Doomsday Warrior 12 - Death American Style (4 page)

“Rapunzel, Rapunzel let down your flowing hair,” Rock shouted up as Rona came to a stop behind him and looked at the Doomsday Warrior with a lopsided grin. Her face looked shimmering and beautiful as the first tender rays of moon licked along her soft cheeks from the falling night above.

“Let down your golden hair, your GOLDEN hair,” the cackling ancient voice yelled back.

“Oh let ’em through,
for Christ’s sake,”
another voice, apparently in the tree next to the speaker, said with exasperation. They all knew who Ted Rockson was. Everyone in the whole damned city, the whole
country
for that matter knew the name of the Doomsday Warrior. He had kicked more Russian butt than all the other Freefighters put together. A thorn in the side of the Russian occupiers that wouldn’t go away, that festered and blistered, causing them to sweat, grow feverish. Ted Rockson was their nemesis, the penultimate American.

“All right, darn it,” Crayson sputtered, his white beard suddenly visible to Rock as the face peered down from a small platform built in the thickest part of one tree. The old man smiled with missing teeth. And Rock smiled back. With feisty antiques like that on his side, how could the Freefighters possibly lose? Men whistled from the darkness all around the returning hunters and their cargo of bear.

“Damnation, look at that thing,” a voice yelled out from the left, behind a boulder.

“Gonna make some damn body one hell of a rug,” another gruff voice laughed from a branch-covered foxhole off the side of the path.

“Guess again, boys,” Rock yelled back. “Shecter and his crew get it. The whole damned thing is bound for the test tube, fur and all. I’ll be lucky to get a tail out of the deal.” Another half-mile down a winding path and they reached one of four entrances to Century City, hidden behind what looked like a solid rock wall—camouflage netting, so closely entwined and well-made that one could pass within feet and not realize the truth. Rock slipped in along one side of the netting, which gave easily, sliding out of the way as the ’brids happily realized they were home, and that food and rest awaited them.

Dr. Hart, Biology Chief, was already waiting at one side of the large chamber where most of C.C.’s commerce with the outer world went on. It was bristling with activity, men, women carrying loads, leading teams of hybrids. The scientist’s small face wrinkled up in distaste, as did those of his two pale assistants who stood watching with cameras and notepads.

“You killed it,” Hart said as Rock stopped in front of him, tethering the pack team to a steel post as a whole team of white-smocked tech’s unloaded the huge carnivore onto a steel dolly capable of holding ten tons. The Chief of Biology walked around the animal examining the various ways it had been ripped, torn, and gashed open. His close-set, small gray eyes filled with fury.

"Really—
we did ask for a specimen in
mint
condition! Otherwise, what good is it? You’ll have to go out again and—”

“Look,
pal,” Rock said, the smile fading from his tan, sweat-coated face. “We’re lucky to be here talking to you, instead of in this thing’s stomach. Not only won’t I go out after one again, but I suggest that nobody try to take a redhide alive—or that man’s gonna end his days in a digestive tract. It’s here, it’s big, it’s still warm. I’m sure you guys can figure out
something
to do with it.”

“Yes, I suppose so. I suppose so,” Hart said, deep in thought, his brow furrowed as he contemplated the possibilities. “I still think you could have brought it back alive, we need specimens. Everyone expects miracles of us.” The half unhinged (as far as Rockson was concerned) Bio Chief led his group of bear-pushing assistants off to some hidden lab in the back recesses of the fourth level. There they would dissect and gene splice to their heart’s content, and probably create some horrible species that would make the recently deceased seem like a teddy bear, he thought.

“Come on, baby,” Rock said, putting his arm around Rona as they exited the outer chamber and headed into the underground hidden metropolis that was Century City. The city was quite startling at first, so sudden was the sound and the energy as they stepped through the sliding, magnetic, nuke-shock-proof doors. The subterranean fortress of Freefighters was composed of sixteen levels. The one they had entered was hundreds of thousands of square feet in dimension and contained nearly two-thirds of all of Century City’s industry. C.C. was known among other things for producing Liberator rifles and machine guns. The weapons were reliable, ammo-interchangeable; best of all, they worked. So they were much in demand throughout the entire region. Other Freefighting cities brought their own creations—computers, produce, medicines, clothing, furs, milk and eggs. Each made what it could and traded with the others. Thus had an entire hidden economy sprung up over the last fifty years, supporting a complex interrelation of the Hidden Free Cities of Soviet-occupied America.

Crates of Liberators with the C.C. stamp of inspection on their sides were waiting to be carted off by mule and jeep, and even on human backs, in some cases. While at the other end of the Trade Chamber, the goods that had been brought in were being sorted and carried off. And what a commotion it was, as such interchanges always involved live chickens and goats, horses, cattle, even snakes and such. One never knew for sure what the visitors would bring in hopes of getting some of what the famous Century City produced. “Let’s get beyond this racket, Rona,” Rock said.

The subterranean city had been carved out of the mountainside, and it still had a sort of cool dampness to it, which Rockson didn’t find unpleasant as he walked along. The city never ceased to amaze him, even after the thousandth time he reentered it. That all this had begun as a
highway,
a four-lane tunnel through the Rockies! When World War III erupted and the nukes flew like birds of prey, thousands had been caught inside the interstate tunnel near Denver, Colorado. Both ends had been sealed by a nearby multi-meg-warhead explosion.

At first the screaming thousands inside hadn’t known what the hell to do—except die. But, as it quickly became clear, that, number one, no one was going to rescue them, and number two, they weren’t going to die, those with leadership abilities among the tunnel’s populace took over. They got things rolling along. By chance or divine design, those trapped within included doctors, engineers, auto mechanics, chemists, nurses . . . And dozens of truckloads of supplies and food—as many of the trucks had been making their cross-country journey to reach the West Coast by sunrise. The West Coast had been inundated with bombs. They probably wouldn’t have found much there even if they’d made it.

But there was no reason to get out, once the trapped Americans understood the situation. It was a whole new world. And they were on their own. They fashioned engines into power generators, used the equipment of two ambulances to purify their air, recirculating it internally through charcoal filters. Instead of trying to dig out of the tunnel they stayed inside and made sure no one outside—should anyone come looking—knew they existed. To the outer world it merely looked as if part of a mountain had collapsed at both ends.

And from that it had all begun.
Century City,
the place had been named, for even if it took a century, those who headquartered themselves here vowed to throw the Russian occupiers out of America. They dug into the sides of the tunnel, dug out rooms to live in and store their things. The original tunnel quickly became a maze of tunnels, and then of levels, as they dug their way down. With the number of scientists present, scientific discovery was constant—and with the number of techs present, implementation was equally constant. The sheer challenge of having to improvise with so little, in such a hostile environment, actually gave rise to a number of fruitful ideas and avenues of research. It’s amazing what the human mind can come up with when pushed to its absolute limits.

Now, after a century of such efforts, the results were awe-inspiring. A testament to the fact that what the human spirit could wish, it could accomplish. A multi-level underground complex of hospitals, schools, factories, research labs, recreation rooms, cafeterias, even gymnasiums. And private living/sleeping quarters for 6,000 souls. It wasn’t the Taj Mahal, but it was clean and radiation-free, or relatively so. And for most of those there—whether they were insiders, born inside, or outies, those who had come in out of the cold and were processed and cleared by security—it was home as well. As safe and protected a haven as one was likely to find in the post World War III era.

Faces here and there smiled as Rock and his woman walked by. Hands waved, greetings were called out by men who Rockson had gone out on missions with months, perhaps years before. And their widows, too, were here. And they were many. Then a face Rockson wasn’t particularly in the mood to see popped up out of nowhere, coming toward him with a scowl. The Intel Chief.

“Rath, your forehead is getting more deeply etched with worry every time I see you. You should relax. Meditate or something.” The hawk-nosed Rath’s dark eyes just stared.

“Easy for you to say,” Rath said coolly. “While you’re out there living the sporting life, we’re trying to deal with things here.” He looked disapprovingly at Rock’s arm around Rona, as if one shouldn’t display affection in public areas. Rona moved closer to Rockson and bumped him with her hip, scowling back at the mawkish Rath whom she—along with Rockson—had never quite been able to stomach.

“At any rate, we’ve been receiving radio transmissions on every frequency. The Russians have gone crazy. They’re broadcasting across the band, using tremendous kilowatts of power to get their message out loud and clear. They’re asking for a conference, Rock. Now—fast. I don’t know what their game is—some damned new trick, most likely. It’s a joke to even consider it, of course. But the Council is meeting about it now.”

“They are? Then—we’ll talk. Not now. I’ll call you. Too tired.” He started off with Rona glued to his side.

“Damn it, man,” Rath shouted after him. “You always want things your way. Even if the world is about to explode—Ted Rockson can’t be disturbed.”

Rockson spoke over his shoulder, not breaking stride.

“Damned right, man. And I’m putting those very words up on my door. ‘Do not disturb!’ And anyone who touches that doorknob before I do—I’m not responsible for that man’s fingers.”

Four

I
n the restored White House, in Washington, D.C., thousands of miles away, a red, flabby face was staring at itself in a gilded hand mirror. And it was furious. The jowls under the pale blue, watery eyes shook in rage. “No, damn it!” President Zhabnov screamed out shrilly, “I said
two-thirds
of an inch. To trim these hairs two-thirds of an inch. Not butcher them. You’ve taken at least a full inch off—I can see that.” President Zhabnov, nearly bald, had cultivated these frail little hairs. They weren’t much to begin with. And now, now this fool barber had cut at least ten of the wispy hairs that he had combed with thick grease straight across his head sideways—the man had ruined him. And just when the Peace Conference was about to begin. Vassily himself was coming over from Moscow. And Zhabnov would look the fool.

“You imbecile,” he screamed, striking the barber on the cheek so that the man flew backward more from the sheer shock of the attack than the actual force of the blow. For Zhabnov was really nothing more than jello beneath his blubbery thick arms. Muscles that hadn’t had to lift more than a piece of fruit, hands that hadn’t done more than guide a pen or squeeze a young virgin. “Get him out of my sight,” Zhabnov bellowed and Presidential Guards who accompanied him everywhere immediately grabbed the trembling Afghani barber and carried him bodily from the room. Zhabnov really didn’t want to have the foul-breathed Asian killed. The man
had
given him good cuts before . . . Hmm . . .
Perhaps
it wasn’t that bad, after all.
There,
if looked at in a slightly different angle of light—it wasn’t too bad. He frowned. Perhaps he wasn’t handsome, but he had plenty of character. That was for sure. Yes, in fact, the President of the United Soviet States of America grunted with satisfaction as he looked closer into the center of the antique mirror supposedly used by Martha Washington herself—just one of many items that Zhabnov had had dug up from storage vaults deep below the White House.

“Yes, actually I think he did a fair job after all. What do you think, Gudinov?” Zhabnov asked, turning toward his male secretary who was constantly at his side—or within a few feet. The damned fellow was the only one Zhabnov had ever had who actually seemed able to make things happen, get him places on time—work out the snags of a great man’s life. It was so hard to find good help these days.

“Excellency, it looks—suited to your face,” the secretary replied diplomatically. He knew that honesty was not what the President really wanted. For, in truth, the man was a hideous red ball of blubber, with hardly a single feature distinguishable in his bowling ball of a face. His life of ultra-hedonism—of the best of foods and the softest of virgins—had taken its toll. Not that the man cared. Zhabnov wasn’t about to enter any beauty contests. Just power struggles. And next to Premier Vassily himself, Zhabnov was the second-most powerful man in the world.

“Yes—suited to my face,” the President echoed. “A broad masculine face, one that commands respect from the masses. Don’t you agree?” Zhabnov asked, pulling his head back and stroking the plump folds with his perfumed and manicured hands, bedecked with golden rings and jeweled bracelets.

“Couldn’t have phrased it better, your greatness,” his secretary responded. “A face respected by the masses. The face of the Great Father. As the premier is the ‘Grandfather’ back in Mother Russia, so are you the Father, my general. You lead the masses with your shining example, and your firm, masculine, ruling presence.”

Zhabnov’s face positively beamed at these words and his whole stomach filled with a warm glow. At times he almost believed he was the great leader he pretended to be. “I say, Gudinov, you are a
good
man aren’t you?” He patted the younger and much thinner man on the shoulder and headed out from the private beauty salon in the basement of the White House—and over to a small, ornately wrought elevator that he entered, waiting with a wide smile for Gudinov and two armed guards to follow.