David Robbins - Atlanta Run

“I’m going to gut you like a fish,” the trooper gloated, stabbing the bayonet at the Warrior’s midsection.

But the bayonet never connected.

A gleaming streak of steel intercepted the trooper’s bayonet arm, slicing through the Storm Policeman’s wrist as easily as a hot knife through butter. The trooper’s eyes bulged and he straightened, screaming, as the steel blade arced into his neck, partially severing his throat. Blood spurted everywhere, and the trooper toppled backwards.

Hickok’s senses returned in a rush, and there was Rikki-Tikki-Tavi standing over him.

“Will you quit goofing off?” the martial artist quipped, his crimson-covered katana in his right hand. Before the gunman could respond, he whirled and waded into the conflict. A stroke of the katana ruptured a trooper’s abdomen, and a second swipe hacked off a policeman’s left arm.

Hickok shoved to his feet, and as he rose he heard a loud whomp-whomp-whomp from above. Puzzled, he craned his neck skyward, surprise registering on his features.

A large green helicopter was hovering over the swirling combatants, training a spotlight on the grim fight. On one side was an open sliding door, and perched in the doorway was a marksman in a Storm Police uniform, a rifle with an infrared scope pressed to his right shoulder.

Hickok saw the marksman fire, and one of the rebels fell as a high-caliber slug penetrated his skull.

The marksman sighted on another target, the helicopter poised 50 feet above the grass.

Embroiled in their savage contest, the Freedom Fighters were unaware of this new threat. Three more of the rebels were lying on the turf, their lifeblood seeping into the soil.

Hickok took two strides to the left to give himself a better shot and drew his right Python, his thumb cocking the hammer even as the Colt came clear of its holster. The Magnum boomed once, and the marksman reacted as if he had been slammed in the head by a sledgehammer.

Stiffening, the rifle dropping from his limp arms, the trooper pitched from the chopper.

With a whirring of its rotor, the helicopter banked and flew to the south.

What next? Hickok wondered, facing the fray. He saw Rikki slice open a trooper’s chest, the martial artist moving with superb precision and control. And as he scanned the battlefield, he spied a quartet of silvery forms coming from the west. The four were 30 yards distant and nearing the row of trees.

Why were they all silver?

Hickok suddenly recollected the Bubbleheads, and he dashed to a tree and pressed his back to the bole. He bolstered the right Python, counted to ten, and on ten strolled into view, his thumbs hooked in his gunbelt.

Twenty yards off the Bubbleheads stopped, leveling their flamethrower nozzles.

“Howdy, gents,” Hickok said, his hands seemingly invisible as both Pythons swept up and out. Each gun cracked twice, and with each retort a silvery figure was thrown backwards by the impact of a .357 slug striking his forehead. “Piece of cake,” the gunflghter commented, and turned.

The combat had ended.

Bodies sprawled in attitudes of violent death littered the landscape.

Groans and feeble cries filled the air. Puddles of blood splotched the grass.

Only four of the rebels still stood. Locklin was gazing at his fallen companions somberly. Big John, a jagged wound in his left shoulder, was wiping his knife on his left pants leg. The two other rebels were exhausted but uninjured.

Hickok glanced to his right and spotted Rikki. The martial artist stood in the middle of a ring of three trooper corpses, his katana clenched in both hands, blood dripping from the blade. “Are you okay, pard?” Hickok asked.

Rikki nodded.

The gunman hurried to Locklin. “What about you?”

“I’m fine,” Locklin said, picking up a discarded AR-15.

Hickok surveyed the bodies, and two yards away he beheld the rebel called Dale with a bayonet jutting from his thorax. “Your band has been decimated,” he remarked.

“We can always get new recruits,” Locklin said, sadness filling his eyes as he noticed the objects of Hickok’s attention.

“We’d best vamoose,” the gunman declared. “We must find Blade before more Storm Police show up.”

“No,” Locklin stated.

“No?”

Locklin nodded to the southeast. “We’re too late.”

Hickok looked in the same direction, frowning at the sight of additional Storm Police one hundred yards distant. “Blast!”

“The Civil Directorate is one of seven ten-story structures to the southwest. It’s the third one from the north. You can’t miss it,” Locklin said.

“Why are you telling me this?” Hickok inquired.

“Because we’ll never reach it if we all stick together,” Locklin replied.

“Rikki and you can get there by yourselves.”

“And what about you?”

“My men and I will lead the Storm Police on a wild-goose chase,” Locklin proposed. “If we can lure them to the north, you shouldn’t have any trouble in reaching the Civil Directorate.”

“I don’t like the notion,” Hickok said. “There’s just the four of you left.

The odds are too great.”

“Do you want to save your friend?”

“Of course.”

“Then don’t argue. There isn’t time,” Locklin stated. Then he placed his right hand on the Warrior’s shoulder. “I appreciate the thought. I really do. But I’m right and you know it.” He paused. “Besides, don’t count us out yet. We’re experts at guerilla warfare, and the night is on our side. We can elude the Storm Police. And getting over the wall from inside is simple.”

Rikki appeared at Hickok’s left side. “He’s right. We have no choice.”

“I still don’t like it,” Hickok muttered. He extended his right hand.

“May the Spirit be with you.”

Locklin shook and smiled. “Thanks. If all goes well, we’ll meet you where we left Scarlet and Jane.”

“And Chastity,” Hickok added.

“Good luck,” Locklin said. He gestured at Big John and the two others, and they promptly jogged to the north.

Hickok and Rikki hastened on a southwesterly bearing, keeping well away from all lighted areas. After covering 75 yards they paused and glanced back. The second contingent of Storm Police had arrived at the site of the fight and was milling about. A smattering of gunfire from the north galvanized them into a rush to investigate the source of the shots.

“Locklin is as good as his word,” Rikki remarked.

“He’d make a dandy Warrior,” Hickok said. He looked at his friend.

“Say, where’s your Uzi?”

“I used the last of my ammo,” Rikki responded. “Where’s yours?”

“I plumb forgot all about it,” Hickok answered, and shrugged. “Oh, well.

I have my Colts, and they’re all I need.” He reloaded both revolvers quickly.

“All set.”

They resumed running, avoiding all civilians in their path until they came to a street on the south side of Piedmont Park. The street was jammed with pedestrians.

“What do we do?” Rikki asked, peering over the top of a shrub.

“We pretend we’re tourists,” Hickok suggested. “Stick your katana scabbard down your pants and walk with a limp. I can tuck my Pythons under my buckskin shirt. If we act like we now what we’re doing, and if all of the Storm Police are out huntin’ for rebels, we shouldn’t have a problem.”

“What if we do encounter Storm Police?”

“We do what we do best.”

“No one will stop us,” Rikki pledged.

The two Warriors blended into the pedestrian flow, following the sidewalks to the southwest. Locating the Civil Directorate was ridiculously easy; the monoliths were unique. It wasn’t until they were standing at the edge of a parking lot located behind the Civil Directorate that Rikki made a critical observation.