David Robbins - Atlanta Run

The woman paused on the crest of the low hill and glanced over her right shoulder at the twinkling lights of the metropolis a mile distant. The wind whipped her brown hair into her green eyes, and she swiped at the lashing strands with her left hand. Held in her right arm, clutched close to her breast, was her child.

There was no sign of pursuit; the highway behind them was deserted.

Good.

Their escape had gone unnoticed.

She smiled in triumph as she faced to the south and fled into the night.

The prospect of bumping into a mutant chilled her blood, but there wasn’t any other choice. If she stopped, if she sought shelter from the elements, she risked being discovered by a Terminator patrol. The Terminators frequently ranged more than a mile from Atlanta, so she wasn’t in the clear yet.

Another mile should do it.

“Mommy?”

“Not now, Chastity.”

“I’m scared.”

“There’s nothing to be scared of.”

“You’re scared, Mommy.”

The woman looked at the upturned, cherubic features of her six-year-old, barely visible in the gloom, and wrapped her left arm around Chastity’s back for added support. “Why do you say that?”

“I can feel it,” Chastity replied.

Annoyed by her failure to conceal her fright, the woman faked a broad smile. “You’re imaginging things, dearest. I’m fine. Just a little cold, is all.”

“So am I,” Chastity said, tightening the grip of her thin arms about her mother’s neck.

The woman breathed deeply as she jogged down the hill. She could feel her daughter’s legs encircling her narrow waist, could feel the tension in those legs, and her conscience was pricked by guilt. Was freedom worth endangering Chastity’s life? Was it that precious?

How could she ask such a stupid question?

“Mommy?”

“Please, Chastity. Not now. We must keep quiet.”

“But the Bubbleheads are coming.”

Startled, the woman halted and spun. Her gaze fixed on the top of the hill as a lightning flash far to the north silhouetted its sloping contours.

And there they were! Four Terminators, outlined against the sky! But how? Where had they come from?

“Mommy?” Chastity asked fearfully.

Struggling to suppress a rising sense of panic, the woman bolted southward. What should she do? Take cover in the woods? The Terminators would find them easily! But fleeing was even more foolish; she couldn’t hope to outrun a Terminator Squad.

“The Bubbleheads are coming,” Chastity reiterated.

“Quiet!” the mother ordered, angling to the right, leaving the highway and darting into the underbrush. She crashed through a thicket, turning her body sideways so her right side absorbed the brunt of their passage, her right shoulder and naked forearms slashed by the sharp branches.

Another streak of lightning, much nearer this time, served to briefly illuminate a small clearing and the wall of trees beyond. Seconds later, thunder boomed.

The woman plunged into the forest, weaving among the trunks, dreading a misstep. She was grateful for the steadily strenghtening wind; the rustling leaves and the crackling limbs would cover the sounds of her flight. But the Terminators would rely on more than hearing to track her down; they would use their Heat Vision.

Their damn, infallible Heat Vision!

She winced as her left foot sank in a rut and she twisted her ankle, and she nearly toppled forward. With a grunt, she righted herself and raced to the west. Her left ankle was throbbing, but she ignored the discomfort, endeavoring to maintain a clear head, to formulate a plan for eluding the Terminators, undaunted by a sobering realization: No one ever eluded the Terminators.

A raindrop spattered her face.

The mother paused, elation washing over her. There was a chance, after all! Not much of one, true, but one nonetheless. If only the rain would increase!

More rain descended, the drops heavy and cold, smacking the turf and the vegetation in an irregular rhythm.

She continued deeper into the woods, frantically seeking a hiding place, scrutinizing the inky vegetation, availing herself of the periodic lightning flashes to note landmarks, to get her bearings. During one such flash a huge tree materialized 20 yards ahead, its overhanging limbs forming a spreading canopy. The tree was perched halfway up a partially eroded knoll. Several enormous roots were exposed, two of which crisscrossed one another after looping outward and upward, then disappeared in the dank earth.

The rain became a steady drizzle, ever building.

The mother dashed toward the tree, squinting as the raindrops pelted her face, her eyes. She reached the base of the knoll and hurriedly inspected the root system, and grinned at the discovery of a two-foot space between the crisscrossed roots and the slope.

“Mommy,” Chastity said softly.

“Quiet,” the mother chided. She squatted and slid behind the roots, her back to the knoll, her blue jumpsuit clammy on her skin.

“What will the Bubbleheads do?” Chastity asked.

“Be quiet!” the woman repeated.

With a rush of wind and an abrupt deluge of rain, the summer storm attained its peak of primal fury. The nearby trees bowed their crowns to Nature’s majesty, and the driving sheets of precipitation obscured the landscape.

The mother was overjoyed, knowing the storm would hamper the Terminators. If the tempest persisted long enough, the Terminator Squad might call off the hunt.

“I have to tinkle,” Chastity said in her mom’s left ear.

“Not now.”

“I have to go,” Chastity insisted.

“Do you want the Bubbleheads to find us?” the mother demanded.

“No.”

“Then keep quiet! And hold it in until we’re sure the Bubbleheads are gone.”

“Yes, Mommy,” Chastity said, and sighed.

The woman peered out, leaning to the left, water cascading over her head and shoulders. She blinked her eyes to clear her vision, striving to detect movement in the undergrowth.

Where the hell were the Terminators?

Had the squad given up already?

No.

She spotted a silvery shape to the left, perhaps 15 yards off, and the shape was moving! The form was advancing slowly toward the knoll. She ducked from sight and pressed her forehead against the roots, clasping Chastity to her bosom. “Shhhh!” she whispered. “Don’t make a sound.”

For once, her daughter obeyed.

The rain was drumming on the ground and thumping on the uncovered side of the root system. Combined with the swishing of the wind, the shaking of the trees, and the intermittent crack of thunder, the storm was creating a constant racket, the din effectively deadening the tread of the Terminator’s silver boots.

Where way the Terminator?

Her curiosity getting the better of her, the mother eased her head to the left and risked a hasty peek. And froze, terrified.

The Terminator was five feet from the roots, his back to the knoll, the silver dome of his head sweeping from right to left and back again. The three slim, silver tanks between his shoulder blades were visible. His silver left hand, the fingers splayed, was on his left hip. In his right hand, which was draped at his side, was the Fryer nozzle.

She gaped at the Fryer, recalling the time she had seen a Disruptive slain by a Terminator Squad. The stench of the poor man’s burning flesh had sickened her.

Chastity shifted uncomfortably.

The mother placed her lips next to her daughter’s right ear. “Shhh,” she warned in a scarcely audible voice.

The Terminator started to turn.

Startled, the mother ducked from sight. Had he spotted her? She held her breath, her frightened eyes glued to the open space to the left of the roots, waiting for the Terminator to appear. A minute elapsed. She resumed breathing.