Atlanta Run

Chapter Seventeen

“I trust that you enjoyed your rest?” Sol Diekrick said.

“I didn’t expect such plush accommodations,” Blade admitted, thinking of the holding cell in which he’d spent the day, a cell furnished with a comfortable bed, a table and chair, and even a portable radio. Three meals had been served, all piping hot. He had stubbornly resisted eating the first two, but his gnawing hunger had persuaded him to eat a portion of the evening repast. The cell, to the best of his estimation, was located in an underground level of the Civil Directorate. Less than five minutes ago 20 Storm Police had arrived to escort him to the Peers.

“We’re not barbarians, after all,” Sol declared archly.

Blade took stock of his surroundings. He was ten feet from a long metal table, the door to the room at his back. Seated and eyeing him intently were all the Peers, with Sol Diekrich at the head of the table to the right.

Beyond the table was an unusual glass pane, allowing those in the room to gaze over a huge chamber below. Peculiar roofless walls filled the enormous expanse.

“I was told you ate sparingly,” Sol mentioned. “Wasn’t our cuisine adequate?” The Bowies were on the table in front of him.

“I’m on a diet,” Blade quipped.

“You look fine to me,” Lilith Friekan remarked from her chair at the left end of the table.

“Behave, my dear,” Sol advised.

“Why have you spared me?” Blade asked.

“You’re complaining?” Sol rejoined.

“I was under the impression you wanted information, and fast,” Blade said.

“I did, initially,” Sol confessed. “But before we could arrange our special entertainment, we received news affecting you directly. I decided to delay the entertainment until the appropriate time.”

“I don’t understand,” Blade stated.

“You will,” Sol declared with a smirk. He glanced at the Storm Police captain in charge of the 20-man detail. “Have your men file into this room along the walls. I want our guest to refrain from interfering with our entertainment, and your presence should deter him.”

The captain nodded and obeyed.

“Now where was I?” Sol commented.

“What news?” Blade inquired, flexing his wrist muscles to test the handcuffs restraining his arms.

“In due time,” Sol said. “First, our entertainment for the evening. You are receiving quite an honor. We have disrupted our normal schedule for this event.”

“Lucky me,” Blade cracked.

Sol swiveled in his chair and nodded at the chamber below. “Any idea what that is?”

“You’re adding to the building and haven’t finished this level yet?”

Blade guessed.

“Wrong,” Sol said.

Blade shrugged. “From up here, it looks like a giant rat maze,” he speculated, partially in jest.

“How astute of you,” Sol complimented him. “Yes, it is a maze.”

Blade’s levity vanished. He stared at the network of walls, his forehead furrowing, disturbed by the implications.

“If you’ll notice,” Sol went on, “we are able to view the entire maze from up here. We have ringside seats, so to speak.”

“For what?”

“Take a close look at those walls,” Sol suggested. “Tell me what you see.”

Blade moved over to the table and peered at the maze. He’d assumed the walls were wooden; now he realized the outer surface of each wall was covered with a dull brown material unlike any other he knew. “What is that?”

“A fireproof fabric we use to protect the inner metal walls,” Sol divulged.

“Fireproof?”

“Yes,” Sol said, leaning back in his chair and smiling smugly. “Perhaps I should explain. Do you see the two doors?”

Blade surveyed the chamber, discovering a door in the middle of the wall on the far right and another door in a corresponding position on the left. “Yeah.”

“Those doors allow our players to enter the maze,” Sol detailed.

“This is some sort of game?” Blade asked.

“Yes. A game of life and death,” Sol said.

Blade glanced at Diekrick.

“We’ve decided to put on a demonstration in your honor,” Sol stated.

“Don’t put yourselves out on my account,” Blade commented.

“It’s no bother, I assure you,” Sol said.

“Let’s begin the show,” Clinton Brigg suggested.

“What’s the rush?” Sol responded. “We have all night. And we want to be here when our other guests arrive.”

“I wish we had some popcorn,” Eldred Morley remarked.

Sol looked at the giant. “Let’s introduce the players for tonight.” He rose and walked to the gigantic glass pane, stopping next to a control panel on the right-hand wall at the junction with the pane.

“I hope the Terminators don’t end it too quickly,” Lilith mentioned.

“Come here,” Sol said, beckoning the Warrior.

Blade moved around the table to the glass pane, to the left of Diekrick.

He gazed at the maze, dreading the worst.

“An old friend of yours is one of the participants,” Sol said. His right hand reached out and he pressed a red button on the control panel.

Blade saw one of the doors in the maze, the one on the far right, open by sliding into a recessed slot. And there, shuffling into the maze, being prodded by two Storm Police with blackjacks, was the hobo, Glisson.

“It’s your buddy,” Sol stated sarcastically.

“What do you plan to do to him?” Blade queried.

“We won’t do a thing,” Sol replied. “You will.”

“Me?”

“Yes. I’ll elucidate after I present the opposing players.” Sol depressed an orange button on the panel, and the door on the left side of the maze promptly opened.

Blade’s abdominal muscles tensed.

Four figures attired in shining silver outfits strolled into sight. The head and neck of each was covered by unique headgear with dark, tinted eyepieces. Strapped to the back of each was a trio of thin tanks, and clutched in the hands of each was a flared, gunlike nozzle.

“A Terminator squad,” Sol said. “Perhaps you’re familiar with the reputation our Terminators have? A richly deserved reputation, I might add. Their Fryers are extremely lethal.”

Blade did not respond. He glanced from the Terminators, waiting patiently near the left-hand door, to Glisson, who was wringing his hands nervously in front of the right-hand entrance.

“You can’t see it from here, but there is a yellow light affixed to the wall above this glass pane,” Sol advised. “If I press this brown button,”—and he indicated the appropriate button on the control panel—“the yellow light will come on and the festivities will commence.”

Blade still said nothing.

“The rules are very simple,” Sol explained. “The Terminators enter the maze from the left, and your friend enters the maze from the right. If your friend manages to negotiate the maze and reaches the door on the left, he wins the most valuable prize imaginable: his life.” Sol paused. “If, however, the Terminators find Glisson before he reaches the opposite side of the chamber, then they will fry him on the spot. Simple enough, don’t you think?”

“You bastard.”

“Spare me your juvenile insults,” Sol stated.

“Glisson doesn’t stand a chance,” Blade remarked bitterly.

“On the contrary, he does,” Sol said. “Believe it or not, some players have reached the other side safely. The Terminators do not possess an unfair advantage. They do not have the maze memorized, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“The odds are four to one,” Blade protested. “And the Terminators are armed with flamethrowers. You call that fair?”

Sol shrugged. “As fair as his type deserves.”

Blade glared at the Peer.

“There is always the possibility Glisson will be spared,” Sol said. “We could call the whole thing off.”

“What does Glisson have to do?” Blade asked.

“Him? Not a thing,” Sol said. “Whether he plays our little game or not is up to you.”

“Me?”

“You,” Sol reiterated, his tone lowering. “I want information. I want to know all about you: your name, where you are from, the reason you’re in Atlanta, everything. If you supply this information, Glisson gets free.”

The Warrior gazed at the aged tramp.

“You were eager to find Llewellyn Snow. I want to know why,” Sol declared. “Llewellyn Snow is under constant surveillance while we debate whether to consign her to a Sleep Chamber. Her brother, Richard, published The Atlanta Tribune until recently. We were forced to eradicate him.”

“What did he do?” Blade inquired.

“The fool intended to publish an editorial critical of us.”

Sol snapped. “We exercise creative authority over all the media in the city—”

“You censor them,” Blade interrupted.

“—and all editorials must be officially sanctioned prior to publication,” Sol continued, unfazed. “Snow planned to slip one into his paper without our knowledge, but fortunately one of his staff blew the whistle.”

“So you had him killed over an editorial?”

“You should have seen it!” Sol said. “Snow accused us of being arbitrary and despotic. After twelve years as publisher, after receiving favored status, he turned on us.”

“Why?”

Sol made a snorting sound. “Over the merest trifle. His parents were consigned to the Sleep Chambers five months ago, after they turned sixty-six. According to our law, that’s the cut-off age. All those over sixty-six are rated as past their prime, burdens on society, and incapable of producing enough to justify the expense of extending their life span.”

“Snow turned against you after his parents were murdered,” Blade commented sarcastically. “How could he be so ungrateful?”

“His wife attempted to flee the city with their only child, a girl,” Sol said. “The Terminators caught the mother, thanks to a tip from Llewellyn.”

Blade was shocked. “Llewellyn Snow betrayed her sister-in-law?”

“Llewellyn knew her life was in jeopardy because of her brother’s treachery. To prove her worth, she notified us of Leslie Snow’s plans,” Sol answered. “We sent a Terminator squad after her. The mother was fried, but the child escaped. The Terminators searched and searched, but the child eluded them.” He sighed. “Hopefully, the girl perished in the wilderness. The Snow bloodline is genetically inferior and deserves to be eradicated.”

“Does this include Llewellyn Snow?” Blade asked.

“She did not condone her brother’s treachery,” Diekrick said. “And she did inform on Leslie. If our monitoring of her activities does not uncover any latent deviation, she will be spared.”

“How sweet of you,” Blade quipped.

“Now to the matter at hand,” Sol declared. “What will it be?”

“My freedom would be nice.”

“Don’t indulge your infantile humor at my expense!” Sol snapped. “You know very well what I mean. Will you provide the information I want, or does Glisson face the maze?”

Blade gazed at the labyrinth, the Terminators, and finally the hobo. He doubted Gilsson could survive the contest, and he was tempted to answer all of Sol’s questions. But his primary responsibility was to the Family and the Home; if he gave Diekrick everything the Peer wanted, he would be betraying the trust of those who relied upon him. There was no telling what the Peers would do. They might decide to send a demolition or commando team to destroy the Home, which had already survived assaults by scavengers, mutants, Russians, the Doktor’s forces, Trolls, and others. Under no circumstances would he endanger the compound again.

“What will it be?” Sol demanded once more.

“Go sit on a pitchfork.”

“You have sealed his doom,” Sol said, and pressed the brown button.

Reacting instantly, as if they were eager to commence, the four Terminators entered the maze.

Glisson was shoved by the two Storm Police. He nearly fell, glared at them, then walked into the network of confusing passageways. The Storm Police exited through the right-hand door, which promptly closed.

“At last!” Eldred Morley exclaimed.

Blade’s gray eyes narrowed as he studied the maze, following the progress of the Terminators and Glisson. From his vantage point, thanks to the elevation of the room, he could see all five participants, but only from the waist up. Their lower extremities were obscured by the six-foot-high walls.

“I wager the bum doesn’t last ten minutes,” Clinton Brigg commented.

“I’ll take you up on that,” Lilith said.

“Do you feel like talking yet?” Sol asked the Warrior.

Blade shook his head, his arm muscles tensed, seemingly anxious for Glisson’s safety but surreptitiously straining on the handcuffs.

“Suit yourself,” Sol stated, gazing at the maze.

The Terminators had separated, taking different branches. Glisson was proceeding at a snail’s pace, fearfully looking around every corner before venturing into the next passage.

“What a timid mouse,” Sol said contemptuously.

“I’d like to see how brave you’d be,” Blade commented.

Diekrick laughed. “Never happen.”

Blade looked at the metal table to his left, at the glass pane, then at the Storm Police ringing the walls, calculating distances and odds. He estimated the nearest trooper was 15 feet away; the table was only six feet off; and the space between the end of the table and the glass pane was a mere yard.

“Hey! The scum has stopped,” Morley complained.

Indeed, Glisson had halted at an intersection and was appraising each option with transparent anxiety.

“What happens if he goes back?” Blade inquired.

“Back to where he started?” Sol asked.

Blade nodded.

“The Terminators are empowered to fry him anywhere in the chamber, even by the door,” Sol disclosed. “His best bet is to keep moving and not to lose his sense of direction.”

“That pathetic excuse for a human couldn’t find his butt in the dark with both hands,” Morley cracked.

Blade glanced casually at the table again. “Why did you bring my Bowies?”

“To make the next contest more challenging,” Sol replied.

“You’re sending me in there next?”

Diekrick grinned maliciously. “I’m a patient man, but my patience is not unlimited. If you won’t divulge the information I want, then you will be next. A fresh Terminator squad will be sent in, and it will be their flamethrowers against your Bowies.” He chuckled. “We anticipate great entertainment.”

“I hope I don’t disappoint you,” Blade remarked.

“I hope our other guests arrive in time,” Sol said.

Blade stepped up to the pane, watching Glisson take a passage to the tramp’s left. He assessed the span from the pane to the floor below at 20 feet. For someone of his stature, 20 feet wasn’t insurmountable. The falling glass, though, would pose a definite hazard. If he could—

Wait a second.

What was this?

Blade inspected the pane minutely for several moments. “This isn’t glass,” he declared.

Sol Diekrick appeared amused by the observation. “Of course it isn’t.

Glass became outdated decades before the war because of its nasty habit of cutting people when broken. Substitutes were quite common. This substance, for instance, is called Polyperv.” He tapped the pane. “It has all of the positive qualities of glass, but it doesn’t contain the same flaws.

When Polyperv shatters, the fragments tend to be large instead of fractured splinters as with glass. And the fragments have a duller edge than with glass. A person is less likely to be cut.”

“Interesting,” Blade remarked. “I remember reading about bullet-proof substances, virtually shatterproof, used prior to the Big Blast. Is this one of those substances?”

“Polyperv? No. Why would we bother to install an expensive bulletproof panel here? The pane is highly fire resistant, though,” Sol responded.

“How convenient,” Blade said, taking a step to his left, a step closer to the table.

And his Bowies.

“Why this intense interest in the window?” Sol asked. “Don’t you care if Glisson lives or dies?”

Blade nodded, taking another stride, his eyes on the maze. “Of course I care.”

“You could have fooled me,” Sol said.

“I hope to,” Blade replied, and glanced at the doorway to the room.

“Who’s the guy with the machine gun?”

It was one of the oldest tricks in the book, and the Warrior performed the ruse flawlessly. By conveying an attitude of nonchalance, and by phrasing his question casually, he succeeded in temporarily diverting the attention of everyone in the room to the door. In the few seconds required for them to realize there was no one there, he accomplished his goal.

Blade’s massive arm muscles bulged, his shoulders rippling, as he exerted all of his strength. His features reddened and his teeth clenched, and with a loud crack the links connecting the cuffs parted. Before the Peers and the Storm Police could perceive his purpose, he leaped to the table and grabbed the Bowies.

“Get him!” Sol Diekrick bellowed.

The Storm Police rushed the giant.