David Robbins - Atlanta Run

“To make the next contest more challenging,” Sol replied.

“You’re sending me in there next?”

Diekrick grinned maliciously. “I’m a patient man, but my patience is not unlimited. If you won’t divulge the information I want, then you will be next. A fresh Terminator squad will be sent in, and it will be their flamethrowers against your Bowies.” He chuckled. “We anticipate great entertainment.”

“I hope I don’t disappoint you,” Blade remarked.

“I hope our other guests arrive in time,” Sol said.

Blade stepped up to the pane, watching Glisson take a passage to the tramp’s left. He assessed the span from the pane to the floor below at 20 feet. For someone of his stature, 20 feet wasn’t insurmountable. The falling glass, though, would pose a definite hazard. If he could—

Wait a second.

What was this?

Blade inspected the pane minutely for several moments. “This isn’t glass,” he declared.

Sol Diekrick appeared amused by the observation. “Of course it isn’t.

Glass became outdated decades before the war because of its nasty habit of cutting people when broken. Substitutes were quite common. This substance, for instance, is called Polyperv.” He tapped the pane. “It has all of the positive qualities of glass, but it doesn’t contain the same flaws.

When Polyperv shatters, the fragments tend to be large instead of fractured splinters as with glass. And the fragments have a duller edge than with glass. A person is less likely to be cut.”

“Interesting,” Blade remarked. “I remember reading about bullet-proof substances, virtually shatterproof, used prior to the Big Blast. Is this one of those substances?”

“Polyperv? No. Why would we bother to install an expensive bulletproof panel here? The pane is highly fire resistant, though,” Sol responded.

“How convenient,” Blade said, taking a step to his left, a step closer to the table.

And his Bowies.

“Why this intense interest in the window?” Sol asked. “Don’t you care if Glisson lives or dies?”

Blade nodded, taking another stride, his eyes on the maze. “Of course I care.”

“You could have fooled me,” Sol said.

“I hope to,” Blade replied, and glanced at the doorway to the room.

“Who’s the guy with the machine gun?”

It was one of the oldest tricks in the book, and the Warrior performed the ruse flawlessly. By conveying an attitude of nonchalance, and by phrasing his question casually, he succeeded in temporarily diverting the attention of everyone in the room to the door. In the few seconds required for them to realize there was no one there, he accomplished his goal.

Blade’s massive arm muscles bulged, his shoulders rippling, as he exerted all of his strength. His features reddened and his teeth clenched, and with a loud crack the links connecting the cuffs parted. Before the Peers and the Storm Police could perceive his purpose, he leaped to the table and grabbed the Bowies.

“Get him!” Sol Diekrick bellowed.

The Storm Police rushed the giant.

“Where did they come from?” one of the Freedom Fighters cried.

“We’re trapped!” yelled another.

“Into the storm drain!” Locklin ordered, motioning at the opening in the grate.

Dozens of bright beams of light caught the Freedom Fighters in a stark glare as the Storm Police produced flashlights.

“ Drop your weapons !” the man with the megaphone repeated. “ Now! ”

Locklin gripped Hickok’s right arm and pushed the Warrior toward the drain. “Go!”

“We’re not leavin’ you,” Hickok said.

“Some of us can escape through the drain, but we must move quickly. Now go!” Locklin snapped.

Rikki-Tikki-Tavi surveyed the scene, noting the Storm Police steadily advancing with their automatic rifles at the ready and the compact mass of rebels with their backs, literally, to the wall. He moved to the grate and crouched in front of the hole in the bars. “Come on,” he said to the gunman, then slid inside.

Hickok hesitated. “My irons can come in handy.”

“This is not your fight,” Locklin responded, keeping his gaze on the Storm Police. “It’s ours. And you have your friend to think of. Go! Please! We’ll be right behind you.”

“Hurry,” Rikki prompted from within the drain.

Frowning in annoyance, the gunfighter entered the storm drain and moved a few feet inward to join Rikki. He found he could stand, although the height of the culvert did not permit him to straighten entirely.

Locklin poked his head inside. “Take off! We’ll hold them as long as we can.”

“May the Spirit preserve you,” Rikki said, and headed deeper into the drain.

Hickok reluctantly followed his friend. The interior was obscured in inky blackness and the tunnel ahead was indistinguishable. “Why are we desertin’ them?” he demanded.

“Blade must come first,” Rikki replied.

“I know, but—” Hickok began.

“If we had stayed, we would die with them,” Rikki stated.

Gunfire erupted from their rear, commingled with screams and curses.

“We can’t abandon them,” Hickok objected, and unexpectedly bumped into his companion in the dark. “Why’d you stop?”

“Locklin gave me this,” Rikki said, and a small flame sparked to life, illuminating the drain for a yard or so in both directions.

“What is it?”

“A lighter. We must hurry,” Rikki reiterated, and hastened on.

The sounds of the conflict had reached a crescendo.

“I still say we shouldn’t abandon them,” Hickok groused.

“Would you rather abandon Blade?”

“Of course not,” Hickok replied.

“Then we have no choice,” Rikki stressed. “They were hopelessly outnumbered. Our guns would not have made a difference.”

“It rankles me to walk out on folks I like,” Hickok remarked. “We’d better not make a habit of this.”

“We won’t,” Rikki assured him.

The Warriors lost all track of time and distance as they penetrated farther and farther into the storm drain. The sounds of battle grew fainter, and eventually faded.

“Do you know which way to go?” Hickok asked.

“Locklin gave me directions.”

“Why didn’t he tell me?”

“You were busy relating a bedtime story to Chastity,” Rikki said.

“If anything happens to her…” Hickok stated, leaving the sentence unfinished.

They continued in silence for a long time.

“Wait,” Hickok directed.

Rikki stopped. “What is it?”

“I thought I heard something,” Hickok mentioned, turning to view the drain to their rear.

“What?”

“I’m not sure, pard.”

The pad of rushing feet filled the conduit.

“Could be the Storm Police,” Hickok whispered, leveling the Uzi.

“We should keep going,” Rikki advised.

“You can skedaddle if you want,” Hickok declared. “But I’m not runnin’ twice in one night. It’d give me a complexion.”

“Don’t you mean a complex?”

“Whatever.”

“It could be a mutant,” Rikki mentioned.

“I hope so.”

“You do?”

“I’m in the mood to blow something away, and it might as well be a blasted mutant,” Hickok stated. “Flick off the lighter.”

Rikki complied, and they stood in total darkness and waited as the footsteps became progressively louder.

Unexpectedly, the noise ceased.

An interval of quiet engulfed the drain.

“Psst! Hickok? Rikki? Are you there?”

The gunman recognized the voice and smiled. “Yeah, we’re here, Locklin.”

Rikki ignited the lighter.

“There you are!” Locklin called, and a second later the dim figure of the rebel leader and others hastened toward the Warriors.