by Ryder Stacy
The next morning Archer woke up early, before Rock, and headed off down the tunnel in search of the toilet facilities that the dissidents had shown him. He walked through the dark tunnel lit by an occasional flickering light bulb that the jazzmen had strung up every few hundred feet, run by stolen electricity from passing power lines. Somehow he managed to take a wrong turn and headed deeper into the depths, sure that he would stumble upon the tunnel latrine. Within minutes he was completely lost within the labyrinth of the elaborate unused Moscow subway system. He began groaning and rushing this way and that, desperately hoping he would stumble upon the way out. He could take on twenty men at a time but to be lost underground scared the giant half to death. He pulled out the little penlight flashlight the dissidents had given him and Rock, but it was hardly enough to do more than dimly light up a few steps ahead. The immense freefighter was sure that he saw thousands of little green eyes peering at him from out of the impenetrable darkness of the endless tunnel. Rats? Mutated bugs? If they were big enough and would come forward he would tear them apart. But no, they hovered in the distance, watching, waiting as he lost himself deeper within the subterranean world.
At last he came into one of the wider chandeliered stations with several of the lights still working. Here the thousand green eyes disappeared, not wishing to enter the brightness. Archer sat down on a half rotted passenger bench near the center of the station and tried to figure out just what the hell to do next. He saw a shiny object at one end of the seat and reached over. It was a small metal flute, probably one of the dissident’s, dropped here by accident. The huge freefighter picked it up and lifted it to his lips. He began playing—mournful, sorrowful notes, a slow anarchistic tune that would have warmed the heart of any Zen master of the late Twentieth Century world. Each poignant note echoed down the multiple tunnels that led out of the terminal.
It didn’t like music. It had been scared many times, nearly killed by the dissidents and their screaming musical weapons. It had no name. It was forever. It was simply—it. It especially didn’t like this music! But this music could be approached and the player could be eaten! It shifted its huge eight-hundred-pound frame, slurped the last of the old bones it was cracking to suck out the sweet marrow. But why eat stale things when fresh warm musicians could be had?
It was round like a ball with seven arms, seven red eyes, seven legs, and seven stomachs—each growling to be fed. It had been formed long ago out of the radioactive pollutants washed into the Volga’s churning waters, coursing through the megalopolis of Moscow. It had eaten an occasional lone boater then, long ago, before the sky changed color, before the river ran red with blood. It had retreated into the subways and the sewers where the water ran a foul green. Now it ate rats and cats and ugly things slimy and quick—and occasionally a dissident if he was foolhardy and was alone and lost. But it was hungry now for fresh meat. It hadn’t eaten warm flesh for a long time. But now—now it was time to feed. It came down the tunnel running, not caring if it was heard—for how could anything stop it?
Archer heard the dreadful squishing sounds of the thing’s many feet. He spun around and auto-loaded an arrow into his crossbow, the awesome weapon that never left his side. “Shiiit!” he growled, a word he had heard Rockson utter so many times in tight situations that he had begun to use it, though speech wasn’t his strong point. Something was coming at him—and whatever it was he was sure he didn’t want to make its acquaintance. He edged backward on the dimly lit platform, pointing the small tight beam of the flashlight into the darkness of the tunnel. It came out of the twisted shadows on running, tearing feet—enormous, full of teeth, moving forward rapidly, its seven clawed arms flailing at the dank air like a windmill.
Archer let loose a hail of arrows, fed quickly into the crossbow by his autofeed. Most of them seemed to bounce off the hard scales of the thing, but two stuck in crevasses between the creature’s armor. The hideous mutation let out a scream of pain and retreated back into the edge of the tunnel, but Archer could see the multiple arms pulling out the stuck arrows as it disappeared. The huge freefighter gulped—his arrows could usually make mincemeat of anything—even a snar-lizard but this . . .
It was mad now. Nothing had ever hurt it before. It had never known the meaning of pain. For the first time in its putrid existence it felt rage. It was beyond hunger now—it thirsted for vengeance. It ripped the arrows from its slimy flesh and threw them on the tracks. Its green blood quickly coagulated, the polluted corpuscles forming a wall of putrescence which hardened within seconds. The pink thing must die. But it must be clever—the pointy things hurt it. It knew the tunnels well and rushed to the side through an opening. It would come around on the pink creature from the back. Soon it would eat.
Archer stood in the center of the terminal platform, spinning around, trying to keep an eye on every corner. He sensed that the creature would be back—anything that could pull his razor-tipped hunting arrows out of its flesh was tough. Too tough. If only Rockson was here—he’d have a plan. He would be clever. Archer racked his brain trying to think of a way out, trying to be smart like Rockson. It had to be able to die. What the hell was this thing anyway? Think! Think! Was there any vulnerability exposed in its charge? But he didn’t have time for his philosophical musings. Suddenly there was a sound from behind him—the squishing noise.
He turned raising his crossbow—four arrows in the autofire. He had left the rest of his quiver back at the dissident’s encampment because he had been working sharpening the tips. Four shots and then the creature appeared at the far end of the narrow subway platform that had once teemed with rushing workers—now home to nothing but spiders and squealing rats who watched the impending battle from their holes. The monstrous slime thing came slowly toward him, its seven eyes burning with the black glow of death. It let out a roar that sounded like a contemptuous laugh, a challenge to the pink thing. Do what you can—for soon you will die. Archer backed down the platform slowly, keeping his eyes fixed directly on the approaching thing.
Suddenly it charged, moving at incredible speed for something so large and foul. The huge freefighter sighted his bow at its face and neck, at least at where he thought they were, because it was such a mass of oozing filth it was hard to tell where any part of it began or ended. He fired one after another of the deadly arrows. But this time the thing was smart. It flailed at the approaching shafts with its many arms knocking them from the air. One caught it just below one of its dripping claws, but it whipped the appendage to the side and the arrow flew out again, hardly able to lodge within the swampy mass. Now what appeared to pass for a smile crossed its immense saliva-coated jaws. It knew the pink thing had run out of weapons. It would savor the meal.
Archer ran backward, not wanting to take his eyes from it. He suddenly had the terrible vision of those teeth and claws ripping into his flesh. It would be ridiculous to die here at the hands of this thing after all he had been through, after all the Russians and beasts of the American wastelands he had defeated. His back foot bumped into something, and he fell over on his side, slamming onto the cold concrete platform with a resounding thud. The thing rushed forward, knowing the time was right. Its dark jaws opened to their full extent as it could taste the prey just seconds away. Archer scrambled furiously on the dirt-coated concrete floor as if trying to swim away from his grisly fate. His hand made contact with a long fallen pole that had once held a lamp in more civilized days. It was nearly eight-feet long, broken near the tip which was now razor sharp with rusted, pointed edges. The thing launched itself through the air, pushing up with all the strength of its seven legs. Archer whipped the pole around, resting the bottom just under his armpit so it touched the stone floor. The makeshift spear caught the hungry creature dead center, ripping right through its middle. What passed for its heart deep inside was cut to pieces as it hung on the staff feet above Archer, whipping its appendages around furiously.
It felt pain—unbearable pain. It had thought in its dim mind th
at it was eternal—that as it had no beginning it had no end. But suddenly it knew that it was gone. It could feel its heart tear and then a numbness that spread out from its center to every cell. A cold pain that grew with every second. It snapped its row of bent teeth, trying to reach the pink thing, trying to take it along on its journey into hell, but it couldn’t. Then it felt a darkness descending on its senses. A darkness into eternity.
Archer slid out from beneath the dangling putrescence as its thick green blood dribbled down onto him. He rolled quickly to the side, letting go of the iron staff, and the dead creature slammed onto the platform just inches away. He jumped up, searching frantically around for another weapon, and ran a few yards. Then he turned and knew—it was gone. A thin smile crossed his lips. He had won. Rockson would be proud.
Somehow the mute made his way back to the dissident’s encampment. He emerged from the tunnel coated with the thick green blood of the dead creature. The dissidents looked at him curiously as Rockson walked over with a grin on his face.
“You look like you’ve been doing battle with an artichoke,” the Doomsday Warrior said.
Archer nodded furiously. “Artechooke,” he said, pumping his hands up and down to simulate the killing action of the spear.
“Jesus, you smell,” Rock said, holding his fingers over his nose. The dissidents, too, backed away as the odor was quite unpleasant. Two of them waved for Archer to follow them, and they led him to their makeshift shower, using water siphoned off from a passing water main. Soon the freefighter was clean again, but he knew he would never quite be able to explain just what had gone on deep below the Moscow streets.
The next day—if one could say day here in the unchanging subterranean world—Yuri Goodman brought in a wizened, stooped old man on crutches they called Satchmo, who spoke English better than the others of his clan.
“I learned from record covers—you understand?” he said to Rockson who shook his hand warmly. “What style you into, big boy?” the ancient Jazzman asked. “Bop? Swing? Cool? Progressive?”
Rock stuttered, trying to remember his history tapes back in Century City, not wanting to insult Satchmo. They obviously took their music seriously here.
“Ummm—Dixieland. Always loved it,” Rock said.
“The roots man! Cat digs the roots of swing,” the jazzman said smiling, looking around at the dissidents nearby. They all nodded in approval. “You all right,” he added, looking at Rock with increased respect. “I understand you want the explosives?” He wore no sunglasses, and Rock suddenly saw by his unmoving gaze that the man was blind.
“Yes—but how can you show me?”
“I have sort of a built-in radar for these tunnels. When the eyes go, the ears and the senses become sharper. You dig?” Archer and Rock along with a small group of dissidents who held their instruments at the ready in case of trouble, followed the blind Satchmo through the dim tunnels for nearly an hour and hundreds of twists and turns. Rats and other creatures scurried away as the party approached. At last they reached a dusty storeroom filled with stolen goods: everything from golf clubs to banana clips and old Russian rifles, and crate after crate of dynamite.
“Help yourself,” Satchmo said. “My generation were pack rats. We gathered our stuff from the city above. Many of us went up into streets during the Revolution of 2013 when we tried to retake Moscow. They all died—only those who stayed in the tunnels and I—for I was blind by then—survived.”
Rock went through the crates carefully examining the state of the goods. He found it all in apparently functioning condition, along with fuses and blasting caps. It would do—it would have to.
Fourteen
The best laid plans of mice and dissidents . . . After they lugged nearly a ton of the explosives back to the encampment, Rock wanted to test them just to make sure. With three of the dissidents leading him and Archer they made their way several miles to an immense linking terminal where ten sets of tracks met. The space was wide and high enough for Rockson to see just what the effects of the antiquated dynamite would be. They set ten sticks in the curved wall of one of the tunnels with a one-minute timer and ran back to safety. The stuff went off with a thunderous roar, and when they went back to check, they found that it had indeed torn out a ten-foot chunk of the solid rock.
They were just leaving the terminal when they heard noises behind and ahead of them. Reds—on one of their infrequent attempts to track down the homebase of the dissidents. They tore down the tunnel from all directions in search of the creators of the explosion.
Colonel Dzeloski stared down the dark subway tube with his special night-vision glasses. There—there they were about a quarter mile ahead—the swarthy creatures—but there appeared to be two large men with them, one of them nearly twice as tall as the jazzmen. Could it be—he had heard of the escape of the freefighters. It had been a humiliation for the premier. If he could capture them . . . He screamed out orders to his men—an elite squad of MKVD troops—broken into four fifty-man units. “Get them! Forget about the dissidents. I want those two!” Troops coming from a linking tunnel were just a few hundred feet from the fleeing rebels. The colonel screamed out orders through his walkie-talkie. “Flank them! Bring up the flamethrowers.” The dissidents saw that they were cut off. Reds were coming at them from both ends of the tunnel. The jazzmen raised their clarinets as Archer and Rock raised their weapons. A slew of arrows and slugs and ear-piercing notes tore into many a Red, but there were just too many of them. The dissidents rushed forward for a better aim, and the flamethrowers went off, turning the three guides into a mass of burning putty. The fallen bodies lit the tunnel with flickering shadows. Now troops were upon the two Americans, filling the tunnel from every side. The colonel instructed the throwers to be extinguished.
“Stun gas load,” he commanded the first ten kneeling soldiers. The colonel watched as three more of his men keeled over from the arrows and bullets of the fiercely fighting Americans. “Fire,” the Red commander yelled, and ten gas shells shot out down the tunnel. It took only seconds. Rock and Archer felt themselves growing dizzy and then slumped to the ground unconscious. The colonel ran forward and turned the limp bodies over. It was them—his career had just taken a giant step. “Quickly to the surface with these two. Forget the dissidents for today. These are worth all of those white-faced mutants put together. And a medal for every man here. The premier will be serving us hors d’oeuvres from his own hand inside the Kremlin walls by tomorrow night.”
When Rockson awoke he was chained to a stone wall in a crude concrete cell with barred windows high above. There was straw on the floor and a metal shield, battered and dented on the far wall. Rock stood up and nearly tumbled to the ground. His legs were still unsteady from the gas attack. How long had he been under? His chains were long enough to allow him to jump up and catch hold of the bottom of the window. He peered out onto an immense arena with stands filled with seats rising as high as the eye could see. Where the hell was he? He dropped down and stumbled over to the small barred window of a thick wooden door at one end of the cell. There were more cells across from him, each with a prisoner.
“Anyone out there?” he yelled across the straw-littered corridor. A familiar voice groaned back.
“Rooockson!” At least Archer was still alive. The Doomsday Warrior pushed against the door with all his strength. Nothing. The thing must be bolted with steel. Suddenly he heard a clanking and a guard came into view. He was bald and quite large, only a few inches shorter than Archer with a face full of scars and thick muscular arms. He wore a thick leather vest and black leather pants and carried a large sword in a scabbard at his side. He looked at Rockson with his one good eye, the other covered by a patch, and spoke through a long jaw that appeared distended, perhaps reset after being broken.
“Against the wall,” he shouted to Rockson, “Or I don’t bring this food in.” Behind him two men pushed a large vat filled with a pungent meat stew. Rock was starving. He must have been out for day
s. He retreated to the far wall. The guard opened the door and the assistants filled a large bowl and handed it to the Doomsday Warrior.
“Where am I?” he asked, taking the food in his still trembling hands. The guards laughed loudly at the question, quite amused.
“Where are you? In the pits of hell. In the training rooms of the gladiators. You’re going to be entertainment for the rich and powerful in just a few days. This is where slaves and troublemakers come to die.” He looked Rockson over. “You look strong. You’ll put a good show for the crowd before you get cut to ribbons.” He started back toward the door, then turned. “Eat well, my American friend—you will need all your strength. Those who wash out on the first day of gladiator training are disposed of.” He slammed the wooden door shut and headed across the corridor where the servers opened the door a crack and slipped food into Archer who growled and slammed against the quickly shut wood. They moved on down the rows of cells doling out the stew to each occupant.
So they had decided to send Rock to the gladiator games. He had heard some of the troops talking about the upcoming contests of warriors when he had been the guest of the premier back in the Kremlin. Vassily had obviously decided there was nothing further to be gained in dealing with the freefighters. And Rock could hardly blame him. He had had no intention of honoring the absurd dictates of the treaty, a document that would have sent the U.S. into legalized slavery forever.
An hour later the guard, this time with an escort of equally tough-looking comrades, returned.
“Time for beginner’s class.” He smiled as he led Rock and Archer from their cells. “I hope you guys are as fierce as you look. The chief gladiator will test your abilities today and decide whether to have you compete in one of the lesser games. The premier is quite interested in seeing your performance. I understand you—annoyed our esteemed leader.” He sneered at the word leader. The man had little regard for the power elite of Russia. He was as cynical as they came, having witnessed enough death for a thousand lifetimes. Perhaps he could be useful.
