Doomsday Warrior 10 - American Nightmare (8 page)

That damned nightmare had blown a few of his circuits!

Why was the date frightening? Why would the date set off alarm bells in his consciousness?

Just then the bus arrived. And Rockson, with some trepidation, got in the queue and climbed aboard.

The bus was crowded, but Rockson took the seat of a man who got off at the next stop. He still felt a bit odd. He needed to sit. He absent-mindedly stared out the window as the bus cruised past block after block of new housing. Then suddenly they were in an old neighborhood of three-story brownstones and small apartment buildings. There were signs plastered on the buildings:
ON THIS SITE WILL BE ERECTED EXCELLO CONDOS, LUXURY LIVING FOR THE WELL-TO-DO.
Another sign said,
TO BE ERECTED HERE, SENSATIONAL
105-
STORY CHESSMAN CONDOS.
In small print the sign continued,
Removal of the undesirables being carried out under Edict
#457.

The traffic was heavy; the bus crawled along. Rockson watched a building in the middle of the second block being entered by a group of ten or twelve red-clad rookies. They had their weed-burner nozzles in their hands, ready for action. In a short while there were screams. Windows were smashed open, flames and smoke shot out of them. More screams. Burning men and women came racing out the front door of the apartment building, followed by rookies, who were playing their flame-spouting weapons on the escapees.

Rockson was aghast. A man who was sitting next to him said “That’s the way to clear ’em out, right, citizen?”

Rockson couldn’t get his eyes off the scene of carnage. He watched a mother with babe in arms crumple, her body afire, on the sidewalk. Then the bus picked up speed, and rounded a turn.
“Nietzsche Square,”
Rockson’s stop was announced. He got off and was carried along in the surge of people, whisked through a tall building’s doors. Kim had said he would know where his office was, but he didn’t recognize this black marble lobby.

Rockson was at a loss. Then a female voice called out to him. “Ted!” A waving arm appeared over the heads of the crowd in the lobby, and within moments a red-headed woman squeezed her way through to Rockson. To his astonishment, she kissed him, long and full on his lips. She was an Amazon of a woman, big, buxom, and gorgeous.

She had greeted him like a long-lost lover. “Ted, darling, don’t you have a hug for Rona?”

Rona?
This is getting to be too much, thought Rockson. He recovered from his astonishment and pecked her on the forehead. She pouted, then said, “I suppose that’s proper. This
is
public.” She tugged on his arm. “Aren’t you coming up to the office?”

Ah, a co-worker. “Sure,” he said, and he was springing after her. He felt like an actor on stage. Everyone but him knew the lines, and he had to adlib his way through the play.

They rode up to the twentieth floor in a crowded elevator, Rona expressing her delight that Rockson was back from his “rest,” and delivering office gossip and trivia—all of which meant nothing to him. When they got off, Rona pulled him to the side, behind a potted tree, and whispered in his ear.

“Ted, dearest, everyone in the office knows the
real
reason why you haven’t been at work. I know Kim tried to cover up for appearances, but really, darling, these things
do
get around!” She smiled conspiratorially. “But don’t worry—everyone will act as though you
were
home for a rest. So don’t say anything—just act normal.”

Whatever the hell “normal” is, thought Rockson.

“And, Ted?”

“Yes?”

“I’m
so
glad you’re well. I was worried about you! Are we still seeing each other tonight?”

“Seeing each other?”

“Yes, darling Ted, dear. We’ve had the same night out every week for the past two years. Have you forgotten?”

“I—"

Rona fixed him with a stern look. “Your wife didn’t make you quit the C.P.A. Bowling League, did she? It’s been a perfect cover for our little rendezvous.”

“Well . . .”

“I suppose she told you to skip the bowling tonight and come straight home, because of your arrest. Is that it?”

Rockson nodded, relieved.

Rona looked upset. “Really, Ted; this can’t go on! You
know
how I hate being the Other Woman—” She broke off as the elevator opened again, disgorging more office workers. “Oh, hello, Fred,” she said to a balding man whose pale complexion made him look like he’d been in a crypt for the past ten years. “Look who’s back—Mr. Rockman!” Laughing, Rona hooked her arm through Rockson’s and propelled him past two huge wooden doors into an open office area.

Inside were two dozen employees who stopped what they were doing and stared at him. After an uncomfortable moment of silence, someone murmured that he should take it easy, and others joined in.

Rona took him to a door with his alter ego’s name on it—Theodore Rockman—and shoved him inside. “Let me know if you need anything!” she chirped, and sailed off.

The office was much more comfortably appointed than the Rockman apartment—a sofa, large wooden desk, and potted plants. The profits of the company evidently were good, and his job rated a private office. He threw the briefcase down on the sofa.

Two walls were floor-to-ceiling windows. Rockson walked to them and looked out over the city sparkling in the sun and dry desert air. Tall buildings rose everywhere he looked.

He had scarcely been in his office two minutes when Rona reappeared and shut the door behind her. She flung herself at Rockson, wrapping her arms around his neck and smothering him with kisses. “Ted, darling, darling! You gorgeous hunk of a man! Let’s do it now. Lock the door!”

This Rona sure felt terrific, and she looked fine. Rockson would have been happy to let her ravish him, except this sort of conduct undoubtedly fell on the forbidden list, which translated—once again—to the police.

He disengaged himself from her impassioned embrace. “Rona, please. Remember yourself!”

With a moan of disappointment, Rona pulled away and smoothed her hair. “I’m sorry, Ted. I couldn’t help myself. You drive me wild, and if I can’t see you tonight . . .” Her voice trailed off. “But you’re right,” she added. “This is not the proper place.” She stepped up to him and wiped his cheek and lips. “You’ve got lipstick all over you.”

Rona rearranged her clothing and left, closing the door.

Rockson dragged his sleeve across his face and ran his fingers through his mussed hair. I’ve got to stay here until lunch, he thought. Rock pushed paper around for three hours.

Lunchtime!
He flung open his door and stalked out of the office. Rona was seated at a small desk just outside, reapplying hot-pink lipstick while she looked into a compact mirror. Evidently she was his personal secretary.

She looked up in surprise as he hurried past her. “Mr. Rockman! Where are you going?”

Rockson halted as he realized all activity in the office had stopped again, as attention was focused on him. “I—I forgot to tell you—I have to discuss a condominium purchase with a real estate man . . .”

“Oh,” Rona said. “Okay, I’ll see you later.” He zoomed out through the big double doors and into the elevator, which was just closing its door.

Back on the street, Rockson gave an immense sigh of relief. He had to have time to put himself together. For one afternoon, at least, they could do without him. He wasn’t handling his job very well anyway.

The irritating music still played everywhere, in the streets and in every vehicle and building. As he glanced around, he noticed that by and large, the people in this city seemed very
—subdued.
A little animation here and there, but most seemed to be in a zombie state much of the time, with robotlike movements and glassy eyes. Was he hallucinating? Was it some sort of paranoia, a mental breakdown?

Rockson slowed himself down and put a goofy smile on his face. Best to look like one of the crowd.

He ambled down the street, doing his best to look like a typical citizen. He was disconcerted to find people staring at him as though he had a growth on his head. He stopped and checked his reflection in a window, and saw what it was that was drawing so much attention—he still had a big pink smack on his left cheek. He carefully wiped it off.

Rookies, their uniforms bearing chess symbols, were everywhere in the city, directing traffic, strolling the sidewalks. Their presence seemed threatening to him. And why not? He was feeling and acting like a psycho.

The store windows displayed bizarre goods—more plastic things. Rockson passed cafés and restaurants. He remembered the eight dollars in his pocket—but still had no appetite.

Nearly everyone he passed was neatly dressed. The city itself had a sterilized look. So Rockson was surprised when he saw dirty derelicts loitering on street corners and sleeping in building nooks. If this society was so concerned about proper behavior and attitudes, why were these homeless and jobless not aided and taken care of?
No! Wrong!
Why were they tolerated and allowed to sully the landscape?
That
was the correct thought. His mind flip-flopped.

The TV ads said, Don’t feed the homeless, let them work, the lazy bastards.
But there weren’t any jobs.
Confusion.

Rockson turned a corner and came upon a man in rags pawing through a waste container, picking out scraps of food and stuffing them in his mouth. He found himself going up to the man, offering him his eight dollars, and pointing to a café across the street.

The derelict shook his head vehemently. “I wouldn’t eat there—drugged food. All the fresh food’s drugged.”

Rockson was taken aback, but he pressed the man. “Eat somewhere else—anywhere you want. You don’t have to go through garbage to get a meal.”

The derelict moved off, shaking his head, leaving Rockson with his outstretched hand full of money. I am crazy to do this, thought Rockson. There’s a law against helping these people, though I can’t imagine why.

Crisscrossing, contradictory ideas filled his mind.

He continued on his way. His walk took him past a beautiful green park. He was startled when a lump in the bushes near the sidewalk moved and hissed, “Hey, you!”

He stopped and looked closely. The lump moved again and separated from the bushes—it was another derelict, a short, rotund man with several days’ growth of beard and greasy clothing. Judging from his girth, he had no trouble staying fed. There was something piratelike about the man.

The man crooked a finger at him, and Rockson responded, going closer. “I’ve been watching you, mister—you don’t look like the rest of the fine citizens of Salt Lake City.”

Rockson caught his breath. Was the bum going to turn him back over to the police? He didn’t answer.

The man went on. “Good for you.” Rockson expelled his breath in relief. “I don’t know how you managed, but you seem to be a
free
man,” the derelict said, twisting his head.

“What do you mean?” Rockson said nervously.

“You
know
what I mean. Shhh! We must be careful. The police are all around, and they
listen.”
The derelict peered around him with wide eyes. He crouched lower. “They’ll find you out before long. Free men never last without help. But
we
can help.”

“Who’s ‘we?’ What help are you talking about?”

“Never mind. If you want help, come back to this area at night. I sleep on the grates. The name is Barrelman.” With those words, the derelict drew back into the shrubbery and disappeared from sight.

“Wait!” called Rockson, but the man was gone.

Rockson was intrigued and confused at the same time.

Rock walked and walked, trying to get his mind on some definite track—and failed.

Seven

N
ight was falling. He just
couldn’t
go home. Not until he’d sorted things out. The pain in his head was getting greater by the minute. He wandered for hours, found himself in a sleazy part of town. There were more street people, darker corners, garbage. Rockson saw a red blinking neon sign;
TERMINAL HOTEL
—Cheap Rooms.

He fished in his pocket for the lunch money Kim had given him—eight bucks. He wandered into the foul-smelling lobby of the hotel. A man at the desk looked up, sized him, shrugged. “Nothing fancy—four dollars for the night. Check-out is eight
A.M.
Don’t miss it, or you pay full day extra.”

Rockson fished up the four bucks and went upstairs with the room key the man tossed him. The room was alongside the neon sign, and even with the dark shade down, the blinking leaked in. He sat down heavily on the bed. At least here, the music wasn’t very loud. The buzz of the neon light also tended to blot it out.

His head hurt less. He lay down feeling less confused than when he had left work. It was the first time he was away from the music that everybody loved. He fell asleep.

There was a noise.
Scratch-Scratch.

He awoke, sat bolt upright in bed. Raised the blind. It was still dark out—maybe after midnight. Yeah, the cheap alarm clock on the dresser said 12:10. The scratching that had awakened him was a note coming under his door.

He went over and picked it up, opened the door a crack, but saw no one in the hall. Rockson closed the door, unfolded the note.

If you need something,
read the scrawl,
knock on Room 6, Stella. Before 3 a.m.

Need something? Oh, a prostitute. Suddenly he remembered Kim and groaned. She’d be missing him. What the hell was he doing here? Then he went into the little john, turned on the faucets, and threw water in his face. He looked at his face in the cracked mirror, his white-streaked hair, his mismatched dark and light blue eyes, and thought, Who am I?
Who the hell am I?

And dimly, a voice deep inside issued,
Doomsday Warrior. Doomsday Warrior.

He closed his eyes, squeezed them till he saw stars.
What the hell is a Doomsday Warrior?
He couldn’t remember.

“Stella—maybe Stella knows,” he mumbled. “Maybe I’m here in this cheap hotel for some reason—to meet someone who knows . . .” He put on his shirt and shoes and went down the corridor to number six and knocked. A frowzy redhead in a black slip, about forty years of age, a cigarette dangling from her slash-of-red lips, opened the door.