David Robbins - Atlanta Run

The child glanced at Rikki. “He talks funny.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Rikki said.

Hickok released her hand and sat down next to her. “You mentioned your mommy. Where is she?”

The girl’s chin sagged and her lips quivered.

“Did something happen to your mommy?” Hickok questioned.

She gulped and nodded.

“What?”

“The Bubbleheads hurt her.”

Hickok exchanged a confounded expression with his companions.

“Who are the Bubbleheads?”

“They’re bad men.”

Hickok gently placed his right hand around her slim shoulders.

“Listen…” He paused, then began again. “What’s your name, anyway?”

“Chastity,” the girl replied. “Chastity Snow.”

“Well, Chastity, I know it might hurt to talk about it, but I need to know what happened to your mommy,” Hickok said. “What did the Bubbleheads do to her?”

Chastity averted her eyes and trembled.

“There, there,” Hickok said, soothing her. “Everything is okay. We’ll help you. You can trust us.”

Chastity gazed at the gunfighter, tears in the corners of her eyes. “I like you,” she declared huskily.

“And I like you,” Hickok assured her. “But I really must know what happened to your mommy. Will you tell me?”

“They burned her,” Chastity answered, her voice barely audible.

“The Bubbleheads set your mom on fire?” Hickok asked.

Chastity nodded.

“Can you take us to where this happened?”

“Maybe,” Chastity responded. “It’s far.”

“When was the last time you ate?” Blade interjected.

“I don’t remember.”

“You must be hungry,” Blade commented, staring at the dead boars.

Chastity nodded.

“Then we’ll roast some boar meat,” Blade proposed, “and take off after we’ve eaten.”

“I’ll gather wood for the fire,” Rikki offered, and walked toward the trees rimming the clearing to the north.

Chastity watched the man in black enter the forest. “He’d better be careful,” she said.

“Don’t worry about Rikki,” Hickok remarked. “No boar will get him.”

“The icky thing might see him,” Chastity said, gazing apprehensively at the nearby foliage.

“What icky thing?” Hickok asked.

“She must mean a mutant,” Blade deduced.

“You saw this icky thing?” Hickok queried her.

Chastity nodded. “Yesterday.”

“What did it look like?”

“It was big and black and had two heads,” Chastity replied.

“Definitely a mutant,” Hickok stated. “And we won’t let any mutant harm you.”

Chastity smiled at the gunman. “I’m not scared now.”

“Good,” Hickok said. “Besides, the icky thing must be long gone.”

At that moment, in contradiction to the gunman’s assertion, a tremendous roar rent the woods to the east.

“The icky thing!” Chastity cried.

Hickok slid to the far side of the log, pulling the girl after him. He crouched and surveyed the forest.

Blade took several strides to the east, leveling the M-16. The roar had been close, too close. Whatever made it was probably watching him at that very second. His gray eyes narrowed as he tried to detect a hint of movement in the undergrowth. If the roar came from a creature answering Chastity’s description, then, as Hickok had noted, the thing was undoubtedly a wild mutant.

And the giant despised the savage, proliferating monstrosities.

Perhaps the reason was because his father had been killed by a genetic deviate. Perhaps he loathed them simply because they were gross aberrations of nature, a vile testimony to humankind’s tampering with forces better left untouched. Perhaps it was because he’d known so many people who’d been killed or maimed by the horrid beasts.

Whatever his justification, he waited for the creature to appear with a mixture of dread and anticipation. Dread owing to his abhorrence, anticipation because he eagerly wanted to blast one of the things to kingdom come. As he scanned the brush and the trees, he thought of the three different types of mutations he’d encountered.

First, there were those mutations produced by the massive radiation unleashed during the war. Deformed offspring were a frequent occurrence, young born with extra limbs or misplaced features. Of the three types, this kind was the most numerous.

Second were the especially repulsive fiends created by the chemical-warfare weapons. Known as mutates to distinguish them from the radiation-formed deviates, these demented, pus-covered brutes were even more feared than the typical mutants.

Third, and smallest in numbers, were those mutations specifically developed by the genetic engineers. In the years prior to the war, genetic engineering had been all the rage with the scientific community. Hybrids were bred, curious combinations of humans and animals, both before and after the nuclear exchange. A trio of such beings currently resided at the Home, and the Warrior considered them as friends.

Mutations of every variety were a fact of life in the postwar era. Blade could hardly conceive of what it must have been like before World War Three. A world without mutants was an alien concept; to be able to take a stroll in the woods without having to worry about being attacked sounded like Utopia. For the umpteenth time, he recognized that the people living before the war had not realized how good they had it.

A branch snapped to the left.

Blade swiveled, catching a glimpse of a dark form moving between two trees. Something big, just like Chastity had said. His finger stroked the cool metal trigger. Would the thing try to circle around the clearing? Did it know one of them had gone to the north? What if it went after Rikki?

The martial artist must have heard the roar. Surely Rikki would return…

Another stupendous roar shattered the tranquil wilderness as the creature attacked, bursting from cover and bounding toward the giant.

Blade took in the mutant’s black, leathery, hairless skin, its bulky body and four heavy legs, its pear-shaped head, crazed eyes, slavering mouth, and its tapered teeth and talons, all in the instant before he fired. The M-16 chattered and bucked, and he saw his rounds slam into the thing’s face and neck.

The mutant stumbled and almost went down, only to recover and surge across the eight feet separating it from its intended prey.

Blade emptied the magazine, hearing Hickok providing covering fire with the Uzi, and then the mutant was upon him, its bearlike torso plowing into him and knocking him onto his back. The thing snapped at his neck, but missed, and the Warrior responded by pounding the creature’s right eye with the stock of the M-16.

Snarling in fury, the mutant opened its mouth wide to bite the human’s throat.

Damn! Blade was partially pinned, with his legs trapped under the beast. His huge arm muscles rippled as he tilted the M-16 and rammed the barrel into the mutant’s mouth.

The deviate gagged and gurgled, then backed away, six inches of the automatic rifle lodged in its maw, shaking its head vigorously to dislodge the weapon.

His legs were clear! Blade heaved erect, drawing the Bowies. He dove, his arms coming up and around, the tips of the knives pointed inward.

The mutant was still striving to extricate the M-16. Blade plunged both knives into the creature’s eyes, burying them as far as they would go, and held fast.

With a bellow of agony, the mutation tried to pull backwards, crimson spurting from its ravaged sockets.

On his knees, gripping the Bowie hilts with all of his strength, his hand and wrists covered with flowing blood, Blade struggled to prevent the beast from tugging loose. He expected to be raked by the four-inch talons on the creature’s forelegs, but the mutant was engrossed in freeing itself from the knives. It took three steps rearward, dragging the Warrior along, its shoulders bunched, its head snapping back and forth.