David Robbins: Atlanta Run

At the rate we’re going, we won’t reach the Home for a year.”

The one in black nodded. His hair and eyes were both dark. An Uzi was over his right shoulder, and slanted under his black belt, aligned over his left hip, was a long, black scabbard containing his prized katana. “I agree we need a vehicle. But do we have the right to steal one?”

“Out here,” the blond man commented, patting his Pythons, “might makes right.”

Rikki’s eyes narrowed. “You would take a vehicle at gunpoint, Hickok?”

“If need be,” Hickok replied.

“Warriors should not stoop to stealing,” Rikki commented.

“We can’t afford to be finicky,” Hickok said. “Do you want to see your girlfriend before she becomes an old maid?”

“I miss Lexine,” Rikki admitted.

“And I can’t wait to see my missus and young’un again,” Hickok declared. “The sooner, the better. Which means we must find a car or truck.”

The man in black glanced at the giant. “What do you say, Blade? Who’s right?”

The seven-foot-tall powerhouse looked from Rikki to Hickok. “You both are.”

Hickok squinted up at the Herculean figure in the black leather vest, fatigue pants, and combat boots. “Are you loco? How can we both be right?”

Blade idly placed his hands on the hilts of his Bowies, each big knife snug in its sheath, one on each hip. An M-16 was draped over his broad left shoulder. “You’re right,” he told the gunman, “because we do need transportation.”

Hickok smirked and gazed at Rikki. “See?”

“But Rikki has a valid point,” Blade went on. “We can’t steal a car or truck from the first person we bump into who owns one.”

“I didn’t know there are rules of etiquette for swipin’ a buggy,” Hickok stated sarcastically.

Blade sighed and stared up at the bright blue sky, feeling the heat of the July sun on his rugged features, his gray eyes troubled. He ran his right hand through his dark hair. “We need a vehicle,” he reiterated. “There’s no denying that. We’re stranded, and we’re approximately fifteen hundred miles from Minnesota.”

“It’s not our fault the blasted Hurricane never came back to pick us up,” Hickok muttered.

Blade frowned as he scrutinized the terrain ahead, a flat stretch of lushly forested landscape. The gunman had hit the proverbial nail on the head: their predicament was not their fault. Recent events swept through his mind in a rush, and he remembered all of the factors involved in their dilemma.

First, there was the Home, the survivalist compound situated in northern Minnesota where they had been born and raised. Constructed by a wealthy idealist prior to World War Three, the Home was occupied by the Founder’s descendants, dubbed the Family. And as three of the Warrior class, those responsible for defending the Home and protecting the Family, Blade, Rikki, and Hickok were pledged to eliminate any threat.

Enter the Dragons. Until a couple of weeks ago, the Dragons had ruled southern Florida like medieval masters over a serfdom. Florida had not fared well during the war. The state had devolved into anarachy after the collapse of the federal and state governments, and into the vacuum came the drug lords, rival gangs fighting to control. One drug organization eventually triumphed: the Dragons. But they made the mistake of plotting the Family’s downfall, and now, thanks to the three Warriors, the leaders of the Dragons were dead and their drug empire was in disarray.

So the Warriors had accomplished their mission.

Which was all well and good.

Unfortunately, they had found themselves left high and dry, inexplicably abandoned. The Hurricane, the jet with VTOL capability that had conveyed them from Minnesota to Florida, never showed up at the rendezvous site, never retrieved them as scheduled.

Which meant they were compelled to walk back, through a land overrun with mutants, mutates, scavengers, and sundry menaces of every description.

Why? Blade asked himself.

Why didn’t the Hurricane show up? Had it crashed? Had something else happened to the craft?

Or worse .

Had something happened to the Freedom Federation?

The Federation was the brainchild of the leaders of the seven factions constituting its membership. Where once fifty states had been united to preserve the national identity of the United States, now seven scattered factions were devoted to maintaining the flickering light of civilization and wresting humankind from the darkness of savage barbarism. The Family was but one of the seven. Also included were the Moles and the Clan, both groups located in Minnesota. The fourth faction controlled the Dakota Territory; they were a group of superb horsemen known as the Cavalry. The Flathead Indians in Montana had also joined the Federation, as had the Civilized Zone, a large area in the Midwest.

And finally, the latest addition to the Freedom Federation was the Free State of California. Unlike Florida, California had been one of the few states to retain its administrative integrity after the war. California had consolidated its National Guard, and all of the Army, Navy, Air Force, and Marine units within its borders, into a cohesive force, enabling the state to withstand the hordes of looters and the chaos resulting from the unleashing of the nuclear holocaust. California’s leaders had wisely opted to diligently maintain their technological capabilities, and as part of that goal they placed special emphasis on the importance of their Air Force, particularly their Hurricanes. As a gesture of goodwill, the governor of California had offered to employ the Hurricanes in a regular shuttle and messenger service between the Federation members.

Blade had commandeered one of the Hurricanes, prevailing upon the pilot to fly Hickok, Rikki, and himself to Florida. As he reviewed the sequence of events, he found himself regretting that action. Here they were, cut off, abandoned, hundreds and hundreds of miles from their loved ones. Perhaps he should have…

“…listenin’ to me or what?” Hickok demanded.

The giant abruptly realized he’d been completely distracted by his thoughts. “Sorry,” he said. “What did you say?”

“What’s the matter with you, pard?” Hickok inquired. “Did that fracas with the Dragons addle your brain?”

Blade smiled. “No. What were you saying?”

“I want to know how we’re going to get our hands on a car or truck,” Hickok mentioned. “I doubt anybody will just give us one.”

Rikki suddenly stopped and held his right hand aloft for silence. “I hear an engine,” he told them.

Blade cocked his head to one side, listening. For a moment he heard only the insects and the birds, but then, from off to the southeast, arose a sustained growl.

“It’s a plane!” Hickok declared, scanning the heavens.

“There,” Rikki said, pointing.

Blade spotted it too. A small, white, single-engine aircraft approaching at a steady clip.

“I wish I had my Henry,” Hickok remarked, referring to his favorite rifle, a weapon he’d lost in Florida. “I’d try and shoot it down.”

“Why?” Rikki asked. “What good would shooting it down do?”

“The pilot might know where we could find a vehicle,” the gunman replied.

“Provided he survived the crash,” Rikki noted.

“Nitpick, nitpick,” Hickok grumbled.

Blade smiled as he studied the plane, speculating on its destination.

The aircraft was bearing to the northwest. He extracted a map from his left rear pocket and unfolded it.

“Where do you figure we are?” Hickok queried.

“In Georgia,” Blade said, crouching and placing the map on the ground.

“Or what was once Georgia.” They’d deliberately avoided every inhabited settlement, knowing from prior experience that the likelihood of receiving a friendly reception was slim. According to the Family Elders—and substantiated by the thousands of volumes in the library the Founder had personally stocked at the Home—social customs had been drastically different before the war. One hundred and five years ago a person could travel from town to town, from city to city, without having to fear for his or her life. But nowadays, people were inclined to shoot first and ascertain peaceful intent later— if a stranger survived long enough to be able to convince them. To preclude such an eventuality, the Warriors had bypassed towns and communities betraying evidence of habitation, and because they were sticking to the less-traveled byways and proceeding overland where possible, Blade could not pinpoint their exact location with precise accuracy. “I think we’re about twenty miles southeast of Atlanta. If Atlanta is still there.”