Doomsday Warrior 03 - The Last American

by Ryder Stacy

  The drug-crazed madman moved his gaze onto the next doll—Zhabnov, with his fat stomach and bulldog face. What a fool, Killov thought, his eyes burning down on the figure with a fire of darkest hate. Since the assassination attempt, Zhabnov had risen to first place on Killov’s death list, with an honored place closest to the edge of the thick slab of marble.

  And finally—Rockson—or at least the likeness of the only photo the KGB had ever found of the elusive rebel. Even this had been blurred, but the twelve-inch doll did bear a certain resemblance to the Doomsday Warrior—the same square, chiseled face, the same heavily muscled body—even the streak of white down the center of Rock’s black hair. Rockson—the man who had scarred Killov’s face and escaped the colonel’s grasp.

  But he would have to wait. Killov lifted Zhabnov and held him tightly and squeezed. “Feel that, fat fool,” the colonel muttered under his breath. “This is how you will die. Slowly.”

  The waiter stood speechless just inside the doorway, terrified to come in or to leave. Killov suddenly noticed him, but smiled. He seemed pleased now—after the dolls. A nod from the colonel, and the waiter placed the food before him, putting it down on the marble top without the slightest click.

  “That will be all,” the Blackshirt commander said, and Georgi left as fast as he could without stumbling. He didn’t know which he’d see first—a nervous breakdown or a firing squad.

  Premier Vassily, Ruler of All the World, was feeling better all the time. Well enough to attend the annual military parade. Rahallah wheeled him out to the viewing stand in front of the Kremlin, where hundreds of officials and generals paid their most obedient respects. Millions of Russians gathered along the route cheered as he stood for the first time in a year and waved wanly. The parade began. Before him the armed might of the Soviet Empire passed in review. Tanks, nearly a hundred feet long, shook the platform of marble and steel, emblazoned with a huge slogan in front: ONE WORLD AND IT IS RED. There were fifty or so overcoat-clad elderly men on the balcony with the premier. Those Politburo members who had survived the recent purges. Absent and dead were KGB supporters of Killov, who had been eliminated. Never in his life had Vassily held such a grip on power in the Soviet Union. Yet never, he thought sadly, had he had so little control of the outlying Empire—America in particular. After a while he grew tired of waving at the parade and sat down motionless in the warm afternoon sun.

  Rahallah kept back in the shadows, unobtrusive, the servant. Still, even to have a black on the platform—the others wondered. Rocket-launching trucks, each with ten missiles on top, came by by the hundreds, then slightly larger missile trucks with a single nuclear-tipped ICBM—neutron—to quell dissent in the colonies of Asia, Africa and America. Then came a thousand rumbling army trucks filled with the women soldiers conscripted from the southern provinces. They were lovely, Vassily thought—all blondes. The genetic rebuilding of Russian stock was going well—with, ironically, American genes being bred in. The strong, virile, radioactive-immune American women who were being sent over for breeding were having their effect.

  Then came the stomp-stomp of tens of thousands of goosestepping Red troops, their Kalashnikovs held rigidly in front of their chests, pointing straight up. The MKVD police passed in review, as did the border patrol and the newly enlarged and lavishly uniformed Imperial Guard—Vassily’s private army. So many uniforms, medals, blending, melting together . . . the premier dozed off in his wheelchair. When he awoke the parade was nearly over—thousands of agricultural workers were marching with shovels and pitchforks over their shoulders.

  “Rahallah,” the Grandfather said, “wheel me out of here and into the private garden of the Politburo—the Park of Heroes.” The black servant did so, pushing the premier down the long ramp strewn with flowers, through a large door and into the golden gate of the park, where birds from all over the world sang inside immense aviaries. There were birds of paradise along the path that ran through the sanctuary, also snowparrots and indigo doves, cardinals and blue-jays, magpies and pheasants—all chirping and clucking in a cacophany of feathered song. Ducks and geese, with huge black eye markings, impossibly long-necked swans, their wings tied back, gliding back and forth on the heated artificial pond.

  Here, everything was in order. The Garden of Heroes belied the destruction of the outside world. Vassily could occasionally hear the crowds cheer some display or other as the parade floats came by. But other than that it was as if he were in Paradise. The warm artificial sunlight coming down from myriad hidden lamps, the gardens, the trees, and the birds. Vassily removed a book from under the blanket covering his lap.

  “Ah, Rahallah, let’s sit here by the water fountain and you read to me—this—” He handed over the book. The African took the well-worn novel, Alice in Wonderland, and began.

  “T’was brillig and the slithy troves did . . .” The peacocks walked slowly about the garden, gazing curiously at the two figures. They would move and then freeze, as if posing for a painting. Their iridescent plumage rippled with a thousand streaks of fire, reflecting the light, their impossible large and multicolored tails swayed back and forth as they walked. As if acting out some sort of unknown ritual, they began circling the two men, in large, almost perfectly round paths. Three, four, then five of the rainbow birds joined in walking slowly, endlessly, around the Premier of All Russia and his black servant, who stood amidst the rose trellises reading sonorously in the strange May sunshine.

  Sixteen

  Rockson and the freefighters pressed on, at last making fairly good progress. After the quake, the megapedes, and the women warriors—an occasional sabrelion or cloudburst seemed like a picnic. Rock knew they were getting closer to the convention site. He could see evidence that careless travelers had passed this way—tracks on soft ground, a cigarette butt here and there, indications of a campfire that hadn’t been buried. It made him angry—wouldn’t they learn? How was America to survive if people were careless?

  No matter, though—there were no drones about, no signs that the Reds had even surveyed the area—too close to the supposed home of the Glowers for them, which was rumored to be to the west, over a range of jagged mountains. Where the Glowers were the Reds didn’t dare show their faces. Rock wondered if the legendary creatures really existed at all. He had never seen them in all his travels. But there were doubtless many things he hadn’t seen. Every nook and cranny of the new America contained some strange life form, some hideous or beautiful mutation.

  They hit mountainous terrain again and moved at a medium pace along winding trails through thick woods—pines and oaks that towered into the sky. The air was cool and moist, filled with the fragrances of a thousand flowers. It made them all feel good, after so much sun and desolation, to reenter the living beauty of the country. Even the ’brids snorted and threw their heads around as they walked, frisky, playful.

  They had just climbed up one rise and were heading down into a narrow valley when Rock saw the glint of metal in a tree. He reached for his pistol and aimed it at the reflection but didn’t fire. He edged the palomino over to the pine and looked closer—some kind of camera.

  Suddenly a voice boomed out, tinny, electric, coming through a hidden speaker.

  “Stop! Do not proceed any further or you will be destroyed! State your name and purpose for being in this area.” Rock bolstered his gun and smiled up at the camera. They had made it.

  “Name’s Ted Rockson. We’re the delegation from Century City.” He waited, as the camera whirred and slowly scanned the rest of the party.

  “Proceed slowly. Take the trail to your left—not your right. Do you understand—to the left. Do not stray from it by one foot.”

  “Got you,” Rock said, saluting the camera. He pulled Snorter to the left and led the rest of the team along the almost invisible path. His heart was suddenly pounding—what was it—the nearness of Kim? After so many months—she would be here, and they would be together again. He didn’t know if he could stand their ever parting
again.

  They followed the pinecone-strewn trail for about a mile through denser and denser woods. They’d picked the right place for a big powwow, Rock thought. No way the Reds could sneak in here.

  “HOLD IT RIGHT THERE,” a gruff male voice yelled out. A female voice followed from the other side of the trail, hidden.

  “Yeah, freeze mister. You speak English?” Rockson pulled the reins tight and Snorter froze in his tracks.

  “I’m Ted Rockson. These are all delegates from Century City.” He leaned around, pointing to the others, who shifted a little uneasily atop their ’brids at all these invisible watchers. A man stepped from behind a tree, holding a Liberator on full auto. He came forward as five other guards appeared from out of nowhere, guns drawn, and surrounded the party.

  “Just all keep your hands high,” the gruff, red-faced guard said, moving cautiously forward. “You got the letter?” the man asked, stopping several feet from Rock, the muzzle of the rifle pointed right at his chest.

  “Yeah, here,” the Doomsday Warrior answered coolly, not wanting to startle the man. He slowly reached inside his pack and extracted the Langford letter. The man took it, stepped back, and held it up to the random shafts of sunlight streaming down through the canopy of trees.

  “Yeah, it’s okay,” the man said, handing the letter back with a thin smile. “We put a special marking on ’em. Can’t see it except if you hold it up to the light. It’s okay,” the man yelled to the others, who let their guns drop. “Looks like this here really is Ted Rockson, damn!” He took off an army-type cap and slapped it against his leg. “Goddamned Ted Rockson—can you believe it?” The rest of the guard crew walked over and shook hands with Rock and the other freefighters. Their eyes were wide with excitement at actually meeting the legendary Doomsday Warrior.

  “I sure am glad you didn’t hit any of our booby traps,” the red-faced guard said. “Didn’t they tell you about this whole place being wired since the spring? You’re supposed to come in over the North Ridge—where a regular trail has been opened.”

  “Never got the message,” Rock replied.

  “Well, anyway we’re proud to greet you in the name of the convention. You just keep going thataway ’bout half a mile—you’ll find the place.”

  “Much obliged,” Rock said, pulling the reins of the big ’brid, which ambled off in the pointed direction. They passed through several creeks and a few low hills and then saw it off in the distance, barely visible through the thick forest—a tremendous log cabin, bigger than any Rock had ever seen, a good sixty feet high and nearly two hundred feet long. Other smaller cabins were nestled in the deep woods around it and the place bustled with activity as people carried food, wood, clothing, in all directions. They rode over to the front of the huge cabin and tethered their ’brids to a post where about ten other mounts were already tied. They had just stepped down when two men emerged onto the wide front porch of the cabin and walked over to them.

  “Howdy,” the taller one with a cowboy hat on his head said, extending a hand, “I’m Dreze, the official welcoming committee around here. And I take it you’re Ted Rockson and crew—our video monitor’s been tracking you for hours.”

  “I’m glad to see you’re so well equipped here,” Rock said with a laugh. He introduced the rest of the team and Dreze took them into the cabin. There were a few dozen delegates lounging around in the large anteroom, drinking coffee and talking. They each wore different outfits, from drab gray shirts and slacks to wildly outlandish looking getups with capes, long swords, even a turban. The many peoples of America—all brought together for the first time since the war.

  “Did you have a rough trip?” Dreze asked, pouring them all cups of ebony-black coffee.

  “You could say it was pleasant at times, unpleasant at others,” Rock replied drolly. As he talked he kept looking around—for her. Suddenly from behind his head a pair of silky arms sprang, and soft hands covered his eyes.

  “Guess who?” her unmistakable honey-sweet voice asked. Rock spun around and threw his arms around her, lifting Kim a foot off the ground. Then he put her down and stood back, just wanting to look at her—that long, blonde hair, those doe-sized green eyes, her alabaster skin. They came together again and held each other for long, sweet seconds. She barely stood as tall as his chin. He was lifting her to kiss her again, when—

  “Ahem,” a deep voice intoned off to the side. It was Charles Langford. “Could you put my daughter down for a second and shake hands with an ugly old politician?” Langford said with a broad grin. Rock let her go and turned.

  “Mr. Langford,” the Doomsday Warrior said softly. “It’s a great honor for me to meet you—both as future president and as the father of such a miraculous creature as Kim.”

  “Ah, you flatter me Rock,” Langford said, standing nearly as tall as the freefighter, a purple toga tied with gold sash covering him from head to foot. “But I’m just a crusty old talker—while you’re a fighter, risking everything, every day. Kim told me how you rescued her and then had to fight a veritable giant when you were both captured by the Crazy Alligators.”

  “Just did what had to be done,” Rock said, self-effacingly. From out of the corner of his eye he suddenly sensed Kim looking at him sternly. Did her woman’s intuition tell her about the encounter he’d had with Barbarah?

  “You’ve been a good boy, haven’t you?” she asked, squinting her perfect eyes at him.

  “On my honor,” Rock said, holding up his hand in the ancient Boy Scout signal of truth, his other hand with crossed fingers behind his back.

  Langford personally introduced Rock and his team around the room, remembering everyone’s name and city—expert politician that he was. But Kim and Rock kept stealing sidelong glances at one another, barely able to contain themselves until they could be alone. At last they were able to slip free and she took him to her bedroom, a small triangular-shaped room on the third floor of the “cabin,” with just enough room for a big old brass bed with a feather mattress.

  “You’ll stay here with me,” she said, grabbing hold of him and pulling him down onto the soft mattress. “Let’s . . .”

  “But the others—I have to—”

  “It’s all taken care of,” she said, stopping his words with a deep kiss. They kissed and caressed for a long time, both of them in a dreamlike state of bliss. It felt as good as it had before—even better after their absence. They were like magnets of opposite charge, pulled toward one another with explosive intensity.

  He undressed her perfect body and then removed his own dirty field clothes. He felt her body straining, arching to meet his on the soft bed. He found her moist and giving to his manhood. They made love rhythmically, ever so slowly, and both were nearly silent until he could hold it back no longer.

  “Kim, Kim,” Rock whispered, “I love you.” She grabbed him even tighter, kicked her legs out high and wide, and they moved together for a long time, her eyes rolling back in ecstasy. The intensity of what was to come built and built, then her whole body began a long, shuddering vibration that exploded in climax at exactly the same moment he did. She let out a gasp of pleasure and wrapped herself around the only man she had ever loved.

  When they at last were still, both dripping with animal perspiration, blissfully exhausted, he said. “It feels so good to be inside you. A bit of heaven on this hellish earth.”

  “Not just a bit, Rock—all of it, all of heaven, here between us and in us. I love you so much,” she looked at him, her eyes filling at the overwhelming emotions. In a short while their passions grew again and he entered her. She moaned, panted, urged him on with unintelligible half-utterances of passion. This time he took her more fiercely, wanting to possess her, every part of her. He held her and slammed deep into her receptive body, taking her plaices she’d never been. Her cries of pleasure grew louder, more frequent, and finally broke into short, exultant screams of ultimate pleasure. Then his steel hardness pushed deep into her and he released, again just as s
he did, their bodies melting together, inseparable, indistinguishable.

  She sighed deeply when their breathing had returned to normal.

  “I hope no one heard us—I mean—I was—”

  “They will know we make love with beauty and passion,” Rock smiled at her. “They will wish they could be here—wish they could be me.”

  “Never, Rock,” she said. “You’re the only man I will ever love. The only man who will ever again touch me. Until the day I die.”

  Seventeen

  Never had so much depended on so few. The very future of America—the fate of the planet itself—depended on them, what they did, how they voted. The delegates assembled in the main meeting hall that had once been the trophy room in the more glorious days of Americana. Presidents and power brokers of the twentieth century had once come out here to hunt and relax and make deals. Teddy Roosevelt’s name shone down from a brass plaque on the thick log wall, beneath the head of an elk, its immense horns jutting out over the room. John F. Kennedy’s name rested below the head of a dark and ferocious-looking boar with tusks that looked as if they could slice a man in half with a single twist of the piggish head. The brass plaques read like a Who’s Who of Twentieth Century Life, with the heads of the animals each had bagged staring down with dull eyes from everywhere around the great hall—moose, coyote, wolf, grizzly, mountain goat . . . proud specimens of their species preserved forever on the walls, even if their line had long ago become extinct or had been mutated into monsters. And beneath each head, the name of the hunter—Rockefeller, Eisenhower, Cronkite, Steinbrenner, DuPont—now as dead as the creatures they’d stalked.