Doomsday Warrior 13 - American Paradise

by Ryder Stacy

  The Doomsday Warrior yelled, “Hey stop throwing—or we’ll fire back! We come in peace. I’m Rockson, Ted Rockson. Hold your fire!”

  Again the surfboard riders, sliding expertly back and forth on the breakers, let loose another set of flaming tridents. These the men were hard-put to avoid, and one nicked McCaughlin’s left arm.

  “Damn,” Rock yelled. “Either they can’t hear me over the roar of the waves, or they mean us harm! Better use the flare cartridges. Fire over their damned blond heads!”

  The Freefighter squad switched to flare shells with the twist of a dial on the handle of the weapons. They fired nearly in unison—high. Their red flare shells burst out of the big-barrelled weapons and streaked up over the surf riders, exploding with percussive brilliance.

  That put the fear of God into the surfers. They hit the water, spilling off their boards and tumbling in the surf.

  Then, over the crashing surf, Rockson faintly heard, “Hold your fire, intruders. If you are not enemies—identify yourselves.”

  Rock shouted, “That’s better,” and lowered his weapon. “Keep your guard up, men,” he said more softly. “I don’t know who these characters are—”

  The surfers retrieved their boards and paddled them in. Then they stood up, and the seven bronze men, carrying their boards, stepped forward through the waves. Every one of them was tracked by the keen eyes of the Freefighters.

  The most muscular and blond man of the bunch emerged from the water. He put his board down on the sand as he came forward from the others. He was holding one of the odd tridents cradled in his arms. He looked, with his bronze skin and long blond locks tangled with seaweed, like some goddamned Neptune Agonistes.

  “Who did you say you were?”

  “I’m Ted Rockson—who the hell are you?”

  The big blond man came closer. His surprising yellow eyes surveyed Rock carefully. Then he smiled a perfect white-toothed grin.

  “Yeah, I suppose you could be Rockson—you have the white streak in your hair and those mismatched blue eyes.”

  “I’m Rockson, alright. Put down your weapons, we come in peace. Now that you know who I am. Who are you?”

  “We’re the Surfcombers, man, you know—the ones who sent for you? I’m Chief Knudson, and this here,” he said, turning and pointing, “is Manny, my assistant.”

  He motioned for a taller, thinner man with mirror sunglasses on to come over and stand next to him. Then he pointed at the other five men, who wore scant, sea-green swim trunks and nothing else, identifying each in turn. “This is Damian Simley, and these other fellows are Alf and Billy and Tex, and last but not least, old Sammy. We’re pleased to meet you, Rockson.”

  Chief Knudson extended his arm, and Rock started to take his hand; but the man slipped his hand past Rockson’s and locked forearms. He shook Rock’s forearm. “Pleased to meet a fellow American.”

  “And I’m pleased to meet you, Chief Knudson.” Rock sighed. “I think I can say for all of us, thanks for helping out against those—hairy guys. But after helping us, why did you fire on us?”

  “Mistaken identity. We have trouble along this beach. It’s hard to keep our territory intact. Besides the Tragos—that’s the group that attacked you—there are a lot of other primitive folk roaming around the dunes that try to take over this beach. We manage to keep our surf-turf though, since they’re more primitively armed than we are. As for why we fired on you Freefighters—those khakis you’re wearing are a lot like those worn by the group we call the Marauders. They come down here from time to time and steal our crab traps right out from under our noses. There’s a mess of crab traps just yards from here.”

  “I see . . . that explains it. Now which if you is the man that reported the Soviets have acquired a secret weapon?”

  The chief smiled. “Ah, that would be Murf Cross, our best explorer. He’s back at the beach shack—our headquarters. You’ll meet him.”

  “Good,” said Rock. “As soon as possible.” Then he introduced the Freefighters one by one. “This big fellow is Archer—he’s a mountain man and a bit taciturn. The other big guy is McCaughlin. And then this friend is Chen.” The pencil-moustached Chinese-American smiled mockingly as he always did at the formalities. “Then we have Detroit Green—our grenade man and team anthropologist. And last but not least, our Russian friend, Scheransky.”

  “Scheransky?” the chief questioned.

  “Yes,” Rockson smirked. “Not all Russians are Reds, you know. He’s our technical expert and a loyal Freefighter.”

  It was getting colder, and the sky started sprinkling down rain. Archer coughed and took off his hat and squeezed it dry. With his hat removed, one could see his crystal-impregnated scalp. Red and blue sparks occasionally flared in the crystals, attracting Knudson’s comment.

  “What the hell?” muttered the chief. “This Archer fellow has a most unusual topside!”

  “It’s a long story—a repair job after his head was split open in a fight. Archer, put your hat back on. The sparks will attract birds.”

  Archer nodded gravely. “Meee sorrry.”

  “Not too long on intellect, but a regular Robin Hood with his hand-made arrows,” Rock said warmly. “And a walking light show when he takes his hat off.”

  “Well,” said the Surfcomber chief, “let’s get back to headquarters and out of the rain—ever eat barbequed steamers?”

  Archer fairly drooled his way along the beach. They soon saw the long, low-slung beachcomber shack ahead. The wooden rambling structure had a thousand car hubcaps with familiar names from the past—Mitsubishi, Oldsmobile, Toyota—plastered on its weathered walls.

  Two

  The Freefighters and their guides had to bend to get in the low entrance of the ramshackle-appearing structure. But once they were inside, Rockson found the ceiling wasn’t as low as he had expected, for they stepped down into a broad, seashell-adorned room. He realized that the exterior made the place look low and poorly constructed, but it wasn’t. The driftwood and scrap outside was only surface dressing.

  The room was about 50 feet square and lit by concealed electric bulbs behind decorative—and translucent—seashells, large ones. There were heavy, rough-hewn beams in the ceiling and five or six treelike, vertical support pillars scattered about. The walls, besides being full of shelves containing myriad technical and how-to manuals, were racked with weapons: guns, huge machetes, hook-and-grapples. Plus, there were rows of those golden tridents that had proven so effective.

  This whole set-up called for a re-evaluation. Rock had thought initially that the Surfcombers were a low-tech group. How wrong he was. The more he observed, including a gape out a rear window at the several dune buggies parked in the ramp, the more he understood they were very high-tech!

  A swivel chair that had been facing the other way whirred, and the chief introduced its smiling, blond occupant, Murf Cross. Cross had been viewing a chair-arm-installed, tri-D video, which he now turned off. “Crazy man,” he said rising, “glad to meet the famous Doomsday Warrior.”

  The man was an easy six feet five inches of long, muscular bronze. His armshake was powerful. Rockson accepted a beer and then sat down in another cool leatherette swivel chair that the chief brought for him. He leaned intensely toward the muscular Cross and got right to business. “What about this radio broadcast you sent to Rath at Century City? What is the weapon you spoke of that the Russians have? Did you see it?”

  “It’s real enough,” Murf stated, “but I didn’t see it. It was described to me. Here, take a look.”

  Murf fished down under his seat and produced a water-rumpled sketch pad. “Good thing I use waterproof ink when I draw, and not charcoal. Here, look at this sketch.”

  Rock opened the eight-by-eleven pad to the first page. The first drawing was of a nativelike house—broadbeamed, covered with carved wood faces. In front of the house, there was a set of most attractive, near-naked, island maidens. “No, a few pages on,” Murf apologized.

&nbs
p; Rock flipped through several more pages of sketched native girls.

  Murf said, “Those drawings are my studies of the natives of Rarapani—that’s where the crystal weapon was stolen from. Rarapani is eight thousand miles from here, in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. It was a paradise until the Reds came.” Rockson had reached the last of twelve pages and had yet to see a picture of anything that looked like a weapon—or a crystal.

  Murf said, “Not there? Oh wow! That’s right. I left it in my room—I think.” He grinned sheepishly. “Come on,” he said, putting down his beer on the chair-arm video, “let’s go to my room. The drawings I made of the crystal weapon—from native descriptions—must be in there.”

  He led Rock along seashell-and-netting-covered walls of a long corridor, explaining as they walked, “We each have our own pad, of course, even though the beach shack is one big building.” He opened a rustic wood door and turned on a light inside since the room had no window.

  Rockson entered behind the Surfcomber. He saw lots of driftwood that had been made into lamps, and even the bed was made of a wide log.

  “Like it?” the crew-cut, blond surfer asked.

  “Er—very—beachy,” Rock said, noncommittaly.

  There was a glossy photo of a bare-breasted Polynesian girl on the dresser. A girlfriend? Plus a set of tikis—faces carved of greenstone and worn on a necklace—hung on the wood-plank walls. Also there were fierce war god masks.

  “All stuff from my trip,” explained Murf. “I would have brought more back, if I could have. I didn’t want to come back at all; I liked it there in Rarapani. You can see why.” He pointed at the girl’s photo. “That’s Mirani—she’s neat!”

  “Where are the sketches of the weapon,” Rock insisted impatiently.

  “Oh, sorry, here.” He picked up a sketch pad off the dresser and handed it to Rockson.

  Rock again flipped through sketches, this time of fierce-looking male Polynesians standing next to outrigger canoes on a pristine white-sand beach amid fronds of palms.

  “I still don’t see any weapon!” Rock was getting very frustrated. And he didn’t like Murf’s flippant manner.

  Interrupting his words, a blond girl in a scant leather bikini came in with a tray of beers. She was nearly as tall as Murf and very buxom. She smiled gently, set down the two foamy glasses and left. She was the first Surfcomber woman Rock had seen.

  “Our women are modest and stay in the B.G.” said the beachboy. “The way women should.”

  Rock made no comment. Each U.S. subculture had its own customs.

  “Surfs up!” Murf said, chugging the beer. “We have our own brewery, you know.” He burped, then popped open another can.

  Rock didn’t touch his beer. Was this a wild-goose chase? He fumed, “Where the hell is the weapon drawing?”

  “Oh damn it. I remember now! I left the pad with the drawing of the crystal weapon in the beach buggy. I’m sure it’s there.” Murf slapped his head with his right palm.

  Rockson sat down heavily on the surfboard-shaped cot. Was there a weapon? Was this handsome surfer just a flake? But he controlled his anger. Maybe he’s forgetful or drunk. Or maybe he’s testing me, seeing if I get angry. These people were very different from the Freefighters. They were a long-isolated race of Americans. Their casual, forgetful ways sure didn’t stop them from developing a high-tech radio, those power tridents and a whole lot of other gadgets. He’d just have to remain calm and cool. Cultures are very different, and sometimes you have to be patient when first meeting them!

  Still, it was with exasperation that Rock said, “I sure hope there are drawings of a weapon in the buggy.”

  “Don’t worry, I have them. Relax. We’ll go get them now. But get a little more laid back, man. After all, life is a beach.”

  Rock smiled. “Okay. No particular hurry, man. I’ll go—when you’re ready.”

  Murf said, “Hey then, come on, I’m not an overly organized person you know. That organization-bag is the old bag that got America and the world in big trouble once. God, all that rushing around. We Surfcombers are more—how do you say it? Cooled out! Out here on the beach, time is NOTHING! But, I’ll show you the picture and tell you all I remember about what the Rarapanians said about the crystal. Let’s just finish the beers that Sandy brought us. Then I swear by my jockstrap that you’ll see the sketches!”

  Rock slowly drank several of the cold beers, while silently looking around the room, trying to get “laid back.”

  Finally, Murf burped and said, “Well, maybe now you’ll ride with me down the beach a ways in my dune buggy. I’m in charge of setting up a clambake for the sunset club—that’s all of us. It’s pretty watching the sun set when the fog isn’t so thick. You can look at the sketch while I set up the party.”

  Rock nodded. “Sure, no hurry.” Every race and sub-race he had visited in America, all isolated groups of survivors of the “big war” as they usually called it, had developed their own infuriating culture. If this one was laid back he’d have to adjust to it!

  They left the room and walked out a door and across a sandy ramp. Rockson wondered if the other men, who had stayed in the big meeting room, were now half as drunk as he was. Those home-brew beers sure were strong.

  They were out behind the shack on the sandy rear ramp. Murf went to one of the ten, huge-wheeled, dune buggies, stopped at one with tiger-stripe paint and climbed up into one of the two bucket seats.

  “Hop up, man.”

  Rock did, noting the big vehicle had a heavy rollbar. God, he thought, how often do these things turn over?

  He did as Murf instructed—strapped himself into the hard bucket seat next to the blond driver. The eager beachboy turned a switch, and Rockson heard the big diesel engine turn over and catch.

  “There’s four hundred horses under the hood,” Murf bragged, “so hold on to your hat.”

  They roared up the ramp at breakneck acceleration, bounced around on the balloon tires and headed down the beach. The sudden appearance of the beach buggy sent the sea gulls, feasting on dead fish and plankton, scattering in angry protest.

  “How do you like it?”

  “Is it far to where we are going?” Rock managed.

  “Naw, just ten miles down the peninsula! Best sunset viewing in the area.”

  “Where is the drawing of the weapon?”

  “Dig under the seat for my sketch pad. It’s probably there somewhere,” the beachboy shouted as he accelerated madly.

  Rock did feel something like a pad, and he pulled it out and opened it. He could hardly turn the pages in the wildly bouncing buggy. He didn’t want to lose the pad—if it did contain something important—to the gusting wind. He just held it until buggy slid to a halt.

  “We’re here—come on,” Murf said, clambering down onto the sand. Rock snapped out of his harness and was glad to set foot on terra firma. Murf started walking toward some blankets and other objects on a small rise of sand near the water. They were, Rockson observed, on a very narrow peninsula surrounded by surf. “Have a seat; I’ll find you a beer.”

  Rockson sat down heavily and opened the sketch pad. There were sketches of fifty-foot waves and whales throwing themselves out of the stormy waters. Murf glanced over his shoulder, and said, “I drew that one in the Mid-Pacific, after a storm. A mother of a storm! I was exploring farther out than any of us ever went. Thousands of miles from the coast. I used old maps I found at the marina in Los Diengo—that’s a village all collapsed and rotted down the coast, toward L.A. crater. The weather on my trip was great for days then suddenly changed. The winds were typhoon strength for eight days!”

  Rock, turning through page after page of sketches of fantastic waves and weird sea creatures, said, “You’re quite brave to undertake such a trip.”

  “What should a man do?” Murf asked. “Watch TV?”

  Rock didn’t reply, for he had finally come to the sketch he had longed to see. It was labelled “THE CRYSTAL GNAA, AS DESCRIBED BY NATIVES.�
�� The sketch was of a spherical, amber crystal with a million facets. Judging by the Polynesian maiden standing next to it for reference, it was twelve feet high.

  Rock was surprised. Was this the weapon? The crystal, or whatever it was, stood on a hillock and appeared to be hooked up to a set of heavy electrical cables at its concrete base. There were several drawings of the thing, showing it from different sides. In one picture, you could see it was near a concrete bunker ruin. Then there was a picture Murf had drawn of the empty concrete base and several cables.

  “That one,” said Murf, glancing over, “is the way it looks on the hill now, with the crystal gone. See the gouges in the dirt where they dragged it away?”

  “Who dragged it away?”

  “Turn the page.”

  Rock did and gasped. There was a sketch of the face of a gaunt, almost green-skinned man with deep-set dark eyes and dead-rat-colored tufts of short hair. The man had on a high-collar black uniform with death’s-head insignias on both collars.

  “Killov!” Rock gasped.

  “The natives say that this man led the Soviet soldiers that dragged the crystal—which the natives worshipped as a god—to a large boat. They said his name was Killalowee.”

  Killov seemed to exude evil, even in the sketch.

  How could it be? It was impossible, and yet here was the face. Yes, it had to be Killov—the arch enemy of all mankind: the Skull, the Devastator, the evil renegade, Colonel Killov! So he hadn’t been blown to bits in Washington after all.

  “I know this man,” Rock said. “It is a good likeness.”

  Rock’s eyes narrowed in hate and awe. Couldn’t anything kill The Skull? Was he doomed to forever seek to destroy this evil that haunted the world? Was Rockson doomed to confront Killov again and again?

  He was now sure the crystal was indeed a weapon. A most deadly weapon. “Where did Killalowee take the crystal?”

  “No one knows,” Murf said. “He headed south on the big ship it was loaded onto—after his men shot many islanders. Killalowee had something like an armed whaling boat, near as I could gather from the native’s descriptions. The soldiers hauled the crystal overland on cables and slid it onto the ship’s ramp, the natives said.”