by Ryder Stacy
“Thank you, sir,” Randolph said, stepping forward and taking the president by the elbow and leading him back to his chair. He returned to the front of the stage. “And I think I can say for all of us, not just here in the Council Chamber, Mr. President,” he said, turning his head slightly toward the seated Langford, “but for every citizen of Century City, that we consider it a great personal honor to have you visit us here and want to let you know that you are welcome for as long as our facilities and personnel are of use to you.”
The delegates let out a stomping roar of approval for those words. The idea that they were, if only momentarily, the capital of Free America, that from within their granite walls plans and orders would be sent out to stir action in every part of the nation, was truly thrilling.
“But now, down to the business at hand. President Langford’s words came at a very appropriate time, I must say,” Randolph intoned grimly. “And to fill you in on just what the situation is around the country—I’ll let Intelligence Chief Rath provide the update.”
Rath came stage-center, greeted by a few half-hearted cheers as well as low grumbling boos. Rath, though a workaholic and highly efficient in his trade, was not a well-liked man. His personality was just a little too grating, and his need for 100% efficiency at all times from those who worked around him made him a hard and rigorous boss. But he got the job done. And in his business, that was all that mattered.
“We’ve received reports from our contacts all over the U.S.,” Rath said, glancing down at a sheaf of notes in his hands. “And frankly, things look even worse than we had thought. Colonel Killov has apparently made great successes in his rebellion against the Russian military government here. President Zhabnov is either dead or has fled the country—but is nowhere to be seen. Rockson’s attack on Killov and his forces in Washington has apparently forced them to flee the capital, which is now back in the hands of the Red Army. Killov is believed to be in Fort Minsk. As for the rest of the country, our estimates are that he and his men, turncoats and mercenaries, now control between 65% and 75% of all Red fortresses in America.”
Gasps could be heard around the room. None of them had realized things were so bad. Zhabnov had been a buffoon, a joke. But Killov—that was a different story. If he truly became the unchallenged Red ruler of America—it was over.
“I would say gasps are in order,” Rath said, letting the corner of his mouth turn up for a flash in a fraction of a sardonic grin. Then back to the pencil-straight expression that he wore eternally. “I would also say that the situation for Killov remains extremely unstable. He has taken, in some cases, fortresses containing up to 50,000 Red Army troops with his own attacking forces a tenth that size. But through surprise, the taking hostage of the entire officer corps of each fort, and the imprisonment or confinement to barracks of the lower ranks, he has thus far been able to keep a lid on the situation. As weeks go by, months—his hold will undoubtedly strengthen. And once he has a firm grip on the occupying forces—he will move against the Free Cities. And he will let nothing stand in his way.”
“What is your recommendation for course of action?” council president Randolph asked from several feet away.
“Strike now, while there is still time,” Rath spat out instantly, without thinking about it for a second. “This man cannot be allowed to get control of the Russian nuclear missile force over here. We must somehow launch an all-out attack on every one of these forts. As mad as it sounds—release the Red Army, free one enemy so that they can kick the other enemy, the KGB, right the hell into the dead zones.”
Voices of protest rang out from the audience at the concept of aiding the army that had burned and looted and raped and bombed out whole towns and villages in its constant effort to wipe out every trace of American resistance. The thought was repugnant to them.
As head of the City’s combat forces, Rockson rose and stepped up on the dais.
“Request chair’s permission to address the council,” Rockson said, looking at Randolph.
The council president glanced around to see if there were any objections and, seeing none, said, “Take the floor.”
Rock shuffled up to the center of the stage, squinting against the lights and the eyes of the delegates and civilians who packed the auditorium. He hated the limelight, and felt a deep blush threaten to slide up the side of his face. But those emotions were all bullshit when it was wartime.
“I’d just like to second Rath’s feeling that we strike. We’ve been carrying out small attacks for years, getting nowhere, really. When I was your delegate to the Re-Constitutional Convention at which Charles Langford was elected president, one of the other things all the delegates agreed on was the need for a national military council—a coordinated effort in which we could use our forces as armies not guerillas. We fought the Neo-Nazis as an army, and won. By uniting all the combat personnel of the larger Free Cities, we have nearly three-quarters of a million men ready to kick ass. The president’s task force at Omicron City has developed contingency plans for quickly uniting all these forces. We have come together before, but never like this plan envisions. United we stand, divided we fall. Killov almost got us last time. Just look around you at the blackened walls, the broken seats you’re sitting in. That’s as close as you get and still talk about it.”
“Course of action?” Randolph asked with a perturbed look.
“Call a national military council to meet here. Delegates—the top combat leaders of every city we can reach. We’ll map out a massive surprise attack. All our armies, under one command, one central War Room. We’ll attack, as Rath suggests. Help the regular Sovs throw out the KGB Blackshirts—and then retreat, causing as much damage to the Red fortresses as we can.”
“And the Red Armies themselves—when they’re freed?” Randolph asked. “We’re talking about upwards of 2 or 3 million armed men.”
“Well, I don’t think we’re ready for that battle right now,” Rock said. “We’ll do it on a fortress-by-fortress basis. As bad as Premier Vassily is, the man has at least stopped the use of nuclear weapons. Even the nuke-strike on Century City was Killov’s undertaking. We can’t let this nation take any more radiation. I’ve been out there—out in the wilds. America is wounded, damaged, but she’s coming back. Slowly. But life and death still lie in the balance. No more atomic weapons can be used here. None—or the balance will tip and this country will slide into the dark ages.”
There was a series of fervent shouts from the audience as delegates who agreed and disagreed with the Doomsday Warrior let him know it with all their hearts. Rockson stepped from the stage. He’d said his piece. It was up to the men and women whom the people of Century City had elected to represent them to make the final decision.
After nearly two-and-a-half hours of intense debate—for Century City was, if nothing else, egalitarian to the hilt, preferring the screaming and occasional fist-fighting of pure democracy than the appointment of an ongoing leader, or a proxy system—they came to a decision. The motion carried—237 to 142—to convene a National Military Convention to prepare for “K” Day—when Killov and his KGB murderers would be sent back to their lairs. Free Cities around the country would be contacted by every possible means, including coded radio messages, carrier pigeons, and pony express. The meeting was set for exactly seven days from then, come hell or high water.
Rockson exited out the side, unable to deal with the two women he had left, who sat glaring at one another.
Five
Jed “Biscuit” Haverston flew around in the saddle of his big hybrid stallion like a buoy in a hurricane. It was amazing that the big tangle-bearded deerskin-clothed man could stay on at all, top-heavy as he was with rifles and ammunition, canteens and various pouches that hung over and around his large, round physique. And it was a lucky thing that the hybrid beneath him was as immense as he was—a good two feet taller and 300 pounds heavier than most ’brids—or it never could have carried the Pony Express rider for more than a few miles, l
et alone the hundred that they regularly trod.
Route 55, United States Pony Express System; and Jed was proud to be a part of it. In the ten years he had ridden for the organized and highly efficient delivery service, which was modeled after the Western postal carriers in America’s days of old, Jed had logged in over 10,000 miles of service, carrying messages, gifts, gold coins—anything and everything that Americans in one Free City wanted to get to another. He had been bitten by snakes a hundred times, been attacked by wolves, coyotes, wild dogs, and Russians, not to mention the odd cannibal or two. Had lost six ’brids, had withstood rains, snows, tornados, earthquakes, and drought—all just to keep his part of the line going.
For “Biscuit” Haverston considered his job an honor, a part of building the new America, a blow against the Red occupiers every time he completed a successful delivery, every time he pulled up wild-eyed and exhausted, with his bags of precious cargo. And this—this of all carries—a call-to-arms for all Americans to rise, to take their guns and kick ass. He leaned forward astride the big steed, pressing his face and shoulder against the sleek muscular withers to cut the wind. The day he had been waiting for his whole life—for the Reds to be thrown the hell out—had finally come. And he was a vital part of that process.
“Come on, Eisenhower,” Jed yelled to the hybrid. It had large hooves, as wide as dinner plates, and fur that covered them like those of some prehistoric mastadon or equivalent shaggy mammal of the Ice Ages. “We got a long way to go, fellow,” Jed said, “and no time to do it in.” After years of riding together, Jed swore that the animal could hear and understand him. They had an almost telepathic relationship, as many men and their animals do who’ve been through hell and back together. He could tell when the steed was tired, strong, thirsty, or just plain pissed off and ornery. And today, it was the last. For ’brids, like their human masters, had moods as varied as the terrain they rode across—and it was vital that Jed understood them—and could use them to his advantage. Today, he knew that Eisenhower was mean. He had that wide-eyed look, that frisky bounce to his stride that Jed knew meant the creature was feeling its oats—probably thinking about some sweet mare that it wouldn’t have minded spending a few passionate hours with. But Jed would use that energy. For like all living creatures, the animal’s sexuality was the motor that drove it, and it could be channeled to other functions if one just knew how.
“Come on, boy, go, go,” Jed said, leaning so close against the ’brid’s side that he could feel its blood pumping, its iron-hard muscles pounding and coiling as it slammed its steel-shod hooves down on the parched prairie ground. He knew the ’brid’s horniness gave it that extra strength, that electric energy that meant it could go and go fast. The landscape shot by them in a blur of sand and cacti as the Pony Express rider held on for dear life, keeping the reins loose and his legs tight as steel clamps around the sides of the speeding behemoth.
The sun tumbled from the sky in a bloody red mess and collapsed behind some far mountains as its silky white compatriot, the full moon, all decked out in her shining crater-pearls, rose into the rad-violet sky to take its place. Night was upon them in a flash as the sky grew as black as the bottom of the sea and a trillion speckles of silver paint splashed across night’s ceiling. Tumbleweed blew across the flatlands like bubbles as the cool night wind whistled out the lonely song of the desert. Jed loved it out here. He wasn’t meant to be around people, never was no good with women. But give him a fast ’brid, lots of ammo, and a wad of good chewing tobacco, and he came alive. Out here in the middle of nowhere with not a soul around, Red or American. Only him, the ’brid, the vast curve of the earth, and the moon lighting the way with a beacon of purest white, just for him.
They rode for hours, nothing changing, nothing seeming to grow closer or farther away. If he hadn’t actually known that they were in fact tearing ass at a good 35mph, Jed would have sworn he and Eisenhower were mounted on one of them treadmills a farmer showed him once—used rats running inside, chasing food, to turn a small generator and light up his whole barn. But all that modern technology was too much for the Pony Express man. He fell into the trance of the long-distance rider, blending with the stars and the sands around him until he couldn’t tell where he began and they left off. But he never tired or fell asleep. Not for a second. His eyes were wide open, his ears, all his senses reaching out to encompass every shadow, every howl in the dark. This was what he had been born for—and would die doing.
The ’brid suddenly slowed slightly and turned its head up and around toward him, moving its oversized lips furiously.
“Thirsty boy, huh?” Jed whispered in the animal’s ear. “Yeah, you deserve a break.” He sat up and scouted the terrain ahead for any signs of danger. There were no trees or hollows for predators to hide behind—just a few low moonlit hills off to the right—but he didn’t see a living thing on them. He pulled the reins back slowly, patting the ’brid on the side.
“Whoa boy, whoa. You’ll get your drink.” The hybrid came to a complete stop and flung its head around from side to side, spittle flying out in a spiraling spray. Jed laughed at the animal’s expression of thirst and jumped down from the saddle, grabbing one of five large gourds he had tied around the top of the ’brid’s back where a whole array of supplies hung precariously from ropes and bags, somehow never quite falling off. Jed walked to the front of the towering creature and pulled the wide top off the gourd, holding the cool gallon of spring water up to Eisenhower’s lips. It plunged in, slobbering half of it off in every direction as it attacked the gourd with a tongue the size of a first baseman’s mitt. It got only half of the liquid down its gullet, but looked satisfied nonetheless. The big head arched around toward Jed and licked him along the face from neck to scalp, leaving the side drenched.
“No, dagnabbit—you can’t get your oats now. When we get to Foster Station—then you can eat like a pig. But this is it, pal, and I ain’t eating either. And you know I like to eat. So we’re in this together. Understand?” The ’brid whipped its head around the other way in disgust and stood there, obviously pissed off.
Jed had put one foot up in the stirrup when he heard the noise. A low growling sound with a teeth-snapping edge to it that the Pony Express rider didn’t like one bit. It was a carnivore—and it had him sighted.
“Easy boy, easy,” Jed whispered, continuing to rise up toward the saddle, but slowly, very slowly. At the same time, he reached around with his right hand and pulled one of the three rifles slung around his shoulder forward. By the time he was fully mounted on the ’brid, he had the hunting rifle under his arm, finger on the trigger. Jed kicked the ’brid in the sides with both boots and the animal started slowly forward, looking nervously over in the direction of the sound.
Suddenly it came again, but ten times louder—and attached to the hideous scream of hunger—the thing that had made it. Jed’s eyes open wide in disbelief. He’d seen everything in his years of riding the Express—saber-toothed mountain lions as big as bears, snakes with wings, packs of rats that stretched off to the horizon. But he’d never seen a mutation like this. It had no face—or rather, it was all mouth. A row of jagged spiked teeth stretched from just below the ears, all the way across the bottom of the head. Hundreds of teeth in a set of jaws that looked like they could chomp a watermelon in half. Humanoid in shape, the thing’s body was at least seven feet tall with legs the size of tree stumps, dark purple in color, and with arms as long and strong as a gorilla’s with curving claws at the ends.
It came at Jed from about a hundred feet away, moving at amazing speed for a thing with its size and bulk. Jed knew he couldn’t get the ’brid up to full speed in the semi-darkness with rocks around before the thing would catch them. They’d have to duke it out. He pulled the dusty Browning .8mm up to his shoulder and fired at the monstrosity, which howled as the slug caught it just beneath the shoulder—but it kept on coming.
“Oh shit,” Jed muttered into the rising wind. He pulled the trigger again
and again, sighting up the thing’s head since its chest seemed impenetrable, covered with a thick leathery hide. The ’brid was rearing back now, unable to contain its fear any longer. But Jed hung on and kept shooting. Just ten feet from them, the thing stopped in its tracks, its head bleeding in torrents from the top of the skull. It let out a loud gurgling sound and toppled straight over toward them, its claws—which looked as if they could pluck a heart from a man—falling only inches short of the ’brid’s hooves.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Jed shouted, turning the hybrid around and heading east again. But they’d gotten only fifty feet or so when more shapes emerged from the surrounding low rocks as if they were coming right up out of the earth. Jed saw one, then another—and within seconds a dozen of them, all as ugly as their deceased pal, all with the same thresher mouths, burning silver eyes, bright and wide as a cat’s, staring at him—at his flesh—their teeth dripping with foul saliva.
“You ain’t eating this Pony-Man,” Jed screamed at the advancing line of carnivorous mutants. “You can forget all about that shit.” He patted the ’brid softly. “Boy, you do this for me and I’m going to give you a whole bushel of applemelons—you hear me?” The ’brid had stopped in its tracks and was pacing nervously, slamming its front right hoof down on the hard-packed ground as if declaring its strength, its right to go ahead, to the approaching nightmares. “That’s right—you and me—we’re going to get outta this thing.” He pulled both of the other rifles around front so he was cradling two under his left arm and one under his right, which also held the reins.
“Go, boy, run like your goddamned hairy ass never run before!” He kicked the animal hard in the sides and let out with a wild rebel yell, the kind his dad had taught him—a vocal vestige of pre-war days.
Eisenhower stood up on its hind legs and pushed its forelegs toward the meateaters like a boxer, ready to draw blood. Then it came down and shot forward, accelerating like a missile. The dozen or so surrounding mutations rushed at them from all sides, their claws slashing at the blur, their fangs snapping wildly at the air like meat grinders ready to pulverize anything. Holding himself atop the weaving back by squeezing his legs as tight as he could against the ’brid’s side, Jed fired all three of his rifles at once. Two of the attackers fell to the ground moaning, as a third kept coming—but with the whole side of its face missing as if it had just dropped off. Claws dug in along the hybrid’s flank and Jed felt a stabbing pain in his right thigh as a row of six-inch daggers sliced along his side like a carving knife into Thanksgiving turkey. But the ’brid just kept going as if nothing was there and suddenly they were past them.
