Doomsday Warrior 03 - The Last American

by Ryder Stacy

  “You did the right thing, my friend,” Rockson said, looking at the mess below. Even Rock, who had seen just about every conceivable kind of violence in the world, was repulsed.

  “A peaceful man dying such a hideous death,” Rock said, shaking his head slowly.

  “Unfortunately, the good we do doesn’t necessarily protect us from evil,” Chen said softly, feeling a strange tightness in his gut from the deed he had just committed. He knew it was right—but it didn’t make him feel good, and he would have to live with that image forever.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here,” Rock said, reloading his death dealer with shells. Below them, the megapedes filled the entire cavern floor, hundreds of them, slithering over one another in maddened hunger, eating the chunks of blasted insect that now lay everywhere, sucking from the puddles of blood. The two freefighters loaded the supplies on their shoulders and started the long climb up, Rock first. He had barely gotten ten feet when the rope gave and he plummeted back to the ledge, landing on top of Chen. Both men fell to the rock floor.

  “What the hell,” the Doomsday Warrior said, jumping to his feet. They looked up the fissure opening that led to the surface. About fifty feet above, three megapedes were slithering down the wall, one of them with a big piece of rope still stuck in its jaws.

  “Great,” Rock said, in utter disgust. “This has really been a good afternoon.” He raised the pistol as the three carnivores, jaws snapping, came rushing down at their prey. He fired twice and the three exploded off the wall as if trying to fly. Two fell down to the cavern floor, the third next to Rock and Chen, its bodiless head still snapping in a frenzy. Chen kicked it from behind with a powerful blow and it tumbled down to join its comrades.

  “Things are starting to get a little serious,” the ninja warrior said, his black fighting suit now stained and splattered with bright red blood. He reached behind his back and took out the remaining star-knives he had been carrying. “I’ve got more upstairs, but only eight left,” he said to Rock. “You?”

  “About fifteen cartridges.” They both looked down on the scene of carnage below. The megapedes were still in a mad rush to gobble up their ex-brothers, but both men knew that as soon as they were through they’d come hunting.

  “The walls of the fissure are too smooth to climb without ropes,” Rock said, staring back up at the light far above, beckoning, out of reach.

  “Gotta try,” Chen said. “All we have to do is get up about fifty feet—the top of the rope is just hanging there.” He grabbed the bloody rope that had fallen when bitten in half and wound it around his waist. “I’ll get up there, Rock, and tie them together. Here!” He handed Rockson the eight remaining explosive star-knives. “Don’t spend them all in one place,” he said, and rushed to the fissure wall. He leapt up, hugging his body to the smooth surface, searching for any sort of handhold. The surface here was different than in the cavern below, it was more like the ground up top—smooth, slippery. Chen had trained in climbing every sort of surface—from trees to solid rock cliffs. But this stuff was like climbing on glass. He got up about fifteen feet and then slowed almost to a crawl. He took out his fighting knife from a hidden pocket and smashed away at the crystalline wall. The blade was supertempered magnasteel, but it didn’t even scratch the fissure wall. Somehow Chen managed to squeeze up another ten feet, his arms and legs straining with the pressure of holding on to indentations not more than an inch deep. The sweat from his exertions was starting to make things even more slippery. He reached up for the tiniest of protuberances about a foot above him and set three fingers on it. But as he pulled himself up, his hand, wet with moisture, slid free. He fell backwards as Rock watched in horror below. But, like a cat, Chen was able to twist his body all the way over in midair, and he landed on his feet, rolling instantly to absorb the twenty-foot fall. Without even stopping he came to his feet, as Rock rushed over.

  “You all right?” the Doomsday Warrior asked.

  “Just my ego, Rock,” Chen said, brushing himself off in disgust. He wasn’t used to failure. “I hate to say it, Rock, since I’ve been a believer that anything can be done if you put your mind to it—but that wall is like climbing a piece of ice. I just don’t know—” Rockson handed the star-knives back and both men looked at each other.

  “I think this is it, pal,” Rock said.

  “Somehow I think I would rather have gone out fighting the Reds—but—I guess Mr. Death doesn’t give you much of a choice about how you want to go.” Suddenly there was a big commotion below. The chow was all gone, and most of the megapedes hadn’t had their fill. They began fighting one another, the victors quickly digging into the heart and brain of their foes. The squealing sounds rose to a crescendo as the blood-coated arthropods stood on their ends, raising their heads in the air and twisting round, searching for more food. Their jaws opened and closed, the four razor-sharp mandibles coming together with a sickening snap and then opening again. Their tiny yellow eyes, stuck deep back in brown-scaled heads, looked for the slightest trace of motion. Then suddenly, remembering or slowly sensing their presence, the entire swarm of the killing horrors turned toward Rock and Chen, their mandibles focusing up toward the ledge. Nearly two hundred of the megapedes, their fronts raised up, their thousand legs wriggling in a wavelike motion, looked up at the two freedomfighters. Their swordlike jaws began snapping quickly as black saliva poured from their mouths.

  “I think they like us,” Chen whispered.

  “The feeling’s not mutual,” Rock said, holding his shotgun pistol in one hand, his sixteen-inch Bowie knife in the other.

  “Listen, Rock, I hate to be melodramatic,” Chen said, looking down at the ledge floor and then quickly up again. “But if things get bad—I want you to—”

  “I’m saving two,” Rock answered calmly.

  “I wonder how our Ms. Shriver is going to do—?” Chen said, placing the remaining eight star-knives between the fingers of his hands—ready for combat. Rock couldn’t help but smile.

  “She is going to be surprised when we don’t come up—ever.”

  “Well, her fate will doubtless be better than ours, whatever it is,” Chen said. “Look, they’re coming, Rock.”

  The megapedes had made up their minds to head up to the second floor and see what goodies awaited them there. They slammed down onto the rock ground and, en masse, came straight at the fissure wall, countless tendrily legs whipping along beneath the long brown tubular bodies. When the first wave was about twenty feet from the foot of the ledge Chen let go with two of the death stars, spaced about thirty feet apart. The front line—about fifteen of the things exploded into the air, sending a rain of parts over their advancing ranks. This time though, the rest of the snapping army wouldn’t stop for a meal. They stepped over the heads, the twisted spines, the guts of their dead, and came right on.

  Again Chen released two and again a dozen or so of the megapedes entered the next world for killer bugs. But the rest were totally oblivious to the continuing destruction of their own. They were either too brave or too stupid to care. Rock figured the latter. The ninja warrior shot down another pair, to the same result.

  “I’m down to two, Rock,” he said, holding them out. “You got your two?” He motioned with his head at the gun. Rock nodded silently. The squealing and slurping increased frantically below them. Not being able to get to the two was driving them mad. They drove ahead, wave after wave.

  Suddenly a rope dropped from above between their shoulders and dangled, whipping around as if someone was climbing down it.

  “What the hell?” Rock said, spinning around to look up. About halfway up the fissure entrance, a shape was rapidly descending to them. Another rope fell from the darkness and a second shape as well. From above a voice yelled down, barely able to be heard above the din of the megapede army.

  “Hey man, the cavalry’s here.” It was Detroit, Rock knew that voice instantly. How could they be— He let the thought die out in his head as he heard the killer
bugs climbing the wall to the ledge. Chen leaned forward and threw his last two blades straight down and then threw himself back. The explosion shook the entire ledge, knocking about a dozen of the things off the wall. But as they fell, others took their place. Chen backed off as Rock raised the .12 gauge pistol.

  A brown head appeared over the top, jaws reaching forward, snapping ready to close on anything. Rock pulled the trigger and it flew backwards as if shot out of a cannon. Suddenly there were two loud explosions about fifty feet away on the cave floor. Flames shot everywhere in a circle of about twenty feet. The megapedes caught in the fire instantly burst into flame, wriggling wildly and tumbling end over end. Detroit—throwing phosphorous grenades. Two more of the most beautiful pineapples Rockson had ever seen came flying down from above them and blew up, creating a bug bonfire in the center of the cavern, now brightly lit by the rising flames of the burning dead.

  Detroit came down on the ledge next to Rock, slamming down hard in his thick combat boots. He wore only a U.S. Army tee shirt and jeans and two belts of grenades around his broad black shoulders.

  “How the hell are you?” Detroit asked, laughing, and put out his hand for Rock to shake.

  “Never better than right now,” Rock said, a huge grin on his tanned rugged face. “But how the hell did you—?”

  “Can’t talk now—sorry,” Detroit said, ripping off two more of the grenades and tossing them into the mess below. Suddenly Archer appeared on the second rope, the seven-foot tall mute, almost falling on top of Rock as he hit. Rock was flabbergasted. The giant of a man took his crossbow from over his shoulder and quickly loaded it with a large tipped arrow from his quill. He fired at one of the far walls, where scores of the things were running to escape the blaze. The arrow dug into rock and went off—burning pools of napalm spread out in every direction, enveloping the squealing insects. Now—as stupid as they were—they knew something was up. Instead of killing they were being killed. They pulled back in terrified retreat, the first time they had ever had to run. They disappeared back inside their little tunnels, some of them burning with napalm on parts of their bodies. Now there were four of the putrid bug fires in the cavern, crackling and turning the would-be meateaters to black dust.

  Detroit heaved down another four of the firebombs, two at a time, and then stepped back from the brink. He turned to Rock and Chen and beamed. Rockson holstered his gun, his body relaxing for the first time in hours.

  “Where’d you drop in from?” he asked Detroit, as Archer, satisfied that enough killing had been done, walked over to the group. The mute looked happy and proud that he had been able to be of such service to Rock, who had saved his life.

  “Well, after you left Century City, the rest of the team and I got together and felt that you just wouldn’t enjoy the full pleasure of your trip without our company. So McCaughlin, Archer, and I followed you from a distance, figuring we’d be your ace-in-the-hole, when and if you needed us. I know we’ll get hell to pay for it when we get back—but—” he shrugged his shoulder.

  “Remind me to tell you to follow me all the time,” Rock said, slapping the black freefighter on the shoulder. “And McCaughlin—he—?”

  “He’s up top, Rock,” Detroit said, putting two grenades he had pulled back onto his bandolier. “He was a little too hefty to make it down the ropes. So he’s taking care of Ms. Shriver and cooking up a storm. He said he knew you’d be hungry after you were rescued.”

  “Not this time,” the Doomsday Warrior said, reaching for the rope back to the surface. “I don’t think I’ll eat for days.”

  Thirteen

  Charlie Whiskers sidled up the narrow gulley between two towering rock faces and stopped dead in his tracks as he saw the reflections of guns glinting from above in the afternoon sun.

  “Hold it boys,” the bearded trapper said, waving his hands in the air. “It’s me, Charlie Whiskers. Remember—I was here a few weeks ago? I got them hides you all was askin’ for.” He spat out a large wad of chewing tobacco and looked around, patting his ’brid mule, which was covered way above its head with beaver, muskrat, and gold coon pelts. The Red spy had been able to weasel his way into the convention site weeks before with Pete and O’Grady, who were finding out if they would need furs for the delegates. Atkins, head of supplies for the meeting, told them to bring back thirty or forty thick hides that could be used for blankets—and, half drunk, the trio had excitedly set off to fulfill the biggest order of their careers. Charlie had waited until they had trapped the right number, and then, as his two “pals” slept, he slit their throats and buried them deep. The game was ending—there could be no losers left around—only winners.

  Charlie Whiskers raised his hands high and spat out another gob of thick brown spit. “All right boys, you got me covered good. Now, I come all the way up from the Valley just to bring these here furs.” He pointed to the loaded-down mule, which looked none too pleased by its heavy cargo.

  “Your man, Mr. Atkins, I think it was,” Whiskers went on, addressing his invisible watchers, “he ordered these dang things. Now come—a deal’s a deal.” He spat again and firmly stood his ground. His buckskin jacket and pants hung loosely on his body, making him appear nearly as wide as he was tall.

  Two men emerged from thick bushes about fifty feet up the rocky slope, their guns still trained on Whiskers. They looked him over carefully.

  “Who sent you?” the taller guard asked, his face dark and deeply lined from his years in the sun.

  “No one sent me, gosh dangit,” Whiskers half yelled, slapping his hand in frustration against the mule’s side. It jerked and kicked out its back feet in startled fear. “I’m delivering an order. I tell you, I came here two weeks ago and talked to your supply man and he made a verbal deal with me. Said just bring ’em around and I’d get paid in bullets, knives, maybe a few bottles of hooch, too.” He licked his lips and winked at the two freefighters, one of nearly a hundred heavily armed guards who surrounded the Convention Ranch. The two men looked at each other and then back at the grizzled old trader. He had to be all right. No Red could look or act like that. The men let their guns drop slowly and their stern faces relaxed as they waved the fur man forward with their hands.

  “Come on, ol’ timer,” the darker one said, “we’ll buy your furs.”

  “Well now, that’s more like it,” Charlie Whiskers grinned from ear to ear, revealing three missing teeth that had been surgically removed by dental surgeons back in Moscow. The teeth were waiting in a jar in a subzero chamber, awaiting his return, when they would be reimplanted in his mouth.

  Whiskers started down the long, winding gulley trail, pulling and cursing at his mule. “If you get some of that hooch,” the shorter guard said, dressed all in white to reflect the harsh sun, “don’t you forget to stop here on the way out and share a little.”

  “Won’t be forgettin’, oh no, won’t be forgettin’ at all,” Whiskers laughed. He pulled the mule on as they wound their way along the ancient creekbed for nearly a mile. Colonel Kozlovsky was beside himself with excitement. He had done it. He had infiltrated the highest-ranking, most protected of all freefighter enclaves. At this very moment, their top leaders, their so-called president, would be coming. Let them gather—he would bide his time until the trap was full, then he would spring it. He would rise to the very top back in Moscow after the total annihilation of the collective leadership of the rebel forces—perhaps even the infamous Rockson. The two-hundred-thousand-ruble price on his head would buy the Colonel a virtual mansion on the banks of the Volga. And he knew just the place he wanted—he’d seen it years before. A statuesque Georgian, with high spires and four floors, a swimming pool outside. It had belonged to a commissar from prewar days and now stood nearly empty, used by KGB brass for occasional orgies. But with his new wealth and power from this mission, the Colonel was sure he would be able to swing it his way.

  At the end of the gulley he came to a large field of pink and orange daisies and dandelions, and th
en thick woods. At each new terrain guards stopped him and challenged his right to enter. In every case his disguise and hill talk, his wads of chewing tobacco, fooled them all. They had all seen Russian agents before, but they had been obvious and quickly disposed of. This was a new breed of infiltrator, with whom they had no familiarity. An infiltrator who walked ever deeper into the very heart of the rebel camp.

  After nearly two hours of zigzagging trails and directions from guards he came to a mountainside covered with towering pines. About five hundred feet up sat a tremendous log cabin—once a hunting resort lodge, in the old, more pleasure-filled days of America. He crossed a brook and then went through the final maze of trees surrounding the Convention Hall. He pulled up into a thick grove of vines and branches. He looked around, and, seeing no guards, reached below the mule’s packbelt and pressed a small transmitter to “on.” He leaned over and spoke in a whisper. If anyone was looking, he was just adjusting the pack animal’s load.

  “This is Deep Red Seven,” he said in Russian. “I have made contact. Tonight I will give you the exact coordinates. They are coming. Soon they will all be here, just as we thought. Ready the neutron weapon. Prepare to strike.”

  Fourteen

  The freefighters pushed on. It took nearly three days to get across the earthquake-fissured land, as they had to move as if in a maze to find connecting pathways from section to section. It would have taken even longer, but after thirty-six hours the land began closing again, as if healing itself. The chasms shrank to fissures, then cracks, everything drawing back together to its original shape.

  “I swear it’s alive,” Detroit said to Rockson, the two of them now taking the lead, with Archer and Detroit, then Ms. Shriver and Chen, following behind, spread out over about a hundred feet.

  “The earth—the goddamned earth. It’s like a wound closing and sealing itself. Look, it’s already flattening out and turning into that glasslike surface again.”