Doomsday Warrior 17 - America’s Sword (20 page)

Rock was very happy typing. As the Nominee had said, they had good food and a bed. What else did a man need?

Twenty-Three

O
ver the next two days, as he tended to his duties, the Doomsday Warrior felt himself falling deeper and deeper into a mental and physical abyss. It was a strange feeling, for somewhere he could sense that it was all madness. But he felt like a tadpole at the bottom of a swamp covered over by ten thousand tons of mud. He wasn’t going the hell anywhere.

He worked, had to work, had no other choice. The Caucus people were everywhere, supervising, running around, making sure Rockson and the other typists did their best. He didn’t mind, really. There was something nice about being a typist. He knew exactly what to do, and there was a perfect place for him in this world. He had no worries, no worries at all.

It was midnight the second day on the job when Rockson took a big fall. He was coming down a set of metal stairs on one side of the dormitory, about to go to bed. Somehow, because he wasn’t holding the bannister, his right foot caught on one of the steel steps and he went flying forward. He really didn’t know how to stop falling.

But his body knew better than he did, having worked out, and having been attacked so many times. His body responded because he was a mutant with a few extra action-cards thrown in there for moments just like this. He managed to arch his body halfway down the stairs. There was a sharp pain in his right chest as he banged against the bannister. Rock rolled down the last fifteen or twenty stairs and cracked into the concrete floor like an artillery shell. He rolled over a few times and somehow wedged himself beneath a bed.

He could move, but only a bit. He was near-unconscious, a faint groan issuing from his parted lips. Rockson, the sleepy typist, had managed to put a couple of nice bruises on his skull. The way he was wedged, his head was against an air vent. And as he lay there, as still as a corpse, the entire group of men from his section trundled to their beds, and fell asleep, as if nothing had happened at all.

Someone eventually counted heads and noticed that Rockson was missing after a few hours. Men were sent around to see just what the hell had happened to him. But the way he had fallen, beneath a guy’s bed, hid him from view.

Upstairs the work for the big meeting-to-come was accelerating. All the chairs surrounding the platform got another cleaning. Checks were made on the microphones. The speakers that would boom out the Great Nominee’s sacred words were adjusted. The prep-workers stayed up all night and into the next day to make sure.

As they worked, Rockson lay with his face pressed against the venting system. After a long time, he began to regain control of his mind. It began with a headache like a sledge hammer. He opened his eyes slowly. He knew he’d been in and out of consciousness for maybe twelve hours. Everything hurt. But suddenly he knew the pain was worth it. He realized just what had been going on. He wasn’t a typist in a typing pool—he was the Doomsday Warrior once again.

When he’d fallen he’d jammed his head into an oxygen vent, rather than a hypno-gas vent.

Of course. They’d have to mix in some fresh air with all that yellow gas they were feeding to the whole damned place to zonk everyone out, to control their minds.

He leaned forward and took some huge whiffs of the invisible stuff. Hmmm, it tasted good. Real good. And it cleared his mind. Shit! He’d really been careless, hadn’t realized how he had been losing his mind the whole time he’d been in the dome. But now he was okay—or nearly so. Now what?

When he felt he had been sufficiently revived, Rockson crawled out from under the bed. His mind filled with a deep revulsion for the Caucus people. They were not just dull, they were a horror beyond belief. A horde of robots. The Nominee, whoever or whatever he was, kept them like mindless ants, scurrying around. Well, Rockson was out of their control now. He took another deep breath at the vent and then moved into action.

He was very unsteady on his feet and had to throw out his arms like a tightrope walker to take steps at first, to keep himself balanced. But he was okay.

First things first; he made himself plan, although it actually hurt his skull to begin analyzing things. First thing was to shut off the hypno-gas. He had to get them all off the stuff. Especially his men.

Rock walked around the vast sleeping-room and saw what he hadn’t noticed at first. That there were secondary venting system openings alongside all the gas ducts. More oxygen. They fed a careful balance of stuff up through the dome. It must have taken a long time to get just the right mixture. They had built many vents. Some were devoid of air currents or gas.

It took the Doomsday Warrior a little while to figure out the whole damn duct system, but he did. He crawled down through a dead vent to the power-plant area, and slunk around, checking it out, then found the valves to cut off the gas. They hadn’t been closed for a century, but with his mutant strength he managed to shut them off.

Next he opened to full every oxygen valve in the place. Before he left the area, fresh, cool air came whooshing out of every duct in sight. It headed out all over the dome.

That should clear out a few brains, Rock thought. He didn’t really believe that he was going to take on this whole damn crew of this madhouse by himself, especially feeling this dizzy! He rested for about a minute, still affected by the traces of the gas continuing to float in his skull. But every second was bringing back more clarity, an understanding of exactly what had happened. Rock started getting madder than ever.

He headed out the door, managing to break the lock with a few kicks so no one would be able to get down into the valve area easily.

Many lobbies and corridors away he could hear the booming voice of someone introducing the Great Nominee, then wild applause pouring over the loudspeakers of the stadium. It was beginning, the whole mysterious event had started. He had to hurry.

Rock headed down the corridors, searching his still-sludgy brain for information. Where were their weapons? Somewhere in this direction . . .

A guard appeared ahead, this one actually carrying a rifle on his shoulder, unusual for this lot. He raised his hands to stop Rockson. “Where are you going, mister?” the grim-set lips intoned. “All workers should be inside the stadium listening to the Great Nominee’s speech.”

“I know,” Rock said just as slowly, as he stood there at attention. “I am new here, I became lost. Please guide me on my way.”

The guard looked him over slightly suspiciously. Perhaps his eyes were looking a little funny—too clear.

There was a touch more clarity in the guard’s fogged eyes too, and pain, great pain, for it hurt to be receiving pure air from the vents. Hurt to start to become conscious from the oxygen Rock had sent out all over the dome. The guard mumbled out directions for the “lost” delegate and then slumped against a wall.

Rock thanked him and headed off, making a right instead of a left turn and reached the end of the corridor. He had remembered the direction of the weapons storage area. Logic was crawling back into his brain. It felt great. Logic said he had to get the weapons and find his men. That was what he should do.

He came to a large door that read “Arriving.” That was the first room to which they’d been taken. He walked in and grinned as the two guards on each side of the door did double takes.

“Hey! What the hell are you—” both men said, jumping to their feet. “No one is supposed to be in here—no one.”

Rock glanced quickly around—and could see that there were weapons stacked everywhere, from handguns to huge missile-type monsters. A veritable arsenal—but too much for one man to carry. The whole crew that now filled the dome, screaming out their guts to greet the Great Nominee, had been pretty well armed when they showed up from all over.

“Oh, it’s all right,” Rock said, with a wave of his hand, “I’m cleared!”

They both started toward him, coming around from each side. These were big boys, presumably able to stop any would-be entrants by just standing up.

But Rockson had taken out tougher men than these two. As the one on the right reached out to grab him, Rock just flicked up with his right leg. The tip of his boot caught the guy in his groin. The man let out a scream and fell to the floor in agony.

The second one came storming in as well, and leaped up in the air right at the Doomsday Warrior. Rockson just stepped slightly to the side to avoid the drop-kick. At the same time, he pushed the man along in the air. The guard went flying forward at full speed, without the slightest chance to throw his arms up to protect himself. His face slammed into the concrete wall with a terrible crunching sound. Then he didn’t move.

Rockson had to act fast and he knew it. If the others discovered the closed gas valves and stopped the oxygen from cleansing everyone’s brain, the enemy would get the whole place back under control. The delegates were probably all feeling a little funny up there in the auditorium already.

Rock looked quickly around at the shelves, and found the Freefighters’ weapons. He felt elated to strap on his belt, and holster his death-dealing shotpistol. Then Rock took up Archer’s steel bow and his quiver. He grabbed Chen’s Liberator, and Detroit’s bandolier filled with grenades. He knew they’d all be happy as a skunk in a tree-trunk to see their stuff. In this world you didn’t want to go around without protection.

He loaded up his emptied magazine fast and made his way out of the room. The guards weren’t going to be functioning for at least half an hour. His mission would either be over—or it wouldn’t matter by then what they did or said about him.

He walked out and tore down the corridor, trying to balance all the weaponry and ammo in his hands and on his shoulders. Rock didn’t need a map, that was damned sure. He could follow the noise. He flew up the two levels to all the screaming people. The crowd of ardent Nominee-worshippers was outdoing itself. The noise grew louder and louder until Rock stepped from a side door and saw the gathered delegates. There were balloons by the thousands—red, white, and blue—dropping from a net on the ceiling high above, and trumpets and drums were keeping the chanting, screaming hysteria going.

Suddenly, a guard started to touch his sleeve, but Rockson shot an elbow right into the man’s face. He didn’t know what hit him.

Rock saw the Great Nominee down on the platform. And gasped. Yes, the man from the movie wasn’t human. Maybe he had been human long ago, but not now.

The Great Nominee, his huge, decayed body wriggling around beneath his overflowing robe of red, white, and blue, was standing there at the podium, holding both greenish flabby arms up, accepting the ovation. He was trying, Rock thought, to look like Moses or Jesus or something like that. No, the way he shook his jowls and waved his arms the attempted imitation was clear—he was trying to look like Nixon! Shaking those jowls, giving a crooked smile!

Finally the band stopped playing. And the Great Nominee spoke: “Perfection, that’s what this campaign means! Over the past century, we of the party have achieved great things, but I say to you now, we are reaching higher, achieving more and more. There is no limit to our goals, to our accomplishments.” The Great Nominee’s voice bellowed out over a thousand speakers, his voice tearing around the stadium like thunder from the angry clouds. “It is through our rules and regulations,” he continued, “through the order we have created to replace the hell outside, that we have created a great society. Repetition, triplication, is the answer for every problem, every question.”

While the applause broke in, Rockson glanced around the audience to see how the drones were taking in the oxygen.

They weren’t clapping much anymore. As a matter of fact, confusion reigned. There was a new, unsettled look in their eyes as the oxygen began to really get into their systems. And three new delegates looked very confused. His Freefighters! The Doomsday Warrior tore down the middle aisle as the Nominee went on haranguing the zombies of the Bureaucracy.

“Archer! Chen! Detroit!” Rockson screamed, as he picked them out of the sixth row. He came rushing up to their chairs. “It’s me, Rockson! Come on, boys, get it together!”

Guards were coming in from everywhere now as the Nominee stopped speaking for a moment. It was a pretty bizarre sight as the entire stadium grew as quiet as a desert. Everyone watched the scene unfolding. There wasn’t a second to waste.

Rockson’s voice and the sight of their firepower seemed to push the three Freefighters from the brainless state to total clarity.

“Rock, what the hell is going on?” Detroit said, rubbing his eyes. He actually fondled his grenades before he strapped the bandolier around his chest. Rockson smiled and held the Liberator mini-machine pistol up and slammed a mag in. He had his men. Now he was ready.

Even as the row of cannon-firing carts came tearing down the aisle right toward them, the Rock-team moved into action. As the delegates all around them were blown to little bloody pieces by the carts’ fire, the revived Freefighters and their commander headed for the platform.

The loathsome Nominee regained his composure as the Freefighters came toward him, and he started directing streams of still mindless blue-jacketed Republam officials to stop them. Screaming, “Protect the Nominee!” they came at Rock and his men. The blue-jackets started tearing their hats with their teeth, to expose the razor-sharp brim-weapons. But before they could throw the hat-knives at the Freefighters, they were cut down by Rock’s burst of submachine gun fire.

“So, you wish to play games with me?” the Great Nominee laughed, and he threw his robe off. Rockson gasped when he saw the man’s naked skin.

It wasn’t just that there was a pile of fat, a landfill of sludgy, greenish skin that moved around in every direction as he walked across the stage. But now Rockson saw just how the Great Nominee was able to move that diseased relic of a body so easily. All over the fleshy mess of a body were electrical wires. The man was part robot!

Bionic mechanisms around his elbows, knees, and ankles gave the Great Nominee power-boosts to his atrophied, aged muscles. The man was all geared up, super-wired, with a million computerized additions to his physique. Now, with the robe off, you could hear the hum of all that high-tech motor-equipment.