Doomsday Warrior 10 - American Nightmare (6 page)

Rockson thought he must have amnesia. He couldn’t remember anything. His head throbbed. I must have been really looped, he thought. I feel so muzzy. Wife? Children? Dog? The radio blared on. Well, Kim is real anyway. He recognized her. It must be true. Can’t argue with facts. In a few minutes Kim returned with a bag of groceries and tossed it in the back seat. Moments later they were off again trailing a cloud of blue smoke.

Home was an apartment building on Southeast 10th Street. Rock waited in front of it with the groceries, trying to get his bearings while Kim parked the car. “We’re in luck,” she said when she returned. “I found a spot just around the corner.” She unlocked the door and Rock followed her up to the stairs to the fourth floor. They were greeted at the apartment door by Ted junior, who was wearing red coveralls with a mirrored visor helmet, carrying a toy flamethrower. He looked to be about six.

“Stop in the name of the law, or I’ll cremate ya,” he said pulling the trigger of his toy weed-burner. White sparks came out of it. Rock jumped involuntarily, backing against the wall.

“That was good, Daddy,” the boy laughed, as more sparks came out of the burner. “Let’s do it again.”

“Daddy’s tired, honey. You can show him your knight outfit after dinner,” Kim said, leading the way through the crowded living room into the kitchen. “Barbara, I want you to pick up that chess set and take it into your room. Skippy—Skippy,
get off
the paper!” The dog barked and jumped down from the comfortable, familiar-looking overstuffed chair.

Rock stood in the kitchen door as Kim put away the groceries. “It’s the overwork that did this to you. You’re such a hard-working husband.”

“Yes, maybe I am a bit overtired. Thanks for putting up with me. I know I’ve been acting—”

“Oh, Rock,” she said, crushing her soft body against him, “you’ll be fine in the morning. You probably haven’t eaten much of anything for a couple of days. I’ll give you a nice steak dinner in just a jiff, as soon as the microwave heats it up.” She smiled her big blues at Rockson. “You shouldn’t have to worry about tomorrow morning. I phoned your boss and said that you needed a couple of days’ rest—that you were sick due to all that overwork. He was very understanding. He said he hated to do without you because of all the accountants under him, that you were the very best. Maybe you’ll get that promotion real soon, after all.” She took him by the hand and led him into the living room. “Why don’t you put on your slippers and read the condo ads,” she suggested as she picked up the paper. “Don’t the State Street Co-ops sound fabulous?” she asked. Kim handed him the real-estate section of the
Evening Herald.
She clapped her hands together. “Come on, Skippy, time for din-din. Ruff! Ruff!” The dog jumped down from the easy chair and, barking joyfully, ran after her into the kitchen.

Rockson sat down in his “favorite” chair, shucked off his shoes, and slipped his feet into the velveteen slippers—a perfect fit. Of course, because they’re mine, he thought. He stared at the full page ad.
Grand Opening of the State Street Towers. Over 70% sold. Over a hundred floors of the most exciting, exclusive apartments to grace downtown Salt Lake City in years. John Bowles, builder makes a BIG Statement on State Street. His interiors are the State-of-the-Art. Don’t miss this fabulous opportunity to look down on your fellow man. Don’t be afraid to move up to State Street.

In smaller print it read,
Apartments from $499,000, 10% APR.
On the bottom of the page in the largest letters yet it read,
The sky’s the limit!

Rockson didn’t know what to make of this. How could he possibly afford such an apartment? Kim did have a point about their living in cramped living quarters.

He looked around the overfurnished apartment. In the ten-by-twelve-foot living room was the pink morris chair he sat in, a red velvet love seat full of plastic dog toys, a large console TV—Motorola? Then there were two end tables holding giant plastic-shaded lamps that were in the shape of flamingos. Track spotlights on the ceiling shone on the several paintings on velvet, depicting big-eyed, sad children, that were tacked to the wall. Underfoot was a dog-haired shag rug.

He picked up the news section of the
Post-Dispatch
on the floor,
PEACE TALKS GOING WELL
read the headline. That’s good, he thought, reading on.
Thursday, September 7 (AP). The peace talks at Lumbini, Nepal World Peace Center, under the auspices of the U.N., are going well, according to Douglas Sweig, Asst. U.S. delegate to the conference. Sweig reports that the Soviet Union and China have agreed in principle to the U.S. proposal to reduce, by 23% a year, the nuclear stockpiles that have accumulated over the past 45 years. By 1993 each state will have only 8% of its current arsenal of ICBMs, SLBMs, and IRBMs. The Soviet Union has also agreed in principle to the U.S.-Chinese proposal that Japan be allowed to develop a small nuclear capability strictly for peaceful purposes, and to maintain security in its worldwide trading zone.

Rockson smiled. Everyone is agreeing, all is well. He sighed and tried to relax his muscles. The soothing music drifting from the stereo set over the dresser was helping dispel some of the tensions—the smell of the steak from the kitchen, the gentle humming of Kim along with the music; “Don’t let the stars get in your eyes,” was the refrain. The kids were in their room, probably quietly playing like they always did. The dog was half asleep at his feet. All was well.

Rockson picked up the newspaper again. He glanced at the date:
Thursday, September 7, 1989.
Something seemed odd about that.

He put the paper down, “Kim? Could you come in here?”

Kim came out of the kitchen. “What did you say, dear?”

“What date is it?” Rockson asked. “Is this right? Look at this newspaper.”

She took the paper from his hand and read, “Thursday, September seventh. That’s right, dear. Why? Did you think it was Wednesday?”

Rockson smiled, “Yeah. I guess I did . . . Funny, isn’t it?”

“Really, dear, the
Herald
never makes a mistake. It’s been Thursday all day!”

Rockson closed his eyes, “Of course. Guess I should rest . . . Thanks, dear.”

“Mistakes happen.” She smiled, and winked.

Five

“T
here’s the bell on the microwave; the synthosteak is ready, dear! You sit still; I’ll roll in the TV table, and you can eat and watch
Twenty Questions
with me snuggled against your knee. Oh, Rock, I’ve been so happy these past few years—since our marriage.”

TV? Rock looked up at the make-believe Spanish-oak cabinet with the big greenish screen. TV. That was a good idea. He went over and turned on the switch. He sat back in his chair and watched the screen brighten. A commercial came on.
“Ruffy dog food is good for your pet.”

“Ruffy, Ruffy,”
said the black-and-white pooch. Rockson smiled. How the hell
do
they do that?
“This is KREK in Salt Lake City, Channel Two. Stay tuned for
TWENTY QUESTIONS.”

The logo of a spinning word that blew apart to form the words “Twenty Questions” came upon the screen in a dazzle of color.

“And now your host, Jeri Jet!”
The smiling emcee, a twentyish thin man with gold hair, in a pink suit, came on the screen.
“Good day to you all out there in TV Land . . . Are you ready to play
Twenty Questions?”

“Yes!”
came the roar of approval from an unseen audience.

“Well, let’s go! Now, for our
first
contestant!”
said Jeri Jet, stepping aside. The vermilion curtain parted, and a naked man trussed to a chair appeared. He looked a lot like the derelict who had led Rockson to the fountain the other day—a coincidence, no doubt. The man had electrical wires taped to his ankles.

Jeri Jet walked over, leaned down at the man in the chair, and said,
“Contestant, are you ready for
Twenty Questions?”

The man cried out
“No!”
but was overwhelmed by the roar of
“Yes!”
from the audience.

Rockson leaned forward, intensely interested. Kim came into the room rolling the synthosteak and broccoli out on the TV tray. She sat down beside him on the floor, “
Oooh
, has it started?” she asked.

Rock said nothing. His knuckles were white; his hands gripped the plush arms of the chair. What the hell was this?

“First question,”
said Jeri Jet, jabbing a finger at the man.
“What are you for?”

“I’m for freedom!”

“WRONG!”
Jeri Jet yelled, and his hand dropped down. The contestant suddenly convulsed as if electricity had shot along the wires leading to his body. For an instant, his tangled, black hair stood on end.

“Is that a jolt of electricity?” Rock asked.

Kim laughed. “Don’t be silly—it’s just special effects. Nothing is real on TV.”

“The correct answer is . . ."
Jet smiled. The audience yelled
“SOCIAL ORDER.”

“SECOND QUESTION,”
Jeri Jet yelled.
“What are you for?”

The man in the chair looked around wildly, said nothing. Jeri Jet repeated the question. Kim squeezed Rockson’s knee, “The answer is social order, everyone knows that,” she said. “Come on, come on!”

Another convulsion swept through the naked bound man. He struggled to free himself.

“We’re
waiting,” laughed Jeri Jet.
“What’s your answer?”

The man on the chair spat and said,
“Rock ’n roll.”

“WRONG!”
yelled the audience—and Kim.

The contestant’s hair stood on end and again he started convulsing. He slumped, his body limp.

Jeri Jet turned solemnly to the camera.
“And now, the voice of our beloved leader, with a message for today!”

The screen faded, and replacing the gruesome quiz program was a drawing of a red chess piece—the king. A strong male voice bellowed out,
“Don’t give to the beggars and street people. Citizens, you work hard for your money. Let the loafers and deviants starve if they don’t want to work. I, the chessman respect you . . . Respect you.”

The voice-over was repeated twice. The logo of the chess king with the superimposed words social order was spinning, faster and faster, until it was a spiral. Then it faded.

Kim sighed. “He’s so wonderful.”

Rockson wasn’t listening to her. Where? Where had he heard that voice before?
Not
in this city,
not
on television. Where?

Then the quiz program was back. Rockson watched tensely as
“THIRD QUESTION!”
was yelled by the audience.
“No!”
begged the man on the chair.
“No, please don’t ask.”

“YES,”
yelled the audience. Kim squeezed Rockson’s left calf. “Isn’t it exciting? Can we make love after the program, dear?”

Rockson mumbled, “Yes, of course,” and continued to watch the glaring screen.
“THIRD QUESTION,”
shouted Jeri Jet.
“What are you for?”

The man on the chair cried out,
“Social order, goddamn it.”

Jeri Jet exclaimed,
“Correct! Martha, the man has given the correct answer. Let’s see what he’s won!”
A slender woman in a white-sequined see-through gown came out and another curtain opened. The audience oooed and aahed as “
Fabulous kitchen appliances
” passed in front of them.
“A washer/dryer, a blender, a new microwave. Total value twelve thousand dollars and one cent,”
Jeri Jet concluded.

The contestant was cut loose and led away weeping, by slinky Martha.

“MORE,”
Jeri Jet shouted,
“after this message.”

While the dog food commercial barked on, Rockson asked Kim, “What happens if they don’t answer correctly?”

“They have twenty tries at the question. If they don’t answer correctly by their twentieth try, they don’t win the kitchen.”

“How are they selected to be on the program?”

“Why, I don’t know, dear. Does it matter?”

“No, I guess not . . .”

Jeri Jet’s “More” turned out to be a wiggle from Martha, a wave good bye from Jeri, and another station logo.

“Finish your meal, dear—it’s time to turn it off and go to bed,” said Kim. “I want to show you my new negligee outfit—it’s super.”

In a few minutes he had cleaned the plate off. She cooked well.

Rockson followed her into the bedroom, which consisted almost entirely of a double-sized bed and wall and ceiling mirrors. The only other furniture besides the immense bed was a small dresser and some of those big-eyed-children paintings. Rockson wondered why the bedroom didn’t seem familiar at all.

“Did you redecorate, Kim?”

“No, silly. Now you wait here a second, while I go in the bathroom and put on my new outfit . . .”

Rock sat down on the red velour bedspread. The bed jiggled, it felt cool. He pulled the sheets off one end—rubber. It was a water bed. He lay down. It rocked back and forth, like he was in a rowboat.

“Take a look, dear. What do you think?”

Kim sure looked good—she was nearly naked, and the sepia-colored almost-transparent clingy bikini panties and push-up bra accentuated her curves. Her alabaster-complected skin seemed to glow softly in the lamplight. All the more so when Kim undulated her body over to the light switch and made an adjustment. The room’s lighting turned a dim pink. “Maybe now you’re ready for a little fooling around.”

“Maybe so,” Rock said. He felt his manhood solidifying. Kim had climbed up on the bed and undid his shirt buttons and unbuckled his pants. Then she unzipped him. He started to fondle her breasts but she said, “No!” slapping his hands and frowning. “No. First I do this,” she said softly. She got down on her elbows and her cool white hands extracted his erect manhood from his pants. She engulfed it with her wet lips, bringing an immediate groan of pleasure from Rockson. “Just lie back, dear. Remember what the Chessman says about sex. It’s the woman’s job. After a hard day, the best thing is a blow job.”

Rockson didn’t protest; still, he wanted to hold her, run his fingers through her silky blond tresses. But every time he made a move to touch her, she objected. He lay back resigned to a passive role.