Doomsday Warrior 06 - American Rebellion (5 page)

There was utter silence for a few seconds as every eye in the room zeroed in on Rockson who stood breathing hard, a huge bump welling up on the back of his lower skull where he had been struck.

“You are new bossman,” one of the pitiful slave creatures, a man with no hair at all, even eyelashes, said. The others joined in a chorus of assent. Someone had to keep order, even if cruelly—otherwise they would all go at one another like wild beasts. The new fighter—he would be the leader. Perhaps he would be kinder than Foster 236.

“You leader,” a wild-eyed man screamed.

“You new king,” another said between drooling lips.

“King, king,” they chanted, rising up from their filth-encrusted beds.

“No, no,” Rock said, waving his hands with a bemused expression. First they tried to kill him—now they wanted him to rule them—all in the space of about two minutes. He saw a small empty spot by one of the window openings at the back end of the cement hut and walked over to it, rubbing his neck. The others followed behind, scampering around him, making animal grunts of excitement. Rock lowered himself down onto the 2 x 5 foot space, on each side of which grungy specimens were lying, their unwashed bodies sending out a somewhat pungent smell. But it would have to do. Rockson felt bone weary. He took off the field jacket he was wearing and made a pillow against the cracking wall. Then he lay back, settling into as comfortable a position as a human body could find, resting on two pieces of rough concrete. He put his hands behind his head and breathed out a deep sigh. It felt good just to not move after the marching of the last few days.

He heard sounds all around him and opened his eyes again in a flash, rising up ready to meet attack. But it was just the slaves, all 157 of them, surrounding him, their eyes trying to fathom this strange newcomer. He felt like he was in a goddamned zoo.

“Fuck off,” he yelled, waving his arm. He made a fist and slammed it sideways against the wall which gave off a loud thud that echoed through the barracks. The slaves winced with fear and drew back, slowly settling into their own little sleeping squares. Within minutes all were asleep again in their own private hells.

Five

T
he Free Market, as it was called was a sprawling bazaar of large colorful tents a mile outside of Goerringrad. Those slaves not directly consigned to the labor crews were brought here to be sold to the highest bidder. Rona stared glumly down at her outfit as the flatbed truck tore down the last hill to the marketplace. Her hands were handcuffed behind her back and they had clothed her in a ridiculous pink semi-transparent harem skirt and a scanty bra that pushed her ample chest up and out. But it wasn’t even her own situation that bothered her—it was Rock. Not knowing if he was alive or dead—if he was being eaten by the wild dog packs out there, all alone—it tore her apart. And there wasn’t a goddamned thing she could do.

The wheezing truck came shooting down a winding lane, the driver blowing the horn to shoo dogs and children out of the way. As they came into the outer perimeter of the Bazaar, Rona looked around fascinated. Stalls selling every product imaginable were hawking their products—magic potions, candied lizards and snakes, furs, jewels, weapons, screaming out to all who passed by that “theirs” was the only place to shop. And between the stalls, magicians, dancers, snake charmers, men lying on beds of nails, or breathing fire. In spite of her captivity Rona watched in utter fascination. She had never seen anything quite like it.

They entered a main square where other slavers’ trucks were parked and she was hustled off with other women prisoners and put into a waiting pen next to a raised platform which was to be the auction block. Outside, a loud gong rang and within minutes a crowd had gathered to start the bidding. She heard the auctioneer calling out in a singsong drivel of prices and bids. On top of the circular platform which was being slowly pulled around by three men below with ropes, was a young angelic-looking blond haired boy. A group of men in one section were eyeing the sullen youth with great interest. The auctioneer opened the boy’s mouth and showed his teeth to the audience.

“See—good, strong. No disease.” A grotesquely fat man in the audience, wearing tight pink body armor bid a hundred rubles. No one else raised and the fat man smiled lewdly, quickly took the lad into a waiting Sandrover and drove off.

“Next,” yelled the bald headed, mustached auctioneer who seemed to speak 20 different languages at once as he engaged in super high-speed banter with the growing crowd of the rich, the powerful and the perverted. He pulled out three captured mountain women, strong featured, big-boned and muscled from their heavy work.

“Not the most beautiful slaves in the world, but good breeding stock. Very strong, work like ox.” The bidding began at 50 rubles and worked its way up to 75. Finally they were sold to a stern-eyed farmer who looked as if he just might be thinking of using them as oxen.

“And now the
‘pièce-de-résistance,’ ”
the auctioneer smiled down at the crowd, rubbing his hands together. “A prime fillet of womanhood—a mutant beauty. Once a princess in a strange land to the West, once in the harem of Ben-ali-Schwartz, but untouched. A virgin—”

Rona was pushed up the stairs by one of the market guards. Virgin, my ass, she half-snickered to herself. Rock would have something to say about that. The harem shoes were hard to walk in with their huge high heels.

There was a rumble of excitement in the crowd which had now swelled to several hundred. She stared down at them with a flashing anger. Slaves—slaves in the twenty-first century. Thus had the Communist “liberation” freed America.

“Here she is gentlemen—and not-so-gentlemen,” the auctioneer snickered. Several Nazi officers and a KGB black-uniformed soldier nudged forward in the crowd. “Smile for our guests,” the auction man said, giving her a sharp glance. Rona spit right in his face.

“Ah,” he exclaimed wiping a dirty sleeve down his cheek, “a real tiger. Fit to be tamed by the most interesting methods. Do I hear the first bid? Let us start at 1,000 rubles.” There were gasps from the audience. Many of the less well-dressed men were looking disconsolate. Others rifled through their wallets, sorry now that they had bought lesser quality merchandise already.

From a large sedan chair, a long thin hand with painted purple nails moved aside the silk curtain to let a single green eye peer out.

“I bid 2,000 rubles,” a shrill voice croaked out.

“I hear 2,000—2,000—any better offers? Come now gentlemen—and ladies,” he added, addressing the sedan chair’s occupant. “This is as good as they get. This is—beauty.” A Nazi in high black boots stepped forward.

“Might I touch?” he asked.

“Be my guest,” the auctioneer replied, beaming. The Nazi walked up the stairs and opened Rona’s mouth. She was still a little dazed from her drugging, but tried to bite, and missed. There was laughter from below as the chastened Nazi stepped back.

“I do not like being made ridiculous,” he said coldly. “I will top that bid, and show this female what a man can do with a woman who defies him. Three thousand.” It’s going from bad to worse, Rona thought to herself. A fat man covered with golden necklaces and ruby bracelets pushed himself forward through the crowd. A jewel-encrusted dagger was stuck carelessly in the cumberbund of red silk.

“Please remove her bra,” the jewel-bedecked man requested. The auctioneer yanked it down before Rona could twist away. If only she had her hands free. There were gasps from some of the audience.

“She has the white nipples.”

“Bad luck,” a man shouted at the back of the crowd and ran off, not looking back. Others withdrew their bids.

“Does the lady in the sedan chair top my bid?” the Nazi smiled. The chair was lifted by two black servants and carried quickly away. The auctioneer turned and angrily whispered to his assistant, “You fool! I told you to have her nipples rouged. In these parts white nipples are a hex sign. Sign of the witch! Someone with ESP who can make mincemeat of a man’s will, of his sexual potency—”

He turned back to the Nazi officer, instantly smiling fully again. “She is yours, for the bid you made.”

“I am not superstitious,” the German said. “I would like to add this woman to my rather odd collection. When she dies we can put her in the formaldehyde display tanks in my museum—with the others who defied me.” Rona shuddered. A red stamp marked SOLD was inked on her forehead and the Nazi handed over his signature brand to the auctioneer who dipped it in acid and then pressed it against Rona’s left forearm. It didn’t hurt for a moment—and then the acid burned down below the epidermis. She screamed out in pain. When she could bear it, she looked down and read, “Property of Von Frueller,” with a small Nazi swastika below it.

“Take her,” the German said to two soldiers who accompanied him. They took Rona by her manacled arms and hustled her into a black Ziv limousine idling across the open center of the bazaar. They put a hood over her head. One way or another she seemed to be getting in the habit of falling into darkness.

Six

T
he after-effects of the Battle of Forrester Valley were being felt not just by Rona and Rockson and all the other captured Freefighters, but in Moscow as well. The full impact of the eradication of nearly two-thirds of the Nazi force he had sent over to destroy Century City and Ted Rockson, did not hit Premier Vassily, Ruler of All The World, until nearly three days later. Right in the middle of a reading by Rahallah, his irreplaceable servant and advisor, of Orwell’s
1984,
the premier suddenly gagged and reached for his heart, unable to breathe and with a sharp pain ripping through his side.

Rahallah had expected it—a heart attack. The pills couldn’t control his high blood pressure after the terrible defeat. The premier hadn’t slept all night, despite massive use of sleeping pills. He hadn’t even drunk his brandy that morning. The black African servant rose suddenly from his seat by the window as Vassily spasmed in his wheelchair, letting his heavy wool blanket spill onto the floor. His body arched up and he fell out toward the floor just as Rahallah got to him, catching the frail old body.

Rahallah pressed the intercom on the premier’s desk, shouting for his doctors to come, and a stretcher. Within two minutes the premier of the Soviet Empire was on a rolling stainless steel table, being pushed toward the emergency operating room in the basement of his Kremlin home. An IV unit was stuck in his withered arm, dripping life-giving fluids into his bloodstream. The doctors tried everything, but to no avail. He seemed just too far gone this time. They left the O.R. and nodded “no” to Rahallah who waited anxiously outside.

“Is he still alive?” the tall, ebony faced servant, descended from African princes, asked.

“Yes, but barely,” head surgeon, Mastrovich answered.

“Then I want all personnel to leave the operating room,” Rahallah demanded. “I wish to be alone with the premier.” The surgeon hesitated, but knew that as long as Vassily even clung to life, Rahallah’s power as his right-hand was unquestionable.

“Yes sir,” Mastrovich replied, feeling his lips almost tremble as he had to say it to a “nigger.” But such were the rules of power.

While the doctors and the palace guards in their medal-festooned uniforms milled about in the corridor outside, Ruanda Rahallah, Son-of-the-Plains-Lion, master of the magic of his tribe, moved the rolling operating table toward the window of the O.R. where he pulled the thick drapes open so that daylight came streaming through. He opened the burlap bag he had brought with him from his quarters and took out its contents—robes, feathered hats, body paints, potions . . . Within minutes he was dressed in full tribal regalia, bright red paint on his face, white zebra stripes running down his arms and legs. He walked to the window, looked up at the brilliant blue skies and called on the Gods of the Lion to help him—to hear his words. He rattled a snakeskin-covered gourd filled with lion’s teeth and chanted the incantations to Rukwanda, the Lion God of All Life.

“Oh Great Rukwanda, who roams the earth searching for souls to devour, hear my words. I, Son-of-the-Plains-Lion, rightful heir to the throne of my tribe, son of your strength and courage. Oh hear me, devouring master . . .”

He dropped a handful of dried snake flesh into a large brass bowl he had set next to the motionless, pale body of Vassily, lying naked on the table and lit it. A pungent, acrid smoke rose up, covering the premier’s face and chest. He walked around the dying man he had come to love and serve as his master and continued his chanting, shaking the gourd over Vassily, begging the Lion God to eat the evil spirits that had inhabited the premier.

The stainless steel door to the O.R. was open a crack, and from the spot that Czarina Alexandra had once stood, observing her husband’s infidelities, the officers of the Elite Imperial Guard stood, their jaws dropped, listening, to and watching the incredible sight. The premier, a sickly man who had suffered a stroke and was not expected to live an hour’s time—and the African was doing
this
!

All the Kremlin was in chaos, as the black Rahallah continued to mumble chants and light bowls of powder around the failing body—in the very capital of the world—right in the Kremlin. Yet who dared challenge him? As long as the premier survived the black must be left alone. For Rahallah was greatly feared due to his influence over Vassily—and his black magic that had saved the premier once before, during “The Doctor’s Plot.” Was the blackie a sorcerer? Could there be some ancient pagan power that this fearsome tall black man with his cool civilized demeanor had? Could the blackie himself be one of those demons which couldn’t be killed?

The guards, and those jockeying for power in the event of the premier’s death, watched as the primitive ritual continued. The premier should die. And when he did, this throwback, this black savage who dared flaunt his power in the very heart of the Russian empire, would die too, his head on a pole in front of the Supreme Soviet. Then the Politboro would doubtless be called into emergency session and unanimously elect Col. Killov, head of KGB in the U.S.S.A. as the new premier. Killov-the-Strong, Killov-the-Feared. Killov, the human skeleton with the power and the cruelty to rule the world.