by Ryder Stacy
Archer rushed over and reached down for Rock, a terrified look in his huge brown eyes as he saw the Doomsday Warrior coated with blood. Rockson took hold of the baseball-mitt-sized hand and rose from the ground. He winced as he touched his bleeding arm and peeled back the shirt. The teeth had sunk into his upper muscle, but the bites were clean. It didn’t feel like anything had been torn and the slow leak of blood indicated that no arteries had been severed. He ripped a nearby vine and tied a tourniquet around his upper arm. It would have to do.
The Doomsday Warrior walked back to Archer and both of them stared down at the dead cats, their power and grace now smeared with pungent blood. Rock felt a certain twinge of sorrow at their destruction. They were nature’s creatures, carrying out their own unthinking commands. But death didn’t see beauty or ugliness. When it came time to go—all things were equal in the grim specter’s dark eyes.
Six
Rock knew they were somewhere in what had been central Iowa—but just where he had no idea. The two freefighters had traveled for nearly two days before stopping. The prospect of being taken captive again by the Kreega was strong motivation to keep going even when their feet painfully told them to stop. The land was fertile in this part of the country. The big bombs had only fallen in a few spots, and though their craters were still as devoid of life as the dark side of the moon, within miles of them dense almost tropical thick forests had sprung up, complete with hundred-foot ferns and dark red vines that snaked around their trunks, disappearing high in the air. They found wild fruit and berries and were able to bag an occasional rabbit, throwing the knife Rock had taken. Archer was now without arrows; his last shot into the panther’s neck had snapped the shaft in two. He was unable to make the machine-crafted steel arrows out here in the woods and grumbled from time to time, feeling naked without his customary armaments. He hoped that nothing bigger than a fox would start sniffing at them.
They moved during the day and slept when the sun fell from the purple skies, building fires shielded by groves of trees just in case red spy-drones were planning a surprise visit. Out here in the middle of nowhere, without weapons, Rockson didn’t feel like having to take on a parachute commando force of Red army goons.
On the third day after their escape from the Kreega they came to a vast plains which swept off in all directions as far as the horizon. The land was dark, almost metallic looking and didn’t appear to have a single tree or bush in sight. They headed down a long rocky slope onto the flatlands and gingerly edged out onto the smooth terrain. Rockson remembered once before going out onto smooth ground—which had turned out to be composed of glasslike crystal that had opened up beneath him and his party taking two lives. This time he would be more careful. He motioned for Archer to hold back for a moment as he walked several feet out onto the nearly smooth, steel-hard ground. It was firm at least. In fact it seemed to be made of metal, without the slightest resiliency or give. He stomped his foot hard and it hurt. But it would hold them up.
“All right, pal, let’s get going. I don’t know what the hell’s out there but we gotta get across. Just keep your eyes open.” The two freefighters headed out across the hard ground, gingerly at first, and then as they gained confidence in not being sucked down into its innards, hitting a good pace. As the noon sun beat down through a clear sky, tinged only with a few lazily drifting wisps of strontium-green poison high in the atmosphere, Rock could see that the iron-hard surface was grooved and ridged like the sides of a piece of machined metal. At certain angles it gave off an almost rainbowlike coloration, as oil does, shifting, translucent, reds and greens and aqua blues all melting together. But the color was within the surface itself, not just on the top as there was no trace of slipperiness as they walked. After they had gone for about an hour Rock began noticing small inch-high formations popping up here and there on the surface. He stopped and looked closer and saw what looked like shavings of metal piled atop one another. He reached out to touch one but the shape pulled back suddenly.
“Jesus Christ,” Rock muttered, jumping back from the thing. “It’s alive.” He examined it carefully, circling the shiny metallic lifeform and took out his knife. When he held it toward the thing, the shavings leaped toward the metal, the structure exploding out in a puff of dust. It was magnetic—held together by its own magnetic energy system. The particles began banding together on the long blade, surrounding it. Within seconds they had formed a pythonlike grip and began tightening around the steel blade. Did the things eat metal? Rock wondered in amazement. He took a piece of the bandana he had been wearing around his neck to absorb his sweat and wiped it along the edge of the knife. The living filings came off easily. He didn’t know if they had a taste for human flesh or not and threw the handkerchief to the ground. Within seconds, the filings had moved back onto the surface and reformed into their original knoblike shape.
“All right, let’s go,” Rock said, motioning toward Archer who had been watching in consternation, wondering just what in blazes Rockson was so interested in—and if his brain was starting to evaporate from the heat. But it was just another bizarre lifeform that seemed to be the rule rather than the exception in modern America. Archer had seen enough mutations and monstrosities to not even pay them any mind—unless they tried to eat him. But Rockson was always on the lookout for new information, new life. He stockpiled everything he came across in his mind for future reference. The earth was now a madhouse of living things but if man was ever to retake his rightful dominance over the planet, he damned well better know what was out there. This would be the first case of living metal Rockson had ever seen. Dr. Shecter would be fascinated back in Century City. If they ever got there.
They went on for miles, the flat terrain unchanging, other than the subtle shading of the steel surface which turned from black to a slightly browner color, almost of rust. More and more of the metallic scrap structures appeared as they went on, growing larger, some nearly a foot high. They leaned toward the two freefighters as if sensing them in some unknown way—but seemed to have little real interest in anything that wasn’t made of metal, and quickly pulled back again. Their free-floating iron particle formations held in an energy configuration took on the rough appearance of cactuses made of scraps, twirls and razor-sharp slivers of glistening steel. The ultra-hard ground seemed to go on endlessly as the two freefighters trudged on, searching for some sort of change ahead. But not a blade of grass dared take root in such hostile soil.
Suddenly the air seemed to grow an eerie blue, luminescent, pulsing. They both felt a shift in air pressure as their flesh crawled with static electricity, the hair on their arms and head standing up straight. Something was building—some energy overload was occurring and Rock didn’t like it at all. But there was nothing to do except move straight ahead. “Come on, let’s double-time it,” Rock shouted to Archer and they started running at a medium pace side by side. The sky overhead began growing darker, filled with swirling thick masses of clouds, tinged with the same ominous blue core as the air, as if it were almost on fire, sending out a glow like that of a throbbing heart of the purest dark energy. The two men ran now at full speed, not wanting to get caught in the imminent storm.
Suddenly the pent-up electricity of the cloud mass released explosive bolts of jagged lightning, piercing the sky everywhere above the freefighters. It was as if an army of gods were hurling their spears from the clouds as the yellow slashing swords of electricity slammed into the metal ground all around them. A jolt snapped down with a shrieking whistle just feet ahead of them, sending out a thunderous roar as it exploded into the ground, releasing its ten-million-volt charge in a single burst. Rock and Archer felt the electricity travel through the metal surface of the ground and literally lift them up like a giant hand. It threw them flying into the air. They both fell unconscious for a second or two as the exquisite pain of the bolt—a sensation beyond sensation—coursed through their bodies. Then they hit the steel surface of the mutated land around them hard. Rock rubbed
his head as another cracking bolt slashed into the earth. He began to rise when his eye caught a dim glow far ahead in the cloudy darkness. And it was coming straight at them.
“Down, down!” the Doomsday Warrior yelled to Archer who was just beginning to rise. The big freefighter looked confused but had been through too much with Rock not to instantly heed his warnings. He slammed down onto the hard terrain, throwing his hands over his head. The dim light suddenly grew brighter and then turned into a screaming ball of electricity which tore just over their heads and went burning off into the darkening air, flying just a foot above the ground.
“Ball lightning,” Rock whistled between his teeth. He had read about it in Shecter’s science video library. It had never been positively proven to exist—but it did. It sure as hell did, Rock thought, as another one of the energy balls, this one shining as brightly as a white star, rushed forward and straight at them. Nearly three feet in length, the lightning ball seemed to be shooting out rays from every side, strands of million-volt tendrils, pulsating and reaching down toward the metal ground to release their charge.
Suddenly they were whizzing over the freefighters, coming from everywhere. They seemed to drop down from the black and purple twisting snakepit of clouds that were now just several hundred feet above the ground and then took off like so many billiard balls of blue and white and yellow, searching for opposite polarity—for discharge. Rock knew they weren’t really after him in the sense of hunting, but were carrying out the laws of physics blindly and obediently—all things reach toward their equalization, their neutralizing. Still, he knew that if any of the pulsing lightning balls, too bright to even look directly at, should open up its storehouse of energy on one of them, it would be the fastest barbecue in history—well-done and on the burnt side.
“Stay down, don’t move!” Rock yelled over to Archer who didn’t seem able to hear him with the explosions of the bolts and the balls of lightning that surrounded them in a maelstrom of electric death. The Doomsday Warrior motioned with his hand, lifting it up and realizing as he did that he was creating a ground for the ball lightning. One of them came toward the upraised hand flying at nearly two hundred mph. But Rock saw it off in the distance shooting at him like a meteorite and slammed down into the stone-hard ground whipping his hand to his side. He breathed out and made himself as small as possible, stretching his body flat trying to become part of the earth. The buzzing ball of death shot past him, just inches over his back and tore in a straight line toward the far mountains behind them.
Rockson knew the better part of valor sometimes is to do absolutely nothing. Not even move one inch. So he didn’t. Archer, as well, had gotten the message and was trying to make himself as flat as a pancake. The storm clouds undulated overhead like a sea of black piranha. At last the energy dissipation seemed to release enough of the stored megawatts in the storm’s innards—and the clouds lifted up from the ground and quickly evaporated high above. The sun came out and it was clear, cobalt blue, the sun pure and perfect like a shimmering pearl.
The freefighters rose, shook themselves off and looked at each other. Archer tilted his head to the side and whistled. Rock laughed. “Yeah, that was as close as they come—and you still get to talk about it. I think I must have gotten a flat-top haircut from one of those electric balls.” He ran his palm across the white streak that cut down the center of his midnight black, unkempt hair. But it was all still there.
They started forward again and walked for hours, not daring to rest in the event that the storm returned. At last, as the sun began sinking a putrid brown in the far sky, they saw a low range of hills ahead. They walked toward them, the hills growing ever so slowly until suddenly they were upon them. They hit the first foothills at midnight as a brilliant moon cut its scythe across the dark slopes. They started up the first rise, eventually stepping on earth that gave a little, rather than the steel terrain they had left behind. Something with weeds and flowers and grass instead of metal filings. As they reached the peak and started down the other side they could scarcely believe their eyes. There, below them, was a series of dirt roads coming together and meeting at the foot of a neon-lit twenty-four-hour diner.
The diner stood in the center of a blacktop parking lot as if it were still 1989, as if the war had never occurred, as if it were still the old America now seen only on crumbling picture postcards. It was all chrome and glass with black and white stripes running down the sides, giving it an almost zebralike appearance. Above it a huge red neon sign flashed out JOE’S DINER, blinking on and off every two seconds. Huge picture windows ran around the entire structure and the two freefighters could see, even from several hundred yards away, that the place was packed. They descended the gravelly slope and made their way through the parking lot filled with a bizarre collection of vehicles—VW bugs, schoolbuses, trucks and tractor-trailers, and huge tail-finned cars, all standing side by side like some sort of twentieth century automotive museum. They were rusted halfway through and many had missing doors, hoods, even roofs—but they obviously worked. Somehow the damned things had been kept in running condition. Both men had seen many strange things in their travels, but this was unquestionably a new peak of madness in the myriad twists and turns that American culture had taken in the postwar world.
They hesitated at the entrance, looking at one another with raised eyebrows.
“Hungry?” Rock asked Archer.
“Fooood,” the mountain-sized man replied, licking his lips as the odors of sizzling meat and thick rich stews wafted through the walls.
“Well, let’s sample the chow,” the Doomsday Warrior said, pushing open the glass door.
Inside it was like a time warp as Rock in his Russian military khakis and Archer with his cavemanlike fur vest and deerskin pants walked into the crowded diner. Bobby-soxed teenage girls were dancing near a jukebox with their young men in jeans and turtleneck sweaters, twirling them around. They rocked to the tune of “Beat It,” their bodies soaked with sweat. The clock on the wall said 12:30—but incredibly the calendar with a yellowed pinup of Raquel Welch said July 1, 1989. Rock, with Archer trailing nervously behind him, sauntered up to the pink formica counter and sat down on one of a row of red stools that ran along the front. No one seemed to give them more than a brief glance which was hardly surprising as the dinner crowd were all dressed in full-fledged regalia from the last century. It was like a fashion show circa the late 1980’s, with men in full suits and ties sitting with their families at booths, happily chewing away. Their wives wore white, pink or green sweaters, their hair tied back in little bows, while the children were attired in miniature versions of Mom’s and Dad’s outfits. Each booth seemed to be a microcosm of a particular subculture from the old world. One table was crowded with men in cowboy hats and gold-buttoned embroidered shirts, another group wore baseball uniforms complete with team caps. Along the counter sat everything from Indians with feathered headdress to Wall Street executive types, attache cases at their sides. Rock wondered if they’d walked into a madhouse.
A blond waitress on the other side of the counter wiped a greasy hand on a stained white apron. She wore a white paper hat and was chewing gum as she held a griddlecake flipper in the other hand. A glass-encased menu hung on the pink wall behind her with a list of everything from Snar-lizard Stew to Buffalo Burgers to apple pie to choose from.
“What’ll you have, bub?” she asked with a sexy smile that revealed poorly capped rows of teeth in a heavily lipsticked mouth that chewed furiously on a piece of gum.
“Well, er, what do you got?” Rock asked.
“Can’t you read? Menu’s right on the wall,” the waitress snapped back. “Wait a second, I got a customer down the counter. Be right back.” She eyed Archer as the giant gingerly settled down on the stool next to Rock’s, which creaked with a loud groan.
The two freefighters craned their necks as they went down the list. “I think I’m going to have some of those burgers,” Rock said to his compatriot, having r
ead about them but never having experienced their culinary delights.
“Archeer want steeeak. Looottts steeaks.” The waitress walked back over to them and smiled.
“Ready to order fellas?” she asked. “You get french fries and salad with any entree.” She licked a well-worn pencil with the tip of her tongue. Rock noticed she had the word Shirley sewn in red over the right side of her cream-colored waitress jacket and the words JOE’S DINER, ROUTE 6, over the other breast. And breasts they were, straining in propped-up glory under her tight jacket. She smiled at Rock’s attention.
“Like what you see? Well, buster, it ain’t on the menu! Now what’ll the big fella have?”
“Nooo salaad—meeat, meeat!” Archer grumbled.
“Gotcha, bud,” Shirley said, scribbling with a quick twist of the pencil into a little tear-off pad. “Now you, handsome, what’ll you have?”
“Two buffalo burgers, rare and some hot apple pie with vanilla ice cream on top.” He looked at her curiously, wondering if they were really going to get these archaic treats.
“Hey, George,” she yelled into the kitchen. “Two buffalo T-bones with the works and a pair of B-burgers—rare—lots of fries.” She smiled at the two of them as if taking them in for the first time. She tapped Archer on the chest and asked slyly, “You one of them rich trappers that blow by here now and then? You got dough?” Archer just stared at her, mystified. “What’s the matter with your friend here? He don’t talk much except about meat.”
“He’s shy,” Rock said with a grin.
“He got a lady friend?”
“Unfortunately he does,” Rock answered, sensing the direction the conversation was taking.
“Well, just my luck,” Shirley said, chewing her gum faster. “The rich ones are always taken. How about you, handsome, you’re a cute guy. But this trapper pal of yours has all the expensive, and smelly,” she added in a whisper, “furs. You must be the poor one of the pair, wearing those filthy khakis. People usually dress up when they come to Joe’s.”
