Doomsday Warrior 14 - American Death Orbit (7 page)

“And Andrews?” another voice cried out. “He’s my buddy.” Again they looked around and saw no trace of the missing combat soldier. Rock had worked with Andrews before. The man had been brave, had taken all the shit that nature and their enemies could dish out—and didn’t complain once. The kind of fighting man that Rockson swore would someday liberate America. But not this man, buried outside, perhaps just inches away under tons of crushing white.

“What the hell are we going to do?” Detroit asked, as the lanterns shone on his wet black face. “You’re the idea man, Rock, we know you’ll think of something.” He grinned through the wet grayness as the beams of the bikes kept slicing patterns through the air as the men turned them this way and that looking for a tunnel out.

“There only one thing to do,” Rock said, getting up and walking toward one of the supply vehicles in the glaring headlights’ beam. “Get out some shovels and dig our asses off!”

The mass of the avalanche had fallen mostly to the left side of the overhang, so Rock led them to the right side, moving the ’brids back who were now too engrossed in their food bags to even mind being pushed around.

The Freefighters started working like miners chopping into the hard surface. It was rough going, every inch of it like compressed ice. Snow is soft. But snow under so many tons of pressure, all rolled over and over like a piece of dough until it’s hard as rock candy, was like concrete. The men smashed their shovel tips into the ice, cursing as they saw what slow going it was going to be.

In an hour they had only gotten about a yard and a half when suddenly Chen, working all the way around, nearest to the end of the overhang, shouted out.

“Getting through over here I think,” he said, gulping, hoping he wasn’t wrong and wasn’t going to look like an idiot. He slammed forward with his shovel and a few of the others including Rockson drifted over to see what was up. The Chinese martial arts expert had indeed reached softer snow. He probed in and the shovel sank in up to his hand.

“Probably a hell of a lot of stuff up there—but it does seem softer on this side,” Chen went on as he pulled the shovel back out and thrust it into another spot which gave as well.

“All right, man,” Rock said, slapping him on the shoulder. “You did good.”

Bernstein, the explosives expert, came up with his shovel. “Well, I’m about to do even better,” the balding round-faced Bernstein grinned. He looked a little paunchy, but Rock had worked with him as well in the past and knew the dude was tough as nails and knew his stuff. “Rest your bones, Chen,” Bernstein said, “Because if it’s basically soft up there, I can throw a few charges in—real light stuff of course,” he added with a quick look around as he saw a few faces pale, “I think I can blow us an emergency exit right the hell out of here. And do it fast. That’s what focused explosions are all about—saving you time in doing shit work. What do you say?”

Rock looked around and saw fear in a lot of eyes. But there was going to be fear in them the whole trip. Chen nodded his approval of the plan.

“Do it Bernstein. We gotta move,” Rock said firmly. “We’ll get everyone and everything to the other end and then build a break of snow and ice.”

“I don’t think you’re going to need it,” Bernstein said. “The way I can place the charges—I can aim its explosive force.” He shrugged. “But if it makes everyone feel better—go ahead. I only need a minute or two to get the charges in place.” He headed over toward his two ’brids tied behind his riding mount and undid a black satchel, one of many, tied across one of the steed’s backs. The heavy-set Bernstein took out what looked like amazingly small packets, two of them, hardly bigger than a pack of matches, and poked them in as deep as they’d go at the end of the shovel into the snow about six feet apart.

He was ready to blow the charge right then and there, but it took another twenty minutes or so before they got everything pulled back and had created enough of a shield between them and the far ice wall with a few vehicles placed in between for Rock to give the go ahead.

Bernstein joined them past the barricade, ducked down, and turned the lever on his radio transmitter. There was a muffled roar like a bomb going off beneath a huge blanket and then they were all covered with a quick gust of flakes and cool air.

It took a few seconds for it to clear, but even as they rose up, they could see light coming in dimly from the far side. Cheers rang out. Just the sight of the light, even if they still had to dig their butts off, was enough to cheer every man’s heart.

Bernstein and Rock quickly rushed over and looked up. The explosion had blown right through the fifteen feet of snow that had been lying there. A roughly rectangular-shaped opening a good six by eight feet had been created, but at a steep upward angle.

Rock had them unload one of the plasti-link tread carpets they’d brought along—a thin blanket about four feet wide and less than a quarter-inch thick that could unroll up to fifty feet. Another one of Schecter’s recent innovations—designed for use with the all-terrains. It created a sort of instant gripping surface with its many grooves and treads, over which one could drive.

Rock carried the roll, dragging himself up through the opening with hand and footholds on the sides of the pathway. Reaching the surface, he looked around at the devastation. The avalanche had covered the entire mountain valley all around them. They were lucky, incredibly lucky to be alive. Everything else was just white—not a living thing could be seen. The avalanche had continued on down the slope for another eight hundred feet where it had deposited itself, dashing its ice crystal brains out, filling the rocky valley below.

Rock set the top of the instant-tread with pegs in the ice and then threw the other end back down into the opening. It unraveled as it fell and he heard voices at the bottom yelling to catch it.

Then it was being pulled tight and pegged into place below. Within seconds, a hybrid was scampering up the sheer side of the explosion-created ten-foot-long tunnel. Its wide hooves stumbled along the rough plastic surface as it rushed frantically up the thing. And it worked. Though it took four leg moves for every one that really caught, the animal was so thrilled about getting out of the frozen hellhole that it just kept coming up with a tremendous output of sheer energy.

Rockson had to jump back as the big hairy-maned face came erupting out of the ice hole like a proverbial bat out of hell. Atop him was Chen, one of the best of the ’brid riders. The guy could go bareback when he had to, or ride standing up.

Chen reined the ’brid in as it started tearing ass along the snow-covered slope. He pulled it to a quick stop and turned it sharply, jumping down beside Rockson.

Detroit was next atop his mount. Then the rest. All things considered, it wasn’t all that bad. And within an hour they had everyone and everything topside, except for another busted vehicle, which couldn’t get up enough engine juice to make it up the steep grade. Which meant more abandoned “non-essential” equipment.

They made their way across the newly created undulating surface, using the tread blanket over and over, throwing it out, going across it and then using another one to do it again as they rolled up the first. Rock didn’t want to take any chances slipping, perhaps breaking right through the newly deposited crust of snow. You could fall down twenty, thirty feet into snow hollows left by avalanche residue. He’d seen men do it—and never be seen again. So it took nearly another hour just to go the six hundred feet or so until they were completely free of the avalanche zone and onto rocky, snowless ground.

As soon as they were definitely clear of any more avalanche danger—at least for the moment—Rock stopped them, and had the Freefighters turn back to the mountain that had claimed their comrades’ lives. He led them all in a moment of prayer. He never knew what to say on these occasions, even though he’d had to do it too many times before.

“God, here comes two more,” he intoned without being able to hide some bitterness in his voice. “Treat ’em good. Give ’em some warm blankets cause they died cold.”

Come spring, the snows would melt and the bodies of Harper and Andrews would be exposed along with all the other wildlife destroyed by the snow jaws. They would have been preserved through the harsh winter by the snows, like meat in the deep freeze. And when the warmth came, so would the vultures, the foxes, the weasels, they would all come out and feast. A good meal for a hungry group of hibernators. All was taken, nothing was wasted. World without end.

Ten

N
ot only had they lost men and ’brids—but much of their food supplies as well in the avalanche. It was as if nature, the gods, whoever—was playing games with them, starting to put the pressure on. McCaughlin had had three pack ’brids, aside from his own which he rode, so that the poor beast’s back always seemed on the edge of cracking beneath his three hundred plus pounds. The two dead ’brids had been his. And those two had carried virtually all of the strike force’s fresh foods, juices, dried meats . . . So they were on their own for eats already. Well, Rock had been down this road before.

He kept a sharp eye out for any game, but by the time the sky was starting to darken up overhead, night rolling down the cloudy hills of sky in its own avalanche of shadows, Rock had only bagged two rabbits with his shotpistol. Chen had gotten an oddly colored pheasantlike creature about as big as a pigeon. Those weren’t going to be more than a single bite of appetizer. And Rockson knew that you could drive men, deprive them from sleep, subject them to countless dangers. But when a man hasn’t
eaten,
that’s when trouble starts.

He had just about decided they should stop for the night atop a low mountain’s flat summit. He went to the far end to see what lay ahead and below—when Rock’s eyes opened up like a man seeing paradise. For down in the valley below, a thousand feet off, was a long one-story shack with a neon sign above it that read “U-ETE HERE.”

The sign was flickering wildly, and from the rippled tin sides of the place and the windows that surrounded it, Rockson knew it was the real thing—a
diner
from the old days, the
very
old days. For nothing like this was even being built since. Just what the hell this restaurant was doing out here, basically in the middle of nowhere, he couldn’t figure. It made him suspicious. But America was a big—and weird—place.

Although the men’s tongues started hanging out of their mouths when they saw the lit-up diner below, Rockson wouldn’t allow them to go down until he had investigated it first. These seemingly inviting,
tantalizing
places could be death traps. What better way to lure unsuspecting people in to rob, kill, mutilate . . . It had been done before. And doubtless would be again.

He took Chen, as the guy could move faster than light in close hand-fighting. Inside a tight space like the diner they would need speed if things got hairy. The two men took ’brids and stacked themselves up with their respective weapons—shotpistol and .9mm autofire minipistol, which was a new innovation of the Liberator factory for Rock.

Chen took only his exploding star-knives, darts, ropes—and countless other ninja junk hidden away so that not a trace could be seen beneath his black silk suit which covered him from neck to ankle. Chen was the only one of the team who didn’t wear the standard C.C. combat outfit.

The two men rode hard down the slope, skidding to a stop at a hitching post in front of the place.

Other hoof tracks and even tire tracks here and there indicated there was a fair amount of traffic. But none, as far as Rockson could see peering through the windows, right now. But what he did see as he opened the door with Chen right behind him, made Rock’s eyes stretch even wider.
Women,
and good-looking ones, too.

There were at least a half-dozen slinky beauties around, and he sensed more moving inside the kitchen through some swinging doors behind the counter. They were wearing nearly skin-tight black and white bunny-type outfits, with cute little cotton tails, and penguinlike vests and skirts that came up to mid thigh. They all smiled profusely at the two men.

“Welcome to the U-ETE-HERE,” one of them, a blonde with flowing tresses that cascaded down her shoulders and back, said.

When she walked forward, Rockson felt a moment of sharp tension. He wasn’t sure why and made himself relax as he saw no weapons anywhere, no fast movements.

With Chen covering his back, he allowed himself to cool out some—but not a hell of a lot. Any
new
situation in American, 2096
A.D.
was suspect, something that had to be approached with utmost caution. Teeth lurked inside flowers, butterflies could spit poisons. Death was everywhere, disguised as life.

“What the hell is this place?” Rock asked, smiling back. He could see prepared food behind the glass display counter that ran along the top of the formica counter. Red seats, a row of nearly forty of them sat lined up like a mini-army in front of the counter. A chalkboard menu hung up on the wall with things crossed out and others written in in chalk, it sure as hell looked like the real thing from the history tapes. And the odors of food wafting in from the kitchen made his stomach start loudly demanding that it be fed something, anything.

“We’re the local diner,” the woman said. “Been running the place since the war. My name’s Deidre. I’m the night manager,” she said sweetly, reaching up to help him off with his flak jacket.

“I’ll keep it on, if it’s all the same to you,” Rock said, stepping back an inch or two. The smiles, the instant acceptance of the two men, made Rock uneasy. What if he and Chen were thieves, cannibals? There sure as hell were enough of them roaming around these western hills. How could the women trust everyone? Where were their weapons?

“We’re open twenty-four hours a day,” Deidre went on, as the other comely women went back to work straightening out napkins and silverware on the table, checking to see that ketchup bottles, mustard containers, were all filled and ready for squirting. “We use only homegrown or mountain bagged game. Nothing radioactive—everything is put through a geiger counter—twice.”