by Ryder Stacy
Rockson, Rona and Lyons made their way slowly through the Rockies back toward Century City, over 150 miles away, moving at night and in the early dawn, and resting during the day in shade, so as to avoid any Russian drones that flew constantly overhead, searching for survivors of the Battle of Forrester—and the location of Century City. Lyons seemed very tired the first two days and Rock didn’t want to push him too hard. He had grown to like something in the feisty, humorous nature of the teenager and felt somehow responsible for him. As if releasing him from slavery had made him Rockson’s stepson, and Rockson the Father of Freedom. The three of them hit it off, and Lyons, once he saw that he wasn’t going to die, left the two Freefighters in stitches with his stories of his early life, traveling with his father who was a salesman selling everything from nails to snake oil, ammunition to corsets, magic spells, love potions, and positive, absolute triple-your-money-back money-making amulets. They had crisscrossed the U.S. twice a year, working their way all the way down to Texas and as far north as Canada, all in a beat-up old horsedrawn wagon.
“The wagon kept going,” Lyons told them with a grin. “It was the horses that dropped. Dad used to drive ’em so hard, always claiming they was just lazy sons-of-bitches. ‘Ain’t nothing lazier than a horse’ he used to tell me. ‘Man’s gotta make ’em work, earn their oats,’ And damned if he wouldn’t push them all day and night, just to get to the next town where they’d be having some kind of fair or something, and the damned thing would inevitably drop over like some big old tree hit by lightning, right in the middle of the road. And Dad would jump out and start kicking and screaming at that horse, claiming it was just being lazy. I’d say ‘Dad, the damned thing’s dead’ and he’d say ‘No he ain’t, just being lazy. Being dead is the laziest trick they got’.
“Saw a lot of this country,” Lyons went on, as they traversed a sharp pebbled slope, rising up nearly a thousand feet above them. “Before the Reds caught up that is. Said Dad was a spy ’cause they found binoculars and cameras in the wagon. Shot him right on the spot, right in front of me. Then took me off to the labor camps. And there I’ve been,” he said, looking at Rockson as he jumped over a black needled thornbush. “For nearly five years now,” Lyons continued. “Passed from one damned Red fort to another like a piece of cattle till you kicked some sense into my goddamned head. Being in those camps, at first you resist, you know. But day after day, they smash you, kick you, piss on you, don’t give you food, even water. They make you become a slave, Rock, mold you like clay over and over and over. And then one day your mind is just—gone. You know, I can remember the first few camps I was in—the guards who beat me, the work we did. But after that—it’s just a blur, like this mist that hurts to even touch.”
“It will come back,” Rock said softly. “Being free is perhaps the most painful thing a man can do. It’s much easier to stay in a state of perpetual numbness, then you don’t have to feel the pain. You become a slug, crawling on the ground, oblivious to the world, to life around you. But when freedom comes, it makes you sick to your stomach because it’s so frightening, because all those memories slowly come back, haunting you. But all memories fade, and new ones take their place. Most of the time,” he added softly, thinking with a twinge of his father being mutilated, killed, his mother and sisters raped, then killed. That was a memory that would never disappear as long as he lived.
By the third day, they were all enjoying the mountain trek. Lyons seemed completely recovered now, jumping around like a young buck, running circles around Rona and Rockson. He was slowly coming to life, and it warmed both their hearts to see it. Up there in the thick forests of Colorado, it felt as if all the world were all right, a paradise compared to so much of America. Birds, circling above, chirped out their songs. Deer and small game scampered around the woods, hardly afraid of the human since they had seen none in so long. Rock showed Lyons how to track and hunt. That evening as the sun set Rona built a small fire out of kumak tree branches, a new breed of oak that burned with hardly any smoke. The woods in this part of the Rockies were abundant with the sweet smelling species. Rock led the teenager through the woods, showing him how to walk Indian style so as not to make noise, to keep downwind, to spot tracks, droppings. The youth took it all in with great interest.
“There.” Rock said with a whisper, pointing to the right. “90 feet. See—it looks just like part of the bushes right? A shadow.”
Lyons squinted and then his face lit up. “I see it! Yeah! A deer or something.”
“A chameleon deer,” Rock said. “Or at least that’s what Shecter’s zoologist boys call them anyway. They’re able to change their color to match any surrounding they’re in—in seconds. There, it’s moving.”
The two men watched as the medium-sized male mountain deer walked from a dark patch to an open space lit up with red streaks from the quickly falling ball of fire 96 million miles away. Instantly, the creature’s hide turned a blazing red as if it were just a patch of light from the brilliant sunset.
“Now, sight up on the chest,” he said as Lyons swung the Kalashnikov around and imitated Rockson’s prone posture.
“Don’t try for a head shot—at least not with a rifle like this. The chest, lower part. Now squeeze.”
Both men pulled the trigger and their rifles spat twin slugs at the same instant. They entered the chameleon deer’s chest just three inches apart and passed through the heart, lodging in the lungs on the other side. The mountain deer looked extremely surprised for about one second as its head jerked straight up in the air. Then it fell flat over on its side, stone cold dead.
They walked over and Rock leaned down to look at the bullet holes.
“Perfect shot my lad,” Rockson said proudly, glad that his efforts were paying off. He hadn’t been wrong about the kid. He was going to turn out to be a good one. Maybe another Rockson himself. The Doomsday Warrior took out a razor sharp, short bladed bayonet he had snatched from the Nazi camp on the way out and showed Lyons how to butcher the deer, skin it, where the best meat was. Within minutes they had 20 pounds of thick steaks all sliced and piled, and Rockson was wrapping them in the thick leaves of the oak trees, tying the whole package with some of the thin vines that hung down around them.
“There, dinner for . . .” Rockson stopped his sentence in midair as he saw Lyon’s face freeze with terror, his eyes focused just behind the Doomsday Warrior. Rock turned, sensing something bad was about to happen. But he didn’t know how bad. A grizzly, perhaps 16 feet tall, stood high on its hind legs, sniffing the air with a twitching nose. It looked dov/n at Rockson from what seemed like the sky and without warning, dropped like a missile right on top of him. The Doomsday Warrior had no chance to react, but breathed out and relaxed his body to take the force of the blow. He felt the huge body slam on top of him making him nearly black out, but he held on and reached for the knife he had put back in its sheath. The bear pulled its head up, looking down at him from just feet away, opening its jaws and starting down. All Rock could see was teeth, a tongue as long as an arm, and a dark churning mouth of wetness and digestive fluid.
Suddenly shots rang out, just inches from his ear. Over and over. Rockson felt the huge body above him jerk several times, but the head, with its steam shovel jaws kept coming. He turned his face to the side, twisting over with all his strength as the grizzly’s teeth slammed past him and into the ground, as if trying to lift up a whole section of sod.
Rock squirmed violently beneath the ton of deadly carnivore that blanketed him, waiting for that huge head to turn and take a bite. But nothing happened. The head was still, the eyes still open, the tongue hanging out like a red hose. The thing was dead.
“Jesus Christ, Rock. Are you okay? Are you alive?” A voice asked from above, seeing only blood everywhere.
“Yeah, I think so,” Rockson answered. “Pull me out and I’ll tell you for sure.”
Between them they managed to finally roll the dead weight off Rockson and he crawled out to stand up.<
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“Somehow I think you just saved my ass,” he said dryly, and looked back down at the thing. Its entire upper skull had been blasted to bits, the brain sitting in a bloody pool in the lower skull cavity.
“Yeah, I know you said not to go for the head shot,” Lyons grinned. “But I figured I was close enough not to miss. I put the muzzle right up to its ear and just emptied the clip. I did good, huh Rockson?” the teen asked, looking for his hero’s approval.
“The proof is in the pudding pal,” the Doomsday Warrior said, grabbing the steaks he had packed. “And in this case, I’m the pudding.”
They travelled for another four days, making good time on some of the less-steep sections of the mountain range. At last Century City was within sight. Somehow Rockson always felt amazed, every time he returned from battle to see it again. And each time, somewhere inside him, he thought it would be the last.
So there was a tinge of sadness mixed in the joy when he came to the twin mountain peaks, the familiar woods. For this might be the last time he would return.
Seventeen
In the ornate “Kansas Corn Palace”, a palatial building constructed in the 20th Century when the corn and wheat fields of America were the most fertile in the world, the walls were covered with immense flags showing red hammers and sickles crossed over an eagle—the Russian designed “new” flag of the U.S.S.A. Today, the lobbies and auditoriums of the building were filled with dignitaries, military officials and high-level bureaucrats—for today was the “historic” summit meeting between Premier Vassily, Col. Killov of the KGB and President Zhabnov, “president” of the United Socialist States of America. The lesser functionaries zipped about in stubby Cheka sedans, while quiet, sullen men in brown uniforms drank themselves under the table in the local bar wondering if Vassily was indeed under the spell of the blackie, Rahallah, who accompanied him everywhere.
Lawrence, Kansas, had been chosen for its long international class runway, its low level of radiation—and primarily because it was a relatively neutral zone, administered by Soviet trade officials rather than KGB or Red Army.
Zhabnov had been the first to arrive, and after partaking of the luncheon menu, several times over, the jowled nephew of Vassily, who retained his post of president solely because he was stupid enough for the premier to control like a puppet, headed out to the large green and blue-veined marble lobby to await the arrival of the others. He knew his presence at the meeting was largely formal, that Killov and Vassily would make the major decisions, so he felt rather bored with the whole thing before it had even started. Why couldn’t he just head upstairs to his bedroom and enjoy the favors of the 14-year-old Siamese twin virgins his sex squads had dug up for him. They had outdone themselves this time, he thought, closing his eyes for a moment, savoring the sweet naked vision in his head. He really must promote that captain whatever-his-name-was who ran the sex unit. Their recent acquisitions had been quite stimulating.
Zhabnov at last heard the bugles blare outside and the huge oak doors opened. In stepped twelve bodyguards, burly men in black leather greatcoats, deathhead symbols made of gold on each wide lapel. Huge bulges showed beneath the coats, suggesting something slightly larger than pistols. Then, turning his head furtively from side to side, as if he expected something to attack him at any second, Killov walked in, in his skin tight black krylon leather pants and field jacket. He hardly looked like he belonged to the world of the living, so emaciated was he, so gaunt and cadaver-like his face and dark, dead-looking eyes.
Zhabnov took in a deep breath as did the others in the immense chandeliered lobby, as Killov’s eyes quickly scanned every one of them. When he saw Zhabnov, a shudder ran through his body and a sneer across his lips. He quickly turned away and headed across the marble floor, his bootheels echoing like pistol shots, over to a large banquet table, where he sat down, took out a small flask of liquid and popped four pills in his mouth, swallowing them down with one gulp. Zhabnov squirmed in his chair nervously. He knew Killov hated his guts. Had promised to roast him like a pig when he took over Washington. The president shuddered. Why couldn’t things be simple? Why couldn’t he just have his girls and tend to his rose garden behind the White House. Life was just so unfair.
Vassily came in next, again, accompanied by a chorus of horns from the Army band outside. He moved silently across the wide shining floor in his wheelchair pushed by the white-tuxedoed, ebony faced Rahallah. If Killov looked like death incarnate, then Vassily looked like death warmed over. His face was spotted with tiny hemorrhages, his countenance stark white, his body slumped like a disintegrating scarecrow under his thick wool blanket. But he was the premier of all the world, wielding more power than any man in the history of the planet. So, the entire room stood as one, even Killov, and gave “The Grandfather” the Red full-fisted salute. Rahallah waved them to sit down, infuriating Killov and Zhabnov, and wheeled Vassily over to the nearly half-foot thick solid oak conference table that stood in the center of the large hall. The two other men of power grudgingly walked over, motioning their guards to stay behind—but not too far, and sat down. The three most powerful men on earth, staring at one another’s cool eyes.
The orchestra at the far end of the room began its litany to power as all, except Vassily, stood for the Communist International. “Arise ye prisoners of starvation . . .” When it was over Vassily was the first to speak.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen, so good to see you,” the premier said in a firm voice and the slightest of twinkles in his eye. Killov was amazed. His spies had reported Vassily near death with a heart attack. And now . . . He glanced over at Rahallah for a split instant. It was the nigger. He had done it with his voodoo mumbo-jumbo magic. He was a witch. He would have to be burned. Killov made a mental note to have the servant assassinated top priority.
“Pardon me if I don’t shake hands,” Vassily went on, “but I am old and time is crucial. All formalities, have, by mutual agreement been cut to minimum. Let us get down to business. I have had Rahallah prepare a suggested agenda of three parts which he will give each of you. Rahallah has my fullest confidence, understand. He will—sometimes—speak for me.”
The black African placed a small valise on the table, opened it and extracted three sets of papers which he handed out. Killov hissed when he saw the agenda.
“Perhaps we should just let you, Grandfather, and your blackie do all the decision-making here?”
“Not at all, Colonel,” Vassily good-naturedly replied. “Please don’t take offense. I am merely trying to give a format to our discussions. You may make your own suggestions, amendments, etc.”
“And,” said Killov quickly, “of course I have a veto. This is not a simple vote on different issues. After all, your nephew sits with you.”
“Ah yes, of course—we will all have a veto. Everything must be by total majority.” And so it went, as Killov challenged every point of the rules for the meeting for nearly an hour. At last they settled on the agenda.
“First,” said Killov, summarizing, “All actions of any we three against any of the others must immediately and forever cease. That means,” he glared at Zhabnov, “your assassins, my fat friend—”
“Assassins? What assassins?” Zhabnov stuttered.
“The ones I skinned alive,” Killov answered with a dagger-like mouth. Zhabnov paled. So that was what had happened to them.
“I haven’t sent any assassins,” Zhabnov replied. “But I will promise not to send any more. Is that acceptable?”
“Fine, fine,” Killov said softly. “And Mr. Premier, might I have your assurances that you do not intend to use either your Imperial Army, your border police or your nephew’s regular Red Army forces—or any part of your armed might against the KGB any place in the world, for the duration of this agreement?”
“Gentlemen, of course, we must stop any real or imagined activities against one another,” Vassily said with a smile. “Is that not right, nephew?”
Zhabnov weakly expelled some air
from his overheated red face and weakly said, “Yes, Grandfather.” Rahallah smiled, his perfect white teeth adding lustre to the room. God, how I hate that blackie, Zhabnov thought. It’s indecent to have him here smelling up the place. Killov reached forward, picking up the second page of Vassily’s draft.
“So let it be written down in Paragraph 11, page two that we agree to cease our mutual hostilities.” Zhabnov grew paranoid every time Rahallah bent to confer with Vassily during the conference. Were they plotting against him too? Were the premier and his Negro—and Killov as well—out to kill him, to redivide America? Zhabnov’s eyes swept the room—perhaps the two of them had arranged an accident for him . . . Just at that moment a servant came in with coffee. Zhabnov refused—it might be poisoned.
After hours of haggling they had at last drafted a document satisfactory to all, and its provisions were read by Rahallah’s clear articulate voice. The assembled delegates seated around the hall were aghast at the blackie being allowed the honor of reading the agreement. But who would dare complain?
“The following provisions are agreed to at the Kansas Summit of the triple powers,” Rahallah said, standing up at his side of the table. “One— All hostilities will cease among the three assignatories to this pact. Any differences of opinion shall, in the future, be negotiated openly between the three. Two— A combined force of Special Penetration Forces,” (a euphemism for assassins, the delegates knew) “shall be drawn from the KGB, the Regular Red Army and the Imperial Guard to once-and-for-all get rid of the main destabilizing factor in America—Ted Rockson. Three— A ceasefire shall be effective immediately between the forces of Vassily and Zhabnov on one side and Von Reisling and his new Nazi alliance on the other.” The three men repressed looks of ultimate cynicism. Each of them didn’t really give a damn what the treaty said. It was all just buying time until Rockson was destroyed. Then civil war would erupt again—and they all knew it. “Four— No atomic weapons of any kind are to be used on American soil without express written permission from Premier Vassily.” Killov bristled at this, but he could live without using his favorite weapon, the neutron bomb, of which he had ten stockpiled, for a month or two.
