Doomsday Warrior 10 - American Nightmare (5 page)

Madder than a hatter, Rockson thought as he dove into the waters again. But when he emerged, he faced two machine guns held by men wearing red coveralls topped with mirror-visor helmets.

“Come on, derelict. Nice and easy. This fountain isn’t the public bath. Get your ass over to the city dump, where you belong.”

Rockson climbed sheepishly out of the pool. “Are you cops?” he asked.

“We’re rookies,” the tall one answered, pointing to his badge with a castle insignia. “Don’t backtalk us. Murphy, let’s run this one in.”

“Put your hands in the air,” said the one called Murphy. He held his gun on Rockson while the tall one frisked him, sneering in hatred. Why?

“It’s okay. He’s unarmed,” said the tall rookie. He stared at Rockson and asked, “Got a name, bum?”

“My name is Ted Rockson. I’m an American. A Freeman.”

Murphy snapped up his visor and squinted at Rock. “The name sounds familiar . . . Yeah, maybe I know you. We’d better take you down to headquarters and run you through R and I. Get you home. I recognize you now.”

“R and I?”

“Research and Information.” Rockson was handcuffed and escorted to a shiny red Toyota Camry with
PATROL
written on its door idling at the corner. Rockson had hardly climbed into the back seat when the door slammed and they took off like a rocket. Within a few minutes they were at the station house, a sooty concrete-slab gray building.

“Got a drunk citizen,” said the taller of the two rookies to the desk clerk. “We caught him playing in the fountain. Can you believe it? Right now he looks like a good candidate for
Twenty Questions.”

“He’s not the only one. We’ve got a full house tonight. Must be a full moon,” the desk clerk laughed. The tall rookie sat Rockson on a bench and started typing up an officer’s arrest report.

“All right. Take him down to Psychiatry,” the clerk added as he took the typewritten form from the rookie and handed him back his carbon copy.

Rockson was fingerprinted, photographed, and booked. Then he was turned over to a consultant, a pale silent man wearing a blue blazer with a chess king emblazoned on his pocket.

The consultant said, “Stand up,” and waved his long thin stick ominously. The tip of the metal rod flickered red. A weapon?

Rockson was led down a staircase, and through a long corridor. At the end of the tiled white hall, was a door. The sign on the door stated,
Roy G. Biv, Psychiatrist.
The consultant opened the door for Rockson, and he was shoved into a chair. Rockson’s natural tendency when shoved around was to shove back. But somehow he knew that would be futile—if not deadly. He sat back in the cool leatherette and faced the man behind the desk. The man was reading something, but he put it down. He stared at Rockson a long time through his thick round wire-rim glasses. The man had a gray beard and looked like Freud.

At last the psychiatrist spoke. “Do you know why you’re here?”

“They said I was drunk,” Rockson said.

The psychiatrist stood up, walked around the desk, and leaned over so close to Rock’s face he could smell the Binaca. “Weren’t you drunk? What were you doing in the Seagull fountain?”

“I was thirsty. And hot.”

“Hmmmmmmm. Do you always wear such—unusual—clothes?”

“Not usually. But I was up in Alaska. An Eskimo gave it to me.”

“Hmmmmmmmmmm.” The shrink circled the desk again, sat down, wrote on a piece of paper. Then he looked up again. “Well, now. What
shall
we do with you?”

The consultant smiled. “He needs music. This man is Theodore Rockman, C.P.A.—a solid citizen according to records. He must be drunk. Perhaps his ears got clogged up and he didn’t hear the music and got confused.”

“Hmmmmm. That is exactly my diagnosis, Consultant. Let us take him to the music room. Give him some easy listening for a night.”

That didn’t sound so awful a sentence, Rock thought. The consultant told him to stand, and, waving his long red-tipped rod in a menacing way, directed the Doomsday Warrior back upstairs.

The man took him to a large bare-walled room with shower stalls at one end and a set of small barred cells at its other end. There were two Rookies there, visors up, smoking. They quickly doused their cigarettes and saluted when the consultant came in with him.

The consultant turned him over to the two, directing them to have Rockson “listen to the music.” Then the blue-blazered man left. The rookies took out another couple of cigarettes and lit up. They eyed Rockson with some amusement as he stood there. Rockson thought about grabbing for their guns—until he saw the cameras at both ends of the room swing and lock onto him. Someone else was watching—he’d have no chance of escape. The door only opened with a buzz from some other location anyway—there was no doorknob.

He was told to strip and shower—which he was eager to do anyway. While he was toweling dry, the rookies started jabbering.

“Do you believe this outfit?” exclaimed the heavy-set rookie, picking up Rockson’s tattered sealskin parka with a pair of tongs and throwing it into a bin. “Give him some prisoner’s coveralls, Johnson.”

As soon as Rockson slipped the coveralls on and zipped them, he was then unceremoniously thrown into a jail cell.

Rockson sat down on the small cot, the only object in the nine-by-twelve room except for the toilet and a small sink. The walls were cinder-block, unpainted gray. The ceiling was low and had several strainerlike speakers that music—the dreadful music that seemed to permeate the city—sifted down from. Within a few minutes, a little dinner in a three-compartment aluminum hot tray and a cup of coffee were shoved through a slot in the door. He fell on it like a ravenous wolf.

Things could be worse, he thought as he sipped the last dregs of his coffee. He was clean, wearing comfortable clothes, and he wasn’t hungry or thirsty anymore. But he
was
in jail. They had just laughed when he’d told them he was Ted Rockson, the Doomsday Warrior. Laughed when he asked which way to Colorado. Why?

He had to think, organize what he had seen and heard in this weird city, and draw some conclusions. First, this had to be an American city. He hadn’t seen a single Soviet around. Second, it was awfully primitive—reciprocating engine vehicles, high-rise buildings—and that luncheonette! Straight out of
history books!

That
was it. The whole place, the name of the city even, was straight out of a
history book.
The storm! The storm had lifted him up and— Why, it must have thrown him back in time. It was impossible, and yet what other conclusion could he draw? He had once passed the area that once held the ancient Salt Lake City . . .

He had been on a mission back in 2089, in this very same area. And there hadn’t been a trace of the vast city. It didn’t exist in the twenty-first century. It had been nuked, along with most other cities. And yet here he was, sitting in a cell in the heart of Salt Lake City.

Time travel!
No wonder they thought he’d been babbling. They didn’t know of Freefighters, nor of the Soviet occupation of America; nor about the Doomsday Warrior or Century City. Because it
hadn’t happened yet.

Assuming he was right, what year
was
it? How would he find out?
Ask!

He banged on the bars. “Hey, officer,” he yelled to the uniformed man down the hall who was leaning his chair against the wall reading a newspaper. “What’s today’s date?”

The man put down his paper. “Oh, you’re coming out of your drunk, huh? Want to know what day it is? Well, it’s Wednesday.”

“Wednesday
what?”

The cop laughed. “That drunk, huh? Wednesday, September sixth.” He lifted up his paper. “Go back to sleep, citizen.”

“One more thing,” Rockson asked. “Could I have a look at the paper when you’re done?”

“Sure . . ." But the officer kept reading. He wasn’t done.

Rockson sat on the cot for another twenty minutes before he heard the wooden chair creak. The cop sauntered up to the cell and passed the large paper through the bars. “Gulls swatted the Locusts, eleven to five,” he said.

“Wow,” said Rockson, not knowing what the hell that meant. He tried to contain himself. He waited till the cop went back down the hall before he started looking over the paper. Sports section—it was turned to the sports section. He folded it back to page one. It was the
Salt Lake Herald,
price forty cents. Headline,
LUMBINI PEACE TALKS ON.
Date.
Date!
Oh, my God! September 6,
1989.
A hundred and three years before Rockson had been swept up in the
Kala-Ka,
storm of storms.

And the headline—Lumbini? Why, that’s the big conference center, set up in Nepal in the late 1980s. The place the nuclear powers tried to work out their differences—before the nuke war. The nuke war started on September 11, 1989.
Five days from today.
Rockson gasped. Unless he got the hell out of this city, he’d be dead meat in
five days.

He pounded on the cell bars, scraped his metal cup against them. He made a lot of noise but no one was in the corridor. Soon the lights dimmed. He was there for the night, and they expected him to sleep.

But, how can you sleep when you expect to be vaporized in days?

The music, rather than dying down, increased in volume. He tried to find some control that would turn it down, but to no avail. The sound seemed to vibrate his teeth; he could feel his ribs shaking. It was getting so loud that he couldn’t stand it. The music resonated, bouncing from the bare concrete walls. The bass was so deep that the cot started shaking on every drumbeat. The highs were distorted to an ear-piercing screech.

“Stop!” Rockson yelled. “Stop the music!” He held his hands against his tortured ears, but the music penetrated. His eyes hurt, his head throbbed. And he slumped to the floor unconscious.

“Had a good night’s rest, citizen?” Rockson looked up from the floor. His eyes focused upon a red uniform—a rookie was shaking him awake. “Bet you feel better now, citizen. Everything is back in its place.”

Rockson sat up and rubbed his eyes.
“What a dream,”
he said. “I—thought I was out on the desert, fighting—soldiers—and then a storm came and—and—something. I can’t remember. Wow, I’ve got a splitting headache. Where am I?”

“In the drunk tank, citizen. You really tied one on. You looked so bad that we thought you were a homeless. From Sadtown. But Murphy remembered you. He lives on your block. We ran your prints and pic through the records. And we called your wife. She’s bailed you out. Stand up, it’s time to go home, Rock.”

Rockson stood up, aided by the rookie. He was unsteady on his feet. The pleasant music coming out of the ceiling speakers soothed him; it made him feel pleasantly comfortable. He liked it.

“Do you know your name, citizen?”

Rock said, “Sure, Ted Rockson.”

The rookie laughed. “You mean Rockman—right?”

Rockson rubbed his matted hair again. “Rockman? Yeah, Rockman. Sorry.”

“Okay, I guess you’re presentable enough. Your wife will be in in a moment.” The rookie went out, leaving the cell door open.

Wife?
In a few minutes his question was answered when he heard a familiar voice say, “. . . and I’ll take good care of him, officer. I won’t let it happen again.”

“Kim? Boy, am I glad to see you,” said Rockson as the blue-eyed blonde entered. She gave him a perfunctory kiss and then frowned.

“You’d
better
be glad. Here, put this on,” Kim said, handing him a fresh suit. “I’ve been so worried about you. You’ve been missing since Monday night. I try to be a good wife to you, and this is the thanks I get, Mr. Man-about-town! Can’t trust you for a minute. You said something about getting ice cream. When you didn’t return I thought you’d been kidnapped. Then I get this call saying you were picked up on a drunk-and-disorderly charge running around in the Seagull fountain! They showed me the outfit you were running around in—I nearly died of shame. I told them to burn it. If anyone we know saw you like that, your career would be ruined.”

Rockson let her rattle on while he changed his clothes. Then he leveled with her. “Kim, I can’t quite remember clearly . . . Are you sure you’re my wife?”

She softened. “Oh, darling, you
are
in bad shape. Here—your nose must have been bleeding. Are you all right?” She dabbed at his upper lip, kissed him on the cheek, and straightened his tie. “Come on, let’s go home. I can’t let the neighbor watch the kids so much without paying her. And you’re already lost two days’ pay this week.”

Kids? “How are the—kids?” Rockson asked as they walked down the long corridor to the lobby. Why was he so woozy?

“They’re fine. You ought to thank your lucky stars that the chess tournament started this week. They’ve been positively glued to the TV. I don’t think they really noticed you were gone. Ted junior
did
want to know if you would show him how to use his new weed-burner, and Barbara—well, you know how girls are.”

“Right.”

“I’ll drive,” said Kim, taking out her keys. “In your condition you probably wouldn’t even know the way home,” she laughed. She got behind the wheel of a rusty green Gremlin parked in front of the police station.

“What an antique!" Rock exclaimed as he climbed in and slammed the door.

“You’re telling me,” Kim said as she put the key in the ignition. Instantly the radio began blaring and a horrible whining sound began.

“Don’t forget to buckle up, dear.” Rockson did as he was told and the whining sound ceased. “Let’s see. First stop—
Cheaps.”

As she put her foot to the floor, the car sputtered and jumped. They left the police station trailing a cloud of blue smoke.

Cheaps turned out to be a sprawling supermarket on the outskirts of town with its own large parking lot.
NOW OPEN
24
HOURS
, a bright-red neon sign proclaimed.

“I think tonight should be special, don’t you?” Kim said as she parked the car. “I want to get a steak, and I can’t forget to get some Ruffy dog food. Just ran out this morning. You just wait in the car, dear. I’ll be right back,” she said. She slammed the door.