Doomsday Warrior 17 - America’s Sword (21 page)

The Great Nominee turned toward the Nixon-statue which was all lit up like a neon Christmas tree. It was probable that the statue was responding somehow to the electrical and magnetic energy of the Nominee’s fantastic body-systems.

What the hell was he doing? Rock wondered. But then he found out.

“Everyone look here,” the Nominee shouted, “and see that I am all-powerful and that I am the sanctified one! You must all obey me!” He reached out and grasped the hilt of the Nixon sword, the most sacred of their symbols. And a hush fell over the pandemonious masses. Somehow Rockson remembered from his indoctrination-brainwashing film session that the sword was more than a sword. It was a death weapon with great destructive energy. The Great Nominee must not be allowed to lift it up, for it could shoot rays of ultimate power out. It could destroy them all!

“Stop him,” Rock shouted, “or we’re history! He must not get the sword.”

The Nominee pulled on the shiny hilt of the sword as the Freefighters charged toward the podium. Evidently, it was no easy trick to get the sword up, so they still had a chance. But then the Republam blue-coats responded to the attempted assault on the Nominee by launching hundreds of their bladed straw hats at Rock and his men.

“Hit the deck,” Rock shouted. He and his men all dove down and the hats sailed overhead and missed. Archer twisted around and managed to get one of his steel explosive arrows notched and let it go. He skewered a row of mindless fanatics who were headed his way. They fell, all stuck together in a row, impaled on the seven-foot-long arrow.

Rockson decimated a flock of protectors with a series of shots from his shotpistol. They fell, peppered with the “X” patterned explosion of the weapon’s bullets.

Chen downed another three protectors with a single shuriken explosive star-knife. And as the black Freefighter lobbed grenades to keep the other enemies back, the rest of the Freefighters once again raced to grab the Nominee.

“Oh, Great Agnew, why have you forsaken me,” the Nominee gasped, still struggling to free the sword from the flickering Nixon-glob. He gave it one more try, veins sticking out all over his flab-body, his circuit wires shorting and sparking with the extra effort.

The Great Nominee couldn’t understand it. He had lifted the sword several times in the past, and shown the delegates that he was the Chosen One in that manner. Why wouldn’t it budge now? He gave it one more try, as the enemy once again assaulted the stage.

And the sword came free. Snarling triumphantly, he began to lift it up, and turned in a swivel to direct its point at the infidels. “Oh Great One,” the Nominee muttered, “destroy mine enemies, smite them down!” And with those words, the Nominee had Rockson and his men in a direct line down the blade-weapon. But when he pressed the button on the sword’s hilt, nothing happened.

“NEEED HEEEELP?” Archer asked, smiling as he approached the Nominee now. The Nominee dropped the sword and started to fumble in his bejeweled girdle for a hidden pistol. But Archer grabbed his wrist. The mountain man squeezed until a green pus was oozing from that wrist, and the Nominee was down on one knee, screaming in pain.

Rockson ran to pick up the sword. Maybe, even if it didn’t seem to work anymore, just holding it up would stop the masses of delegates from mobbing the stage. He found the sword was fifty times heavier than he imagined it would be, and it took all his muscle power to lift it. But he did.

And the delegates that were again attacking suddenly froze in their tracks. “He’s lifted the sword. Maybe he is the True Nominee!” someone shouted.

All the delegates stopped in place and just stared at Rockson, then at the piteous sight of the fat man bending under the pressure of Archer’s mighty grip. They were confused by this turn of events.

Rockson turned slowly, letting the whole assembly of disoriented delegates gaze at him holding up their sacred symbol of power and righteousness. The light from the Nixon-statue flickered and danced over the huge sword.

“No!” the Nominee shouted, breaking free of Archer’s grip for a moment at least. “The Infidel is not holy! This man Rockson uses a trick to hold up the sword. He changed the gasses in the air, shifted the negative/positive electrical polarity between the magnetic field that held the great sword down! Kill him!”

The near-mute Freefighter now seized the Nominee once more, and they struggled. The Nominee’s wire-circuits again sparked and flared as he struggled with the mountain man. His face turned bright red.

“What do we do?” someone shouted. “Who do we believe? Who do we follow?” The oxygen had taken hold over their gassed brains. Suddenly everything that had seemed so mercifully clear to the delegates just a few minutes before was now crumbling. Their minds felt too clear, their thoughts too logical.

It was then that a tremendous burst of power from the Nominee’s imbedded servo-systems helped him throw off Archer’s grip once more. The Nominee lunged for Rockson, and with a burst of superhuman strength, snatched the weighty sword from the Freefighter’s grasp. “I am the One!” the Nominee shouted. “And I say kill the infidels!”

Some of the delegates responded, others didn’t. A huge mass of them began racing down the aisle, throwing their steel-tipped hats. A few of the carts came careening forward, firing their cannons. How the hell they could shoot and not expect to hit the Nominee, Rock didn’t comprehend. But he saved his analysis for later, as he hit the deck.

Archer didn’t dive. Instead he lunged for the Nominee and wrestled with him for the sword.

And to Rockson’s amazement, Archer managed to wrench it from him.

“Here, Archer, bring the sword here,” Rockson said over the booming of cannons. “Give it to me, Archer.”

Rock knew that if he held up the sword, the crowd might again stop attacking. So he ran along the stage, his .12-gauge weapon blasting down opponents, heading toward Archer.

It was then that the Nominee stopped his struggle with Archer and found that hidden derringer in his belt. He placed it right at Archer’s head, just as Rockson hit him full force with a drop-kick.

The flab-man fired, but the shot went wild as he was knocked down. Then, with a superhuman flip, the massive monster got on his feet as fast as Rockson did. The Nominee leveled the gun at the Freefighter leader. And fired. But it didn’t go off.

It was the break Rock needed. The Nominee was coming at him and the smirk on his face signaled to Rockson his intention. He was going to crush Rockson with a full-slam of his body. In an instant, the Nominee’s mechanically assisted legs let loose with a great jump. The man spread his arms and legs like a diver doing some gargantuan belly flop down in a pool. But Rockson, using all the strength he could find, managed to grab the sword next to him, and get the Nixon-sword pointed upward. He rolled away just as the 800-pound mass of the Nominee came down on it.

The point of the Nixon Blade went right through the Nominee’s chest and out the other side. A geyser of blood came shooting up, half-covering Rockson. The Nominee groaned and twisted his face around at Rock. He spat out some pieces of bone and gristle and tried to say something. Then his eyes glazed over. He was dead.

Rockson sat up, his head spinning like a bloody top. He looked around. Bodies lay all over the place, some without heads, some with gaping holes in their chests or stomachs. Chen and Detroit were back to back, holding forth their smoking weapons, daring any more comers.

Archer stood on the far side of the stage. He was pulling a steel arrow as large as a harpoon out of a pair of attackers he had skewered. Once released, they fell lopsided onto the red-stained podium. And no one else charged at him. The remaining delegates were thunderstruck by the death of the Nominee.

Suddenly the nearby exit doors flew open, about a hundred feet away. Rockson moaned. Not more enemies. Not now. Please, God, no reinforcements! But it wasn’t any enemy!

Rock could hardly believe his eyes and ears. A ’brid cavalry was riding in! And McCaughlin was at their head. The missing Freefighters were alive and well, and had come to the rescue—a bit late in the game. The Freefighters atop the mounts screamed and hooted as they raised their Liberator autofires and went tearing down the rows, blasting anyone who moved.

“McCaughlin! Sheransky!” Rockson screamed in sheer delight, as the remaining Caucus people looked at each other with fear and confusion, perhaps realizing that the odds had changed dramatically.

“Watch it on your right,” the big Scotsman yelled out as he let loose with a stream of slugs from his Lib. The man who had been sneaking up on Rockson fell, nearly cut in half by McCaughlin’s bullets. Evidently there was still fight left in some of the delegates.

As the other riders piled in behind the Scotsman, they gave their rebel yells. Their ’brids jumped over whole rows of seats. They were determined to get the handful of delegates who hadn’t thrown up their arms in the age-old gesture of surrender. The riders dove from their mounts and engaged in hand to hand with the few delegates that didn’t want to give up.

Rockson carefully picked off a man who was driving a killer cart down the aisle at them, preparing to fire its cannon. Archer used up his last arrow to take out a man way up on the balcony who aimed a bazooka at the stage. Detroit lobbed the last two of his grenades, taking out a whole section of seats where a group of die-hard delegates was holed up.

After that, the intense silence that fell over the auditorium indicated the battle for the Dome was over.

Twenty-Four

R
ockson stared out over the assembled survivors who sat around the great stadium looking very tired. Many of the Caucus people’s red and white jackets were ripped, half falling off them. Others had changed into their work clothes.

The whole place had a different smell to it now without the gasses constantly being pumped in. The Caucus people looked pretty spaced out—but their eyes had a new clarity. They were at last seeing through the lies, the illusions, the ant-like culture they had been living in for as long as they could remember.

“I am Rockson,” the Doomsday Warrior said, addressing them over the huge loudspeakers. “The Great Nominee is dead. Many of your top officers are gone, too.” Rockson said this all in cold, measured tones. “You’re on your own now,” Rock went on, repeating that just to make sure. “You were all given large amounts of a mind-altering gas over the years. You’re coming out of it now, so be prepared to feel some strange things. The important thing is that you are free! You can stop worshipping that pile of melted nuclear waste you call the Nixon God.”

A man in the front row jumped up. He looked lost and panicky. “We of the Caucus need your guidance, need to obey.”

“That’s bullshit,” Rockson screamed over the P.A. so the whole audience jerked in their seats, almost having heart attacks. He continued a little more softly.

“This is an incredible place,” Rock said, sweeping his eyes around the huge dome. “All of you are very lucky to have it to live in.”

They looked proud.

“But you must learn to use it,” Rock continued. “Those of you who decide to stay must form a new society. A free society.”

They looked at one another, the concept of Freedom was so alien.

“That’s right! You must do it, because me and my pals here are leaving. We don’t have the time to stay here and coddle you all. We have our own city, our own people to help.”

“Why don’t you stay?” one of them shouted out. “Be the new leader, the new Nominee. You held the sword!”

“No more Nominees!” Rockson spat out on the floor. “You all have real votes. Vote on how to run this place. Elect your own candidates.”

They all looked at one another and the place buzzed with a kind of new energy. Maybe this whole damn place could make it. But Rockson knew this place was out in the middle of nowhere, cut off from the real world. It would be hard. He wished them all luck and then gave the hand signal to the Freefighters to move out.

They rose and mounted their ’brids, having loaded them to the brim with supplies from the stadium: ammo, uncontaminated food, and water and electric supplies. They were set to go to C.C. with all the stuff their home needed.

“Thank you and good luck,” Rockson said, knowing the Caucus People would have to fight and think like tigers to obtain the slightest chance to survive. He turned and headed Snorter out the door. It felt wonderful to be outside.

“How the hell did you know where to find us?” Rockson queried McCaughlin, as he rode alongside him later, as the towering dome shrank behind them.

“Oh, we managed to find some shelter—a tunnel—after we lost you in the storm,” the big Scotsman replied. “Stayed there for about three days and then it was over. We didn’t give the ’brids any water. I knew that after about forty-eight hours they’d get a little thirsty and head off to find some. Which led us right to the stadium. We sent a couple of guys inside, to do some scouting—and they pretty much figured out what was going on. I figured it would be nice to have a good dramatic entrance,” McCaughlin went on with a laugh. “You always seem to appreciate them!” he beamed.

“Well, you did good,” Rockson said. “You, too, Sheransky! I’m proud of the whole damn bunch of you, even though your techniques of attack were a little on the sloppy side. But I’m not going to talk about that now. Southward ho, Freefighters,” Rockson said, turning in his saddle and addressing them. “We have succeeded in our mission.”

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