Doomsday Warrior 10 - American Nightmare (16 page)

“Treatment? What treatment?”

“You’ll find out soon enough!” An officer grabbed Rockson’s arms and pulled them behind his back, snapping on handcuffs. Then he shoved Rock toward the huge open door. “Move it!”

Rockson now understood that somehow he was thought of as a petty criminal. That was a break. Unless they found the gun, this might not be so bad. Kim would hear of his detention. And cute little Kim had bailed him out of trouble once before—perhaps she could do it again.

“My wife!” he exclaimed. “You must let me contact my wife. I have a right!”

“You have no rights under the law set forth by the Chessman.”

“But you can vouch for me. I came to hear the bishop’s talk—”

“She can’t help you. Free thought is a serious offense. If the Chessman decides to release you, then you’ll see her again. If He doesn’t, you won’t. You should have thought of that before you broke the law, mister. You’re just lucky you’re not carrying a weapon.”

Rockson was about to protest further, but he was abruptly tranquilized. The consultant had again directed the trank-wand at him. It overpowered his own will and immobilized him. He felt as docile as a kitten.

He gave them a silly grin. “Whatever you say, fellas.”

The watchful men led him out of the Tabernacle to their armored van waiting near Temple Square. They opened the rear door and threw him in. Three rookies followed him in and sat down on the benches on the sides of the van. They kept their weapons ready in case their prisoner, declared a “dangerous free-thoughter” by their superior, should make the slightest move.

Rockson was not about to test their trigger fingers.

He shook his head and tried to sit up on the floor. A wave of hypno-music from inside the van covered him like a cool blanket, lulling him into a lethargic fog. It was the second-strongest music he’d heard since the time-tornado had dropped him in this bizarre place.

I must resist the music, he thought, but the free thought required too much effort. It was much easier to lie down and float into a color-filled, weightless void.

The soft, comforting hypno-music ended like a needle pulled from a record. Rockson was pulled from the van. Light-headed and feeling somewhat goofy, he blinked in the sunlight. To his left and in the distance, puffy little clouds drifted serenely over a heavy fog bank.

Before him rose an ominous, Gothic building made out of huge blocks of granite,
CITY CONSULTANTS REHABILITATION CENTER
was chiseled in the stone above the wide double doors. To the right of the doors was a brass plaque that read,
Dedicated to His Holy Highness, the Chessman.

Rockson was taken through the doors. Inside, the building was dark with long, high-ceilinged halls that made every footstep and rustle echo loudly. The rookies ushered him to an elevator, which descended, Rockson thought, into the very bowels of the earth.

The elevator opened into a narrow hall marked by small, blank doors. The doors had no handles, but were opened by handprint. Ahead of him, Rockson saw a guard place his right hand on a sensor, then wait a few seconds while a computer scanned the print and matched it for authorization. The door opened and the guard stepped through. The door shut immediately behind him.

Rockson and his escorts walked on through the seemingly endless hall. Judging from the size of the facility, the Chessman was doing a lot of rehabilitating. His daze was wearing off—the muzik inside the building was much milder than in the van, and the trank-wand’s effect was wearing off.

At the end of the hall, the guards halted in front of a door built for midgets. An adult would have to stoop to go into and out of the room on the other side. One of the men activated the handprint lock. The door slid open and Rockson was shoved head first into an antiseptic cubicle.

The door shut behind him; he was alone. The room had no windows and a ceiling too high for him to reach. Even if he could have managed a jump—and he decidedly lacked the energy—there was nothing on the ceiling to grab onto, not even a light fixture. The ceiling itself seemed to glow, filling the cell with a harsh light that made Rockson squint. There was loud muzik—from a hidden speaker.

In one corner was a small toilet cemented into the floor. It was real, functioning plumbing, the kind Rockson had only seen in the quarters belonging to the privileged and rich in the condo areas. He realized he might be in this detention cell a long time. He checked everything—even the toilet. There was no lever or handle on it; Rockson guessed it flushed automatically. He tested his theory by pissing into it. The toilet flushed as soon as he was done.

There was no bed; he wondered why, and soon found out. As soon as he thought about bed and sleep, one wall started to ripple and open. A cot appeared and unfolded from the wail.

Rockson whistled. Slick. Was this illusion or what?

He felt the cot. It was real—or at least
it felt
real. He sat on it. It held his weight. He got up and dismissed thoughts of sleep. The cot dissolved into the wall.

He whistled again and ran his hands over the wall. There were no seams, no cracks. How in the hell did they do it?

There was only one explanation Rockson could accept—the hypno-music that filled his ears, seeming to come from everywhere. Reality was whatever you believed, and the lulling muzik was creating a new reality for him. It was programming him. He had to stop it!

He put his hands to his ears. He hummed. He talked out loud. Nothing blocked the insidious muzik.

“Hey!” he shouted. “Anybody out there? I know you’re listening!”

There was no response but the flowing, mesmerizing hypno-music. Rockson knew his brain would have the equivalent of a lobotomy if he did not stop the muzik from penetrating his consciousness.

Then he remembered the Glowers—his teachers. Those strangely beautiful beings with their insides on the outside, organs pumping and throbbing away for the eye to see, their minds linked in telepathic thought. The Glowers generally kept to themselves, but had allowed Rockson to join their circle as a “learner,” once, long ago—or rather a long time from now.

The Glowers had taught him many a survival technique for the mutated post-nuclear-war world. Perhaps, he thought, those same techniques would work in
this
world.

Rockson sat down on the cold cement floor and crossed his legs in a lotus position for meditation. It required supreme mental effort, as the hypno-music was steadily eroding his ability to think freely. Part of him wanted badly to surrender to the muzik, to let his mind go blank, to be meek and filled with a stupid happiness.

He knew that, in a way, he would have to let submission happen—or at least make it
appear
to happen. Any strong or continued free thinking would prevent his release. He would have to fool his captors into thinking he was under the spell of the subliminal messages, while his real self remained free. There was only one way to do this.

He would have to literally divide his mind in two. He had done it once before, but he didn’t know if he could do it again. He’d give it a try. The alternative was death, because Rockson would never allow himself to be complacent Theodore Rockman, living the same controlled life as the other inhabitants of this mad city.

Rockson took a deep breath and focussed on what the Glowers called KA, the inner power that resides within every being, the fount of unlimited psychic energy. He surrounded his inner being with the KA like a plate of iridescent, impervious armor. He projected superficial, conscious thoughts beyond the protection of the KA, out to where the thought police could monitor and the hypno-music could influence.

But his
real
self would be deep, hidden and protected.

Rockson meditated that way for hours, unaware of the passage of time, concentrating until the presence of the KA force would remain in place subconsciously. He hoped.

He came out of his trance ravenous for food. God! When was the last time he had eaten? His hunger threatened to consume him. His rumbling stomach was so empty it practically pressed against his spine.

Rockson had no idea what time it was, whether it was day or night, or how long he had been in the cell. The white glow remained steady from the ceiling. The muzik swirled in lulling waves—but he was immune to the messages within it.

At the conscious thought of food, a slot in the bottom of the cell door opened and a tray slid in. The slot hissed shut.

Rockson couldn’t believe his eyes. The tray was heaped with food, all of which smelled and looked exquisitely delicious. There was a huge slab of animal meat, cooked well-done and glistening with marbled fat, and a tuber that looked just like a potato, only it was brown instead of blue. The tuber was split open and covered with a melted yellow substance.

Some of the items he had never seen before—little, wrinkled green pellets sitting in a pile, and a ball of orange-colored fruit that appeared to have a tough, thick skin.

Rockson salivated. He had never been so hungry in his life. The hypno-music invited him to eat, enjoy himself, taste the delicious food. Impulsively he reached out to grab the meat.

Stop!
The KA Force commanded within him.
You cannot touch the food! You cannot eat!

Rockson stopped his hand in midair, then slowly withdrew it from the tray. With overwhelming sadness, he knew he could not eat the food, for it was tainted with tranquilizers and mind-altering drugs—just like most other food he had discovered in the city. Didn’t he remember?

Rockson ached. He was nearly faint from hunger, yet he could not touch a single green pellet, or even lick the fat from the meat.

“Damn!” he exclaimed.

The hypno-music changed. Instead of inviting him to eat, the subliminal messages
commanded
him to eat. The desire for the drugged food was stronger, more irresistible than ever.

Rockson countered by retreating to meditation. He was supposed to be docile, and a docile man would eat. He called forth an image in his mind of himself eating the food on the tray. He imagined himself wolfing down the meat, devouring every last morsel, licking the plate and then his fingers.

While he thought about it, he took the plate and shoved its contents into the toilet. The toilet flushed erratically struggling with the meat, but some sort of suction device eventually pulled it in.

Rockson mournfully watched it disappear. He felt that throwing out the food was one of the hardest things he had ever done in his life. But he knew he couldn’t dwell on it, or his hunger would weaken him in more ways than one.

He visualized himself as sated and full: happy Rockson, patting his belly, letting out with a resonant belch. He hoped he was right about there not being any cameras in the cell.

Rockson kept track of time according to the meals he was sent. After the first meal, no more food had appeared at his spontaneous thought. Instead, a tray materialized at regular intervals. Like the first time, he imagined himself eating the food with immense enjoyment, while he shoved it down the plumbing.

He estimated that the equivalent of two days had passed, during which he had neither seen another human being nor heard a human voice.

On the second day, while Rockson was lying on his cot trying not to think of food, the door to his cell opened and a tall, robed man entered. He introduced himself: “I’m Bishop Pohsib. How are you, my son?” he said, smiling down at Rockson. “I heard you are a fan of mine, sneaked into mass to see me.”

Rockson restrained himself from jumping up. By now the authorities would expect a dull, submissive man pumped full of drugs and subliminal programming.

He slowly got to his feet. The cot vanished into the wall. “I’m so happy to see you,” Rockson said in a slightly dreamy voice. “I’m comfortable, and the food is delicious.”

The bishop beamed. “Good. I knew you would be well cared for.” His face darkened to a scowl. “The police report on you is not good, Theodore. Dangerous. Free thought. Running from authority. These crimes normally carry heavy punishment.”

Rockson didn’t have to work to look worried. The bishop went on, “But I told the Chessman I thought your illness was temporary, that you would recover quickly with the proper treatment. Your citizen record has been unblemished your whole life.”

“I apologize for my mistakes,” said Rockson humbly. “I was under evil influence.”

“Apparently so. You responded well to treatment.” The robed man smiled again. “Watch me on
TV
from now on, okay?”

Rockson noted that he was armed with a large gun, tucked into a belt in the folds of his robe. It would be so easy to wrest it away from him . . .

It was also a dangerous thought. He summoned up the protective shield of the KA force. If they thought he was “cured,” he could get out handily enough.

“Bishop,” Rockson began in a plaintive tone with his head slightly bowed, “I miss my wife and family, and my job. I even miss my dog. Can I go home now?”

The man looked pleased. “That’s why I’m here, my son. Your family misses you, too. Your wife, Kim, is here, waiting to take you home. The Chessman will allow your release as soon as I report you are cured.”

Rockson fell on his knees and grasped the fleshy hand of the bishop. “I am, Your Holiness, I swear I am! I want nothing more than to be a good citizen!” He stifled the gag of disgust that rose in his throat.

“Splendid. Our society needs productive men like you, Theodore Rockman. I will tell the guards you are ready to rejoin the Chessman’s happy pawns.”

With a beatific smile on his face, Rockson let the bishop escort him out of the cell and into the embrace of clingy little Kim, who warbled and trilled with happiness to be reunited with him. Rockson hoped the hypno-music was loud enough to drown out the rumbling of his empty, hunger-pained stomach.

Outside in the brilliant sunlight, Rockson discovered it was morning rush hour. Kim shoved a briefcase and a garment bag at him.

“Hurry,” she urged him. “You have just enough time to make it to the office. You can change there. And I put eight dollars, and your lunch, and your wallet in your briefcase.”