by Ryder Stacy
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 t
he 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.
It didn’t take Rockson long to realize the heat was on. He carefully loaded and watched as the cordon of rooks deployed and the red knights began their search. Hiding inside the sporting-goods store, he could see the vast numbers of horsemen galloping up and down the street as columns of smoke rose everywhere. He ran to the back of the store and peered through a small window in a bathroom. Two doors down, a team of horsemen waited while their companions kicked in a door and went in, their RPGs flaming before them. Rockson ran to the stairwell leading back to the basement, but smoke was already collecting there from fires in neighboring buildings. He could hear the screams of citizens caught in the path of the destruction.
Rockson had no sooner turned back up the stairs when the front door of the store was kicked in and a blast of flames erupted in his face, singeing his skin.
His arm jerked up instinctively and released a salvo from the 16-gauge automatic shotgun he had collected. He hit one rookie with a broadside to the head, splattering the man’s cerebral matter into the face of his partner, who entered laughing right behind him. He had no sooner wiped it off when Rockson charged the door and caught the man’s neck with a flying scissors kick that snapped his spinal column instantly. Rock tumbled to his feet and out the door, discharging the shotgun in a circle of blasts, sending three more rooks to hell. A red knight galloped up. Rock tore him from his mount, then pulled himself up on a wild-eyed white stallion as it galloped past and sunk his heels deep into the horse’s ribs, sending it charging through the streets. Squads of horsemen began closing in on him from all directions. The entire section of the city was erupting in senseless violence. Citizens caught in the melee were running for their lives, leaping from windows of burning buildings and diving to escape being trampled by the rampaging horsemen. The red knights were now out of control. Caught in the frenzy of the moment, they were blasting their RPG-7s at anything that moved. The public speakers blared with confusing and contradictory orders. Knights galloping one way ran into rooks moving the opposite way, and in the confusion, arguments and disorder swept through the ranks.
Rockson was riding the gauntlet like a pro, his steed not spooked by the raging fires and the screams of burning people. He emptied his shotgun at a band of knights caught off guard in an alley, then threw it aside, whipping his compound gun from his shoulder, employing it with murderous accuracy. But no sooner would he strafe down one squad of horsemen when another would appear galloping around a corner, inaccurately blasting away. Then, just as he thought himself breaking away, a solid line of rookie cars appeared, blocking the roadway, causing him to wheel about back into the fracas. He was riding with reckless abandon, shooting from the hip, his horse leaping fences and taking corners like a champion.
He turned onto a broad avenue with a score of knights in hot pursuit, their flaming weapons licking at his charger’s long tail. Dead ahead, a roadblock stretched across the pavement. Old apartment buildings with bricked-up doorways lined the street—there was no escape. He would have to break the blockade.
He sped straight into the wall of vehicles, the galloping knights at his heels preventing the rooks from firing on him. Rockson stood high in the saddle and whispered into the ear of his foaming, frightened mount.
“One more jump, baby,” he said calmly, “just give me one more great big leap and I’ll take it from there.”
He closed at breakneck speed. Everything depended on his horse. If he made the jump, he had a chance. If not, it was all over but the barbecue . . . literally.
Fifty yards to go, the barricade loomed larger and larger, the horse gasping for air, the knights gaining on him . . . forty yards and he could feel the heat at his back, his horse bursting its lungs in fear, a trickle of blood appearing at the beast’s flaring nostrils . . . thirty yards . . . twenty . . . ten . . . Rock screamed and stretched over the horse’s neck, pulling it into its leap over the c
ars.
The rooks who had been lying flat on the roofs firing dove off as the horse stretched into a magnificent picture-book leap, reaching over the vehicles in a gracious arc. Rockson strained forward desperately. Would the horse make it, or—
The horse cleared the roadblock, but had given everything it had, and it came down on bent forelegs, throwing Rockson in a somersault over its head.
Rock had expected as much and rolled with his momentum, coming down a good fifteen yards past the barricade and rolling another ten yards before coming up firing, wiping out the band of rooks who stood with gaping mouths as the cruel weapon spit fire, cutting them to shreds. The mounts in pursuit were not up to the leap, those that tried crashing into the barricade, the others pulling up short as Rockson sprinted for cover.
Rock ran and ran, firing bursts at anything that moved. Finally, exhausted, bleeding, and thirsty, he ducked into a cellar well into another district. He’d hole up for a while. Like most stores in the city, this one was shut down. He went upstairs. It was a tailor shop—full of dusty clothing. He found several blue blazers and pants in the dim interior. On an inspiration, he looked for, and found, needle and thread. Later, dressed in consultant-like blazer and tan pants, he walked casually into the gathering night, the compound gun in a satchel made for tennis rackets. Again he headed toward the Tabernacle. He hoped that the black shoe dye he’d put in his hair worked as a disguise. The P.A. systems kept giving out his old description. He was ignored.
He tried to stay away from bright light—and from the blue-blazered thought police. It had taken him hours to sew on the insignia he had made with thread and a swatch of cloth. In the dark, the little medallion looked like the real insignia, although it wouldn’t have passed close inspection. When he boldly strode into the Tabernacle Square—King’s Square itself—and approached the church gate, he nodded and pointed to his medallion and the guards saluted. He joined the stream of midnight-mass attendees. He was walking up the steps with the others of high rank—the politicians, the higher cops, and some consultants—no women. This was a male-chauvinist society. He took a seat in one of the last pews inside the awesome cathedral. He had no plan except opportunity—he’d see what developed. Find a staircase. Anything! Besides, he wanted to hear this service—what would the midnight mass be? What was the midnight sermon that was supposed to be so special?