Doomsday Warrior 10 - American Nightmare (19 page)

Rockson ducked down into a crouch. Barrelman began pulling on him as he crept through the bushes, away from Tower Square. “We’ve got to get out of here,” he told Rock. “We’re pushing our luck as it is.”

“Wait a minute,” Rockson said, resisting. “To where?”

The man turned to fix Rockson with an impatient expression. “Look, you’ve got to trust me. I’ll tell you when we’re safe. If you don’t believe me, then go ahead and take your chances with
them.”
He motioned toward the square with its squads of guards and thought police, then jabbed a thumb at himself. “I’ve seen your bravery and come to offer my help.” He turned and began rustling through the bushes, half on his hands and knees, half in a crouch-walk.

Rockson followed. One thing he didn’t have was allies. If this shabbily dressed man was on the level, then Rockson would no longer be alone. He’d take any improvement in the odds that he could get.

The derelict led Rockson through a dark, quiet park, keeping to the shrubbery. Presently they faced a deserted downtown street. Barrelman paused until he was certain there were no policemen around, then did a crablike scuttle to a drainage grate in the street, near the sidewalk.

He lifted the grate and waved at Rockson to come forward. He slid into the manhole and motioned for Rockson to come and do the same.

Rockson slipped down into a chilly, dark, damp tube. It was made of steel, with small ladder rungs welded into its side. He replaced the grate with care, fitting it into its notches in the street, then scrambled down after the derelict.

The tube led to the city sewer system—it was obvious from the rank odor that grew stronger the deeper they went. They descended lower and lower, Barrelman moving swiftly, at home in this environment. Rockson had to work to keep up with him.

A tiny, dim spot of light appeared at their feet and grew larger, but not much brighter. The light opened out into a web of interconnecting tunnels. Rockson and the derelict dropped onto the floor of the largest tunnel with a splash. A few inches of foul-smelling water sat in the bottom of the tube. Rockson stamped his soaked shoes and planted his feet higher in the tube, above the waterline, on a narrow walkway.

The tunnels were lit by bare bulbs connected to strands of wire. The lights didn’t appear to be part of the original design, but crudely added by hand.

“One of our own touches,” Barrelman said proudly, pointing to the lights. “They’re electrical, of course—dangerous with all this water. But what the hell, the view is nice when you fall off the Board of Life—they say.”

Rockson wondered who the collective “our” was. Did the sewer system hold some subterranean population? He didn’t have the chance to ask, for his guide was already moving swiftly ahead of him.

“This way,” said Barrelman, ducking down one of the tunnels to his left. He avoided the trickle of water by straddling it and walking along the curved sides of the tunnel. Rockson followed suit.

Gradually, Rockson began to realize the enormity of the plumbing system they were in. It was a maze of tunnels and tubes, some dry, some partially filled with water; some lit by the bare light bulbs, some dark. Overhead and along the sides of the tunnels ran pipes of varying sizes. The system was filled with rumbling and rushing noises—the sound of water flowing and unseen machinery in motion.

One noise he
didn’t
hear was the hypno-music.

“Does this stretch under the entire city?” he called out to the derelict. His words reverberated through the tunnel.

Barrelman stopped and turned. “Yes,” he answered in a whisper. “The catacombs cover one hundred and eighty square kilometers. Don’t talk again, until I give the signal that it’s okay—there are too many vibrations from the echoes here that could be heard on the surface.”

Rockson nodded and they set off again. The man led him on a confusing path of connecting tunnels. None were marked; how could he possibly know where he was going? What was worse was how Rockson would ever get out on his own, if the need arose. He could wander forever in the maze of sewers, a trapped rat.

The man dodged suddenly to his right. Rockson followed, and they burst into a cavernous room lit by more strung bulbs. There were people in the room—about a dozen, he guessed—and they all stopped what they were doing and stared at him in silence, eyes wide with uncertainty. There were both men and women in the group, all dressed in the same dirty rags as his guide.

Barrelman slipped behind Rockson and pushed shut a door, the only opening to the cavern. Rockson distinctly did not like being shut in a room with only one way out—even if he was among people who claimed to be friendly.

The man heaved out a great sigh. He stepped forward and indicated Rockson with a grand flourish. “Friends,” he said, “Here is our free-thoughter!”

The uncertain faces broke into tentative smiles; murmurs arose. “You’re accepted,” said Barrelman, “as a recruit.”

Rockson narrowed his eyes at the man. “A recruit for what?”

The man took off his ragged jacket and threw it in a pile of rags. “It will all be explained. We can talk freely here. As you can see,”—he pointed to the walls and ceiling of the room—“we have padded the interior to dampen sound vibration. This was once a storage area. But someone began dumping defective plumbing equipment in here, and the room eventually was abandoned, along with the junk.” He pointed to the dim back of the cavern, where Rockson could make out the glint of metal.

“So relax, my friend,” said the man. “You
are
among friends here. None of us are the Chessman’s damned pawns.”

A few of the others shifted position on the floor of the cavern to make room for Rockson to sit down. They had been busy with handiwork, sewing, repairing odd-looking objects, fashioning things. Rockson hesitantly took the proffered seat and lowered himself onto a couple of cushions. Some of the tension flowed out of him.

“As you know, my name is Barrelman,” said the man who had led Rockson to the underground. “It was Roger Barrelman, when I was a citizen. Now it’s just Barrelman. We all have only one name here—it keeps things simple.”

“That’s nice.” Rockson wasn’t sure he wanted to try explaining who
he
really was. Or thought he was. If it came to that, there would be the right time. “Call me Rock.”

Barrelman grinned. “Okay, Rock. I used to be a pawn, just like you. Lost my job as a shopkeeper when the shut-down came.”

“Maybe you’d better start at the beginning,” said Rockson, not wanting to get into a discussion about the dreadfully boring work of accountants. “I have a feeling there’s a hell of an explanation coming.”

“Indeed,” said Barrelman. “Would you like some cold cuts and a drink while I talk? You must be famished.”

Rockson smiled. “As long as it’s not drugged.”

“No, of course not. Only the fresh food is—preservatives destroy the Chessman’s control drug.”

Barrelman dug around in a little picnic chest and found a sandwich wrapped in a plastic bag, handed it to Rockson. “Okay?”

“
Anything
, man, anything. I’m starved.” Rockson let go of the KA-control of his hunger and devoured the sandwich.

“But how do you get it?” he asked when he finished.

“From the garbage behind the condos—the big trash bins. They waste a lot of stuff. They like asparagus sprouts and chickpeas, and that sort of thing. Most of the sandwiches only have a bite or two out of them.”

Rockson hesitated, then asked for another sandwich. What the hell—he was wearing cast-offs, he might as well eat “previously eaten” food.

Barrelman even found some flat soda pop for him. Lemon-lime.

Barrelman sat down on a dirty, lumpy pillow opposite Rockson. By now, others in the cavern had returned to their individual tasks. “I’ll begin at the beginning, as you suggested. We are the Resistance Underground Network—we call ourselves Runners. It’s an especially appropriate name, since we’re always running from the Chessman’s militia. Didn’t mention it before, because I didn’t quite trust you.

“We got our start when our Founder discovered that after skipping several meals due to illness, he had broken the spell of the drugs. He also found that without the drugged food, it was possible to resist the hypno-music.”

A woman called Rosa set down two large tumblers of a clear golden liquid in front of Barrelman and Rockson.

“Apple juice,” said Barrelman. “We stole it from the deli near Temple Square. We let it sit long enough for the drug to diminish.” He took a big gulp. “Try some.”

Rockson did. Somehow his instincts told him Barrelman could be trusted. He spoke the truth. The apple juice tasted exquisite. It whetted his appetite, making his stomach clamor for solid food. He drank the entire glass, and as soon as he put the empty tumbler down, Rosa refilled it.

“More food is coming,” she said.

Barrelman continued. “He had a strong mind, the Founder. He liked having free thoughts and didn’t want to resume a controlled life.”

“How did he avoid the thought police?” asked Rockson.

“He found, by trial and error, that aberrant but harmless behavior was tolerated. The Chessman seems to realize that a certain percentage of the population will not conform to guidelines. Noncomformists who threaten his control are dealt with swiftly. But we, the homeless, ugly wretches who sleep in doorways, we are often left alone, or merely chased. You see, we act as a warning to the other citizens, a warning to Chessman’s controlled pawns. They are afraid they will become like us if they don’t conform, follow orders.”

“I see.”

Barrelman finished his apple juice. “The Founder had a keen eye for spotting others who were on the edge, so to speak. He recruited us over a period of time. There are several hundred of us, scattered throughout the sewers. The rookies call us “the duct people,” think we never come up.”

“You speak of the Founder in the past tense. Who was he? What happened to him?”

Barrelman cast his eyes down. “He was an unusual man; his name isn’t important. He was picked up and devoured by a brush-eater while sleeping on a grate. It was no accident. The authorities had spotted him as a ringleader. Alas, we have only hope to maintain us, now that he is gone. Though he did predict—”

Rosa returned, holding a hubcap of an automobile. The concave side was piled with scraps of food. She handed it to Rockson saying, “It’s a bit stale.”

“Don’t apologize,” Rock said, eagerly taking the plate. “You don’t know how grateful I am.” He dug into the food with his fingers and began stuffing it in his mouth. He tried now to temper his ravenous appetite. He didn’t want cramps.

“Anyway,” said Barrelman, “I’m in charge of the Runners now. We live down here in the sewer, but each of us takes turns rotating to the surface.”

“How did you find me?”

“Easy. Echoes from the surface. You walk like a cat. Unusual. By the way, all arrests and punishments are publicized—it’s a way of maintaining control. Because of your previous record as a fine citizen, you were given rehabilitation instead of annihilation. I had hoped they wouldn’t kill you. I knew you had the potential to be one of us. We help you—you help us.”

Rockson swallowed. “We have to get out of this city. You don’t understand the situation.” He debated telling them the truth: that the city was—the world—was on the brink of the nuclear world war. Then he decided not to. Not yet. They might not believe him.

Rockson instead took the psychological approach. “Barrelman, don’t you want to be free? Don’t you want to roam the country—get out of the city, smell fresh air, seek new opportunity? Chessman does not control the whole world, you know.”

“To be free, to be away from the city, is a dream. We roam freely underground,
that
is freedom. We have the entire duct system memorized.”

Rock set down the food. He had vacuumed up everything. “Barrelman, you don’t have to live like this. I told you before—you don’t have to live like
rats.
Storm the condos above, take what’s yours! You know there’s no hope, no future, as long as the Chessman is alive. But if he dies . . .”

Barrelman shook his head violently. “You don’t know what you’re saying. Killing the Chessman is impossible. He is in City Hall Tower, and it is impenetrable. To try to breach it is certain death. Look what happened when you tried to penetrate the Tabernacle.”

Rockson fixed Barrelman with an unwavering gaze of his mismatched violet and aquamarine eyes. “You don’t know me,” he said quickly. “I’m going to get the Chessman. Will the Runners help, or will I do it alone?”

Barrelman was lost in thought for a moment. “It’s true that your efforts so far are admirable. Perhaps . . . some of us
might
be willing to follow you in an assault against the Tower.” Heads nodded.

The other Runners in the cavern murmured approval. Rosa said, “Let’s do it. I’m sick of this life.” The leader cast his eyes about the group, looking for negative comments, then returned Rockson’s gaze when none materialized.

“We sense in you a strength and determination that is most uncommon for a Salt Lake City citizen,” Barrelman said. “I know of no possible explanation, except one . . . The Founder predicted the “White King” would come someday and liberate the city. Are you—you
—the One
we have waited for?”

Rockson boldly seized the opportunity. “I am.”

Barrelman bowed his head in a subservient gesture. “Then, we are at your service.” They all bowed low.

“Stand up, please. Do you know how we can get arms?”

“No problem,” the leader said, getting up. “We have weapons.”

“You do?” This was more than Rockson had hoped for.

“I’ll show you.” Barrelman got up and led Rockson to a connecting antechamber. In the glow of the bare bulbs, Barrelman pointed. Rockson was disheartened to see a pile of crudely fashioned weapons. They were suitable for hand-to-hand fighting, but were no match for the sophisticated artillery of the Chessman’s police. Sharpened broomsticks, jagged glass “knives.”

“These aren’t good for much more than fending off angry dogs,” said Rockson with a trace of bitterness in his voice. For a few moments, his glimmer of hope had brightened to a flame, only to be extinguished. What he needed was another super-weapon.