Atlanta Run

Chapter Nineteen

The room dissolved into bedlam.

Blade crammed the sheaths under his belt as he started to turn. He whipped the big knives out, the blades gleaming in the fluorescent light, and the first to feel his wrath was Eldred Morley. The Peer stood and foolishly lunged at the Warrior. Blade countered with a left elbow to the nose, feeling Morley’s nostrils flatten with a pronounced crunch. The Peer was slammed backwards and toppled over his chair.

“Stop the bastard!” Lilith Friekan barked.

A trio of Storm Police tried. They were the nearest to the giant, their blackjacks out and ready, when he waded into them with his knives flashing.

Blade planted his left Bowie in the throat of a lean trooper. Even as he wrenched the left knife free, he stabbed the right blade into the chest of a second policeman, then spun and imbedded both Bowies in the third, one knife on each side of the hapless man’s neck.

“Get him!” Sol Diekrick thundered, moving toward the giant.

Other than an enraged Lilith, the other Peers were too stunned to intervene.

The Storm Police were surging forward.

Blade jerked his Bowies clear, blood spurting from the third trooper’s severed veins and arteries, and kicked, ramming his right boot into the man’s chest and sending the body sailing into the charging police. As the lead troopers tumbled to the floor in a mass of thrashing arms and legs, he spun, sliding the Bowies into their sheaths, and bounded toward Sol Diekrick.

Sol attempted to land a right cross on the giant’s chin.

With the speed and precision of a seasoned professional, Blade ducked under the wild swing and drove his right fist into Diekrick’s abdomen, doubling the Peer over. He clamped his right hand on Sol’s throat and seized his foe’s groin in his left, then easily hoisted the struggling, gasping Peer overhead.

Stupefied by this display of monumental strength, the Storm Police, involved in untangling themselves from their pileup, momentarily froze, gawking.

“Kill the son of a bitch!” Lilith commanded.

Sol Diekrick’s face was beet red, and he was gurgling and sputtering.

“Do you want your precious Peer?” Blade demanded, glaring defiantly at the troopers. “Then take him!” So saying, he whirled toward the Polyperv pane, took two lengthy strides, and hurled Sol at the window with all the power in his awesome physique.

Diekrick screamed as he impacted the pane. There was a rending crash as the Polyperv fractured and shattered, and both Peer and window plunged from sight.

“No!” Lilith screeched.

Blade took another step and leaped, sailing over the sill, tucking his legs under him as he plummeted, angling for a safe landing on the Polyperv-littered floor 20 feet below. He glimpsed Sol Diekrick lying to his left as he came down, his muscles braced for the shock. The force of the drop caused him to stagger and pitch onto his knees, and the soles of his feet stung horrendously, but otherwise he was unharmed. He lurched erect, pausing to glance at Diekrick.

The Peer must have dropped onto his head. His crown and forehead were crushed, flattened to a fleshy pulp, and oozing blood in a crimson stream.

“After him!” the Storm Police captain shouted from above.

Blade craned his neck to see the troopers gathered at the window. None of them seemed eager to make the jump. He grinned and dashed into the maze, hunching over, knowing they couldn’t spot him unless he stood.

So far, so good.

Now came the hard part.

He had to find Glisson, evade or dispose of the Terminator squad, locate an exit from the maze, and escape from Atlanta.

Was that all?

Blade reached a junction and crouched, wondering which way to go, when he heard the pad of a stealthy tread. He eased back, placed his palms on the floor, and peeked around the corner.

A Teminerator was rounding a corner on the right, his Fryer sweeping from side to side, alert and cautious.

Damn. The executioner must have seen him jump from the window!

Blade withdrew his head and rose, drawing his right Bowie. The silver suits worn by the Terminators were fireproof, but was the fabric impenetrable?

There was only one way to find out.

He clutched the hilt of the Bowie and counted slowly to ten, trying to gauge the Terminator’s position, hoping the range wouldn’t be too great.

As he girded himself to vault into the open, he received aid from an unexpected source.

The Storm Police had spotted him, and they saw the Terminator approaching the giant’s position.

“Look out!” the captain yelled from the window.

“There! In front of you!” another shouted.

Blade sprang into the passage, his right arm sweeping back.

Distracted by the calls from above, the Terminator was gazing at the Storm Police, the Fryer nozzle held near his knees.

Blade never gave the Terminator the opportunity to bring the Fryer into play. He tossed the Bowie from a distance of three yards, a maneuver he had practiced countless times at the Home on a variety of targets.

Whether he threw the knife by the hilt or the blade, he invariably hit his mark. And now, once again, he demonstrated why his reputation had spread far and wide.

The Bowie streaked through the air and sliced into the Terminator between the eyes, lodging in the narrow strip of fabric separating the tinted eyepieces, sinking to the hilt. A muffled, indistinct cry sounded as the Terminator staggered backwards, waving the Fryer wildly, then collapsed.

Blade reached the body in three strides, stooped, and yanked the Bowie out.

One down, three to go.

But where were they?

He bent over at the waist and jogged into the labyrinth. To reach one of the doors, not to mention finding Glisson, could entail hours of winding through the bewildering maze—unless he came up with a brainstorm. He could try slashing signs in the fireproof fabric covering the walls, but doing so would involve using time he couldn’t afford to spare. The Storm Police might not jump from the smashed window, but they would certainly regroup and descend to the maze chamber by whatever stairway connected the floors.

What to do?

Blade stopped and crouched, studying the walls all around him. They were only six feet in height, enabling him to gaze over them if he rose to his full stature. He could probably spot Glisson and the Terminators, but the doors would not be visible. Nor would the proper sequence of passages he needed to take to exit the maze be readily apparent.

No.

An extra foot wouldn’t make a difference.

But what about seven extra feet?

The insight brought a smile to his lips. Although the maze walls were six feet high, above them was a gap of thirty feet to the ceiling, undoubtedly designed to permit the Peers to view events from their room.

Would it work?

Blade straightened, replaced the right Bowie in its sheath, and climbed onto the rim of the wall. The silvery tops of the Terminators’ helmets were easy to spy. One was 40 yards to his right. The second was two dozen yards straight ahead. And the third was to his left, perhaps 20 feet off and moving away from him.

Glisson wasn’t in view.

What was the tramp doing? Hiding?

Blade cupped his hands to his mouth. “Glisson! Where are you?”

The three Terminators halted, their silver headpieces miniature islands of stark contrast in an ocean of brown walls.

There was no reply.

“Glisson!” Blade shouted. “It’s Blade! Where are you, you numbskull?”

From off to the right came a feeble response. “Blade? Is that you?”

“Of course it’s me!” Blade assured the hobo. “Stand up so I can see you!”

Their silvery heads twisting every which way, the Terminators, obviously disconcerted by all the yelling, were attempting to figure out what was going on.

“If I stand up, the Terminators will fry my ass,” Glisson declared.

“If you want my help escaping from this maze, then you’d better stand up!” Blade said. “Right now!”

Glisson’s thatch of dark hair popped up, midway between the Warrior and a Terminator. “Where are you?”

“Never mind,” Blade answered. “Don’t move. I’ll be right there.” He glanced around and spied one of the Terminators, the one to his left, hastening toward him. He decided to act on his idea. Why should he travel through the maze, never knowing when he might bump into a Terminator, his sense of direction all askew, when he could take an alternate route?

On top of the walls!

Blade moved toward the tramp, his boots easily negotiating the six-inch-wide top of each wall, the fireproof material feeling slightly spongy underfoot. The passages seldom ran straight for any span, and he was compelled to follow a circuitous path to Glisson, constantly turning with the sharp angles of the walls.

“Where are you?” Glisson called out.

“Just don’t move,” Blade replied. He spotted a Terminator ahead and skirted wide of the assassin.

“Hey!” exclaimed a muted voice to his left. “The guy who came through the window is on one of the walls!”

Blade paused and scrutinized the maze.

A Terminator was staring at him from 30 feet away.

“Where are you?” Glisson said yet again.

The Warrior hurried, knowing the Terminators would be after him, and hoping they would be impeded by the labyrinth and unable to get within flamethrower range.

“You on the wall!” bellowed one of the Terminators.

“Who the hell is he?” demanded another.

“He must be part of the contest,” assumed the third.

“Should we switch to infrared?” asked the first Terminator.

“What for?” retorted the first. “So long as he stays on the walls, we can see him. And if he drops down, the damn metal in the walls will interfere with our Heat Vision sensors.”

Blade listened to their exchange with interest. Infrared? Their suits must incorporate a heat-tracking mechanism, a means of locking on the body heat generated by their quarry. He turned right, then took a sharp left, drawing ever nearer to Glisson.

The old-timer had finally seen the Warrior. He was gawking at Blade in frank astonishment.

“I’ve got him!” one of the Terminators cried.

Blade glanced to his right, and there was a Terminator running in pursuit, not more than 15 feet off but separated by two walls.

The silvery form stopped and elevated the Fryer nozzle, aiming at the giant.

Blade leaped to the passage below before the Terminator could fire. He sprinted to the end of the corridor and turned left at the first junction, then right at the next.

Glisson was 20 feet away, and he smiled broadly as the Warrior came into view. “Blade!”

“We must reach one of the doors,” Blade declared as he ran forward.

Less than a dozen feet remained to be covered when the hobo’s mouth slackened in alarm and he pointed at something to Blade’s rear.

“Look out!” he shouted.

Reacting instinctively, Blade threw himself to the floor, scuffing his elbows and knees. Sudden, blistering heat prickled the back of his body from his head to his toes. He saw a tongue of red and orange flame shoot overhead.

The fire enveloped Glisson.

Screaming in terror, ineffectually swatting at the flames, the tramp staggered backwards as his clothes combusted. He shrieked, spinning in circles, smacking his clothing repeatedly. “Help me!” he wailed.

Prevented from rising by the sheet of flame. Blade watched, shocked, as Glisson burned to death. Not more than 30 seconds elasped between the moment Glisson was struck by the flames and his near-total incineration.

His flesh blackened almost immediately, and he seemed to shrivel as the scorching heat engulfed him. The last sound he uttered was a pitiable whimper.

And still the Terminator poured on the flames.

Blade twisted on his stomach, squinting, trying to see the assassin but hampered by the flames. He realized the Terminator could not see him either, and he slid toward the killer, hoping he could reach the silvery slayer before the Terminator lowered the wall of shooting fire. His heart pounding, he crawled quickly until he detected a pair of silver boots a few feet in front of him.

There the bastard was!

His countenance set in grim lines, Blade pulled himself closer and reached out, gripping the Terminator’s ankles in his viselike hands and surging up and in. Excruciating, scalding anguish lanced his back, and the putrid scent of burning flesh, his burning flesh, assailed his nostrils. He rose, upending the Terminator.

As the killer fell, he lost his grip on the Fryer nozzle and the flamethrower quit spitting fire.

Blade held onto the Terminator’s ankles, and when the executioner fell onto the tanks with a loud clang, he savagely extended the Terminator’s legs as far as he could reach.

The man in the silver attire screeched as his groin was seared by exquisite torment.

In a cold, fierce fury, Blade kicked the Terminator where it would hurt the most, then released the man’s ankles and pounced on the killer’s chest, his knees gouging into the Terminator’s ribs. He drew the Bowies, the blades glistening as they arced through the air, and he sank the knives into the Terminator’s eyepieces, one in each eye.

Bucking and convulsing, the Terminator’s demise was grisly and fitting.

Blade tugged the Bowies loose and stood slowly, his gray eyes smoldering. He looked over his right shoulder at the charred form of his former acquaintance, then stalked into the maze, the knives at his sides.

He wasn’t running anymore.

There was a score to settle.

He threaded through the labyrinth, seeking the last pair of Terminators, and he came on them both simultaneously, rounding a corner.

Neither Terminator spotted the Warrior. Their backs were to him, and they were involved in an earnest discussion.

“…lost sight of him,” one was saying.

“And I haven’t seen Cooper anywhere,” said the second.

“Do you think that big son of a bitch got them?”

The second Terminator shrugged. “I don’t know. Who is he? I heard a crash and looked up in time to see him drop down.”

“I thought I saw a body fall first.”

“We should stick together,” suggested the second. “We’ll have a better chance of nailing the big guy.”

“If he’s alive,” remarked the first. “Did you hear those screams?”

“I’m alive,” declared a firm voice behind them. “Why don’t you come and get me?”

They swiveled, bringing up their Fryers.

Blade darted to the right, sprinted along a short passage, and turned to the left. He paused in the junction and waited, his expression steely.

A second later the Terminators jogged into view.

“Here I am!” Blade taunted them, and took off again. He weaved through the maze, never running at his full speed, deliberately holding back so the Terminators wouldn’t lose him. Whenever they managed to narrow the distance, he would increase the pace enough to preserve his lead. He was playing a deadly game of cat and mouse, and he led the pair on a winding chase for over ten minutes.

“Slow down and fight, you prick!” one of them yelled, frustrated by their failure to catch the giant.

“We want your ass!” snapped the second.

Blade reached an intersection and looked back, and as they came into sight he raced to the left. They were angry, and probably fatigued, and such a combination inevitably resulted in carelessness.

Now was the time to finish it.

He veered into a right-hand corridor, placed the Bowies in his sheaths, and executed a flying leap. His fingers closed on the lip of the right-hand wall, and he hauled himself up with fluid ease and flattened.

“Where the hell did he go?” a Terminator bellowed from the passage the Warrior had just vacated.

Blade slid closer to the junction until his boots were at the corner. He placed his palms on the edges of the wall and tensed. If the men in the silver suits were as provoked as he expected, they would come barreling around the corner without bothering to look upward.

An instant later, they did.

Blade sprang, his body serving as a massive projectile as he launched himself into a flying tackle. They were side by side when he plowed into them from behind, his arms looping around their waists, his momentum bowling them over.

Encumbered by their tanks and their Fryer nozzles, the Terminators were awkward in recovering.

Blade was on his feet first, and he grabbed the left arm of the nearest Terminator and twisted sharply until there was a distinct snap.

The Terminator shrieked.

Remorseless in his revenge, Blade swept his left leg into the other Terminator, who was trying to stand, and knocked the man to the floor.

Still grasping the arm of the injured assassin, he gripped the wrist in his right hand, the shoulder in his left, and drove his right knee into the man’s elbow.

There was a popping sound and the Terminator voiced a shrill cry.

Blade flung the first man to the floor.

The second Terminator heaved erect. At such close quarters he could not employ his flamethrower for fear of incincerating his companion.

Instead, he lashed out with his right boot.

A piercing pain racked Blade’s left kneecap and he inadvertently doubled over.

Pressing his advantage, the second Terminator aimed a kick at the giant’s face. The blow never landed.

Blade caught the Terminator’s boot in his hands and wrenched the leg, rotating the boot clockwise until his adversary vented a muffled oath and toppled to the right. Mentally suppressing the torment caused by his throbbing knee, Blade closed in and planted the knobby knuckles of his right fist on the Terminator’s headpiece, at the point where he estimated the man’s chin to be, as the silvery executioner was scrambling upward.

The Terminator went flying and crashed onto his back.

His ponderous fists clenched, Blade stalked forward, moving methodically, not bothering to draw his Bowies. He saw the Terminator struggling to rise yet again, and he waited until the man was almost upright before striking.

Wobbly, his hands limp at his sides, the Fryer nozzle dangling by its hose from the tanks, the Terminator was on his last legs.

Blade didn’t care. He slugged the man twice, a right and a left, and the Terminator, out on his feet, toppled over, falling forward instead of backwards. Blade caught the man in his arms, and he was about to toss the assassin aside when a cold voice dictated otherwise.

“Don’t move, asshole!” barked someone to his rear.

Blade froze, supporting the Terminator by the armpits.

“I want to see the look on your puss when I squeeze the trigger,” the person declared. “So when I tell you to turn around, do it very, very carefully. If you understand, nod.”

The Warrior nodded.

“Good. Now turn around, real slow.”

Holding onto the Terminator, Blade pivoted.

“You should have finished me off.”

“I know,” Blade said. “There wasn’t time. I was getting to you next.”

The Terminator with the broken left arm was six feet away, his broken limb bent at an unnatural angle, his hand hanging useless next to his waist. In his right hand was his Fryer nozzle, his finger on the trigger. “I’ll enjoy watching you burn, you son of a bitch.”

“What about your friend here?” Blade asked, hefting the unconscious form.

“Put Johnston down,” the Terminator directed.

Blade deposited the silver figure on the floor.

“Now step back,” the first Terminator ordered.

His mind racing, Blade took a stride backwards. Unless he thought fast, he would be burnt to a crisp. There was no way he could pull his Bowies before the Terminator fired. He needed a diversion. But what? Glisson was dead and couldn’t be of any help.

Or could he?

Blade recalled the conversation he’d overheard between the two executioners. They mentioned having heard screams, but they didn’t know who was doing the screaming. They didn’t know Glisson was dead.

He had a chance, then, to outwit the one in front of him, but to do so meant relying upon the oldest trick in the book.

“Are you ready to die, you suck-egg bastard?” the Terminator taunted him.

“Not yet,” Blade responded, glancing quickly over the Terminator’s left shoulder and widening his eyes, pretending to have seen someone. He immediately adopted a placid expression, as if he was hiding the fact.

The Terminator took the bait and glanced over his left shoulder, and out of the corner of his right eye he detected the giant coming at him. He started to face his enemy, cutting loose with the Fryer before his turn was completed, intending to consume the meddler with flames. He nearly succeeded.

Blade knew he couldn’t reach the Terminator before the man fired, and he also was aware he couldn’t clamber over the walls in time. Employing the Bowies was a dubious proposition; the Terminator might manage to squeeze off a burst of flame. His best bet was to interpose something—anything—between the Terminator and himself. And there was only one object available.

The unconscious Terminator.

Moving rapidly for a man of his size, Blade stooped, seized the insensate Terminator by the shoulders, and lifted, his muscles rippling. He was shoving his makeshift shield at the first Terminator when the Fryer nozzle spat red and orange, the flames striking the tanks on the back of the second Terminator. The result, to the Warrior, at least, was unexpected.

There was a tremendous explosion.

Blade felt a jarring concussion as he was lifted and catapulted backwards, tumbling end over end, his hands and arms tingling, his face blistered. Disoriented, he crashed to the floor and slid over 20 feet, thumping to a bone-rattling stop against a wall at the next junction. He wound up on his left side, stunned, staring at the vestige of a glowing fireball dissipating in the passage.

Dear Spirit!

He rose to his knees slowly, his ears ringing, realizing the tanks on the second Terminator must have exploded and the man’s body had screened his own.

But what about the first Terminator?

Blade stood and walked slowly along the seared hall, amazed to discover a small crater in the middle of the floor. Smoky tendrils wafted toward the ceiling. And beyond the crater was an indeterminate mass of charred…

something.

“What the hell was that?” called a deep voice.

“Did you see that blast?”

“Fan out! Find him!”

Blade climbed quickly onto the left-hand wall. He raised his head cautiously and surveyed the chamber.

Dozens of Storm Police were pouring through the door on the right side of the maze chamber, spreading into the maze, seeking him. But there was no indication of activity at the door on the left.

Perfect.

Still feeling slightly unsteady, Blade rose to a crouch and headed for the left wall. His sole purpose now was to escape from Atlanta and rejoin Hickok and Rikki. Glisson was gone. And there wasn’t any reason to locate Llewellyn Snow. If she had betrayed her sister-in-law, she would hardly welcome Leslie Snow’s child into her home. Besides, the Peers wanted Chastity exterminated. The Warriors would watch over the girl for the time being, until a suitable home could be found. He focused on the door in the center of the left wall, his teeth gritting in resolve.

No more pussyfooting around.

If anyone stood in his way, he’d slay them on the spot.

He crossed the maze without being spotted by the Storm Police and jumped to the floor near the door. In three bounds he was through the doorway and in a brightly lit stairwell. He peered upward, elated to discover the stairwell was empty. Grinning in anticipation of regaining his freedom, he ascended the stairs, taking four at a stride. A landing appeared with a door marked SUBLEVEL 5. He kept going. The next landing was SUBLEVEL 4. With renewed vigor, he passed landing after landing until he found the one he wanted.

GROUND LEVEL.

Blade tried the doorknob and it twisted in his grasp. With a smile creasing his features, he stepped boldly outside, into the night.

Only to find two figures rushing at him.