by Ryder Stacy
An advance scout came riding back just as Lieutenant Trancer reached the lead of the line.
“Sir, sir,” the man shouted breathlessly as he reined in his ’brid. “We’re there. It’s just over the next ridge. I surveyed it for a good five minutes with my binocs—and nothing. A couple of guards up in some trees near the town entrance, asleep. Could hear their snores a hundred yards off. There’s nothing to stop us. I guess the bastards aren’t exactly expecting an attack.”
“Good, good,” Trancer laughed, slapping the man on the shoulder. He was suddenly feeling in a good mood. This attack was going to come off without any problems. He could feel it in his guts.
He led the team up to a grove of trees beyond which the town lay fully exposed like a naked woman in her bed of dark trees. The squads had been through this all before as they quickly broke down into their combat formations. The gas canisters were removed and strapped to the backs of the dozen men who would be carrying them in.
He gathered the officers of each of the commando squads and went over the plans once more.
“Now Alpha team comes in from the east, Beta team from the west, Omega team from the north, and Epsilon from the south. Got that?”
“Affirmative,” the men replied with enthusiasm.
“We’ll commence the gas sweep at exactly 6:00 A.M. Synchronize watches. Any attacks by guards or someone out taking a leak who happens to have firearms on them—take them out, hard and fast. Use your silenced Liberators,” the lieutenant said. Century City had shipped five thousand weapons to the Pattonville military over the last two years. Little did they know what their weaponry was going to be used for!
“No questions—let’s go, men. And remember, the future of our God-ordained campaign to reunite America under General Hanover begins here tonight. This is an historic moment.” He turned and led his own unit, which was going to capture the government seat of the town and its comm equipment. The two-hundred-man force split up silently and quickly spread out in a circle around the town. Trumantown was a scatter of houses, hidden in thick woods, with high overhanging trees to protect it from the Red spy drones.
Lieutenant Trancer could feel his heartbeat speeding up by the second, sweat pouring out within his sealed uniform. “Masks down,” he commanded his elite twenty-man team. “We’re going in in twenty seconds.” About fifty feet to his right he heard the telltale hissing of gas being released. As the fates would have it, they had hardly gone a hundred feet down the main street of the town when three drunken farmers came walking down the center singing, with their arms around each other. They looked surprised and then terrified as they realized something was up. But the lieutenant’s silenced .9mm Uzi spoke whispers of death and the three tumbled to the dirt street; bloody bags of flesh.
There—he had killed already tonight. Had been the first to break the seal of blood. It was a good sign. The men were coming in from all sides now, spraying out their invisible gas into the air from every direction to make sure it permeated all the houses, the underground dwellings. Already a few stray dogs and cats had keeled over and were lying there motionless. Good, good, it was all working according to plan.
The lieutenant raced down the main street with his team scouring the one and two story log buildings to make sure no one was trying anything funny. But not a face appeared at a window. They reached the combination town-seat and radio-center, where the single man on duty was already slumped over in his seat, earphones still on.
The lieutenant allowed himself a smile of complete self-satisfaction. This was going to be a snap. They’d merely have to round up the unconscious government and police officials, liquidate them—and then when the town woke up in a few hours with headaches the likes of which they’d never felt before, they’d be in for a big surprise.
“Sir, sir,” his right hand, Sgt. Wilkers said, nervously as he bent over the radio man. “This man—is dead.”
“What the hell do you mean—dead?” The lieutenant screamed as he walked over the few yards and grabbed the communications man’s shoulder. The body fell over on its side, the eyes wide open, the pupils dilated. The skin was ghostly pale, lips waxy yellow. It was a Level Four reaction!
Trancer suddenly felt his stomach turn over a few times. The man shouldn’t have died from the gas that had seeped in through the windows. Level One gas would never take out a young person in good health! This muscular fellow looked like he lifted oxen for exercise. Or had. Why was he dead?
The lieutenant ran out the door and into the street. There were bodies in several doorways. He rushed to the nearest house and inside, his gun at the ready. But there was no need for it. Everyone inside, six people and their two dogs, were slumped over. A check of their pulses proved they were dead as doornails. Rigor mortis was already setting in.
He rushed out now, feeling hysterical. It had all been planned so perfectly. It was impossible that anything could have gone wrong. But it had, terribly wrong. Each house told the same story. Death, fast and painful, many of the corpses with blistered red skin, their eyes and tongues exploded from their bodies.
“You idiots,” he screamed at the gathered gas teams who had lined up in the main street. “That’s not Level One gas in those canisters—it’s Level Four! You bastards screwed this up. We’re all dead men now!”
“But sir, it says Level One, CX12 right on the outside of every canister,” one of the gasmen screamed, near breakdown. They all knew the consequences of what had just happened.
“I don’t give a shit what it says, asshole,” the lieutenant screamed back. “Just look around you.” And it was easy enough to see in the dawn’s early light that all were dead. Every man, woman, and child. Every pet and livestock. Every insect and microbe for hundreds of yards as well had died. The lieutenant felt tears well up in his eyes. It was all ruined. The whole town dead. The second time it had occurred. His glorious future was down the drain. The general would not suffer such fools, no matter whose fault the gas-loading had been.
“Come on,” he said wearily as he turned and headed back down the main street toward the waiting ’brids some quarter mile off, upwind of the gas holocaust. “There’s nothing for us here.” They walked off slowly, every man whitefaced, knowing they would join the town of corpses soon enough.
Seven
As the gas assassins were returning to Pattonville from their mission of total death, Rockson lay in bed in his small cubicle in one of Century City’s multi-levels. Next to him was Rona Wallender, naked as a bluejay and sleeping happily with a big smile on her face. She had knocked softly, then loudly on the door around two in the morning after Rockson had retired to his room. His head had been swirling with troubled thoughts about the mission he would soon have to embark on. He hadn’t really wanted to let her in, as much as he usually craved her firm, sexy body. But she had been persistent, banging on the steel door, until several other sleepers down the corridor came out and told her to shut the fuck up. Which to Rona, being Rona, had nearly precipitated a fistfight—until Rockson, seeing it was all just going to get worse, had opened the door.
They made love for half an hour as she stripped and dove on top of him without a word. But though his body sort of took over on automatic pilot, his mind wasn’t really into it. Not tonight. And when the redhead had fallen asleep, her face nestled into his neck and her smile as broad as a Cheshire cat’s, Rockson just lay there thinking. Thinking of Kim and just what the hell was happening to her. And President Langford. The silver-haired seventy-year-old was one of the most charismatic, honorable men Rockson had ever met. He had a profound respect for the first President of the Re-United States of America in one hundred years. Rockson had been a member of the Constitutional Convention that had met several years earlier to reestablish a new confederation of Free Cities, a new nation. He had come to know Langford, who had been elected there. And Rockson had also come to know Langford’s daughter Kim. Rockson had read that a man couldn’t love two women with the same intensity. But he did. Rona
and Kim.
And just the sheer fact that he kept thinking about them, made him angry at himself. Here, the fate of the Free Cities itself was very possibly at stake. There had never been a coup in one of the rebel towns before. This was a new development, and one that he didn’t like at all. Yet Rockson spent the night, when he knew he should have been resting up for what was going to be a long and extremely dangerous haul ahead, tossing and turning and screwing and not getting a minute of restful sleep.
When his wall-beeper went off, alerting him that it was seven in the morning, Rockson bolted upright with a start. He had managed to fall into dreamland the last half hour or so. But the dreams had been bad, nightmares with people lying in piles, their bodies and faces moldering like rotten vegetables. He didn’t know if he alone was totally creating the image or had somehow hooked into some real event with his mutant sixth sense. But it made him feel sick to his stomach. Not a great way to start a day.
“Good morning snookums,” Rona whispered, rolling over and grabbing him again.
“Not this morning, baby,” Rockson grumbled as he tried to open his aching eyes.
“Ahhh, Rocky-poo is grumpy because Rona wants his bod again; how cute.”
Rockson let a smile dance across his face for just a second before his foul mood descended full swing again. A voice spoke over the intercom/phone that was in every room and level of the underground city.
“Rockson, this is Dr. Shecter. I heard about the Council vote last night and I’m sure you’ll be heading off early today. But stop by the science testing level, there’s some new things I want to show you that I think will interest you. I have some fresh brewed coffee too—if that’s more of an inducement than talking to a cantankerous old scientist with jitterbug-programmed metal legs. See you.” There was a click and Rockson sat up. Everyone was being so fucking friendly, it just made him feel more sour.
“You are in a foul mood this morning,” Rona said as she looked sideways at his profile. “I can always tell when you’re going to be Mr. Meanie— Your lower lip gets set hard as a Mount Rushmore carving, and your upper one trembles like a little boy about to cry.”
He looked hard at her with his mismatched aqua and ultramarine eyes. “Cool it, sugarpie.”
“Sorry baby,” Rona said softly, “I didn’t mean to get you more riled up. It’s just that we get less and less time together and I always want it to be fun—and upbeat. There’s enough pain outside.”
“I’m sorry, baby, I really am,” Rockson said as he squeezed her hard, gave her a quick peck on the cheek and jumped up from bed. “I’ve got so much on my mind—I’m not much good to anyone in this state.”
“I know what’s on your mind,” Rona said, looking at him askance. She and Kim were old rivals. Both loved Rockson though it was Rona’s luck to have him most of the time, which wasn’t all that much, as he was always out battling some danger or other. In a strange way she had come to appreciate, from afar, her rival. After all, who better could understand and empathize with another woman than one who was in love with the same man? Still, she felt a burning fire in her chest and her nostrils quivered every time she thought of Rockson in bed with Kim Langford.
“And what’s that?” Rockson asked with a snap, ready to lash into her if she messed with his head this morning.
“Oh nothing,” Rona replied softly, looking at his powerful, tan, muscular body as it disappeared into his clothes. “Nothing at all.” She stood up stark naked just as he finished dressing, and held him tight. He could feel her need, her fear for him. And he felt a deep pain in his own heart. For as long as he was the Doomsday Warrior, Freefighter-par-excellence, there could be no real peace for him, no marriage, no children. It was a sacrifice that seemed to hurt more each year.
“I’ll be back soon, sugar lips,” he said with a smile as he pulled away from her and looked squarely in her gorgeous green-blue eyes. “Don’t hurt that luscious body. I think of it often when I’m in the wastelands.” With that he turned and walked out the door without another look back. The parting words brightened her. Even if he was lying, he sure as hell knew how to say the right lies.
Rockson made his way past the myriad morning workers struggling sleepily off to their jobs. They nodded and exchanged greetings with him. Rockson headed up the ramp to level 8 some six levels above him. The escalator and elevator system were still problematic as the main power system for them had been ruptured months before, and not yet completely repaired. Some worked, but they were designated for industrial and medical tasks. Healthy citizens were expected to walk.
By the time he reached level 8 the climb had wakened him slightly and his eyes seemed a little more focused. He sure as hell could have used the sleep last night. “Coffee!” he mumbled. “Java! Brown Gold!”
Even as he walked into the Level Eight Science Testing Chamber, Rockson could smell the thick odors of fresh brewed coffee wafting down the hall. It lured him forward like a rabbit after a carrot. When he had gone another hundred feet and made a right into Dr. Shecter’s office, the smell grew intoxicating.
“Ah, Rockson, glad to see you,” the white-haired science chief said, sitting behind his desk. “Here, have some of this hydroponics ‘mountain grown synthesized’ brew.” He poured Rockson a large mug from a steaming urn next to the desk and the Doomsday Warrior took it gratefully. It burned his lips, but it tasted great.
“This is much better than the stuff we’ve been quaffing down for years,” he commented, taking in a few more slugs.
“Yes, we’ve decided to devote a little more time to consumer goods,” Schecter said with a grin, “rather than just military hardware and medical. Both are necessary. But there’s no reason why we have to suffer any more than nature and our occupiers already cause us to.”
“Amen to that,” Rockson said, finishing the cup fast and taking another. He could feel his brain start to unlock, a little bit of energy seep into his cells.
“But excuse my self-lauding,” Shecter said with a self-mocking expression, “I’ve actually brought you here to show you a few new gadgets we’ve been working on that might be helpful to your—mission. I know that the Council voted last night for us to send men up to Pattonville. And I agree wholeheartedly with the decision. Military coups have no place in Free Cities. Otherwise we might as well let the Reds run the whole show and give up.”
Shecter had singlehandedly changed the face and the workings of C.C. Even in Rockson’s lifetime, since he had arrived at the underground rebel city years before, he had seen miraculous changes. In medicine, warfare, the development of countless labor-saving devices. The man was a Picasso of science, constantly tinkering, getting his lab boys to develop his ideas, many of which came, he said, at late hours of the night when he would sit upright in bed and began sketching some new apparatus or other. He, more than anyone, was responsible for Century City’s being the pre-eminent Free fortress in America. The underground city was looked up to by the other towns and villages as the unofficial capital of America.
“First,” Schecter said as he reached into a stainless steel container by the side of his desk. “This nasal-gas-blocker.” He held it out to Rockson who took the small odd shaped plastic device and looked at it curiously. “We know that gas is being used by the insurrectionist army up there. I pray that it’s not nerve gas which absorbs through the skin. If it is, this will be useless. But if it’s a breath-intake—just slam those two prongs into your nose and it will filter out just about anything.”
Rockson tried it, taking the small pliant device and slipping it into his nostrils. It was slightly uncomfortable, but nothing he couldn’t live with. He pulled hard on the thing and air flowed into his nose, cutting off perhaps a quarter of the regular flow.
“I’ve got as many as you need for your strike team,” Shecter said as he reached down again. He extricated what looked like an aluminized jumpsuit which was folded down so it was hardly bigger than a small notebook. “It’s a heat shield, something we’ve develop
ed out of the heat-reflecting space blankets everyone carries when out in the sun. This affords even more protection, and can cover the entire body. Like you to test some of these out with your men. Shouldn’t take up a hell of a lot of space.” Rockson fingered the thin material, finding it hard to believe it could really keep out the kind of heat that sometimes hit them from the glaring unshielded sun. But he knew Shecter tested his toys a thousand times before letting C.C.’s citizens or fighters use them. The scientist couldn’t have forgiven himself if something went wrong that was his fault.
“And lastly, a mini-gun,” he held out what looked like a primitive medallion about three inches wide and roughly arrow-shaped. “It’s really a gimmick I suppose, but we’ve been playing with all kinds of weapons shapes and sizes—and this is one of the permutations that came out.” Rockson took the pendant and held it up, twisting it around in the air.
“What exactly does it do?” the Doomsday Warrior asked skeptically.
“What any pistol does; shoots. Fires a single pellet with the muzzle force equivalent to a .22 long. We have to use what would be the equivalent of what you could call a .05 caliber slug. But what it lacks in size it makes up in projectile thrust. This baby shoots hard; I mean it can pierce metal—or flesh. You just squeeze the two dots—around both sides twice—and bang. I can see you’re looking at it like it’s just about the last thing on earth you want to mess around with. But do an old man a favor, take it with you and fire it, just to give it a little field testing.”
