Doomsday Warrior 04 - Bloody America (14 page)

“How the hell did this place get going?” Rock asked Yuri who sat across from him, his clarinet resting across his knees.

“Years ago, the subways ran bopping through these groove tubes. But a big boom-boom tube, one of yours, wipe out the north section. Reds let place rot, like burgers and fries. We blew into the scene and just crashed here. Now—it’s our permanent digs. You dig?”

“I see,” Rock said, sipping espresso that was handed to him by a black-leotarded female dissident waitress who slinked away, snapping her fingers.

“So, what’s your scene?” Yuri Goodman asked curiously. “I mean, what kind of jive you into—really?”

Rock gulped down the delicious bitter brew and decided to trust the man. He had nothing to lose, and the dissidents appeared to hate the Reds as much as any freefighter.

“You know the domed Satellite and Missile Control Center?” the Doomsday Warrior asked.

“Of course,” Yuri said, sipping his own steaming cup of expresso.

“I want to blow it up. Can you help us American jazz men play that tune?”

“Blow up the big egg? Why not shoot down Red jazz haters with our clarinets and tubas? Why destroy pretty egg building?”

Rock explained just what the dome meant as Yuri listened intently.

“That be different story, crazy swinger. If it can save the world for Glenn Miller dances and swinging times on crazy blue nights—then we try. What you need?”

“Explosives—I don’t suppose you have any?”

“Explosives—no. Why need? Oh, I see what you mean—boom-boom stuff.”

“Yes, boom-boom stuff,” Rock said excited. “Do you know where we can get some?”

“We got a whole room full. Used to build tunnel for new line. Before mega-mothers hit. Got lots of boom-boom. Enough to turn egg into red-hot omelette.”

Thirteen

A
rcher never liked never being underground. He was a man of the open fields, the mountains. Even in Century City, Archer had, despite its airy plazas and wide underground passageways, felt claustrophobic. Here in the ancient Moscow subways he felt doubly uncomfortable. Once outside the large terminal the ceilings were oppressively low in sections, and Archer kept bending his seven-foot-plus frame for fear of scraping his head. He took to wearing an ancient WW II Russian Army helmet provided by the dissidents. He walked around, mouthing annoyed grumbles and grunts that no one could understand.

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 that 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.”