Doomsday Warrior 08 - American Glory

by Ryder Stacy

  Rockson didn’t give him time, leaping with a heave of his steel thighs toward the stunned brave. As he landed alongside the man, another set of sunbaked buffalo horns came out of the center of the circle toward him with the speed of a real bison. Rockson shot his knife arm straight out to meet the skull of the oncoming locomotive dead on between the eyes. He brought the heel of his boot down on the back of the neck of the brave who was just emerging from his helmet. The neck snapped with the sickening sound of a chicken bone cracking in two. At the same instant, his blood-coated blade sank deep into animal skull and then the human one beneath it. The case-hardened steel ripped through the Indian’s head and deep into the brain below, slicing memory into madness and life into death in the twist of a wrist. “W-o-o-d-chuck, chuck-chuck,” Rock chanted, remembering Nielson said it seemed to make them worried. The remaining buffalo-heads froze in place, even backed off a bit. The whopping crowd grew silent.

  He wiped his eyes with his sleeve as he walked slowly backwards, in a low-legged horse stance, ready for the next attack. The entire battle had lasted under thirty seconds so far, and Rock had no idea how many he’d taken out. But as he wheeled, he saw only four of the huge heads confronting him from the sides of the circle. He realized that the odds were coming round. Maybe he’d even live. The wound in his side sent a shiver of sharp pain through his nerves and Rockson winced as he felt a thin stream of blood oozing down his leg and into his boot, making it simultaneously sticky and slippery inside. He used the bolt of pure pain to charge him up, to push his adrenaline to even higher levels, his senses to a peak. Then he waited for them to make the next move.

  The four buffalo heads looked around at each other, alarmed to see how many the mad magic of the white man had killed. None had ever done so well before. For the first time in their entire lives the four knew real heart-pounding fear, as they realized that their own lives were suddenly very much at stake. They yelled what Rockson took to be words of macho encouragement to one another and then started forward, trying to fence him in and end it with the piercing of eight horns into his flesh. But Rock had trained for years in fighting multiple opponents. For the more there were of them, the more their movements—not his—were confined. The more chance there was for an opening.

  He saw it. As they closed to within feet of him, one of the braves stumbled slightly and went half-down on one knee. In the batting of an eyelash the Doomsday Warrior reached the man in a single stride and jumped right over him, just clearing the horns as they came up in a murderous thrust at his stomach. Rock came down on his feet just behind the Indian and turned without even coming to a stop, jumping up onto the buffalo-man’s back.

  Now he had a mount, the Doomsday Warrior thought with a flicker of amusement. And he’d use it. Wrapping his left arm around the brave’s throat, he held the knife out with the other and jabbed into the man’s lower back. The Indian shot forward as if a hot poker was up his ass, trying to escape the tip of the blade which Rock had stabbed in only an inch or so, to avoid mortally wounding his human horse. The scampering Sioux crashed right into the masked brave coming in the opposite direction, and as they collided Rockson took the opportunity to swing the knife under and up, coming into the nearest Sioux’s throat. From the gurgling sounds that issued from the warrior’s mouth, Rock knew that he had struck paydirt and pulled the blade out again as he sensed the presence of an attacker just behind him. “Wood-chuck-chuck-chuck,” he chanted.

  Using his stabbing double-edged reins, Rock plunged the blade deep into the right leg of the Indian who was unwillingly carrying him. The man screamed and fell to that side, spinning around.

  Rock and his captive mount fell to the ground in a heap as the attacker’s lunging horns sliced into the air that Rockson had just been occupying.

  “Bye, bye, pal,” the Doomsday Warrior whispered into the ear of the steed who had served him so loyally for nine seconds, and brought the knife down right into the top of the buffalo mask, striking something that cracked, shuddered and then was still. He jumped to his feet as one of the masked Indians leaped into the air at full speed and headed toward Rock’s chest like a hairy horned missile. There was no chance to get away, so the Doomsday Warrior stood his ground, turning his upper body and hips just enough so the shooting star of fur missed him by inches. He remembered what Chen had always told him when they sparred together back in Century City: “Don’t commit yourself in the air. ’Cause once you’re launched, you’re just a slow-flying duck waiting to be shot down.” The Indian flying by alongside of Rockson had apparently never heard that advice. And he never would. Rock held the knife straight up dead-center of the airborne body. The tip of the blade caught the Indian first at the top of his nose. It dug in and sliced a furrow that ran the full length of the Sioux’s body as he flew by, a plowed field of flesh from which a crop of blood and lungs instantly grew. He came down several yards past Rockson, sliding into the dusty ground like a 707 coming in for a belly landing. He slid, leaving a trail of red foam on the runway, came to a complete stop, and didn’t move again.

  Rock turned, searching for more Sioux attackers, but could find only dead or barely moving bodies around the now blood-soaked ritual circle of combat. Then he saw the last of them at the far side of the circle. He had thrown his buffalo mask from his head and shoulders and was backing away from Rockson, screaming something out in Sioux as the crowd around them both joined in, cursing and spitting at the treacherous foe who had vanquished their best braves unfairly, with use of a black-magic chant. The last fighter was handed a bow and an arrow, which he quickly fitted into the cord. Rock couldn’t understand the Indian’s mouthings but he knew roughly what the intent was: “If you think you won, forget it, man! I’ll kill you even though it is against the rules.” The brave slowly raised the bow, and pulled the string back as the smile on his desert-hardened face grew wider and wider.

  Seeing that there was no referee for Rockson to appeal to about the disobeying of Challenge-of-the-Buffalo regulations, the Doomsday Warrior decided to make the judgment call on his own. He flipped the knife in the air and caught the blade. Before the brave even saw the motion, Rock brought the knife up to his shoulder, balancing it exactly two thirds of the way down the dripping red steel, and released it with all his throwing strength. The blade spiraled forward, spinning end over end across the Indian graveyard that Rockson had just created below it. The Indian’s smile began to vanish as he saw it coming. But the agent-of-death was already halfway across. Frantically the brave swung his bow up and pulled the string the rest of the way back to his ear. Like a bird coming home to the nest, the blade seemed to veer infinitesimally to the right and slammed claws first into the Indian’s right eye. The hand released the arrow, which flew wildly off, missing Rockson by yards. The Indian clamped both hands over his face, the knife sticking through the eye socket, buried nearly to the hilt and poking out the back of the warrior’s skull. Without making a sound, he toppled forward onto his face.

  Rock stood up, relaxing his super-tense muscles, and looked around him. The place was a butchershop of human flesh. With the buffalo heads lying around the bodies of their previous owners, the entire scene had a surreal look to it. As if it was a monument, a Stonehenge of animal and human masks dedicated to a ceremonial proposition that any and all mortals can die at any second.

  Fourteen

  Rockson was called before the assembled chiefs as the Sioux translator and Nielson went at it again like Martians trying to speak Greek to one another. The feathered top brass looked positively sickened at the outcome, their lips trembling, their eyes dark and filled with raging fire at the man who had destroyed their champs. Shom-ga-na nervously stepped forward to translate, hoping Rockson wouldn’t chant the death-chant anymore.

  “Rock, you bastard,” Nielson said, turning to his commander. “You won. They say you are the one who it was prophesied would come. The Buffalo Hunter, the one capable of destroying their masked marauders there. They don’t like the idea but
apparently—you’re the big cheese here now. You won the place.” The Sioux translator grunted to catch Nielson’s attention and gave him another flurried hand-fan of messages from Chief Bright Sun.

  “They want to know what you want to do with the village, with the women. Where they should go to be imprisoned; if they are to be your slaves.”

  Rockson waved his hand in disgust at the idea and nodded to the top chief, who let a grimace of a smile twist across his stone face before it settled into its dark prune-folds once again.

  “Tell them—especially tell the top banana here, who looks like he’s about to have a heart attack—that I’m not in the least bit interested in taking over this development. That he’s still the boss and that all we want to do is get the hell out of here.” Nielson translated the message to the sub-chief whose face grew brighter and brighter with each thought that was communicated. He turned and barked out the words to the chiefs who all leaned forward on their royal deerskin and buffalo-hide divans, their faces showing little flickers of relief that vanished instantly. The top man spoke and Nielson interpreted the results.

  “The chief says you are free to go. They will give you all the supplies you want—and none of your flock will be harmed. He says he hopes they haven’t in their stupidity of your godly ways offended you.”

  “Tell them I am sorry that so many of their strong young men had to die. That we are all Americans—and no matter what our inglorious past together, we can only face the future as brothers or we will die alone, atomized into impotent little units that will be destroyed by the invading tribes of Russians.”

  Nielson translated the words into sign language, and then the response from the chief.

  “He says the word of the Buffalo Slayer is law now. They will no longer kill Americans—only Russians—only those who wear the Red Star uniform.” Rockson bowed to the chief and then stood tall, snapping out a crisp U.S. Army-style salute. Gulley Face returned the gesture.

  The Freefighters’ weapons and ’brids were returned to them loaded up with supplies of fresh fruit, meat, and replenished gourds of water. They marched through the central sandy square past the now totally silent and bowing New-Sioux, who watched Rockson with eyes filled with both fear and worship. A man so strong would have been great, powerful, unbeatable magic for their tribe. And Rock swore he saw a twinkle in the eye of the old chief, thanking him for splitting the scene—and for leaving the power structure intact.

  They rode straight north for 16 hours without stopping, just slowing every hour for five minutes to walk, at which time the ’brids were given water via a long curved tube from a gourd—Indian canteens—held in the arms of their riders. With good weather and no spy drones around to signal their passage, the force made excellent time—finding themselves at last within miles of their rendezvous point with the American army of several thousand men who—if all was going according to plan—were in the final stages of setting up the invasion of Fort Minsk from the woods that surrounded it.

  They came to the south end of the thick forest and tramped into it, moving slowly as the branches grew lower. Rockson was just beginning to wonder where the hell his men were and if something had gone wrong when he heard the heart-warming challenge.

  “Halt—give the password,” a hidden voice intoned from the maze of leaves to the right of them. Rock knew that at least a dozen guns were trained on them right that second. He moved slowly so as not to spook any jittery fingers.

  “Silver threads—” Rock said loudly, cupping his hands over his mouth.

  “Among the gold.” The voice cried back, as several figures dropped from the limbs around them.

  “Rockson,” the head of the guard detail exclaimed, “where the hell you been? All the top brass been, pardon the expression, crapping in their pants waiting for you to get here. The attack is due to begin in 24 hours and—”

  “Well, let’s not waste any more time then, pal,” Rock said, slapping the unshaven, baggy-eyed Freefighter on the back. “Ran into a few sideshows on the road. You know how it is.” The entire team breathed a sigh of relief that they had actually made it as the journey had given them a little more action than usual. For the first time in days their stomach muscles relaxed and their lungs filled completely with air as they realized, unwinding, that they had been coiled as tight as springs about to snap.

  They were led a mile through the woods, the immense Fort Minsk occasionally visible through the branches to the north of them, until they came to a camp set up beneath the trees—tents and hammocks strung along their lower limbs. The whole thing was somewhat constricting to get around in but necessary because of their proximity to the KGB-held fortress and the occasional chopper that flew overhead. The rest of the team headed for showers, fresh clothes, and food while Rock just stopped to grab a cup of steaming black coffee from one of the many coffee-pots that sat on no-smoke pellet stoves. He walked to the command post, a rectangular camouflage-patterned tent that ran fifty feet long but, because of the many branches overhead, was only about six feet high. He pushed aside the front flaps. A meeting consisting of Century City’s top ten military men was in heated progress, with General Hastings, the white-haired chief of staff, banging his fist down on the log table they’d lashed together, which was covered with maps and battle plans.

  “Rock,” Hastings said, stopping whatever he was about to extrapolate on in mid-sentence. The military brass, somehow managing to be well-groomed, their uniforms pressed and straight, all looked up. Their eyes focused on Rockson’s face as if he was a mixture of the Almighty savior and a warthog all rolled into one. The military leaders of the subterranean city had always had an uneasy alliance with Rockson. Although highly successful in his military planning and maneuvers in the past—and therefore virtually immune to criticism—the man irked them in a thousand different ways. He never wore a real uniform, never saluted, or followed any of the customary procedures and rules that were the glue of any man’s army. He never had his special men march parade drill, wear regulation combat gear, or do army calisthenics or workouts of any kind. He just wasn’t—an army man. Yet, as the living symbol of America’s resistance, he had an official say and even ultimate veto over all major military moves. Not that he pulled rank—of that they were grateful. If anything, the man seemed most content when off on a mission of his own, by himself or just his five-man team. Perhaps deep down inside the hearts of each of the brass was a wish to be like Rockson—a born and perfect warrior. But only their jealous eyes expressed the feeling, as their mouths welcomed him to the meeting.

  Rock waved his hands, not wanting to go through all the formalities. “Please, please, gentlemen. Just pretend I’m not here and continue with your discussion. You can fill me in as you go along.”

  “Well, Rock,” Hastings went on, “we were just discussing—”

  “Arguing,” General Spokes yelled out with a hard laugh.

  “Arguing,” Hastings agreed, “about the best battle formation. We really haven’t had too much experience in laying waste a whole fortress. As you know, most of our military expeditions since Century City was founded have been hitting convoys, smaller bases. Strike-destroy-split. So none of us, in all honesty, has been really sure how to proceed. We dug up some old siege booklets from the Military Library back at Century City but they’re obsolete for a number of reasons.” Rock listened intently, nursing the coffee down to the bitter grounds, wishing there was more.

  “So we were just dis—arguing about whether to send all our forces against one wall—mortar, machine gun, infantrymen—and try to bring it down. Or to attack all four sides, weaken their inner forces, disperse them and try to move in fast with a mobile commando unit and get inside. I must say I favor the one-wall scenario,” General Hastings added, wanting to get his point over first. “We know that Minsk is filled with heavy artillery up on the walls—auto-fire machine guns, rocket racks—the works. Assuming Killov and his men can handle what they’ve got there—then they’ve got a hundred tim
es the firepower that we do. Intel Chief Rath convinced the Century City council to cut by 60% the number of Freefighters the city would send here.”

  “Damn,” muttered Rockson. “That bastard Rath . . .”

  “The way I see it then,” the General continued, “our only chance is to just keep blasting every goddamned bit of fire we possess on one section of one wall—rip it apart—and then get our asses in there fast.” The portly but physically strong-as-a-bull general finished and sat back, trying to gauge Rockson’s reaction.

  “Sounds as good as anything I could come up with,” Rock said matter-of-factly, adding, “is there any coffee around here?”

  “Orderly, orderly,” Hastings sputtered impatiently to one of several uniformed soldiers standing around the log table. “Bring two pots of coffee and some food. On the double.” The trooper ran out and returned with impossible quickness with the required items. Rock couldn’t help himself, as his growling stomach demanded it, and began stuffing his mouth with the various rolls, pastries, and assorted doughy items that were brought in as the generals continued their heated debate—each side of the argument sure that only their plan would bring victory, and the adoption of the other’s position—total, humiliating defeat.

  Before they could make a final decision—and before Rockson had cleaned off the food tray, one of the outer forest guards came rushing right through the flaps of the tent where he hit into the edge of the branch-lashed table, sending it and himself flying over sideways onto the dirt.