by Ryder Stacy
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.
“Yeah? Oh, you’re room three? Come in, buddy. Say, you’re not bad, you know. It’s ten bucks extra for special things.” She sat down on the bed and started pulling the slip over her head.
“I only have four bucks.”
She laughed. “Down on your luck? Well, so am I, so am I . . . Tell you what, Mister Number Three, I’ll make you a deal: I get to keep all the money I find in your pockets, and that will be the charge. Okay?”
She was disappointed to find that he told the truth, but said, “A deal’s a deal.”
Before he knew what was happening, she was stripped. Naked. She was well-built, bony, hard eyed. He felt the urge—primitive, unbridled. He mounted her.
“Never had a man like you,” she said afterward. She lit a cigarette with shaky hands. “You’re great! Where you from? Out of town?”
“Out of town,” he mumbled.
“Thought so,” she said, “Nothin’ like you around here. Say, you got a job or something? You want to live with me?”
“No . . . got a wife,” he said. “Got a wife.”
“Don’t they all,” Stella said, sliding her black rayon slip back over her tight body. “How about every Tuesday and Thursday, after work? Only ten bucks— Hell, that’s reasonable.”
“Ten bucks,” he muttered. “Sounds . . . okay . . .”
“Then, it’s settled, honey.” She came over and kissed him. “Say, can you stay out all night tonight?”
“No,” he said. “Got to go home, home . . .”
“Well, you come back tomorrow—Mr. . . . What’s your name?”
“Ted.”
“Well, see you tomorrow midnight, here, Mr. Ted.”
He went back to his room and stared into the mirror. God, he was hungry, and the cheap whiskey he had swallowed in the redhead’s room was clawing at his gut. His pupils were like pinholes.
He felt like he had betrayed his wife. He felt ashamed. He had wanted to ask Stella—something. And instead he’d had sex with her! He had to throw up.
Rockson went to the sink, vomited repeatedly, then he sunk down to the tile floor. He sobbed down on his hands and knees. They’d take him away now—they’d put him in the city dump . . .
He stood up. He saw his wild-eyed countenance in the mirror over the sink. He yelled “You! You are a sinner!” He smashed his right fist into the image. The glass shattered.
It hurt. His hand was bleeding.
Bleeding . . . Blood . . . Bloodfruit.
Bloodfruit! He remembered now. Remembered the desert and the Russians and the storm!
The timestorm! The Kala-Kal The time-tornado!
“Doomsday Warrior,” he muttered, “I’m the Doomsday Warrior! I am Rockson, a Freefighter, I was in a desert—the Reds had dragged me—the KGB officer, his name is Streltsy, he . . .” It all flooded back to him. He knew now. He was exultant. The headache had gone away. He knew who he was. The sex, the hunger, the drinks, the painful bleeding hand, had cleared his mind. He didn’t know what was going on, yet. But he knew who he was! He didn’t want his identity to slip away. He kept shouting: “I am the Doomsday Warrior, a Freefighter. It’s 2092 A.D. I fight the Russians! They nuked America! I am the Doomsday Warrior!”
There was a banging on the door. “Hey, mac, I don’t care who the hell you think you are! Quit it, it’s two A.M. Some of the people in this fleabag hotel have to get up in the morning!”
He shut up. He put on his jacket and coat and left by the front stairs, throwing the key on the counter. The clerk shrugged. “No refund.”
He wandered toward what he hoped was Archer Street and the bus that would take him home. That’s what he would do now. He’d go home, explain to Kim who he really was. Maybe his wife could tell him what the hell the joke was, what the hell the world was pulling on him. And she would help him leave this place.
He stopped in his tracks— No, she wouldn’t. She’d call the police. The police—rookies—would put him in that cell again, play him the loud music again, and he would forget who he was. In the dark, sodden streets he walked on.
Clang-bing-Bang . . . “Yeow!” The sudden racket activated Rockson’s lightning reflexes. He spun full around, his powerful arms snapping into defensive positions, legs poised like sprung steel, senses bristling . . . He confronted . . . a rangy pole-thin alley cat examining the contents of an overturned garbage can.
“Meow,” the cat said, half frightened, half amused.
“Why, you little . . .” Rockson chuckled. “You damn well scared the livin’ bejesus outta me, you little rodent.”
“Meow,” the bold tomcat protested, indicating he was only trying to make an honest living.
“All right, all right. Just don’t sneak up on me like that, will ya, please?”
Rockson turned back to the long stretch of potholed street running down a slight incline along the city’s backside. A misty rain added a veneer of gloss to the dismal scene. The scene was lit by a lone streetlight, and an occasional whisp of moonlight from behind low black clouds highlighted a few of the street’s features: a battered Cadillac resting on cement blocks, stripped bare to the body . . . a faded COLD STORAGE sign over a warehouse’s rusted gate . . . a fish house, its windows long boarded over . . . a dead neon script that identified the entrance to the defunct Mill Street Union Hall.
Far ahead, maybe a mile, mile and a half down the incline of the street, a blinking red light beaconed. Darkness consumed the remaining stretches of the neglected, patchwork roadway. It was a street with more of a past than a future. Rock proceeded cautiously along the rows of low-level, indecorous warehouses and abandoned garages that flanked the street, encroaching the low curb that allowed a brief walk on either side. He straightened himself and took a deep breath.
“Ted Rockson, C.P.A.,” he said on reaching the streetlight and catching sight of his reflection in a shop window. The wooly suit itched like a rug and he squirmed around inside it, his broad shoulders stretching the material, his slender hips floating in it. Setting down the briefcase he carried, he adjusted his collar and tie, stretching his powerful neck to ease the strain on the button and centering the broad, checkered tie. He had to chuckle at the sight of himself in the dusty window, reflected against a disheveled collection of plumbing fixtures.
Rockson marveled at the ridiculous nature of the clothing he had been forced to don to pass as a “respected citizen.” Cumbersome, ostentatious, and impractical, it seemed to hinder movement rather than encourage it. And the necktie! What could the purpose be except to cut off the flow of blood to the brain! Incredible. Simply incredible.
He had turned to pick up the jaunty briefcase, when he noticed a pair of feet sticking out from underneath the front end of an auto in front of him. Steeled to fight, he glided into position and grabbed the shoeless appendages, pulling forward with a quick jerk. They were attached to a young black-haired boy with a hint of a mustache and a cigarette dangling from his lips, patches of grease covering those portions of his face not consumed with pimples. He was on his back on a mechanic’s floor caddy, and rolled easily into the street from underneath the jacked-up Chrysler.
“I’m not stealing anything. Honest, mister. It’s my car. I swear!” the wide-eyed boy protested, a wrench in one hand, the car’s recently amputated starter in the other.
“It’s okay,” Rock began. “I know there’s no jobs and you have to—”
Evidently the boy feared the worse from the “solid citizen,” and kicked his legs free.
First the wrench, then the starter, came flying at Rockson’s head. He bobbed and dodged the missiles. The nimble youth was in flight, streaking back up the street.
Rockson had no sooner opened his mouth to call the kid back when a blinding light, like a hundred orange-red flashbulbs set off at once, burst the darkness, engulfing the fleeing youth.
“Eeeeeyeaaaaaaah!” the midnight-mechanic screeched in agony, still running, his clothes and skin afire from head to toe. He ran and tumbled a good twenty yards, bellowing in gut-wrenching pain as the flames reduced him to a smoldering mound of charred flesh and fiber.
A weed-burner! Where?
Rockson froze, shocked but alert, twitching as a rush of adrenaline surged through his body. The clip-clop of heavy boots on the pavement announced the approach of the boy’s murderer. A giant of a man emerged from the shadows into the shaft of light cast by the streetlamp. The uniformed stranger approached slowly, confidently, in measured steps, his visage hidden behind a mirror-faced visor. He carried a rodlike weapon attached by a hose to a small tank which hung on his back.
“Homeless bastard,” the man said, turning the nozzle of his weapon and affixing it to a clip on his belt next to a long metal nightstick.
Rockson took stock of his opponent. The man’s bulky, muscular frame filled his sleek nylon uniform with the distinctive rook patch over his heart. Besides the torch weapon and the nightstick, a long killing knife hung from his wide leather belt.
“Yeah . . .” answered Rockson with a forced grin. His disguise was working. He wanted to avoid trouble for now. It was too late for the kid anyway. Still, Rock wanted to kill.
The rook stopped short about ten feet from Rockson and turned to look at the smoldering mess in the roadway. They both watched as the flames flickered in the midst of rain that continued to drift across the scene.
“Did he give you any trouble . . . citizen?” the rook asked Rockson, still looking away from him.
“You got the bastard first, officer. Why, he just bolted out from nowhere all of a sudden—homeless bastard. Pain in the ass. They’re everywhere, aren’t they?”
“Are they?” said the rook, turning back toward Rockson, taking three short steps forward, toward the middle of the street.
Rockson backed into the car, stumbling on the mechanic’s floor caddy, trying to appear clumsy and frightened.
“Well, I, ah, mean . . . there’s far too many of them . . .” Rockson was having trouble controlling his anger at the cop. But he did.
“One less now, I’d say,” said the rook, looking back again with satisfaction at the remains.
“Yes yes, excellent job. Commendable. I must notify your superiors. Thank you, officer . . .” He smiled wanly.
“Well, it’s late—isn’t it? Guess I’ll be on my way. Good evening, officer.”
“On your way . . . where?” demanded the rook, taking three more quick steps to head off Rockson’s retreat.
“Where? Why, er . . . Home, of course. Where every good citizen should be. In the bosom of my family.”
“And just where is your, ah, home?”
“Southeast Tenth Street.” Rockson said, sensing the game was up.
“Southeast Tenth? Why, you must know Captain Black. He lives on the one-hundred block.” Rockson wondered if the comment were a trap.
“Captain Black? Well, I, ah, I don’t get out much I’m afraid. Much too busy. I’m a C.P.A., you know. Work work work. Busy as a bee. You understand.”
“Of course. And just what firm are you affiliated with, may I ask . . . citizen?” He played with the nozzle on his belt.
“What firm?” Rockson didn’t know. “I’m an independent. Took over Dad’s firm, you know,” he improvised.
“An independent, are you? Admirable. Admirable. Not many independents left these days. I didn’t catch the name, citizen.”
“Rockman. Theodore Rockman . . . officer.”
“And you wouldn’t mind showing me your papers. Just a formality, of course. One can’t be too careful in these troubled times.”
“My papers? Oh no . . . no problem, officer. Of course,” said Rockson, fumbling through his pockets. He’d left them at the hotel, in Stella’s room. Damn it! “Why . . . heh heh, yes. How embarrassing. It seems I’ve left my papers behind. How silly of me.”
The rookie reached for his nightstick, said, “I think I’ll knock some sense into you, homeless, before I burn you!”
“I’m not homeless, I’m the fucking Doomsday Warrior!” With that shout, Rockson’s foot found the handy-dandy mechanic’s dolly and sent it slamming into the rookie’s shins, bringing the hefty cop reaching down in pain. The Doomsday Warrior was ripe for a fight and came up with a solid karate kick to the neck, only to have his foot crack against the heavy plastic visor protecting his adversary’s face. The blow did succeed in jerking the man upright, and Rockson, quickly shaking off the pain in his foot, hopped onto the doily. Using it like a skateboard, he slammed his shoulder into the man’s gut, forcing an umph from him as the wind left his body.
But Rock had engaged a worthy opponent. The young giant of a man was in excellent shape, and by his movements a martial-arts expert himself. Rockson stood him up with three dead shots to the neck and chest, but with the man’s face protected by the visor, Rockson was unable to get the haymaker in. So, mustering himself into a coil and unleashing a vicious spinning kick dead center of the visor, Rockson succeeded in splitting the thick plastic. The shattered helmet flew in two directions, revealing the giant’s massive cranium. A huge smile crossed the rook’s grim visage exposing a row of teeth the size of bottlecaps, a broad rumpled forehead with heavy black eyebrows overhanging close-set beady eyes, and receding hairline backed by short-cropped reddish hair. The man reminded Rockson of a Russian he had tangled with somewhere . . . somehow . . .
“I knew you was a homeless bastard, you termite. Just like that other grease spot I fried up. So, you wanna play rough, do ya? Heh heh.”
Whoosh. His massive arm reached out in a powerful swipe with the metal nightstick, Rockson just ducking under its fatal path.
Whoosh, the nightstick returned, lower, forcing Rockson to jump high in the air, the behemoth advancing step after step, controlling the offensive now.
“Solid citizen, hey?”
Swoosh.
“Took over Dad’s firm, hey?”
Swoosh.
Enough, thought Rockson, prepared for the next blow. It came just as he had anticipated. The Doomsday Warrior grabbed the rookie’s arm as he struck, pulling him forward with his own momentum and deftly lifting the long killing knife from its sheath on the belt, ending up behind his opponent. Before the mighty but outmatched rook could recover, the Rock had succeeded in slicing through the man’s heavy boot and cutting into his Achilles tendon on the right leg, crippling him instantly.
The rook wasn’t laughing anymore. This was no helpless vagrant or defenseless teenager he was bullying now. This dude was tough! He sprang like a lynx, had the strength of a bear, and the cunning of a fox. Tossing the useless nightstick aside, he reached for his flamethrower and ignited it. Rockson leapt sideways from a wall of flames while the rook fumbled to turn on his helmet radio and send for help.
“Code nine . . . Section eight. Code nine . . . section eight . . .” he shrieked into the radio. “Send back up. Hurry! Do you read me!”
Rockson flipped the knife from hand to hand as the rook backed him against the wall of the building with his twenty-foot flames. The sound of closing sirens cut through the foggy night air. Soon he’d be corralled by a whole gaggle of these goons.
Rock spotted an opening. Flicking the knife with blinding speed he sent it sailing. It skimmed the rook’s neck and severed the hose feeding his torch. Instantly the pressurized gel ignited, engulfing the beefy tough guy in sticky hellfire. Screaming and rotating, beating at his body, he fell.
“That’s for the kid,” Rockson snarled. In one long bound, he leaped upward, catching hold of the COLD
STORAGE sign, then climbed from window to window, reaching the roof of the warehouse. He stopped long enough to watch a gang of howling, flashing squad cars race onto the street from both directions.
Darting across the roof, he took a fire escape down to an alleyway behind the building. And walked on, unhurried, like nothing had ever happened. He turned a corner, nearly bumping into a figure. He grabbed the man. His pathetic yell was stifled by Rock’s hand over his mouth. Rockson stared into the man’s eyes. Middle-aged, dressed in topcoat, alcohol on his breath. “If I let go of your mouth, don’t scream.”
The man nodded.
Rockson let up on his grip. The man trembled. “Please—take my money—my wallet.”
“I don’t want your money,” the Doomsday Warrior snarled. “I want answers.”
“Answers?”
“Yeah. Who runs this town? What is this place?”
“What?” the man’s eyes widened.
“You heard me!” Rock grabbed him by the collar, lifted him off the ground. “Who runs this crummy town?”
The man was pale as a sheet. “Chessman! Chessman runs this town, everyone knows that!”
“Where is he? Where do I find this Chessman?”
“In—in the Tabernacle. Oh my god, you’re crazy! A psycho! You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?” A foam of fear drooled from his lips. Suddenly he gasped, clutched his chest, slumped.
Rockson dropped the man, “No,” he said as he walked away in the downpour, “I’m not killing you. Fear did it.”
He knew who he was, and now the Doomsday Warrior knew where he had to go for the answers—to the Tabernacle. He’d find this Chessman and wring the truth from him about this hideous, sick game he was playing!
Eight
Rockson, with gathering determination, walked on. He came to a better part of town. The digital clock on a billboard flashed 4 A.M. Temp 39 degrees. Cold. In the murky mist ahead at the end of the park was the tall gothic Tabernacle—the Tabernacle that he knew from his history lessons had been destroyed—along with Salt Lake City and most other cities in America—on September 11th, 1989. The Reds had dropped hundreds of ICBMs on an unsuspecting America on that date.
