David Robbins - Atlanta Run

Would it work?

Blade straightened, replaced the right Bowie in its sheath, and climbed onto the rim of the wall. The silvery tops of the Terminators’ helmets were easy to spy. One was 40 yards to his right. The second was two dozen yards straight ahead. And the third was to his left, perhaps 20 feet off and moving away from him.

Glisson wasn’t in view.

What was the tramp doing? Hiding?

Blade cupped his hands to his mouth. “Glisson! Where are you?”

The three Terminators halted, their silver headpieces miniature islands of stark contrast in an ocean of brown walls.

There was no reply.

“Glisson!” Blade shouted. “It’s Blade! Where are you, you numbskull?”

From off to the right came a feeble response. “Blade? Is that you?”

“Of course it’s me!” Blade assured the hobo. “Stand up so I can see you!”

Their silvery heads twisting every which way, the Terminators, obviously disconcerted by all the yelling, were attempting to figure out what was going on.

“If I stand up, the Terminators will fry my ass,” Glisson declared.

“If you want my help escaping from this maze, then you’d better stand up!” Blade said. “Right now!”

Glisson’s thatch of dark hair popped up, midway between the Warrior and a Terminator. “Where are you?”

“Never mind,” Blade answered. “Don’t move. I’ll be right there.” He glanced around and spied one of the Terminators, the one to his left, hastening toward him. He decided to act on his idea. Why should he travel through the maze, never knowing when he might bump into a Terminator, his sense of direction all askew, when he could take an alternate route?

On top of the walls!

Blade moved toward the tramp, his boots easily negotiating the six-inch-wide top of each wall, the fireproof material feeling slightly spongy underfoot. The passages seldom ran straight for any span, and he was compelled to follow a circuitous path to Glisson, constantly turning with the sharp angles of the walls.

“Where are you?” Glisson called out.

“Just don’t move,” Blade replied. He spotted a Terminator ahead and skirted wide of the assassin.

“Hey!” exclaimed a muted voice to his left. “The guy who came through the window is on one of the walls!”

Blade paused and scrutinized the maze.

A Terminator was staring at him from 30 feet away.

“Where are you?” Glisson said yet again.

The Warrior hurried, knowing the Terminators would be after him, and hoping they would be impeded by the labyrinth and unable to get within flamethrower range.

“You on the wall!” bellowed one of the Terminators.

“Who the hell is he?” demanded another.

“He must be part of the contest,” assumed the third.

“Should we switch to infrared?” asked the first Terminator.

“What for?” retorted the first. “So long as he stays on the walls, we can see him. And if he drops down, the damn metal in the walls will interfere with our Heat Vision sensors.”

Blade listened to their exchange with interest. Infrared? Their suits must incorporate a heat-tracking mechanism, a means of locking on the body heat generated by their quarry. He turned right, then took a sharp left, drawing ever nearer to Glisson.

The old-timer had finally seen the Warrior. He was gawking at Blade in frank astonishment.

“I’ve got him!” one of the Terminators cried.

Blade glanced to his right, and there was a Terminator running in pursuit, not more than 15 feet off but separated by two walls.

The silvery form stopped and elevated the Fryer nozzle, aiming at the giant.

Blade leaped to the passage below before the Terminator could fire. He sprinted to the end of the corridor and turned left at the first junction, then right at the next.

Glisson was 20 feet away, and he smiled broadly as the Warrior came into view. “Blade!”

“We must reach one of the doors,” Blade declared as he ran forward.

Less than a dozen feet remained to be covered when the hobo’s mouth slackened in alarm and he pointed at something to Blade’s rear.

“Look out!” he shouted.

Reacting instinctively, Blade threw himself to the floor, scuffing his elbows and knees. Sudden, blistering heat prickled the back of his body from his head to his toes. He saw a tongue of red and orange flame shoot overhead.

The fire enveloped Glisson.

Screaming in terror, ineffectually swatting at the flames, the tramp staggered backwards as his clothes combusted. He shrieked, spinning in circles, smacking his clothing repeatedly. “Help me!” he wailed.

Prevented from rising by the sheet of flame. Blade watched, shocked, as Glisson burned to death. Not more than 30 seconds elasped between the moment Glisson was struck by the flames and his near-total incineration.

His flesh blackened almost immediately, and he seemed to shrivel as the scorching heat engulfed him. The last sound he uttered was a pitiable whimper.

And still the Terminator poured on the flames.

Blade twisted on his stomach, squinting, trying to see the assassin but hampered by the flames. He realized the Terminator could not see him either, and he slid toward the killer, hoping he could reach the silvery slayer before the Terminator lowered the wall of shooting fire. His heart pounding, he crawled quickly until he detected a pair of silver boots a few feet in front of him.

There the bastard was!

His countenance set in grim lines, Blade pulled himself closer and reached out, gripping the Terminator’s ankles in his viselike hands and surging up and in. Excruciating, scalding anguish lanced his back, and the putrid scent of burning flesh, his burning flesh, assailed his nostrils. He rose, upending the Terminator.

As the killer fell, he lost his grip on the Fryer nozzle and the flamethrower quit spitting fire.

Blade held onto the Terminator’s ankles, and when the executioner fell onto the tanks with a loud clang, he savagely extended the Terminator’s legs as far as he could reach.

The man in the silver attire screeched as his groin was seared by exquisite torment.

In a cold, fierce fury, Blade kicked the Terminator where it would hurt the most, then released the man’s ankles and pounced on the killer’s chest, his knees gouging into the Terminator’s ribs. He drew the Bowies, the blades glistening as they arced through the air, and he sank the knives into the Terminator’s eyepieces, one in each eye.

Bucking and convulsing, the Terminator’s demise was grisly and fitting.

Blade tugged the Bowies loose and stood slowly, his gray eyes smoldering. He looked over his right shoulder at the charred form of his former acquaintance, then stalked into the maze, the knives at his sides.

He wasn’t running anymore.

There was a score to settle.

He threaded through the labyrinth, seeking the last pair of Terminators, and he came on them both simultaneously, rounding a corner.

Neither Terminator spotted the Warrior. Their backs were to him, and they were involved in an earnest discussion.

“…lost sight of him,” one was saying.

“And I haven’t seen Cooper anywhere,” said the second.

“Do you think that big son of a bitch got them?”

The second Terminator shrugged. “I don’t know. Who is he? I heard a crash and looked up in time to see him drop down.”

“I thought I saw a body fall first.”

“We should stick together,” suggested the second. “We’ll have a better chance of nailing the big guy.”

“If he’s alive,” remarked the first. “Did you hear those screams?”

“I’m alive,” declared a firm voice behind them. “Why don’t you come and get me?”

They swiveled, bringing up their Fryers.