David Robbins - Atlanta Run

“You can’t see it from here, but there is a yellow light affixed to the wall above this glass pane,” Sol advised. “If I press this brown button,”—and he indicated the appropriate button on the control panel—“the yellow light will come on and the festivities will commence.”

Blade still said nothing.

“The rules are very simple,” Sol explained. “The Terminators enter the maze from the left, and your friend enters the maze from the right. If your friend manages to negotiate the maze and reaches the door on the left, he wins the most valuable prize imaginable: his life.” Sol paused. “If, however, the Terminators find Glisson before he reaches the opposite side of the chamber, then they will fry him on the spot. Simple enough, don’t you think?”

“You bastard.”

“Spare me your juvenile insults,” Sol stated.

“Glisson doesn’t stand a chance,” Blade remarked bitterly.

“On the contrary, he does,” Sol said. “Believe it or not, some players have reached the other side safely. The Terminators do not possess an unfair advantage. They do not have the maze memorized, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“The odds are four to one,” Blade protested. “And the Terminators are armed with flamethrowers. You call that fair?”

Sol shrugged. “As fair as his type deserves.”

Blade glared at the Peer.

“There is always the possibility Glisson will be spared,” Sol said. “We could call the whole thing off.”

“What does Glisson have to do?” Blade asked.

“Him? Not a thing,” Sol said. “Whether he plays our little game or not is up to you.”

“Me?”

“You,” Sol reiterated, his tone lowering. “I want information. I want to know all about you: your name, where you are from, the reason you’re in Atlanta, everything. If you supply this information, Glisson gets free.”

The Warrior gazed at the aged tramp.

“You were eager to find Llewellyn Snow. I want to know why,” Sol declared. “Llewellyn Snow is under constant surveillance while we debate whether to consign her to a Sleep Chamber. Her brother, Richard, published The Atlanta Tribune until recently. We were forced to eradicate him.”

“What did he do?” Blade inquired.

“The fool intended to publish an editorial critical of us.”

Sol snapped. “We exercise creative authority over all the media in the city—”

“You censor them,” Blade interrupted.

“—and all editorials must be officially sanctioned prior to publication,” Sol continued, unfazed. “Snow planned to slip one into his paper without our knowledge, but fortunately one of his staff blew the whistle.”

“So you had him killed over an editorial?”

“You should have seen it!” Sol said. “Snow accused us of being arbitrary and despotic. After twelve years as publisher, after receiving favored status, he turned on us.”

“Why?”

Sol made a snorting sound. “Over the merest trifle. His parents were consigned to the Sleep Chambers five months ago, after they turned sixty-six. According to our law, that’s the cut-off age. All those over sixty-six are rated as past their prime, burdens on society, and incapable of producing enough to justify the expense of extending their life span.”

“Snow turned against you after his parents were murdered,” Blade commented sarcastically. “How could he be so ungrateful?”

“His wife attempted to flee the city with their only child, a girl,” Sol said. “The Terminators caught the mother, thanks to a tip from Llewellyn.”

Blade was shocked. “Llewellyn Snow betrayed her sister-in-law?”

“Llewellyn knew her life was in jeopardy because of her brother’s treachery. To prove her worth, she notified us of Leslie Snow’s plans,” Sol answered. “We sent a Terminator squad after her. The mother was fried, but the child escaped. The Terminators searched and searched, but the child eluded them.” He sighed. “Hopefully, the girl perished in the wilderness. The Snow bloodline is genetically inferior and deserves to be eradicated.”

“Does this include Llewellyn Snow?” Blade asked.

“She did not condone her brother’s treachery,” Diekrick said. “And she did inform on Leslie. If our monitoring of her activities does not uncover any latent deviation, she will be spared.”

“How sweet of you,” Blade quipped.

“Now to the matter at hand,” Sol declared. “What will it be?”

“My freedom would be nice.”

“Don’t indulge your infantile humor at my expense!” Sol snapped. “You know very well what I mean. Will you provide the information I want, or does Glisson face the maze?”

Blade gazed at the labyrinth, the Terminators, and finally the hobo. He doubted Gilsson could survive the contest, and he was tempted to answer all of Sol’s questions. But his primary responsibility was to the Family and the Home; if he gave Diekrick everything the Peer wanted, he would be betraying the trust of those who relied upon him. There was no telling what the Peers would do. They might decide to send a demolition or commando team to destroy the Home, which had already survived assaults by scavengers, mutants, Russians, the Doktor’s forces, Trolls, and others. Under no circumstances would he endanger the compound again.

“What will it be?” Sol demanded once more.

“Go sit on a pitchfork.”

“You have sealed his doom,” Sol said, and pressed the brown button.

Reacting instantly, as if they were eager to commence, the four Terminators entered the maze.

Glisson was shoved by the two Storm Police. He nearly fell, glared at them, then walked into the network of confusing passageways. The Storm Police exited through the right-hand door, which promptly closed.

“At last!” Eldred Morley exclaimed.

Blade’s gray eyes narrowed as he studied the maze, following the progress of the Terminators and Glisson. From his vantage point, thanks to the elevation of the room, he could see all five participants, but only from the waist up. Their lower extremities were obscured by the six-foot-high walls.

“I wager the bum doesn’t last ten minutes,” Clinton Brigg commented.

“I’ll take you up on that,” Lilith said.

“Do you feel like talking yet?” Sol asked the Warrior.

Blade shook his head, his arm muscles tensed, seemingly anxious for Glisson’s safety but surreptitiously straining on the handcuffs.

“Suit yourself,” Sol stated, gazing at the maze.

The Terminators had separated, taking different branches. Glisson was proceeding at a snail’s pace, fearfully looking around every corner before venturing into the next passage.

“What a timid mouse,” Sol said contemptuously.

“I’d like to see how brave you’d be,” Blade commented.

Diekrick laughed. “Never happen.”

Blade looked at the metal table to his left, at the glass pane, then at the Storm Police ringing the walls, calculating distances and odds. He estimated the nearest trooper was 15 feet away; the table was only six feet off; and the space between the end of the table and the glass pane was a mere yard.

“Hey! The scum has stopped,” Morley complained.

Indeed, Glisson had halted at an intersection and was appraising each option with transparent anxiety.

“What happens if he goes back?” Blade inquired.

“Back to where he started?” Sol asked.

Blade nodded.

“The Terminators are empowered to fry him anywhere in the chamber, even by the door,” Sol disclosed. “His best bet is to keep moving and not to lose his sense of direction.”

“That pathetic excuse for a human couldn’t find his butt in the dark with both hands,” Morley cracked.

Blade glanced casually at the table again. “Why did you bring my Bowies?”