Doomsday Warrior 10 - American Nightmare (14 page)

The Chessman had these squares especially wired for camera surveillance. Every time you set foot in a square you were on camera. Only by moving through the side streets around the square could you avoid being tracked by computer. But he was in disguise, after all. And impatient. Rockson, despite Barrelman’s warnings, plunged into the King’s Three Square.

High above him, on the light stancions, tiny cameras began to turn, locking onto the man moving at too fast a clip.

King’s Three Square was, indeed, more evenly sprinkled with both sexes. Looking at the flowers was practically a patriotic duty. The red roses were well-tended, aromatic. He soon realized he was walking a lot faster than anyone else. He slowed down. The camera watching him was not fooled, however. It kept him in its sight. Rockson, trying to blend in, paused at a bridal shop along with a group of citizens. The animated window dummies, a lifelike man and woman wearing Victorian dress, were depicted having a nice evening at home. The man-dummy was smoking his pipe; the dog, complete with mechanical wagging tail, was eating his Ruffy dog food. The woman was baking bread, opening and shutting the old oven. The speaker in the window said, “
Domestic life can be blissful! Listen to the Chessman, find a suitable mate, and get married today! Otherwise, you might end up as a street person and get eaten by the brush-eaters
.” A rookie car cruised past. As soon as the rookie car turned the corner, Rockson took off again toward the Tabernacle.

He had just entered King’s Two Square when he noticed everyone had suddenly stopped walking. They were standing there looking up at the speakers mounted over the elaborate rosebeds. Rock, who had used all his mental powers to ignore the hypnotic music, now let himself hear. Something was up.

“We interrupt this program of exciting elevator muzik to warn all citizens that the psycho-stalker is at large again. All Squad Nine red knights go to King’s Two Square to apprehend suspect. Warning! He could be armed. Shoot to kill. Repeat, shoot to kill!”

Rockson realized he’d be spotted. People looked around fearfully; he saw the startled looks of those that set eyes on him as his description was broadcast.

“The psycho could be dressed as you are, but he has distinctive features—a white streak through his black hair; and mismatched blue eyes, one light, one dark. His build is very good, he is very tanned and is tall, over six feet two inches. Do not attempt to apprehend. When the red knights appear, point at the psycho.”

Rock turned and began running back the way he came, but from around a corner came a galloping squad of red knights. “
Halt in the name of the law,”
one shouted. Their weed-burners came up, leveled at Rockson. He wasn’t going to halt, and he wasn’t going to be a target of those mini-flamethrowers either!

He threw the jacket aside, uncovering his compound gun. He began blasting it across the squad of horsemen, barreling at him like the Apocalypse itself. The faceshields shattered, the riders fell from their saddles. The horses ran riderless and smashed into the “Victorian family” window. And then their weed-burner tanks, which had been hit by Rock’s bullets and had started leaking, ignited. Some fool knight had tried to fire his leaky flame-weapon. The spark set off an explosion. Flaming knights came screaming every which way. Rock cut them down mercifully with a short burst of bullets, then he ran past the conflagration and around a corner—only to be confronted by shouting voices and pointing fingers: “There he is, in the shirt with no jacket! He’s got a gun!” People pointed out a window—a young couple and a kid screamed, “There he is, get him, get the homeless bastard.”

Rock didn’t waste any ammo on them, for he saw who they were shouting to—a block further down the narrow street, heading toward him on motorcycles, were a half dozen rookies. And between him and these agents of death was a woman pushing a baby carriage. She had just left the curb, and was frozen in fear.

“Get the hell out of the line of fire, lady,” Rock yelled, but before she could, the rookies on the cycles opened up with their bike-mounted cannons. The shells riddled the lady and the baby carriage. Pieces of flesh and blood and bone blew up into the air. A series of holes opened up in the wall behind and above Rockson. He rolled and dove and rolled again until he was sheltered by a parked Buick. The big blue car’s back door took a hit, absorbed it. Rock jumped up and let loose a volley, now that he had no more worries about innocent bystanders.

The riders were jerked like rag dolls off their seats in a spatter of seared flesh. The bikes spun away, one skidding right by Rock’s booted foot. “He killed the cops,” a hysterical voice yelled from above. “Get him, get the homeless bastard.”

In seconds, the streets were lousy with red knights and rookies as distress signals went out all over the city.

“Clear the streets . . . Citizens, clear the streets . . . Your lives are in danger,”
the public-address system ordered as panic gripped the King’s Two Square area. Throngs of people scurried for cover while a horde of police closed in on the sector.

Rock unloaded round after round into the waves of advancing knights. The pile of horseflesh and moaning humans grew in front of him. Finally, the barrel of his compound gun grew so hot that it glowed red, and it seized up on him. As the attackers clambered over the pile of dead and dying on each end of the street, Rockson pulled open the front door of the big Buick. No key. With the butt end of his gun, he smashed the ignition apart, reached in and pulled out the wires, stripped them with his knife, and made the right connections.

The Buick was in motion, though half its rear was gone. It was a dinosaur of a car, a relic from the heydays of the 1980s when gas was cheap and the living was easy. Familiarizing himself with the gears, Rock lurched the car forward, the wheels of the powerful, heavy vehicle chewing up the pavement. Another dozen riders with weed-burners galloped toward him. Rock hit the floorboard with the accelerator: he’d have to go right past his “friends.” The wheels spun and screeched. A bath of flames drenched the old battle wagon but it was too late to stop her. Rock had broken out again, leaving practically every cop in town behind in a mass of confusion, pain, and death.

Rockson felt the big Buick accelerate smoothly through the empty streets, taking corners at 60 mph, careening through newstands, erasing fire hydrants, and hurling rows of garbage cans at buildings. Red knights and rooks passed by heading in the opposite direction, the car—which had lost its muffler—zipping past before they could react.

Rockson threw his head back and roared in a wild laugh, catching sight of his frenzied countenance in the rear-view mirror. He screeched the car to a stop and hunched over the steering wheel in exhaustion, breathing deeply. Then he looked at himself in the mirror again.

“What in God’s name is this place! I sure as hell hope it’s a dream, because I would like to wake up . . .”

He knew he couldn’t stay in the car. They had certainly been tracking him through the city’s sophisticated monitor system, and he wouldn’t get far without a fight. He had to lay low and think up a better plan.

He’d fired too eagerly—he needed ammo. And a little to drink wouldn’t hurt either. He turned a corner, screeched to a halt.

“Thanks for the ride, old buddy,” he said to the Buick as he kicked the door shut. “I’ll say one thing—they sure don’t make ’em like you anymore. I’ll bet I could take out the whole Russian army with fifty battle wagons like you.”

Casting a catlike glance over his shoulder, Rock grabbed his submachine gun and sprang into an alleyway, disappearing from the Chessman’s monitors.

While the red knights and the rooks disentangled themselves from the debacle at King’s Two Square, Rockson scavenged through the basements of a row of closed shops, preparing himself for the battles to come. From a bookstore, he took a pocket guide to the city, taking a few moments to orient himself and plan possible avenues of escape.

The basements were connected by a series of heavy iron doors secured with padlocks. Rock thought it strange that the entire neighborhood was deserted as he passed from cellar to cellar, blasting the locks apart with single shots from his weapon. He moved from the bookstore to a delicatessen, grabbing a nice salami—preserved food—drank a beer, then hit a hardware store where he picked up a set of bolt-cutters.

Unfortunately he found no gun shop to replenish his dwindling supply of submachine-gun ammo. He took stock and found he had about four hundred rounds left. A sporting goods store did provide him with some extra firepower, however. There were no sophisticated weapons, but he grabbed a shotgun, stuffing a handful of cartridges into his pocket, and selected a handsome bowie knife which he sheathed in his belt.

Back at Kings Two Square, the Chief of Rooks and the Master of the Horse arrived to take charge of the failing pursuit. The men were ordered to fall in on the grounds of the public square where their officers calmed them and formed them into squads.

“Men, we have this fugitive isolated and we’re not going to let him slip out of our grip again,” announced the Master of the Horse, field commander of the red knights. “He’s killed enough of us and single-handedly paralyzed the entire city. It’s a question of pride now. We’re gonna have to dig a lot of graves for our fellow officers he’s killed. Do you intend to let him get away with it?” The master’s blubbery face shook in anger.

The entire square erupted in a tumultuous roar. “No” they screamed, some three hundred men raising their voices at once. A huge truck pulled up. Men started unloading weaponry.

“All right,” interjected the Chief of Rooks, field general of that corps. “Now listen up. Here’s how we’ll handle it . . .” Soon each rookie was given a submachine gun and some clips. Then a large chart with a layout of the city was unfolded and taped high on a wall. The chief approached with a pointer and began laying out the plan of attack.

“We’ve traced him to this point,” he said, indicating the spot where Rockson had abandoned the Buick. “Now he’s on foot and he hasn’t shown up on any monitors since. So he can’t be far. Here’s the plan. The rooks will put a perimeter force here, along here, here, and here . . .” he said, encircling a thirty-block area with the pointer. “It will be our job to make sure the maniac doesn’t escape. It’s an old area. We’re prepared to sacrifice this entire section of the city if need be, but under no circumstances can we let that man escape from this sector. The rooks will form into three columns and follow these avenues to their positions. All right, all rooks see your sergeants immediately to find out exactly where your station is. Move out
Now!”

With that, the rooks were quickly dispatched to their stations, in an attempt to encircle the enemy. The hundred knights were given RPG-7 grenade launchers.

When the rooks had departed and the chief taken his position at communications headquarters to monitor his troops and watch for signs of Rockson, the Master of the Horsemen began detailing his order of battle for the red knights.

“All right, men, he’s our baby. I want him alive if at all possible, but that’s
not
necessary. We’ll divide up into squads of sixteen and conduct a house-to-house search of the entire sector. As you approach each house, use your discretion as to how to handle the search. I suggest leaving half the squad to guard the entrances while the other half enters the building and searches, but use your own judgment for each individual building. Remember, this bastard is
dangerous!
If you suspect the fugitive is in a particular building, don’t hesitate to use the RPGs to flush him out. Use the weed-burners on the wooden structures. We’re in no big hurry. The rooks have the streets blocked, so this guy ain’t going anywhere. Sooner or later, he’ll turn up. When conducting your search, keep in voice contact with each other—and, sergeants, keep in contact with the base. All channels have been cleared for this operation. Any questions?”

“Sir?” replied one sergeant in the square, “what about civilians? Has the area been cleared so they won’t get in our way?”

“As much as possible under the circumstances. I’m sure there are stragglers, and evacuation is not total. In any case the prime objective is the capture of the psycho. Don’t let
anything
stand in the way of that. Is that clear? Social order must be maintained.”

“Yes sir,” replied the sergeant with a snappy salute.

“One more thing, men—I said I want this guy alive if possible. As you know, we need more contestants for the
Twenty Questions
quiz program. If he doesn’t give himself up freely upon sight, your orders are to shoot to kill, though. I don’t want him pulling any tricks. One more thing—we might have to smoke this guy out, and there’s not going to be good visibility in that case. Don’t shoot each other. Chessman loves you! Remember your training, and
let’s get him!
A promotion of three full grades awaits every member of the team that captures him, dead or alive. Now let’s
Go!”

A roar erupted from the corps of knights, incensed by the thought of the psycho who had wasted their fellow officers. They held their weapons over their heads and shouted again before mounting their horses and cantering into the battle zone to begin their search.

“We’ll find him, sure,” one knight bantered to a nearby rider, “then we’ll all be promoted.”

“In a pig’s eye,” the other red knight responded. “I myself will get that homeless bastard. I’ve got ten that says I do!”

“You’re on!”

The search began within minutes. The ranks of red knights passed through the outer files of rooks, the men eager to swing into action after weeks of routine patrolling.

It quickly became an ugly affair. Trigger-happy from the start, the squads took their orders to be a passport for looting and wanton destruction. They adopted the technique of simply torching buildings before even searching—looking to burn the fugitive out into the open rather than risk their lives in a close search. Citizens caught in the zone were shown little quarter, the rooks on the perimeter taking potshots at anything not wearing the distinctive uniform of the red knights. Anyone caught unaware within the sector was simply wasted before they could even identify themself. A cloud of smoke began to rise over the troubled quarter as fires spread for house to house and from store to store.