Doomsday Warrior 08 - American Glory

by Ryder Stacy

  “Good, good boy,” Jed laughed out loud, rubbing the hybrid’s ear furiously. He slung all three weapons back around his shoulder with one toss and grabbed hold of the reins, leaning forward again around the animal’s shoulder to protect himself from the now-freezing midnight winds. With much of the protection of the atmosphere gone now, burnt away by radioactive acids, the nights were much colder in America. It was as if the dark seas of space itself fell onto the earth at night, chilling it to the very granite marrow of its bones. But protected by the golden mane and the wide neck of the hybrid which shielded him from the wind, and wrapped up in five layers of longjohns, shirts, feather vest, and beaver coat, he figured he was ready for everything, including the next Ice Age.

  They rode through the night, Eisenhower flying along as the animal found its perfect pace. The encounter with the maneaters had, if anything, pumped some adrenaline into its system and it galloped in a perfect synchronization of legs and breath. Puffs of frosty smoke blew from its mouth and nose like the mechanized releases of a factory. Even through his clothes Jed could feel the immense amount of heat the beast was generating through its efforts. The stars moved slowly like weary travelers searching for but never finding a home to rest in along the lonely reaches of the galactic highway. The moon sank to its bed, tired, ready to curl into a fetal ball in the black blankets of Mother Earth. And then the sun inched into the sky, bright and ruddy, promising the world the warmth of a new day.

  But Jed felt a sensation other than heat—a pain in his leg—and in his guts. He hadn’t stopped to check the wound he’d suffered from the claws of the “big mouth,” and the ’brid hadn’t complained. But now—now the leg felt—strange. Within seconds of the initial burning sensation of pain, Jed’s eyes grew unfocused, his head soft and confused. What was happening? Poison—somehow the thing had released a poison into him. He tried to stop the ’brid, reaching forward for the reins, but felt his limbs become paralyzed, his muscles tight as steel cables. The last thing he remembered was his face falling into the soft golden mane of Eisenhower.

  The hybrid knew something was wrong. Master was still, hadn’t moved for hours. The animal felt the edges of a numbness in its body—the poison injected from the hollow claws of the unhumans—but its powerful system, able to take just about anything that nature had to offer, kept on ticking. It slowed to a medium trot, keeping its body as straight as possible so that Master wouldn’t fall. It couldn’t help him, give him water, minister to him in any way; dimly it knew that. It had only an instinct—to get to the next Pony Express station some fifty miles ahead. This was the most treacherous part of their journey—earthquake chasms as easy to fall into as a pool of quicksand. But it had traveled the route for as long as it could remember, and the highly intelligent animal knew the ground by heart. It moved on, carrying the unconscious rider as carefully as a load of eggs.

  There—the stream. It always felt happy at the stream, for there was clear pure water and it meant that the desert part of their trip was over. It stopped by the banks of the rambling trout-filled cascade and carefully lowered its head, inch by inch, making sure that the Master didn’t tumble headfirst into the wetness. It drank, long and hard, letting the water chill its long throat, pour down into its stomach until it felt almost bloated. At last it stopped and raised its head high as if acknowledging the noonday sun. It was hungry, starving. But there would be food later. It had to move on.

  Two hours later, it recognized the start of the winding rocky trail that led over the edges of an ancient A-bomb crater—a contender for title of heavyweight atomic crater of the world at twenty megatons. It had a mouth as big as a primeval volcano, nearly two miles wide with steeply sloping sides that rose up half a mile into the air. The ’brid carefully made its way around the side of the war mountain, rising higher and higher along the man-made trail. At first the going was easy, but as it rose into the sky the narrow path grew steeper and rockier until every step was tricky. The ’brid remembered that once it had almost fallen down the side of this crater. It had come too near the edge of the yard-wide trail and its hind leg had gone off the side, releasing a mini-avalanche of rocks and debris down the slope below it. But somehow, with Master pulling and the animal frantically clawing with its other three legs, it had gotten itself back up. The memory glowed as if branded into its brain.

  At last it reached the summit and turned around for a moment on the rimwall, surveying the land they had traveled across. Jed always did it—and now the hybrid did it as well, from habit. Then it started across the wide lip of the crater, where all sorts of small flowers grew and birds had chosen to build their nests. The feathered creatures put up a chirping chorus of indignation and alarm as the giant passed through their twig-and-straw condo’s. It walked the craters edge, reached the other side just as the sun hit the horizon and started down.

  Haverston stirred. What—he remembered. Poison! The ’brid was still moving. Blearily he could see they had come far. “Good boy,” he rasped. With his mind fighting the desire to fall back into unconsciousness, he managed to strap himself on the saddle. Then—darkness.

  The floodlight of the full moon, which sliced down through a thin layer of green strontium clouds high in the stratosphere, lit the side of the crater with a garish brilliance, so the hybrid could see every square inch ahead of him. Placing one wide foot after another, it made its way down the slope, moving between boulders and cracks and sheets of gravel ready to slide away at the slightest motivation. But the ’brid had always felt more comfortable on this side of the crater anyway, almost playing at some points, as it would slide for yards at a time down a loose layer of sand. At last it reached bottom and immediately headed straight for the thick woods which began on the base of the eastern slope of the nuke hole and stretched on for a good twenty miles. It hit the woods in a flash and started down the wide logger trail that had been carved out a century ago. The shadows created by the branches lit from above by the wild eye of the moon made it nervous. It remembered again how it feared the woods in the darkness. And with Master asleep, there would be no loud noises, no flashes of white—and then blood. There would be no protection but its own stone-hard hooves and chomping-flat teeth—and its speed.

  If an animal can feel fear, knowing something may attack it, then Eisenhower felt fear. And if an animal can feel courage—overcoming its fear to advance onward—then the ’brid exhibited the same. For it marched through the low overhanging branches filled with a million leaves, twisting its long neck from side to side, trying to keep every square inch of the semidarkness in view. From time to time it could see fiery eyes glowing back at it from the shadows. But it would just speed up and keep on going, never slackening for a moment, never letting down its guard.

  Suddenly it saw five shadows, motionless, waiting. The ’brid knew by the low, white furred bodies that they were wolves. It had been attacked by them before—but Master had destroyed them. Now they waited, knowing there was no way off the trail, that the woods were too thick and densely woven for a creature as large as this mutant descendant of the horse family. Eisenhower looked back at the trail behind him and saw three more shapes lope down from the woods and start up the wide dusty animal-made pathway.

  In its primitive heart the hybrid felt the urge to panic, to thrash its forelegs wildly, to buck and stomp. But in its mind, a mind honed and taught by the Master, it knew better. To stay was to die. To fight was to die. There was only one way. Gathering its strength, the ’brid snorted a whale-like puff of smoke through its steaming nostrils, clapped its front right hoof against the ground three times, and then started forward. One of the most notable attributes of many breeds of the 21st-century hybrid horse is its ability to accelerate. With upper thigh muscles as wide as a man’s chest, the animals can put out a prodigious amount of accelerative energy in a very short period of time. With just fifty yards to go until it reached the waiting jaws of the wolf pack—now sidling carefully forward, their heads down, their shoulders hunched, c
hecking out the prey and the best way to kill it—the great mass of pure muscle took off like a racehorse from the wire. It pushed down harder, stronger with every ringing clap of its hooves on the hard ground. At fifty feet it had hit 25mph; at a hundred feet, 35. It came at the wolves with a steely look in its eyes—ready to die if it had to, but knowing it would take a field of carcasses with it.

  The wolves suddenly grew fearful, high-pitched squeals of confusion emanating from their vicious jaws. They barked at one another, trying to figure the thing out—how to cut it off. But the ’brid wasn’t about to give them time. It came on, its mouth wide, its feet pounding like exploding shells going off every time its weight came down on them. The wolves formed a wall, realizing that they had to stop it fast or they’d go hungry tonight. But the ’brid just came on at the pack, whose long incisors glistened in the spears of moonlight streaking down through the sky. The steed came right up to them and with a final thrust, using all of its power, leaped into the air with its hind legs. Like a jumper clearing the tallest hedge at Heathrow, the mutant horse went clear over the wolves’ backs, coming down yards past them on the other side. The predators whipped around in confusion, trying to gather themselves, and took off with a half-hearted charge after the galloping animal. But it was already gone, leaving only a cloud of slowly settling dust.

  Eisenhower didn’t slacken the pace for a good three miles, looking back every few hundred yards to see if there was anything following. But there wasn’t. Just eyes which continued to track him from the endless tangles of brush and tree. He was going on pure adrenaline now, but knew that he had to pace himself. He couldn’t make it if he maintained this momentum. The steed slowed to about half its speed and settled into that as if shifting to a lower gear. It could feel weariness creeping over it like a spider web of dull warmth through its body, its dirt-coated legs. But the Master was still not moving. Now it was the Master.

  By the time the sun once again pulled itself up on thin yellow arms over the ledge of dawn, the hybrid had come out of the thick forest and back onto open land, lush with flowers and ponds and small animals already creeping out into the mist-covered morning to search for food. Close—it was close to the station. It could feel it ahead and the desire for food, for rest, pulled it inexorably forward like iron filings toward a magnet. It crossed several miles of low fields and then skirted a wide oval lake where large dark shapes swam just below the surface—waiting.

  At last the Express station was in sight. Even from a mile off the ’brid could see the people moving about, the smoke rising from several of the small log shacks that sat in a defensive circle. The animal tore down a cleared road, avoiding the deep ruts of wagon wheels on each side, and came barreling in toward the depot like a cannonball looking for a place to land.

  “Whoa, easy, big fella,” a voice yelled out as hands flew up to grab the reins. The ’brid let them take control. They were not enemies, the were the Masters, the feeders.

  “Lookee here,” the man shouted out as the rider, still unconscious, fell into his arms. “It’s Jeb Haverston—and he’s hurt bad, real bad. Check his message-bag!”

  Even as they tended to the unconscious—but not mortally wounded—man, four other riders threw saddles on their own mounts and grabbed gourds of water. The Express had to go on. Within minutes the four were off to the north, east, south, and west to spread the word that K-Day had arrived.

  Six

  They came from out of nowhere. From wretched thatched-roof hovel-towns, from mini-cities as advanced and technologically proficient as Century City itself. They came by hybrid and mule, by ancient rusted cars and bicycles, a few even in stolen Soviet choppers. They carried high-caliber machine guns or just bows and arrows—but they came, ready to give whatever they and their Free Cities had to offer, to answer the call of the president of the Re-United States.

  Ted Rockson, standing off to one side of the main square of the subterranean city, couldn’t help but chuckle as he watched the groups of America’s finest move among the crowd like little schools of differently colored fish. Each town and city had its own version of the proper combat gear, and the men strutted among one another like peacocks, showing off their stuff. The Texas fighters with their wide ten-gallon hats and six-guns strapped to each leg hooted and hollered across the floor, spinning lariats around one another, showing their expertise in the American sport of lassoing. The Kansas City Brigade wore suits and narrow leather ties—useful for garroting—and looked like businessmen of the last century, ready for a board meeting. Only their Uzis betrayed the fact that they were fighters, not 20th-century account executives. There were men in full U.S. Marine regalia, in Navy gear, in moth-eaten olive-drab Army uniforms. An all-Black unit from the outskirts of the ancient city of Detroit was dressed in black jumpsuits and bristled with knives, pistols, and submachine guns that were slung around their necks. They looked as tough as nails, but mingled with the other U.S. fighters smiling, their hands extended in friendship.

  The various groups of disparately attired Freedomfighters didn’t quite know what to make of one another. But they knew that they had all been out there—fighting, bleeding, seeing their pals die, and waiting for their own incoming hell. And that made them brothers, instantly and forever. Brothers of blood and shrapnel. They showed their weapons to one another, marveling at some feature or other of a pistol or a rifle or a hidden spring blade. War stories were the main order of the day. How many this one had killed. How many Russians, tanks, convoys, and fortresses had been attacked. All the statistics that would fascinate a fighting man and bore everyone else to death. By the time the meeting was called to order, they were laughing and shadow-sparring with one another like boyhood buddies. This might be the only time they would meet. And most would die—of that they were all sure. So their exchanges of friendship and joking had special meaning for every one of them. A memory to clutch hold of when they were lying somewhere in a ditch with their guts smoking out of a hole in their stomachs.

  “May I introduce the President of the Re-United States,” council president Randolph said loudly, cutting through the chatter like a sword. All mouths closed and eyes turned toward the haggard-looking man who walked slowly to a hastily erected stage in the center of the wide Lincoln square. Seats had been brought from every part of the city and arranged in long curving lines around the central platform. They had expected several hundred—but nearly a thousand men had shown up, in some cases the entire top echelon of some of the Hidden Cities—all wanting to make the historic trip. Now they filled the entire square, stretching off for twenty rows. And the citizens of Century City, fascinated by the proceedings as well, stood far back against the concrete walls or sat atop the one-and two-story factories that surrounded the central thoroughfare. They broke into wild applause that once again brought a smile to President Langford’s face. Rockson could see that the love and respect of his people really did seem to put some electricity back into the man’s face. Kim sat up on the dais behind her father, so Rock at least didn’t have to worry about being caught between two beautiful women attempting to throw haymakers at one another. Rona sat by his side, her arms through his, with a snide smile on her perfect face. She kept glancing up at the president’s daughter, making sure she could clearly see who was with the man they both desired. For possession in love is nine-tenths of the law.

  President Langford gave a rousing speech about heroism in the face of impossible odds and how proud he was of each and every one of them. The words were poetic and stirring, but the voice cracked from time to time. Yet it hardly mattered to those who listened. For he was their president—a living symbol that all was possible, that freedom was not just another pipe dream. So they gazed up at the old man as if he was the most beautiful thing they’d ever seen. All their days of fighting, of suffering, suddenly seemed worth every second of pain.

  When Langford was finished, he walked slowly back to his chair and sat down with a thin smile beside his daughter, who was the only o
ne who realized how weak he was, who saw how fast the man was failing. The delegates from the Free Cities were ecstatic, stamping their feet like teenagers at a rock concert.

  “And now,” council president Randolph said, stepping up to the podium, “I will give the floor to the man who probably has his finger on more of what is actually going on right now around the country than anyone—our intelligence chief, Frank Rath.” The delegates yawned and scratched their chests and stomachs, eyes half closing as if they were ready to take an afternoon nap. They were fighters, most of them—with short attention spans and an eye for food and women. They had traveled with no notice, for days, to get here. But all of them knew that they had to rise to the pinnacle of their mental abilities. What they heard here, and their interpretation of the results, would have a drastic effect on the future of America as a nation of free men—not slaves. Thus, they were on their best behavior, pinching themselves to stay awake, sitting tall on the narrow wooden seats, and listening with every ounce of attention.

  “Thank you, thank you,” the tall gaunt Rath said, “please curtail your applause.” He placed a folder filled with the latest intel reports of the evolving situation on the lectern. “Let’s dispense with all the usual ‘how happy I am to see you here’s’ and all that. We’re here for one reason and one reason only—to forge a military response against the KGB forces that have taken over 65% of all regular Red Army fortresses in America.” He reached down and lifted a gridded piece of paper showing the most up-to-date placement of Killov’s troops, fortresses in the hands of the Red Army, and those bases still in dispute.