Doomsday Warrior 16 - American Overthrow (22 page)

D
r. Mason spent the entire night running around the work lab giving orders and helping with the preparation and loading of the molecularly-altered gas with the Freefighters’ help. They bled the general’s gas—from the filled cannisters they had stolen—into a large mixing cannister of a good six feet in diameter, and twelve feet long. Then, from the other end of the mix-cannister the new gaseous mixture of mostly inert gases, like nitrogen and carbon dioxide, were fed in. It took only a few minutes for the gases to mix completely, blown around by special fans inside, and for the chemical reaction and mixture to take place.

Then the new gas, “the Mason gas” the men began calling it to honor the man who had made it, was
ready.
Who else other than Mason, Rockson wondered, ever reversed military science, ever taken something deadly, and made it less so? The man truly was a genius. A weapon of peace, if there could ever be such a thing.

A tube in the center of the large mixing chamber was fed into a smaller mobile cannister about five feet long, eighteen inches wide. With a turn of a few knobs the gas shot into the cannister under high pressure. That took only a minute. They could tell it was ready when the dial gauge on top read full. As soon as each new cannister was done, it was fitted with plastic tubing out the top end, and then carried off on straps by two of the zombie team. These were taken out and stacked in place in each of the dozen junctions of the vast air duct.

By the morning, they were done. Everything was set in place, ready to roll, like some miniature gas D-Day. Even the zombies were in a high state of excitation, stumbling around with vigor. They could sense that the big day was here. They would get their revenge for having been turned into such freaks.
That much
they understood and wanted terribly. Revenge.

“You’ve done it,” Rockson said, congratulating Dr. Mason as he and the Freefighters stood around him. He sat dazed behind his huge work table, now absolutely strewn with electronic and gas-transmission devices. “You’ve completed exactly what you set out to do, Doctor,” Rock congratulated.

“That’s only the first stage,” Mason said, almost sadly. For his part of the operation was basically over. Now Rockson and the rest of them had to do it. Carry the ball. He’d be no good in the fisticuffs. “It’s up to you and your men to carry it to completion,” the doc stared hard at the Doomsday Warrior.

“We’re here to carry out the return to law under the U.S. Constitution,” Rock said with solemnity. “There can be no higher goal than that.” He went over with his men the exact line of attack they would all take once the gas had been sent into Pattonville. They were ready, God help them, to try to take over an entire city with a squad of half-men. Rockson wanted the attack to coincide with Kim’s “marriage” ceremony at noon, because, at that moment, he’d know where both Kim and the President would be. At the wedding chapel.

So they waited, the wait making them break out in beads of sweat, unnerving them. It’s one thing to fight, it’s another to sit around just waiting. Your mind dwells on the most absurd and trivial things. Ask any soldier in the history of warfare and they would all say the same thing—waiting is the hardest.

But the few hours passed and at eleven they synchronized their combat watches. At 11:45, Rock stood dead center of the main ducting system and pointed the radio transmitter that would detonate the Simtex explosives to the tunnel to the right. And prayed, as they all did, that something was actually going to happen. That this whole damned thing hadn’t been in vain, a sick joke played by the perverse fates.

They waited, it seemed like hours, for the explosives to fire. Actually, it was one and a half seconds. Rock was just starting to feel a surge of bile drop into his stomach. Then he heard a series of sharp explosions that echoed along the ducting, actually shaking it where they stood.

The zombies made sharp rasping sounds of fear and some fell to the floor and began swimming around as if that was going to get them away. Dr. Mason had to quiet them down, going around and kicking a few as he screamed at them to “show some dignity” on this day of liberation. They were all outfitted with the stolen gas masks, which the doc himself also put on. They were big, clumsy things, but they worked. Rock and the Freefighting team used the nasal units which had already proven themselves in battle.

Rockson now set off the Simtex packs on the other side and again they heard a series of loud explosions. Hot air came pushing down the duct system.

“All right, time to release the gas,” Dr. Mason screamed to his brightest assistants, about forty of them who he figured could handle it. They ran off into the pipes with the cannisters strapped to their backs, and tubing coming out like garter snakes.

Once they were in place near the blasted vents which headed off here and there, they turned the valves on top of their gas loads. There was a loud hissing sound as all the cannisters spat out their loads of knock-out gas down tubes that snaked off to every part of the city. When the load hit the main vent system, Dr. Mason threw on the power to two twin turbo fans which had been built long ago in the center of all the junctions, to facilitate internal venting. The huge fans began turning slowly having not been lubed for many years. But quickly they got moving. The fans pushed the gas up through the vents everywhere.

It moved, invisibly, but none the less powerfully, into the city’s ducts and then out into the dwellings and work warehouses of Pattonville. Everywhere it floated, men and women began falling. It took only seconds as they gasped, got strange looks in their eyes—troopers and zombie slaves alike—and then keeled over as if someone had slipped them double Mickey Finns.

Back at his workshop Dr. Mason stood among his gasheads and pounded his good fist into his bad hand, oblivious of the pain.

“It’s got to work, got to,” he intoned over and over again, not knowing for sure that it
was
working.

Rockson was off and running with Ralph, Chen, Detroit, and Archer taking up the rear the moment they had set off the last of the explosions. They tore down through the ducting, knowing the gas was coming through all around them. But the nasal-pieces worked perfectly. At last they came flying out into the main corridor down the middle of Pattonville. Already zombies and guards were lying motionless all over the place.

It was working like a dream. Rockson leaned over and checked a few of them. Their pulses, respiration were all steady and functioning. It had been one of the things he had been scared of—that they would all die, that he would be responsible for helping wipe out an entire city. But it was working right.

Dr. Mason’s molecular-altered gas was taking them out of action but causing no harm.

They headed through Pattonville, scanning back and forth searching for any standing troopers. Ralph, who now seemed almost like one of Rockson’s strike team, had told the Doomsday Warrior that General Hanover would be having his wedding in the officer’s club wedding chapel, as it was the most ornate and elite structure in Pattonville. So that was where they were heading. Ralph again took the lead. Rock could have used the map, but the guy was so eager to please. And he was getting faster now too, having adjusted to being a modern-day Long John Silver. His body was definitely coming on back even if still in a low gear. He looked almost spiffy with his chrome plated .45 hitched up on his hip above his peg-leg.

They tore through the concrete-walled town and came upon piles of troopers knocked out like they’d been hit with a Joe Louis haymaker. They were just reaching the midpoint of the city, turning past a uniform store, when they saw a whole squad of gas-masked troopers tearing ass straight toward them. The soldiers opened up with submachine guns and pistols as soon as they spotted the intruders.

“Down,”
Rock screamed as his men hit the cement floor like stones. Ralph was a little slow, not being used to combat and took a slug in the shoulder. He went crashing to the cement. The instant they were down, Rock and the Freefighters opened up with their own weapons. Rock pulled the trigger of the .357 magnum that they had stolen from the storehouse, as their own weapons had been taken from them back in the torture warehouse. He cut loose with a stream of slugs at the nearest of the enemy. Chen had to use a .9mm, as he’d lost his equipment at the torture chamber. He was just as accurate with any weapon, and kept the gun on manual, pulling one quick sharp shot after another.

Everyone hit something soft. Archer gripped his huge crossbow, releasing arrow after steel arrow. Several of them went through two men at once, so powerful was their trajectory. Ralph, whose shoulder wound didn’t seem to bother him too much, sighted up on the .45 he held and let loose one shot after another. He even hit someone now and then.

When it was all over, about fifteen seconds later, there wasn’t a trooper still firing at them. Most were lying in bloody heaps on the floor, several ran off in sheer terror. The Freefighters rose up as one and ran back down the center of Main Mall, Pattonville. There was smoke ahead, rolling out from several alleys but no real flames close by that Rockson could see.

“Move baby,
move,”
Rockson shouted, pushing Ralph ahead of him, who seemed reluctant to enter the smoke, thinking it was somehow the same as fire. Shots rang out from above, from some upper windows of buildings in the shops around them. They could hear the pinging of the slugs against the floor and walls around them in the thickening smoke. The Freefighters ran an obstacle course, twisting, and weaving through the smoke, keeping a sense of direction on where they were heading. It took about twenty seconds to cross the full extent of the smoke blanket and they were out the other side. The gas-masked guards continued to fire at the gray smoke, not even realizing their would-be victims had already escaped their firepower.

Ralph paused for a moment as they came to a separate shopping street that led off from the main thoroughfare.

“Think—this way,” he said, rubbing his chin for a moment.

“Don’t give out on me now,” Rockson said with desperation. “Remember, everything depends on it.”

“Yes, this way,” Ralph replied firmly and he moved down fast along the wide aisleway. The rest followed behind, more cautious every step of the way. They were in the heart of enemy territory now. Near the officer’s HQ.

They came to a large three story building with steel-shuttered windows, and a single steel door, thick and solid as an oak tree. Two machine-gun emplacements, one on each side of the gargantuan door were filled with muzzles pointing down the street at them. In fact, Rock just noticed the barrels when they opened up, peppering the cement passage with pockmarks of dust.

The Freefighters pulled back until they were protected by the edge of another building.

“We’ve got to get in there—and fast.” Rock said, looking around at them.

“Relax.” Detroit said with a wide grin. “I think I know the way to move. Simtex!”

“There
was
some extra, and being an explosives freak anyway,” he looked down at his grenades, “I figured I’d take it along.”

“How much?” Rock asked, as Detroit took out the packet about as large as a carton of cigarettes. It had the radio receiver detonation unit already installed in one end. And Detroit held up the mini-transmitter in the other.

“Enough to get in there,” the black Freefighter replied coolly. “Yeah, now the only thing is how the hell do we get up to that door?”

“I’ll give it a try,” Chen said as he stripped off his gear. He took the plastique before Rock could even begin to protest and was tearing down the street like a madman jumping from side to side, rolling . . .

“Set up a covering fire,” Rock screamed and they all opened up on each side of the tearing Chen at the two machine-gun slits. As the enemy guns opened up Chen seemed to speed up even more if that was possible. Slugs just missed him by inches, slamming into cement all around him. About twenty feet off he went into a series of flips, just soaring up through the air, coming down and taking off again. He looked like someone out of a circus, or a world class gymnastic competition. The machine guns went swinging around wildly trying to get a bead on him.

Chen came down out of his flips right in front of the huge door. He banged on it once. It was thick, thick as shit. And then he slammed the plastic explosives package onto the dead center. He jumped around to the side, protected by a wall, out of sight of the machine-gun emplacement.

Chen made a hand motion back to Detroit to blow it. The black Freefighter looked for a moment with concern at Rockson. Chen was very close to the door. But Rock nodded yes. Their lives, ultimately, were less important than freeing the President. Chen had known just what the hell he was doing when he tore ass out there.

“Blow it,” Rock said brusquely. “Blow it now.”

Twenty-Six

T
he Simtex charge against the Officer’s H.Q.’s door went off with a thunderous roar that echoed down the main corridor, followed by a wave of sparks and heat. Rockson and the others shot up out of their cover and came forward fast. The smoke was just clearing up at the center of the explosion and they could see that the door was ripped free, twisted in half, pulled right off its inch thick hinges.
Whew!
Chen was lying face down around the side of the wall.

Rock’s heart skipped a dozen beats as he rushed forward. But as Chen moved and rose up slowly, he felt the pumping organ relax, slightly.

“You okay, pal?” Rockson asked as he helped the Chinese Freefighter to his feet.

“Felt like I was just inside a thunder-cloud,” Chen answered as he stood up fully.

“Let’s move,” Rock yelled. He knew speed was of the essence now that the shit had hit the fan. They came in like gangbusters, knocking down some guards who were rising to their feet just the other side. They had been down like pins in a bowling lane.

There was another door down the inner corridor. But this one not nearly so thick. Two of Detroit’s grenades latched around a lever did the trick. They blew with quick thuds and the Freefighters rushed back around and ripped out the broken lock mechanism of the door. They pulled it open and came in ready to deal lead. And stopped dead in their tracks in sheer amazement.