Doomsday Warrior 16 - American Overthrow (7 page)

When his wall-beeper went off, alerting him that it was seven in the morning, Rockson bolted upright with a start. He had managed to fall into dreamland the last half hour or so. But the dreams had been bad, nightmares with people lying in piles, their bodies and faces moldering like rotten vegetables. He didn’t know if he alone was totally creating the image or had somehow hooked into some real event with his mutant sixth sense. But it made him feel sick to his stomach. Not a great way to start a day.

“Good morning snookums,” Rona whispered, rolling over and grabbing him again.

“Not this morning, baby,” Rockson grumbled as he tried to open his aching eyes.

“Ahhh, Rocky-poo is grumpy because Rona wants his bod again; how cute.”

Rockson let a smile dance across his face for just a second before his foul mood descended full swing again. A voice spoke over the intercom/phone that was in every room and level of the underground city.

“Rockson, this is Dr. Shecter. I heard about the Council vote last night and I’m sure you’ll be heading off early today. But stop by the science testing level, there’s some new things I want to show you that I think will interest you. I have some fresh brewed coffee too—if that’s more of an inducement than talking to a cantankerous old scientist with jitterbug-programmed metal legs. See you.” There was a click and Rockson sat up. Everyone was being so fucking friendly, it just made him feel more sour.

“You
are
in a foul mood this morning,” Rona said as she looked sideways at his profile. “I can always tell when you’re going to be Mr. Meanie— Your lower lip gets set hard as a Mount Rushmore carving, and your upper one trembles like a little boy about to cry.”

He looked hard at her with his mismatched aqua and ultramarine eyes. “Cool it, sugarpie.”

“Sorry baby,” Rona said softly, “I didn’t mean to get you more riled up. It’s just that we get less and less time together and I always want it to be fun—and upbeat. There’s enough pain outside.”

“I’m sorry, baby, I really am,” Rockson said as he squeezed her hard, gave her a quick peck on the cheek and jumped up from bed. “I’ve got so much on my mind—I’m not much good to anyone in this state.”

“I know what’s on
your
mind,” Rona said, looking at him askance. She and Kim were old rivals. Both loved Rockson though it was Rona’s luck to have him most of the time, which wasn’t all that much, as he was always out battling some danger or other. In a strange way she had come to appreciate, from afar, her rival. After all, who better could understand and empathize with another woman than one who was in love with the same man? Still, she felt a burning fire in her chest and her nostrils quivered every time she thought of Rockson in bed with Kim Langford.

“And what’s that?” Rockson asked with a snap, ready to lash into her if she messed with his head this morning.

“Oh nothing,” Rona replied softly, looking at his powerful, tan, muscular body as it disappeared into his clothes. “Nothing at all.” She stood up stark naked just as he finished dressing, and held him tight. He could feel her need, her fear for him. And he felt a deep pain in his own heart. For as long as he was the Doomsday Warrior, Freefighter-par-excellence, there could be no real peace for him, no marriage, no children. It was a sacrifice that seemed to hurt more each year.

“I’ll be back soon, sugar lips,” he said with a smile as he pulled away from her and looked squarely in her gorgeous green-blue eyes. “Don’t hurt that luscious body. I think of it often when I’m in the wastelands.” With that he turned and walked out the door without another look back. The parting words brightened her. Even if he was lying, he sure as hell knew how to say the right lies.

Rockson made his way past the myriad morning workers struggling sleepily off to their jobs. They nodded and exchanged greetings with him. Rockson headed up the ramp to level 8 some six levels above him. The escalator and elevator system were still problematic as the main power system for them had been ruptured months before, and not yet completely repaired. Some worked, but they were designated for industrial and medical tasks. Healthy citizens were expected to walk.

By the time he reached level 8 the climb had wakened him slightly and his eyes seemed a little more focused. He sure as hell could have used the sleep last night. “Coffee!” he mumbled. “Java! Brown Gold!”

Even as he walked into the Level Eight Science Testing Chamber, Rockson could smell the thick odors of fresh brewed coffee wafting down the hall. It lured him forward like a rabbit after a carrot. When he had gone another hundred feet and made a right into Dr. Shecter’s office, the smell grew intoxicating.

“Ah, Rockson, glad to see you,” the white-haired science chief said, sitting behind his desk. “Here, have some of this hydroponics ‘mountain grown synthesized’ brew.” He poured Rockson a large mug from a steaming urn next to the desk and the Doomsday Warrior took it gratefully. It burned his lips, but it tasted great.

“This is much better than the stuff we’ve been quaffing down for years,” he commented, taking in a few more slugs.

“Yes, we’ve decided to devote a little more time to consumer goods,” Schecter said with a grin, “rather than just military hardware and medical. Both are necessary. But there’s no reason why we have to suffer any more than nature and our occupiers already cause us to.”

“Amen to that,” Rockson said, finishing the cup fast and taking another. He could feel his brain start to unlock, a little bit of energy seep into his cells.

“But excuse my self-lauding,” Shecter said with a self-mocking expression, “I’ve actually brought you here to show you a few new gadgets we’ve been working on that might be helpful to your—mission. I know that the Council voted last night for us to send men up to Pattonville. And I agree wholeheartedly with the decision. Military coups have no place in Free Cities. Otherwise we might as well let the Reds run the whole show and give up.”

Shecter had singlehandedly changed the face and the workings of C.C. Even in Rockson’s lifetime, since he had arrived at the underground rebel city years before, he had seen miraculous changes. In medicine, warfare, the development of countless labor-saving devices. The man was a Picasso of science, constantly tinkering, getting his lab boys to develop his ideas, many of which came, he said, at late hours of the night when he would sit upright in bed and began sketching some new apparatus or other. He, more than anyone, was responsible for Century City’s being the pre-eminent Free fortress in America. The underground city was looked up to by the other towns and villages as the unofficial capital of America.

“First,” Schecter said as he reached into a stainless steel container by the side of his desk. “This nasal-gas-blocker.” He held it out to Rockson who took the small odd shaped plastic device and looked at it curiously. “We know that gas is being used by the insurrectionist army up there. I pray that it’s not nerve gas which absorbs through the skin. If it is, this will be useless. But if it’s a breath-intake—just slam those two prongs into your nose and it will filter out just about anything.”

Rockson tried it, taking the small pliant device and slipping it into his nostrils. It was slightly uncomfortable, but nothing he couldn’t live with. He pulled hard on the thing and air flowed into his nose, cutting off perhaps a quarter of the regular flow.

“I’ve got as many as you need for your strike team,” Shecter said as he reached down again. He extricated what looked like an aluminized jumpsuit which was folded down so it was hardly bigger than a small notebook. “It’s a heat shield, something we’ve developed out of the heat-reflecting space blankets everyone carries when out in the sun. This affords even more protection, and can cover the entire body. Like you to test some of these out with your men. Shouldn’t take up a hell of a lot of space.” Rockson fingered the thin material, finding it hard to believe it could really keep out the kind of heat that sometimes hit them from the glaring unshielded sun. But he knew Shecter tested his toys a thousand times before letting C.C.’s citizens or fighters use them. The scientist couldn’t have forgiven himself if something went wrong that was his fault.

“And lastly, a
mini-gun,”
he held out what looked like a primitive medallion about three inches wide and roughly arrow-shaped. “It’s really a gimmick I suppose, but we’ve been playing with all kinds of weapons shapes and sizes—and this is one of the permutations that came out.” Rockson took the pendant and held it up, twisting it around in the air.

“What exactly does it do?” the Doomsday Warrior asked skeptically.

“What any pistol does;
shoots.
Fires a single pellet with the muzzle force equivalent to a .22 long. We have to use what would be the equivalent of what you could call a .05 caliber slug. But what it lacks in size it makes up in projectile thrust. This baby shoots hard; I mean it can pierce metal—or flesh. You just squeeze the two dots—around both sides twice—and
bang.
I can see you’re looking at it like it’s just about the last thing on earth you want to mess around with. But do an old man a favor, take it with you and fire it, just to give it a little field testing.”

“Sure,” Rock replied slipping the thin chain that came with it around his neck so it hung down over his chest. “Anything else?”

“That’s it for this time around,” the chief scientist said, rising and shaking hands with Rockson, who had also risen. “I know you’ve got to move, so I won’t take up any more of your time or bore you with more of these gizmos.”

“It’s never a bore to talk with you, Dr. Shecter,” Rockson said with deep sincerity as he shook the man’s hand. It was a surprisingly firm grip for someone his age. “I wish we could spend a whole day going over your latest inventions and theories of de-evolution. I find them all quite fascinating.”

“Good luck, Rockson,” Shecter said. The Doomsday Warrior turned and headed off. Somehow there was a strange feeling in his chest as if he might not ever see the man or this place again. Something about the mission was filling him with a Kierkegaardian brooding feeling.

It took Rockson only an hour to choose his team. They’d have to travel fast and light. He picked Detroit, of course; and Chen, the martial arts teacher of C.C., and long time fighting partner of Rockson. And he also chose Archer, whose sheer seven-foot strength could make up for a lot of problems when the shit hit the fan. Their ’brids were already fully supplied by the time they met at the outer stables. The four men were excited, wide-eyed and flushed, filled with excitement as they were always were when heading out on a mission. Only Rockson was drawn and pale. He felt something, a darkness that he had rarely felt before in his life. A trembling of the soul.

The guards opened the wide camouflaged gates to the north of Century City and the four men rode out on their snorting hybrids. They headed out down the mountain slopes with a white sun blazing down threatening to burn them all to a crisp. The Freefighters headed out into a nasty world, a world that had absorbed the shock of nuclear war and threw it back at mankind in a thousand ways. And
Bitch Nature
could really dish it out!

Eight

T
he mountains were staggeringly beautiful even to the jaded men who had seen it all before. There’s something about the beauty of pure nature that makes it always new, eternally shimmering, an electric current to the soul. Especially in a world of mega-death and vast patches of terrain that were little more than ashes and burnt soil. Thus, these rebel American fighters felt the beauty even deeper, sharper, perhaps than citizenry of the old days might have. It had a poignancy to it just because it was surrounded by so much death.

“Makes you want to just sigh, roll up your trouser legs and get a fishing line and snooze beneath those snow jeweled peaks forever,” Detroit said as he rode alongside Rockson down the momentarily wide deer trail that led down the upper slopes.

Archer and Chen rode together ten yards behind, but both men were silent, Chen because he had little to say as was usually the case, and the giant Archer because he was a near-mute and preferred, like the Chinese American, to just take it all in. Talking was not his strong suit.

“You can say that again,” Rockson replied with a wry grin. He gazed at the towering peaks, the blankets of firs, coating all in a loving embrace. But as much as he tried to relax and allow the majestic Rocky Mountain sights to soothe his soul, he couldn’t. The dark cloud that he had felt since the messenger had come and alerted them two days before hung over him and grew thicker by the hour. Rarely had his mutant senses felt quite so alert. His whole body was tingling.

They made their way across high slopes for a good part of the day and then began descending slightly as they headed northeast. Pattonville was three hundred and fifty miles to the north and east, a good ride through fairly treacherous terrain. Rockson figured five days if they were lucky, a lot more if they weren’t. The ’brids could move their asses when the weather was right and they weren’t in ornery moods, both of which so far seemed to be the case.

In late afternoon, they passed a whole mountainside filled with goats; big dudes with horns the size of diesel truck springs. They were presided over by an oversized mutant goat, all black and as big as a small bull. The dominant male of the flock looked down at the passing hybrids with scorn, standing on an outcropping, his body rigid as his reddish eyes glared down. He was perhaps daring them to even try to take over his territory or steal any of his females. None of which any of the Freefighters was ready to fight over. They passed by just a few hundred feet below as the other goats ran wildly in all directions bleating like an out of tune choir.

“FOOOOD,” Archer bellowed as he started to unsling his huge crossbow from around his back.

“No, pal,” Rockson laughed, turning around in the saddle and shouting to the bear of a Freefighter. “Don’t have time for all that. We’ve got enough supplies,” he said, patting the side of the saddle bag. Shecter’s field tech boys had loaded them up with high energy concentrates that took up little room but packed a hell of a lot nutritionally. They just didn’t have time to play around with hunting scenes. Rock knew that Archer hated the energy packs. But he could afford to lose a few pounds on the road, hitting the scales at something over 425 lbs. He’d live.