David Robbins - Atlanta Run

All except for one.

Hickok studied the singular exception, a young man with blue eyes and blond hair. What was his name again? Rikki had introduced them the night before. Dale. That was it. The youth was gnawing nervously on his lower lip and gazing apprehensively at the woods to their rear.

Why?

The gunman focused on the vegetation, searching in the shadows for signs of life.

Nothing.

Footsteps pounded on the turf and the woman returned. “More Storm Police!” she declared, out of breath.

“How many?” Locklin demanded.

“I lost count,” she responded. “I left the others to keep watch. There are dozens of police coming from the north.”

Another runner suddenly arrived from the south. “Locklin! Storm Police!”

“How many?”

“Over three dozen,” the second runner disclosed.

“What the hell is going on?” Locklin commented. “They can’t know we’re here.”

Hickok saw the youth swallow hard. “I wouldn’t bank on that, bucko.”

“Why?” Locklin asked in consternation.

Before Hickok could reply, the men at the drain removed a quarter of the barred grate.

“Locklin!” someone shouted. “The trees!”

As one, all the Freedom Fighters turned to discover the forest abruptly infested with a horde of Storm Police.

“ Rebel scum!” a gruff voice bellowed, the speaker using a megaphone. “ Drop your weapons and surrender, or you will die where you stand?”

“I trust that you enjoyed your rest?” Sol Diekrick said.

“I didn’t expect such plush accommodations,” Blade admitted, thinking of the holding cell in which he’d spent the day, a cell furnished with a comfortable bed, a table and chair, and even a portable radio. Three meals had been served, all piping hot. He had stubbornly resisted eating the first two, but his gnawing hunger had persuaded him to eat a portion of the evening repast. The cell, to the best of his estimation, was located in an underground level of the Civil Directorate. Less than five minutes ago 20 Storm Police had arrived to escort him to the Peers.

“We’re not barbarians, after all,” Sol declared archly.

Blade took stock of his surroundings. He was ten feet from a long metal table, the door to the room at his back. Seated and eyeing him intently were all the Peers, with Sol Diekrich at the head of the table to the right.

Beyond the table was an unusual glass pane, allowing those in the room to gaze over a huge chamber below. Peculiar roofless walls filled the enormous expanse.

“I was told you ate sparingly,” Sol mentioned. “Wasn’t our cuisine adequate?” The Bowies were on the table in front of him.

“I’m on a diet,” Blade quipped.

“You look fine to me,” Lilith Friekan remarked from her chair at the left end of the table.

“Behave, my dear,” Sol advised.

“Why have you spared me?” Blade asked.

“You’re complaining?” Sol rejoined.

“I was under the impression you wanted information, and fast,” Blade said.

“I did, initially,” Sol confessed. “But before we could arrange our special entertainment, we received news affecting you directly. I decided to delay the entertainment until the appropriate time.”

“I don’t understand,” Blade stated.

“You will,” Sol declared with a smirk. He glanced at the Storm Police captain in charge of the 20-man detail. “Have your men file into this room along the walls. I want our guest to refrain from interfering with our entertainment, and your presence should deter him.”

The captain nodded and obeyed.

“Now where was I?” Sol commented.

“What news?” Blade inquired, flexing his wrist muscles to test the handcuffs restraining his arms.

“In due time,” Sol said. “First, our entertainment for the evening. You are receiving quite an honor. We have disrupted our normal schedule for this event.”

“Lucky me,” Blade cracked.

Sol swiveled in his chair and nodded at the chamber below. “Any idea what that is?”

“You’re adding to the building and haven’t finished this level yet?”

Blade guessed.

“Wrong,” Sol said.

Blade shrugged. “From up here, it looks like a giant rat maze,” he speculated, partially in jest.

“How astute of you,” Sol complimented him. “Yes, it is a maze.”

Blade’s levity vanished. He stared at the network of walls, his forehead furrowing, disturbed by the implications.

“If you’ll notice,” Sol went on, “we are able to view the entire maze from up here. We have ringside seats, so to speak.”

“For what?”

“Take a close look at those walls,” Sol suggested. “Tell me what you see.”

Blade moved over to the table and peered at the maze. He’d assumed the walls were wooden; now he realized the outer surface of each wall was covered with a dull brown material unlike any other he knew. “What is that?”

“A fireproof fabric we use to protect the inner metal walls,” Sol divulged.

“Fireproof?”

“Yes,” Sol said, leaning back in his chair and smiling smugly. “Perhaps I should explain. Do you see the two doors?”

Blade surveyed the chamber, discovering a door in the middle of the wall on the far right and another door in a corresponding position on the left. “Yeah.”

“Those doors allow our players to enter the maze,” Sol detailed.

“This is some sort of game?” Blade asked.

“Yes. A game of life and death,” Sol said.

Blade glanced at Diekrick.

“We’ve decided to put on a demonstration in your honor,” Sol stated.

“Don’t put yourselves out on my account,” Blade commented.

“It’s no bother, I assure you,” Sol said.

“Let’s begin the show,” Clinton Brigg suggested.

“What’s the rush?” Sol responded. “We have all night. And we want to be here when our other guests arrive.”

“I wish we had some popcorn,” Eldred Morley remarked.

Sol looked at the giant. “Let’s introduce the players for tonight.” He rose and walked to the gigantic glass pane, stopping next to a control panel on the right-hand wall at the junction with the pane.

“I hope the Terminators don’t end it too quickly,” Lilith mentioned.

“Come here,” Sol said, beckoning the Warrior.

Blade moved around the table to the glass pane, to the left of Diekrick.

He gazed at the maze, dreading the worst.

“An old friend of yours is one of the participants,” Sol said. His right hand reached out and he pressed a red button on the control panel.

Blade saw one of the doors in the maze, the one on the far right, open by sliding into a recessed slot. And there, shuffling into the maze, being prodded by two Storm Police with blackjacks, was the hobo, Glisson.

“It’s your buddy,” Sol stated sarcastically.

“What do you plan to do to him?” Blade queried.

“ We won’t do a thing,” Sol replied. “You will.”

“Me?”

“Yes. I’ll elucidate after I present the opposing players.” Sol depressed an orange button on the panel, and the door on the left side of the maze promptly opened.

Blade’s abdominal muscles tensed.

Four figures attired in shining silver outfits strolled into sight. The head and neck of each was covered by unique headgear with dark, tinted eyepieces. Strapped to the back of each was a trio of thin tanks, and clutched in the hands of each was a flared, gunlike nozzle.

“A Terminator squad,” Sol said. “Perhaps you’re familiar with the reputation our Terminators have? A richly deserved reputation, I might add. Their Fryers are extremely lethal.”

Blade did not respond. He glanced from the Terminators, waiting patiently near the left-hand door, to Glisson, who was wringing his hands nervously in front of the right-hand entrance.