Doomsday Warrior 10 - American Nightmare

by Ryder Stacy

  Kim returned bearing two huge glasses of an ugly, blue-white liquid. “I thought I could use some myself,” she said, handing one of the glasses to Rockson. “It’s been one exciting day—the TV programs were so good!”

  Rockson reluctantly took the glass. “You shouldn’t have gone to the trouble,” he mumbled.

  “No trouble. Drink up, darling. Cheers!” Kim tilted her head back and drained half the glass in one long pull. Damn, thought Rockson, she’d be a hell of a drinker where he came from.

  Kim swallowed and looked at Rockson. “Well—aren’t you going to drink it?”

  Rockson hesitated. A glass of Tranqua-milk was just what he didn’t need.

  “Theodore Rockman, what’s the matter with you? I’m beginning to think the bishop might have let you out a little too soon.”

  At those words, Rockson felt a stab of fear. He forced himself to smile as disarmingly as possible. “Nothing’s wrong, sweetie,” he said in a light tone. “Why, I was just reflecting on how lucky a man I am to have you to take care of me.”

  Kim beamed. “Teddy, you’re so sweet!” She took another gulp of Tranqua-milk, watching him at the same time.

  Rockson could see no way out. To not drink the milk would tip off Kim that he was not “recovered” after all.

  He smiled and took a huge gulp, filling his mouth with the blue-white liquid. He’d expected it to taste bad, but it had a pleasant, sweetish taste. Of course—the Chessman would want everyone to drink up without a flinch.

  The Tranqua-milk reminded him of honey. He’d been privileged to taste honey once, from the Sacred Beehive kept under constant guard in one of the Free Cities. Honeybees had been nearly wiped out by nuclear fallout from the war. Luckily a hive had been preserved, and a mutated strain could withstand low levels of radiation. There was great hope among Americans that eventually there would be enough honeybees to set some of them loose upon the terrain.

  But that was in another world. And Rockson was here, in this whacky world, on the verge of tranquilizing himself into oblivion.

  He faked a swallow and patted his stomach, then got up and headed for the bathroom. As soon as he got the door closed, he turned on the faucet and spit the Tranqua-milk into the toilet. He waited several minutes and then flushed. At the basin he splashed water on his face, and returned to the bedroom. He hoped the Tranqua-milk hadn’t been in his mouth long enough for his tissue to absorb a significant amount of the drug.

  As Rockson hoped, Kim had finished her milk, turned off the light, and tucked herself back under the covers. She was already drowsy. “Don’t forget to finish your milk,” she said in a thick, sleepy voice.

  “I think I’ll just relax and sip on it for a while,” Rockson lied.

  “G’night, darling.” Kim was asleep by the time the words were out of her mouth.

  Rockson breathed out a sigh. Thank God—I’m getting out of here.

  He ripped off his cotton pajamas. He had loathed them from the minute Kim had gotten them out of a drawer and placed them on his side of the bed with a loving pat. They were white baggy things with little maroon paisleys on them. They looked like something President Zhabnov would have worn on a bad night.

  The more Rockson saw of how men lived in this bizarre place and time, the more desperate he was to get back to his own continuum. Here men were milksops, and women little more than shoppers—and bed companions—though this Kim was good at the latter!

  Quietly and slowly, Rockson got dressed. He put on a shirt and a pair of comfortable pants that Kim had called “Calvin’s.” He had figured out an excuse for stepping out.

  The dog watched him with great interest. When Rockson finished putting on socks and sneakers, a whimper escaped from low in the dog’s throat.

  “Friend? Don’t worry, Skippy, I’m not leaving you behind,” Rockson whispered. “There’s an old saying that dog is man’s best friend, and while you don’t look like any dog I’ve ever seen, I’m sure you live up to that, just the same.” The whisper seemed to quiet the scraggly mop of a dog.

  In the kitchen utility closet, Rockson found Skippy’s leash. As soon as the dog discovered he was going to be taken on a walk, he became excited and did a nervous jig on the kitchen linoleum. The disdain was gone—he was Rock’s best friend. Rockson, afraid the dog would bark or make too much noise, quickly shooed him outside.

  The night air was cool and dry. The sky above Rockson was a canopy of black filled with thousands upon thousands of stars. A breeze blowing was fresh and crisp. The whole scene had a serenity that Rockson found quite pleasing and soothing. Even on star-filled nights in his own world, there was still a turbulence, either in the air currents or in the clouds one could see flickering in the upper atmosphere.

  The only thing marring the setting was the infernal mind muzik. It was pumped everywhere, around the clock—there was no escape.

  “C’mon, boy.” Rockson clicked his tongue at the dog, which set off on a happy trot.

  He quickly saw that the dog was not going to work. He’d hoped Skippy would provide him cover if they encountered thought police. When Skippy was no longer necessary, Rockson planned to turn him loose.

  But the dog wanted less to walk and more to lunge after every cat and other night creature that skulked about in the shadows.

  Rockson unhooked the leash and slapped the dog on the rump. “Beat it,” he commanded. Skippy dashed off into the darkened streets.

  Rockson stuffed his hands in his pockets and strolled on, heading toward the city center. He seemed to be the only human up and about.

  Not quite.

  “You there.” The deep, authoritative voice behind him startled him. Turning, Rockson was confronted by a policeman. The uniform of the night patrol was slightly different than that of the day cops. Instead of a mirrored visor, this officer wore infrared night-vision goggles. He had his heavy nightstick tucked casually in the crook of his right arm. Rock also noticed the back tank and flamethrower.

  “Identify yourself,” the officer commanded, approaching Rockson.

  Rockson stood still. “Theodore Rockman.”

  “That’s not proper identification.” The officer’s mouth was set in a hard line.

  His name not a proper ID? Rockson thought fast. Everyone must be assigned a number or code—it would make sense in this controlled society. But what was his? He didn’t know.

  “I live near here,” he said evasively. “I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d take a little walk. It’s a pleasant night, isn’t it?”

  The officer didn’t respond. With his grim mouth and opaque goggles, it was impossible to tell what he was thinking.

  The policeman put a hand to his ear. Rockson guessed he was wearing a micro-headset. He had turned a small knob.

  “Your voice print has been identified,” said the officer. “Theodore Rockman, Number Two-Nine-Zero-Five-Seven, District Thirty-six.”

  Rockson immediately committed the ID to memory. It could save his life.

  The officer continued, “You were released from detention today. Treatment for violence, nonconformist behavior, and free thought.” He stepped closer, peering at Rockson through his infrared goggles. “State your business. Why are you out at this hour?”

  The cop had instantly found his record—a link with a computer? Rockson wondered what else was being instantly analyzed. His stomach was a tight ball of tension. If he got thrown in the clink again . . . Maybe he could say he was walking the dog and it had run away. No. It’s probably illegal to walk the dog without a damned leash. And even small infractions had heavy penalties.

  “The purpose of your nocturnal activity?” snapped the officer.

  Rockson stammered. “I—I said, I couldn’t sleep. I thought a walk would be relaxing—you know, after being in rehabilitation . . .” His voice trailed off. This was sounding stupid. Shit! Why couldn’t he think of something brilliant to say? Then he did think of an excuse.

  “Bishop Pohsib said to take walks if I couldn’t
sleep,” Rockson blurted. “He said it would help.”

  The officer hesitated. He cocked his head, listening to his headset. “You were released by Bishop Pohsib . . .”

  “It’s true,” insisted Rockson. “It’s part of my treatment. I have to walk. Lots.”

  The officer hesitated again, listening to the device in his ear. “Okay, you’re cleared. But keep the walk short, Two-Nine-Zero-Five-Seven. A five-block radius from the house in all directions. And tell your wife to buy number-one strength Tranqua-milk next time.” He pivoted sharply on his heel and marched away.

  Rockson sighed. He waited until the officer was out of sight, then he slipped into the shadows. He could afford no more run-ins with the thought police.

  He continued toward the center city, avoiding detection by at least a dozen rookies along the way. The city was under their watchful eye all night, he surmised.

  In the commercial zone, Rockson passed by the window of a gun store. An iron gate was pulled across the front. A sign informed anyone who was curious that the store was for “authorized state personnel only,” meaning the thought police, holy priests, and others of the Chessman’s violent circle. Another sign warned that the iron gate was electrified. Maybe that was a new policy, because of his break-ins.

  And, to further discourage temptation, a camera was positioned prominently to film anyone caught lingering over the display of weapons in the window. Apparently the authorities didn’t want unauthorized pawns looking at weapons long enough to want one.

  Out of camera range and hidden in the shadows, Rockson studied the storefront. He needed a weapon—a super-weapon like the compound gun he had put together before his capture—but getting one seemed remote. This gun shop was burglar-proof. Maybe he should jump a rookie. But their pistols were junk—twelve-shot Tokarovs. And weed-burners were unwieldy—and not his style. He moved on. The entire area around the gun store was well bugged with sensors to detect a lingering presence. Infrared microcams, microphones, the works.

  Further in toward the city center, he passed what looked like a lump of filthy rags heaped on top of a grate that vented the underground rail transportation to the sidewalk above. Such debris was unusual in the Chessman’s spotless city, at least anywhere near the tall condominiums.

  Then Rockson realized it wasn’t debris at all, but a man dressed in rags and huddled on the grate in sleep. It surprised him, the number of derelicts that were tolerated in the rigid discipline of the Chessman. With police everywhere, the homeless had learned how to look like part of the scene, invisible people. Piles of nothing.

  Rockson didn’t disturb the sleeping man. Perhaps this derelict was really an auxiliary of the police—an unsuspected sentry or spy. Rockson hurried on.

  Soon he was standing at the perimeter of City Hall Square, gazing up at the icy-white spire of the tower that jutted into the night sky. The tower itself was protected by a high brick wall laced with electrical sensor wires. Sentries marched back and forth on a parapet on the other side of the wall, and stood guard in boxes at the corners.

  The grounds also were protected by radar—Rockson spotted the dish antennae. A battery of laser spotlights ringed the wall around the tower, their lights now dead, but ready to turn into blinding beams if a warning was sounded.

  Inside, the grounds were brightly lit, judging from the glow that rose over the walls. The compound had an evil look, and a chill ran down his spine.

  The muzik was particularly strong there, and Rockson had to take a moment to reinforce his resistance powers against its insidious, hypnotizing effects.

  Armed guards patrolled the streets around the compound. The Chessman took no chances, despite the tranquilizing and programming of the population.

  Rockson gritted his teeth. Somehow he would get past the radar and the armed guards, avoid the laser spotlights—and climb the tower of Chessman. One man against hundreds. One unarmed man against an super arsenal of weapons. Who was he kidding?

  Suddenly Rockson’s concentration was broken. He held his breath. What was that noise? A footstep? He whirled, peering into the darkness around him, hearing raspy breathing. His eyes searched the area for the source.

  A low voice came out of the night. “Hey, you, citizen. What do you think you’re doing here?”

  Rockson spotted the owner of the voice. It was a man, short, squat, and hunched over, his face covered with greasy dirt, his body clothed in soiled, torn rags. It was the derelict he’d observed sleeping on the grate—the same derelict he’d met at the city dump. Barrelman.

  Fourteen

  “Get out of the light,” the derelict hissed at Rockson. “They’ll get you!”

  Rockson didn’t move. He stood his ground, not certain whether Barrelman was trying to help him or trap him. After all, Barrelman had suggested the crypt as a place to hide.

  “Get over here into the bushes! Quick!” The man waved wildly at him, motioning him to approach.

  Rockson hesitated, ready to exit at the slightest hint of trouble. He couldn’t tell if Barrelman was armed.

  “Dammit, get over here!” the man hissed more loudly. “You’ve been standing in that spot too long! A few more seconds, the heat sensors will notice you!” He added, “I can help you!”

  Rockson walked toward Barrelman, keeping to the shadows, still wary of a trap. The derelict watched him anxiously, his eyes wide. “Hurry!” he urged.

  When Rockson reached the inky shadows and the cover of the bushes, the man reached out to grab his sleeve. Rockson pulled back. “What are you doing here?” Rock demanded in a low voice. “Did you know I was found in the crypt?”

  “Never mind that now,” said the bum, grabbing at Rockson’s sleeve again and yanking him down toward the ground. “Get down! You’re standing right in the middle of the sensor sweep zone, and if they spot you, we’ll both be dead!”

  Rockson ducked down into a crouch. Barrelman began pulling on him as he crept through the bushes, away from Tower Square. “We’ve got to get out of here,” he told Rock. “We’re pushing our luck as it is.”

  “Wait a minute,” Rockson said, resisting. “To where?”

  The man turned to fix Rockson with an impatient expression. “Look, you’ve got to trust me. I’ll tell you when we’re safe. If you don’t believe me, then go ahead and take your chances with them.” He motioned toward the square with its squads of guards and thought police, then jabbed a thumb at himself. “I’ve seen your bravery and come to offer my help.” He turned and began rustling through the bushes, half on his hands and knees, half in a crouch-walk.

  Rockson followed. One thing he didn’t have was allies. If this shabbily dressed man was on the level, then Rockson would no longer be alone. He’d take any improvement in the odds that he could get.

  The derelict led Rockson through a dark, quiet park, keeping to the shrubbery. Presently they faced a deserted downtown street. Barrelman paused until he was certain there were no policemen around, then did a crablike scuttle to a drainage grate in the street, near the sidewalk.

  He lifted the grate and waved at Rockson to come forward. He slid into the manhole and motioned for Rockson to come and do the same.

  Rockson slipped down into a chilly, dark, damp tube. It was made of steel, with small ladder rungs welded into its side. He replaced the grate with care, fitting it into its notches in the street, then scrambled down after the derelict.

  The tube led to the city sewer system—it was obvious from the rank odor that grew stronger the deeper they went. They descended lower and lower, Barrelman moving swiftly, at home in this environment. Rockson had to work to keep up with him.

  A tiny, dim spot of light appeared at their feet and grew larger, but not much brighter. The light opened out into a web of interconnecting tunnels. Rockson and the derelict dropped onto the floor of the largest tunnel with a splash. A few inches of foul-smelling water sat in the bottom of the tube. Rockson stamped his soaked shoes and planted his feet higher in the tube, above the waterline,
on a narrow walkway.

  The tunnels were lit by bare bulbs connected to strands of wire. The lights didn’t appear to be part of the original design, but crudely added by hand.

  “One of our own touches,” Barrelman said proudly, pointing to the lights. “They’re electrical, of course—dangerous with all this water. But what the hell, the view is nice when you fall off the Board of Life—they say.”

  Rockson wondered who the collective “our” was. Did the sewer system hold some subterranean population? He didn’t have the chance to ask, for his guide was already moving swiftly ahead of him.

  “This way,” said Barrelman, ducking down one of the tunnels to his left. He avoided the trickle of water by straddling it and walking along the curved sides of the tunnel. Rockson followed suit.

  Gradually, Rockson began to realize the enormity of the plumbing system they were in. It was a maze of tunnels and tubes, some dry, some partially filled with water; some lit by the bare light bulbs, some dark. Overhead and along the sides of the tunnels ran pipes of varying sizes. The system was filled with rumbling and rushing noises—the sound of water flowing and unseen machinery in motion.

  One noise he didn’t hear was the hypno-music.

  “Does this stretch under the entire city?” he called out to the derelict. His words reverberated through the tunnel.

  Barrelman stopped and turned. “Yes,” he answered in a whisper. “The catacombs cover one hundred and eighty square kilometers. Don’t talk again, until I give the signal that it’s okay—there are too many vibrations from the echoes here that could be heard on the surface.”

  Rockson nodded and they set off again. The man led him on a confusing path of connecting tunnels. None were marked; how could he possibly know where he was going? What was worse was how Rockson would ever get out on his own, if the need arose. He could wander forever in the maze of sewers, a trapped rat.

  The man dodged suddenly to his right. Rockson followed, and they burst into a cavernous room lit by more strung bulbs. There were people in the room—about a dozen, he guessed—and they all stopped what they were doing and stared at him in silence, eyes wide with uncertainty. There were both men and women in the group, all dressed in the same dirty rags as his guide.