Doomsday Warrior 04 - Bloody America

by Ryder Stacy

  Renewed, Rockson let himself drift back up to the skies, borne aloft by the winds, the heat rising from the sunbaked plains. Like an invisible balloon he floated back up into the thin reaches of the atmosphere. Ahead he saw the Russian jet piercing the dark heavens and somehow, without even knowing the power that enabled him to leap among the very molecules of space, he made his way back through the metal fibers of the craft. He saw his body seated, eyes closed, and entered back into it. Slowly his lids opened and he was back in himself. He felt his body again, and the weight of it took a few seconds to get used to—after the absolute freedom of the mind excursion.

  Rock heard a sound at his side and turned. Archer was looking over at him with immense dark eyes beneath jet-black eyebrows. The huge man pointed to his mouth.

  “Ungry,” he said, “Archer ungry.” Rockson let out a laugh that brought the guards to their feet. Life was ugly and it was beautiful. But it was also a joke. A humor beyond understanding.

  Eleven

  Rock was surprised that there were no curtains on the windows of the twenty-foot-long sedan that carried them from the airport. He and Archer stared out the windows in fascination as they zoomed along a superhighway filled with traffic toward the Emerald City-like vista before them. Never had he imagined Moscow would look like this: two hundred-story skyscrapers with rapier tops, the sun glinting off the spires which seemed to pierce the low strontium-tinged clouds. But as they drew closer the vision tarnished. Instead of glitter he saw many of the windows of the huge buildings were broken, some of the towers partly in ruins. He noted rust marks down the sides of the smaller stone structures. The stench in the air began to rise—garbage and raw sewage flowing into the Volga River’s turbulent waters. The highway ran along the edge of the mighty river, passing groups of sullen workers carrying loads of firewood and produce on towering baskets balanced precariously on their heads. Then he gasped as did Archer. All along one section of the riverbank were crucifixes. Nailed on them were nearly naked men and women, most motionless and slumped forward, their hands and feet nailed tightly into the blood-soaked wood. Hundreds of them, with but a few still alive enough to gaze up at the passing car with unfathomable pain in their foggy eyes.

  “Who are they?” Rockson asked one of the guards seated across from him, holding a pistol at the Doomsday Warrior’s chest.

  The guard leered. “Dissidents—you know, social revisionists, artists, hooligans, gypsies.” He glanced out the window at the spread-eagled corpses. “No Americans today. That’s unusual—for often the women brought from your country for breeding revolt and kill their masters. Then they are—well. There are none now, for this is a special occasion. You are the premier’s special guest. You and your foul friend—and there will be no executions of American women until after you leave. Maybe never, I’ve heard rumors, if negotiations—but you will see, Ted Rockson. You will see.”

  “Bastards!” Rock muttered under his breath.

  Several miles off Rockson noticed a large dome rising from the flat land around it.

  “What’s that?” he asked, pointing at the futuristic structure.

  “Classified,” the guard answered curtly. Then he added with a smirk, “It’s why we beat you Americans a hundred years ago. Our technology was more powerful than yours.” Rockson filed the information in his brain. He would have to try and find out more about the mysterious complex.

  They drove through the crowded streets of Moscow at high speed, forcing pedestrians to leap out of the way of the speeding sleek black limo, red flags on the hood snapping crisply in the wind. Then they entered Red Square, filled with throngs of Russian sightseers. Rock gazed with fascination at the capital of the Soviet Empire: the high walls of the Kremlin, St. Basil’s Church with its bizarre, domed towers—a museum, no longer a church—and the tombs of Lenin and Drabkin, the premier who had ordered the strike on America, surrounded by elite color guard with rifles, frozen at attention as still as the dead.

  They drove through an ornate iron gate at the Kremlin’s back wall and were quickly ushered inside, guards surrounding them, down a plush, spotless red carpet. The air was frigid, air-conditioned—not that it was hot outside—but for the smell that permeated everywhere in Moscow from the garbage-filled Volga.

  “The premier will see you shortly,” said a white-tuxedoed black man who came up to them, moving gracefully across the vast marbled entrance room. His ebony intelligent face immediately struck Rockson.

  “I am Ruwanda Rahallah, the premier’s aide and advisor. I welcome you to the Kremlin on his behalf. I trust you have been well treated since you were informed of the meeting.”

  “Very,” Rock answered as Archer nodded, looking around for possible bowls of food. The two freefighters followed the elegantly dressed black man through a series of immense chandeliered rooms filled with wall murals of the revolution. Finally they came to a small book-lined room.

  “The premier’s study,” Rahallah said softly. “Do make yourself comfortable, gentlemen. Perhaps some wine? Chateau Neuf de Pâpe ’78—that’s 1978, gentlemen. Care to try some?”

  Rockson nodded and they were poured generous glasses of an exquisitely fine wine over a century old. Archer gulped his down to the obvious distaste of the cultured Rahallah.

  “A wine beyond price,” Rahallah said, gently admonishing his charges, “must be savored, tasted—not gulped.”

  The premier walked in from a side door. He was a frail-looking man with age spots covering his deeply lined face. He moved a bit shakily but his eyes were as clear and bright as a summer sun. He moved slowly toward Rockson and shook his hand with a soft grip.

  “No formalities here, Mr. Rockson, we are—equals. I trust you understand the importance of this meeting for your people. Peace Mr. Rockson—peace.” They stared at one another for several moments, trying to take a measure of the other. Then Premier Vassily sat down behind a dark, ancient wooden desk.

  “Now Mr. Rockson—and Mr—er—”

  “Archer is his name,” Rock said with a thin smile, wondering what the premier would make of the huge mute who kept looking around the study as if expecting a woods’ animal to pop out from one of the thousands of dusty books that surrounded them.

  “Yes—Mr. Archer—I am sorry for the inconveniences my nephew, the well meaning but inept president of—”

  “President of nothing—” Rock said sharply.

  “Of course, of course—Mr. Rockson. That will be negotiated too. His status in your land. But these peace talks between us—never forget we are doing this in order to save lives. To save the environment further damage, to—”

  “To insure that you will have enough troops you can pull out of the struggle in America to fight your losing battles elsewhere,” Rock cut in, determined not to play games with the powerful leader.

  “No, no,” Vassily said, raising his tired voice, “not at all. I am a man of peace, interested only in sparing our planet and its people any more suffering. But to be a man of peace in such difficult times—I am willing to make some generous concessions.” He sat back in his thick leather upholstered armchair and smiled. “But we must not rush—you are no doubt tired from your long journey. There is time enough for our talks. You will be shown all the hospitality afforded the most honored of foreign visitors. Until tomorrow gentlemen.” The premier of the all the world bowed slightly toward Rock and then Archer, who smiled through cavity-mottled teeth and returned the gesture, leaning all the way forward in his chair.

  They spent the night in palatial rooms—with bars on the windows. A feast of exotic foods was brought to their quarters by a virtual army of waiters, each with a different steaming meal on a silver platter. After they had eaten their fill and were preparing to sleep—in oversized canopy beds that must have dated back to Czarist Russia—the door opened and four young women marched past the elite guards in the hall and toward the two freefighters. The Americans stared at the bevy of beauties with wide eyes. Each was dressed in shimmering gossamer
gowns that revealed all their charms—and there was plenty to reveal.

  “We are here—for your pleasure,” one of them, a brunette with hair falling to her waist and deep brown eyes as moist as a doe’s, said. The girls, none older than twenty, looked at the two freefighters—Rockson with his chiseled rugged features and body of tanned sculpted muscle, and Archer, seven feet of hairy steel hard flesh, and then back at one another and giggled, putting their hands over their red lips. Their firm upturned breasts jiggled as they laughed. Rock and Archer looked at one another as well, and then the Doomsday Warrior shrugged his shoulders.

  “Why not,” he said with a sly smile. He had been so near death in the last few days, his body still ached with the welts and healing wounds that had been inflicted on him in the torture room. A woman’s softness and perfumed limbs would give him life. A man needs a woman as the lungs need air, the stomach food. He was sure Kim would understand—if not, well, she would never know. He had been through too much in this life to turn down pleasure when it was offered. He took on what life threw at him—whether it was death or love.

  Archer’s face was aglow with the nervous blushing enthusiasm of a boy both frightened and wildly aroused by the sight of a willing woman. He had had but one encounter with the female sex in his life—in the backwoods of mid-America—with a somewhat overweight mountain woman whose husband had died. She had been quite eager and ready to show the huge Archer the ropes. Though confused and a little shy, he had enjoyed it up to a point. But then she had been on the far side of the spectrum of beauty, compared to these lovely ethereal creatures whose fragrant flesh lived only for pleasure.

  Rock picked his choice: the brunette who lowered her eyes shyly as he looked at her. She walked quickly over to him and pressed her full breasts against his steel-hard chest. The other three took Archer, who looked bewildered, by the arms and led him off into an adjoining bedroom.

  “You are the Rockson,” the brunette said, dragging the Doomsday Warrior to the bed. “I have heard much about you even here in Russia. You are reknowned for being both a fighter and lover.”

  “Make love not war,” Rock said grinning, remembering the phrase he had picked up from ancient American newsreels. “But you know so much about me—what of you? What’s your name?”

  “Svetlanya,” the brunette said, rubbing her hands along Rockson’s strong chest. “I live only for love. But only with the most powerful and famous men—kings, rulers—and men like you, Rockson. Men who are men. And something tells me you are special.” She nuzzled her soft lips against his neck, moving her lithe full body on top of his.

  “I try,” he said grabbing hold of her with his powerful arms. She moaned and he could smell the sweet perfume of her aroused sex. She slowly undid her nearly invisible peignoir and kneeled before him, showing the American the fruits of her body. She was beautiful—with pointed pink nipples that begged to be kissed and fondled. Her breasts were firm as ripe melons, swelling out for his touch. Between her white thighs, a mound of soft hair that she pushed against his thigh, her mouth opening in the mindless throes of desire.

  Slowly she undressed him, letting out little sighs of desire as she uncovered his flesh. She lay beside him, stroking the firm body as her hand moved slowly downward. She gripped his aroused manhood and a shiver coursed through her body.

  “Oh—you are so—so much of a man.” The touch of his organ seemed to drive her into a frenzy. She slid down his now unclothed flesh and took the rock-hard staff into her ruby lips. Rock lay back, letting his mind give up all the death he had seen, the plans he was formulating for action, and drifted into the pure pleasure of her motions. She moved up and down on the spear of flesh, letting it go deep into her moist throat, writhing against him in shivers of uncontrollable passion. At last he pulled her up until she was alongside him and rolled on top of the courtesan of ultimate pleasure. He kneaded her firm breasts, squeezing them hard beneath his veined hands. His fingers found her wet treasures below, and he stroked between the swelled lips of her sex. She groaned again, closing her eyes as Rockson spread her firm thighs. He poised above her for a moment and plunged his manhood into the waiting entrance. She squirmed like a creature on fire, wrapping her legs around his broad back as he entered deep into her burning center. He took her with powerful strokes, sensing that she liked to feel the full power of a man. Her eyes closed as she swung her head back and forth beneath his driving motions, in a state of the purest ecstasy.

  In the other room the three women who had gone with Archer were wild with excitement. As they had undressed him for his bath, revealed before their wide eyes was the largest male organ they had ever seen. They exclaimed over it, a little frightened of such a tool but eager to sample its abilities. Archer let them do the work. It was clear they knew more about the arts of lovemaking than he. But he was eager to learn. First one, then the other mounted his stiff staff, hardly able at first to get it into them. But once fully inside they rode the steel-hard spear with mad delight as the others rained kisses and caresses on the freefighter’s bear-sized physique. They undulated through the long night, taking turns with the apparently untiring Archer, who was more than willing to be used in such pleasurable pursuits.

  The next morning Rockson couldn’t help but laugh as he saw Archer’s tired but happy face. The girls ran past him giggling, out into the corridor. Archer looked at Rock and shook his hand, trying to whistle, although all that came out was a garbled slurping sound. But Rock got the message.

  They ate a hearty breakfast, once again brought in by a squadron of servants, and then were brought down to a large council chamber with Russian flags covering the walls. They were seated at a long conference table that stretched nearly fifty feet down the center of the hall. Soon they were joined by the slow-moving Vassily and nearly ten of his political staff.

  The negotiations around the polished table lasted nearly all day as Rock and the Reds haggled over every point of a possible treaty. Food and beverages were brought in every few minutes with a wide selection for every possible taste. Rockson was amazed at how Rahallah was always whispering into the frail Vassily’s ear. In America he had never seen even one black Russian soldier, let alone officer. Yet here, a black man had input into the highest levels of power. Rock had no intention of carrying out the provisions of the slowly negotiated treaty—besides he was not an elected representative of the new American government anyway. Something the Russians could not understand. To them Rockson was a man of power—his words would be heeded by the freefighters. The Doomsday Warrior was biding his time. He had already developed a plan of sorts, but the moment was not yet right to strike. Better that the Russians believe he was here to make peace. Then their guard would drop.

  Any doubts Premier Vassily had that Rockson was not sincere disappeared over the next three days of intense argumentation. The famed resistance fighter did his best to wring the most favorable possible terms—short of removal of all Russian forces from the United States. The agreement that they at last worked out pulled the Reds much further than they had wanted to go.

  Vassily looked through the final draft of the peace treaty. The premier had given away more than he wanted to get the peace. But he needed to divert his forces to the battles in China and India, both overrun and cut off from Russia by the Muabir, the Flame of Allah and his fanatical legions of horsemen. Rockson carefully read each provision before initialing them.

  1) The Soviet Union will arrest and put on trial Colonel Killov, director of KGB forces, for crimes against humanity and the ecology.

  2) The U.S.S.A. will elect a president who will replace General Zhabnov who will become vice president but will retain his role as commander-in-chief of all armed forces. Foreign policy shall remain the domain of the Russian command.

  3) The U.S.S.R. will not use atomic or chemical weapons anywhere in the world. Biological weapons that attack only humans, not plant or animal life, and that are of short duration will be allowed.

  4) Internal affair
s of the U.S.S.A. will be governed by an American police force, although the Russian military presence will remain.

  The crowning point of achievement for Vassily and for which he had given up much was—

  5) The freefighters will turn over the technology for the black-beam weapons to the Soviet Union. These could be used by Vassily when all other negotiations had failed to fight insurrections anywhere but not to be used in the U.S.S.A.

  6) All food shipments to the Soviet Union will be increased five percent a year until the present yearly figure was doubled. Otherwise the entire agreement is cancelled.

  7) American pacification teams will visit sections of the Soviet fortresses in America and make them understand that the treaty prohibits revolt or attacks on Soviet staff or technicians.

  8) The freefighters will use their skills to have Rockson help negotiate a treaty with the Muabir for the cessation of hostilities along Russia’s southern border.

  Rock and Vassily shook hands and the eight provisions of the treaty were initialed by each man. Vassily stood up on wobbly legs and gave Rockson a weak bear hug, then kissed him on both cheeks.

  Rahallah and the other advisors present applauded loudly.

  “Peace, peace,” they shouted as Vassily beamed broadly. At last, thought Rahallah, perhaps Africa will be next.

  Rockson was handed one final piece of paper by Vassily.

  “What’s this?” he asked warily.

  “A mere formality,” the premier said. “A part of the treaty that will not be promulgated in the U.S.S.A. And it will remain in my vault here in the Kremlin. That is the only copy. You must sign it in order for the rest of the treaty to be in force.” Rockson was hardly surprised when he read the addition.