David Robbins - Atlanta Run

“Do you reckon it was nuked?” Hickok asked.

“I don’t know,” Blade responded.

“The plane,” Rikki said.

“What about it?” Blade inquired, looking up.

“It’s coming toward us,” the man in black said.

Blade stood, the map in his right hand, surprised to see the plane deviating slightly from its course, slanting in their direction.

“Maybe the pilot has seen us,” Hickok suggested.

Blade glanced around. They were standing in the middle of a field, 40 yards from the trees. He gazed at the small plane again, wondering if the craft was outfitted with armaments.

“I don’t like this,” Rikki stated.

The plane was less than a thousand feet above the ground and several hundred yards distant.

Blade looked at the Family’s supreme martial artist. Rikki-Tikki-Tavi’s intuition was rarely wrong; if he sensed danger, then there was danger.

“Head for the woods.”

Hickok took a step, his eyes on the aircraft. “Look! It’s diving!”

Blade tensed as the plane banked and dove. “Move it!” he shouted, and suited action to words by sprinting for the forest, automatically running a zigzag pattern to minimize the target he posed.

Hickok and Rikki followed suit, separating.

Blade could hear the roar of the engine as the aircraft swooped toward them. He glanced over his left shoulder, seeing the plane level off and someone stick a gun barrel out a window on the passenger side. “Down!”

he yelled, and threw himself to the earth, bruising his left forearm on a rock.

There was the brittle barking of a machine gun from overhead. The grass and weeds near the giant erupted in miniature geysers as heavy slugs plowed into the ground.

Blade rolled to the right and leaped to his feet as the craft climbed for another strafing attack. He saw Hickok and Rikki already in motion, and he raced after them. Would the plane have time for another try before they reached the shelter of the forest?

Yes.

The three Warriors were 20 yards from cover when the aircraft completed executing a tight loop and dove again.

Hickok abruptly halted and spun.

The plane’s engine was whining.

Blade slowed, gazing at the gunman ten yards to his left. “Run!” he ordered.

The gunfighter ignored the command, his hands flashing to his pearl-handled Magnums, the Colts clearing leather at the same instant the gunner in the aircraft opened fire. A pattern of exploding turf stitched a direct path toward Hickok, who calmly stood firm and blasted from the hip.

Frowning in annoyance, Blade quickly brought the M-16 into play, stopping and raising the automatic rifle to his right shoulder and squeezing off a hurried burst.

Rikki-Tikki-Tavi joined in with his Uzi.

The gunner in the plane was concentrating on Hickok. His shots came within inches of the gunfighter’s moccasins as the craft winged within 20 feet of the Warrior’s head.

Hickok never flinched. He methodically fired his Pythons, pacing his shots one after the other, standing rooted to the spot as the earth sprayed over his feet and legs. As the plane passed overhead he turned, tracking it, his Colts booming in a regular cadence.

The plane started to climb when there was a loud coughing noise and black smoke billowed from underneath its fuselage.

All three Warriors ceased firing.

Belching more smoke, its engine sputtering, the aircraft slowly climbed to the northwest, the sun glinting off its wings.

“Serves them varmints right,” Hickok declared.

Blade walked over to the gunman. “What were you trying to prove? You could have gotten yourself killed.”

Hickock was watching the departing plane. “That cow chip was a lousy shot. I counted on him to miss.”

“You deliberately drew their fire?”

“He did,” Rikki said, coming up to them. “He knew we could not reach the trees. He was trying to save us.”

Blade shook his head in disapproval. “That was a stupid stunt. There was no need to sacrifice yourself for us. We’re perfectly capable of taking care of ourselves.”

Hickok began ejecting the spent cartridges from his Pythons. “I promised your missus I’d make sure you got back in one piece.”

“I don’t need a baby-sitter,” Blade said angrily.

Hickok glanced at Rikki and winked. “Every man needs a baby-sitter, pard. Why do you think we get hitched?”

“We’ll be taking a risk,” Rikki commented.

“I know,” Blade responded. “But we’re all thirsty, and a few sips shouldn’t hurt us. We can’t afford to take the time to build a fire and boil the water.”

“Besides which,” Hickok noted, “we don’t have anything to boil the water in.”

The three Warriors were walking toward a narrow stream at the base of a hill located five miles from the field where the aircraft had attacked them.

Rikki stared at the slowly flowing water 12 yards away. “The stream could be contaminated,” he stressed.

Blade knew the martial artist was making a valid point. The environment was severely polluted, thanks to all of the radioactive and chemical toxins tainting the biological chain. Streams, creeks, and ponds often appeared to be pure and harmless, but a single swallow could result in a lingering, painful death. He gazed at the water ahead, debating the wisdom of allowing them to drink.

A small fish unexpectedly leaped out of the stream and splashed down again, apparently going for a hovering insect.

Blade relaxed. If there were fish present in any body of water, invariably the water was safe to consume, if in limited quantities.

“I wish we hadn’t lost our gear in Florida,” Hickok groused. “A canteen would come in handy right about now.”

“You know,” Blade said to the gunman, “you’re turning into a real grump.”

Hickok was opening his mouth to reply, a stinging retort on his lips, when a high-pitched scream sounded from the dense forest on the far side of the stream.

Rikki-Tikki-Tavi was off before the scream died down, racing to the near edge of the water and vaulting into the air, clearing the four-foot stream effortlessly. He landed on the balls of his feet, then dashed into the undergrowth.

“Rikki!” Blade shouted, jogging forward. “Wait for us!”

But the martial artist wasn’t about to slacken his pace. His keen hearing had registered a terrified, wavering quality to the shriek, and something else as well: the unmistakable vocal traits of a child. He darted around a tree and skirted a bush, looking to the right and the left.

A second screech rent the muggy air, coming from the left.

Rikki dashed in the direction of the cry, disregarding the limbs tearing at his clothes and impeding his progress. The trees abruptly thinned. Five seconds later he reached a circular clearing and drew up short, his right hand gripping the hilt of his katana, his eyes widening in consternation.

He had found the child.

She was a girl of five or so, attired in a filthy blue jumpsuit and brown shoes, her shoulder-length blonde hair soiled and plastered to her head. As she perched on top of a large log bisecting the center of the clearing, her gaze was riveted on the creature glaring up at her.

A huge wild boar stood next to the log, its upturned yellowish tusks mere inches from the girl’s trembling legs. Four feet at the shoulder, six feet in length, and weighing over 380 pounds, the boar was a hideous sight with its seven-inch tusks, long, bristly hair, pronounced snout, and beady, feral eyes. It grunted and lunged at the girl.

She tottered backwards, her arms waving wildly, her face a mask of fear.

Rikki realized the girl was on the verge of falling. He whipped the katana from its scabbard, taking hold of the hilt in both hands, and assumed a squatting stance with the sword upraised. “Ho! Boar!” he yelled. “Try me!”