Doomsday Warrior 10 - American Nightmare (11 page)

“If you’re trying to give me a Mickey Finn,” he said, “Forget it. I’m from the future. I’m the Doomsday Warrior, a mutant Freefighter. I’m immune to most poisons and sedatives.”

The barman said, “Anything you say, mister!
Sure,
you’re—you’re from the future. I got no problem with that, mac. I believe you.” Now he started shaking, but he put down the bottle and poured from the original one. He seemed really terrified. “Say, look, why don’t you take what’s in the register and leave. Nobody will call the cops, you just—”

“Shut up and pour,” Rockson insisted.

The bartender did, spilling half the drink in the process. While Rockson downed the whiskey, Lang cut for the door. He was out in a flash. Rock heard him yelling, “Help! A madman’s in the bar, help, he’s got a knife!”

Rockson shoved the bartender away and tore out into the street. He could hear the rookies’ whistles now—the sound of sirens too in the distance. The first glow of the red morning sun was creeping up on the tall glass skyscrapers. He’d have to run for it. He needed a weapon—a good one. Damn it. Why hadn’t he taken along that rookie’s pistol?

He ran down one street, then another—what’s that? A giant plastic revolver hanging up over a store.
POLICE SUPPLIES
, the sign read.
Class 5 licenses required for purchases.
Another sign stuck in the door said,
Closed for the day.
No, it
wasn’t.
He smashed the door open with the heel of his shoe—a dropkick that nearly tore it off its hinges. He was inside in an instant. He closed the door. The steel shutters over the window would hide him from view. With eager eyes, he perused the glass compartments filled with every conceivable twentieth-century weapon. It was dim, but Rockson had good night vision.

Surely there must be something here he could use! Rock was a firm believer in seizing the opportunity, making the best of things at hand. He missed his super-fast and accurate Liberator weapon. But the twentieth century, after all, was the home of some exquisitely deadly arms. He’d find
something.

Although Rockson was interested in finding as modern a weapon as possible, his interest in guns made him stop and admire the antique gun display behind the counter. Amazing! All sorts of wild-west stuff—authentic. He found the keys to the case holding the old weapons and opened it. He took out a long-barreled revolver that Wyatt Earp would have been proud to own—a Colt Peacemaker. He knew this to be one of the first—if not
the
first—handgun to be chambered for the .45 caliber long Colt cartridge. A formidable weapon, date circa 1873. It loaded forty grains of FFg black powder with 255-grain lead bullets. The gleaming seven-and-a-half-inch barrel made it fairly accurate too, from what he remembered reading.

He spun the chamber, it moved smooth; well-oiled. He clicked the trigger. Sounded good, very good. With great reluctance he put the six-shooter down. He needed something like a three-hundred-shooter if he was going to get anywhere in this damned city.

He was hoping that there was something in the shop they kept away from all but the best customers—somewhere a hidden case of illegal firepower. Lots of these old gunshops had had a brisk trade in illegal automatic weapons.

Rock searched high and low, ignoring other fine weapons he came across, until he found a loose floorboard—and ripped it up. In a clear plastic case under the floorboards he found something heavy and black. He unzipped the case and pulled out an Uzi. And whistled. An Uzi was a completely automatic weapon manufactured in Israel and shipped to the U.S. in great numbers illegally just before World War III. It was the favorite weapon of terrorists. The Uzi made small men big, timid men brave. The Uzi was to machine guns what the Colt .45 was to revolvers. It was so dependable that the snub-snouted Uzi, even when fouled by dust and grit, functioned.

The Middle Eastern submachine gun had a fold-down stock, a “double elbow” arrangement ideal for concealment. The Uzi could be taken down to 24 inches in length. With the stock opened, it was barely 32 inches long. Yet it packed a cyclic rate of fire of three hundred rounds per minute. Rockson wished the clips held more than twenty-five rounds. Maybe he could make some modifications—find larger clips that would fit.

He snapped his fingers. This was a completely outfitted gun shop—maybe it had some manufacturing equipment in the back room, not just storage. He pushed the second door open and in the dimness saw a metal-turning lathe. Better than he could have hoped! But he’d have to have electricity. He tried the light switch, after shutting the interior door. A light came on. Luck. In a short while he had the lathe spinning, and placed the Uzi on its clamp holder. He had a lot of work ahead of him—
hours.
But he was elated. He would update the Uzi with spare parts from some of the other weapons in the front room—including some long clips from the badly damaged Browning anti-air World War II vintage weapon in the window display. Still, the Browning’s barrel was clean . . .

Working efficiently but rapidly, Rockson took the classic Colt .45 and a Widley .45 magnum—which could chamber 200-grain slugs—out of the cases in the front room and started disassembling them. He found some cases of .9mm bullets manufactured in Finland, too. Good ammo.

The barrel assembly of the magnum weapon consisted of a ribbed barrel, poston, and bolt housing. The other weapons weren’t meant to come apart in the same way, but with Rockson’s skill, they did. The lathe made a lot of noise. It couldn’t be helped. In two and a half hours, using the clips meant for the Browning anti-aircraft weapon that held a hundred rounds each, he finished his work. Rockson turned off the lathe, undid the clamps, and held his Uzi-Colt-Widley-Browning anti-air hybrid weapon. A beauty of deadly power!

Sure
it was heavy, but it was meant for heavy work—and it still could be concealed under a coat held over one arm. Damn, if this compound gun couldn’t do the trick, what weapon could?

He took six of the long Browning bandoliers along. Lots of high-caliber death for any opponents. It made his clothes fit terribly, but what the hell. It paid to be well-armed more than it paid to be well-tailored.

Nine

R
ockson’s anger knew no bounds. He’d smash this Chessman and his hypnotic power, destroy the damned police who cremated innocent people, who kept this burg under their thumb. But
how,
alone?

He remembered the derelict outside his office building. The one who had whispered for Rockson to come see him if he was really a free man. Perhaps there was an opposition to Chessman—allies.

Rock left the shop with the gun covered by his jacket held over his arm. It was a sullen wet day. He reached the dark alley near Nietzsche Square, where he’d gotten off the bus to go to work. There were the trashbins that the street person had been rummaging through. But nowhere was the decrepit man to be seen.

He went over to the little corner newsstand. “Citizen, where are the street people that used to congregate here?”

The toothless newsman smiled. “The brush-eaters got some of them. Came the other night, caught two or three. The rest runs off. They’d be back over in Sadtown, the city dump—if any are left. That’s where they belong, the filthy, shiftless bastards!”

Rockson asked where Sadtown was. The newsdealer said earnestly, “Wouldn’t go down there, fella—lots of street people—they eats off the dump there—should be closed down.” Still, he gave the Doomsday Warrior directions.

Rockson came to the south edge of the city. The city dump. There he saw people you could hardly identify as such, scurrying and foraging around the piles of garbage with the rats. He grabbed one. “I’m looking for Barrelman— Do you know where he is?”

The man told him, “Third pile to the left,” and pulled free.

Rockson made his way over the shifting piles of reeking garbage till he found Barrelman, who looked up and smiled. “You are free? Glory be. Just don’t eat fresh food—it’s not only the muzik, it’s the food, that hypnotizes. Drink a lot of liquor—keeps your mind off of it. At night, especially when you sleep, take care—sleep up on a roof. The brush-eaters can’t climb stairs well, and make a lot of noise doing it. That’s my advice.” He went back to picking garbage.

“Thanks for the advice,” said Rockson, “but I need more than advice on survival.” He pulled the coat from his arm. “See this weapon here? It can kill a hundred rookies—I want you to get the street people together to fight back. I can show you how to make these weapons. I made mine from parts at a gun store. There must be hundreds of you strong enough to fight the Chessman’s tyranny. Talk to me,
damn it. Who
is Chessman?”

Barrelman put down a soup can. “Very well, citizen. Chessman was the Soviet chess champion, here in the city for a match,” Barrelman said. “He was caught cheating—a hidden mike in his ear. He was getting help from a team of Soviet grandmasters in a hotel across the way. Chess federation threw him out of the contest, declared the American champion to be the winner. Then Chessman lead a coup . . .”

“Yeah, I heard about that—skip it. What is Chessman like? Is he strong?”

“Well, as strong as five men, they say. And he has powers of illusion, I’m told. Powers to use your own mind against you.”

“Sounds like bull to me,” said Rock, frowning. “He’s just a man with an organization behind him, and lots of technology.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure, Rock. Chessman killed his queen—his wife—with mere powers of his
mind.
She was mentally forced to drink poison. He can control your mind.”

“Not likely. The propaganda machine must have made his whole thing up—to keep people in fear. Without his machines and rookies and drugs, without all the fear, he’s human.

“Storm the condos. Take what’s yours. Be free.” Barrelman looked straight into his steely eyes, then downward.

“A few hundred of us could fight. But many others are weak, sick in the head, after years of this life,” muttered Barrelman. “I tell you, citizen, freedom is just a pipe dream. There was an attempt right after the coup to stop the Chessman, but it failed. The muzik speakers went up, the food was filled with tranks, and the control squares were created. We live on the edge, poor and hungry and sick. But free. We have no will to fight, though. Believe me, it’s hopeless.”

“A hundred men will do, Barrelman,” Rock insisted. “Get them together—here—while there’s still time. Why did you ask me to come see you, otherwise? What did I risk my life to seek you out for?”

Barrelman shrugged. “I wanted to have you among us—we like to see citizens fall into our ranks, that’s all. We are fewer every day. We need recruits. So’s we don’t die out. You go and do your violent business—we can’t fight. We
won’t
fight. It’s hopeless.”

Rockson’s shoulders sagged. It did seem hopeless. “I don’t belong here,” Rockson said. “I must get to my home—far away. Why don’t you all simply leave the city—go somewhere.”

Barrelman sighed. “There isn’t anything outside the city.” He pointed to the far end of the garbage dump. “That mist over there—we call it the Veil—surrounds the whole city.”

Rock looked where the old codger was pointing. “It just looks like a mist to me. Maybe smoke, that’s all.”

“Don’t believe me? You can go over to it and stick your head through—but it won’t let you out of the city. Try to push through and it pushes you back.”

“I think I
will
try it,” Rock said, and went over the garbage piles until he was nose-against the mist. He pushed his head against it—and through. He could see the desert surrounding the city now—barren, still. He pulled back, moved about fifty feet from the Veil, and ran toward it with all his might. Like a thousand gathered rubber bands, it shoved him back. He fell and rolled.

“Told you,” Barrelman yelled. “Chessman won’t let nobody escape the city. Controls the Veil from his Tower, he does. And no one can get in there.”

Rockson felt along the Veil for some distance. It didn’t have any gaps, as far as he walked—until he heard a hissing, like escaping air. He looked twenty feet further along the rolling piles of debris. And there was a strange sight. It had been hidden from his view before, when he had stood with Barrelman, by the debris. It looked like a lens shutter, purple and red, swirling. Suspended in the air.

“Hey,” Barrelman yelled, “don’t go near that! It’s dangerous, and it ain’t what you’re looking for.”

“What is it?” Rockson watched as Barrelman, waving frantically, approached. “It’s the Portal,” the old man gasped, reaching Rockson’s side. “Don’t mess with it. Go through it and as sure as hell you wind up downtown on the big bridge. It’s
damned
dangerous, drops you in traffic! You could get run over downtown on that busy highway.”

“The highway bridge?” Rock said, grabbing Barrelman. “Did you say if you go in the Portal, you wind up on the highway bridge downtown?”

“Yup.”

Rockson remembered the bridge. That was where he had first appeared in this mad world—after the time-storm had sucked him into it. Maybe if
he
walked through the Portal he’d wind up back in the
future, not
on the highway bridge. It was worth a try. Excitedly, he threw Barrelman the compound gun.

“See you
later
,” Rock said. He ran pell-mell toward the spinning mass. Like a sprinter bound on winning first prize, he ran over the rolling piles of debris, down an incline of crushed cans and ashes, and plunged into the mist. It felt wet—like hitting a fog bank. And cold.

Rockson found himself ducking through traffic on the very same highway bridge downtown.
On the roadway!
Horns blared, brakes screeched.
God!
He avoided a car, got on the sidewalk, and sat on the curb, thinking. After a while he had another idea. Maybe if he had more speed, more
power
behind him, he’d succeed. He ran off the bridge, and down several streets until he was in a parking lot behind a tall condominium. He looked for a
good
car. He passed up several two-door economy jobs, even a big Caddy. He needed
real
speed.