Doomsday Warrior 13 - American Paradise

by Ryder Stacy

  Now, as the two dozen morning shift workers went about their work with welding arc and wrench, or mini-soldering gun and tweezer, the silver elevator door hissed open.

  One nervous Russian welder, realizing that the opening door meant that Colonel Killov was arriving, misaligned his welding arc and shorted out a cable. Sparks flew as he dropped his torch and fell backward onto a pile of circuit breakers. In this ungainly position, bent over the pile on his back, the unfortunate Soviet gazed up at the gaunt pale face of the skull.

  Killov intoned, “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, thank you.” The black-coveralled man twisted and scrambled to his feet and saluted. “I—I’m fine!”

  “Too bad, clumsy fool!” Killov shouted, slapping him hard. “You destroyed some of my valuable equipment!” Killov eyed Nakashima and winked. The muscular Japanese chauffeur knew what his master meant. He stepped forward, delivering a series of arm smashes that sent the careless man reeling back until he teetered on the very edge of the unrailed roof. Then Nakashima delivered an eye jab with two of his leather-gloved left fingers and kicked the man’s feet out from under him with a swipe of his left boot. Nakashima listened to his long anguished scream with a smile. Then, when a dull thud ended the scream, Killov turned. “Any more of you wish to make mistakes?”

  Everyone got real busy.

  Killov walked around inspecting their frantic efforts, taking out a note pad and jotting down the numbers on their coveralls. His eyes narrowed if he saw anything that looked behind schedule.

  Overall, he was pleased at the progress; but the wind was getting quite heavy and the fast moving dark clouds above looked sodden. Killov wouldn’t let weather slow the work!

  “Nakashima, let’s go downstairs. I’m sure they’ll be assiduous now.”

  Dismissing Nakashima, Killov put on his jet black kimono and slouched in his leather recliner. He stared out the floor-to-ceiling window at Mount Fuji steaming and sending down a rivulet of fiery lava in the distance.

  What awful destructive power, he thought. If there was such a thing as reincarnation, he could only wish to come back as a volcano! But he would have volcanic power in this life, too. The geothermal-generated power that would soon be channeled into the ZILCH crystal would make him a volcano among men! He would rule the world from this island. His army of 500 elite soldiers could easily handle the timid people—or . . . could they?

  Killov worried. Perhaps the troops were his weak link— Were his men being corrupted by this soft life? The only appeal this culture had for him was the ancient and little adhered to veneration of death. The lure of this island for the soldiers was different, namely the vice of the Ginza’s “floating world”: prostitutes of a hundred varieties, gambling, drugs—all hidden in the night. But vice here was all handled so cleanly and tidily! Just like the Japanese to organize and ritualize sex and perversion! Such simple pleasures for his men seemed no threat. Indeed, it kept his troops happy. But . . . when his soldiers roamed the alleys, were they being subtly imbued with philosophy? If so, they might start thinking for themselves. He didn’t want his KGB to become a bunch of damned Zen monks or pacifists! They had to be the backbone of the vast army that he would recruit worldwide, once he had demonstrated his power!

  He smiled. Why worry? The soldiers had no capability whatsoever to grasp thoughts! The could only grasp women or saki bottles.

  But better to be safe . . .

  He snapped his fingers and a guard goose stepped from an alcove and saluted.

  “Sir?”

  “Yes, Demitrov. I want you to order my KGB to have no more than two hours a day out of barracks compound when not on duty!”

  “Sir!” The guard went off again.

  Killov was pleased. That will keep them limited to just a quick fuck—no lingering discussions of cherry blossoms or Zen to poison the mind!

  Once the guard left, the intercom that connected him to Nakashima’s room lit up. When Killov opened the channel, Nakashima’s deep voice came on. “Master, could I see you? I have been meditating upon the words of Mushima, and upon the—ultimate. I would like to ask you—something.”

  “Very well, come here,” Killov said, flicking the button on his chair’s arm to the off position.

  Shortly, Nakashima appeared.

  “Well, what is it?” The deep-set eyes gazed unblinkingly at the Japanese.

  “Master?” He fell at Killov’s feet. “Please grant me one request?”

  “Perhaps—what is it?” Killov said cautiously.

  “You who understands death, you are my teacher—will you kill me and cut my head off . . . when it pleases you . . . whenever it pleases you to do so.”

  “I will,” Killov agreed. “But not for a while. I need you.”

  “Thank you, master. Please dismember my body and scatter it.”

  “I will do so for you my—friend.” Still, Killov was unaccustomed to speaking the word friend. It sounded strange on Killov’s lips, but he was deeply moved. No one had ever asked him for death—when they weren’t being tortured. “I will gladly do so, Nakashima, my—friend.”

  Thirteen

  Under cover of darkness the five persons that Rockson had chosen for the recon mission paddled ashore in a canoe. The five were Detroit, Scheransky—some fluent Russian might be called for—Archer, Murf and Rock himself. Rockson was amazed by how efficiently the Polynesian war paddles cut water and propelled them forward, yet made no splashing noise. The outrigger made it through rough surf an ordinary canoe never would have survived. They pulled it ashore and hid the craft under some fallen palm fronds. They had made landfall unobserved—or at least it seemed so.

  “Farther down the beach,” Rock said, “I spotted a lone house. We make for the house—try to surprise whoever’s inside.”

  Murf nodded, holding his explosive trident up above the splashing surf. “I’m game.” The others, too, voiced their eagerness. They slapped the safeties off on their shotpistols, unbuttoned their knife-sheaths and smeared black masker on their cheeks. Five minutes later they were outside the darkened cabin.

  Archer kicked the roughly cut door off its hinges, and the Americans rushed in with raised weapons, surprising a frail Japanese man in his bed.

  To the bare-chested man, the hulking figure of Archer and his violent companions must have been a fright. He got out of bed only to frantically crawl under the straw mattress, whimpering.

  Rock’s keen eyes swept the single room. Moonlight trickled through two uncurtained windows, giving light. No one else was there.

  “He’s unarmed—and plenty scared!” Rockson shouted. “Put down your weapons.”

  The Doomsday Warrior went over to a candle, struck a wooden match and lit it. Carefully, as the warm glow lit up the single room, the man crawled, shivering, from under the mattress. He said something like “Ei?”

  “Friend,” Rock stated, holstering his shotpistol, “you needn’t fear us.”

  “Engrish?” The man’s voice quavered, “You no Soviet? You speak Engrish?”

  “Yes. We’re Americans.”

  Rockson calmed the Japanese. Over the next twenty minutes the man—he was a fisherman named Nakai—told about how the Russian soldiers had taken over the city at the other side of the island two months ago.

  “Even though there was little resistance, the Russians were brutal. Now they exploit the people there and are doing something bad to the great tower. The invaders have no use for us poor scattered fishermen on this side of New Tokyo Island. Still, it is good a dangerous area of hot lava and pits separate me from the killers!”

  Rockson got the amazing story of New Tokyo. Then he asked, “Is there anyone in the city we might talk to—someone who will help us defeat the invaders?”

  “The man you want to see,” said the fisherman firmly, pointing out toward a window that opened onto a slaggy wasteland, “is Chimura-san. He very old and wise, and he is a member of the city’s council. He lives at the first house on the other edge of t
he wasteland. He even has a secret, large cave you can use. But you must be careful crossing the wasteland, especially in the dark. There are geysers of hot steam, and lava pits there.”

  He then produced a large folded piece of paper, “I can give you map that will take you safely through the lava field. And gifts for the great walking fish that lives there.

  “Whenever anyone go into the lava land without gifts for walk-fish, they disappear! Attacked and eaten! When they are searched for, we find their clothes and sometimes huge fish scales around their bones!” The man nearly keeled over in excitement.

  “Hey man, cool out,” Murf said. “Life’s a beach!”

  “No, it isn’t! If you go through the lava lands, take some of my green tikis. Hang them on the scrap heap in lava land. The great fish accepts these trinkets as gifts. It find them pleasing and does not eat the travelers who bring him such gifts!”

  The fisherman went over to and opened a small carved chest, extracting several trinket necklaces. He put them over each of their necks. “Remember, leave these out there, for the great fish—or you will all die!”

  “Thank you, Nakai,” Rockson said, touched at the man’s desire to help. Then he asked, “Do the Russians steer clear of the lava zone?”

  “Yes, they only go into bad place when they have to repair big white pipes that bring power from the sub-earth flames into the city.”

  At the first light of dawn they set out into the lava lands. Soon they came upon giant pipes—thermal power conduits—rising out of the slag and basalt rock.

  “So that’s where all the electricity comes from,” Rockson exclaimed. “Killov sure lucked out to find this island!”

  Onward they went, single file, following Nakai’s map through a hell-like land of bubbling lava pools and twisted sharp tumulus. Then there was a faint noise, like a snarl or labored breathing. “The fish?” asked Scheransky, dry mouthed.

  “No, just bubbling water,” said Rockson. “Come on!”

  Ten minutes later they came on piles of scrap: pipes, old cables, the detritus of civilization. Jutting from the waste were rusty iron rods, and tiki necklaces hung on them, swinging in the fetid wind.

  “Let’s add our gifts to the pile,” Rock suggested, “to be on the safe side. Pretty tikis to placate a walking fish.”

  “Aw,” said Detroit, “I like my tiki. It’s pretty.”

  “Just leave it,” Rockson insisted, hearing slithering noises over a smoldering pile of slag. “And then, let’s get going!”

  Murf also scoffed, but he put his tiki up on a pole, “Bah, a walking giant fish? There aren’t such things in the world. I’ve been all over. I know. You guys have got to get laid back!”

  One by one the others added their gifts to the iron rods. When they were about a half mile farther along the twisting “safe” route, Rockson climbed a pumice hillock. It was a bright morning, and he didn’t like being out in the open.

  They were on target. From the top of the hill, he could see green—and a rambling low house surrounded by a bamboo fence. Chimura’s house!

  Fourteen

  Rockson simply went down and knocked on the door. Shortly there was the soft padding of small feet inside, and it swung open. The man who opened the door was bent and wizened—like a 600-year-old dwarf bonsai tree.

  “Irasshai,” the old man said softly, apparently not the least bit surprised by the unlikely figures outside his simple house. “Please come in. I am Chimura; remove shoes, take slippers,” he said in English.

  Exchanging their footgear for slippers was easy, except for Archer. The extra-large American had to skip the slippers. The largest pair would not fit his size 18’s. They walked inside, Archer in his stocking feet.

  “You are just in time for kabayaki-ya,” said the old man, gesturing for them to enter an exquisite—if low ceilinged—room. There were many decorative vases and subtle flower arrangements.

  “NOOOO CHAIIRS,” complained Archer, anxious to rest his big buns.

  “Please to sit on tatami mats, near lacquer tables,” Chimura said. The old man seated himself. The others, with more or less skill, also got down and sat cross-legged, thighs under the little tables. Archer had to use his table as a lap tray.

  Rockson was about to take a seat to the left of Chimura when the old man said, “No, please take place over there.”

  Detroit whispered, “He is offering you the place of honor—take it. You will have your back to the tokonomo, that little alcove in the wall. You see the twig and the little calligraphy scroll?”

  Rockson nodded. He remembered reading somewhere about tokonomo. It was the place in a Japanese room reserved for the most beautiful thing: a painting or a poem in exquisite calligraphy; or some subtly-formed twig of pine—the sacred tree. The tokonomo expressed some subtle and rare beauty. To be given the place before it was indeed an honor.

  Rockson bowed and took the seat.

  That formality dispensed with, a kimonoed woman, who Chimura introduced as Reiko, his wife, bowed, left, then came back with a tray of some sort of raw fish on rice—sashimi. She put six small servings on a little wooden tray and put one on each of their little tables.

  Archer looked at the serving disheartendly. “TTTOOOO SMALL,” he muttered sadly.

  “Shhh!” Detroit said. “You can have more later!”

  Rock said, “Chimura-san, could we speak on urgent business?”

  “Oh yes . . . but first,”—Chimura smiled—“we will have tea with our snack. You will be tired after your walk.”

  Rockson nodded. How long could tea take?

  After five cups apiece and lots of talk about the weather and flowers, Scheransky blurted, “Lenin! How long can this go on? Time is wasting . . .”

  Their host looked up, somewhat perturbed. “Shhh!” Detroit advised. “Better not offend. In Japanese houses you don’t raise your voice; it’s taken as a challenge. You don’t want to fight this nice man, do you, Ivan?”

  Chimura sighed, then put down his cup. “We of the New Tokyo council know of your coming. We received signal from the fisherman’s flag that you were on your way. I know who you are and why you’ve come. And I welcome you as friends.

  “We of the council fear that the new ruler of the island, Killov-san, will do something very evil soon. The device he puts atop our tower—”

  “Means death for millions worldwide,” Rockson finished for Chimura. “And it means the subjugation of the entire human race once it’s finished. When Killov’s gang was first landing, why didn’t you fight? You have many men and some weapons, too, I am sure. It might have been possible to stop the KGB forces then. Why didn’t anyone fight when they first, landed?”

  “Rockson-san,” said the host, “the hardest, most painful operation of all is the opening of one’s eyes to the true nature of things. All life is linked, and violence begets violence. Contemplation reveals that life is all one’s own karma. Life is our own subtle illusions, so why fight phantasms?

  “I contemplate this fact often. In the garden . . . Let me show you my garden.”

  “Later,” Rock said. “The fisherman spoke well of you. He said you have a large cave—that might be used for a base for our forces. But your property is small. Where could such a cave be?”

  Chimura got up stiffly, aided by the woman. He said, “It is large, but it is in my small garden! Come!” He led Rock through a sliding paper door into the house’s interior courtyard. The old man waddled on his wooden clogs over to a low, mossy boulder and bent down and snagged a twig.

  “Cave is here!” He pulled the twig. A hidden door opened. They went down steep steps, then into a narrow corridor.

  Rock found himself inside a 100-foot-wide, stone-walled chamber, illuminated by a single huge candle. “It burns for days,” Chimura said, “so I leave it lit. The Zen monks meditate here at full moon.”

  “Wow!” Rock exclaimed. “You could hide an army here! The fisherman was right. This would be a good base of operation. But realistically, f
rom what the fisherman told us about the Soviets being well dug in, a handful of us will not do for an attack. Chimura-san, aren’t there any people on this island that will fight alongside us?”

  “Yes . . . the Bushido will join you. They wanted to fight before, but we of the council dissuaded them, saying rulers come and go, and that we would absorb and change the Russians. I am embarrassed to say that I myself pointed out that we Japanese feared the American occupation after World War II and were wrong. These KGB have proven different: they brutalize; they mock our institutions; they even chop down our blossoming cherry trees for military barriers. Now that these things have occurred, I will call together the ten elders, and we will vote again on whether to unleash the Bushido from their vow of non-resistance.”

  “Good. How many Bushido are there?”

  “Forty-seven—same as the number of Ronin. A good number, yes?”

  “It will help,” Rock said, “and with the element of surprise, it might be possible to overwhelm Killov. But how can you hold this meeting under the Soviet’s noses?”

  “Right here—in the cavern—tonight. The council members are all stooped old men with wispy beards, like myself. We are so old and decrepid—” Chimura laughed—“that they let us come and go, shouting our poetry like Basho! The Russians laugh at us and let us pass. We will meet tonight, and I think the council of elders will allow the Bushidos to join your attack on Killov. I shall raise the red dragon flag atop my house—the council will come.”

  Fifteen