Doomsday Warrior 10 - American Nightmare

by Ryder Stacy

  “Streltsy! Your world is about to be vaporized by an atomic attack. Don’t you know this is September eleventh, 1989? Don’t you realize what’s about to happen?”

  Chessman rushed around the corner of the tower. He peered around the corner at Rockson. “Shall we play ring-around-the-rosy? I can run faster than you, come up behind you.”

  “Streltsy, you’re a fool, not powerful at all. I suppose you expect your force field—the Veil—to protect your city, so that you can keep living here, keep terrorizing the city.”

  “Yes! I like it here, Rockson. I had little possibility in our other world of running anything except that damned outpost. Here, I have it all.”

  “You must listen. The Veil isn’t powerful enough to stop a nuke explosion—a damned car can almost penetrate it! I know, I’ve tried. You’re not keeping the city safe; you’re dooming yourself and everyone in the city to death. Shut off the Veil, let everyone flee the city.”

  Chessman’s head disappeared. And before Rock could turn, the Chessman was upon him, from behind, strangling, using the powers of his mind to weaken Rockson’s resistance. Instead of the Chessman, Rock felt the coiling strength of a giant anaconda about his neck.

  It was so unexpected, so shocking, that Rockson nearly let himself fall. His enemy seized the moment to strike out with his fists, but Rockson recovered in a violent surge of fury. “Streltsy—you will die for what you did to me!”

  Rockson twisted into a flurry of bony fists and landed a solid punch of his own, square in the Chessman’s solar plexus. The gaunt man reeled backward as the breath was knocked from him. Rockson launched a roundhouse kick to the head. Streltsy lost his balance, teetering for a breathless moment. Then he plunged over the side, screaming.

  The scream ended swiftly in a sudden sickening thud. Rockson, oblivious to bullets, looked down just in time to see the Chessman bounce on the horn of the dragon gargoyle above the low window. The mangled body—nearly torn in half by the horn—hit the side of the Tower and continued its plunge to the ground. It hit the walkway with a sickening splat, like that of a melon bursting open, bouncing once and then rolling to rest. The shooting stopped.

  A mighty cheer rose up from below. Rockson saw some of the Runners coming out of their cover, waving and shouting with joy. They hugged each other, unmindful that they were exposing themselves to enemy guns.

  “Don’t stop!” he shouted, knowing his words wouldn’t carry. “It’s not over yet!” Even as he shouted, the rookies below were taking aim on the Runners who had dropped their guard.

  He groaned as he watched several of them take bullets and go down. The other Runners who jumped out into the open scattered back to cover and resumed firing. In the midst of the turmoil, Rockson saw one of the city’s brush-eaters come slowly down the boulevard, hugging the curb, its scoop in the front pulling debris into the metal mouth. Even on this killing field, someone was busily cleaning Salt Lake City’s streets, oblivious to the madness around.

  None of the battling fighters paid any attention to the machine, either, as it churned down the street toward the Tower grounds, its headlight beams searching for things to pick up. Rockson saw that the Chessman’s remains were directly in the brush-eater’s path.

  Eddie had heard the shooting, and the crackling radio in his twenty-five-ton man-eating machine had told the story—the damned homeless derelicts were storming City Hall Tower!

  He had swung his machine around, heading the huge brush-eater out of the park and toward the action. Nobody was going to hurt the Chessman.

  It took a full ten minutes to get to the square, and as he tore through the gate, gears grinding wildly, eating up fences, shrubbery—anything that stood in his way—he laughed madly. The windows of his night-prowling hellish death-dealer cracked and shattered as bullets hit at odd angles. Pieces of glass flew about and stuck in his cap, his shoulders. Blood trickled down his hand holding the ten-gear shift. But onward he plunged. Give me a target, he thought, looking at the screen—someone that doesn’t move too fast . . .

  Suddenly the radar showed a blip. The autofocus high-intensity headlights zeroed in on a fallen figure on the pavement—a tall thin man wearing a torn robe. Not a rookie or knight, nor blue-blazered consultant . . . therefore—an enemy!

  Laughing like a maniac, Eddie turned the brush-eater and roared at the fallen man.

  From high above, Rockson watched as the machine drew closer, eating up debris, until it reached the Chessman and stopped. The body was twitching. The scooper tried to suck it in. For an awful minute, the scoop sucked away at the Chessman, the engine whining with the effort. Then the pitch of the motor went up as the eager driver tried to adjust to its obstacle. The tearing teeth came out, and with a buzzsaw-like noise they consumed what was left of the evil dictator.

  With a cough, the machine deposited the body parts inside and then continued on its way, leaving only a bloody stain behind on the pavement.

  Rockson pulled away from the parapet. He had one more job to do. The Chessman might be dead, but his spell on the city wasn’t yet broken. He had to turn off the Veil machine.

  He crawled back through the shattered window into the chamber. The children were huddled on the floor, and Kim was still struggling to free the door of its barricade.

  “Kim, it’s almost over,” he said gently, pulling her away from the door, avoiding her tiny fists that flailed in his face. “The Chessman is dead.”

  Stunned, she stopped struggling. “Dead?” She could hardly believe it. “The Chessman is dead?” She stumbled away from him in a daze. “No!”

  Rockson looked around the chamber. There. There was the control panel. He leapt to it, ready to flick the switches at random. But he noticed a reminder Chessman had made to himself. A small scrawl at the lower switch. “Remember, turn the Veil off only in coded sequence.” Rockson hesitated. The code had been lost with the Chessman’s death. What would happen if he didn’t pull them in sequence? An explosion? Think!

  But there wasn’t time to think. He’d have to chance it; the Veil had to come down. He pulled the switches from right to left. Nothing happened. No explosion. Then a readout came across the small screen on the console: UNAUTHORIZED SHUTDOWN SEQUENCE, VEIL SEALED IN “ON” POSITION, AS PROGRAMMED.

  Rockson had made a mistake. He’d sealed the city like a tomb! The only way out now would be through the Portal. Maybe.

  And to convince the citizens to follow him to the portal, he’d at least have to shut off the mind-control muzik.

  Though the muzik was broadcast from the radio tower at the Tabernacle, the Chessman must have controlled it from here. Where was the control? Rockson called upon his inner psychic energy, commanding mind-force to let him match the thoughtprint of a dead man. It could be done if he tried hard enough. It had to be done.

  Muzik control, he thought steadily, focusing his power. He imaged himself as the Chessman, seeing himself in his mind as he reached out to flick a switch, turn a knob, press a button—whatever would click. He felt a dark, unpleasant energy fill his mind—the Black Force that controlled the Chessman and gave him his power—and he fought to keep it from obliterating his senses.

  Muzik control . . . muzik control . . .

  Suddenly Rockson realized he was staring at it—a long, narrow panel that had appeared to be merely ornamental. This time there was only one switch. On-off. Rockson flicked it to the off position. Success.

  The air went silent, except for sounds of scattered gunfire, and that, too, went quickly silent. For the first time in God-knew-how-many-years, Salt Lake City was completely quiet.

  In the blink of an eye, night became day. The sun rose in a sky that went from black to pearly rose to bright blue; the city sparkled and gleamed and, for a brief moment, bustled with its usual activity.

  Then a hush fell as people realized the hypno-music had stopped. At first, many of the citizens didn’t know exactly what had happened—only that something was wrong, dreadfully wrong. All but the oldest r
esidents had been programmed their entire lives by thought control, and without a voice whispering to their brains, telling them what to do and how to behave and how to think, they were suddenly disoriented. And the longer the air was silent, the more disoriented they became.

  In the glittering glass-and-concrete skyscrapers, workers stopped at their tasks and stared questioningly at one another. It was a glitch, they thought—somewhere a circuit had broken. The Chessman would get it fixed, the muzik would resume, and life would go on as normal.

  In the streets, pedestrians halted in midstride, and then looked around them as though they found themselves in an alien place. Buses, cars, and trucks sat unmoving on the wide boulevards, despite the changing of the traffic lights.

  In restaurants, diners put down their silverware and stared stupidly at the food on their plates, as if it no longer tasted good or they had bitten into something bitter. In shops and stores, half-naked zombies wandered out of dressing rooms, and no one stopped them from stepping out onto the streets.

  Within minutes after the muzik halted, the broadcast airwaves went dead. The television programmers and radio announcers sat frozen in their chairs, not knowing which buttons to push or what to say. They had never thought for themselves. At the Holy Network, the city’s only television station, someone had the presence of mind to flip a switch and go off the air; snow and static replaced the image of Bishop Pohsib, who had turned into a stuttering dummy.

  For what seemed like an eternity, Salt Lake City and every living creature in it was petrified, waiting for the muzik to resume.

  But the muzik did not resume, and so anxious chattering and murmuring began to fill the silence: “What’s going on?” “What happened?” “What are we doing?” “What are we supposed to do?” The Chessman had never issued instructions to anyone—even his lieutenants—for actions to take if the hypno-music ceased because as far as the Chessman was concerned, the muzik never would stop.

  Uncertainty began giving way to fear and panic. Though the hypno-music was a powerful control, no one was completely normal yet, because of the tranquilized food and water. Paranoia gripped thousands, who started to run blindly through the streets as though being chased by unseen monsters. Others crawled under desks and chairs or hid in closets, crying and whimpering like children.

  Those who were naturally aggressive—but whose tendencies had been damped by drugs—became antagonistic. Diners dumped their food on the floor and threw it at the walls. Some even marched into the kitchens and threw the food at the cooks, shouting about bad taste and poor quality: “Hell, we ain’t gonna pay for this crap!” People who had never uttered obscenities—a crime in the Chessman’s state—were swearing blue streaks, reveling in temper tantrums they had always secretly wanted to have.

  Some people reacted with fits of glee and hysteria, cackling and shrieking and doing cartwheels. They jumped out of their cars and hung out of building windows, waving and shouting incoherently at no one in particular. They turned on fire hydrants and danced like maniacs in the sprays.

  Others—distinctly in the minority—strove valiantly to maintain control and resume their normal activities. Most of these people were dazed, however, and acted more like whacky automatons who didn’t realize what they were doing. Gas-station attendants filled cars through the radiators instead of gas tanks; garbage collectors dumped out the contents of cans all over yards.

  At the City Detention and Rehabilitation Center, the guards let out all the prisoners—who promptly rounded up the obliging guards and put them in the cells.

  Chaos reigned throughout the city. The thought police—those who still had presence of mind due to a more-thorough programming than that given the average citizen—were powerless to stem the tide. Any officer who tried to discipline a citizen with his stick was jumped by dozens of vengeful men and women. Most of the police made a cursory effort to restore order and then fled for their lives. Duty went only so far!

  At the Tabernacle the scene was no different. Guards dropped their weapons and roamed aimlessly, babbling a stream of nonsense syllables. Some rushed up to Runners, hugging and kissing them like long-lost brothers. Others just went crazy and staggered about with their hands in the air shouting, “I surrender! I surrender!”

  Of all the people in the city, the only ones who did have control were the Runners, whose systems were free of drugs. A euphoric Barrelman shouted at his subordinates to seize the Tower itself. “Round up the guards—get their weapons! The city is ours! Winston—take the radio center and broadcast a message to the people! Tell them we’re all free! Tell them they can do anything they want!”

  Rockson went back out to the parapet at the top of the Tower and watched the disintegration of the Chessman’s regime, worried about what he was witnessing. The chaos and the abrupt change from night to day signaled a disruption in the time warp. Rockson seemed to be the only one aware of the time slip—everyone else, Runners included, preoccupied with the headiness of freedom.

  Looking out across the city, Rockson could barely make out the clock on the city-government tower. Good God! The hands were moving—way too fast.

  The city was out of the time warp, advancing to zero hour—the moment when nuclear bombs would devastate it, and kill the inhabitants.

  Rockson was horrified. He had wanted only to free himself from the prison of the time warp, so that he could get back to his own continuum, and free the people from the living death of an oppressive dictator. But he had failed. Sure, they were free of the muzik, but they were entombed.

  “The nukes will come!” he cried out to himself. “I can’t change history! Salt Lake City will be destroyed. It was bombed to ruins!”

  There was no time to debate probables and possibles. One thing was certain: If Rockson couldn’t get through the Portal before the bombs hit—if he couldn’t get out of the time warp and back into the future—then he would perish along with everyone else. He could vanish into nothingness, a human being who never existed, the Doomsday Warrior who never was.

  But he had to save more than himself. He owed survival to a few—the wife and children of his parallel personality, Theodore Rockman, and to Barrelman and the brave Runners, without whose help he would not have succeeded. He had to tell them what was happening—had to save them! Somehow.

  Poor creatures, he thought with sadness, their freedom will be short-lived.

  Could he convince them they were on the brink of a nuclear war? These oppressed souls who probably knew nothing of the outside world? Would any of them listen to him in their euphoria. Was stopping the muzik enough?

  In the distance, the clock hands were moving faster.

  Eighteen

  Rockson looked for the source of the sobbing. Kim was sitting on the floor trying to comfort her crying children, Teddy junior and Barbara.

  “Kim, take the children! We’ve got to get out of here!”

  Kim shrank away from him. “Don’t touch me, you monster! You’re not the Teddy I loved and married! I don’t know who you are! You’ve destroyed everything!”

  “Kim, you don’t understand—”

  “I do understand! You went crazy and killed the Chessman. You’ve ruined our lives! Now what are we going to do?” Her anger dissolved into a torrent of tears. The children mimicked her and renewed their crying.

  Rockson threw his hands up in the air. “For God’s sakes, pull yourself together! I haven’t got time to explain everything, but believe me, we must leave the city as fast as we can!”

  Kim sniffled. “Of course you want to get out. The police will be after you. You want to take us hostage!”

  “The police aren’t going after anyone. They’re laying down their weapons. Don’t you see? Everyone is free—there is no more mind programming. You can do as you please—whatever you want.”

  “Do as I please?” said Kim, bewildered. “You mean I have to decide for myself what to do?”

  “Not exactly,” said Rockson, exasperated. They were wasting prec
ious time! “I’ll tell you what to do. Follow my instructions.”

  “Oh, no, Teddy—you’re crazy. I don’t trust you anymore.” Fresh tears poured down her cheeks as she put her head in her hands.

  Rockson bent down to comfort her, and gently pulled her to her feet. “Don’t do it for yourself—do it for the children. You want them to be all right, don’t you?”

  Kim nodded.

  “Then, take them and come with me. No one will harm them, or you.”

  “But where will we go?”

  “Away from the city.”

  Teddy junior scrambled to his feet and looked defiantly up at Rockson. “Forget it, Daddy-o. You’re not making us go anywhere! I’m with Mom!” He glared up at Rock with his little fists clenched.

  Rockson was astonished at the defiance of this pint-sized boy. Was this the same Teddy junior who had obediently followed every command, who had sat quietly through dinner and gone to bed early without complaint?

  Barbara joined in with her older brother, scowling up at him with her lower lip stuck out in a nasty pout. “We’re gonna turn you over to the cops for being bad,” she hollered.

  Rockson wanted to turn both of them over his knee and give them a good spanking. Free will did have its drawbacks.

  If he had been in his own time continuum and these were free children, he would not have hesitated to give them a sound thrashing. But how did one discipline children who were supposed to be your own—who called you “Dad”? Rockson, every brawny inch of him, felt helpless in the face of this juvenile rebelliousness.

  He was also angry that time was slipping by while his “family” squabbled. He screwed up his face and bellowed, “Do as I say if you know what’s good for you!”

  Kim and the children blanched. Theodore Rockman, mild-mannered C.P.A., had never sounded so mean, so potentially violent.

  “Yes, dear,” Kim said in a meek voice. “Children, you heard your father.”

  “That’s better,” grumbled Rockson, stalking to the barricaded door. He pushed aside the metal cabinet with one quick heave, his show of strength clearly impressing Kim and the kids. The rebellion was quickly forgotten.