Doomsday Warrior 06 - American Rebellion (17 page)

“There, dinner for . . .” Rockson stopped his sentence in midair as he saw Lyon’s face freeze with terror, his eyes focused just behind the Doomsday Warrior. Rock turned, sensing something bad was about to happen. But he didn’t know how bad. A grizzly, perhaps 16 feet tall, stood high on its hind legs, sniffing the air with a twitching nose. It looked dov/n at Rockson from what seemed like the sky and without warning, dropped like a missile right on top of him. The Doomsday Warrior had no chance to react, but breathed out and relaxed his body to take the force of the blow. He felt the huge body slam on top of him making him nearly black out, but he held on and reached for the knife he had put back in its sheath. The bear pulled its head up, looking down at him from just feet away, opening its jaws and starting down. All Rock could see was teeth, a tongue as long as an arm, and a dark churning mouth of wetness and digestive fluid.

Suddenly shots rang out, just inches from his ear. Over and over. Rockson felt the huge body above him jerk several times, but the head, with its steam shovel jaws kept coming. He turned his face to the side, twisting over with all his strength as the grizzly’s teeth slammed past him and into the ground, as if trying to lift up a whole section of sod.

Rock squirmed violently beneath the ton of deadly carnivore that blanketed him, waiting for that huge head to turn and take a bite. But nothing happened. The head was still, the eyes still open, the tongue hanging out like a red hose. The thing was dead.

“Jesus Christ, Rock. Are you okay? Are you alive?” A voice asked from above, seeing only blood everywhere.

“Yeah, I think so,” Rockson answered. “Pull me out and I’ll tell you for sure.”

Between them they managed to finally roll the dead weight off Rockson and he crawled out to stand up.

“Somehow I think you just saved my ass,” he said dryly, and looked back down at the thing. Its entire upper skull had been blasted to bits, the brain sitting in a bloody pool in the lower skull cavity.

“Yeah, I know you said not to go for the head shot,” Lyons grinned. “But I figured I was close enough not to miss. I put the muzzle right up to its ear and just emptied the clip. I did good, huh Rockson?” the teen asked, looking for his hero’s approval.

“The proof is in the pudding pal,” the Doomsday Warrior said, grabbing the steaks he had packed. “And in this case, I’m the pudding.”

They travelled for another four days, making good time on some of the less-steep sections of the mountain range. At last Century City was within sight. Somehow Rockson always felt amazed, every time he returned from battle to see it again. And each time, somewhere inside him, he thought it would be the last.

So there was a tinge of sadness mixed in the joy when he came to the twin mountain peaks, the familiar woods. For
this
might be the last time he
would
return.

Seventeen

I
n the ornate “Kansas Corn Palace”, a palatial building constructed in the 20th Century when the corn and wheat fields of America were the most fertile in the world, the walls were covered with immense flags showing red hammers and sickles crossed over an eagle—the Russian designed “new” flag of the U.S.S.A. Today, the lobbies and auditoriums of the building were filled with dignitaries, military officials and high-level bureaucrats—for today was the “historic” summit meeting between Premier Vassily, Col. Killov of the KGB and President Zhabnov, “president” of the United Socialist States of America. The lesser functionaries zipped about in stubby Cheka sedans, while quiet, sullen men in brown uniforms drank themselves under the table in the local bar wondering if Vassily was indeed under the spell of the blackie, Rahallah, who accompanied him everywhere.

Lawrence, Kansas, had been chosen for its long international class runway, its low level of radiation—and primarily because it was a relatively neutral zone, administered by Soviet trade officials rather than KGB or Red Army.

Zhabnov had been the first to arrive, and after partaking of the luncheon menu, several times over, the jowled nephew of Vassily, who retained his post of president solely because he was stupid enough for the premier to control like a puppet, headed out to the large green and blue-veined marble lobby to await the arrival of the others. He knew his presence at the meeting was largely formal, that Killov and Vassily would make the major decisions, so he felt rather bored with the whole thing before it had even started. Why couldn’t he just head upstairs to his bedroom and enjoy the favors of the 14-year-old Siamese twin virgins his sex squads had dug up for him. They had outdone themselves this time, he thought, closing his eyes for a moment, savoring the sweet naked vision in his head. He really must promote that captain whatever-his-name-was who ran the sex unit. Their recent acquisitions had been quite stimulating.

Zhabnov at last heard the bugles blare outside and the huge oak doors opened. In stepped twelve bodyguards, burly men in black leather greatcoats, deathhead symbols made of gold on each wide lapel. Huge bulges showed beneath the coats, suggesting something slightly larger than pistols. Then, turning his head furtively from side to side, as if he expected something to attack him at any second, Killov walked in, in his skin tight black krylon leather pants and field jacket. He hardly looked like he belonged to the world of the living, so emaciated was he, so gaunt and cadaver-like his face and dark, dead-looking eyes.

Zhabnov took in a deep breath as did the others in the immense chandeliered lobby, as Killov’s eyes quickly scanned every one of them. When he saw Zhabnov, a shudder ran through his body and a sneer across his lips. He quickly turned away and headed across the marble floor, his bootheels echoing like pistol shots, over to a large banquet table, where he sat down, took out a small flask of liquid and popped four pills in his mouth, swallowing them down with one gulp. Zhabnov squirmed in his chair nervously. He knew Killov hated his guts. Had promised to roast him like a pig when he took over Washington. The president shuddered. Why couldn’t things be simple? Why couldn’t he just have his girls and tend to his rose garden behind the White House. Life was just so unfair.

Vassily came in next, again, accompanied by a chorus of horns from the Army band outside. He moved silently across the wide shining floor in his wheelchair pushed by the white-tuxedoed, ebony faced Rahallah. If Killov looked like death incarnate, then Vassily looked like death warmed over. His face was spotted with tiny hemorrhages, his countenance stark white, his body slumped like a disintegrating scarecrow under his thick wool blanket. But he was the premier of all the world, wielding more power than any man in the history of the planet. So, the entire room stood as one, even Killov, and gave “The Grandfather” the Red full-fisted salute. Rahallah waved them to sit down, infuriating Killov and Zhabnov, and wheeled Vassily over to the nearly half-foot thick solid oak conference table that stood in the center of the large hall. The two other men of power grudgingly walked over, motioning their guards to stay behind—but not too far, and sat down. The three most powerful men on earth, staring at one another’s cool eyes.

The orchestra at the far end of the room began its litany to power as all, except Vassily, stood for the Communist International. “Arise ye prisoners of starvation . . .” When it was over Vassily was the first to speak.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, so good to see you,” the premier said in a firm voice and the slightest of twinkles in his eye. Killov was amazed. His spies had reported Vassily near death with a heart attack. And now . . . He glanced over at Rahallah for a split instant. It was the nigger. He had done it with his voodoo mumbo-jumbo magic. He
was
a witch. He would have to be burned. Killov made a mental note to have the servant assassinated top priority.

“Pardon me if I don’t shake hands,” Vassily went on, “but I am old and time is crucial. All formalities, have, by mutual agreement been cut to minimum. Let us get down to business. I have had Rahallah prepare a suggested agenda of three parts which he will give each of you. Rahallah has my fullest confidence, understand. He will—sometimes—speak for me.”

The black African placed a small valise on the table, opened it and extracted three sets of papers which he handed out. Killov hissed when he saw the agenda.

“Perhaps we should just let you, Grandfather, and your blackie do all the decision-making here?”

“Not at all, Colonel,” Vassily good-naturedly replied. “Please don’t take offense. I am merely trying to give a format to our discussions. You may make your own suggestions, amendments, etc.”

“And,” said Killov quickly, “of course I have a veto. This is not a simple vote on different issues. After all, your nephew sits with you.”

“Ah yes, of course—we will
all
have a veto. Everything must be by total majority.” And so it went, as Killov challenged every point of the rules for the meeting for nearly an hour. At last they settled on the agenda.

“First,” said Killov, summarizing, “All actions of any we three against any of the others must immediately and forever cease. That means,” he glared at Zhabnov, “your assassins, my fat friend—”

“Assassins? What assassins?” Zhabnov stuttered.

“The ones I skinned alive,” Killov answered with a dagger-like mouth. Zhabnov paled. So that was what had happened to them.

“I haven’t sent any assassins,” Zhabnov replied. “But I will promise not to send any more. Is that acceptable?”

“Fine, fine,” Killov said softly. “And Mr. Premier, might I have your assurances that you do not intend to use either your Imperial Army, your border police or your nephew’s regular Red Army forces—or any part of your armed might against the KGB any place in the world, for the duration of this agreement?”

“Gentlemen, of course, we must stop any real or imagined activities against one another,” Vassily said with a smile. “Is that not right, nephew?”

Zhabnov weakly expelled some air from his overheated red face and weakly said, “Yes, Grandfather.” Rahallah smiled, his perfect white teeth adding lustre to the room. God, how I hate that blackie, Zhabnov thought. It’s indecent to have him here smelling up the place. Killov reached forward, picking up the second page of Vassily’s draft.

“So let it be written down in Paragraph 11, page two that we agree to cease our mutual hostilities.” Zhabnov grew paranoid every time Rahallah bent to confer with Vassily during the conference. Were they plotting against him too? Were the premier and his Negro—and Killov as well—out to kill him, to redivide America? Zhabnov’s eyes swept the room—perhaps the two of them had arranged an accident for him . . . Just at that moment a servant came in with coffee. Zhabnov refused—it might be poisoned.

After hours of haggling they had at last drafted a document satisfactory to all, and its provisions were read by Rahallah’s clear articulate voice. The assembled delegates seated around the hall were aghast at the blackie being allowed the honor of reading the agreement. But who would dare complain?

“The following provisions are agreed to at the Kansas Summit of the triple powers,” Rahallah said, standing up at his side of the table. “One— All hostilities will cease among the three assignatories to this pact. Any differences of opinion shall, in the future, be negotiated openly between the three. Two— A combined force of Special Penetration Forces,” (a euphemism for assassins, the delegates knew) “shall be drawn from the KGB, the Regular Red Army and the Imperial Guard to once-and-for-all get rid of the main destabilizing factor in America—Ted Rockson. Three— A ceasefire shall be effective immediately between the forces of Vassily and Zhabnov on one side and Von Reisling and his new Nazi alliance on the other.” The three men repressed looks of ultimate cynicism. Each of them didn’t really give a damn what the treaty said. It was all just buying time until Rockson was destroyed. Then civil war would erupt again—and they all knew it. “Four— No atomic weapons of any kind are to be used on American soil without express written permission from Premier Vassily.” Killov bristled at this, but he could live without using his favorite weapon, the neutron bomb, of which he had ten stockpiled, for a month or two.

Rahallah finished reading all the provisions of the draft and sat down to tumultuous applause from around the room. In an age of sham, this was perhaps the height to which lies and double dealing could be turned into a celebratory event.

Eighteen

R
ona was the first to scale the top of the ridge and look down on the main eastern entrance to the subterranean world of Century City.

“Oh Rock, no,” she said with dismay to the Doomsday Warrior who came right behind her, when she saw what lay over the ridge where Century City should be. Rockson’s eyes narrowed with a sharp pain as he saw what had caused her outburst of grief. Carson Mountain, beneath which the Freefighting city had been built, was completely reshaped—much of its pine trees and plantlife burned to ash. Instead of a lofty snow-covered peak in front of them there was just a misshapen double hump of a much lower mountain, at least 300 feet shorter than their previous harboring peak.

“A nuke,” Rockson said bitterly as Lyons came up behind them and whistled through his teeth when he saw the damage. Rona sank into Rockson’s arms, heartbroken, trembling within his strong arms.

“I can’t believe it, I just can’t believe it,” she said stunned, over and over again.

“Don’t give up hope,” the Doomsday Warrior said, gritting his teeth, trying to sound optimistic. “There could be many survivors—C.C. has numerous lower levels, heavily shielded by the iron ore of the mountain. Let’s circle around to the other side to one of the emergency entrances. Perhaps the damage isn’t as severe there.”

They spent nearly an hour and a half circling around the wide mountain until they came to a grove of bent and twisted pines, but at least not burned to ashes. The brunt of the blast had clearly been borne by the opposite slope.

“The entrance—where is it?” Rona said, running forward to what should have been a camouflaged opening. A wall of boulders and rock filled the space, cool air from the lower temperatures within streaming out between the crevices. Rock found a piece of twisted metal on the ground nearby and used it as a makeshift shovel, digging away at the obstruction. Rona and Lyons joined in and the three of them scooped frantically away at the silt and stone from where they remembered the western entrance to be.