by Ryder Stacy
Rockson knew he had to say something inspiring as everyone looked up at him expectantly. Only he didn’t know what the hell it was. The ex-zombie audience was mostly in pretty bad shape. He couldn’t deny it. But they’d sure as hell tried, and succeeded. No gain without pain!
“My fellow Freefighters,” he said, over a crude microphone that had been set up on a table placed before him on its side, creating a makeshift speaker’s platform, “I applaud your courage. You have proven once again that the last four letters in the word ‘American’ are the most important letters in the world. The letters spell “I can.”
The zombie masses all seemed to understand. Dr. Mason had already set his top brains to work airing out the place, now that they’d used the gas successfully. Defumigated the air, as it were. As well, there were numerous women among the gashead ranks, women Hanover had had chained up in factories making clothing and other accessories for the troops, that hadn’t been totally zonked. They cheered now.
“The main thing I want to say,” Rockson said, addressing them, “is—we’ve won. You’ve won. I’m saying that you’re heroes—because you are. You’ve made an incalculable difference to our country. All of America is in debt to all of you.” He paused, wondering if the words were getting through to them, any of them. Dr. Mason swore that a lot were already getting nearly full functioning back, after just three days. Since the “revolution of the zombies,” as Mason laughingly referred to it, a lot had happened. They were at least functioning at four and five year old levels now. Some, Mason wasn’t sure about. But they were what he had to work with. The men and women down there listening were the seeds of New Pattonville, for better or worse, and they were listening to hear inspiring words.
“And because of what you did in rescuing President Langford,” Rock went on, “I think that you should let yourselves feel somewhere inside, that you are men and women of strength and intelligence now. You’ve earned the right not to be gasheads anymore. You’ve changed yourself, liberated yourselves, by your very actions.” Rock knew it was all coming out wrong, too windy, too philosophical. He looked around. Some did seem to hear, to understand. That was enough.
“I know that this city, its functions are a wreck. We can’t pretend it’s not,” Rock said, looking with concern over all of them. “But you’ve got to try, got to try to rapidly rebuild this city—and yourselves. Got to make sure more than anything, that nothing like this can ever occur again here in Pattonville. Century City, where I come from, will send technicians and psychologists to help reestablish the structure of your society. And help restore your minds, if need be. So there is help on the way.” Rockson paused again. He was going too fast. He had to be slow with them.
“But as all men are, you’re ultimately on your own,” he continued. “It will be your decisions from now on, not the decisions of the gas-men, that will decide things.” He stood back from the mike, feeling a little dumb. Not that he’d expected applause or anything to say the least, but being used to speaking on various issues back in C.C., he was nonplussed when not a single hand clapped, not a single head nodded assent to his words. Other than his own team and Dr. Mason, of course.
Then, as he stepped down from the table stage, one pair of heavy hands began hitting hard against another. It was slow, heavy like a seal on a jar of qualudes, but loud. And as the first pair of hands slammed open and shut, more joined in with the same plodding rhythm. And Rock got a grin as big as a canyon on his weathered face. The whole ex-zombie crew began clapping like living men and women. Every second of clapping made them more alive, just by the sheer act of clapping. They started to cheer and shout and hug one another.
Dr. Mason slapped Rock hard on the shoulder with his good arm and had them help him get up on the table. The Doc raised his good fist. “Three cheers for Pattonville, the New Pattonville!
The ex-zombies joined in the doc’s cheers. Eagerly. For they respected Rockson, but they loved Mason. It was obvious. The man was like a god who had liberated them from bondage. Well good, they’d obey him then, follow his directions for a while, until things were patched up, Rock reasoned. And Rockson trusted the good doctor enough to know he’d do what was good for the city, not try to make a power-base himself. Rock had no doubt but that politics would bore him, and he would go half mad wanting to return to his beloved scientific work.
“My fellow citizens,” Mason coughed out over the mike. “We have much to do. I’m not going to give speeches, I’m not the great speaker type—like Rockson! Just say we kicked the bastards’ asses, and leave it at that!”
The Freefighters chuckled behind him and let loose with their own round of applause. “Now,” the doc continued, “we’re going to divide up into groups right now, start reorganizing things today. Front line is A group, second is B group. Group-leaders will be appointed, and will assign specific duties.”
It all sounded like too much for them all to comprehend, Rock mused as he watched the man address the citizens. But he seemed to know what he was doing.
After a while, Rock walked over to his team, who were standing around at stage-edge, talking. He slapped them all the shoulders. It was miraculous that they had all survived this encounter. Someone should write it all down. Free people should know about what sacrifices men make to keep their freedom!
“This is the story, boys,” Rock said as they walked away out of the haranguing organizational speeches of Mason, who went over certain basic concepts of restructuring the city with his citizenry again and again. “I’m going to head back to C.C. with the President and Kim. I’ll take Archer. You two guys,” he said, pointing to Detroit and Chen, “are more needed here, helping get the place reorganized.”
“I’d rather go back to C.C.,” Chen said. “And we have to protect the President’s ass, as well as yours,” he reminded Rockson.
“It’s a straight trip back to Century City, especially now that we’ve charted our way through those earthquake prone areas. Shouldn’t be too many problems if I avoid lava-people, lizards and leaping dogs. I think Archer can take care of them.” They all laughed, as the big man grinned with foolish pride at that remark. “Besides, we’ve got to have your firm presence here. Mason will have too much to deal with alone. After all, I don’t want to see any resurrection of the Hanover officers corps.” The officers who had survived the bloody battles for the takeover of the city had all been imprisoned, but prisons can be escaped from. The lower ranks had been disarmed and released into the populace to help rebuild it all. “The doc needs you both, even if he would never ask for it.”
“Will do then, Rock,” Detroit said softly, handing Rockson a few grenades like good luck charms. “Just get the psychological rescue teams back here pronto, okay? I think I’m going to get tired of zombie-eyed dames real quick!”
Twenty-Eight
It was a cold and desolate morning when they set out the next day on ’brids. The two Freefighters rode up the Pattonville ramp into a most unwelcoming morning. Even Archer, who liked the outdoors and was covered in wolf-furs, shivered slightly and bundled up his collar around his throat. Rockson checked back on Kim and her father, who were riding in the center of their four ’brid caravan. Rock had picked the best ’brid in Pattonville’s stable for Kim— Hanover’s white stallion.
He wondered if perhaps he should have left President Langford stay until the rescue teams came. He looked in poor health. Kim seemed a lot better, if a little groggy, and could pretty much talk normally now. But then she’d only had several gassings, just enough to make her the perfect blushing bride.
Langford, on the other hand, was still spaced out. There was no question. He was acting like an old senile man, hardly able to dress himself, tie his shoes, or knot his tie. It gave Rock a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach to see the President of the United States so incapacitated.
Rock knew they had to get the man back to C.C. and fast. If there was anything that could be done, they would be able to do it there, in the ultra-modern medica
l facilities. He had to try. Rock had thought that when he rescued the President from the barrel of Hanover’s gun, that he would feel relief. But now, if anything, the responsibility seemed awesome. Getting the leader of the atomic-blasted nation back four hundred miles through prime wastelands, without getting a white hair on his head tousled, was going to be a chore.
“God,” Rock groaned as he looked up at the slate clouds running in a river of angry darkness, galloping over the mountains in a life-threatening-stampede, “give me a break, will ya? ’Cause I’m sure as hell going to need one. We all are.”
Ahead the mountain ranges of winter ice beckoned like white torches as the thin sun streaking through the cloud cover stroked them with slashes of gold. Pretty, but deadly.
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Table of Contents
Back Cover
Preview
Titlepage
Copyright
DOOMSDAY WARRIOR #16 AMERICAN OVERTHROW
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight