Doomsday Warrior 11 - American Eden

by Ryder Stacy

  “It all started a hundred years before the war. The fences went up—barbed wire, then razor wire. The white man said to the native Americans: ‘This piece is my land, and this piece is your land,’ and gave themselves the better land. Then the white man discovered oil, and it was on the Indian lands. And they said, ‘Wait a minute, sorry about that, this piece of land is not your land either, so get off.’ And the Indian nations were moved again to even dryer, more remote and useless lands. And still we, the Arapaho, the Cheyenne, the Hopi, the Dineh, survived.

  “Then this wasn’t enough. The white man found an evil element—plutonium, the deadliest, most unnatural element of all—could be made out of a whole lot of another element—uranium. And guess where all the uranium was? Right, it was on the useless scrubland of the Indian reservations. But the times had become liberal, so they couldn’t just take Indian land anymore. They would have the Indians sell it cheap to the big corporations. But the Indians would not sell their mother, the earth.

  So the companies found the few Indians that wanted to sell—Indians that had ceased to be Indians—and made them into the tribal councils. They did this by holding elections. Even though the company men knew Indians ways were different. To an Indian, not voting is a negative vote. Just not showing up at the polls means they vote against this new council. But the newspapers reported that the elections were held, and though turnout of voters was low, the Indians who wanted to sell the digging rights to our land won the elections.

  “And so all was done legally. The earth was raped, a knife was dug into our mother’s heart and the uranium dug up, to make plutonium, and the plutonium to make bombs.

  “If the white men could understand that nature is a unity, if he could walk in the beauty, he would not disturb nature. There would not be any big holes in the mesa land, and no uranium and no bombs to destroy everyone and everything under the sun and stars.”

  Rockson found himself largely agreeing with the chief. Still, the Doomsday Warrior said, “Some of the uranium was used to make power plants, to supply electricity to the big cities. Not all of it was used for bombs. What was wrong with that?”

  “The sun could provide as much or more power for nothing. The greed of the big companies was to make nuclear power plants, and so control all the energy, sell all the energy that people could gather free from the sun and the wind. And the nuclear power plants spread radiation death even before they were targeted by Soviet ICBMs. One plant, located in the Ukrainian slave state and run by the Russians, exploded three years before the war—in 1986. The cancer rate in Europe doubled. No, Rockson, it was as I say to you—the utility companies here in the United States, and the government fat cats in Russia, wanted nuclear power to enslave the people.

  “White man—or should I say paleface, for some whites did understand, it wasn’t a racial thing—never understood. Paleface never understood that he was a part of the cycle of nature. He didn’t understand that nature is a reflection of the Great Spirit, that man is part of that great spirit, as is every rock and tree and mountain. The white man’s religions all said man was separate from nature, greater than nature. Such conceit.”

  “There were some white people who believed as you do, Chief. They saw what was happening and tried to stop it.”

  “These people,” said Smokestone, “I would call Indians. They are American Indians in spirit, though their skin is white. I believe that you, Rockson, are such a man—a white Indian.”

  The Doomsday Warrior was touched by the compliment, he could only say, “Thank you, Chief, you do me an honor.”

  “To be an Indian is not a matter of race—it is a state of mind. Did you know that in the 1850s, when Indians captured white women, we took them into the tribe? And if they learned to be squaws they were welcome. The nonracist Indians did this because the long-knives—the cavalry—had depleted our numbers in the war of genocide. Indians took in runaway slaves too. We Indians were never bent on genocide, just on saving the earth—the precious land we roamed. We failed to do this.” Smokestone’s pipe had been used up, he put it down.

  “The human race failed,” Rockson said, “all of us.”

  “You will see the seeds of the destruction, Rockson, I have assembled it all in the Hall of Atrocities—come with me. You will see how humankind defiled the Great Spirit.”

  Thirteen

  After walking down a long rock-hewn corridor deep into the canyon wall, Rockson was ushered into a room the size of a good-sized ballfield. It was loaded with exhibit cases.

  “Take a look at the first case on the right,” Chief Smokestone said.

  Rockson did. There were photographs, blown up to two by three feet—the inside of some sort of metal building—and what was inside made him nearly sick. “This is a real photograph?”

  “Yes. Before the war, the Great Nuke War, the meat for American tables was raised this way—cows in small cells, confined, force-fed. The reason was greed. Cattle that don’t move gain weight faster. Of course we Indians believe that animals, like man, are part of the Great Spirit. They are killed for meat, to eat. But they are respected, not tortured, Rockson. Only meat from animals roaming free, Indians believe, is healthy. These photographs are proof of the fall of man—his ignorance of the way of the Spirit.”

  “I had no idea,” Rockson said, “that twentieth-century civilized man did such things—even the Soviet occupation forces are hardly more cruel. It takes a sadistic bent of mind to treat animals in such ways.”

  “There’s more,” said Smokestone. “Here is a small sample of the way the chickens were stacked one atop another, in thirty-story buildings with a thousand wire mesh cages one atop the other.”

  Rockson saw the pictures, and there was even a cutaway diorama. The birds were tightly confined, never allowed to move, unable to flex their wings or avoid the rain of excrement from above. The cages were stacked thirty, even fifty atop one another. In thousands of rows.

  “And people consumed the meat of these cattle and chickens?”

  “By the time of the war, ninety percent of all beef and poultry sold in the United States was raised in close confinement. The meat of these diseased, tortured animals was sold in every food market, as if there was nothing wrong. People chose not to know or they didn’t care. Of course these animals’ flesh had lot of residues of chemicals and antibiotics that were used to raise them quickly. Naturally, they passed on a lot of cancers and leukemias to their eaters. Aside from the cruelty of raising animals in such ways, there was that danger to the consumers.

  “In the late 1980s most of the beef supply and chicken supply was made into ground patties or chunks and sold in small styrofoam coffins in places called fast-food outlets. The rusting remnants of such places still clutter the roadsides in parts of America to this day.”

  “The stuff couldn’t have tasted very good,” Rockson said.

  “Correct. But to hide the bitter cardboard-like taste, the patties and chunks were injected with tons of salt and sugar. Even Indians ate such food toward the end of that decadent era. Even we, the people of the land, defied the Earth mother and ate such abominations. Of course, most Indians had lost their treaty rights to hunt and fish by that time, so what choice did they have but to go to these places too?

  “The paleface civilization didn’t understand consequences would result kharmically from its treatment of animals. Millions more animals were needlessly tortured in research in laboratories, often for the most frivolous reasons. Here, come with me to the next exhibit—see? It is a lab with cats with electrodes attached to their brains—and this exhibit. Here the dogs have their heads severed and attached to feeder tubes.”

  Rockson could hardly look at the exhibits. He moved on. There was a huge photograph—black and white, of a beautiful Arizona mesa jutting from the morning mists.

  “That photo,” Smokestone said, “was taken in the 1930s—of Black Mesa.”

  “A beautiful area. Untouched.”

  “Therein dwelled the eart
h spirits. The world is balanced at four places, Rockson. Of course you know that. One of these places is called the first corner. Black Mesa sat upon this sacred balancing place. On the map of the U.S. it was, ironically, the place where four states—Colorado, Arizona, New Mexico, and Utah—touched.

  “Now look at the next photo—a color photograph taken from the air—taken of the same area in 1989—just before World War Three.”

  Rockson whistled. There were giant smokestacks and part of the mesa was gone. The mesa had been eaten away as if by a giant. No—there were the instruments of its destruction—skyscraper-tall steam shovels. It was obvious from their lineup heading toward the huge power plants that they were feeding the mesa bit by bit to fuel the power plants’ many furnaces. The smoke pouring out of the stacks was black and deadly.

  “See those hundreds of threads on those silver poles—all heading to the west?”

  “Yes. What are they?”

  “Power lines—heading toward California. California virtually ate electricity, mostly for wasteful purposes. The Indian lands were cunningly seized by the lawyers of the big utilities and sacrificed to the white man’s god—Sacrificed to Mammon. Greed.”

  “And the world lost one balancing point.”

  “The next pictures show the result of that imbalance . . .”

  Rockson walked on, his bootheels echoing down the stone floor. The next pictures were war photos. Bodies, mushroom clouds. Ruins. One picture was from a space satellite. A water-filled crater on a coastal plain.

  “New York?”

  “Chicago. That’s Lake Michigan, Rockson.”

  Rockson sighed. “If only it could be undone. And yet the world is threatened again, this very day, by one man’s madness.”

  Rockson spent some time explaining their urgent mission and the danger that Stafford presented.

  “Rockson,” Smokestone held his arm at the bicep, “please take me with you to this Eden. I want to be in on stopping Stafford from laying waste to the world. I want to succeed where my ancestors failed. I want to help to create the new balance. Please let me come with you.”

  Rockson had already gauged the man to be a worthwhile companion should he choose to come along. “You may come with us.”

  The Doomsday Warrior thanked the Indians for their hospitality and said the Freefighters and Danik must be off, for their mission was of utmost urgency. Smokestone had made arrangements for the dogs and sleds. He had specially souped-up old Harvey 900 motorcycles assembled near the “elevator.”

  They rode up the elevators with the Harleys in shifts. One at a time. The elevator was sturdier than it looked, but it creaked.

  Rockson had decided to keep one dog with them. They were superb sniffers—and Rockson swore he could teach Class Act, his lead dog, to be quiet.

  “Especially after the dogs saved our asses from those damned voracious gophers, I think it would be a good idea to bring Class Act. She can run like hell—I’m sure she can keep up with our dirt bikes. If not, she can drop behind and catch up when we stop for rest.”

  So it was that they started up the big motorcycles with a tremendous roar at the rim of the inhabited canyon. The Indians below filled the Arizona air with wild whoops and yips as the bold chief and the Freefighters set off for Eden.

  Rockson really opened up his big Harley, the engine sang out a song of power, cutting the desert air, slashing over the inch-deep snow like a dream of speed and energy.

  Smokestone, waving his huge stone-head tomahawk over his head, steering with one hand, pulled alongside at 135 mph, daring Rock to go faster.

  The race was on, leaving the others behind in the dust and thrown snow. 160, 170, 175 mph. Rockson had handled cycles like this before, he was sure he could surpass the chief. But the Indian just kept a-comin’, kept up, then sailed past, screaming out taunts and waving that tomahawk. Still with one hand—ye gods, Rock thought, I’m just an amateur compared to this ballsy guy.

  Leaning down hard, Rock was determined to catch the chief, at least for a brief instant.

  180,185, 190, 195 . . . The cacti flew by, the bike shuddered and quivered up to 200 mph. He was alongside the chief.

  “Yip, yip, yahooooo,” Smokestone bellowed into the wind. “You are something, Rockson, really something.” He slowed down, as this couldn’t go on without them being eroded pieces of flesh spread across the desert—and they had a job to do. 195, 190, 185—soon they were cruising at a mere 175.

  After another ten minutes, they stopped for a sip of water from the bikes’ canteens. Let the others catch up. The Indian looked Rock in the eyes and said, “I want us to be blood brothers.” Rock nodded, and they made slits in their forearms and brought them together, joined forever.

  Fourteen

  The Freefighters rode their advanced-tech Harleys in V-formation across the flat desert. The motors, loud and strong, carried them as if they were on a magic carpet, quintupling the fastest speed they’d ever attained on the sleds. Danik was managing his big cycle fairly well, but couldn’t keep up. He was back always. Danik had a sidecar, with Class Act in it.

  The sheer power at Rockson’s disposal made him feel restored. Having Smokestone with him was a reassurance, somehow, that the mission would succeed. The dull orange globe of the sun shone through a cloud scudded afternoon sky. It was good to be alive today.

  At 3:30 P.M. they reached the old U.S.—Mexican border. Rockson and his friends stopped their bikes and waited for Danik. Danik’s bike was soon on the horizon. And snuggled down in the sidecar was Class Act, howling away and “eating” the wind as he traveled. They did not wait long, as Danik was getting less and less afraid of going fast with every mile they traveled. In a short while they heard his engine, and then he pulled up. The thin albino Edenite had a candy-eating grin on his face. He pulled off his helmet and said, “Eden was never like this.” Class Act leapt from her perch in the sidecar and rushed to Rockson. “Good girl,” Rock said, rubbing her ears and petting her. The giant red tongue licked at his face.

  They took a break. The dog alongside him, panting happily, Rockson sat on his haunches looking at the shallow, fifty-foot-wide stream that was the winter version of the Rio Grande River coursing by idly. Not ten yards from his position was some rusty pipe stubs in the ground. The border fence of a century ago. If you looked carefully, the ground was discolored a bit—to the color of ocher. It was the red dust of all the barbed wire gone to corrosion. Rockson thought about how it must have been a century past: the wetbacks, struggling dirt farmers, peons by the millions trying to get across that border to join their wealthy neighbors to the north. How desperate they had been to get into the United States. How they’d envied the U.S. citizens—until the thousand flashes brighter than the sun glowed in the northern sky—until the nukes fell. Then they hadn’t envied their northern neighbors anymore.

  As a matter of fact, in the first few days after the blasts, new fences had been erected on the Mexican side of the border for a change. Wave after wave of starving diseased radiation victims poured south, desperate to get into Mexico.

  Of course, those that had constructed Eden had done so before the nuke war, and therefore most of the Edenites were already in the vast underground biosphere when N-Day came. All except a handful. And that handful included the brains and pocketbook behind the whole project—Edward Renquist. He had not made it.

  Perhaps Renquist had died in the first flashes of atomic hellfire. Danik had told that Renquist was in Austin, Texas, at the fatal hour, trying to effect a reconciliation with his wife, Sandra. Rockson saw other pathetic reminders of that day—there were white things—torn and rotted human bones—amidst all that rust on the ground. Perhaps Renquist had survived the blasts, made it to this border, and like thousands, millions of other Americans had been shot down by the Mexican Border Police, or been killed in the crush of bodies. God what a horror it must have been right on this tranquil spot!

  And the Mexicans had succumbed too, by the millions—they could k
eep the desperate masses streaming south from crossing over, but they couldn’t keep the radiation clouds in the north. And Mexico, too, became a haunted corpse of a country. Even though she had nothing to do with the great psychotic contest between the Eastern and Western blocs of nations, Mexico too suffered the results of that culminating madness-of-all-madness that is nuclear war . . .

  Class Act seemed anxious to go on. She stood up and rushed back and forth on the dusty surface. Rockson petted her, pulled her ears. The tongue slipped out and ran over his wrist. “Nice wolf-doggie, nice.” He turned to the group, who were already putting on their black helmets and heading to start their bikes.

  “Class Act has the right idea. Let’s get traveling. Prepare to cross the shallows,” Rockson ordered, struggling from his reverie. “But I’ll go first—with Detroit. We’ll cross at that lazy bend—it’s just inches deep, I hope . . . I don’t want all of us to be out there together at the same time, that’s too vulnerable. I don’t expect any danger, but just because it looks okay, doesn’t mean it is.”

  There was a sandy but firm bottom under the half foot of the gently moving warmish water, and so there was no need to improvise a way of keeping their vehicles dry. They easily waded their cycles across. First Rockson went across, then Detroit crossed the twenty yards of shallow water, steering his cycle with his meaty hands. Rockson and Detroit took up position in a scrubby copse of trees on the other side before the Doomsday Warrior waved the rest of the party onward.

  They were in Mexico. The terrain was prairie-like, the vegetation consisting mostly of sagebrush and scattered cacti.

  The motorcycles were again showing their stuff, and the group were making a good 150 miles per hour. Danik was now keeping up, and, though he had nearly failed his trial spins at Yumak City, was no longer a bit afraid.

  “There wasn’t much need for speed in Eden,” he had explained. “The whole city-world is ten miles long by a mile wide.” They slowed down. It was getting a bit muddy. There wasn’t a bit of snow on the ground anymore, and a gentle rain was beginning.