David Robbins - Atlanta Run

“Hickok,” Rikki called from eight yards off.

The gunman hastened to his friend’s side. “Have you found one, pard?”

For an answer, Rikki held the lighter aloft, revealing another manhole cover.

“Big John,” Locklin directed.

Once again the biggest Freedom Fighter applied his brawny shoulder to the task, but with different results. As Big John grunted and arched his broad back, the manhole cover slowly eased to the left with a grinding noise. In less than a minute the cover was removed.

“I can see trees,” Big John remarked, peering over the rim.

“Let me take a gander,” Hickok said.

Big John moved to one side.

Holding the Uzi at chest height, just in case, Hickok stood on his toes and looked around. The conduit was situated in a sloping gully with cement sides and bordered by a chain-link fence. He glanced at Locklin.

“Why is there a fence?”

“To keep the public out, especially the kids,” Locklin replied. “When the drains were installed, the construction crews dug a trench, poured the concrete, and enclosed the whole deal as a safety measure.”

Hickok placed the Uzi on the outer rim, then pulled himself to his knees. Beyond the fence on the right was a residential area, and on the left was a park. Streetlights at periodic intervals supplied a diffuse illumination, the closest light being 30 feet to the right. Thanks to an intervening tree, the manhole section was obscured by shadows. “The coast is clear,” Hickok announced softly. “Everybody out.” He walked a few yards from the manhole and scanned their surroundings.

Rikki, Locklin, and the rest of the band clambered speedily from the drain.

“Which way to the Civil Directorate?” Hickok asked the rebel leader.

Locklin pointed to the southwest. “It’s not far.”

“I just hope Blade is there,” Hickok said.

“If you friend has been captured, the odds are he’s there,” Locklin stated. “But our first priority is taking care of the Peers.”

“ Your first priority is takin’ care of the Peers,” Hickok said, correcting him. “Ours is findin’ our pard.”

Locklin nodded at the park. “We can cut through here. That’s Piedmont Park.”

“Head ’em out,” Hickok instructed.

Working in concert, with Big John providing a boost to everyone who needed it, the Warriors and Freedom Fighters scaled the chain-link fence.

Big John came over without assistance.

“Lead the way,” Hickok said to Locklin.

Motioning for his band to fan out, Locklin headed into the lush park.

They crossed a grassy knoll and reached a walkway, and there encountered their first citizens, a young couple strolling arm in arm. The man and woman took one look at the Freedom Fighters, with their unusual green attire, and took off to the southeast.

“Now we’re in for it,” Locklin said. “They’ll report us to the police.”

“I could catch them,” Big John offered.

“We don’t harm civilians,” Locklin responded. “You know that.”

“I could tie them up,” Big John proposed.

“We keep going,” Locklin declared.

They increased their pace, with Dale supporting a rebel with a wounded leg.

Several minutes went by.

“We have company,” Rikki informed them.

Approaching from the southeast were more flashlights.

“Storm Police,” Locklin said.

“We stand and fight,” Hickok stated. “We don’t want them doggin’ us every step of the way.”

Locklin headed toward a row of trees nearby. “Take cover!” he commanded. “Don’t loose a shaft until I do.”

Hickok and Rikki ran for cover behind a large maple tree. The gunman leaned on the trunk and watched the shining beams, estimating the troopers were within 50 yards. “I’m gettin’ real tired of these cow chips.”

“They know they have the rebels cornered in the city,” Rikki observed, “and they will stop at nothing to eliminate the Freedom Fighters.”

“Not if I can help it,” Hickok vowed.

“What will we do if Blade is not in the Civil Directorate?” Rikki asked.

“We’ll grab one of the Peers and throttle Blade’s whereabouts out of him. Or her, if they have such female polecats.”

“You never have been one for subtlety.”

“Beatin’ around the bush is for the birds,” Hickok said. “Roll with the flow, I always say.”

“Can you translate that?”

“When I was eight, I learned one of the most important lessons of my life,” Hickok explained. “There was this bully by the name of Greer—”

“I remember him,” Rikki said, interrupting. “He was always picking fights with the younger children in our Family.”

“And he picked one with me,” Hickok detailed. “I got in a few licks, but he walloped me good. My mom couldn’t help but notice my swollen cheek and black eyes, so I had to tell her everything. She told me to go to Greer and offer my hand in friendship. She said that Greer would respond if I was sincere. ‘Blessed are the peacemakers’ was the creed she lived by.”

“What happened?” Rikki whispered.

“I walked up to Greer, smilin’ and sincere, and informed him I wanted to be his good buddy.”

“What did Greer do?”

“What else? He busted me in the chops.” Hickok paused. “I tore into him, and the second time around I came out on top. Greer left me alone after that. I…” He stopped, gazing at the troopers.

The Storm Police were filing under an overhead park light. There were two dozen plus an officer, and all of them were armed with automatic weapons. Ten troopers in front were probing the vegetation with flashlights. Although 20-foot-high overhead lampposts were situated along the walkways, darkness enveloped most of Piedmont Park.

Hickok crouched and stared at the nearby trees. He had to hand it to the Freedom Fighters; he knew they were hiding there, but he couldn’t see hide nor hair of one of them. At that moment, to his amazement. Big John walked brazenly into the open and hailed the troopers.

“Hey, you murdering slime! Here’s what I think of you!” bellowed the big man, who then flipped them the finger, turned, and ran off.

Predictably, the Storm Police captain yelled, “Get him!” and the troopers raced in pursuit.

Hickok grinned at the success of the ruse. He saw the Storm Police pounding across the grass. The fleetest troopers were almost to the row of trees when the rebels stepped from cover and released their arrows.

Thirteen shafts sped true to their mark, and with their first volley the Freedom Fighters downed half of the police.

The remainder recovered quickly.

A precious second was wasted as the rebels pulled arrows from their quivers and notched the shafts to their bows, and six of the Freedom Fighters were stitched by trooper fire before they could pull their bow strings.

“Let’s join the fun,” Hickok said, and leaped from behind the tree. He perforated the nearest policeman with a burst from the Uzi. Pivoting, he shot another.

The rebels and the troopers were now intermixed and fighting hand to hand. Some of the Freedom Fighters were using knives, while bayonets were being wielded skillfully by many of the Storm Police. At such close range the troopers could not bring their automatic rifles into play, and the brutal battle was waged in terms of survival of the deadliest.

A tall trooper suddenly appeared out of the melee and charged the gunman.

Hickok glimpsed the policeman out of the corner of his eye and tried to turn, but a smashing blow from the trooper’s rifle stock on his chin knocked him to the ground, dazed. The Uzi fell from his fingers, and he looked up to see the Storm Policeman drawing a bayonet. He shook his head and tried to rise.