Doomsday Warrior 05 - America’s Last Declaration

by Ryder Stacy

  Giant screens raised up on both sides of the elevated Hitler Pantheon on which he spoke as he reached the final page of his speech. Then from hidden holographic projectors the beloved face of the Führer himself beamed sternly out. By the miracle of modern science his face moved to the cadence of Vassily’s words. It was as if Vassily was Hitler, the two of them merging, becoming a unity, a single fearsome, being.

  “There is one Fatherland, one Socialist world community, one master Slavic-German race,” Hitler shouted, his jaw jutting forward in pride, his head bobbing and waving in fanatical zeal. “There must be one world, one supreme goal for us all: the extermination of the radiation mutants. The destruction of the mongrel races of America. The Fourth Reich will stand ten thousand years, a million years, a billion years!”

  Hitler himself now spoke Vassily’s words, his face shining with messianic fervor, his fists banging together with a violent rage. His lips spat out the demon’s invective, jingoistic slogans appealing to the basest evil and lusts of mankind’s savage underpinnings. “There is one world and it is Red. It is our destiny to spread the truth, the racial truth to all the world.” Vassily was having a little trouble concentrating as he listened to the slight delay of his words become the booming strident voice of the hundred-foot-high projected image of Hitler. He took a quick sip of water and continued.

  “We must strike hard at the mongrel Americans for the sake of the world gene pool. These mutant monkey men and women and their Jewish leaders—” he hissed out the word Jewish, so that it sounded slimy, serpentine—“they must feel the iron hand of the master race about their scrawny necks.” He was reaching the climax of his speech but he felt himself growing tired, his lungs straining for air, his heart beating furiously in his heaving chest. He rushed on, his image as Hitler becoming more and more frenzied, the mouth twitching in ecstasy, the tuft of black hair hanging across Hitler’s forehead swaying back and forth with the rapid jerks of his mustached face like a python hypnotizing its victim.

  “There is one master race and that is the Slavo-Germanic race. One world of power, and power is rightness. Power is truth. The Jewish conspiracy will be crushed, crushed, crushed!”

  The hypnotized throngs screamed back, over a quarter-million Sieg heils rocking the Pantheon as if it were in the jaws of an earthquake.

  “Was it not we Russians who, when Germany and Russia were tricked by the capitalists into a brief fight with one another, still fed and clothed the cold German troops at Stalingrad like brothers, inviting them into the socialist fold once more?”

  “Yes,” thought row after row of wild-eyed soldiers. “It was so. These Russians and our Führer’s Reich will be allies again—like it was at Stalingrad.” Siegfried, one of the masses, standing near the very back of the vast Pantheon seats, screamed along with the rest of his Nazi comrades, yes . . . He remembered something as a child—a book his father had showed him. A book that said the Russians had been the bitter enemies of the Nazis. That they had murdered millions of German troops at Stalingrad and then invaded Berlin, forcing Hitler-the-Great to commit suicide. Siegfried frowned. He had seen that book—before his father disappeared, before the men in black leather had come with their long sleek car. The black car. They had never talked about his father after that. Denied he had ever lived there. And now the book was gone with his father. Ah, no matter. The crowd was cheering the Führer’s final words and Siegfried joined in, screaming, his eyes wide and mad, spittle spraying from his lips.

  “AND YOU WILL SUCCEED, YOU WILL DESTROY THE MONGREL RACES. FOR YOU ARE GERMANS—GOD’S CHOSEN WARRIORS.” Hitler raised his arm high as the Nazi troops leaped to their feet en masse, eyes blazing in a frenzy of ecstatic hate.

  The cheering lasted long into the night. Long after Vassily was rolled away in the waiting wheelchair to the jet that roared back toward Moscow. It was well that his black servant, Rahallah, had his ebony countenance hidden in the monk’s cowl on the Pantheon platform, Vassily thought, as he half dozed in the seat of his luxury AB-131 Airlifter. What if the Nazi hordes had seen Rahallah’s face? What would they think then of racial pride and purity? What if they knew that my most trusted aide, my second-in-command, is a full-blooded African? But deception is the word of the night—in politics.

  Rahallah was awake five seats back, his heart pounding, as he looked out the window at the dark forests far below. The scene he had witnessed that evening filled his soul with disgust and repulsion. All these years he had faithfully stood by the Grandfather, thinking him to be the least of the monsters who ruled the world, hoping to affect the premier’s plan through his unswerving loyalty and kindness, hoping to influence the premier with his constant pleas for peace and a free separate African nation.

  But tonight, tonight he had seen the black man’s ultimate nightmare—the monstrous Third Reich had been resurrected by Vassily to serve their world military needs, to invade the Rocky Mountains in America and find and destroy Ted Rockson and his famed Century City. But they had created something that Rahallah knew in his heart would not go away into a corner and die when it had served the Reds’ purposes. No, the fiendish display of race hatred and anti-Semitism last night was a harbinger of an even worse dictatorship to come, one that would be so total and consumed with destruction that only one man—one megalomaniacal leader, a Führer to come—could rule it. And Rahallah in his heart of hearts, in his clairvoyant churning soul, knew that when Vassily died—when the others like President Zhabnov in Washington fell—it was the evil destiny of the world to have the horrors of a Führer named Killov, the Skull, ruling over all, like the Antichrist predicted in the ancient prophecies.

  Rahallah, with the blood of African kings pumping through his veins, at last fell asleep, his hands tightly clenched like claws on his lap. He dreamed horrible things. He saw the death of Vassily, the placing of his frail old body in the Lenin-Drabkin tomb, the solemn looks on all the commissars gathered in the Kremlin. He saw the KGB Blackshirts sweep into the city in helicopter gunships, the mass arrest of all of Vassily’s supporters, the execution by slow garroting and hot pokers of Zhabnov, the fat American president. Then he saw himself running, running bloody and wounded through the dark subway tunnels of Moscow. Then he heard the announcement on the radios, over the loudspeakers on trucks all over Moscow. “Killov is premier, Killov is the Führer, the world is united in his omnipotent leadership. All will obey his iron will—or die!”

  Rahallah awoke, his white tuxedo stained with hot perspiration, his heart racing. What could he do? What could anyone do at this late stage? He had played the devil’s game and lost—lost for Africa, lost for world peace, lost everything.

  When Vassily awoke, his eyes touched by the dawn’s icy fingers of green and orange splattering through the half drawn blinds on the window, Rahallah rushed to his side and poured him tea from the large silver samovar in the aisle and added the customary shot of brandy. He waited until the premier seemed fully awake and then said, “Your excellency, may I ask you one thing?”

  “Yes, my faithful servant, what is it?” the premier asked, yawning. “You have been exceptionally quiet this whole trip. I think I know what it is—you heard me scream those racial insults last night. But, but, our forces are stretched too far. The brilliant Major Velikov has assembled this Nazi army for us by using all the old slogans and symbols of their past. But it is for our purposes that this propaganda must be made. Our armies are too drawn apart, too challenged worldwide. We need these German troops to destroy the evil of Rockson and the other so-called freefighters.”

  “Vengeance?” Rahallah asked, standing in the long aisle beside the aging premier.

  The old man’s age-spotted face grew red then purple. He clutched his bony hand against the chrome arm of the seat.

  “Vengeance? Yes! You remember that man—that bastard coming to Moscow, drinking my vodka, eating my food. Him and that foul-smelling giant friend sitting with us, negotiating a fair and equitable treaty of friendship with most generous
terms on my part.”

  “Yes,” Rahallah answered, remembering the Rockson, who had struck him as a decent man looking out for the interests of his own enslaved people.

  “You remember what he did? Destroyed half of Moscow, crippling our defenses, casting our chances for world peace into a pit of blood.”

  “But you condemned him to the gladiator pits—and certain death,” the ebony-faced servant said firmly.

  “Rahallah, you forget—and I forgive you for this—but he, this Rockson, escaped our hospitality and linked up with the ratlike dissidents in the old subway system. He killed many soldiers before I made that decision. Then he destroyed the people’s beloved coliseum, blew up our missile and satellite command center, the bastard. And finally stole one of our most advanced fighter aircraft—and flew it to America. We know that from the radar reports.”

  “Perhaps he died—the plane’s range was insufficient to—”

  “No, Rahallah, I know Rockson lives! The mutant has uncanny luck. He must be clairvoyant, telepathic. Some of the mutants are rumored to be so. That would explain how he could outwit me—special powers. No ordinary man could.” The premier seemed pleased at the face-saving explanation. “No, Rahallah, I need this Nazi army that so disturbs you to march against the so-called freedom fighters and their leader. They are the prime menace—even more than Colonel Killov. My stupid nephew, Zhabnov, has misjudged the whole battle—but I now know the danger these American rebels pose. But I promise you—once the rebels are exterminated, then we turn the Nazis loose on Killov.”

  Rahallah hesitated, then told the premier of his dream. When he had finished, Vassily was pale and shaken.

  “I know of your great powers of medicine and prophecy,” he stuttered out. “Can it be, Rahallah, son of the Plains Lion, that this will really happen?” He grabbed his black servant by the collar of his tuxedo jacket. “When, when will I die—is it . . . soon?”

  “I don’t know, your excellency. I pray this fate can be averted. I will try to dream again—a solution. We must follow my dreams, must.”

  The entire White House and the surrounding grounds were now under the new plastisynth impenetrable dome—and President Zhabnov was pleased. This was more like it—winter outside, summer inside. He walked around his rose garden with white work gloves on, snipping the Rosa Familiaris Cruxae he had recently made by combining genetically spliced hybrid stocks. He glanced back past his aides towards the semicircular Ionic portico that held the Oval Office—the White House. The new paint, a glossy white, was shining in the dull sun that pierced through the towering three hundred-foot-high plastic dome above it. Clean, neat, that’s the way he liked things. Gone were the huge concrete walls he had built for security around the presidential mansion. The clear foot-thick plastic was so much more unobtusive.

  Zhabnov sighed. Turning back to his bushes he snipped a single blood-red rose off its dewy branch and held its fragrance to his fleshy nose. And sneezed. These hybrids didn’t quite have the bouquet he had wished for. A nervous gardener handed him a handkerchief. He felt in such a good mood today that he said thank you. The aide was shocked. But why shouldn’t he feel good? The sun was shining. Premier Vassily was firmly on his side in the civil war against Killov—the Skull—and his rose garden was in full bloom.

  Soon, Vassily’s goose-stepping Nazi hordes would wipe out the American freefighters once and for all and then turn their might on Killov’s Denver base. Then all would be right with the world once again. The ordinary affairs of state—not another disaster, not another convoy destroyed by rebel attack, or a bridge blown up—would awaken him each morning.

  President Zhabnov snipped away at his American Beauty roses—Hybrid 5, Royal Russian stock—his prize-winner. There was a competition each year in Taskent, and each year his roses won. Over all the world’s rose cultivators, he was number one. Zhabnov prided himself on that. There weren’t many world leaders past or present who did more than rule. They didn’t know a rose from an aster. But he was a first-rate horticulturist—a genius at creating new beauties for the White House gardens: hybrids of yellow-tipped, pink-tipped, red with green spots, a rainbow of soft-petaled flowers stretching out all around the mansion. He was a connoisseur of beauty—and that separated him from the rest of the power elite, all those generals and warlords who understood only cannon and blood.

  He plucked the finest of each of the hybrids, the perfect specimens to send to the Taskent competition which was due to begin next month, handing each flower to aides rushing behind him who tremblingly took them, praying that they would not crush a single petal or . . . At last he reached the end of the garden and stared down at his newest creations—a bush filled with flesh-pink roses, their fleshy petals stretching out toward the sun like so many arms grabbing for the light. It reminded him of the little pink beauty his sex squads had found for him in Idaho and had flown to the White House for his pleasures tonight. He had seen the photos—a great catch—one of the little ones, a mere four-feet-ten-inches tall. And as innocent as the snowy land she was found wandering in. A real wild child that he could use to serve his whims.

  He was eager to try her out. He snickered, wondering if she was big enough to take his ample member. Probably not. But he liked to hear the screams. It added to his pleasure. Pink—that was the color—just like the rose he now snipped and lifted from the bush. Pink-skinned little beauty, I will pluck your virginity tonight as easily as I pluck this rose.

  “Ouch, damnit!” He sucked on his thumb as a single drop of blood squeezed out. “These goddamned thorns.” Someday he would breed a rose without them.

  Five

  Rock’s and Archer’s lives were like a male dream of paradise for the next week. The big cats guarded the freefighters, always on alert outside the teepee, the women brought them food three times a day—roast succulent pigs, slabs of sizzling buffalo meat—and in the evening, their bodies. Reina was always the first to get Rockson. She would ride him two, three, even four times until she was so exhausted she could barely rise. Then the other women were allowed to partake of his manhood. But she would stand back and watch the goings-on with a jealous eye. Rockson could see that she wanted him all to herself. Several times Ishtar, the white-haired albino, who Rock had learned was the witch doctor of the tribe, tried to enter but each time Reina would reach for her knife and force the other woman out.

  They were allowed to sleep seven hours each night to rest their weary bodies. In the early morning the stag horns were blown and they were awakened and “walked” through the leafy forest like pets at the end of a leash—for exercise. They were ordered to do calisthenics and climb vines to maintain their muscular builds. And like the cherished studs that they were, they were bathed and washed with gusto after their workouts.

  On one of their forays into the woods they passed a small wooden temple, ornate and covered with depictions of naked women like wasp-waisted, watermelon-breasted Hindu goddesses in various complex poses carved in the hard wood. The temple was two stories high with an open space inside at the rear of which—Rock was permitted only to enter as far as the portal—amidst flickering animal-fat lamps, stood a giant stone-carved statue of the lake monster they had killed. Jewels gleamed from its body which stood nearly the full height of the temple, its flippers stretched out like a cross. Rock asked one of his Kreega guards, having picked up some of the lingo, what it was.

  “This is for the two vestal virgins—the twin goddesses who live here and serve L’Ogre. They clean the temple and practice sexual abstinence.” Rock saw the two women inside bowing to the monstrous statue. They were clothed in transparent gossamer robes, and unlike the other women who were black-haired these were blond with long flowing tresses and blue eyes. They were young—barely out of their teens.

  “Why do they live here?” Rock asked. “Away from the tribe.”

  “So as not to be exposed to man-lust like we are. We keep the children pure—until they are twenty. They can talk to the animals; their purity
allows le tribe to control the great cats.” Inside, the two blond Kreega were surrounded by a bevy of cats who glared out angrily at Rockson. He quickly moved on, but not before the virgins gave shy smiles.

  I might have found the key to our survival today, Rockson realized, as he went through the proscribed exercises under the watchful eyes of eight Kreega armed with thick snakeskin whips. He glanced over at Archer who was in his two-hundredth pushup. The giant was red-faced. He hated this exercise period and was glad it was only for an hour each day. Paradise without exercise was what he wanted.

  That evening Rock stirred Archer out of a deep sleep. “We’ve got to go,” the Doomsday Warrior whispered. “We’ve got to get out of here. I’ve been analyzing their tribal structure—and the key is the virgins. If they are on our side the cats will not do anything to harm us.”

  Archer seemed dazed. “Goooo? We gooo? Rocksssoon crazzy. Nooo gooo. This niiice. Meeat, wooman. Archeeer staaay.” He turned his head and started to go back to sleep again.

  Rock shook him awake. “You big fool. What do you think happens when they stop using us? When we get as many women pregnant as they wish? When we give out, even just a little bit? You’ve been given that blue liquid more and more. Mixed with your beer, haven’t you?”

  Archer nodded, bewildered. “It gooood. Make Archeer strong, make—”

  “Have you seen the skeletons out past the garbage pit? All male skeletons—I know my anatomy. That’s where they dump the men after they give out. The blue fluid robs you eventually of all your strength. It puts it into sex until you become weak as a kitten. What do you think they feed the panthers?”