by Ryder Stacy
Archer felt dizzy from the efforts and had to lean back against the wall for the few seconds. The drug was powerful. It was as if every step he was taking was without the use of his muscles—by just pure will. Almost impossible. Yet he had to go on, had to push. His head half spinning, the huge near-mute made his way to Rockson’s bed and looked down at the Doomsday Warrior with pleading eyes.
“TEEELLLL ARRCCCCHHEEEERRR. Tell whhhaaat tooo dooooo?” He could see that Rock could hear him; there was definitely an intelligent look in the eyes of the man he followed unquestioningly. But he could also see that Rock, no matter how much he wanted, couldn’t speak.
Archer saw a motion, and looked down toward the center of the bed on which Rock was lying like a mummy about to join eternity. His finger was pointing—moving slightly as if probing forward.
“FIINNNGEEERR! FINNNGGEEEERRR!” Archer hissed nervously, knowing it was supposed to mean something but having no idea what. He always got nervous, scared, when called on to think. And with the dizziness and the powerful effects of the drugs, the anxiety of not comprehending, of being dumb, nearly sent him over the abyss and into total darkness. He looked where the finger was pointing and saw the table—the table with needles and small bottles on it. He remembered those needles. At Century City they had poked many of them into his arm. They stung like a bee. He looked back down at Rockson, whose eyes seemed to be saying yes.
Suddenly, deep in his mind, he swore he heard Rock’s voice. Only it wasn’t his voice, but something deeper, like a voice in a dream. Rockson was using the mind-transfer the Glowers had taught him.
“Go to the table, Archer. Take the needle and fill it up.” Gulping, the huge mountain man walked over to the table and very carefully, as if he were handling eggs, reached down and lifted one of the needles. He could see that it was empty and again heard the voice, so strange, as if emanating from the center of his skull:
“Stick tip into top of bottle and pull back the plunger.” Although Archer had never done such a thing, there was a sudden clear image in his mind about how to carry out the task. And he did it. A small smile appeared on his face, a pride that he had done such a complex operation with such small objects.
“Now, come to me. Bring the needle to Rockson—and put it in his arm. Like you got your injections at the medical office in C.C.” Again Archer got a vivid picture of how to give an injection, and he walked to Rock, saw the “go” sign in the Doomsday Warrior’s eyes, and leaned over—sticking the needle into his arm. He pushed hard on the plunger and the liquid inside ripped into Rockson’s arm. Archer pulled back hard on the syringe and the effort sent him straight backwards, so that he fell onto Detroit, who was lying paralyzed in the bed to the right of Rock. And that was all. He couldn’t move smother inch. The giant had expended all his energy and now he lay there like the rest of them, his mind awake—but his body as useful as a wet rag.
Rockson prayed that it would work. He kept trying to move. Anything. But nothing worked, beyond the infinitesimal motion of his right index finger. But after a few minutes he began feeling strength seeping back into him. After ten minutes he was sitting up and stretching his arms and legs; everything felt horrible, cramped and tight. But he was up. That was for damned sure. And someone wasn’t going to have their flesh-flavored corn chips tonight.
It took only a few minutes for him to inject all of them—and within fifteen minutes each was awake, albeit with a splitting headache and bodies that felt like they had been through a threshing machine. But since they had all heard what their fate was to have been, they were all in good spirits that it had turned out otherwise. Fortunately, the Clavendish had left their weapons in the room. They had never had sacrificial lambs escape before, and weren’t prepared for it.
When two more of the robed guards came just before dawn, carrying a stretcher to gather their prisoners and carry them one by one to the immense wooden bonfire that awaited their arrival—Archer grabbed one, McCaughlin the other—and literally lifted the black-robed corn-folk right off their toes.
“Where’s our mounts?” Rock asked, standing in front of the dangling guards.
“Out—out back,” one of the men gasped, choking for air, his face starting to turn beet red.
“Good,” Rock said, slapping the fellow lightly on the face in gratitude. He loaded up two of the hypos and injected both of the men with megadoses. They went out like two pussycats searching for a chair to sleep in. Rock led the team down the stairs, their weapons drawn and ready. They made it to the back door without running into a soul and found the hybrids still loaded with supplies—as the Clavendish hadn’t yet gone through their booty.
They mounted up and Rock led them out from the alley. When they hit the main street he pushed Snorter into a gallop as the rest followed behind, yowling and screeching like Johnny Rebs looking for trouble. Nearly the entire town was gathered around a large pile of branches that was to be the “consuming purifier” of Rock and his pals. Behind it the Corn God rose ominously, its hands now over its stomach, as if hungry. Rockson prayed that someone had moved them there—and that the thing hadn’t done it by itself.
They came tearing down the street, firing wildly into the air. They weren’t going to start taking anyone out—unless they were attacked. But the Clavendish fled to each side, their weapons—knives and scythes—no match for the well-armed combat force. Rock rode straight up to Jabiel, the only one now left, who stood on a platform where he had been making speeches about the sanctity of corn, midway between the tower of wood and the Corn God thirty feet behind him.
“Howdy, Jabiel,” Rock said, mock saluting the man. The Clavendish leader looked as if he were about to bust a gut. Not just that Rock had escaped—and ruined their plans for the sacrifice. But that the people of the town could see it. For the Corn God was supposed to be invincible. None had escaped its clutches. Until now.
“Looks like we won’t be able to join your little barbeque this morning,” Rock said in apology. “But we at least hoped to see this fire you talked so much about.” He nodded at Chen, who whipped out a five-pointed explosive shuriken from his thick down vest and snapped his wrist forward. The bladed star soared into the tower of wood and set it aflame. Within seconds, yellow tongues of fire licked into all parts of the square arrangement of dead branches from the surrounding forest, and corn silk. Within a few more seconds the entire thing was ablaze, sending up a funnel of smoke and sparks into the dawn sky, hazy and filled with a pinkish glow that permeated the village.
“I’m not going to kill you,” Rock said firmly, looking down at Jabiel from his ’brid. The Corn God leader was trying to look brave, but Rock knew he was trembling in his boots. His type—the dictators, the leaders of the weird cults that filled America—were all the same. Bullies, sadists, and, underneath it all—cowards.
“You fed us all real nice—even though it was just to fatten the calf,” Rock smirked. “But this is the new reality: As an official military representative of The Freefighting Forces of America, and the United States Free Government, I have the authority to liquidate cannibals—and other undesirables. You and your people fall into that category, I would say, as burning all passersby is not the most friendly of practices. But you are also civilized in many ways here, and have made a success of your community. You don’t need the other stuff, pal. And I’ll be back to check up on you. If you’re still burning folks—I’m telling you, this whole town is going to go up in a ball of flame! Now get the hell out of my sight.” He kicked out his leg from the side of the ’brid and the preacher tumbled and fell onto his back, his black coat lifting up around his waist and showing his pale legs, hairless like a corpse’s.
Rock wanted to humiliate the man. Let his people see that he was just a charlatan. He looked over his shoulder and saw that they were in fact getting the message. Crowds of them stood, their arms folded sternly, looking on with a not very sympathetic eye at their preacher. He had blown his image of omnipotence—that was for damned sure. H
umpty Dumpty had fallen from his religious wall and all of God’s little angels weren’t going to get him up there again.
Rock nodded at Detroit, who ripped two grenades from the crisscrossed belts over his barrel-sized chest. Pulling the pins from each, he held them for a few seconds, counting—then tossed both simultaneously. They flew through the air like spinning grapefruits made of dull silver, and landed at the feet of the Corn God. There they sat for another two seconds, like gifts to the deity, a little appetizer before the main course.
Then they went off, and they clearly weren’t gifts. For they ripped the Corn God apart. His legs blew out at the knees, exploding out in corn husks and cobs all whirling like sawdust. The whole front of the thing toppled over as the eyes and mouth of the monstrosity tumbled out and fell forward into the dirt. Then the entire statue just sort of wobbled around on the unsteady pole legs—and then it made a decision. The Corn God dove forward into the flaming bonfire and erupted in an explosion of flame and heat. The thing burst into yellow and blue fire in every cell of its being—corn husks and dried cobs burning like tinder. And in just seconds the whole structure was lost inside the blankets of fire that rippled back and forth over its body in burning tides of annihilation.
“Find new gods,” Rockson screamed out to the crowd, who watched it all with wide, shocked eyes. “This god is dead, by decree of the United Freefighters of America.”
Rock turned and rode forward, toward the eastern part of town—and the long journey that still awaited them. The rest of the combat team followed behind, still trying to pull themselves completely out of their groggy states. The drugs coursed through their veins even if the antidote as well had bound itself to most of the molecules of the first injection. Behind them the fires burned. Burned into the morning air, sending up towers of color and soot, burning leaves, flaming kernels, popping as they flew. Burned out a true purification.
Thirteen
Premier Vassily’s immense battleship/aircraft carrier cruised down the Potomac to within several miles of the White House. The Russians had widened the Chesapeake and Potomac many years before, enabling them to ship supplies back and forth by water, the least expensive method of transport. Zhabnov was waiting on shore as the huge Dreadnaut’s fifty-foot shore vessel came riding in on a crest of foam and low waves. The moment the Premier was on dry land, a thousand-piece brass and drum band began playing. Nearly 10,000 troops stretched back row after row, every one stiff-collared and rigidly at attention, their Kalashnikovs held straight up in front of them; they clicked their heels and spun their weapons. For the ruler of all the world had arrived.
Zhabnov, dressed in the most garish purple-and-red silk suit that Vassily had ever seen, rushed forward, his large stomach rolling around like something that doesn’t quite know where it should set down. He put out his arms to embrace the wheelchair-bound Grandfather. But Vassily managed to dodge the contact, turning his face with a disgusted look as President Zhabnov realized the Premier didn’t want to be kissed on both cheeks.
“Uncle, Uncle—so wonderful to see you again,” Zhabnov huffed and puffed through squirrel-like cheeks.
“Good Lenin, man, you’ve put on even more weight since the last time I saw you,” the Premier exclaimed, looking askance at Zhabnov’s large girth. “When will it stop? You might just explode some day.”
“Funny, Uncle—that’s quite funny,” Zhabnov said, managing to let out a squeaking little laugh. “No, I’m sure I weigh the same. I’ve been watching the scales for your visit,” the President said, lying. “I even had this special suit made just for your arrival.” He looked down, wanting Vassily to say something complimentary about the ugly, jewel-encrusted suit, but the Premier just took a quick look and wrinkled his lips in disgust. Rahallah stood just to the side of the Grandfather, taking it all in with some amusement, though his expression remained absolutely stone face. He knew Zhabnov hated even to acknowledge his presence, but this time, apparently in an effort to be conciliatory, at least in front of the Premier, Zhabnov bowed his head slightly toward the black servant by way of greeting. Rahallah returned the motion.
“Oh, but come let me show you how I’ve set things up, decorated the whole place.” It always annoyed Vassily no end to be around his nephew. Decorated? The man lived in another world—of Wonderland, the way things looked. Vassily was a ruler, a leader on a grand and historic scale. He had wanted someone to take his place, to rule strongly and not let the planet be taken down into hell. Zhabnov had served as stooge in America against Killov’s dark plans. Then, the stupidity of his nephew had basically served Vassily well, enabling him to manipulate things totally. But now that Killov was gone, Zhabnov seemed too stupid to tolerate. Yet there was no one else he dared trust. Already he knew that countless conspiracies were being hatched to seize world power when he died. It was all that kept him alive, knowing that. He couldn’t die. For his death might well mean the death of an entire planet.
“This way, Uncle—oh, I’m sure you’ll like it—and the Americans, too; their delegates will find we’ve gone to no small expense to make them feel welcome.” He led Rahallah—who pushed the Grandfather forward in his wheelchair—slowly, evenly, so that there were no bumps, no sudden jarrings. They walked for about a hundred yards and Zhabnov stopped. He waved to one of his men who stood below, next to an immense tarp that covered something.
“Here—the symbol of the Peace Conference,” he said proudly, pointing at the cover. A rope was pulled, the covering fell and Vassily’s face turned pale. It was too stupid even for him to believe. A giant, smiling, circular yellow face with a hammer and sickle beneath it.
“I did some research on the Americans, Uncle, to find out what they liked. I actually read books on their art of the past. The smiling face, it was their biggest symbol, before the war. We shall bring it back to show that American and Russian can live in smiling harmony.”
Vassily looked at his nephew as if he were mad, but said not a word. As they continued forward toward the dock ahead, Vassily noticed that all the troops lining the way, on each side of the long red carpet, were wearing stupid little smile buttons.
As they walked along, the Premier heard something—very dim at first, but as Rahallah pushed him closer the words could be picked out.
“All you need is love, all you need, love, love, love.” Over and over it went piped out over loudspeakers.
“It’s The Beatles.” Zhabnov said, splitting a gut with pride. A huge smile sat pasted on his jowled face. “Freefighters love this kind of music, it is what they listen to in their hovels—rock and roll, I think it was called. I know, Uncle, that you don’t always think me the cleverest of fellows—but I wanted to prove you wrong. To take some initiative and show you I’ve got a brain on the top of this body.”
It was worse than he had ever thought, Vassily realized, shaking his head slowly from side to side as Rahallah pushed him through wide wooden doors into the towering main entrance room of the Drubkin Building, nearly five blocks on a side, twenty stories high of ultra-modern decor. Inside, as the Premier saw the huge posters of the Beatles and slogans from their songs pasted up all over the place, along with more of the stupid, happy smiles, he felt like crying. Where the fool treads, the snake is soon to find him—and kill him. And Zhabnov was a fool of the highest order. When Vassily died, the snakes would close in before his body was cold.
“It is all terribly stupid, ridiculous, Nephew,” Vassily said angrily. “I want everything taken down. Everything; no music, no nothing. We shall treat them with luxury, with gourmet food and, yes, with women. Try to seduce them into our terms. But these trappings of friendship are too simple-minded for those men. I’ve met and talked with Ted Rockson—I know. It is not good to show clever men that you are a fool, that you have completely misjudged them. Not good at all. But then you would know nothing of that, Nephew. Such a pity you are such a fool, Nephew Zhabnov. Such a damned pity.”
Zhabnov looked as if he might burst into tears. He had t
ried so hard, had tended to his roses so there would be enough for every delegate, had supervised the making and hanging of the smile faces himself, even the placement of the loudspeakers so that the Beatles’ tunes would be heard from every corner. And it had all been wrong. Terribly wrong. And what was worse, he didn’t even know why it was wrong.
Fourteen
Rock and his team left the state of Kansas more than happy to be out of the damned place. They fairly flew through Missouri and within days had reached the Mississippi River. Crossing was no problem—at least on that day. Among the many climate changes that had been produced in the United States after the great war, one had affected the Mississippi River. It flowed—but according to the time of year. In wet season it was as big and rushing as in its former glory days. But for large parts of the year—the rainfall not being nearly as great on countless tributaries that had once fed it—the river often shrank down to just a band of water, then a stream. Which was how it was now, as the men pulled their ’brids to a stop at the shore and stared at the once-mighty Mississippi—hardly more than a stream of piss from a drunk’s night of beer guzzling.
Rock headed first across the thousand-foot-wide basin, which had pools of water here and there, and in the center a flowing creek perhaps five yards wide, maybe six inches deep, in which small fish dashed frantically this way and that like silver shadows, as they realized they were being squeezed tighter and tighter by the pressing walls of their watery home.
Rock could see that the men got a little depressed about the “mighty” Mississippi as they all rode across it. They had seen it before in the wet season—wide and strong. Now it had been reduced to a joke. But once they were past it and on the opposite bank, once they had ridden a few more miles down the dirt road they traversed, the incident fell from their minds and vanished, filed under “what the school books didn’t tell me”—and left there to rot.