Atlanta Run Page 2
Blade idly placed his hands on the hilts of his Bowies, each big knife snug in its sheath, one on each hip. An M-16 was draped over his broad left shoulder. “You’re right,” he told the gunman, “because we do need transportation.”
Hickok smirked and gazed at Rikki. “See?”
“But Rikki has a valid point,” Blade went on. “We can’t steal a car or truck from the first person we bump into who owns one.”
“I didn’t know there are rules of etiquette for swipin’ a buggy,” Hickok stated sarcastically.
Blade sighed and stared up at the bright blue sky, feeling the heat of the July sun on his rugged features, his gray eyes troubled. He ran his right hand through his dark hair. “We need a vehicle,” he reiterated. “There’s no denying that. We’re stranded, and we’re approximately fifteen hundred miles from Minnesota.”
“It’s not our fault the blasted Hurricane never came back to pick us up,” Hickok muttered.
Blade frowned as he scrutinized the terrain ahead, a flat stretch of lushly forested landscape. The gunman had hit the proverbial nail on the head: their predicament was not their fault. Recent events swept through his mind in a rush, and he remembered all of the factors involved in their dilemma.
First, there was the Home, the survivalist compound situated in northern Minnesota where they had been born and raised. Constructed by a wealthy idealist prior to World War Three, the Home was occupied by the Founder’s descendants, dubbed the Family. And as three of the Warrior class, those responsible for defending the Home and protecting the Family, Blade, Rikki, and Hickok were pledged to eliminate any threat.
Enter the Dragons. Until a couple of weeks ago, the Dragons had ruled southern Florida like medieval masters over a serfdom. Florida had not fared well during the war. The state had devolved into anarachy after the collapse of the federal and state governments, and into the vacuum came the drug lords, rival gangs fighting to control. One drug organization eventually triumphed: the Dragons. But they made the mistake of plotting the Family’s downfall, and now, thanks to the three Warriors, the leaders of the Dragons were dead and their drug empire was in disarray.
So the Warriors had accomplished their mission.
Which was all well and good.
Unfortunately, they had found themselves left high and dry, inexplicably abandoned. The Hurricane, the jet with VTOL capability that had conveyed them from Minnesota to Florida, never showed up at the rendezvous site, never retrieved them as scheduled.
Which meant they were compelled to walk back, through a land overrun with mutants, mutates, scavengers, and sundry menaces of every description.
Why? Blade asked himself.
Why didn’t the Hurricane show up? Had it crashed? Had something else happened to the craft?
Or worse.
Had something happened to the Freedom Federation?
The Federation was the brainchild of the leaders of the seven factions constituting its membership. Where once fifty states had been united to preserve the national identity of the United States, now seven scattered factions were devoted to maintaining the flickering light of civilization and wresting humankind from the darkness of savage barbarism. The Family was but one of the seven. Also included were the Moles and the Clan, both groups located in Minnesota. The fourth faction controlled the Dakota Territory; they were a group of superb horsemen known as the Cavalry. The Flathead Indians in Montana had also joined the Federation, as had the Civilized Zone, a large area in the Midwest.
And finally, the latest addition to the Freedom Federation was the Free State of California. Unlike Florida, California had been one of the few states to retain its administrative integrity after the war. California had consolidated its National Guard, and all of the Army, Navy, Air Force, and Marine units within its borders, into a cohesive force, enabling the state to withstand the hordes of looters and the chaos resulting from the unleashing of the nuclear holocaust. California’s leaders had wisely opted to diligently maintain their technological capabilities, and as part of that goal they placed special emphasis on the importance of their Air Force, particularly their Hurricanes. As a gesture of goodwill, the governor of California had offered to employ the Hurricanes in a regular shuttle and messenger service between the Federation members.
Blade had commandeered one of the Hurricanes, prevailing upon the pilot to fly Hickok, Rikki, and himself to Florida. As he reviewed the sequence of events, he found himself regretting that action. Here they were, cut off, abandoned, hundreds and hundreds of miles from their loved ones. Perhaps he should have…
“…listenin’ to me or what?” Hickok demanded.
The giant abruptly realized he’d been completely distracted by his thoughts. “Sorry,” he said. “What did you say?”
“What’s the matter with you, pard?” Hickok inquired. “Did that fracas with the Dragons addle your brain?”
Blade smiled. “No. What were you saying?”
“I want to know how we’re going to get our hands on a car or truck,” Hickok mentioned. “I doubt anybody will just give us one.”
Rikki suddenly stopped and held his right hand aloft for silence. “I hear an engine,” he told them.
Blade cocked his head to one side, listening. For a moment he heard only the insects and the birds, but then, from off to the southeast, arose a sustained growl.
“It’s a plane!” Hickok declared, scanning the heavens.
“There,” Rikki said, pointing.
Blade spotted it too. A small, white, single-engine aircraft approaching at a steady clip.
“I wish I had my Henry,” Hickok remarked, referring to his favorite rifle, a weapon he’d lost in Florida. “I’d try and shoot it down.”
“Why?” Rikki asked. “What good would shooting it down do?”
“The pilot might know where we could find a vehicle,” the gunman replied.
“Provided he survived the crash,” Rikki noted.
“Nitpick, nitpick,” Hickok grumbled.
Blade smiled as he studied the plane, speculating on its destination.
The aircraft was bearing to the northwest. He extracted a map from his left rear pocket and unfolded it.
“Where do you figure we are?” Hickok queried.
“In Georgia,” Blade said, crouching and placing the map on the ground.
“Or what was once Georgia.” They’d deliberately avoided every inhabited settlement, knowing from prior experience that the likelihood of receiving a friendly reception was slim. According to the Family Elders—and substantiated by the thousands of volumes in the library the Founder had personally stocked at the Home—social customs had been drastically different before the war. One hundred and five years ago a person could travel from town to town, from city to city, without having to fear for his or her life. But nowadays, people were inclined to shoot first and ascertain peaceful intent later— if a stranger survived long enough to be able to convince them. To preclude such an eventuality, the Warriors had bypassed towns and communities betraying evidence of habitation, and because they were sticking to the less-traveled byways and proceeding overland where possible, Blade could not pinpoint their exact location with precise accuracy. “I think we’re about twenty miles southeast of Atlanta. If Atlanta is still there.”
“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.
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?”
Chapter Two
“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!”
The wild boar whirled at the Warrior’s challenge, uttering a raspy squeal and lowering its head defensively.
The girl was frozen on the log, gawking at the man in black in astonishment.
“Try me!” Rikki repeated.
As if accepting the challenge, the boar charged, its hooves digging into the turf and sending dirt flying. Like a four-legged tank, and with startling speed, the boar barreled toward the audacious interloper.
Rikki-Tikki-Tavi seemed to be carved from marble. Not a muscle twitched until the onrushing juggernaut was within a yard of his coiled form, and then he struck with the unsurpassed swiftness of a perfected swordsmaster. His body was a blur as he sidestepped and arced the katana down. The razor edge sliced into the boar’s neck.
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nbsp; Unable to check its assault, the boar was six yards past its foe before it could turn. Blood spurted from its slit neck, but the fierce swine was oblivious to the wound. A single-minded purpose dominated its bestial heart; the boar wanted to rend and tear the human in black.
His bloody katana uplifted, Rikki awaited the second charge. An insidious thought crept into his mind as he watched the boar shake its head and bellow: What were the odds of evading those tusks again?
Annoyed at his lack of concentration, Rikki emptied himself of all contemplation. To be one with the sword, to perform flawlessly, he must suppress all conscious deliberation, must react instinctively. The sword had to become an extension of his arms, as much a part of him as his limbs.
The wild boar came on once more.
Rikki crouched, an empty vessel devoid of will, functioning on the reflexive level of conditioned response. The countless hours he’d spent in practicing his technique, in honing his skills, were about to reap a crucial reward: his life.
The nasty tusks slashed at the Warrior’s midriff as the boar closed.
The martial artist took a quick stride to the left, tucking in his abdomen to avoid the boar’s blow and countering with a glittering swipe of his sword. The katana cut into the creature’s head above its enraged eyes, cleaving the flesh and penetrating the bone underneath before Rikki wrenched the blade free.
Crimson poured down the boar’s face as it rotated for a third attempt.
Rikki risked a glance to see if the girl was still on the log.
She was gone!
The wild boar pounded toward its adversary, lowering its head to slash with its tusks.
Rikki leaped, his compact, steely muscles carrying him above the hurtling swine. At the apex of his jump he was directly over the boar’s head, and he reversed his grip on the katana, grasping the hilt with the sword vertical, the point angled straight down. Gravity combined with his momentum to do the rest. The tip of the blade speared into the boar’s cranium between its hairy, triangular ears, lancing several inches into the creature’s skull. Rikki held on tight, his feet suspended inches above the ground, as the boar bucked and heaved.