with them? Killin’ the Peers won’t solve a thing if the Storm Police don’t side with you.”

“I’ve heard a rumor that the chief of the Storm Police, a man named Skinner, resents the Peers and wants them disposed of,” Locklin said.

“Rumors do not a revolution make,” Rikki philosophized.

“We can’t worry about the Storm Police now,” Locklin declared. “First things first. First, the Peers. We’ll tend to the Storm Police when the time comes.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Hickok said.

They finished traversing the field in contemplative silence, then hiked into another stretch of forest.

“I’d like to hear the plan again,” Hickok mentioned.

“We’ve already gone over our strategy twice,” Locklin responded.

“Humor me.”

The rebel leader sighed and scratched his beard. “The Civil Council meets in the Civil Directorate once a week at nine P.M. Their meeting chamber is located on the tenth floor of the Directorate. All we have to do is wait until eight, enter the city through the storm drains, and reach the Civil Directorate without being spotted. There should be a service elevator we can take to the tenth floor. Very few guards should be on duty because the Peers won’t be expecting any trouble.”

“It’s awful risky,” Hickok remarked.

“Do you have a better idea?” Locklin retorted. “If you want to save your friend, pray this works.”

They marched westward as the sun dipped toward the horizon.

Splendid tints of red, orange, and pink lent a grandeur to the sunset.

“I hope Chastity is okay,” Hickok commented at one point.

As the band drew ever nearer to the sprawling metropolis, they proceeded with heightened caution. Their green apparel enabled them to blend into the landscape, and they stealthily approached to within a hundred yards of the wall. Locklin gestured, and his followers instantly fanned out in a skirmish line from north to south. Putting his finger over his lips, Locklin led the two Warriors to a cluster of thick brush 70 yards from the city. He crouched and peered at the rampart.

“I count three guards,” he said.

“Four,” Rikki corrected him. “See the one to the right?”

Locklin looked and nodded. “You have good eyes.”

“But his nose is too big,” Hickok quipped.

“Where are the storm drains?” Rikki inquired.

“You can’t see them from here,” Locklin said. “There are two of them at the base of the wall, hidden in those tall weeds.”

“What about those coyotes on the wall?” Hickok asked.

Locklin consulted a watch on his left wrist. “My archers are already in position. In five minutes they’ll take the guards out.”

The gunman scrutinized the western horizon. “It won’t be dark for another half hour, at least.”

“It’s July,” Locklin said. “It doesn’t get dark until nine. But it will be on the dim side. Dusk usually is,” he concluded wryly.

The light was gradually fading as the sun began to sink out of sight.

Hickok checked the magazine in the Uzi, and saw Rikki doing the same.

On the wall, oblivious to the presence of the rebels, the guards went about their business. Two were engaged in conversation, while the remaining pair were conducting slow patrols of the rampart, one moving to the north, one to the south. All four were armed with AR-15s.

The gunman watched the tableau unfold, and he felt a degree of admiration for the skill the rebels displayed. With unerring accuracy, four arrows were released at the same moment and sped true to the respective target. Four shafts penetrated four hearts, and four forms sprawled onto the rampart.

“Now,” Locklin whispered, then held his right fist aloft. His band converged on the wall in an orderly, quiet dash.

Hickok and Rikki stayed abreast of Locklin. They waited as his men used long knives to slash an opening in the weeds, exposing a set of man-sized storm drains.

“They’re barred,” Rikki observed.

“No problem,” Locklin stated confidently, and nodded at three of his men. Each one carried a large, brown leather pouch, and from the pouch each pulled out a hacksaw. “Get to it,” he directed.

The trio applied themselves to the bars of the left-hand drain, their sawing sounding like the buzzing of a swarm of bees.

Hickok surveyed the rampart, his fingers on the Uzi trigger.

“The Storm Police assign their guards to a specific sector on the wall,” Locklin explained. “The ones we killed aren’t due to be relieved until midnight, and my men are keeping an eye on the guards north and south of here.”

“These bars are tough,” one of the men sawing commented.

“Don’t stop,” Locklin said. “We’re on a tight schedule.”

Hickok gazed into the gloomy drain. “Where does this oversized gopher hole lead?”

“These were installed after the war, when the climate changed,” Locklin answered. “Atlanta began receiving twice as much annual rainfall. The experts claimed a shift in the jet stream was to blame. Anyway, right now we’re between Rock Springs Road and La Vista. The drains lead to the Atlanta Water Works Reservoirs, to channel the overflow during the rainy season. One of the branches will lead us to within a block of the Civil Directorate. We won’t have to worry about the Storm Police.”

“Good,” Hickok said.

“We’ll just need to watch out for the rats, the spiders, and the tunnel mutants.”

“The what?” Hickok asked.

“Thousands of rats and spiders live in the drains,” Locklin detailed. “A lot are drowned during the runoff, but somehow they always multiply like rabbits afterwards.”

“And the tunnel mutants?”

“Mutants are everywhere. You know that. The storm drains are no exception,” Locklin said.

“You have used the drains before,” Rikki deduced.

“Yes,” Locklin confirmed. “We used them regularly to sneak into the city until about a year ago. Then the Storm Police caught on and installed bars on every drain.”

“Has anyone ever seen mutant apes in the drains?” Hickok inquired.

“Not to my knowledge,” Locklin replied. “Why?”

“Oh, nothin’.”

The three men were sawing at a frantic pace.

Locklin checked his watch again. “We’re falling behind schedule.” He nodded at three of his band. “Take over for them.”

A woman in green raced up to them. “More guards are coming!” she declared.

“Where?” Locklin asked.

“From the north,” the woman disclosed. “Two of them.”

“How far off?”

“Five hundred yards or better.”

“Have everyone take cover,” Locklin commanded. “Take three with you.

I want these guards stopped before they get too close. Use two archers for each guard.”

“I understand,” the woman acknowledged. She pointed at three rebels, and together they sprinted northward. The rest crouched low.

“Keep sawing,” Locklin told the men at the drain. “The guards are too far off to hear us.”

“Do you think they know we’re here?” Big John inquired.

“They have no way of knowing,” Locklin said.

Hickok stared to the north, pleased to notice the increasingly murky light.

Working strenuously, the men at the drain grunted and huffed.

The gunman gazed at the Freedom Fighters, regarding their determined, courageous expressions. Face after face conveyed a grim sense of purpose.