by Ryder Stacy
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.
“If you’re trying to give me a Mickey Finn,” he said, “Forget it. I’m from the future. I’m the Doomsday Warrior, a mutant Freefighter. I’m immune to most poisons and sedatives.”
The barman said, “Anything you say, mister! Sure, you’re—you’re from the future. I got no problem with that, mac. I believe you.” Now he started shaking, but he put down the bottle and poured from the original one. He seemed really terrified. “Say, look, why don’t you take what’s in the register and leave. Nobody will call the cops, you just—”
“Shut up and pour,” Rockson insisted.
The bartender did, spilling half the drink in the process. While Rockson downed the whiskey, Lang cut for the door. He was out in a flash. Rock heard him yelling, “Help! A madman’s in the bar, help, he’s got a knife!”
Rockson shoved the bartender away and tore out into the street. He could hear the rookies’ whistles now—the sound of sirens too in the distance. The first glow of the red morning sun was creeping up on the tall glass skyscrapers. He’d have to run for it. He needed a weapon—a good one. Damn it. Why hadn’t he taken along that rookie’s pistol?
He ran down one street, then another—what’s that? A giant plastic revolver hanging up over a store. POLICE SUPPLIES, the sign read. Class 5 licenses required for purchases. Another sign stuck in the door said, Closed for the day. No, it wasn’t. He smashed the door open with the heel of his shoe—a dropkick that nearly tore it off its hinges. He was inside in an instant. He closed the door. The steel shutters over the window would hide him from view. With eager eyes, he perused the glass compartments filled with every conceivable twentieth-century weapon. It was dim, but Rockson had good night vision.
Surely there must be something here he could use! Rock was a firm believer in seizing the opportunity, making the best of things at hand. He missed his super-fast and accurate Liberator weapon. But the twentieth century, after all, was the home of some exquisitely deadly arms. He’d find something.
Although Rockson was interested in finding as modern a weapon as possible, his interest in guns made him stop and admire the antique gun display behind the counter. Amazing! All sorts of wild-west stuff—authentic. He found the keys to the case holding the old weapons and opened it. He took out a long-barreled revolver that Wyatt Earp would have been proud to own—a Colt Peacemaker. He knew this to be one of the first—if not the first—handgun to be chambered for the .45 caliber long Colt cartridge. A formidable weapon, date circa 1873. It loaded forty grains of FFg black powder with 255-grain lead bullets. The gleaming seven-and-a-half-inch barrel made it fairly accurate too, from what he remembered reading.
He spun the chamber, it moved smooth; well-oiled. He clicked the trigger. Sounded good, very good. With great reluctance he put the six-shooter down. He needed something like a three-hundred-shooter if he was going to get anywhere in this damned city.
He was hoping that there was something in the shop they kept away from all but the best customers—somewhere a hidden case of illegal firepower. Lots of these old gunshops had had a brisk trade in illegal automatic weapons.
Rock searched high and low, ignoring other fine weapons he came across, until he found a loose floorboard—and ripped it up. In a clear plastic case under the floorboards he found something heavy and black. He unzipped the case and pulled out an Uzi. And whistled. An Uzi was a completely automatic weapon manufactured in Israel and shipped to the U.S. in great numbers illegally just before World War III. It was the favorite weapon of terrorists. The Uzi made small men big, timid men brave. The Uzi was to machine guns what the Colt .45 was to revolvers. It was so dependable that the snub-snouted Uzi, even when fouled by dust and grit, functioned.
The Middle Eastern submachine gun had a fold-down stock, a “double elbow” arrangement ideal for concealment. The Uzi could be taken down to 24 inches in length. With the stock opened, it was barely 32 inches long. Yet it packed a cyclic rate of fire of three hundred rounds per minute. Rockson wished the clips held more than twenty-five rounds. Maybe he could make some modifications—find larger clips that would fit.
He snapped his fingers. This was a completely outfitted gun shop—maybe it had some manufacturing equipment in the back room, not just storage. He pushed the second door open and in the dimness saw a metal-turning lathe. Better than he could have hoped! But he’d have to have electricity. He tried the light switch, after shutting the interior door. A light came on. Luck. In a short while he had the lathe spinning, and placed the Uzi on its clamp holder. He had a lot of work ahead of him—hours. But he was elated. He would update the Uzi with spare parts from some of the other weapons in the front room—including some long clips from the badly damaged Browning anti-air World War II vintage weapon in the window display. Still, the Browning’s barrel was clean . . .
Working efficiently but rapidly, Rockson took the classic Colt .45 and a Widley .45 magnum—which could chamber 200-grain slugs—out of the cases in the front room and started disassembling them. He found some cases of .9mm bullets manufactured in Finland, too. Good ammo.
The barrel assembly of the magnum weapon consisted of a ribbed barrel, poston, and bolt housing. The other weapons weren’t meant to come apart in the same way, but with Rockson’s skill, they did. The lathe made a lot of noise. It couldn’t be helped. In two and a half hours, using the clips meant for the Browning anti-aircraft weapon that held a hundred rounds e
ach, he finished his work. Rockson turned off the lathe, undid the clamps, and held his Uzi-Colt-Widley-Browning anti-air hybrid weapon. A beauty of deadly power!
Sure it was heavy, but it was meant for heavy work—and it still could be concealed under a coat held over one arm. Damn, if this compound gun couldn’t do the trick, what weapon could?
He took six of the long Browning bandoliers along. Lots of high-caliber death for any opponents. It made his clothes fit terribly, but what the hell. It paid to be well-armed more than it paid to be well-tailored.
Nine
Rockson’s anger knew no bounds. He’d smash this Chessman and his hypnotic power, destroy the damned police who cremated innocent people, who kept this burg under their thumb. But how, alone?
He remembered the derelict outside his office building. The one who had whispered for Rockson to come see him if he was really a free man. Perhaps there was an opposition to Chessman—allies.
Rock left the shop with the gun covered by his jacket held over his arm. It was a sullen wet day. He reached the dark alley near Nietzsche Square, where he’d gotten off the bus to go to work. There were the trashbins that the street person had been rummaging through. But nowhere was the decrepit man to be seen.
He went over to the little corner newsstand. “Citizen, where are the street people that used to congregate here?”
The toothless newsman smiled. “The brush-eaters got some of them. Came the other night, caught two or three. The rest runs off. They’d be back over in Sadtown, the city dump—if any are left. That’s where they belong, the filthy, shiftless bastards!”
Rockson asked where Sadtown was. The newsdealer said earnestly, “Wouldn’t go down there, fella—lots of street people—they eats off the dump there—should be closed down.” Still, he gave the Doomsday Warrior directions.
Rockson came to the south edge of the city. The city dump. There he saw people you could hardly identify as such, scurrying and foraging around the piles of garbage with the rats. He grabbed one. “I’m looking for Barrelman— Do you know where he is?”