Doomsday Warrior 10 - American Nightmare

by Ryder Stacy

  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 Barrelm
an 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.

  “This is all we have,” Barrelman looked sad.

  “But you must know where police weapons are stored. You’re up on the surface enough.”

  Barrelman nodded. “It’s true. We have quite a spy network. We know where everything is in the city.”

  Rockson grabbed Barrelman by the shoulders and shook him. “For God’s sakes, why didn’t you tell me?”

  Barrelman stuttered, but Rockson cut him off. “Never mind. Just tell me where to find real weapons.”

  “If we steal them, they’ll be missed. A search will be called.”

  “By the time anyone knows they’re gone,” said Rockson, “it won’t matter. Listen, I left a very special gun in the crypt in the Tabernacle. Can your men up there get it for me unobserved?”

  Barrelman said, “Darryl once worked as a janitor there. He can get it for you. I know the gun is powerful, but can you really— Can we really defeat the Chessman?”

  “Didn’t the Founder tell you to trust the White King who came to set the city free?”

  Barrelman nodded solemnly. He ordered Darryl to fetch Rockson’s compound gun. Rockson took a measure of this man Darryl. He was a trusted aide of the Barrelman, a small fast man with strong, steady brown eyes. He might pull it off. Darryl left on the run, saying, “I’ll get it, don’t worry.”

  “Now,” Rockson ordered, “let’s get you all guns.” Barrelman, Rockson, and three other Runners wound their way through the smelly sewer system. The air warmed as they traveled, turning the chilly dampness into a cloying, humid heat. They gathered more recruits as they walked, as the news spread of the advent of the “White King” at last. It was hot, but Barrelman seemed immune to the heat and the smell. A life as a garbage-scrounging derelict, living in the sewers, was a life that immunized you to petty annoyances.

  About seventy-five of the Runners had pledged their support for an assault on the Tower. All of them had to be properly armed if they were to stand a chance against the Chessman’s militia.

  Barrelman stopped beneath a skinny tube similar to the one he and Rockson had descended from the street level. “The arsenal is above,” he said. “We cannot talk loudly here.”

  “We will all pass weapons and ammunition down to one another—a human chain,” whispered Rockson.

  After a brief ascent, they reached a small grating in the cement floor of a dark room. The spill-hole was barely big enough for the average man to squeeze through, but Barrelman, despite his stocky bulk, managed. Water trickled past them.

  Rockson crawled up second. He heard Barrelman moving softly about the room, low scrapes punctuating the silence. Then Barrelman began handing him cold metallic objects and wooden boxes. Rock took all he could hold and then climbed down to deposit the goods into waiting hands, then returned for more.

  He made at least a dozen trips up and down the arsenal until he was satisfied. He could hardly see, but he knew the feel of submachine guns and ammo boxes.

  When they reached the bottom of the tube, Barrelman sighed. “That was all I could risk taking from one place at one time,” he explained. “Hopefully, the loss won’t be noticed when the morning guard shift comes on—they always check the arsenal. They might not notice until inventory—which, if we’re successful, will never happen.”

  “We’ll be successful,” Rockson vowed.

  “There are several other depots that we know of,” Barrelman said.

  “Forget it,” Rock said. “Everyone: the assault team will assemble in the headquarters cavern.”

  The men loaded up their booty and carried it back to the cavern headquarters of the Runners. There Rockson spread everything out and examined the pieces. Some of the weapons seemed crude compared to those he was familiar with in his “real” life. He recognized some as M16s and a few AK47s—crude, but they’d do.

  Then Darryl came running in a crouch down the long pipe. “I got it. I got Rockson’s weapon from the crypt!”

  Indeed he had. Rockson thanked Darryl profusely and fondled the compound gun.

  Then he put it aside—for the moment. Rockson snapped a magazine into each regular submachine gun and handed them out.

  Barrelman looked on in amazement. “A C.P.A. wouldn’t know so much about weapons—you truly are ‘the White King’!”

  Rockson shrugged. “You said it, citizen. I’m the one.” He examined the firing pin. “There isn’t enough time—or necessity—for everyone to have a compound gun like mine. I’m sorry, but the rest of you will have to do with conventional weapons.”

  “They’ll be enough. I feel braver by the minute!!”

  Runners loaded clips into the submachine guns as Rock instructed. In a few minutes Rock taught them the bare rudiments of firing them.

  The Runners babbled in a mixture of excitement and apprehension. No one in the history of the Holy Regime had ever attempted a revolution. And who would suspect the lowly bag people of plotting such a crime? Success would bring complete freedom for everyone in Salt Lake City. Failure, they knew, would doom the Runners to torture that was worse than death, and punishment to the innocent, tranquilized citizens as a “lesson.” There was a great deal at stake.

  The Runners outfitted themselves with their stolen goods. Besides guns, bullets, and a few grenades, they had a few stolen flak jackets and close-fitting helmets made out of a high-impact, heavy plastic. One small crate had held fifty good chronometers—military watches with sweep second hands. Every other Runner—and Rockson—got one and all were synchronized to Barrelman’s Seiko. Each jacket and helmet, Rock noticed, bore the insignia of a chess rook. That wasn’t a very high rank. Rock wished they had some blue blazers and insignias of the consultants.

  “First of all,” he said to Barrelman, “we need a map of the Tower compound, and its defenses—do you have such a thing?”

  “You bet. We have the very blueprints—stolen from the basement of the city planning office. The founder said to prepare for the day the White King cometh. He said to prepare weapons and secure the plans to the Tower. You didn’t like our weapons, but I think you will like these drawings.” Barrelman snapped his fingers,
and the omnipresent Darryl rushed away with his long, loping, stooped-over gait down the duct. In less than five minutes he came back with rolls of blueprints, some a bit dog-eared and brittle.

  Rockson laid them out on the table. Perfect. Only it didn’t look like there was any chance of breaching the defenses.

  There were three heavy steel-alloy doors inside the main entrance to the Tower, probably heavily guarded. Three checkpoints, where an army of Freefighters might bog down, let alone a make-do army of derelicts. According to the specifications of the sliding steel doors, not even RPGs or a tank shell could penetrate them. Ditto for the Tower itself, a triple-reinforced marvel of strength.

  Rockson sighed. As for a lone infiltrator bluffing his way through the three doors, without the proper codes, without the proper fingerprints—for there were fingerprint-verification locks on all the checkpoint doors—it was impossible.

  Rockson was open to suggestions.

  Darryl piped in, “Why can’t we fire some of those RPGs right into Chessman’s window?—the window at the top of the tower? Why assault the tower at all? Just blast the shit out of the window. The Chessman is always in that room, operating his equipment—whatever that is—and enjoying the overlook. Why do you have to get in the Tower at all?”

  Rockson thanked Darryl for his suggestion, and said, “I have to make sure he’s dead. We don’t even know if that window at the tower-top is breakable. The plans say it’s an ordinary stained-glass window, but I think it might have been reinforced.”

  “He’s been seen at the open window,” said Rosa. “He stands there sometimes, in his mask, he does. Looking out over his city. It’s a window, all right.”

  “Did you see him?”

  She shook her head, “Not I, but the Professor, my old friend, now dead. He was a wise one. He watched the Tower, sometimes, through some old field glasses he had. He was always studying, figuring things. He was a great man . . .” She looked down sadly. “He died, saving me and my friends.”