Doomsday Warrior 18 - American Dream Machine

by Ryder Stacy

  Archer’s chest swelled and he led Rock back into the warmer small room. “Sit, Drink!” Archer demanded, opening a cabinet and handing Rockson an ancient aluminum can that said Blatz on it. Rock pushed some chicken bones and some newspapers off one easy chair, and sat down, raising a cloud of dust. He pried the lid of the can open and warm beer fizzed up. He took a slug. It wasn’t very good, might never have been very good. But what the hell, it wet his whistle.

  Archer opened his own can and drank it down in one long gulp. Then he wiped foam off his beard, burped, and said, “Good Beer!”

  Rockson lied and agreed with Archer, adding, “Maybe you have some other brand? Just for variety?”

  Archer went over and opened a picnic-type box made of styrofoam and took out a pair of dark old bottles. “Bass Ale,” Archer said proudly. “I save for company. You like?”

  “I’d love it,” Rock said. Bass was his favorite, and glass bottles a hundred years old usually kept the taste better than cans of the same age! Rock accepted a chilled bottle—Archer had ice in the box—and leaned back and twisted the cap off. It fizzed and he drank it down. When he was done, he wiped the foam from his mouth as Archer had, and gasped out a long, heartfelt “Ahhhhh!”

  They each had a few more, exchanging information about what had transpired over the years to each of them. The fire was dying by the time they had finished their updating, and Archer went to a pile of bowling pins jumbled in a corner and came back and fed ten or twelve pins into the fire.

  “Aren’t you lonely here?” Rock said.

  “No,” Archer replied. “Have good newspapers. Have lots of firewood. It not lonely here.” His brow furrowed a bit, and Archer admitted, “But sometime miss old days—miss fighting Reds most! Miss trips to Russia on rocket ship! Ha! Remember me fly with you? Remember we prisoner in Soviet rocket?”

  “Yeah I remember,” Rock said, with a laugh. “I also seem to remember you farted up there in space and nearly killed everyone on board with the smell!” That particular reminiscence brought laughter from the giant.

  When he stopped laughing, he added, “Sometimes visitors drop by.”

  “Visitors?”

  “You will see,” Archer promised. “Nice visitors! Sometimes wild women come! Great-looks-women! They all alone, woman-alone tribe! Want to get pregnant! And me help them.” The giant laughed again, rubbing his big barrel belly. Archer gave Rock a brief description of these “good-looks-women.” From his friend’s description of the women, Rockson concluded that he had been visited by the green-skinned wild women tribe that Rock had encountered once. They were called the Barbarahs, after their leader. They worshipped Barbarah as a goddess. And Barbarah demanded that they live apart from men, except to find one from time to time so the tribe could procreate.

  “Those women could be dangerous,” Rock cautioned his big friend. “Be careful.”

  “Me careful!” Archer said. “But they be great in sack! I have other visitor right now,” Archer said. “You will see him. Just after kill bad men, find hungry dying man out on old road. He stay here get healthy on food I make!”

  “Where is he?”

  “I’m right here,” someone said in a high, small voice from over by the bowling alley door. Rockson spun around, his hand on his pistol. There was a tiny thin man in a red tunic and curled-front red slippers standing there, smiling. The man said, “Hi. I’m Zydeco Realness. Who are you?”

  Rockson told him and the little man gasped. The man’s tiny green eyes lit up and he rushed over and shook Rock’s hand. He didn’t have much of a grip. “You are the great Doomsday Warrior! You are the man who saved America!”

  Rockson let go of the butt of his gun. “Well . . . sort of.”

  “Glad, so glad to meet you! Excitement only diminished by tiredness factor. Understand? Sustenance necessary to restore health, comprehend?”

  “Yes, I do.” Rockson stared at the diminutive figure intently. The elf-man wore no weapons. He had a long, pointy nose, high cheekbones, and a tiny goatee. He looked a hell of a lot like the little missile silo-dweller people Rockson had encountered some years back. The ones called—“Are you a Technician?” Rockson asked.

  Zydeco Realness replied, “In a way. My people, like the so-called Technicians race you speak of, live in old missile silos. Living underground for so long affected our bodies in much the same ways as in that race you speak of now. But the Technicians, I so comprehend, are all dead now. Far as I equate. My people call themselves the Techno-survivors. And I am very happy-glad-pleased to meet you!” The little man again shot out a hand to shake Rockson’s. It felt like a small, cold, child’s hand, Rock decided.

  “How long have you been here?”

  “About a week now. I was very sick,” the little man said as he helped himself to a Blatz, “but this magical relaxing liquid refreshment restored me!” He smiled a pointy-toothed grin and sat down on a hassock, popping open the can and sipping at it. “I traveled far to bring good news to Archer. We knew of him for years, we know of Century City, and all the guerrilla wars—everything—for years. We monitored broadcasts from our sealed missile silos. We decided to open up to world outside once we heard over wavelengths that, happiness-joyously-wonderful, there is at last peace. Techno-survivors have a high level of science. We make many things and we decided in meeting to offer such things as we make to the other Americans. Americans like you and Archer. I set out to bring word to nearest American who live on surface—Archer. But I’m not used to cold, to wind. I get very sick. I almost didn’t make it.”

  “Glad you did,” Rockson said. “What sort of things are you Techno-survivors manufacturing? Do you want to trade them for some of Century City’s goods? If so I—”

  “No! No trade. These things we make are gifts to you to show appreciation for finally winning war with Red Soviets! We eager, will return favor to great American patriots. I have a gift for you Rockson, for all American heroes. Not here—too big to bring. You and Archer will come see it in Cavetown. Not far. Two days by foot-walking!”

  “What is it?”

  “Technical description has no equivalent. Device NQ-27364JTY is utterly new, and fun too. But best fun for dying men-heroes. Thing-device is ultra-goody-good for life’s last days.”

  Rockson was pretty confused now. A fun thing for the dying? Is that what the Techno-survivors invented? “I don’t have a hell of a lot of time, Zydeco,” Rock said. “I should go back to my home. Maybe I can send someone from Century City to fetch it from your Cavetown. Give me the directions, I’ll tell the city council and—”

  “No,” Zydeco insisted, the tip of his long nose starting to turn red. “You come and get it. Now! We don’t like to be dissed! Warning. Last people that dissed us, are evaporated-gone-deceased-eliminated. Sorry!”

  “Dissed?”

  “Disrespected us,” Zydeco said. “One thing we Techno-survivors can’t stand, it’s being dissed. I tell my people you don’t accept nice gift, they might shoot a few old missiles at your city! Truth-veracity-sincerity.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  The little man’s face turned pale. “No, I am not. That would be dissing you! I tell it like it is. Accept gift, then we friends. Friends forever.” Zydeco’s tiny voice had grown hoarse and tight. “Please don’t make me tell them you dissed us!”

  Rockson thought for a moment. The little man’s people had missiles; that could be dangerous. Why not play along, accept his goddamned gift and avoid trouble? . . . Rock decided, said, “OK, Zydeco. I won’t diss you! I will go and accept your present.” He turned to Archer, who had been following the discussion as best he could. “You want to come with me, Arch?”

  “Me come!”

  As they packed supplies for the overland trip, Rockson learned a little more about Device NQ-whatever-the-hell-it-was. Zydeco explained that it was a sort of dreaming chamber. You lay a man or woman who was dying inside it, press a button, and they dreamed their way into slumber with beautiful, happy drea
ms. Enjoyment instead of pain.

  “Better to die that way,” Zydeco said, beaming with his pointy teeth showing. They were greenish, a lighter tint than his little eyes.

  “Yes, I guess so,” Rock replied. But he, for one, would rather die the old-fashioned way, even if it hurt a lot. He would rather leave life conscious and aware of his death. Still, Rockson had to admit there were many casualties of the radiation leak back at C.C. who were living out their last days in terrible pain. Some of them might wish to use the machine.

  “Cavetown,” Zydeco said, “lies fifty miles due south.”

  “If the device is heavy, how do I get it to C.C.?” Rock asked.

  “Antigravity stuff lifts it off ground,” Zydeco explained. “I didn’t leave it behind because it is heavy, but because it is our custom that giftee come accept gifts from us.”

  “Terrific,” Rockson muttered under his breath. Sometimes he hated the customs of the various peoples he encountered in his far-flung journeys. So much rigmarole. He hated rigmarole!

  It was around midnight before they had packed what they needed. “No walking at night,” Zydeco said. “Too cold.”

  Rockson agreed. “OK,” Rock said, “we can leave at dawn. After a good night’s sleep.” He yawned. “Where’s the bed, Archy-boy?”

  “I will have them show you!” Archer laughed and rang a dinner bell.

  Out of a side room paraded a bevy of the loveliest and most scantily clad maidens Rockson had seen in a coon’s age. Five green-skinned young wild-women! Their catlike yellow eyes flickered with lust, their tongues rolled over their lips.

  “Hellcats in bed,” Archer laughed. “Smell like lollipop!”

  “Yeah, I know,” Rock said, remembering his last tryst with one of these women. The deep scratch lines on his back had taken months to heal. But it had been—interesting.

  Zydeco sighed audibly. “I will take three Blatz super-nutrition-liquids to bed with me for energy! Fun is ability divided by quotient of energy!” The little man went and got three of the old cans from the cabinet and disappeared, with a pair of the green-girls, into a side room. They towered over the little man, but he didn’t seem bothered by that—nor did they.

  The tallest and slinkiest wild-woman caught Rock’s admiring eye. She approached, and pressed her warm, slithery, green body against him and her silvery blue, long hair slid across his cheek. She began an erotic dance, pushing her groin into his crotch. The subtle approach.

  Rock, despite himself, felt his manhood stiffen. “Aw what the hell,” he mumbled and took her around the waist. “Where’s my room Arch?”

  Archer laughed and pointed, as the last two women put their arms about the mountain man’s massive waist. Rock and the wild-woman went into the side room and shut the door. There was a Coleman lamp lit in there, and a mattress on the floor, covered with a patchwork quilt that didn’t look too dirty. Plus a case of Bass Ale. At least there was no garbage in the room. Archer Inn. Honeymoon hotel!

  She started tearing at his clothes even before Rock had sunk down onto the quilt. He reached over and grabbed a bottle and took a swig, then just lay back and enjoyed it.

  Five

  Rock yawned widely, opened his eyes, and looked over to where the wild-woman had been, next to him on the bed. The dent on the pillow from her head was still there, but she was gone. He hadn’t heard her leave—she had been very silent about it.

  He sat up and stretched, his hands up high. That’s when he felt the smart of a series of scratches on his muscular back. “Goddamned she-cat,” he hissed. He put on his pants and undershirt and staggered into the main room, desperate for some coffee. Archer was already there, sitting at the sofa, slurping down a cup of java he had brewed. The smell hit Rockson’s nostrils. “Fresh coffee!” he exclaimed. “Where the hell did you get it?”

  “Wild-women bring,” Archer replied tersely. Rock noticed that the mountain man was in his long johns, but he still had his weather-beaten, wide-brimmed leather hat jammed down on his head. Maybe he slept with it on!

  “Well, how about you give me a mug of that stuff,” Rock demanded. As soon as he downed the cup that Archer poured from a battered percolator set over on a small, propane-fired camping stove in the corner, Rock asked, “Are all the women gone?”

  Archer nodded. “They no stick around. But leave presents.” He yawned like a bear. And his breath was like a bear’s too.

  “Where’s Zydeco?” Rock asked.

  Before Arch could answer, the little elf-man came out of his own room, wearing a candy-eating happy grin. “Great experience!” he exclaimed. “Excellent physical abilities. Good energy levels! Energy is product of ratio of—”

  “Yeah,” Rock said derisively, again feeling the scratches smart on his back, “and good fingernails too! Sit down Zydeco, and have a mug. After coffee we’ll set off for that Cavetown of yours. It’s a long walk so—”

  “No walk,” Archer smiled, putting down his cup. “Women leave mounts as presents. Three mounts! We ride!”

  “Great,” Rock said, meaning it this time. “What kind of horses are they?”

  “They not horses.”

  “Oh—mules? Donkeys?”

  “Come see!” Archer said, laughing.

  They put down their cups and Archer led them into the blinding light of morning. There was a coating of frost on the ground and their breath came out in white clouds. Rockson and Zydeco had put on their boots, but Archer just walked in his holey old brown and stiff socks. The cold didn’t seem to bother his size-twenty feet a bit.

  When they had come around to the other side of the bowling center’s main building, Rock saw the three mounts they were to ride—and gasped. “They’re ostriches!” he exclaimed.

  “Not exactly,” Zydeco said, in pleased tones. “They are much better than that! I believe these mounts are Guam rail birds. Very large ones. Women-tribe uses them.”

  The seven-foot-high birds had their bridles tethered to a fallen branch under a bare tree. They turned their long necks and gazed suspiciously at the three men. The plumage of the birds was multicolored, like peacocks’. But the birds were shaped more like quails.

  “Nice saddles,” Rock said, seeing silvery embossed edging on the tawny leather saddles. He approached the birds slowly and they seemed to back off.

  Zydeco said, “I saw the wild-women come here a few days ago riding some of these birds—with a few spares along. They told me it’s important to smile when you approach the birds. Show no fear. Otherwise they can bite you—or kick you with their big taloned feet. They’re very tough-rough-mean birds. They’re descended, I believe, from some smaller of their species that escaped from zoos during the Nuke War. Those saddles are put on once. They stay on. They don’t mind the saddles.”

  “Can they take Archer’s weight?” Rock asked, somewhat dubious of any bird’s ability to carry the oversized mountain man. Archer’s feet would brush the ground, even if he sat on the saddle of the tallest bird.

  “They can carry us easily,” Zydeco said. He went over to one of the birds, smiling broadly and making cooing noises. The elf-man picked up a tuft of grass and fed it to the huge-beaked, tall bird, which took it and nuzzled against his tiny face. The bird’s red beak was bigger than the elf-man’s head. “Archer will get this big one. She likes mountain men, don’t you Maha?” The bird seemed to nod, and then leaned into his caress, and he gave her some more grass. “Your bird is called Zaza, Rockson. And my baby is Mumu.”

  Archer ran back to fetch some clothing and lock up.

  When Archer returned, Rockson said, “Come on. Let’s mount up.” The Doomsday Warrior, though he’d walked boldly toward the meanest of men, approached the second bird, Zaza, with the utmost caution, smiling as broadly as he could manage. Zydeco shouted out a series of pops and wheezes and the Guam rails, or whatever the hell they were called, squatted down, like they were sitting on eggs. Zydeco said, “Just like camels, the birds bend down for the rider to more easily mount them.”

/>   “Here goes nothing,” Rock said. He did as Zydeco instructed, throwing his small pack of supplies up around the bird’s thick neck. The supply bag hung there like a necklace. Then he scrambled up into the soft leather saddle. A few feathers fluffed off the bird’s molting neck, and one stuck in his nose.

  “Don’t sneeze,” Zydeco cautioned as Rockson rubbed it away. “They go mad if you sneeze. Remember, never-never-never sneeze.”

  “Just great,” Rockson mumbled under his breath. He gingerly took the reins of the bird and once she stood up he said, “Giddy-yap, Zaza.”

  Nothing happened. Zydeco emitted a little, high-pitched giggle. “You say, ‘Terp-terp!’ ” And with those words, his bird, Mumu, turned toward where he pulled the bridle and set off at a trot. Rock’s and Archer’s mounts followed suit. Soon they couldn’t even see the bowling center. Rock figured they were making about twenty miles per hour. The ride was smooth and rolling, almost dreamlike. Occasionally a feather or two would dislodge and sometimes tickle at his nose. And he daren’t sneeze!

  The birds ran like pigeons, their necks jerking forward as if they were attached to the bumpy-skinned legs. They were ungainly but fast.

  The adventurers traversed rolling grasslands for a while. Then the flat, frozen turf gave out onto a desert plain scattered with red-leafed pine shrubs. “How do you know where we’re going?” Rock shouted over to Zydeco. “Are you following some landmarks? Do you have a compass?”

  Zydeco’s reply was nearly whipped away by the wind: “We Techno-survivors . . . innate sense of direction . . .” It would have to do as an explanation. The birds were running flat out now on the hard surface. Rock estimated that they were making about a hundred miles per hour! The wind was icy—good thing Archer had provided him with a parka!