Doomsday Warrior 17 - America’s Sword

by Ryder Stacy

  He looked at them all rather skeptically, especially the giant. He shouldn’t even be allowed to be with normal people. But then that’s what Handelman’s very function was in the Great Caucus Dome. Facilitation, taking firm control of new delegates—and guiding them into their proper places. So they might soon join the bliss of the Great Nominee.

  The Freefighters filled up their glistening new plastic bowls, set them atop aluminum trays and walked down the commissary aisle. Rock glanced into a vast kitchen, which was steaming away with huge pots and vats. Breads were being baked, meats grilled. He noted that no one dishing out the food in the cafeteria-type line said a word. You just indicated what you wanted, took it, and headed around until an empty table could be found.

  Handelman waited at the far end of the serving area, knowing it would take his charges a while. They just loaded up until there was no room on their trays. Then the new delegates from Colorado came walking down the aisle all smiles. Archer was humming or mumbling. Heads pulled back here and there at the tables when the giant passed. He was big, and smelled, and looked so pleased.

  “Here, the best seats in the place,” Handelman said with a false, upbeat smile. He indicated a nearly empty long table. Three blue-jacketed eaters moved over to let the newcomers sit all together. The Freefighters threw their trays down on the table.

  Rockson took a single bite of something that looked like a blue version of a T-bone steak and let a smile travel across his face. He’d have to compliment the chef for damn sure. It tasted like the finest steak he’d ever had!

  “Hey, pal,” Rock said, to the nearest blue-coat eater, “Ain’t this food the greatest?”

  The man didn’t look over, just stared straight forward, as if he were dead. Rock took another fierce bite, and then repeated his remark. It was a little disconcerting to get again no response at all.

  “Good food, nice around here,” the Doomsday Warrior went on softly, not wanting Handelman to hear him, as the fat paper-pusher was clearly trying to listen to his every word.

  “Can’t complain,” the eater finally replied to Rockson, noncommittally. He wore the exact same dumb-looking cheap blue suit, straw cap and red, white, and blue tie as all the other men of his rank in the Republam Party. And was about as good a conversationalist as the others, too.

  Rockson suddenly noticed something. There was hardly any sound from the entire room. Oh, dishes were clanking and silver as well; steam hissed, rising from all the cooking apparatus behind the glass deli counter in the back. But the diners just weren’t talking. Here and there someone said, “Please pass me the salt.” Or, “Is there more water on the table?” Many of them said these words without turning their heads or lifting their eyes. They ate mechanically too. Rock counted their chews. Each man chewed each bite thirty-two times, exactly!

  It gave Rockson the creeps. There wasn’t anything brighter than a guinea pig on a treadmill up in any of those brain-cases! He tried another tack with the man across from him: “What’s it like around here?” the Doomsday Warrior asked with a bright smile. The Republam party member sitting across from Rock actually turned and he broke into a chillingly artificial grin. It was the most artificial expression Rockson had ever seen. The lips of the Caucus man moved. His words were flat-toned. “It’s-very-nice-around-here. We-work-plenty-and-get-all-the-food-we-need-here. It-is-paradise,-praise-the-Great-Nominee.” He turned back and resumed his eating, as if he had said nothing to Rockson.

  “Oh, I see,” Rock said, gulping some more meat. But he asked more questions. “What exactly passes for fun around here?” Rockson asked with a lewd wink, conspiratorially. The fellow eater stopped moving his jaw, turned his head and addressed Rockson like a not-quite-functioning telephone answering machine.

  “We-have-much-fun,” the man said with another of his dead smiles. “We-do-our-chores,-cleaning,-reading-committee-reports,-organizing. When-Sunday-arrives,-we-are-given-a-half-day-of-rest-and-I-read-reports-and-documents-about-the-next-Statewide-meeting. That’s-tomorrow-evening-when-the-preliminary-speeches-and-welcoming-addresses-will-start. You’re-all-very-fortunate-to-be-here-at-this-historic-occasion.” There actually now was something of a real grin on the poor bastard’s face. “I-like-meetings!”

  “Where are you from, originally?” Rockson asked, almost in a whisper.

  But just as the eater began to answer, Handelman coughed loudly, directing his voice past Rock to the Caucus man. “I think that will be quite enough,” Handelman said. He stared hard at the other man, who looked down at his plate and began eating slowly, one bite, then the next. “He needs his sustenance,” Handelman explained a little more softly so only Rockson could clearly hear him. “He’s been working all today and through the week to get his final prep work completed for the Great Caucus Week.”

  Rockson nodded. But inside he was seething. It was already clear that something was wrong. These men just didn’t act like real people. Oh, they spoke and walked and ate, but not a hell of a lot more.

  Handelman let them all fill up as much as they wanted. They needed the special diet badly. A man is always more susceptible, more open to the great truth when he is all filled up like a garbage can bursting at the seam.

  At last they all rose. Patting his large stomach and with a happy little artificial smile on his jowly face, Handelman looked around at the new men. “Well, are we all happy? Is everyone satiated?”

  “Mister, if I was satiated any more,” Detroit replied, “there would be some slippery floors around here.” Handelman again began leading them, this time along a corridor opposite to the one they’d first traveled.

  “Now, I’ll give you all the grand tour—if you can take it.”

  Rockson’s men all looked at him. They were tired. Archer particularly, after triple-portion meals, always just sort of collapsed, Rock knew. All the blood seemed to drain from brain, hands, even his moose-sized feet into his stomach. But the mountain man still could walk, Rockson could see clearly. Also Archer didn’t yet have that half-closed look on his brown eyes.

  Rock decided to push on with the journey. He suspected that they might get into danger if they didn’t learn as much as possible about the setup.

  They reached the end of the long corridor and then voices blared from the dimness around the turn. Men blocked their way, men with caps that said, “Local 122, Drapery Handlers.” These fellows, about two dozen of them, had a slightly different look from the others. More like worker-types, with hair disheveled, hands red from manual labor.

  “Well, what have we here?” the stubble-faced fellow at the front of the gang spoke up with a dark laugh. “I didn’t know they allowed ‘Outsidies’ in here. And look, one of the creeps is a Moosie.” The others with him guffawed.

  “Heeee Meeaaan MEEEE?” Archer asked, letting steam out from his nostrils.

  “Ah shit,” Rockson groaned. He could just imagine what was about to happen next. And he wasn’t disappointed. Archer stopped in his tracks, looking down at the speaker with a strange expression in his frosty eyes. He didn’t exactly look angry, more like perplexed. And it wasn’t totally clear if he understood the man. But he understood his intent was to ridicule.

  “MOOOOOSSE?” the giant laughed, pointing at himself. Then while the group of confronters grew silent, their faces growing a few shades paler, Archer leaned down, then grabbed around the neck the man who had spoken. With the other hand around the man’s belt, Archer picked him right up and held him at belly-button level. As the rest of the union crew looked on in horror, Archer swung him back as far as he could go—and then threw him right down the corridor.

  He slid at a pretty good clip, sending several of his companions off their feet.

  “All right, you’ve had your fun,” Rockson said with a scolding tone. “Now, let’s get out of here, Arch, before you set off a labor war.”

  Rock could see that the giant wanted just the opposite than to leave. His eyes were big, as if he were at his own fun-park, bowling. The Doomsday Warrior
could just see the next moments unfolding. The place would soon look as if a dozen or so rogue elephants had stampeded through, tearing down walls. He grabbed Archer by the shoulder, and speaking softly but with command in his voice, led him off, past the gaggle of cursing unionists.

  “Come on, you wildman,” Rockson said, as he pulled him away. “There’s plenty of time for that sort of fun later.” Archer growled slightly, as if Rockson never let him have any fun.

  Thirty feet away, the man stood up from the floor. He was completely covered with grime and grease. “I’ll get you, Moose! I have influence! My men will see you at the big meeting, and take you down a peg. Bet on it!”

  Twenty-One

  “I hope we have no more trouble,” Handelman said, coughing gruffly as he eyed Archer with nervous glances. He could hardly bring himself to look at the mountain man. Even though Rock had guaranteed him there’d be no more of that, the bureaucrat didn’t believe it for a second. The bearded man was certainly a madman capable of ripping heads from bodies at any moment. He kept wishing that the spirit of the Nominee would very soon choose to bless these Colorado delegates. And make them behave.

  Handelman took them into another large auditorium—not as big as the dome chamber, but big enough for tens of thousands of people nevertheless. It had a fifteen-foot ceiling, and arched doors large enough to allow passage of a herd of elephants.

  “Down this way,” Handelman said, pointing to a ramp going down into a lower level. The walkway was easily as wide as the doors—you could drive a truck up and down it. Rock tried to imagine what it was like here a hundred plus years ago. He’d seen films of the political conventions in the C.C. archives. There was some good footage of the delegates, who streamed in and out of these labyrinths by the thousands, the millions.

  “Here we go,” Handelman said. He yawned as he pushed large metal swinging doors and they flew open. “These are your sleeping quarters. It is built under the actual stadium.”

  There was an immense dorm-style room before Rock and his men, probably as big as the dome itself! It held perhaps as many as four or five thousand rusted, military-style beds.

  It was nearly empty. Just a few men lying here and there, snoring.

  Detroit whistled low. “You could house half an invasion force in this place.”

  Archer’s eyes widened perceptibly as he looked all around in a childlike amazement. He had found and explored lots of caves when he had been out running in the wild—but nothing like this big, dark, sleepy place. Usually he didn’t like being underground. But this sleep place felt big, and safe. And he was tired—not from throwing the stupid man, but from the meal.

  Rockson stood and watched men push wheeled carts around, taking old sheeting off beds. They put new folded-up ones on to replace them. The beds were made up with hospital-tight corners. The floor seemed to need a cleaning, though; it was full of sticky, gumlike gunk, which adhered to his boot soles.

  “BEEEEEEDDDDD!” Archer groaned out in a deep joy. The near-mute walked over to one and slammed his back down on it. The legs of the bed collapsed and the whole bed dropped to the floor with a crash. For a moment or two, the near-mute got an embarrassed smile on his face. But then he crossed his arms and just kept lying on the mattress. Instantly asleep.

  “That one’s weak,” Handelman said, making a sharp, clucking sound as if it were disgraceful that the Republam Convention should have the slightest flaw. “I’ll send for a bigger bed.”

  “No, leave him with that,” the Doomsday Warrior said. The giant seemed already in bliss. He breathed in and out deeply, and started to snore.

  Handelman turned away in disgust and let a shudder run through his flesh. “Great Nixon!” he intoned, making a dollar-sign symbol like an ancient cross on his chest. “Snoring is ungodly! But, I suppose as long as he won’t go wandering off breaking things, I can take the rest of you up to the show.” He looked dramatically at the remaining Freefighters—Rock, Chen, and Detroit. “Okay?”

  Rock nodded. They left Archer snoring. He seemed to need sleep.

  “Down this ramp here,” Handelman spoke up. Everywhere, Rock saw candy-striped jacketed, straw-hatted delegates. They all came marching along in unison, heading for their assigned tasks. The carts seemed the main venue of travel, and lots of the delegates hopped on one, whenever they could bum a ride.

  Handelman was now huffing and puffing, even though they were heading down. He took them deeper into the labyrinthine passages of the huge structure. On the next level was a vast storehouse. It was just about the largest warehouse of junk that Rock had ever seen.

  “Boy, will you look at all this?” Chen said as they walked along one of the steel shelving units, huge shelves that rose up fifty feet. The shelves were completely filled with junk. There were appliances of every type for the kitchen. Then a good two hundred yards of small motors, chains, and electric hammers and saws. There were sharp-toothed metal cutters, with bands as wide as wrestlers’ prize belts.

  “Pretty impressive, isn’t it?” Handelman asked, as they all moved slowly, taking in the magnitude of the place. “And this is only one floor of the warehouse. You see, there was a tremendous amount of supplies left over after the Great War,” the fat pen-scraper said. “And we’ve added a lot over the years—collected from travelers.” His voice switched oddly, “Donated, of course.”

  Rockson could hear the sudden stress. What the hell was going on here? He felt enormously tired, and was having trouble concentrating. Had they been drugged? He made the “double cough” signal to tell the others that they were in extreme danger, according to mutant-instinct. His men seemed to ignore Rock.

  “But this is all boring, let’s move along,” their guide spoke up, yawning. “Come on!” They descended another ramp, this one blackened with a huge number of vehicle tracks. They reached the next floor and looked out over a scene that was out of hell itself. Steam was rising everywhere from big turbines turning slowly. Vast amounts of steam were coming out of a number of chimney-like structures. The power plant.

  Rock walked over to the nearest of the huge pistons, looked down into the deep chasms in the earth. The super-heated air only let him look down for a moment. A red liquid was bubbling far below.

  Rock pulled back, as an extra-hot cloud of steam came shooting up past his face. “And this is—”

  “Our power source,” Handelman boasted. “The steam from the living earth drives the electrical generators our ancestors hooked up. Heating and lighting create civilization. This wouldn’t be the Super Dome, it wouldn’t be anything at all but a cave, gentlemen, without this power. And we would all be savages.”

  The sounds seemed to grow louder from the wheels turning and gears clasping. Great doughnuts made of copper cable moved up and down around yard-thick poles that disappeared deep below. It was like walking around in the guts of some immense being, everything chugging and whirring around with an overpowering hum. And yet from the way the sounds all meshed together, everything in rhythm, the Doomsday Warrior sensed that all was working harmoniously! He felt good, felt as if all was right with the world. But something irritated his throat and lungs slightly. A strong scent that he hadn’t noticed at first. Walking a few steps back to the steam geysers he smelled that it was coming from below. He made a face.

  “Yes, I know it can be a strong smell, especially if you’re new down here,” Handelman said. “The men who make repairs here have gotten used to it, and don’t complain. The smell’s a mix of sulphur gas and a number of things that the earth below spits up along with the steam that we use. Unfortunately, there’s no natural gas, or we wouldn’t even need this whole setup. But it all works, and that’s sure as hell what counts, more than a slight odor.”

  Rock pulled farther back from the steam and the thin trickle of slightly yellowish gas that seeped up with it. He again felt slightly dizzy and looked over at Detroit and Chen, who both nodded slightly in the affirmative as if they felt it too. Handelman began leading them off again. />
  Rockson noticed large plastic pipes that a man could crawl through, about two dozen of them placed all around the generator room. They came up out of the sides of the spinning generators and led off into the walls around the place. Huge blowers, much quieter than the rest of the machinery, blew the yellowish, smelly gas off into a huge duct system, which disappeared into the ceiling above.

  “Is that a venting system?” Rockson asked Handelman, who nodded nervously and wouldn’t look Rock in the eye.

  “Yes,” he replied, in a rote manner, softly. “If we let all the gases build up in there, the sheer pressure would explode the whole stadium.”

  They were led up more corridors, passed more huge doors and at last came to a small, wood-paneled auditorium built off on the side. Maybe a hundred by twenty-five feet. It was a movie theater, with a movie screen and plush velvet-covered seats.

  Rockson had never actually been in a movie theater like this but he knew, from readings of America’s past, that they existed all over the place, though he doubted back then the seating was quite as plush as here. The Freefighters sat and leaned back with sighs of comfort, as the seats were about as comfortable as they could be.

  The lights began dimming and Handelman addressed them all, standing to the side.

  “Now. We’re just going to present a little film—it won’t hurt,” he laughed, waiting for a return chuckle. After a few seconds of dead silence, he went on. “The film explains our entire operation to newer delegates—everything you didn’t want to know about us—except you will.” He laughed again, and again was met with a wall of silence.

  “Suppose we really don’t want to hear ’bout it?” Detroit asked with a half-stifled yawn.

  “Oh, humor me,” Handelman said. “As Facilitator, I have a job to do, or I don’t get paid. Anyway, it’ll only take a few minutes, and then we can leave.”