Atlanta Run

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.

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.

The animal abruptly sprawled forward onto its front knees, wheezing and sputtering.

Rikki braced his legs on the turf and jerked the katana loose. He turned and surveyed the log and the trees beyond, perplexed. Where could the girl have gone? Why would she leave?

A throaty grunt intruded on his musing from the right.

The martial artist twirled, starting to raise the katana, knowing he’d been careless, that there must be a second boar.

There was.

Already charging the man in black, the other swine was smaller than the first, but still endowed with five-inch tusks and weighing nearly 300 pounds. Less than six feet separated it from the human.

Rikki perceived his danger in a fraction of a second. The boar would be on him before he could shift position.

The booming of gunfire rocked the clearing, and the boar’s thick hide was perforated again and again by a hail of slugs from an M-16 and an Uzi. The impact staggered the creature, causing the swine to stumble to one side, its rush arrested by the lead tearing through its squat form. In torment, confused and ignorant of the source of its pain, it faced in the direction of the thundering guns. More rounds smacked into its head, puncturing its eyes, forehead, and snout. The boar squealed once, then dropped.

“Anyone for a barbecue?”

Rikki turned.

Blade and Hickok were at the edge of the clearing, their automatic weapons cradled in their hands.

“Piece of cake,” Hickok quipped, strolling over to the boar they’d shot.

“Where’s the third one?”

“The third one?” Rikki repeated, puzzled.

“Sure,” Hickok said with a grin. “Haven’t you ever read The Three Little Pigs?”

Blade advanced, scrutinizing the trees enclosing them. “Who was screaming?”

Rikki glanced at the log. “A small girl with blonde hair.”

“Where is she?” Blade asked.

“She disappeared,” Rikki said.

“Maybe it was Goldilocks,” Hickok suggested, chuckling.

Rikki walked to the log, his forehead creased, trying to imagine the girl’s reason for fleeing. He stared at the top of the log, then leaned over to check the other side.

And there she was, on her hands and knees, her smudged face tilted upwards, her frightened blue eyes on the Warrior.

“Hello,” Rikki said softly, smilfng reassuringly.

The girl didn’t budge.

“I am Rikki-Tikki-Tavi,” the martial artist introduced himself. “Who are you?”

Blade and Hickok came over, Blade on Rikki’s left, the gunman to the right.

Whining in terror, the girl rose to her knees, about to run.

“Don’t!” Rikki said. “We are friends!”

She hesitated, looking from one to the other.

“Howdy there, little lady,” Hickok declared, beaming. “What are you doing in his neck of the woods? Lookin’ for Little Red Riding Hood’s house?”

The girl shook her head.

“Then you must be lookin’ for the Three Bears,” the gunman said. “But I don’t think they’re home right now. They’re out collectin’ honey.”

Again the girl shook her head.

Hickok sighed and leaned his right arm on the top of the log. “I give up. What the dickens are you doing out here?”

“Hiding,” she answered, her voice a tremulous whisper.

“Hiding?” Hickok said, glancing around. “Who’s after you? The Big, Bad Wolf? I’ll blow the critter away!”

“The Bubbleheads,” the girl disclosed.

Hickok did a double take. “I don’t believe I know them varmints. But I won’t let them hurt you.”

“Promise?”

“I promise,” the gunman pledged. He extended his right hand. “I’m pleased to meet you. My handle is Hickok.”

“Handle?”

“Sorry. My name is Hickok.”

The girl studied the gunfighter for a moment, then reached up and took his hand. “You’re a good man,” she said simply.

Hickok smiled as he shook. “You should tell that to my missus.

Sometimes she has her doubts.”

“What’s a missus?”

“A missus is a wife,” Hickok explained. “I have a wife named Sherry and a tadpole named Ringo.”

The girl managed a weary grin. “Do you like frogs?”

“Frogs?”

“My mommy told me all about tadpoles,” she mentioned. “They become frogs.”

Blade laughed.

Hickok shook his head. “Not that kind of tadpole,” he detailed. “I was talkin’ about my young’un. He’s a sprout like you.”

The child, her right hand still resting in the gunman’s, looked down at herself. “I’m not a sprout. I’m a girl.”

Blade suppressed an impulse to cackle. “You need an interpreter,” he told the gunman.

Hickok gingerly lifted the girl onto the log. “Come on up here,” he said.

“We need to have a palaver.”

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.