Doomsday Warrior 10 - American Nightmare (10 page)

The rook wasn’t laughing anymore. This was no helpless vagrant or defenseless teenager he was bullying now. This dude was
tough!
He sprang like a lynx, had the strength of a bear, and the cunning of a fox. Tossing the useless nightstick aside, he reached for his flamethrower and ignited it. Rockson leapt sideways from a wall of flames while the rook fumbled to turn on his helmet radio and send for help.

“Code nine . . . Section eight. Code nine . . . section eight . . .” he shrieked into the radio. “Send back up.
Hurry!
Do you read me!”

Rockson flipped the knife from hand to hand as the rook backed him against the wall of the building with his twenty-foot flames. The sound of closing sirens cut through the foggy night air. Soon he’d be corralled by a whole gaggle of these goons.

Rock spotted an opening. Flicking the knife with blinding speed he sent it sailing. It skimmed the rook’s neck and severed the hose feeding his torch. Instantly the pressurized gel ignited, engulfing the beefy tough guy in sticky hellfire. Screaming and rotating, beating at his body, he fell.

“That’s for the kid,” Rockson snarled. In one long bound, he leaped upward, catching hold of the
COLD STORAGE
sign, then climbed from window to window, reaching the roof of the warehouse. He stopped long enough to watch a gang of howling, flashing squad cars race onto the street from both directions.

Darting across the roof, he took a fire escape down to an alleyway behind the building. And walked on, unhurried, like nothing had ever happened. He turned a corner, nearly bumping into a figure. He grabbed the man. His pathetic yell was stifled by Rock’s hand over his mouth. Rockson stared into the man’s eyes. Middle-aged, dressed in topcoat, alcohol on his breath. “If I let go of your mouth, don’t scream.”

The man nodded.

Rockson let up on his grip. The man trembled. “Please—take my money—my wallet.”

“I don’t want your money,” the Doomsday Warrior snarled. “I want answers.”

“Answers?”

“Yeah. Who runs this town? What is this place?”

“What?” the man’s eyes widened.

“You heard me!” Rock grabbed him by the collar, lifted him off the ground. “Who runs this crummy town?”

The man was pale as a sheet. “Chessman! Chessman runs this town, everyone knows that!”

“Where is he? Where do I find this Chessman?”

“In—in the Tabernacle. Oh my god, you’re crazy! A psycho! You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?” A foam of fear drooled from his lips. Suddenly he gasped, clutched his chest, slumped.

Rockson dropped the man, “No,” he said as he walked away in the downpour, “
I’m
not killing you. Fear did it.”

He knew
who
he was, and now the Doomsday Warrior knew
where
he had to go for the answers—to the Tabernacle. He’d find this Chessman and wring the truth from him about this hideous, sick game he was playing!

Eight

R
ockson, with gathering determination, walked on. He came to a better part of town. The digital clock on a billboard flashed
4
A.M.
Temp 39 degrees.
Cold. In the murky mist ahead at the end of the park was the tall gothic Tabernacle—the Tabernacle that he knew from his history lessons had been destroyed—along with Salt Lake City and most other cities in America—on September 11th, 1989. The Reds had dropped hundreds of ICBMs on an unsuspecting America on that date.

A newspaper lay on one of the benches of a small park Rockson passed. He picked it up. September 8, 1989. Headline:
PEACE TALKS HIT A SNAG.

Yeah, they sure did, he thought. A
real
snag. But if this was the past, there was something wrong about it. The police were wrong, for one thing. He knew from his history books that the city was wrong too. This place was some sort of
alternate
past. An alternate past that the time-tornado had taken him to. But assuming the war happened here too, it was just three days to Armageddon. Would it happen? Or could the past change?

It was all useless speculation at this point. There was no way to check his guesswork, no brilliant Dr. Schecter to sit down and have a cup of coffee with and ruminate about space-time. No Glowers, those ancient, all-wise beings of the radioactive western deserts of his own space-time, to consult. No, he was here in Salt Lake City in 1989, and he had to make his move.

“Hey, you there . . . Stop!”

Oh, not again, thought Rockson.

As the rookie swung his nightstick, Rockson grabbed the man’s wrist.
This
rookie had a knife in his belt too. He reached for the knife with his left hand. But the huge bowie-like blade of the rookie was slowly turned by the superior power of the Doomsday Warrior. It plunged deep into his red-shirted gut. The rookie slid down to the wet ground.

Rockson wiped the knife on the rookie’s sleeve and slipped it into his waistband. He knew he should get away from here. Two bodies—a block apart!

A flashing blue neon light beckoned to him.
BAR
. . .
BAR
. . .
BAR
, it offered. He started moving. He turned toward the sign, away from the more-brightly-lit street. He could hear the music, soft but insistent, coming from a lightpole here. There were speakers on
all
the lightpoles. Darkness seemed to mean no speakers, no music. The speakers were connected to the lights.

The music.
He snapped his fingers—
that’s it!
He remembered who he was when he first came into the city. But after exposure to the music—particularly in the Loud Room at the police station—those terrible headaches began. Then, when Kim came to get him, he was somehow convinced that he belonged to this horrible city. But he
didn’t.
The music had brainwashed him into forgetfulness, complacency.

But he’d be complacent no more. The nuke war
would
come in just days, and now he had to act! He’d try to escape with as many of the poor inhabitants of this dizzy burg as possible before the bombs fell. But none of the brainwashed citizens would believe or follow him. Kim and the kids wouldn’t even understand—unless he could shut off the power of the Chessman: the hypno-music that was broadcast twenty-four hours a day. The music that couldn’t be stopped.

That must be his first objective! Destroy the radio-broadcast center—wherever it was. He’d find it—and Chessman—for he was the Doomsday Warrior, the Ultimate American!

He approached the tavern, pushed the swinging door to the bar open.

He walked to the counter. A waiter wiping a glass asked, “What’ll you have, mac?”

Rockson thought for a second. If this is really 1989, there’s supposed to be a terrific drink . . . He remembered the name.

“Jack Daniel’s, neat,” he said.

The bartender chuckled. “Don’t make me laugh, citizen. You know we don’t carry the good stuff—but you want whiskey, we got.”

He poured out a shot glass for Rockson. He drank it. It was like fire in his throat. He motioned for a glass of water. The bartender chuckled again and slid one down the counter. Another customer—the only one—a dark, swarthy man, hunched over in an overcoat, collar up and hat down, sat at the other end of the bar.

He looked over at Rockson. He smiled. He stood from his stool, sauntered over, “Buddy, can I buy you a drink?”

Rockson, realizing he had no money, nodded. The man sat beside him. “Out late, huh?”

Rockson’s eyes narrowed. “What’s it to you?”

“No offense. I’m out late too. The missus.”

Rockson relaxed, took the refilled glass. “Down the hatch.” The second shot burned less.

The man smiled, “I thought so! Your missus threw you out, too, right?” The bartender moved away, bored.

“Something like that,” Rock said tersely.

The man offered his hand. “My name is Lang. I’m a fitter. What’s your name and occupation, citizen?”

“Rockman, C.P.A.” Rock said, duplicating the way the man identified himself, so as not to seem a stranger hereabouts.

“C.P.A., huh?” He smiled, “Here’s to accounts.”

“Yeah,” said Rock. “To settling accounts.”

The music drifting over the speakers in the street started to annoy him now—he wanted to drown it out. He looked around the barroom, and his eyes alighted on something ancient and wonderful. “Hey, a
jukebox—
got some good songs in there, bartender?”

“Plug’s out,” said the bartender. “Has been since the coup d’ état.”

“What coup d’ état?”

“Boy, are you loaded,” said Lang. “Why, the one that put the honorable Chessman in over ten years ago. Everyone knows the story. Every citizen had to take a course in the glory of the coup.”

“Well,
tell
the story, citizen,” Rock sneered. “I need a recap, or I might get a little crazy, you know?” He narrowed his eyes and tried to look crazy, which wasn’t hard after all he’d been through. “I’m listening.”

“Okay,
okay,”
said the customer, “No—no need to get hostile, citizen. It goes like this. Once upon a time the city was a mess and there was this here chessmasters’ convention here, see, a great gathering. There were Russians and all sorts of people competing, but the chessman was the best—he won. Anyway, the chess contestants met at night and talked about what a big mess the city was in and vowed to do something about it. There was bad music everywhere and kids running amok, and no honor among husbands and wives, and lots of disorder, and there was no
Twenty Questions
quiz program on TV even—imagine that!”

“Imagine that,” Rock said. “Go on!”

“Well, then, there were only two contestants. Chessman was one.”

“What’s the Chessman’s name?” The bartender came back down the polished mahogany. “Easy, mac. The Chessman is just the Chessman. His opponent, the American, cheated. Chessman shot him down as he deserved. When the cops came to arrest the righteous and innocent Chessman, his folks pulled their Uzis and offed the pigs, you see? Now lower your voice, or leave.”

“In a minute. Tell me the rest, Lang,” Rock demanded.

“Ch-Chessman’s men went to city hall and shot the politicians, and so
that
was the coup d’ état—except they had to shoot a lot of people in the Tabernacle too, to take it over.”

“Didn’t the city call out the U.S. Army or something to stop Chessman?” Rockson tried to look as if he were measuring Lang for a coffin.

“No—n-no! Everyone was sick of the disorder.” He licked dry lips. “The Chessman replaced the cops with the rookies. He lives in the Tabernacle and now his sweet muzik is broadcast from there, and there’s social order and progress for everyman, and nobody has to worry their heads about elections or who’s right or wrong—the chessman tells us. Simple, isn’t it?”

“Very simple.” Rock frowned. A brainwashed city in the control of a dictator that has everyone in his thrall.

“Tell me about the police.”

The bartender squinted. “Tell him, then out he goes!”

“The Chessman is commander in chief of all the red police forces. The old blueshirt police are gone. Chessman replaced the police hierarchy with the consultants. We call them the thought police. They have trank-wands that can tranquilize for one half-hour. The—the consultants started out as chess advisers. Chessman, once he took over, gradually used them to replace the civil servants on the highest level. Particularly the police commissioner and the precinct captains. He rightfully didn’t trust them.

“He replaced the patrol cops with rookies armed with submachine guns. Their cars can’t go down the twisting narrow streets, so the Chessman has the red knights. They’re on horseback and can travel down alleys and walkways. Originally, they were park maintenance workers and they had small weed-burners to kill weeds. Their weed-burners grew to flamethrower size, because the homeless are such a threat nowadays.

“You must have seen the big police trucks. They were originally litter pickers for the Parks Department. Now their small litter collectors are huge twenty-five-ton ‘Brush-eaters,’ sometimes used to clear fallen branches and overgrowth. But because of the emergency, they have special powers. Daring and diligent, they go after the homeless, chew ’em up—mostly late at night. They are the front line against the derelicts.”

Rockson wanted to know more. “How about the music? How come there’s only one kind of music?”

“Only muzik is allowed now. M-U-Z-I-K, not music,” he spelled it out. “It’s nice, not like rock and roll.”

“Time’s up, mac. Get out. Leave my customer alone!” snarled the bartender. Rockson snickered. “Not likely, mac. I want the jukebox plugged in.”

The bartender started objecting, but then Rockson pulled out the knife. “I
said,
I want to play the juke.” In a flash, the cowed bartender handed Rockson four quarters. “Here, it won’t play anything without money. Plug’s on the right.”

After telling the men to keep their hands visible, Rockson went over, plugged the machine in, checked out the selections.

Barry Manilow? He’d never heard of that one. Let’s see, from the archival tapes of Century City he remembered the names of some of the
greats.
Maybe there would be one here—an old song he could trust to not be programming his mind. Jefferson Starship? No, that didn’t ring a bell. Oh, here’s one: “Johnny B. Good”, by Chuck Berry. He put the quarters in the slot and the dusty needle dropped onto B3.

The sound was loud and clean and refreshing.
“Way back up in the woods way down near New Orleans . . .”

Rockson’s shoulders relaxed visibly. He realized they had been hunched in an almost-cringing response to the muzik pouring out of the lightpoles and ceiling speakers for the past few days.

He hit four more selections he remembered from the Century City archives: “Eight Miles High,” by the Byrds, “Satisfaction,” by the Rolling Stones, and a song each by Hank Williams and Loretta Lynn. The Stones came on first, hot and loud. What a relief! The two cowards still had their hands on the bar as he had ordered. They had beads of sweat crawling down their foreheads. They eyed Rockson nervously. “Another whiskey,” Rock said. He noticed that when the bartender went to pour, he picked up a different bottle. Rock smiled.