by Ryder Stacy
Others seemed almost normal and moved around at various tasks, disappearing into and out of about a dozen other duct passages which led out of the central chamber where they all were. They seemed to all turn and just glare at Ralph and the group he had brought in with him, but Rock knew that might just be their natural expression. Zombies can’t smile.
“Out of way, out of way,” Ralph snarled at the crowds, pushing his way through them. “These damned gasheads,” he apologized to Rockson as if quite embarrassed. “So clumsy,” he said with a kind of deep annoyance. Rock had to laugh silently as ol’ Ralphie boy himself wasn’t that far on this side of the divide.
He led them to the far end of the wide equipment chamber and into a smaller room, this about forty feet on a side.
This was crammed full of scientific junk, gas cannisters, tubing, shelf after shelf loaded to the edge with every kind of surplus industrial and scientific materials. Rock’s trained eye, which had gone on many salvage teams from C.C. searching for just such vestiges of the old world, knew immediately that most of this stuff was functional. Somebody had a real science-lab set up down here.
The room was better lit than the outer chamber, with electric lights even strung up here and there on the walls. Seated at a desk with scientific-type junk spread out all over the place in front of him was a white-haired, white-bearded fellow. He looked like he’d seen a ghost. Then he smiled.
“Ah, Ralph,” the man said kindly as he looked up from his work, “you were able to find them after all. Good, good.”
“Leader,” Ralph said proudly, getting a childlike grin on his face. Ralph had moments of intelligence and then—back to Mr. Roger’s neighborhood!
“I am the leader.” The white-haired man was wearing a set of combat fatigues from Hanover’s army, about ten sizes too big for him and a little the worse for wear. The clothes actually had bullet holes in them from the fellow who had once worn them. But then the couturieres weren’t exactly choosy down here, Rock knew. You couldn’t be.
The bearded man came out from behind his machine table and grinned broadly as he walked toward the four Freefighters. “My name is Dr. Mitchell Mason. I worked as a top research man for the military here in Pattonville, before they went mad. Before General Hanover and his wretched schemes destroyed all that was good in our city.” As he walked toward them, kicking junk on the floor out of the way, Rock and the rest of the men could see that he was crippled all along one side. His left leg was half limp and he had to drag it, his left arm and shoulder were bent in an odd position and completely frozen. His whole head was forced to the left side by the weird body posture. But still as he walked with a trace of pain in his eyes, they could see that he was tough, and smart. His eyes were a thousand times more brilliant than any of his zombie lackeys.
“Hanover found out I was supplying gas grenades to the opposition when he first took over the city. Oh yes! We fought back against it. Thousands! But we were unorganized and didn’t have anything like the firepower they did. Let alone the gas. They caught and gassed me. It didn’t take on my brains somehow—just completely screwed up my body. As you can see.” He laughed as he patted the crippled side with his good hand. “Kaput!”
The men laughed. There was something about the man that gave off a feeling of power and hope—even beyond his twisted wreckage of a body. “We established this place down here, two months ago. None of the army brass seems to know about it,” Mason continued. “At least so far. It’s been slow, very slow,” he said with a sigh. “As you can see, what I have to work with—” He glanced around the room where some gasheads were slowly and methodically working on very simple tasks, like screwing things together and cutting single pieces of tubing. They worked very slowly, like children.
“How is it that some of you are so wasted and others seem in far better shape?” Rock asked. “Ralph—he’s changed since we met just a few days ago. How come?”
“It seems to have to do with both duration of gassing and volume. When they first get you, it’s usually a big dose, that knocks you on your ass.” He laughed bitterly, stopping in front of them. “After that they give them doses of the stuff every few weeks. From what I can figure the longer you’re on the stuff—duration over say two, three, or more months—the less chance you have of ever really coming out of it. But some of the fellows, here, especially my lab assistants, they’re getting some smarts back. And Ralph got disabled like me. For some reason, that sharpens one’s faculties. He already has been a great help. He got you the hell out of one bad mess, I’ll wager! Well, fine visitors, who the hell are you?”
“I’m Ted Rockson,” Rock said looking around the place. “Ever hear of me?”
“I know who you are! Even half the gasheads down here doubtless would respond to your name. You’re far more famous, I think, than you realize,” Dr. Mason said, as Rockson blushed for a few seconds from the accolades.
“This is Detroit, Chen, and Archer here. Arch may have some resemblance to some of our zombie friends here, but in general is a highly trusted and capable man.”
“Glad to meet all of you,” Mason said, hobbling back to his desk. “You’ll have to excuse me. I must sit down most of the time. The destruction of so many muscles and nerves on the side of my body can cause excruciating pain after a while. It’s just as well I’m a scientist and love to sit and tinker and make things that don’t work.”
“What is all this, all this stuff?” Detroit asked, sweeping his hand around the lab room and its myriad supplies.
“This—as you refer to it,” Dr. Mason said with a cynical snort as if mocking his own efforts, “is our one chance of fighting back at Hanover’s people. It’s gas. These are all cannisters we’ve stolen from him,” he pointed to one whole wall which was filled with different sized cannisters, most of them, by the dials on their tops, apparently full. “We go out on raiding parties from time to time to get things I need, and to get food for them. The poor bastards are frightfully ready to give it the old college try,” he said, nodding at the gasheads everywhere like ants, just sort of staring and waiting. “But I’m afraid that most of them get shot down or captured. Still, some have been successful. This is what we have as a counter-revolutionary army, so—”
“What exactly are you doing with the gases?” Rockson asked, immediately curious.
“Well, there are a number of levels of gas, as you’re probably already aware,” Dr. Mason said, as he leaned back in his half-broken wooden lab chair. “From the zombie-producing stuff like all of our friends here got a taste of, to instant-death gas. What I’ve been trying to do is alter the molecular structure of the basic Level 1 gas, reduce its toxicity fifty-fold. Then we’d have a simple knockout gas. Could take out the whole city without killing anyone, or turning them into deeper gasbrains than they already are. Get the troopers, all of the general staff and the gasheads in one fell swoop.
“We’re not out to bump everyone off in the damned city,” Dr. Mason went on. “After all, this is our city too. Many of Hanover’s troopers, they’re not into this whole thing totally. The city was led astray, the officer corps betrayed it. Most of the citizens and many of the younger recruits can be salvaged. So I figured, knock ’em out and then sort ’em out. We could attack them at all their main power points, if we could gas them all at the same time, from a hundred places at once . . .”
“What about these ducts?” Chen asked. “Can’t they be used to supersede the newer venting system? Then you could have an even flow of gas through the entire city.”
“We’ve tried,” Dr. Mason said with exasperation, raising one working shoulder. “But everything’s so rusted, all the piping for the air hookups corroded and—”
“Are the supplies available to make the hook-ups? Maybe a raiding party of me and my men can help do it. We’re not bad plumbers!” Rock said, turning his head to include the Freefighters. Mason got a sudden look of simultaneous hope and fear.
“No, we’re not ready. There’s too much left to
do, too many things to yet collect from around the city. We need parts.”
“Say no more! When the going gets tough, the tough go shopping!— Just how close are you to altering the formula—and then producing enough sleep gas to fill these ducts?” Rockson asked.
“Close, very close,” Mason said, slamming his one working hand hard on the steel lab table with rows of thick tubing like dead gray snakes lying in rows. “A week, maybe—”
“No good,” Rockson said. “Let’s make it twenty-four hours, two days at most! There’s no more time. And with us escaped, they’ll be combing the whole damned city. You may have signed your own death warrant by allowing us down here.”
“All men are welcome who flee from the gas,” Mason said with a barely repressed fury.
“Now draw me up a list of everything you need,” Rockson said, coming up to the other side of the long work table and leaning his hands on it. “Tubing, gas cannisters. Where we can find it. And I mean make this list pronto,” Rockson said as he banged his fist down on the workbench making clips and connectors bounce around like they were dancing on Saturday night. “ ’Cause we’re going on a shopping trip to the Mall.”
Twenty-Four
Rock and his men picked ten of the seemingly most intelligent of the milling crowds of gasheads. Though they had been standing around like commuters waiting for the 4:54 to Hartford, they seemed eager to help, gathering round once they realized what was happening. Raising their arms and making desperate pleading sounds with their half-frozen mouths to be part of the strike squad. Rock knew he was being discriminatory but he chose those who could actually speak. It might help facilitate things slightly. They loaded up with packs for carrying supplies and headed on out as Dr. Mason continued to work feverishly in his lab.
Rock was glad to have Ralph along. He seemed to know his way around every tunnel down here. Rockson had found out when talking to him for a few minutes that when a teenager he and his pals had played through the tunnel systems all up and down the side of the city. Had spent many long hours, days, chasing one another. Now his childhood games were paying off in spades.
They headed ploddingly down the interminable duct system. But again Ralph led them unerringly down corridors, up shafts. They emerged, after traversing almost the entire length of the city, off to the side of the old “Main Shopping Mall” of the city.
It was like a goddamned mall of old America, Rock noted with amusement as they headed in. But the merchandise was different. Mostly military stuff. And now, for the first time, they saw women. The women were well-dressed, attractive. Some had army officers on their arms. The privileged few. Shelf after shelf of munitions, military wearing apparel, grenades, gas cannisters, pumps, were mixed with boutiques selling scanty underwear, high-heels, gowns.
“All right, look gang,” Rock said, addressing both Freefighters and the ten gasheads who were standing there with them trying to look smart. Despite their crisp Pattonville uniforms, it was a surprisingly difficult task. “We’ll have to split up and get what we can. You each have a list?” he asked. Chen and Detroit nodded. Archer looked confused. “Now, each of us will take three or four of the zombies here as carry-men—and load them up! Tubing and cannisters are the main thing, big hose-like apparatus is on the list too. Anything that a gas could be pumped through. Got it? But work off the lists, that’s what Dr. Mason gave us.”
“Will do, chief,” Detroit replied as Chen as well nodded assent. They broke up and picked their gasheads and spread out fast through the place, searching for the items that Dr. Mason needed. Rockson, with Ralph, Archer, and three gasheads, tore to the north end of the mall into “Scientihouse Suppliers.” Soon they were passing the endless shelves where he spotted microscopes and medical supplies, landmines and stacks of freshly made Liberator rifles from the hallowed factories of his own Century City. In the back—past some garter-belts and nylons and whips—they found huge amounts of thick rubber tubing. Exactly the specifications that Mason wanted. And a big gas superheating device with five transfer outputs. The thick plastic piping was curled up in huge coils like great snakes sleeping, and each one weighed a good hundred pounds.
Archer took one over each shoulder and asked for more, but Rock figured that was enough even for the grizzly-sized Freefighter. Then he got the gasheads bent over and threw stuff onto each of their backs. Two of them took the gas transformer. They didn’t seem to mind terribly being so loaded down, but just accepted the weight and waited patiently. Rock loaded up with one of the coils of his own around his shoulders, and then he headed them back toward the rendezvous point in the front of “Le Chic Warehouse,” which sold gold neckchains and laser-targeting devices.
The other teams had done equally well. Cannisters for gas, and pumps. They and their zombie mules were loaded down with bags and sacks filled with military and scientific junk, all threatening to spill out all over the place.
They headed out, past the “Buffalo Burgers” fast-food emporium, where drunken officers entertained very beautiful blank-eyed women. Buffalo Burgers, it seemed, now served liquor. Half the flickering fluorescents were smashed, and the place was very dim. There wasn’t much conversation going on between the privileged officers and their zonked-out girls.
They had gone perhaps fifty yards from the burger joint, and halfway back toward the tunnels and escape, when they heard noises coming down the main thoroughfare. From both sides of them.
“Oh shit,” Detroit choked as he looked up from his load. “I think they’re onto us.”
“The Scientihouse storehouse must have been minicam wired! Hanover wouldn’t leave something that valuable unprotected inside.” Rock was suddenly angry at himself for not being more careful inside the warehouse. On the other hand, it would have taken them a month to go through there and find and knock out the security surveillance gear. Time they didn’t exactly have.
Rock looked around for any escape route, but carrying the heavy loads, there was nothing near enough that would get them out of there fast.
“Defensive positions,” Rockson screamed as they dropped their loads. The zombies just stood there frozen, not sure what to do.
“I reloaded my grenade belt in the warehouse,” Detroit screamed as the shooting started from both sides of them as the troopers approached, now only about seventy feet off. “Here, have a few.” He snapped off two each for Rockson and Chen. He hesitated with Archer, but the big fellow looked so forlorn about being left out that the black Freefighter sighed and heaved two his way. Ripping his own ripe pair for the fruit salad, Detroit pulled his arms back and released. Grenades went flying off to both sides of them, sailing a good eighty feet off.
There was a series of explosions, and a chorus of screams. When the Freefighters arose, no one was coming after them anymore.
“Move it men,” Rock screamed out. “There’ll be more.”
Ralph quickly led them back across the shopper’s thoroughfare and they retreated into the duct system. It was a lot harder going now with the extra weight they carried through the narrow passages. A few of the zombie mule train fell in flailing heaps. But they got the haulers back up and going again. Ralph led the way unerringly around the tunnel system of the city.
“Excellent! Excellent!” Dr. Mason shouted, as he greeted them at one end of the main juncture where the hundreds of zombies lolled around aimlessly. “Help them, you lazy fools,” Mason shouted as the gashead Counter-revolutionaries slowly rose up and went over helping their brothers with their loads.
“I think we got most of what you need,” Rock stated. “There’s plenty of it, I’ll tell you that! So you should be able to makeshift what’s missing.”
“Yes, this looks excellent,” Dr. Mason said, his white bearded face flushing red with excitement as he examined the various loads and pulled out long sections of the plastic hose.
“And an extra little surprise,” Rockson said with a grin as he unloaded one of his zombie mules and spread out the contents of its two huge sacks on
the ground. “Simtex, plastic explosive. Just about the most powerful stuff, ounce for ounce, ever made. And you can shape into a particular charge shape, direct it in certain configuration for maximum penetration. I was thinking of those coverings that have rusted over that stop all the old main ducts from entering the functioning Pattonville air system. At the right moment we could pop them all, completing the ducting system route.”
“Extraordinary idea,” Mason said, with real glee showing in his face. “I had been contemplating the exact solution of that particular problem—and now I see the gods of science are on our side. The gods speak from all of us!” Dr. Mason waxed poetic, which he was wont to do, from time to time.
“How close are we, are you, to the alteration of the gas cannisters?” Rockson asked.
“Very close, these supplies will speed my work up a hundred fold,” Mason replied. “Go lay your charges, I’ll get a map for you of the locations. I think I could be ready with my end within twenty-four hours. But that means work, work. Come on you lazy beasts,” Mason screamed at some of the zombies. He directed them to take select items back to his workroom.
It almost seemed cruel to treat them like he did, Rock thought. They were treated like horses, or mules. Yet they responded well to it, seemed to need the extra prodding, even an occasional kick in the rear from Mason’s good working foot, to keep it all going. Knowing they basically didn’t know what the hell they were doing, the zombie hordes followed Mason without question. He was their leader, their father, their god. For now.
Rock took Chen, Detroit, and Archer, leaving all the gasheads behind except for Ralph. The whole Rock-team was starting to like Ralph, even if he only had half a brain. They split into two teams, once they got to the main duct along which the ancient vent shafts were set every few hundred yards. He saw what Dr. Mason had meant by the things being rusted closed, like they had been glued down. These connecting-pipes hadn’t been used for well over fifty or sixty years. He banged the one he was in front of a few times, and then planted a big slab of the Simtex plastic high explosive. The Freefighter slammed a miniradio receiver with detonator cap attached into the outer edge. Easy as slamming a thermometer into a Sunday roast. Archer looked on like Rockson had gone mad handling explosives so violently, but the Doomsday Warrior laughed.