by Ryder Stacy
Just enough pause in the action for Rockson to slip the baton from the nunchakus and get ahold of the dead enemy’s weapon of choice.
Then the remaining two recovered from their shock.
“Lucky shot,” Dedman snarled, sliding the gleaming broadsword from his scabbard, throwing his spear to the side. “Our friend was unaware you had the knife, and we’re not.”
“You’re welcome to come and join him in hell,” Rockson taunted. He smoothly snapped the butterfly knife’s blade back into the handle and slipped it into his waistband. He swung his newly acquired nunchakas so rapidly the whooshing sound blotted out the shout of “Killll,” that Dedman made as he charged at him.
Rockson’s response was a fluid single movement, stepping to the side, dangling the nunchaku sticks at his side, redrawing his balisong from his waistband. Dedman wanted him to raise the sticks: the overwhelming overhead swing of his massive weapon would meet the chain of Rockson’s weapon and snap it and cut through the intruders head.
But always do the unexpected, Chen had taught.
Rock kept the knife closed. He jabbed at his attacked neck with the handle, smashing the blunt hardness inches deep in the pressure point exactly midway between the Adam’s apple and the jugular vein of the swordsman as the blade clanked, sparks flying, against the hard floor tiles. Rockson did this maneuver instinctively, sensing rather than seeing where his opponent’s neck was—a trick of ninjutsu he’d learned well from Chen.
It would have killed any normal man, but the peculiar exoskeletal structure of Dedman’s mutated skeleton, just under his skin and thicker than normal, merely fractured. He rolled and stood up, screaming in pain, but he was alive.
And mad as hell.
It worked once, so why not again: “Here, piggy. Piggy, piggy,” Rock taunted. “Come to my slaughterhouse.”
Dedman was wracked with pain; the blood from the blow that nearly had killed him coursed down his forehead, warm and sticky. But he had survived. And now he would change strategies, control his anger and attack a new way.
He shot an eye toward Bdos Err, who understood. Bdos had retrieved the spear and now he threw it to Dedman. Dedman caught it in his free hand and smiled crookedly—he only showed hints of emotion in battle, otherwise nothing moved him. Now, tasting his own blood on his lips, he approached the strange man, the one who fought so unpredictably. Dedman got into a crouch. The sword . . . This time he would use a sideward swing, avoid the nunchaku the intruder was now swinging over his head. Avoid it by blocking it with the steel spear.
It was all over for the surface dweller.
Rockson threw the balisong with deadly accuracy. The blade stuck deep in the cruel heart of Dedman. The seven-inch blade, thrown with unerring accuracy, was so thin that it had done what Rock prayed it would do—split the bone shield under Dedman’s slimy skin. And it had, sliding in to cut the aorta. The sword fell from the meaty hand that held it, clattering to the ground.
Dedman now lived up to his name.
“Sorry to be so unsportsmanlike,” Rockson said, “but time is a-wasting.”
One opponent now. The most deadly. Bdos circled to the left. He had his bullwhip out. The main event.
With a sinking heart, the Doomsday Warrior stood to face this challenge with the knowledge that it was probably too late to stop Stafford by now. At least two minutes had expired, enough time for Stafford to have escaped—with Factor Q. In just a few more minutes, he would make it to the probeshaft and fire it up to the surface.
Rockson shouted, “Bdos, here’s a little knife for you too,” and made like he was throwing something.
Bdos ducked the imaginary knife, shielding his eyes for a second—enough time for Rock to yank the balisong from its bloody home in Dedman’s chest. God, it was stuck in good. He barely made it.
Rock had grown attached to the slender weapon in this fight. It had accounted for two deaths, why not a third? As Chen stated often: Always fight with the weapon you are most skilled with—if possible.
But Rockson added, as he saw what was coming, But don’t get hung up on digging it out of a dead man.
SWWOOOOOOSSSSSHHHHHH. The long lash of the bullwhip sailed out, and wrapped around Rock’s legs so fast that he was spun off his feet and dragged across the floor in a mere fraction of a second. A second swoosh and a surprise shorter whip tore a red line across the Doomsday Warrior’s back as he rolled, trying to unravel himself. The lash tore off his shirt.
Rock took advantage of his closeness to the attacker to jab with the balisong. He hit metal armor. Shit.
Rockson spun himself out of the grip of the bullwhip’s cord before the second blow from the shorter whip struck.
He needed cover—and dove to get behind a cabinet. The whiplash came again, more accurately. The long leather cord sang through the air so quickly that Rockson was struck in middive. The long, snakelike thing caught him in the ankles and wrapped around them so tight that Rockson was stop-motioned and pulled down hard onto the floor. Bdos, with incredible strength, pulled the whip back toward him, with Rockson entrapped in its grip. Feet first, the Doomsday Warrior was headed toward death.
Using a ninja trick, making himself into a tight ball, the axis of which was his imprisoned ankles, he spun ten times to the side like a whirlwind. He was free—for now.
He quickly recovered, snapped open his body, and leapt to the side—too late to avoid the tip of the long whipcord slashing a red gouge across his forehead. His eyes became obscured by blood. The whipcord’s steel tip had missed them by mere inches. And then again, and again, the whip cracked the stillness. And Rockson rolled and rolled, like a mad dervish.
He found the baton. The whipcord sailed out again. Rock held the baton above his head.
The cord wrapped around the baton—and Rockson’s wrist. The pain was intense. But he endured it. He held on as a mighty tug tried to free the whipcord. Blood pulsed out of torn cartilage on his wrist. Blood oozed down from his forehead into his eyes. The pain in a dozen parts of his steel-muscled bronze body was agonizing. But he held on. He had not only his own life at stake. The whole world depended on the next few seconds of this terror.
And Rockson, knowing the additional pain it would create, still forced himself to roll for his attacker, holding onto the long bullwhip cord.
He had to get this over with.
The smaller whip snapped out its message of ultimate pain, hitting the Doomsday Warrior in the groin. The blow was partly—but only partly—ameliorated by the metal zipper of his pants. The pain was unbearable yet had to be endured.
The shorter cord struck his face, slashing a gouge across his cheek. Dimly, through the blood in his bleary eyes, Rockson could see the look of triumph on Bdos Err’s countenance.
Bdos struck again at Rock’s face. And the Doomsday Warrior, always unorthodox, snagged the second whipcord in his teeth, and bit hard onto it. He held on and got to his feet. Twisting like a top, he spun now, ramming his skull into the man’s face.
His tormentor oomphed as his nose cracked, and as Rock raised his face before the man, he knew Bdos could take less pain than he could deliver. He was shaken.
Rock took the sheathed knife from Bdos Err’s belt, used all his might to lift up one of Bdos Err’s arms, and slammed the blade in toward the one spot on his massive chest area that the armor didn’t cover—the space in the armor under the armpit. Pain drove him like no other incentive to destroy this man, this last fearsome obstacle to the pursuit of Stafford.
It was over, the look in his eyes told the story. Waning life. The strength of the man was sapped. Bdos Err, mightiest of Eden, was dying. And a gentleness came into his eyes.
He whispered as blood oozed from his lips. He uttered his last words: “I am loyal. All my life I have served the government . . .”
“Yes, you have,” said Rockson, catching the sagging body, letting the weight of the man sag to the floor as the dark eyes rolled up.
“Yes, you have . . .”
&
nbsp; Twenty-Eight
Rockson thought that Stafford must be heading to the damned probe. The probe in the shaft that led to the surface. He was going to put the canister of ultimate death in the probe, fire it up to the surface. He had perhaps picked the moment when most of Eden slept to perpetrate this ultimate act of evil.
Rock checked the adjoining bedroom and another room, but he knew he would find no one. He was gone, and the means to destroy all life on Earth was with him.
Rockson ran back to the throne room. The Freefighters were all there, except for Archer. Archer soon appeared, dragging a senator by the scruff of his neck across the floor.
“Good work, Archer,” Rockson said. Archer bowed, dropping the little frightened gray-robed man summarily in front of his big feet.
Upon sharp questioning, the senator stuttered out that the surface probe was at the far end of the Crypt Cave.
“The Crypt Cave is the burial palace of high officials. It is the closest place to the surface,” Danik exclaimed.
“Let’s go,” Rock snapped out, “and burn down anyone that gets in our way.”
Danik led them to the easternmost point of the city, just beyond the little metal “park.” Rockson saw an archway with a lot of plastic flowers in pails on both sides of the portal.
“That’s it,” said Danik, breathing hard from the run—or the excitement.
Once inside the triangular door, Rockson and his team raced along between the marble sarcophagi, thousands of silent repositories for the people who never seen real sunlight or known love, for people who had lived and died in the stale atmosphere of this prison city.
Rockson soon was in the lead of all the Freefighters, and was first to plunge up the steeply inclined staircase that led to the probe shaft. There was a chance, he realized, making the fifth landing. Stafford was way out of shape; he probably was huffing and puffing not too far ahead. Rock stopped for an instant, and listened. Yes, labored footfalls, about three stories above. Madly he doubled-stepped the stairs, heading up with his burner at the ready. The lights on the stairs, bare bulbs connected by strings of wire tacked along the staircase ceiling, went out. He continued along the staircase in the darkness, feeling his way along the metal bannister.
Chen was, Rock surmised by the soft rapid foot-falls, coming up behind him. The martial arts expert was swift in darkness, sensing rather than seeing where he was headed. Good, there might be a need for his hand-to-hand skills, especially if Stafford was armed and managed to kill Rock. Perhaps Chen could take over and save the day.
A flash of light seared the air, and Rock tumbled down a half flight to avoid it. A beam of heat from a disintegrator gun. He had caught up to Stafford. Now what?
There was silence. As he lay there, a hand touched Rockson’s shoulder. Chen. Rock acknowledged the nudge. They were two against one now. But how could they press that advantage? Had Stafford reached the level where the probe was situated?
“Stop.” Rockson yelled. “Let’s talk, Stafford. Don’t do it.”
There was a high-pitched screech in the area above. What the hell? It wasn’t a human scream. That came a moment later. There was the sound of leather snapping in the air; a wind coursed down the staircase.
The horrible human scream continued. Stafford’s scream. There were flashbeams behind the two Freefighters, others of their company coming up the stairs. Danik was one of the first to reach them. “I heard,” Danik gasped.
“Was it a giant bat?” Rock said. “How could it get in here?”
A trip to the top of the stairs showed how the seemingly impossible event had occurred.
“A tremor must have opened up the wall of this excavation to the cavern,” Rock said as the flashbeams played around the ragged hole in the left wall of the small probe room.
Danik played his flashbeam around, finding the narrow shaftway that led upward, the missile-like surface probe still poised in it. Rockson rushed to the device and opened its compartment door. No Factor Q canister. So Stafford hadn’t had time to put Factor Q into the missile. The bat had gotten Stafford first.
Rockson took up McCaughlin’s electron binoculars and peered into the darkness of the cavern through the aperture in the wall. Desperately he adjusted the infrared power and the magnification to maximum, scanning the far reaches of the cavern—and saw a flapping thing, far away. A black shape. The bat, winging away with Stafford in its claws, heading away, away, down the long cavern corridors.
He put down the instrument. How was he to follow? And yet he must. He must be sure the canister was not burst open. Even if that happened in the depths of the cavern, the germs would spread slowly, make their way over time to the surface.
He pulled the powerful instrument from his eyes, and asked Danik for his flashlight. He played the light down into the cavern below them. He saw that the way was steep, but one could climb down. This he proceeded to do. He scrambled down the shifting sands of the underground embankment with no real plan in mind. He knew one thing, though. He had to retrieve that canister.
Once on the limestone floor below, Rockson considered waiting for his companions who were following, then changed his mind, plunging ahead at breakneck speed.
He ran for what seemed an hour but might have been just a few minutes, then, exhausted, he fell heavily against a jutting rock formation. He was breathing heavily. It was silly, this running after a flying thing. A thing more powerful than a hundred men. A thing by now lost in the bowels of the Earth.
He let out a cry of utter hopelesssness.
Rockson’s heart sank to its lowest level ever. All of his struggle, the immense trek, the terrible passage through the caverns of Eden, the death of Chief Smokestone—all for naught.
Surely the canister of death was shattered someplace in the cavern now, and slowly, inexorably, over the next few days the strange and deadly germ would permeate everywhere.
The glow of his flashlight annoyed him now, for he wanted the darkness to hide his tears. Rockson’s flicked it off and wept alone in the darkness.
Giggles. The touch of icy thought fingers to his forehead. The damned Whisperers again. Rock thought, with anger. “Go away,” Rockson shouted.
“Aren’t you afraid of us?” the soft whisper said.
“What’s to be afraid of?—The whole Earth is doomed.”
“How so?” asked the gentle voice.
Rockson said, “Look. Whoever or whatever you are—you might as well know. I’m doomed, all is doomed. So leave me alone.”
“I read into your thoughts. What you think is happening is horrible. It must not be. I must help you.” There was a swishing sound, like the rippling of silk in the wind. A breeze caressed Rockson face.
And the voice was closer. “My name is Starlight. Turn on your light and see me.”
Curious and thinking to himself, Oh, why not, seeing this creature will fill in the last few hours of my life, Rockson turned on the light, and beheld a delightful girl child of about ten years of age—a girl dressed in a sparkling gossamer outfit, like a fairy. She had the softest blond hair and a cherubic face. She also had two green tendrils that looked like combed-back antennae on either side of her forehead. Telepathy apparatus.
Twenty-Nine
“Starlight, can you really help?”
“I have powers, and friends. It is possible. I will call my great red friend.” The child whistled long and slow. “There, that is done. Now while we wait—it will just be a moment—let me tell you about us Whisperers.
“We are the missing children of Eden. Our parents left us hideous children—we mutants look all scrunched up at birth—to die at the Sacrifice pool. They believed the cavern beings would take us and eat us. Many of the first to be abandoned died. Some among us crawled away and lived off the mushrooms—and survived. We took care of the others who were left at the waters after that. We are not as young as we look—we age very slowly. I am psychic, you are correct there—that is why I could immediately understand the peril. I know somethin
g good. The canister is yet intact.”
There was the noise of a great flying thing swooping down from the cavern roof high above. Rock yelled, “Down,” and went to draw his pistol.
“No,” said the child. “It is only Ra-we-nak. The red bat. He is the friend I whistled for. He will help us find Stafford and retrieve the vial.”
Rock flashed up his beam at the monstrous thing of leather wings that now swooped down and folded its wings. It waddled over to Starlight and nudged the girl child with its big single-horned head.
“Nice Ra-we-nak,” Starlight said. “You must let us ride you; you must follow the vampire bat that has taken the man.”
If a bat could look startled and uneasy, this one did. It shied away, trembled.
“Do not worry, Ra-we-nak,” said Starlight. “We have a weapon, a heat pistol. And you must do this, so that we can all remain alive. Please. If you like me, and want me to be your friend anymore, please do this.
The creature’s eyes became watery and it seemed to nod.
Rockson was prompted by Starlight to mount the giant flying steed. He shrugged, and holding the horn of the dark red saddle, he pulled himself up on the thing’s back. This was all a hallucination anyway, he thought. One of the Whisperers’ crazy mind-jokes. He’d go along for the ride.
Starlight climbed aboard, squeezing her cherubic little body in front of his. Then they took off at lightning speed, the giant red bat snapping its wings mightily to gain altitude.
It sure seemed real enough, Rockson thought, hanging on for dear life as the floor of the cavern disappeared in the darkness.
Soon they were in a dull fiery red light. They were apparently going about a hundred miles an hour. Rock figured that from the flashing-past of a multitude of stalactites on either side of their flight path. They flew at the red glow in the distance. He felt like he was inside an intestine. And laughed. Perhaps this twisting huge tunnel was one of the bowels of the Earth. Ha ha, what an illusion.