Doomsday Warrior 03 - The Last American (25 page)

“Jehoseph, you in there, you damned fool?” Mt. Ed yelled out with a roar that threatened to buckle the entire decrepit structure. From within came the sounds of numerous things toppling over, many of them breaking, followed closely by a skinny little man hardly larger than a dwarf.

“Who let you outta the can?” the ornery storekeeper squeaked up at his first customer of the day, who towered nearly three feet over him.

“Don’t be spittin’ all over your chin now, Jehoseph,” Mt. Ed said with a snort. “I come for some whiskey and to find out some information.”

“What in blazes would a coonhead like yourself be wantin’ to know?” the high voice cracked back.

“Not me, you danged fool—for my friend here—Mr. Rockson. Ted Rockson. Maybe you heard of him?”

The storekeeper seemed suddenly struck by lightning. His eyes lit up and grew wide as saucers as he looked up and down the rough-hewn face and body of the Doomsday Warrior.

“Ted Rockson, I-I-I’ve heard of you. I—I—mean everyone has. You’re really h-h-him?”

“Yeah,” Rockson smirked, “I guess I am.”

“Well, let me shake your hand, Mr. Rockson. Good Lord, I cain’t hardly believe it. Come in, come in gentlemen,” he said, with as broad a smile as he could stretch out on such a greedy little mouth. “Come in and and let me give you some of the house’s best. And, of course, it’s on me,” he said, turning around and flashing his cavity-riddled molars at Rock.

“Glenda, Glenda,” he screamed, as the three men walked back into the place on creaking bent planks that shifted as their feet moved.

“What the hell you want?” a cranky voice shrilled out from the back.

“Rustle up some grub—the best—the fresh venison steaks—and some pie and—”

“You don’t have to go to all this trouble, “Rock protested.

“Trouble? What trouble?” Mt. Ed roared. “He’s lucky I let someone as dumb as him even meet someone of your high breedin’, Rock.”

“I want to ask you something,” Rock said, after they had each taken a slug of the thick and throat-scorching homebrew that the storekeeper brought back in a large jug. “There was a big convention back there on the other side of the mountain—at the old Resort Ranch.”

“I know all about that,” Jehoseph said matter-of-factly.

“And the Reds blew it up with neutron bombs about a week ago.”

“I know all ’bout that too,” he replied in a drawn-out drawl, “You couldn’t much miss it now, could you, with two big mushroom clouds going sky high. Rising, rising they was, must have gone a mile up till the winds took ’em away. Thank the Lord off in the
other
direction.”

Rock leaned forward with excitement. “Did you see anyone pass by here? I’m looking for a man and a younger woman.”

“The man—he’s got sorta longish silver hair. And the girl—blond hair and—”

“Yes, yes, it’s them.” Rock leaped to his feet and grabbed the miniscule shopman by the shoulders.

The small man screamed out in pain. “My shoulders—you’re breakin’—”

“I’m sorry,” Rock said, letting go instantly. “I’ve been going crazy worrying about them. Tell me, what did you see?”

Jehoseph took another big swig from the jug. Then another. “You swear,
swear
you ain’t gonna think I’m crazy now—or anything like that, are you?” He looked around to make sure his wife wasn’t listening.

“Glenda, stay in the kitchen,” he screamed in a high, nasal voice. “There’s man-talk out here.” He looked back at Rock and Mt. Ed and then took a breath. “Well, see, I went out that night looking for survivors after the cloud was gone. So I see most everyone’s dead. There’s a few still movin’ and groanin’ but they was all burnt up. Then I see this man and his daughter I guess you was talkin’ bout. Well, they’re out by the swamp, and I’m just starting to head over to ’em, see if I can help, and there’s this—this—blue glow coming in from out of the plains. And
they
come ridin’ in.”

“They?” Rock asked.

“The
Glowers,
the damned
Glowers,”
the storekeeper said, his lips tightening as he remembered the visitation. “There was these three big—big—I don’t know what the hell they was—some kind of wagon or something, only with these huge sheets catchin’ the wind. And on each of these things there was these ugly, ugly people—glowing like lightning bolts—spittin’ out electricity. And you could see
inside
’em, too.” He paused for a second and took another huge gulp. “It was creepy, I swear to tell you. Seeing all them organs pumping and blue blood spurtin’ around inside ’em. So they come right up to these two friends of yours, and scoop ’em up on these boats, and then they just took off. I swear I ain’t makin’ a word up,” he finished, as the two men looked at him incredulously. He crossed himself three times and then a fourth and took another swig, not taking his mouth from the jug until his eyes were bursting with veins.

“He lies a lot,” Mt. Ed said to Rockson. “But I never heard one this bad.”

“He’s telling the truth,” Rock said, taking his own big slug of the foul whiskey. What the hell was going on, Rock wondered as the brew hit his stomach with a soothing fire. Why would the Glowers have gone after
them
? And if they had wanted to hurt them, why didn’t they just kill them?

“Tell me, did they hurt them?” Rock asked the storeman.

“No, didn’t hurt ’em—not at all. In fact, they was treatin’ ’em with kid gloves. It was more like—like they was savin’ em.”

“Which way?” Rock asked.

“Dead west, Mr. Rockson, as the sun sets,” Jehoseph replied. Rockson rose suddenly and started for the door.

“Where you goin’, Mr. Rockson?” the storekeeper asked hysterically. “We’re gettin’ meat and food for you.”

“They’re out there—every second could mean their lives,” Rock said, without pausing a step. He headed out the ramshackle door and down the trail. Mt. Ed grabbed a big hock of pork that the wife was just bringing in and chewed furiously on it as he tore after the Doomsday Warrior, who was already a few hundred feet down the trail.

“Wait, Rockson. Wait—I’m comin’.” The bearsized trapper ran and hopped after the freefighter, his blunderbusses knocking together with loud cracks behind his back.

Twenty-One

C
olonel Killov swallowed another euphorium tablet, staring out into the night from his darkened eightieth-floor suite. He could swear he saw a dull red glow far to the north—the afterglow of the enhanced radiation devices that had been dropped on the convention. No, of course—it couldn’t be. It was much too far—but the deed had been done. The colonel rarely allowed himself to feel satisfaction—it made one too relaxed, off guard. But tonight he felt good. The collective leadership of all the freefighting forces—Langford—and even, according to his spy—Ted Rockson. All dead. The KGB commander’s corpselike cheeks almost flushed with excitement. The long, jagged scar that ran down his sunken right cheek courtesy of Rockson was throbbing a purple-red.

He turned and walked back to his boomerang-shaped black marble desk and seated himself. He took
the dolls
from his “Special” drawer and placed them atop the table. He moved slowly, savoring every moment of what he was about to do. He put them in the order of his hatred—Rockson, then Zhabnov, Vassily, Rahallah, Langford. The amazingly lifelike flesh-colored dolls stared back at him, twelve inches of inanimate matter looking up into the eyes of a madman. He would “play” with President Langford later—but first, the one he really wanted—Rockson. He reached a skeletal hand forward and gripped the Rockson doll around the neck, pulling it near his face. He put his batlike eyes, tiny black dots set back in sunken sockets, an inch from the Rock doll’s face, sending out thoughts of purest hate.

“You see, you lose, Rockson. I win. My will to power is stronger than yours. It is always that way—read Nietzche—oh no, you can’t now, can you?” The colonel laughed a terrifying, soundless laugh, letting his head fall back and his mouth open in a twisted smile. He commanded his throat, his lips to laugh—but they couldn’t. The darkness of his soul had destroyed his ability to perform such lighthearted gestures long ago.

He held the doll at arm’s length and with his other hand flicked his cigarette lighter on. He aimed the jet of flame at Rockson’s head and held it there, the fire licking at the plastic face, the freefighting army fatigues and the hunting boots. Slowly the fleshtic began melting, giving off a foul odor. First the lips dripping into a grotesque frown, then the eyes falling from the skull, hanging down on long red threads. The real hair on the head sizzled and puffed up in a flash as the entire doll caught fire. Killov set the blazing fetish down on a metal tray, where it burned madly, the head drooping to one side and then falling, a blazing ball, onto the tray. The arms came next, both sliding out of their sockets at the same instant, the hands curling back in pseudo agony. The fire cast eerie shadows across the KGB leader’s face as it consumed the doll entirely. Within a minute there was nothing but a bubbling pool of multicolored plastic sending up a fog of toxic smoke.

Killov leaned back in his swivel chair, taking yet another pill. He washed it down with vegetable juice, the one bit of advice he’d heeded from his personal physician. Rockson dead. This would take care of all those slave scum in the Fortress Cities who wrote their little slogans on the wall—“THE ULTIMATE AMERICAN LIVES,” “TED ROCKSON WAS HERE!” No longer. Now there is nothing there—nothing to free you from your death labor.

Suddenly a pain ripped into his gut like a knife cutting through his intestines. A wave of fear and nausea swept through his emaciated body.
What if—What if
—
he’s not dead?
The Blackshirt commander loosened his collar, pushing the red skull-and-crossbone pins to the side. He ripped the phone from the receiver and screamed into it, nearly ripping the ears off the private operator who handled his calls only—twenty-four hours a day.

“Northern Sector Headquarters—General Mishkin!” Within a few seconds a groggy voice answered at the other end.

“Who the hell is this,” Mishkin asked, annoyed. “It’s three in the morn—”

“This is
Killov
,” the colonel said in a deathly whisper.

“Oh, sir,” the voice at the other end said, instantly awake and fully alert. “I-I-I’m sorry sir, I thought it—”

“Never mind, fool,” Killov cut him off. “I want the remains of Ted Rockson delivered to my labs here in Denver within forty-eight hours. Spare no effort. My planes dropped two neutron devices at Grid seven point three. Ted Rockson was among those killed. I want his remains—do you hear me? I don’t care what you have to do—but find them and bring them to me. Teeth, fingers, papers—anything so he can be positively identified. Do you understand?” the colonel asked, his voice cold as death itself.

“Yes, Your Eminence. Immediately. I shall have Priority One search begin tonight. It shall be done,” Mishkin said crisply, wondering how in hell he would scrape the goddamned ashes of Rockson out of an atomic bomb blast.

Killov replaced the receiver, trying to calm himself down. “Of course, he is dead. But who was it? That myth of the ancients? Jesus—he was believed to have risen from the dead and caused all sorts of problems. Better to have the remains—better—” The euphorium was wearing off again. He sagged in his chair, his heart pounding unevenly. He took a sip of the vegetable juice, almost gagging. Relax . . . got to . . . relax.

The Blackshirt leader fell into a nightmare-filled pit. A dream of Ted Rockson coming at him with a flamethrower. And he was a doll and he was burning. The Killov doll was on fire, his face melting, his skull burning up. And the other dolls were moving jerkily and laughing at him. They danced around him as he begged for mercy. But there was no mercy, no mercy, no mercy . . .

Twenty-Two

T
hey headed into the unknown lands where the Glowers dwelled. Two men—one a giant of a mountain man, the other molded from granite rock, from the squeezing forces of life in America 2089
A.D.
The Doomsday Warrior had only one thought in his mind—Kim—and the image of her burned through his brain like a branding iron. He was worried about the president, as well—he knew that the death of Langford could set the freefighters back another century. But his heart cried out for Kim. Never had he wanted or needed anyone so much. He had never had to worry about the fate of others. The Rock team he cared about—every damn beautiful one of them. But they must die. They would all die—every man knew that. But Kim—she didn’t deserve to die. She was—too beautiful. Woe be to any man, Russian or Glower who harmed a hair on her head.

“Slow down, Rock,” Mt. Ed kept having to yell as the Doomsday Warrior forged ahead at a near trot. They marched through the night, passing through the lower hills, all alive and growing with wild flowers of rainbows of color. The wind slowly sent waves of hallucinogenic ripplings—a million purples and yellows and oranges, winding and interweaving their multipetaled fingers around the two men, lost in a spectrum of purest beauty.

The cool night air was alive with swarms of bugs, moths, darning needles as large as bottles, buzzing out their whirring drone like squadrons of dive-bombers. They didn’t take much interest in the two passing humans, setting their sights on the honeydew of the cupped flowers and the smaller insects that lived among them. Even the most beautiful of settings was a bloody battleground if you were small enough to see it. Sometimes Rock wondered if the entire universe wasn’t like that—a world within a world within a world—and all of them violent and murderous, all of them filled with creatures killing one another blindly with speed and madness, never ceasing, never resting. The stars ate the stars and the bugs ate the little bugs and man killed man and all’s right with the universe.

By morning’s bleary red-eyed sun they reached the start of the vast prairie, with nuke craters spreading off in all directions. Rock didn’t stop, but just kept forging ahead, lost in his own private hell.

“For a small guy, you’re pretty tough, Rockson,” the mountain man said from behind, his immense rifles still clanking away at one another behind his back like out-of-rhythm drumbeats. Rockson had to laugh. At six foot three and two hundred thirty-five pounds of pure steel muscle, he was usually the largest man in any group. Yet to Mt. Ed he appeared diminutive. A seven-foot-plus vantage point did wonders for one’s perspective.