Doomsday Warrior 04 - Bloody America (17 page)

The first to die was a man mounted onto a pulley by straps around his waist. He was broad at the top remaining part of his body with wide strong arms. But bound to the wagon he was vulnerable. A dwarf with short stunted legs and a twisted gnarled face out of some madman’s nightmare came at the man, swinging a large mallet. The half of a man fought back wildly, holding a two-by-four about five feet long with nails embedded in the end. He caught the dwarf in the shoulder and ripped a huge gouge into the thick flesh. The dwarf screamed and jumped back. But he was no fool. He dropped onto his stomach out of range of the flailing man and edged forward under the wagon. With a push of his short but powerful arms he turned the pulley over, the half man strapped into it, now on his side, scrambling wildly like a turtle on its back. The dwarf leaped over the crumbling wooden vehicle and with one swift arc of his stunted arms brought the iron mallet down on the cripple’s head. The skull crushed in like an egg, and brain oozed through the shattered bone. Again he raised it, and again, slamming into the head until it was reduced to a slimy cracked piece of red porridge.

The crowd cheered the first death, and the bugles went off as they always did when the initial killing had occurred. The Red elite swigged happily from their silver flasks, cold vodka burning the throat and bringing a glow to their jaded hearts. Soon, the bodies of the crippled gladiators were everywhere: a shovel brought down sideways by a one-armed bald-headed creature nearly decapitated a short hairy man with one leg. Blades, forks, razors, shoes, wooden stakes all slammed into flesh and skulls, tearing them apart and releasing torrents of red. The fighting raged on for nearly fifteen minutes until there were only two of the wretched ones left: the dwarf with the mallet and a blind man with a long metal scythe that he spun continuously around him. He alone had taken out nearly five of the now dead misfits whose bodies littered the stadium grounds, crushed misshapen dolls. The crowd cheered their favorite on, some rooting for the dwarf, others for the nearly normal-sized blind man, an albino with skin as pale as chalk and platinum hair. The blind fighter continued to spin around, holding the scythe at waist level, ready to take out anyone who came near him. He had no idea how many were left, but he knew he had killed some. He had felt the weapon dig into flesh and the blood splatter across his hands and face—had heard the death gurgles.

But the dwarf hadn’t survived this long without some cleverness. He crawled forward on his belly just beneath the whirring scythe, spinning just above his head with a terrifying whistling sound. With all his might he reached forward and slammed the heavy mallet into the blind man’s knee, shattering the kneecap with a sickening snap. The blind fighter fell to the drenched ground, letting go of the scythe as he grabbed hold of his knee, bone fragments piercing the skin like shrapnel. The dwarf moved with the speed of a striking snake. He grabbed the scythe in midair as it tumbled from the man’s grasp and leaped to the side of his fallen opponent. With a ghastly scream of power he lifted the long curved blade in the air and brought the tip down into the blind man’s chest. The razor-sharp blade buried itself in flesh, going clear through the fallen warrior and into the ground. The body jerked several times, the blind man’s hands grabbing at the blade which nearly sliced several of his fingers off. Then he was still as blood spouted up like a fountain from the deep wound.

The dwarf lifted his mallet again and leaped up, searching frantically around for the next opponent. But there were none. Just a charnel ground of mutilation, blood and pieces of flesh. He could scarcely believe it. The crowd began cheering him, standing in their seats, laughing and sarcastically applauding this “great gladiator.” The dwarf raised his now blood-coated weapon high in the air and turned slowly, letting the crowd see this hero of the misfits. A twisted smile crossed his thick hanging lips as his narrow black eyes coolly took in the audience’s response. He knew he would live. And even though he was a member of the lowest of the low, he would be rewarded for this victory. He would have food and vodka—even women. The Reds rewarded those who were expert at death, even ugly dwarfs like him. Attendants came out and placed a crown of thorns on his head and a purple robe around his shoulders as they slowly led him off. The dwarf cradled the mallet in his dark hand, the instrument of murder that had brought him through this holocaust. He would always carry it with him now. Let any man attack him or try to hurt him and the dwarf would crush that man’s skull in. For this one day in his miserable life he was something—something born out of a river of blood.

Commissar Dubrovnik knew his audience well. Even they needed comic relief from the slaughter. “Begin the pageant,” he said, the voice booming out through the stadium like the words of God. A God of ultimate blackness. A circuslike procession paraded out through the arena: women in dazzling jewel-covered gowns, baton twirlers, men whirling long shiny scimitars. They came out on foot and riding atop horses, zebras, giraffes and elephants, as Russian martial music pulsed out over the P.A. They formed large concentric circles, dancing and spinning, acrobats performing gymnastics, tumbling and flipping through the air. The crowd watched appreciatively if somewhat bored. Many took the time to relieve their bloated bodies of the alcohol they had consumed while others walked around greeting their cronies, setting up appointments, making deals. For aside from the sheer spectacle and brutality of the death games, they were also a social event at which virtually everyone who was anyone turned out. A time for bribes, conspiracies, as well as death.

After about twenty minutes the pageant exited the arena, and the buglers blew blaring chorus. Now the real games would begin—the event that the blood-hungry crowd had waited for all afternoon: the duel of the gladiators.

Sixteen

“L
et the death challenge begin,” Commissar Dubrovnik said over the speakers. At each end of the vast arena, steel gates slid open and the fighters emerged. There were nearly fifty of them on each side. At one end, the famous gladiators, whose names were known throughout the empire, were decked out in a dazzling array of gold and red and black. Some wore all leather with metal studs running down their sleeves, others capes of silk and velvet. They carried their weapons, each a specialist with his particular brand of death from sword to battle axes, lance to mace. Each had killed many times. They had risen to the top on a mountain of dead bodies. They sneered and laughed as the prisoners walked out at the far side of the coliseum. These fools would be short work for them. Even this Rockson would die swiftly under the unstoppable power of the Black Menace who stood at the front of the gladiators, his face motionless, a visage of steel-hard death.

At the other end Rock emerged first, wearing dirty khaki slacks and a leather vest, followed by the slave fighters who had been captured and brought here to die as entertainment for the Red rulers. They were all strong and tough men—after all this was purported to be a real contest. If there was no possibility of defeating their experienced gladiator opponents, there would be no entertainment. And that was what the death games were about: survival of the fittest, the crudest, the fastest. Some of the gladiators would die today. That was without question. But not many—of that they were sure. The prisoners wore the gray or black loose-fitting pants and shirts the Reds had given them. They weren’t supposed to look too heroic. But they had been given real weapons—weapons that, if they were lucky, would rip into gladiator flesh, cut out a heart, pierce a lung. Most had been given a choice of weaponry in their training, and each had chosen the particular form of murder that they felt might somehow give them an edge. Nets and tridents, broadswords, axes—whatever they had chosen at the start of their two weeks of training from a large bin of weapons. Of course many of the instruments were half rusted, dulled. They wouldn’t be given much of an edge. But the audience above, growing increasingly excited as the fighters walked toward each other across the wide arena, didn’t know that. Couldn’t see the dulled blades. From the stands it looked equal—even fair.

Rockson carried the duo-blade in his right hand. The nearly three-foot-long weapon was not as shiny as the gladiators’ glittering tools, but Rock had secretly sharpened the blade on a file that had been slipped to him by his trainer who had quickly grown to admire, even like the freefighter. Late at night in his cell, Rock had sharpened the edge of the weapon until it could cut a hair. It appeared dirty, grimy, but it would slice flesh—if it could make contact. Archer stood near his leader, a long rope net in his left hand, the mud-coated trident, nearly eight feet long in his right. He grinned at Rock.

“We kill,” he muttered through moist lips.

“Yes, my friend, we kill,” Rock answered softly, praying that when the next few minutes were over, both he and Archer would still be among the living. The rest of the men were in no mood to fight. Their training had been short and, though they were all broad, muscular men, most of them had never been fighters in their life—but farmers, peasants, untouchables picked up by the Reds. They were not ready to die and the oncoming gladiators looked as fearsome a group as they had ever seen.

“Help each other,” Rockson said, turning his head around to the prisoners who walked solemnly behind him. “Don’t let them fight you man to man. If we help one another, some of us may live. If you kill your opponent help one of your fellows.”

“But—is against rules,” a burly, bearded man holding a double-sided axe and said, just to Rockson’s side.

“Fuck the rules,” the Doomsday Warrior responded angrily. “Their rules are for us all to die. Today we begin by changing the rules.” His words and his seeming fearlessness gave them all a burst of hope. Perhaps they might survive. This American was a tough man. Even many of them had heard his name out in their thatched huts and small villages. The Doomsday Warrior’s name was known throughout the world. As much as the Reds tried to deny his existence, Rockson had become a planet-wide symbol of rebellion, of the ability to fight back against the Red machine—and win.

The gladiators spread out in a wide line, their weapons at the ready. They sneered at the oncoming prisoners. Each picked out his man, pre-chosen by a selection committee of the games. Dubrovnik liked certain weapons to be pitted against others: sword against trident, mace against spear and net . . . It made for good combat and picturesque results.

Suddenly the gladiators were upon them in a flash, rushing into the V-formation of the prisoners, their weapons swinging through the air, searching for skulls, for chests to crack open. Rockson saw the Black Menace coming at him, moving slowly. The master gladiator had no need to rush. He knew the outcome already. He lived to fight, to destroy men’s bodies. It was the only time he felt truly alive. Rock held the duo-blade firmly in his right hand with his wrist and arm as relaxed as possible. He knew speed was his only possible response to the overwhelming power of nearly four hundred fifty pounds of black death machine. The Black Menace walked up to Rock, stopping about ten feet away. The Menace had eyes that bore into one’s head. His knees were slightly bent, poised to move suddenly forward. The product of genetic experiments to produce a killer for the gladiator pits, he was, if you could consider an overdeveloped half animal murder machine
art,
a pinnacle of genetic rearrangement. Quite handsome really, with the jutting jaw and rows of wolf-like canines, and the third arm protruding dead center from his chest. The Menace held a long spear in his left arm, a short blade for piercing in his right and a thick steel shield in the third middle arm.

As quick as a cat he leaped forward, thrusting the spear at Rockson’s guts. But Rock saw the flicker of the killer’s eyes and knew the motion was coming. He jumped to the side and swung the sword edge of the duo-blade at the Menace’s abdomen. The blade barely made contact as the black gladiator was so well trained he was able to stop his great bulk in mid-stride. Still, Rock’s blade drew a thin line of blood along the gladiator’s stomach. The Menace pulled back a few feet and looked at the American with surprise. Only two men had ever cut him in his years in the arena. And they had both been among the most famous fighters of their day. That is until the Black Menace had severed their heads.

The towering fighter opened his jaws, showing his rows of razor teeth, and made what Rock could only interpret as a smile, though hardly a friendly one.

“Good—you fight,” the Menace snarled. “We have fun together—before I kill you.” With that he charged again, both of his weapons ripping through the air at Rockson’s mutant flesh. The Doomsday Warrior parried the trident with a quick turn of the duo-blade and then just as swiftly caught the thrusting sword with the hooked end of his weapon, locking it for a moment. But Rock had forgotten about the third arm, not having fought many men with three appendages. The middle arm of the Black Menace shot forward, holding a two-foot-wide shield emblazoned with fiery designs, and caught Rock squarely in the face. He flew backward several yards, feeling himself almost blacking out. But instinctively he hit the ground in a ball and rolled out, coming up in a crouch. His head cleared within fractions of a second, just in time to see the genetic monster coming at him, the trident flying toward his throat. Rock dove forward, straight between the Menace’s towering legs, and sliced one thigh as he slipped right under the gladiator. He turned on a dime as he came out behind the black master of death and held the duo-blade at the ready. The Menace stabbed at empty air and then felt a sharp pain along the inside of his leg. He looked down. He had been cut—deeply—and Rockson had disappeared again. No matter. He turned as Rockson awaited the next blow.

Around them the gladiators tore into the prisoners, ripping at them, tearing through them like a hurricane through a stack of bowling pins. Pins that screamed and bled. Within the first sixty seconds nearly a third of the prisoner-fighters were dead, their mutilated bodies lying stacked around the arena dirt like so much firewood. But the rest of the fighters stood their ground—the bravest, the toughest of the lot. Archer, armed with his trident and net, faced a man nearly as large as himself, armed with mace and bullwhip. The man was a stocky Russian from the steppes of Siberia with a face filled with a thousand scars. Hardly any of his original features remained—just a patchwork quilt of red and purple streaks and cuts and gashes. He charged at the freefighter, snapping the whip and catching Archer on the side of his face, drawing a deep cut. But this only infuriated the American, and with a roar he flew forward, right on top of the Red gladiator, knocking him to the ground. The Red tried to lift his spiked mace and caught Archer a glancing blow on the shoulder which the big man shook off. Archer dropped on top of the Russian, forgetting his weapons, and slammed his huge head into the man’s face. The gladiator screamed in pain as his nose and teeth shattered and swung the mace again, this time catching several of the spikelike teeth in Archer’s back. With a grunt of disdain the freefighter whipped his head down again and again until the Russian was still—the front of his face no longer a face but a mass of crushed bone. One eye hung lazily out of its socket and plopped down onto the blood-soaked dirt as if looking for a hole to hide in. Archer rose, grabbed his weapons and tore into the fighting crowd ready to help any of his fellow prisoners who needed it.