by Ryder Stacy
“Somehow I don’t think these boys, as big as they are, are man-eaters,” he laughed over to Detroit who had a grin on his face as well, as he let his Liberator swing back around his shoulder.
“Unless they try to beak us to death,” the black Freefighter answered. “And that would be mighty bad for your image. Doomsday Warrior, hero to the masses, Russian-fighter et al, eaten by a thanksgiving dinner.”
Neither of the men contemplated adding turkey to their menu. Post-nuke war turkeys were, as everyone knew, poisonous.
Five
The next eight hours of nonstop riding was, Rock thanked God, uneventful. The mountains grew taller and more tree-covered. At last, as the sun rose over the late morning sky, Rockson saw the three mountain peaks forming a triangle that meant Century City was just a few miles off. They came in from the south, toward the main entrance of the city. Even miles off Rock could sense the hidden guards watching them, reporting forward that visitors were coming. When they were about a half mile from the base of Carson Mountain, below which Century City had been built, guns suddenly poked out from trees all around them.
“Slow down there, pardner,” a voice yelled, not showing the face that spoke. “What’s the password?”
“Tootsie Rolls and Eisenhower,” Rockson yelled back up, holding his hands up to show he wasn’t hiding anything nasty.
“That Rockson,” another voice scolded the first. “What kind of games you playing, asking him the password? Go ahead Rock, we ain’t gonna shoot.”
“I’m supposed to ask every damned body,” the second hidden guard replied angrily. “That’s standing orders. Even if God himself came down for a visit, I’d ask him too, what’s the password, Lord?”
“Easy boys, don’t get to fighting over me,” the Doomsday Warrior laughed as he started slowly forward again. “You should challenge everyone. What if the Reds did plastic surgery on someone to make him look just like me?”
“See, I tol’ you,” the one who had challenged Rockson said with a bragging tone to the other. “You don’t get by this checkpoint unless you know the damned password.” The two hidden Freefighters continued their goodnatured squabble as Rock and Detroit moved forward. They came to the base of the mountain which towered above them, solid granite rising thousands of feet with snow-capped peaks. The wall facing them looked solid as matter could be, but as they approached it, and gave the password again, what appeared to be a vine and matted-vegetation covering swung back. The mountain opened up for them like Rock was Moses parting the Red Sea. They rode inside, as more guards appeared, all very heavily armed. There was always tension at the several entrance points to the city. It was the underground Freefighters base’s only real weak point, and though they hadn’t been penetrated, it was always on the minds of all the guards.
They entered the outer chamber and rode their ’brids over to a tethering post. Two stable workers, both teenagers, took their ’brids to lead them off to the stalls. Their eyes were wide with awe. For as familiar a figure as Rockson was in his own city—where he had been brought up since wandering there as a teen when his parents were killed—he was still treated with an almost godlike reverence by many of the inhabitants.
It felt good to be home. The familiar faces and bustling activity as the underground city went on its daily routines invigorated Rockson.
Century City had come into creation over a century before, when the atomic war had leveled much of the planet. All those vehicles traveling through an interstate tunnel near Denver had been trapped when a nearby nuke-explosion sealed both ends of the tunnel. The avalanche had saved them from extermination, had hidden them from the outside world, and had given them a chance to survive, to begin to rebuild even, out of these ashes. Among those who had survived were every kind of American, men and women with expertise, from doctors to engineers, carpenters to agricultural specialists. And they had quickly gotten their act together.
Over the last hundred years the original tunnel system had been expanded a hundredfold with multilevels, tunnels going off in every direction. A miracle of the spirit. Man can do when pressed. They built living sections, science chambers, libraries, gymnasium, hospitals, thermal powered generating stations. With the coming of Dr. Shecter, scientific genius, some thirty years before this day, the city had really taken off. Shecter had produced one scientific marvel after another. Everything from hydroponic gardens, to an array of synthetic materials, metals, weapons that were far more functional than anything the inhabitants had before. In fact, the production of the Liberator rifle, shotpistol, and all their varied interchangeable accessories became C.C.’s major export to the other hidden Free Cities around America.
Faces smiled as he and Detroit passed by, walking into the main thoroughfare of the city. Men and women rode tractors, small industrial vehicles, carrying all kinds of raw materials and supplies for the numerous small industries within the city. They had to walk almost a quarter mile to reach the Council Chamber, and even as they both approached it Rockson could hear the debate going on inside.
Nothing had changed, that was for sure. Screams, shouts, sounds like lions had been turned loose on Christians could be clearly heard from a hundred feet off, even on the other side of the thick oak doors.
“I think not everyone is in total agreement,” Detroit said with a smirk as they came up to the chamber. There was a coffee urn outside, with a young girl with long auburn pigtails, wearing a blue jumpsuit, handling it. She handed them each a steaming cup of coffee, really synth-beans grown in hydroponics, but not at all bad once you got used to a slightly chemical taste.
Rockson took a deep swig, not even caring that it burned his lips. He knew it was going to be a long day. He wasn’t going to get a moment to rest his throbbing butt from the ride. But that wasn’t exactly unusual. Something had been hurting somewhere for just about as long as he could remember.
He breathed out and stepped into all the chaos, anarchy, and a hell of a lot of noise. Rockson recognized all the usual players and bit players. The Council Chamber was a large curved affair modeled after the old U.S. Senate, with flags on the wall, paintings of Lincoln, Washington. And like the old government as well, there were hawks, doves, owls, and everything in-between politically. Rockson knew them all well. They had done battle many times. Sometimes he had been on one side of the aisle, sometimes the other. And it had been frustrating as hell. Yet he, along with every other man there, wouldn’t have changed it for the world. It was democracy in action. Free men debating the issues. That’s what it was all about. It sure as hell didn’t look or sound too pretty most of the time. But it was freedom, a commodity most men in the world no longer possessed even the crumbs of.
“I tell you we can’t interfere,” Councilman Conyers was saying. He stood at the podium on the stage at the front of the wide semi-circular chamber. “It’s in the Constitution that all the Free Cities signed just three years ago. No Freefighting city shall interfere in the internal affairs of another. If there’s a single bond between us all, between every rebel city in America—it’s that. We work it out ourselves. And I say we leave Pattonville alone to sort out its own problems.”
“Preposterous!” a voice screamed from the crowd.
“Madman!” another echoed in.
“Asshole!”
The comments rang out from around the chamber as Council President Saunders, just recently elected to the post as the last president had suffered a heart attack—after eating radioactive fruits from outside the city—slammed his gavel down. He ordered the assemblage to order.
“I tell you again, let whoever’s at the speaker’s platform speak. You’ll get your chance. But if there’s more interference I swear I’ll have the sergeant-at-arms toss you right the hell out of here.”
Rockson smiled and shook his head from side to side. The sandy-haired man was trying hard enough, but he didn’t know the energy level in here, once passions were aroused. For immediately the place was in an uproar again. It took a good two minutes for it to di
e down. The Doomsday Warrior made his way down the aisle, hardly even noticed by the assemblage as they were so intent on screaming and cursing out one another.
“Now Councilman Misko, it’s your turn next to speak, I believe,” the Council President said when he could once again be heard. The elected rep of Rockson’s section of the city came to the platform. Rockson had voted for the man himself in the last election, not agreeing with everything he said, but enough to feel satisfied that his two cents were being represented fairly.
“Thank you, honored fellow council members and citizens of Century City,” Misko said, stroking his long black beard. Aside from being a council member, he was the city’s only functioning rabbi and catered to the Jewish citizenry of the city, of whom there were over a thousand. His black gown stood out as did his long beard and hair, symbols of the Orthodox Jews going back five thousand years.
“I understand that emotions are running high. And perhaps there is reason for them to.” Misko spoke patiently and with a scholarly air that made most of the audience quiet down at least a little. “This is a highly charged issue. Indeed, the autonomy of each Free City is perhaps the paramount guarantee between us all, a bond, a covenant. Otherwise some city would be marching on another all the time—to get its own ideas, its beliefs in the ascendancy. However,” he paused to let his words ring out. He wanted to have his words be felt on this heated night. “This is not a case of disagreement. There was a coup d’etat. The duly elected government of Pattonville was overthrown. The people had no choice in the matter. I therefore say that we must intervene. We have no choice. To not do so would be to betray our democratic heritage.”
Cheers and boos rang out and the madness continued for another minute or two before order was restored. Next to speak was Colonel Rath, head of Intelligence. His hawk-nosed face was even more somber than usual, long and drawn, almost white. He spoke with tense tight lips, clearly affected by what had gone on in Pattonville four hundred miles to the north of C.C.
“Ladies and gentlemen, what we face here is an unprecedented situation. Never in the history of the Free Cities has there been a successful coup. Never has the military taken over lock, stock, and barrel, as it has in this situation. But even worse, if our intel reports are correct and I believe we can vouch for their accuracy, General Hanover used gas to gain control. And he’s planning, through the use of several types of nerve gas he and his science teams have perfected, to begin to take over the other Free Cities. This is military dictatorship, not democracy. In fact we have reason to believe he may have already taken over two or three small cities near Pattonville—test cases, as it were. It’s hard to get a clear picture because all those who enter Pattonville haven’t come back to their cities again, including a C.C. trade mission of a dozen men. Clearly we face a threat, a terrible threat. In my opinion the most pressing challenge since the Great War itself. And it’s from our own kind.” He paused and looked over the crowd.
“My recommendation is an immediate recon team head up there fast, survey the situation and report back to Council. And I think speed is of the essence. If we delay on this one—there may not be a chance to stop it later. Remember what happened with Hitler? Every day he got stronger. General Hanover is in the same situation. Hanover is a—”
“Fascist!”
“Pig!”
More accolades of anger rang out from around the chamber. Rockson listened with increasing alarm. It didn’t sound good. Ordinarily he would have stood with those who would never interfere with another Free City. But this was different.
A reporter from the Globe-Gazette sprang to his feet, and shouted, “Rath, we’ve heard rumors circulating around the city that President Langford and his daughter may be captive in Pattonville. Can you comment on that?”
“We know that Langford was using Pattonville as his home base,” Rath replied dryly. “Whether or not he’s there right now or in what capacity, I’m afraid I can’t tell you. Part of this whole damned mess is, we don’t really know what the hell is going on up there. We know that trading convoys from three different Free Cities headed up there and never came back. That’s what made us start wondering. You tell me . . .” He paused again. “That’s why in my opinion we need immediate intelligence gathering on the situation. It’s of paramount importance. That’s my recommendation. Get better intelligence—but don’t take action until the recon team returns.”
There was more raucous debate the moment he left the platform and Rockson watched it all. It lasted for another three hours and he had to down two more cups of coffee to make it through the haranguing. His mind was already elsewhere—on Kim, Langford’s daughter. They had been lovers once, and he could see her soft face, her twinkling eyes, smell her flesh as if it were yesterday He berated himself for dwelling on just her, when the fate of a whole city, perhaps many cities, was at stake. But so it went. In the heart the personal is always paramount over the concerns of the many.
At last a vote was taken as the clock hit midnight. It was close. 51 to 49—for sending a team up there to see what the hell was happening. Recommendations were asked of Rath as to just what kind of team should be assembled.
“I think we all know there’s only one man for a job as hazardous and important as this,” Rath said with a grim smile as his eyes rested on the man with bloodshot eyes sitting in the front row sipping coffee. “As much as I should probably toot the horn of my own staff’s abilities, I know this is as much of a potential combat mission as straight intel gathering. I recommend— Ted Rockson. I say he should assemble a team of his choosing and set out tomorrow for Pattonville, authorized to do what he can to alter this serious situation.”
The council again voted, this one a lot quicker vote than the other. And the motion carried by a wide majority. Rock’s abilities were widely known. All eyes were on the Doomsday Warrior who wearily raised his half-empty cup of black coffee.
“Salud,” he said in a half whisper. “Fucking salud.”
Six
General Hanover’s commando teams left Pattonville at two in the morning before the moon had completed its curve across the purple-tinged night sky. The two-hundred-man force was jittery, extremely nervous. It was only their second attack on one of the neighboring Free Cities; their target was Truman Town, some thirty miles to the east. The small rebel city of only eight thousand was known for their intricate baskets and pottery.
It was a perfect test for their developing tactics of warfare under General Hanover, who had his own dark ideas about how to conduct war against his fellow man. But then, Hanover believed that what he was doing was right, even justified under the iron hand of God. And such men are the most dangerous, those who kill with the word “God” on their lips. For they know no bounds, and have no morality other than what they hear the dark angels whispering in their ears.
“We’re behind schedule,” Lieutenant Trancer shouted to his men as they rode along on hybrid horses spread out on a dirt road behind him. He couldn’t afford any foul-ups on this one. His predecessor, Major Smoth, who had trained the commando forces, had screwed up the first actual combat operation—the takeover of Phillipsburg, a very small Free City some hundred miles to the north. General Hanover had chosen it because of its small size, only three thousand souls, and because it was isolated, without any radios or telecom equipment. The people of Phillipsburg believed in a primitive way of life. An easy target! But the good major had nearly managed to screw it up anyway, gassing a quarter of his own men, letting several dozen of the villagers escape before they were tracked down and eliminated so they couldn’t warn the rest of the Free Cities. And then, worst of all, he had somehow botched the operation completely, releasing large amounts of the wrong gas—and the entire village had been wiped out. Every man, woman, and child exterminated as if they never existed.
Lieutenant Trancer checked his watch in the moonlight. They were back on schedule, thank God for that. The bungling major wasn’t seen again once the combat squad had returned to Patto
nville. The lieutenant wasn’t going to allow himself to meet the same fate. He knew that if General Hanover’s plans came to fruition, those in on the ground floor, men like himself, would rise to the top, would be rulers of America someday soon. He had to be smart, careful, and daring, all at the same time.
He waved the men on and rode around to the back of the convoy to check the gas canisters. Two wagons with special ball-bearing shocks and padded wheels were in the rear of the contingent with teams of specially trained “non-bolting” ’brids in their traces. They couldn’t take any chances with the deadly CX12 nerve gas. One slip with that stuff and everybody would be corpses faster than they could say “shit.”
“How’s it going, men?” the lieutenant asked the drivers of each wagon. “Any problems at all? And I mean at all. Anything making funny noises, any canisters shifting? Anything? I’d rather you told me and we called the whole mission off than have another disaster.”
“No problems, sir,” both drivers responded. They knew the capabilities of the gas and weren’t exactly about to mess around with it themselves. The entire commando force wore toe-to-hairline rubberized suits and breathing apparatus which they had swung back around their necks. The gas had been watered down slightly so that theoretically it couldn’t be absorbed through the skin but had to be breathed in. The Pattonville science team had done wonders with gas. Using one basic molecule taken from an old canister of gas from before the great war, they had managed to twist it, bend it, and reshape it so they had four gases. Four levels of deadliness. Level one knocked men out and destroyed their individuality—turned them into kind of zombies, level two knocked out and killed in minutes. Level three killed in seconds, through breathing. And level four—just a few molecules of it on the skin burned out the nervous system within ten seconds.
It was all for the greater good, the lieutenant repeated to himself silently as he rode back up to the front of the line. All for the greater good. With the Free Cities in their loose conglomeration of alliances, nothing was ever going to happen to change the political shape of America. Anarchy reigned. And with anarchy nothing could evolve. General Hanover had been chosen to change things. A great man at a turning point in history. And the lieutenant had been with him from the start when the general took over Pattonville. The coup had been the lieutenant’s most thrilling day in his life. His loyalty for the general was absolute. It better be.
