Doomsday Warrior 03 - The Last American

by Ryder Stacy

  Colonel Kozlovsky had chosen the North Central U.S. mountain people for his focus of study and had been given numerous videotapes of Americans from that part of the United States, which had been taken by KGB operatives over there. He studied their mannerisms, their accents, their particular style of humor, the clothing they wore—furs and hand-sewn and crocheted shirts. He studied it with a vengeance, graduating top of his class, with honors in nearly every one of his “subjects.” He was awarded nearly ten medals—big brass things that weighed nearly half a pound apiece. He had been sent over to the U.S. six months before and had slowly worked his way north, into what had once been the states of South and North Dakota, now a vast wilderness of life and death, of thick forests brimming with life, and of long, open plains inhabited by but a few stubby cactus for hundreds of miles. The colonel, calling himself “Charlie Whiskers” and sporting a long, reddish-black beard, got the know of the land and slowly began making friends with the few other hunters, trappers, and farm people he ran into. He seemed like a nice enough fella, they thought. Only a few noticed some thing just a touch strange in the way he said certain words—but hell, everyone was crazy or had radiation fever these days. And Whiskers was always nice enough to offer strangers a few big gulps of the strong brew he carried in gourds tied to the back of his brown spotted medium-sized hybrid horse.

  Finally Whiskers had met up with Pete and O’Grady, who had taken an instant liking to his quick wit and foul mouth and his ability to drink both of them under the table. Traveling with them, he had been able to move everywhere and was instantly accepted, since the two scroungy hunters were local characters. He had heard talk that some sort of great convention was about to take place—a meeting of all the top freefighter forces. And lately a lot of ’brids had been traveling the roads late at night. Something was definitely up. He had to make his move. This could be the biggest coup of his life. If he could be instrumental in the capture or destruction of such a collection, including possibly even the infamous Ted Rockson, he could be—even—commander of the KGB someday. He would have to push his timetable up. Make things happen, take more chances. Find the convention . . .

  Ahead of the three insult-hurling men a small farmhouse came into view—a Freedom Homestead, as they were called. A few cows, a field of rye, inside the farmhouse a kind of second-hand general store with everything imaginable hanging on the walls. From ancient pots and pans that looked like they’d cooked a million meals to ammo for the many different kinds of weapons the mountain people carried. And of course the store was noted for its homebrew—some of the most foul-tasting, gut-wrenching wonderful stuff this side of the hot zones. The store attracted people for miles around, not just to obtain a knife or a delectable can of tuna fish for an engagement or a wedding, but also as the gathering place for the region.

  Around the store men sat on buckets and logs, playing cards and swapping tall tales. Inside, several of the mountain women admired a new dress that had been dug up in an old attic. Pink with white frilly ruffles around the hem and sleeves. In the back of the place, known only as “the Store,” kids played roughhouse with one another, pretending to be Reds and freefighters and taking turns doing in the Reds over and over again. The area was long ignored by Russian patrols—there was nothing worth destroying here. The Soviet Empire, although claiming total control of the United States, was in reality in control only of its Fortress Cities, and small bits of surrounding land. Once into the open areas, the hot zones, the mountains, the Reds would only move in big military convoys. So in this region of the U.S., at least, the people were free to move about and live meager lives as they wished. No small feat in the America of 2089 A.D.

  The three trappers dismounted, tethering their ’brids to a long knotty post in front of the store. They were swarming with gnats and scratching all the way across the porch.

  “You two back here again?” a voice yelled over from one of the tables the other mountain men were playing cards at. “I thought a bear et your hide last week. Leastin that’s what we all heard.” Laughter broke out around the weedy open ground dotted with nearly thirty locals.

  “He et us,” Pete yelled back. “But he sure as hell spat us back out once he got a good taste.” He slapped his thigh and gave out with a big mouthy grin, showing the many gaps in his half-toothless jaw.

  “Hey who the hell’s that?” questioned a big buckskin-dressed man, pointing to Colonel Kozlovsky.

  “That there’s Whiskers. Charlie Whiskers,” O’Grady said. “Good man. Been hunting with us, knows some real good tricks—even I didn’t know.”

  “Like what?” the buckskin man asked sarcastically. “I ain’t seen a good trick for a lone time.” He eyed Whiskers suspiciously.

  “Like this,” Whiskers said. He took out a small curved glass lens that fit snugly into the palm of his hand. “Just a piece of glass, my friends,” he said, holding it up and showing it to the seated men who looked up with a slightly scornful interest. “But it’s more than that.” He walked over to a piece of half-rotted log that sat just in front of the porch and held his hand about three feet above it. He focused a narrow beam of light from the sun’s burning rays down onto the top of the log. A pinpoint of light, no larger than a fingernail and white as starlight seemed to glow super bright for a second, and then smoke began to rise from the spot. The seated men craned their necks for a better look. Suddenly the smoke turned into flame, and the top of the log began burning on several inches of bark.

  “Well, I’ll be,” the buckskin man said, suddenly interested and friendly. “A firestarter—and so easy. Does it work off the moon too?”

  “No, my friend,” Whiskers said with a laugh. “Just sunlight, I’m afraid. All the bugs haven’t been worked out.”

  “I’ll buy one,” a big, fat, swarthy-looking man with large warts covering one side of his face spoke up off to the side. “How much you be wantin’ for that?”

  “Sorry—not for sale. I need it for myself. These are hard to come by, let me tell you. But I’ll tell you what. Next time I find another one, I’ll sell it to you. How about that?”

  “No, I want that one,” the swarthy man said, rising from his snapped and broken wicker chair. He was large, nearly six-ten, with tremendous bulk—obviously one of the head honchos of the tribe. He walked slowly over to Whiskers, swinging his wide hips from side to side, letting his hands dangle down at his sides as if waiting to lash out with a sudden thunderous blow.

  “I got no quarrel with you,” Whiskers said, as the man’s distorted ugly, wart-covered face loomed into view. He knew the man was strong, but the colonel thought he looked soft as well. Intimidated everybody just by his size. Kozlovsky had been trained in fighting of many styles during his KGB schooling. But he couldn’t show it here. Somehow he’d have to beat the guy so that it almost looked like luck.

  The swarthy man suddenly rushed at Whiskers, reaching his thick hand out for the lens. Whiskers leaned to the side, then unleashed a kick at the man’s groin. The second he made contact he pretended to awkwardly fall backwards. They both lay there in the dirt—the mountain men clutching his testicles, Whiskers, crying out “My back, hurt my damn back,” as he squirmed around on the ground.

  “Will you look at that,” one of the men laughed. “They plumb knocked each other right on their own asses.” The whole group of men joined in laughing and howling. It was mountain humor at its finest. Whiskers slowly rose, followed by the swarthy one a few moments later. They eyed each other suspiciously. Whiskers could see the big man felt a lot more cautious now.

  “I’ll tell you what, my friend,” Whiskers said with a disarming smile. “Instead of fighting, why don’t we try some drinkin’ instead?” The big mountain man’s face slowly lit into a smile, as he realized not only did he have a way out of fighting this very tough man, but he was about to get drunk. He stuck out his hand.

  “Name’s Fargus. Sammy ‘Little Boy’ Fargus. You can see why,” he laughed, putting his hands over his gargantuan sto
mach.

  “Well, I sure am lucky I got that dumb kick of mine on you—otherwise I’d have been mincemeat for sure.

  Fargus looked down sheepishly. “I wouldn’t a hurt you too bad,” he said.

  Suddenly from out of the cabin stepped Zeb, the owner of the establishment. He carried a huge shotgun, double-barreled, that was nearly as long as he was tall. And he stood taller than Fargus, at seven-one.

  “What the hell’s going on out here,” he yelled out, stamping his foot down on the porch. “I could a swore I heard a flock of them Russians landing.”

  “Just Fargus whipping up some trouble again,” Pete said, one foot on the steps leading up to the front porch. Then Zeb’s wife or mistress, or whatever she was, it was never exactly clear, appeared. She walked through the door with a slow, animallike grace. Whiskers couldn’t have been more shocked. She was—beautiful. One of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen. Young, she had long straight black hair, shiny and well-groomed, a full set of strong, pearly teeth when she smiled—and a face—like an angel, Porcelain-complexioned, delicate mouth and nose and round, doe-sized eyes.

  “Her name’s Jackie,” O’Grady mentioned to Whiskers. whom he saw staring at the vision of loveliness. “And you best be on your best behavior with her. He’s a madman about her,” he said, pointing to Zeb. “Still got a piece of my hide missing from the last time I looked too close in them eyes over dinner and Zeb took a damn whip to me.”

  “You’re an Indian,” Whiskers said loudly. “Besides, to stare at another man’s woman was wrong, even for anyone.” He hoped, by feigning respect for Zeb’s woman, to gain his favor. He referred to the fact that Pete had revealed one night when they were all nearly in a drunken stupor—that he was a half-breed. Pete had been ashamed, he had told the colonel, who listened intently, always absorbing any information that could be useful to him. “They don’t like Indians too much around these parts,” he had said. But with the beard and long hair falling down over Pete’s brow and ears, and his dark sun-coloring, it was virtually impossible to tell.

  “And you’re a filthy old horny mountain man who’s about to get his most personal property cut right off his damn body,” Pete shot back.

  Over a dinner of cornbread, potatoes, and freshly killed buffalo, the three hunters plus Zeb and his beautiful woman, Jackie, talked and drank. The colonel waited until everyone was slurring their words and looking through dulled eyes before steering the conversation to the local activities of the freefighters.

  “Sure I seen our great freedom fighters,” Zeb said. “You kidding? For weeks now they been coming through Butler Pass. All riding like hell, all wearing different type clothes—like they was coming from all over the whole damn country. Headed up over the ridge and down into the Five Valley region. Must be planning a big attack or something. Though what they’d attack up here is beyond me.”

  “Hush now!” Jackie said, passing Zeb another full draught of beer. “Suppose these men are spies for the Reds—they would tell.”

  “These men?” Zeb laughed, a booming roar that made the mirror behind them shake. “I known these two fellas here for more years than there are snar-rattlers in these hills. Now this guy here,” he said, pointing drunkenly toward Whiskers, “this guy I don’t know.”

  “He’s been traveling with us for a long time,” O’Grady said loudly. “He’s a good man, a damned good man.” He slammed his fist down on the table, making all the plates and glassware jump up about an inch and then fall shaking back to the stained white linen covering.

  “And I’ll tell you something else,” Pete said, leaning over close to Zeb’s ear. “He can shoot like a goddamn Daniel Boone.”

  “I’ll bet he can’t shoot half as good as me,” snarled the tall host. But now they were all in their element, challenging, posturing. Where Charlie Whiskers came from and how long he’d actually been around were suddenly lost in the drunken haze of the evening.

  They set up a bottle on top of fence post about a hundred yards away. Whiskers won the coin toss and shot first. He got his Winchester .30 lever-action rifle and sighted up. He fired. The bottle danced a bit from a close miss but didn’t break. Zeb lined up the muzzle of his double barrel with the bottle and fired. The bottle disappeared instantly into a mist of shards, spinning and whistling off in all directions. Zeb looked over at Whiskers with an ear-to-ear grin.

  “I guess I won that one,” he said, with a gleam in his eyes.

  “That you did. And fair and square,” Whiskers replied softly. Let the fool think he had won. Colonel Kozlovsky knew he could easily have shot the bottle in half. But now Zeb had beaten him. And a man feels nothing but friendliness toward a man he has beaten. Whiskers would be accepted now. He would be able to get deep. Very deep. Into the very camp of the freefighters. Then he would signal his superiors through a minitransmitter cleverly concealed beneath his ’brid’s stomach saddle strap. Death would visit these parts soon. All the locals and their wives would die along with the freefighters. Death would rain from the sky—nuclear clouds of fire and hell—and in this swirling maelstrom the freefighters would be forever destroyed.

  Three

  When Rock came to, he was being carried on the back of a galloping ’brid. Detroit leaned around, “Easy partner, almost there,” he yelled over the sounds of the mount’s hooves drumming across hard stone. The next time the Doomsday Warrior regained consciousness he was being taken through the first of Century City’s outer security chambers. The pain was intense—the clotting poisons of the Blood Spider’s venom had coursed through his system and reached his heart. It felt as if everything around him was closing in, crushing him. Even his own bones and muscles seemed to squeeze tighter, like some kind of boa constrictor trying to strangle its own body. His lungs wouldn’t fill, no matter how hard he tried to expand them. He gasped for breath. For the first time in his life his own body was his enemy. It was his own flesh that would kill him, not taking commands from the brain, closing down into eternal stillness.

  Above him the smoothed rock walls of Century City slid by in a haze. His eyes kept rolling up in his head. He had the vague sense of people running everywhere around him. Then he was being lifted onto a cold surface—even in his feverish brain he knew it was an operating table. He tried to open his eyes, but red and green fluorescent tubes burning brightly down onto his naked body made him quickly close them again. A sharp pain in his arm as an injection slammed in. Then a darkness that seemed to close in like the mouth of night itself, unbreachable, unending. He heard a voice—so familiar. Shecter! Dr. Shecter was here to assist in his medical treatment. Somehow it made him feel better. There was some sort of hope if the old man himself had come. The Doomsday Warrior sank deeper into the swirling blackness, until he was finally hit by a wave, a wall of utter pain that took him under.

  He came to, then under again. Back and forth from the world of the conscious and living to the world of the mindless dead. He felt something being put in his arm—an IV unit. His eyes half opened and he saw a bottle of clear liquid marked Anticoagulant dripping into his arm. He was being wheeled down a long hallway and then into an elevator.

  “Easy there, Rock,” he heard Dr. Shecter say from above him. The words were like echoes down a long, squeezing tunnel. “Is the pain bad?” Rockson’s lips formed the word “Yes” with difficulty. His lips twitched as he tried to say more. He recognized the spasms himself. He had seen them on a man who was dying from a spider bite a year before. It was a late stage—the blood clots having reached the heart. He could feel his entire body numbing out, his respiratory system, nervous system, all his involuntary functions fading out. Yet even though he couldn’t move arms or legs, he still, from time to time, had clear thoughts—I’m dying—these are my last minutes. He didn’t feel fear, just a certain sadness that he wouldn’t get to see Kim again. Suddenly he heard Dr. Shecter’s firm deep voice break through the poison-induced semicoma.

  “Rock, Rock, if you can hear me. There’s still a chance.
Things are critical—you must know that. We’ve given you everything we have—antitoxins, decoagulants, even a new drug we’ve been experimenting with up in the lab—increases the effectiveness of other drugs a hundredfold. This stuff is amazingly potent. Now, it’s up to you. Your mind, your heart must reach in and fight the poison. Remember the continuity of the universe—the balance—that can be restored if you help our medicines. Remember . . .”

  Rockson nodded ever so slightly. “He’s understanding,” Dr. Elston said excitedly. “Quickly,” she snapped to an orderly, dressed toe to nose in a spotless white medical gown, “One-twenty-five cc. of light-specific IV, a fifty-fifty solution—” She brought the needle to his chest. A deep thrust right through the cavity into the heart muscle. He felt a ripping pain—so intense. Then a voice as the needle exited.

  “Rock, if you can hear me, I’ll tell you what we’re going to do.” The man must have been yelling, but Rock could only dimly make out the words, as if someone were yelling at him through a hurricane. “The Red Light Laser will be directed by the Hologram Projector at your heart—at the coagulated blood that’s forming there. You must help us. Send your blood cells there to break it down, think of the obstruction crumbling, melting into nothing.”

  The Laser was wheeled over—the X3A, a long tube of white ceramic with a half-billion bolts of Specific Spectrum power behind it. It emitted a humming sound as they placed the ruby-tipped eye against his chest. They turned it on, and he felt the rays enter like an ice pick made of fire—then a burning heat in his heart muscle. Rockson closed his outer sensations down, avoided becoming trapped in the pain and concentrated on the vessels of his body, on the energy flows of his system being opened and everything being whole, functioning in harmony with itself.