Doomsday Warrior 17 - America’s Sword

by Ryder Stacy

  Handelman walked right up to the speaker’s platform and pointed around with pride.

  “There aren’t a hell of a lot of places this big and still kept in such good shape. Pretty amazing, isn’t it?” The man was clearly proud of the domed stadium.

  Men in golf carts were scooting around the platform, putting finishing touches up with the carts’ long-reaching mechanical arms. Flags were carefully set up in each corner of the podium.

  In the dead center of the vast stadium, sitting on a gold-colored table approximately ten feet in diameter, about six feet high, Rock saw the strangest “sculpture” that he had ever seen. It was all rather amorphous, fused together like some mutated statue. A glowing glob of granite? No, it looked smooth, with an occasional bump, like melted plastic. “What the hell is it?” Rock asked.

  “It’s the Soul of Nixon,” Handelman said, making a little crossing motion over his fat stomach. “Our sacred God, the Oneness! Be careful. It is not to be touched. Only the Nominee may touch it.”

  Rockson went closer and squinted as he tried to decipher just what the hell the damn thing was. It indeed was like a glob of semitransparent plastic, and there was a mixture of different symbols from America’s past embossed on its slippery surface.

  He jumped back a foot when the mass started to glow dimly. As he watched, the object’s glow grew in intensity, then various neon signs imbedded inside the thing started to light up. Advertisements! Miniatures of the kind of advertising that had once adorned the buildings on Times Square in New York City!

  “DRINK KOKEY-KOLA,” and “BUY JOU-JOU’S” came on; and “ROMMEL CIGARETTES—NOT A COUGH IN THE CARAVAN LOAD.” But the best one was the largest—a life-size, full-color neon portrait of NIXON. “NIXON’S THE ONE. ONLY HE CAN SAVE US,” flickered on and off above the smiling, waving neon picture of Nixon. And the neon representation of one of America’s legendary presidents started to move. He would go from giving the “V” for victory sign to kneeling down with his hands grasping the hilt of a long golden sword that was sunk into a huge Kokey-Kola Can. The sword appeared to be real, and the end of its hilt actually stuck out of the glob of strange plastic.

  Soul of Nixon my foot! Rockson thought, this is some kind of nuke-fused junk left over from the day the bombs fell, probably powered by some sort of radiation source imbedded inside.

  “It’s something else, isn’t it?” Handelman said, almost softly, his eyes starting to fill with tears. “We found this great wonder in a nuked-out town called Reno. God in His Almighty wisdom has given it to us, gave us the Nixon-soul to worship. My ancestors brought it here a hundred years ago, when the Nominee was merely a young man. Nixon, you know, was the creator of all modern politics and debates. See that sword—no man can take it out save the Great Nominee, whom we will renominate in the ceremony coming up! It is the source of power. That is the Sword of Nixon. It is our most sacred symbol of the indestructible self-nature of Caucus and endless debate.” The man got a fanatical look on his plump face. He just stood there with his eyes completely unfocused, bathed in the flickering psychedelic light-display of the Nixon-glob.

  Nineteen

  “I’m quite a historian on the place,” Handelman went on, as he focused on the Freefighters again and took off his straw hat. He waved it at some of the assembled workers on stage, and those all around the Great Dome, who waved back.

  They walked around the fantastic ancient stadium, each of the Freefighters following Rockson’s command, observing all, each man storing his own bit of what he felt was vital information.

  “My father, bless his political judgments and forethought,” Handelman said, looking up at the great dome ceiling wistfully, “was in the first vote. It is a shame he had to kick off while such a very young man. A good twenty years ago, before some of the major changes were made here, he entered the Eternal Meeting.”

  “Yes . . . a shame. So, how did you all survive the holocaust?” Rockson asked.

  He glanced here and there at the cart vehicles, at the hundreds of workers carrying chairs, moving screens, doing various jobs that Rock couldn’t even quite figure out. Everyone wore the same khaki slacks, short-sleeved white shirts, and those dumb straw hats. Rock could see, as he got used to it all, that the hats and clothing were actually slightly different from one man to another. Some hats had bands with more red, white, and blue stripes, probably a sign of rank.

  “Well, as I mentioned to you,” Handelman went on, turning from the no longer lit-up Nixon sculpture, “the Great Dome of the Republam Party was somehow spared the nukes. Though there was a little bit of damage on the outside walls, which was repaired quickly. Oh, it was terrible back in those days,” Handelman went on with a sigh, looking up at the misty rafters all around them. The yellowish colored mist seemed to ooze down toward them from on high, in myriad, twisting streams. “Not that I was around,” he went on, lifting his straw hat and combing back almost nonexistent hair.

  “We sent out hunting and exploration parties after a few months. But the men never came back. The next exploration group, as well, just disappeared. Whether it was because of radiation, wild animals—who the hell knows. But for the first years, our ancestors couldn’t find a goddamned thing. A huge all-dome meeting was called. Nearly two thousand of us were gathered here when the nuke-bombs hit America. Candidates were to be picked, convention chores divided up. They decided to go on with the Convention. And, of course, the Nominee had to be sanctified. And that annual event has become our reason for existence, our philosophy: To keep the delegations, the meetings, the very convention itself moving along. The Nominee is so great . . . He helped us; no, indeed, he helps us control our lives.

  “We adapted much of what we could find around here—these straw hats, the pinstripe and blue blazer outfits. And we developed a ranking system. Everything perfect in its own way. And we must be doing something right—because we’ve been around for over a century! We carry out the same roles that our forefathers did, the Nominee’s perfect ways that cannot be questioned.”

  “But how do you actually survive?” Rock asked, as the rest of his team took in everything around the huge Dome, trying to pick up all the extras they could. “I mean,” Rock clarified, “what do you eat?”

  Handelman laughed as he swept his hand around the place. “Huge amounts of supplies, frozen and dry, are stored in a vast series of warehouses and tunnels for many sublevels below the dome. There’s enough there to feed ten armies.”

  “But power?” Detroit broke in, suddenly realizing everything was electric-powered as light-beeping door locks were everywhere. “What about power?”

  “Ah, that’s the best thing of all—” Handelman went on with a sly grin. “We found that, though the original electric generators and wiring were nearly destroyed, there was a heat source below—a volcanic spring which some of our delegates were able to hook up to the power grid of the place. Instant power for over a century,” Handelman said with clear pride. “Can’t say that about too many post-nuke cities,” the man added, pulling on his red suspenders.

  “Nope, that’s for damn sure,” Rockson whistled as he thought again about slipping away from this joint.

  “Anyway, we fixed the whole place up, at least my sanctified holy father and his pals did. And things have pretty much been the same ever since. This whole place is really a miracle, a holy blessing. God deposited it, and us, on this Earth so we could carry out our Nominee’s divine orders.”

  “And those orders are what?” Rock asked curiously, over the echoing rumble of equipment working and hammers banging. Up to the plastic-curved rafters men were hanging precariously on ropes, dangling down as they made final adjustments and sewed small rips in the material of a huge American flag.

  “To serve the Nominee, of course! To renominate him, over and over,” Handelman went on, religious awe creeping into the sound of his voice.

  “But, who is the Nominee?” Chen asked nervously, knowing from Century City anthropological classes that wh
en it came to people’s gods, you’d better be damn careful. But it also meant knowing that you’d damn better find out.

  “The Nominee is the Mysterious One who comes from the great Policy Position Committee in the sky. He will deliver us all through the Election to a greater and more beautiful world. We do our thing here to please Him. He is immortal, you know. Without Him there is no order, no continuity. In fact, He cannot be explained. He is very handsome and strong. Only He can lift the Great Sword! You will get to experience the many pleasures and revelations of being one with us.” Rock frowned. “Belonging is really nothing—in comparison to working for Him. He gives freedom from pain, from confusion, from the Eternal Vote.”

  Handelman stopped and looked up. The Stadium lights were slowly growing dimmer, as if God’s bright eyes were growing tired. Rock suddenly noticed that Archer had not come with them along the platform.

  “No!” Handelman suddenly screamed out with such sharpness that the words seemed to echo off walls hundreds of feet away. “Sacrilege! You are committing sacrilege!”

  Rockson spun around and saw his friend Archer at the Nixon-glob. Archer’s huge, meaty hand was reaching out to stroke the strange sculpture in the center of the speaker’s platform. The mashed and melted together advertising/Nixon-promotion glob lit up suddenly. And Nixon’s neon arm upthrust and gave the “V” for victory sign once more. Archer had activated something in it.

  Then, all sorts of sparks began to fly from the display. Rock saw that Archer had wrapped his big hands about the sticking-out sword hilt. Nixon’s neon face contorted, as if he were unhappy. His plastic glowing hand fought with Archer for possession of the sword.

  The whole thing was glowing brighter and brighter, as if the statue had a sacred fire inside of it. Rockson could feel a wind rising, coming from the glob. Archer’s hair stood up, charged with some primeval electricity. It was as if he had made a connection to the nuked-out old world. Energies were running wild through the thing, energies that could be picked up by all the Freefighters.

  “No! Don’t touch it!” Handelman exploded again, tearing his straw hat off, and starting to bite on its brim—a very strange response, thought the Freefighter leader.

  “YEEESSS TOUUCCCHH!” the huge bear of a Freefighter growled. Rockson could see that the mountain man was in one of his more ornery moods. Whatever they didn’t want him to do—he did.

  Suddenly there were yells all around the platform and a good dozen of the carts, moving fast, zeroed in on them.

  “Step back from the Sacred Nixon Soul,” Handelman barked out. He made a move toward Archer, then thought better of it. Handelman was terrified of the huge mountain man, especially as Archer’s face was growing redder by the second and his blubbery lips curled back like a wolf that had just spotted a wounded forest creature.

  “No, Archer!” the Doomsday Warrior shouted out in his most forceful commanding voice. “Get back from the statue!”

  Archer snarled a little louder, though he took his hand back from the hilt of the sword. He now looked at the assembled carts surrounding the stage with some alarm. His face squinched up, as he tried to figure out just what the hell they had in mind to do with the silly little vehicles. They hardly looked as if they could harm him. And why was everyone mad anyway? He just wanted to play with the sword.

  Handelman threw his torn-apart-by-his-teeth hat at Archer. It sailed a good thirty feet, soared past Archer so he could feel the wind of the thing. Then it came back, like a boomerang, on the other side.

  Rock yelled, “Duck, Archer!” He could see that the brim had been removed to reveal a razor-sharp piece of metal sewn into the hat. It was a weapon.

  Suddenly the mountain man got the message and gulped hard. He made to block the hat with his arm. Not a good move. Rockson grabbed Archer by the shoulder and pulled the mountain man the hell out of the way. The hat missed by an inch.

  But that wasn’t the half of the commotion! The Caucus people weren’t about to calm down on this case of sacrilege. Even as the two of them stepped back, the fronts of the carts opened up just below their mini-headlights. There was a whirring sound from within, and out popped the muzzles of twin 7.2mm cannons!

  Rock could see now that these things sure as hell did more than carry maintenance men. Rock saw Archer start toward the nearest low-wheeled apparatus. The Doomsday Warrior knew what was about to hit the fan, and shouted again. Heeding Rock’s warning, the mountain man surged across the platform, just as the carts let loose with a stream of shells that flew down the platform, missing Archer by inches at most.

  Rockson did a judo foot-sweep at the giant, to knock him off his feet. Standing, he was a great target. Rock had to stop this maniac before he was full of large holes. Archer turned as he hit the floor, thinking someone had sucker-punched him, his immense arm raised to take care of biz.

  But he saw Rockson lying there, groaning slightly, holding his knee, and stopped.

  “ROOOCCCKSOONNN?” the giant said as he looked around at all the stunned workers, at Handelman, at his friends. Confusion took Archer’s mind off causing destruction for a few seconds. Rock patted the big fellow on the arm and Archer calmed down a little. The carts surrounded them, cannons focused on the giant.

  Rock gave his best “aren’t we pals” grin and spoke out to the attackers, who didn’t look at all pleased. “Hey, no harm done! He gets like that sometimes,” Rockson apologized to one and all. He saw Detroit and Chen ready to go at it, with or without weapons, if the cart drivers pressed on. “Just a joke,” Rock said. He winked at the Caucus people. “Archer is like a kid, really. He didn’t mean any harm.”

  “He touched the Sacred Nixon!” one of the cart drivers retorted, his finger poised right over the surface of the firing button on the cart’s handlebars.

  “No! He didn’t actually touch it. He was just tracing the shape of the thing with his palm. Been doing that since he was just a young tree. No harm’s been done. Not even Nixon’s nose got a blemish.” Rock could see them all relaxing if only slightly.

  “All right,” Handelman said, waving the carts back and tugging at Rockson’s sleeve to get the damned man-monster away from the statue area.

  “Why don’t we get some food,” Rockson said good-naturedly, somehow getting the feeling it was time to get out of here. Archer smiled.

  “Yeah, I suppose,” Handelman grunted back. They were in his charge, so he felt responsible for the bunch of strangers. “But please, no more trouble, okay, Mr. Rockson? Keep your fellow-Coloradoan there under control.”

  Rockson had seen Archer touch the sword—because of the angle he had been standing at. Archer had made contract for just an instant with the Nixon face, too. He had come in close to squeeze the huge, bulbous nose that filled the face with flickering purple and blue. But no one else had seen, evidently. Another close call.

  Twenty

  Handelman led them back out of the main chamber of the great Caucus Dome and down one of the many corridors that went off in every direction. The killer cart crews up on the great podium just stared after them. Then they retracted the cannon-extensions on their little war wagons. Once sure there was no more immediate danger to the Nixon-shrine, they let another slot open. Pairs of cylindrical brooms began turning slowly under the front of the carts, sweeping all the dust and whatever off the platform. It should be as clean as if the Holy Nixon were coming to walk and talk on it, this very night. That’s what the crews had been told.

  “Now, I’m glad to say, we’re heading for food,” Handelman said. He walked at the lead of the small group, Rockson right behind him. Handelman didn’t want to be near the mountain man. For some reason Archer scared the living daylights out of him. How much gas did the giant need to inhale to calm down? Handelman was worried. The main thing that Handelman was supposed to do was keep things calm. If he couldn’t even do that, he thought, at the next general vote on promotions, he was out. They had their eye on him already, he knew that. The General Committee was watching. Th
ey had surely seen how he had let an unkempt new delegate almost touch the holy-of-holies!

  The way they were spaced walking now, at least Archer was on the far side of the group from him. Handelman knew Archer was looking around at the walls and the ceilings like some gawky child. He doubted the giant would ever make a good delegate.

  Rockson saw Handelman keeping his distance from Archer, his mouth holding a strange expression. And the Doomsday Warrior decided to tease Handelman. “I wouldn’t ignore Archer that way,” Rock spoke up. “Just relax yourself,” the Doomsday Warrior went on with a grin. “He won’t bother you, unless he feels your fear.”

  “Fear?” Handelman gulped hard, looking like a squirrel with too many nuts in its mouth. “No, no fear, everything’s fine.”

  Archer just hummed and burped here and there as he felt the walls with his fingertips, smelled the air—all kind of neat junk lay around decaying. Ahead, faint but nonetheless clear to his nose, was the scent of food. Different kinds, cooked and fried. Vegetables and . . . meat. His gait suddenly picked up.

  Chen came marching along a few yards behind Archer. If there was such a thing as “enlightenment,” Chen mused to himself, then this tree-sized son-of-a-bitch was pretty close to achieving it! He just took things in stride and concentrated on what was just ahead!

  Masses of delegates sat eating at a hundred tables arranged in squares, eight to a group. The place was brimming with the pale, bloated faces of bureaucrats who just dug into the steaming repast without regard for taste or content. The Freefighters were amazed at how fast they ate. “This way,” Handelman granted as he led them across to the far end of the commissary. “A miracle of mass fine cooking,” Handelman said, rubbing his stomach a few times. “Just take what you want—put it on a tray.”