by Ryder Stacy
The torture squad consisted of nearly a hundred men, the most sadistic of the KGB crews, who had been chosen just for their qualities of mercilessness and cruelty. Down below they had their own world. There were no rules, no one to answer to. God help the man or woman or child who set foot through those basement doors. Most were never seen again. The few that were released were mindless vegetables, their bodies ripped, scarred, their brains reduced to functions of stumbling and excreting. Most could hardly talk, or if they could, wouldn’t. They sat in the streets of the American shanty towns, or lay in ditches moaning softly, unable to communicate their private hell.
Fortunately for them, most did perish within the walls. If death could ever be called fortunate, it was here that such a thing could be said of it. For the KGB of 2089 A.D. were experts in every kind of pain that the human body could experience. They studied the ways of pain, the uses of pressure points and blades and electricity and ice and beatings and stretchings and glass inserted in the rectum and broken. But why go on, only those who give torture or feel it would want to know every detail. When death came it was a blessing.
Still, there was one thing that grated on the torture squads. The freefighters. Somehow, their own scientists and psychologists had come up with a psychological conditioning that could overcome pain. They felt the torture, but blocks came on in their minds that permitted no access to the secret information that the KGB wanted most desperately—the locations of the American Free cities. The freefighters would scream and then spout nursery rhymes, the name of their girlfriend, or their favorite food. Even in death they had the last laugh on their KGB tormentors, who thus far had been totally incapable of breaking through their mental armor.
Until the last six months, that is. The number one priority of the KGB scientists for the last twenty years had been to develop some method, some device capable of smashing through these blocks, and now, at last, success was within reach. The Mindbreaker, invented by Dr. Nikolai Chernov, would make the difference. The device used laser beams to actually penetrate the brain tissue and short out the brain block, by slicing certain vital brain connections, producing along the way a pain undreamt of heretofore. As Chernov has said when presenting the first of the devices to Killov, “The rulers of hell itself would be happy to have such a machine. The pain produced by them is virtually infinite. We’ve only used them at the lower power levels and the results are . . . extraordinary.”
And they had been, Killov thought, as he stepped away from the windows of his death palace. Thus far, the KGB had been able to break three captured freefighters and had found the locations of their cities—Westfort, Pragmatic, and Little New York had all been demolished by neutron bombs. Of course, another fifteen captured rebels had been able to withstand the power of the Mindbreaker, letting their brains dribble out through their ears without revealing anything of importance. How they could do it, take the pain, was beyond Killov’s comprehension.
But now the colonel’s greatest accomplishment to date was at hand—the destruction of the “Re-Constitutional Convention,” as the rebel fools were calling it, that was to be held in two weeks. How clever of me to bide my time and not expose my mole—imagine one of my deep penetration operatives sent from Moscow only six months before, able to infiltrate into the very building where the meeting was to take place, supplying furs for the delegates for blankets. Killov laughed out loud. They would all soon be a lot warmer than they had expected. He was glad he hadn’t acted on previous information gathered by another spy who had uncovered a freefighter town only miles from the Convention site—Eisenhowerville—yes, he could have moved against them, but what a measly target—a poor, dilapidated mining town of at most a few thousand struggling rebels, breeding like rats and biting once in a while, daring to steal a little cheese from Red convoys—mostly regular Red Army. No, he had waited, and now—now he would crush the entire leadership of the underground in one fell swoop. Then he could turn all his attention to Zhabnov and his wretched old uncle, Premier Vassily. Destroy them, and Killov would rule.
“You are smart,” he said, addressing the dimly lit mirror that hung across from his desk, “smarter than all of them.” He looked in the mirror with horrified fascination. His face was skull-like, his eyes sunk deep back into their sockets, like murderous snakes about to fly out and strike. His cheeks were hollow black crevices, his body thin, with hardly an ounce of flesh or muscle—a living skeleton. The staff trembled and averted their eyes when they entered, hardly able to withstand the gaze of this living corpse, the man they referred to—when they were sure they were far away—as “the Skull.” His fingernails had grown long and curved, and boils and sores had erupted on his back and arms and legs—sores that never healed but oozed a dark pus, wetting his crisp Blackshirt uniform, creating a stench of rot that never left the eightieth floor.
Yet he felt powerful. More powerful than ever. He couldn’t die, for he had become death itself. He saw it all clearly now, as the drugs hit his system with a burst of manic electricity, filling his veins with energy. I am—the one . . . he thought, as he turned back to the window, seeing the red sun reflecting off the Rocky Mountains like splotches of blood, armed black helicopters passing overhead in perfect V-formation heading off to the west in search of roving rebel bands. Suddenly he understood his role on earth as never before. He was the—what had they called it in the old days—the Antichrist. Death itself, come to claim a world that couldn’t be tamed, except by death. His mission—was to end this world, this place of light—once and for all. To destroy every living thing—forever.
But first he would have to have total power—not just the United Socialist States of America—but the Soviet World Empire. All the world, from icecap to icecap, so carelessly and inadequately controlled by the Grandfather Vassily. Soon the world would be at his feet. “Then I will—I will,” he muttered, his face pressed against the cool glass. He raised his fist in the Communist straight-arm salute, and in it he held the empty vial of Arthovalium. He squeezed it, crushed it in his trembling blue-veined hand. “As I crush this, so I will crush the world. No one in history has been able to do that. But that is why the world was created—why I was born—to perform the final act. The Kalikali cult in India—was it they who believed that a Savior, a Destroyer, would be born and worshipped throughout the world and then . . . the end. Shiva . . . Killov.”
Suddenly a pain shot through his eyes and he closed them tightly shut. His knees grew weak and unsupporting and he fell down onto the dark maroon carpet. A few minutes later, a servant carrying a flask of juice—the only thing he now consumed—walked in and found him, lying there, trembling like an epileptic. Doctors were quickly summoned, and they nervously conferred around the unconscious form, knowing that their lives were on the line. They decided to rush him to an ultramodern medical facility about a mile away in the New Trotsky Hospital, one of the best in the country, if not the world. They took him up to the roof, where his private helicopter whisked him to the facility.
They worked frantically on him, hooking him up to life-support equipment, slamming an IV into his thin veins and shooting in massive doses of vitamins and minerals. He was living off his own flesh, consuming it along with his pounds of pills to fuel his mad ambitions. His body was shrunken down to its core—there was nothing left to consume. But he wouldn’t die—of course not. A drug-addicted maniac he was, and everyone knew it, though not a man would utter the words—but the commander of the KGB was like a river rat and would waste away to pure bone and still live, still carry out his murderous plans. There was a toughness to him beyond the mortal. And though many a man would have liked to see the colonel dead, none was brave enough to do the slightest thing about it.
Except Dragnov, one of President Zhabnov’s four commandos, who had been able to become an orderly in the Monolith’s hospital with forged transfer papers from Petrov City. Dragnov knew of Killov’s drug habit—knew that eventually the Skull would find his way to the hospital, to the proxim
ity of deadly scalpels that could be wielded in stealth. Stealth, the great friend of the assassin—murder required patience. Already it had paid off for Dragnov, sweeping sickrooms, changing bedpans, always smiling stupidly at the doctors and the officers who came in for treatment, blending unnoticed, like a leaf in a forest—beneath contempt. He might escape—he might not—but the moment of highest triumph of the killer would be his. What was there in life except the ultimate achievement of one’s highest goal—in this case the death of Killov.
The Skull was wheeled down the long antiseptic hallways, naked beneath a white sheet, with the IV unit attached to a rolling stand rushing alongside him. Dragnov stood in a doorway, a broom in his hand, as the Blackshirt leader went by. His body smelled like maggoted meat, his head lolled from side to side in pain. And now he is being wheeled in to me, the Ninja thought, barely able to suppress a smile of anticipation. But I must wait . . . wait until later, when he is alone. Wait . . . wait . . .
President Zhabnov lay in his immense White House bed in the Lincoln room with two very young mutant girls from the Southern border region. They were dark-skinned, with long black hair, and they lay atop the obese ruler, who stroked them mindlessly from time to time. Zhabnov couldn’t wipe the smile from his face. He had just been informed by microwave radio from Denver about the illness of Killov and the strategic position of one of his assassins. This certainly was a turn of the tide in his favor. Vassily was much improved and was aligned solidly against the colonel, although he didn’t have the forces to send Zhabnov to help him in finishing the power-mad commander off. But soon—soon—Killov would be dead, thought Zhabnov, and I will be in total control here in America. Never again will the KGB become a separate power force—I will appoint its leaders. And after I prevail against Killov, then it will be time for the rebels. When the Grandfather dies—it is I, his nephew, who will succeed. Then I will run things my way. He turned over on his side, his huge stomach shifting like a beached whale as the mutant girls squealed and rearranged themselves. He slowly drifted off to sleep, dreaming of the death of Killov—and the feeling of ultimate power.
Premier Vassily, Ruler of the All the World, was sitting in a large purple armchair playing whist with his manservant Rahallah—and getting soundly beaten. Ah, was there no end to the talents of this black man? Saving me with his medicines, exposing the Conspiracy of Doctors—and, most of all, keeping me company—the only company I can trust. A black man! The world is an ironic place. The premier yawned and threw down his cards.
“That’s three countries and a hundred cities I owe you for the week, Rahallah.”
“Only two countries and ninety cities, Your Excellency,” the black African said, his perfect white teeth shining out from the ebony face. “You did win two games yesterday.”
“Rahallah, don’t you ever get tired of my company—of the Kremlin? Don’t you ever long for—your—”
“Africa isn’t what it used to be, Your Excellency. There is so much pain and death there—famine—pestilence. And sir, if I might suggest again—”
“Ah yes, your request for a cessation of the genetic experiments being conducted there. Your wish has been taken under advisement. It will happen. Africa will be an independent semiautonomous Black Republic—someday. But first I must consolidate my power over the Empire. Until I do—until Killov is defeated and I can mop up the trouble in Southeast Asia and the Muabir. Then—then we shall see an Africa restored. Rahallah, that is what you want, is it not?”
“Yes, Your Excellency, and I know that you do not lie, but those horrible genetic farms in Kenya producing mutant gladiators for—”
“Trust me. Time, Rahallah, is on our side. Africa had been nearly depopulated—only a few million blacks on the entire continent. A zoo for the KGB and their merciless experiments. They have controlled the continent since the war—with an iron first. Only now is their grip relaxing enough for me to take over—but time, Rahallah—it all takes time.”
“I believe you, Excellency, and that is the only reward I want for my services—a living Africa—my people restored and admitted to the Empire as a soverign Socialist nation.”
“Rahallah,” Vassily said softly, “you have earned that as a reward for your services to me—as the saver of my life . . . I will make a present to you of a free Africa within two years. This, I promise, Ruwanda Rahallah, son of the plains lion.”
Colonel Killov opened his eyes and stared up at the medical lights above him—glaring—burning down onto him like a blistering sun. There was a crying in the pit of his stomach, a yearning.
“How long? How long without my Arthovalium? I need—”
“You must rest, colonel,” said an unfamiliar doctor, leaning down over him. “You had a fainting spell, and fortunately nothing is broken. But if I may say, you will need intravenous—”
“No food—no food,” Killov said, trying to raise his cadaverous body. But it was strapped down. “Why am I strapped down? Who are you? Where are the other doctors?” Killov asked, growing nervous.
“I am Dragnov, colonel, the chief surgeon’s replacement. You remember giving the order for a replacement, don’t you?” the man asked with an insolent smile.
“Unbind me at once—”
“You might fall down again—” the “doctor” smiled. He pressed the stethoscope against the chest that was so hollow and sunken. “Ah, I believe I detect a heartbeat.” Suddenly Killov understood. No regular doctor would be doing this, acting this way. He began shouting for help, screaming out for his guards.
“Soundproof, colonel—an excellent medical facility. My, you’ve been doing yourself in with so many pills, haven’t you?” Killov heard bubbling sounds from behind him. He craned his neck and saw scalpels and scissors being boiled in a preparation vessel on the operating table.
“I need no operation—” The phony doctor smiled as Killov strained at his restraints.
“Oh, but you do,” he said, lifting one of the scalpels from the boiling water and touching the edge of it. “We have to remove all those bad things from your body—you know—a lung transplant—a heart transplant. Strictly routine, though a bit risky—so I’m going to do it myself.” Killov’s eyes widened in their sockets until they seemed too large for his narrow head.
“Going to do it without anesthetic too—as our great leader Zhabnov commanded.”
“Zhabnov?—You’re—you’re—”
“Yes,” the assassin smiled. “Now just relax and we’ll have those unpleasant organs out of your body in no time. Each in turn—first your heart, then your lungs, your liver. Everything will be replaced by these machines. The tubes you see will take over all the functions of your diseased organs. You will stay alive a long time. Immobile. We will remove your spinal fluid. Paralyze you from the neck down by taking out a few spinal discs.”
“I offer you money, riches beyond your dreams. What is he paying you?” Killov pleaded. “I’ll triple it—quadruple it.”
“Money? Money is not the concern of the revenge hunter, Killov. Only to do one’s mission. To remove you as a force in the world, and to do it the most painful way I can imagine. I think I’m going to succeed on all counts—don’t you?”
Killov was experiencing sharp withdrawal pains in his stomach. He found it hard to think. His strength was sapped—he was in the restraints—the ring! Suddenly he remembered his large gold ring on his right hand. He looked first, making sure that the assassin wasn’t looking. The ring was still there. If he could just move his thumb over the top, open the nozzle. There. Dragnov turned from the sterilization pot and headed over to the struggling commander of all the Blackshirts. He didn’t look so terrifying right now. He looked ridiculous—a squirming worm. He leaned over to make the first cut on Killov’s chest.
The colonel pressed a small almost invisible button on the side of the ring. A hazy bubble of gas shot up into the assassin’s face. He fell back coughing, his eyes widening in shocked surprise. He threw his hands around his throat. He cou
ldn’t breathe, and he collapsed on the floor about ten feet from Killov. The KGB commander tilted his chest to the side and the scalpel slid over into his hand. He carefully cut one of his bonds free and then quickly the other. He rose slowly from the hospital bed, his body a mass of aches and pains. The fool had thought it would be easy. But it wasn’t—not to take Killov.
He walked over to the still gasping man on the floor. The assassin’s eyes were open, but he seemed unable to move.
“Gas—nice, isn’t it? Doesn’t kill—just paralyzes the muscle system. But you can still feel pain. Oh yes, every little bit of it shall be exquisitely experienced.” Killov reached down with the scalpel and began cutting, s-l-o-w-l-y.
Nine
Rockson looked at the three people who were to accompany him on the long march to northern Wyoming and the Convention. They all stood next to their hybrids, strong sturdy beasts, chosen for their pure physical power and endurance, now loaded to the hilt with supplies—weapons, sleeping gear, tents, medicine and gourds of water. Out in the middle of nowhere, even Dr. Shecter’s water-gathering moisture collectors were pretty much useless unless you wanted to wait twenty-four hours for about a quarter of a pint of water. Rock had picked Chen as his number two. It had been a hard choice, but the Doomsday Warrior had decided that he had to have the absolutely toughest man, bar none, along for the ride—especially since he would be nursemaid for a forty-two-year-old woman and a fifty-five-year-old man. Not that he had anything against age. In fact, Rockson respected both of them immensely. He had read several of Dean Keppel’s treatises on the formation of free thought in a free society and found them fascinating—a reaffirmation of the power of freedom, both for survival and for the evolution of man on earth. If only the Russian people could get hold of books like that, Rock thought. But of course their leaders ruled the Russian masses just as severely as they did the American slave workers. Power wants only one thing—to rule. And insane power like the Reds had made them want to rule everything—every man, every creature, every last ant on earth before their desire for control would be satiated.
