Doomsday Warrior 11 - American Eden

by Ryder Stacy

  “It must be some sort of plastic,” Rockson said. “Plastic lasts longer than concrete. Keep the dogs back, Detroit, come with me, I want to make sure no one is in there. It looks so spiffy, I don’t trust it.”

  The team members held their sleds back behind some tumbled boulders, and Rock and the bull-necked black Freefighter walked cautiously forward, guns drawn, inspecting the many windows in the five-story bright-orange-and-yellow “teepee” for any movements. “Keep an eye on that mesa behind the building,” Rockson said. “There’s a thousand places a man with a rifle could hole up in those rocks.” Detroit nodded.

  The sign over the door, a ten-foot-high red plastic affair, said TOMAHAWK INDIAN STORE, save now, 50% off Indian Jewelry.

  “Good, we’re in time for the sale,” Detroit whisperingly joked.

  Rockson and Detroit cautiously entered the giant replica of an Indian dwelling. Light sifted in from outside through high windows. Tumbled chairs, smashed tables, precious items of beaten silver and turquoise—necklaces, rings, bracelets—lay unmolested in glass cases. But other glass counters by the rusty cash register were smashed. “They kept candy by the register,” Rock said, bolstering his shotpistol. “In the weeks after the nuke war, any kind of food was precious—much more precious than jewelry.” A quick survey found the place uninhabited.

  It was a good place to stay for the night, for there was an old Franklin stove actually still in one piece. They gathered firewood—smashing the dried wooden counters of the soda fountain for fuel. Soon the immense teepee had blue-white smoke coming out its top, and the Freefighters and the man from Mexico were sitting around eating their pemmican and pork stew. McCaughlin, the official morale builder, began playing his harmonica. They sang a few choruses of “Jimmy Crack Corn,” and a few patriotic songs like “America the Beautiful.” That brought tears to Danik’s eyes. Then they all bedded down and fell into a well-deserved warm and cozy sleep.

  Scheransky carefully slipped from his sleeping bag in the dead of night and nearly soundlessly stole away from the company of exhausted Freefighters. Before he moved off into the crescent-moon-lit darkness outside the odd building, the Russian reached into a pack on his sled and took out the small black-box device. It fit right into the palm of his hand.

  Sure that no one had noticed his awakening, he slipped away into the snowy darkness.

  But someone had noticed. Chen. Though as tired as the others, Chen’s martial arts training allowed him to sleep lightly when on a mission, and to unconsciously note any unusual noise. He opened his brown-amber eyes and without the slightest movement of his head or body tracked the silent Russian defector. Then, as stealthily as the Russian had moved, Chen rose and followed. At the doorway he saw Scheransky go behind some boulders.

  What was the Russian up to? Chen couldn’t believe he was up to something bad. Maybe it was just a call of nature that drove Scheransky over the ridge? What if it wasn’t? Chen had bought the Russian’s story of believing in the American cause. Chen had believed—up until this point—that Scheransky was a true and loyal American Freefighter now. He certainly had honored himself in the Alaska mission, and Rockson trusted Scheransky implicitly.

  But then where the hell was he going? As Chen stalked him over the ridge of boulders, he saw Scheransky now running in the distance. The man was certainly not just taking a piss. No, he was up to something.

  Chen shot from boulder to boulder. The Russian never looked back to see if he was being followed. He stopped suddenly and put a device in his hand down and pulled out an antenna. He started pushing on it—buttons perhaps.

  A transmitter of some kind, Chen concluded. The Soviet defector must not be a defector at all—he must be giving away their position. He should throw a star-knife—kill the man he had come to trust as a friend over the past months—No! He hesitated.

  Chen put the shuriken back into his belt pouch. He instead ran like lightning, silently as a deer, at the Russian kneeling there in the snow. Chen jumped him just as he was turning, having heard the faint crunch of snow.

  Wham, Chen was upon him. The Russian fought like a madman but Chen had him tied up in knots with a reverse hammerhold and his face half buried in the snow, his arms twisted violently behind him. Scheransky, for the first time seeing his silent attacker, exclaimed, “Chen, it’s you.”

  “Yes, you bastard. It’s me. What are you doing?”

  “Ease up, Chen, you’re hurting me.”

  “Not until you tell me what you’re doing!” Chen saw now that the device had a number of small blinking red lights on it. The antenna waved in the arctic-like wind. Scheransky tried again to struggle out of Chen’s grip, but to no avail.

  “Talk, you traitor—or I’ll break your arm.”

  Scheransky spat out snow and said, “All right, all right. It’s an—experiment—for—for Dr. Schecter.”

  “Oh yeah? Then, how come we’re not in on it?”

  Chen tightened his twist of the Russian’s arm.

  “Ow, let go, let go.”

  “Let him go, Chen,” said a voice from behind.

  Chen turned to see Rockson’s cleated boots near his face. And Rona and Archer too were coming up behind him. “Caught him with this device,” Chen said, pushing Scheransky’s device across the snow with his foot. “Take a look.” He let the Russian sit up. Scheransky started rubbing his shoulder. He leaned over to retrieve his black-box device.

  “Stay away from that device,” Rock said, unholstering his pistol.

  “Don’t worry, I will,” said Scheransky, withdrawing his hand.

  “Now, what’s this about?”

  Scheransky sighed. “You’re not supposed to know.”

  “Tell me anyway.”

  “I never trusted him,” Chen offered. “A Red is a Red.”

  “Tell me,” Rockson said again, cocking his shotpistol.

  “Oh shit, Rock,” Scheransky said, “its an experiment for Dr. Schecter. He wants—wants to m-measure the atmospheric changes that have brought on this terrible winter—the worst since the war.”

  Rockson went over and crouched next to the device. He saw after careful inspection that it was not a transmitter. Still it was an electronic device. And Rockson had specifically forbidden the bringing along of any electronic devices because the Russians had a way of homing in on them.

  “Do you believe me? Here—here.” said the Russian, taking out a crumpled note. “Here is the letter from Dr. Schecter explaining—in case I was seen using the device . . .”

  Rockson read:

  To Ted Rockson, This is to advise you that I have overridden your objection to any electronic devices being brought along on your mission. I have done this with the full support of Rath and the council. Scheransky was told by the council that he had to obey. The data being collected is of vital importance. Sorry for the subterfuge.

  Dr. Schecter.

  He passed the note around. Chen sighed exasperatedly, pulled Scheransky up from the snow, and said, “Do you realize I was about to blow you to kingdom come with an explosive star-knife when I saw you take out the device?”

  Scheransky, brushing the snow from his parka, said, “I’m glad you didn’t.”

  Rockson said, “Well, collect the damned information and let’s get back to some shuteye.”

  “Yes, can a person get an uninterrupted night of sleep around here?” demanded Rona. “You guys are worse than the gobble-gophers for losing a girl her beauty sleep.”

  Rockson, putting his arm over Scheransky’s shoulder as they crunched back to camp in the snow, said he would think over whether or not Scheransky could continue with the data collection.

  In the morning, over coffee and dried pemmican, Rockson said, “Scheransky, go ahead. Keep collecting Schecter’s damned data. By the way—why did you go so far from camp to do it?”

  “If—if the electronic pulses were picked up by an enemy patrol—I wanted to be the only one who was caught . . .” He looked down at his coffee.

 
Chen went over and said, “And to think I distrusted you.”

  “Okay,” said Rock, breaking the guilt-ridden mood. “If anyone else has any wild surprises I’d appreciate hearing about it now—otherwise, let’s pack up and get on our way.”

  The notebook gave the direction to the mysterious elegant bridge as southeast, two hundred twelve miles away. Rock spent hours of the smooth, level run wondering what the hell a giant stone bridge could be doing out here, going no place, on a shallow lake. He couldn’t wait to solve the mystery.

  After hours of speeding along—it was practically a race—came some rougher going. A twisting, narrow canyon.

  Rockson ordered that the sled teams be driven in one at a time, spaced about a hundred yards apart. There were many feet of snow piled at the tops of those precipitous cliffs on both sides, the slightest noise could bring an avalanche. Yet there was no break in the cliffs save this canyon as far as their electron binocs could scan. They’d have to chance it.

  Rock, Chen, and Archer would drive the sleds through. Archer first, hopefully settling the dogs down, informing them in his subtle ways that they must not howl or bark or make any noises. Then the remaining four Freefighters would ski through. The danger wouldn’t be as great for them.

  It was as good a plan as he could devise.

  Rock watched as Archer made the first entry into the narrow orifice, he and the sled disappearing in the shadowed turns of the canyon. He sighed, and whispered a “Mush.” His own team took off after their big mountain man-buddy. Rockson winced each time he heard a creak of a sled or a half-whine from the dogs, who sensed, he was sure, the danger.

  In the dark narrow canyon, he found a profound closeness to death—and to the Creator. He never caught sight of Archer’s sled until he exited the canyon.

  Rock breathed a sigh of relief to plunge into bright sunlight; another day of life. Both the Doomsday Warrior and Archer watched the canyon exit anxious for the safety of Chen.

  Chen took a long time to appear, but finally they saw his lead dogs huffing and puffing their way to safety. Chen waved.

  Next came the skiiers, also paced a hundred yards apart. Detroit, then McCaughlin, Scheransky . . . But where was Rona?

  Anxious minutes went by. Rona didn’t appear. A cloud went across the sun; Rockson detected a wind coming up. He said, “I’m going back in after her . . .” He was about to set off when she appeared waving, shouting, “Hey, here I am. Sorry I’m late, but there was this great snowflower, I picked . . .” She waved a purple blossom over her head.

  There were stirrings in the canyon as her echo coursed through it. Then a tremendous whumpp. She skiied up to them as a giant billowing white cloud exited the canyon.

  Close.

  Danik, when they reached the next rise, informed them, “See that blue mesa ahead, wreathed in clouds? I remember that one. Ten or so miles beyond it lies the bridge.”

  After traversing the distance to the mesa, cutting around its towering granite, they were immersed in a wet fog. Slowly they advanced their teams until Danik shouted, “There it is.”

  A parting in the fog bank revealed, straddled over a calm lake, amidst some low buildings and many bare trees, a bridge.

  “My God, that’s London Bridge,” Rock exclaimed.

  Detroit said incredulously, “London Bridge? How can that be? Wasn’t it in London when they nuked the place?”

  Rockson and the Freefighters couldn’t believe their eyes—a long, elegant many-arched stone bridge crossed the gentle waters of a desert lake. And it looked exactly like London Bridge, as they had seen many times in history books.

  Rockson smacked his forehead and said, “I remember reading that some millionaire bought the whole bridge, and shipped it over to Arizona—that was when the Brits needed money badly. A few decades before World War Three. No one in Century City knows where the bridge was sent and reconstructed. Until now. Here it is.”

  “Why take London Bridge to Arizona? Did they need a bridge that bad?”

  “I think I remember reading that some entrepreneur type thought it would be a good tourist attraction.”

  “And so the mystery of the bridge to nowhere is solved.” Danik said. “My companions—the two that died here—are entombed behind one of the big rocks in the bridge foundation. The mortar was cracked and weak. I and my surviving friends thought it would be a good grave.”

  Rockson and the others whipped their dogs up to traverse the distance to the spot Danik indicated. There were still signs of the massive bridge foundation rock, at the edge of the water, having been removed and replaced.

  “A good place,” Detroit said. “We will not disturb them.”

  Rockson and the team came upon a fallen, rust-pocked sign, lifted it. It said. “Welcome to London Bridge, Havasu City Arizona.”

  “You’re right. Rock,” Rona said, “You sure are a history buff.”

  Rockson frowned. “We have only one problem now—which way from here to Eden?”

  Danik said, “Doesn’t the notebook show?”

  “I didn’t want to tell anybody this—but,” Rockson admitted, “the notebook didn’t start until Dutil started writing it after he saw this bridge. He found the toy sextant here in a—let’s see . . .” Rockson flipped through the pages. “Here it is, he found the sextant in ‘Ye olde nautical gift shoppe.’ There, right next to the bridge.”

  “Then,” Rona said despondently, “we have no way of finding Eden.”

  “Yes, we do,” Danik shouted exultantly. “Returning here, seeing the tomb of my friends did something—I can remember—not a lot, but something.”

  “What?” Rock asked, with great emotion.

  “I remember that the first week we traveled, the week that brought us this far, cold and hungry and with two of us deathly sick, was all spent traveling directly north . . .”

  “Following the North Star,” Rock said, remembering Danik’s tale.

  “Yes, I followed the North Star on the clear nights. We found shelter and slept in the slightly warmer days. I know that we came directly from the south of here.”

  Rockson said, “Great. We’ll set out as soon as we take a look around here—for the record. And to see if anyone was here first. We might not be the only people seeking Eden,” he said darkly.

  They went into the gift shoppe and, because there were few windows, lit a Coleman lamp. Rock seated himself at a table, the Freefighters and Danik gathered around him. He unfolded the detailed topographical map the Freefighter carried. It was ancient, drawn on the basis of satellite photographs from the twentieth century.

  “Now we know where we are, and we know—” he said, drawing his finger down south of the U.S.—Mexican border, “approximately where we are going. A week’s walking distance is about—here.”

  Rock’s finger had traced down to the San Piedro mountain range.

  “Danik might remember some landmarks if we can get him close to the mountains that Eden is hidden in. So we head south to, say, the tallest mountain in the range.”

  “Mt. Obispo?” Rona asked.

  “With a stopover at Yumak City—to retire these sleds and wolf-dogs. It’s a good thing Yumak City is only a slight diversion from our route to Mt. Obispo. Look here—” Rock traced his finger south about seventy miles and then east for twenty. “See? Not so great a detour. I hope there’s enough snow on the ground to allow us to get there without lugging everything by foot.”

  “We could make some sort of wagon.” Detroit said.

  “We have to hurry. I think there will be enough snow. I hope so. Let’s get going.” He folded the map. “First, Yumak City, our resupply point; then on to Mt. Obispo. And keep your collective fingers crossed,” Rock said.

  Eleven

  Meanwhile in Eden, Coronation Day had arrived . . .

  The orchestra was all brass, no strings, no drums. The instruments were badly corroded, not having been used in a hundred years. Nobody knew how to play them either, but that didn’t matter. Nobody in E
den knew what music was supposed to sound like, or exactly what it was for. The founder—in all his wisdom—had forgotten to store any music in the vaults of Eden. The inhabitants knew that music was important to have on momentous occasions. And they did their best to recreate the concept from what they remembered of their grandparents’ humming tunes.

  The music played by the one-hundred-man marching orchestra was a cacophonous rendition of “God Save the King.” People plugged their ears with their fingers as the marching band passed. Then they bowed their heads as the only car in Eden—a 1989 red Ford Fiesta—crawled by with the window rolled down in the rear and the king-to-be Charles Stafford waved and nodded.

  The end of the parade was made up of thirty bulldozers, two abreast, also fouling the limited air with their dioxides.

  Everyone in the city had lined the parade route to view the inaugural parade—for it was not wise to miss the show. It would appear that they didn’t respect and adore their new leader-for-life. And to oppose meant to die.

  King Charles, for his part, was pleased with the way things were going. He stepped out of the car when it reached the Government Building to appropriate oohs and aaahs from the public. And why not? He was wearing a vermilion satin robe encrusted with 1000 five- to ten-carat diamonds that glinted in the spotlight especially arranged to be trained upon his gleaming body at that precise moment. Vainly he smiled, then turned to walk up the twenty-one steps to the throne that was waiting for him at the top of the stairs. The orchestra below raged and fretted with their untuned instruments in an attempt to make up with noise for what they lacked in musicianship, for their lack of knowledge on how to play the tubas, trombones, and trumpets they held to their bleeding lips.