Doomsday Warrior 17 - America’s Sword

by Ryder Stacy

  The Freefighters all dove to the side, as the head was only feet away from them. But the writhing, slime-dripping nightmare with green blood all over its face didn’t seem to care too much about lunch anymore. It was too busy feeling an agony it had never experienced. It went rolling off to the side, over and over, spraying out all that had been inside its skull as the tree-spear, imbedded to about eight feet, just kept digging deeper.

  It rolled a good hundred feet, flipping over and over like a worm caught on a fishing hook, the massive body snapping around so Chen and Detroit, who were nearest to it had to jump away, covering their heads. But it just missed, as it snapped spasmodically overhead. Then suddenly, it stopped. The whole body quivered but the head lay still.

  Thirteen

  Rockson turned toward King Bailey with a look of triumph on his strong face. “We carried out our end of the bargain!” The Doomsday Warrior snarled out more: “So now if you would—I and my men have a long way to go. And it would be good if we got an early start on the day.”

  The king looked somewhat amazed at the defeat of his huge pet, even as it lay still a hundred yards off. And he looked angry, very angry, his face quivering with rage. For the immense snake had not just been used for the king’s sport—and for disposing of those he didn’t want around—but it had also been the symbol of his power. “No” had added a certain fear in the other, lesser snakemen’s psyches. But you sure as hell weren’t going to be afraid of a pile of rotting scales. He could see that his very power base had been threatened. He could see, as well, that he’d have to be very careful with these Freefighter bastards. They were far more clever and resourceful than he had imagined.

  “Yes, yes, of course you can all go now. I can’t say I enjoyed your defeat over the great serpent—but a deal is a deal. We’ll just head back to the village—and whatever you need—just tell me—and it’s yours.” The other snakemen looked at each other as the Freefighters loaded back up onto the raft. They had never seen the king so forgiving, so seemingly unconcerned about what was clearly a major defeat for his authority. As they were poled back on the large raft, Rockson saw the king whispering to several of his top lieutenants at the foot of the craft. Several times he looked around and Rock could sense beneath the false smile a look of incredible hate, as if he wished he could rip Rockson and his pals to shreds on the spot.

  His own team felt it too. The king looked as if he was going to explode from barely repressed rage at any moment. Rockson leaned over to Archer, who stood looking around at the swamplands as if searching for some fruit, something good to eat. He put his arm around the huge Freefighter’s shoulder and gave Archer a big smile, as if he wanted to borrow the giant’s gems or something. “Listen, pal, I’m going to talk real soft, so no one hears us—but when we get back to the island and we all start getting off—I want you to grab the Snake-King there.”

  “GRRAAAB SNAAAKE MAAAN!” the immense Freefighter replied, trying to whisper, which was a little difficult for Archer. He looked at Rockson thoughtfully as the words sank in. Archer gave Rock a quick nod, his eyes lighting up with comprehension.

  “Yeah,” Rock went on, “sure is a damn hot and sticky day,” so King Bailey wouldn’t get suspicious. Chen, Detroit, and Sheransky stood around the back of the pole-driven raft, keeping a sharp eye out for any other demonic creatures that might pop out of nowhere. They had taken out the snake, but that didn’t mean diddly about the next thing that might pay them a visit. The Doomsday Warrior continued whispering to Archer: “When I give the ‘go’ signal, I want you to get that bastard in a nice headlock.”

  “HEEADLOOCCK,” the near-mute echoed back, glancing up at the front of the raft as if checking out the king’s neck and head for a fitting.

  “Don’t kill him—but if the shit hits the fan—rip his goddamned head from his body. Understand?”

  “UUUNNDEEERRSSTAAANNNDD!” Archer said, with a big grin stretching across his face. He knew he had been given a very important assignment, a responsibility that he didn’t often get. Besides, it would be fun to take the king out, after what he had just put them all through.

  “Good man,” Rockson said with a grin, slapping the grizzly bear-sized Freefighter on the back. It was like slapping the side of a tree, and he grimaced slightly as he pulled his hand away. He glanced back at the rest of the team and gave two handsignals invisible to any of the snakemen but clear enough to his own crew: “Something is up—be prepared but don’t make a move.”

  They acknowledged.

  After about five minutes, they reached the king’s palace of trees and vines. The raft came sliding up to the wide terrace that surrounded it. As he got off and jumped up a foot to the wooden platform, Rock and Archer came tearing after the bastard. King Bailey turned back with sudden fear on his face as he saw the two Freefighters barreling down on him. Before any of his men could swing their death-poles on them, Archer was alongside the king and threw both his arms into some kind of mountain-style wrestling hold around his royal neck. It looked as if he could snap the man’s neck like a chicken bone.

  Three of the personal guards started forward fast, but Archer tightened the grip even further and half-lifted King Bailey right off the platform. The man gurgled and sputtered, waving his hands like a madman.

  “No, stay back,” the king managed to spit out. The guards stopped, as they suddenly saw that the Freefighter could kill their ruler in about half a second if he pulled just a little harder.

  “Okay, Bailey,” Rockson smirked as he walked up to the snake emperor and made a slow circle around him. Everyone else froze as they watched. “You want to live, I’m sure. But since my friend here could crush your larynx into pulp, I’d advise you to do what I say. Got it?”

  “Yes, yes, I hear you,” King Bailey replied, his face turning red. “Whatever you want, I promise.”

  “Good,” Rockson said, slapping the snakeman on the arm as if they were the best of friends. “Loosen it up, Archer; so you don’t accidentally rip something off,” the Doomsday Warrior said. The near-mute loosened the wrestling grip just a notch or two. King Bailey came down onto his feet again and the lobster red coloration of his cheeks and face dropped to a slightly pinker color.

  “First,” Rock said as he motioned for his team to gather round, “we want all the weaponry your guards took from us when we landed here yesterday. Load them up onto the raft.” He nodded toward his team to follow.

  “Yes, yes, they’re all in the storage chamber in my palace.” He ordered five of his inner elite bodyguards to go in and bring it all out. Within minutes, the snakemen, along with Rock’s own men were carrying armfuls of rifles and supplies back out to the raft. It felt good to have their full array of armaments. Detroit grabbed his twin bandoliers of grenades and slipped them around his chest. His face broke into a broad smile. There was something about being fully armed and ready to kick booty that made things a little brighter.

  “Okay, let’s move,” Rockson shouted out to them all when he saw they were loaded up. “Now, this is the story,” the Doomsday Warrior spoke to King Bailey, as Archer dragged the man back onto the raft. “We’re going to head to the island where the rest of my men and our ’brids are. I want you to get the two other rafts that brought us to this foul-smelling swamp. Then you’re going to lead us out of here, since we don’t know these wandering mud-pathways. No one tries to stop us, no one plays around. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “Yes, yes,” King Bailey said, with coughing desperation. “Two more rafts,” he croaked out to a good dozen of his men standing on the platform.

  Within minutes the rafts were alongside them with their pole-crews. They poled off away from the snake temple and toward the prison-island as hundreds of the snake people stared in amazement at the sight of their king being held prisoner. But none made a move as he kept gurgling for them to keep back. Archer had a goofy grin on his face as they poled along. He was the center of attention, and he loved it.

  The rafts pull
ed up to the island where Rockson was overjoyed to see that his men were unharmed. They were pretty happy to see him too. The idea of losing their commander was, to say the least, not their favorite daydream. Aside from liking Rock, they all knew that they didn’t have a snowball in hell’s chance of getting out of this place alive without his ability and judgments all the way. McCaughlin would try hard, but this was a job for the Doomsday Warrior!

  “Load up,” Rock shouted out, as the rafts pulled up onto the shoreline. Instantly the men rushed and got the hybrids which were tethered to some ropes about two hundred feet off. They carefully led the mutant horses up onto the rafts and then got their equipment packed onto their mounts. One of the ’brids slipped as it was getting aboard and floundered around in the black surface waters as some snakes came streaming through the current. But one of the gourd men let out a sharp sound and the snakes veered off at the last second. The ’brid was dragged back up to shore and then led, whinnying and dripping, onto the raft. The other mounts grew nervous but at least they were more careful, staying as much as they could toward the center of the rafts.

  “Everyone and everything aboard?” the Doomsday Warrior shouted out as he surveyed the chaos of men and animals.

  “You got it, Rock,” McCaughlin yelled back, as they made a quick head count.

  “Move them doggies out,” Detroit laughed, glad to be getting out of the dank hellhole.

  “Okay, Chiefie,” Rockson said, walking over to Bailey. “Let’s get this real straight. I don’t want problems, any accidents, any anything. Take us north until we reach solid land. I’ve got a compass, so don’t try any tricks either. Otherwise you ain’t going to have a neck!” Archer tightened up a little, just to remind the man of his present situation.

  “Absolutely—no problems,” the Snakeman King gulped hard. “I’m no fool.” He addressed his polers, and the gourd man on each raft blew his signals to keep their snake-army off. The rafts began poling past the village, slowly at first, but as they built up some momentum, the craft hit a half-decent “cruising” speed. Snakes slithered near them in the swamp but didn’t approach, as the gourd men let out little toots on their instruments. The Freefighters began relaxing more and more as they drew away from the village and the snakes.

  Alongside them in high trees they could hear and see monkeys dancing around, making a noisy spectacle of themselves. Huge python-like serpents hung down from wide branches, but didn’t come any closer.

  Here and there, the men could see shapes splashing from the shorelines of the hundreds of little islands that they passed. At first Rockson thought they were snakes as well, but on closer inspection he could see they were alligators. The gourd sounds didn’t seem to affect them one way or another. But being poked by the long pole prongs kept them at bay. Though they shadowed the rafts, hoping something or someone would fall off, the alligators didn’t make any aggressive moves. A monkey, one that had gotten too near the end of its branch, lost its balance and tumbled down into the swamp water. In a flash two of the ’gators ripped the hapless mammal into two bleeding pieces. They swallowed hard and the animal was gone, as if it had never existed.

  They poled on for almost an hour as the swamp widened more and the water grew a little clearer. At last Rock could see the low mountains that surrounded the valley swamp just ahead, looming out of the mists.

  “This is it,” King Bailey groaned again as Archer let his arms relax slightly so the prisoner could talk. “That bank there.”

  “Have your men pole us over to that shore,” Rock said as he scanned the solid ground just ahead of them. King Bailey shouted out commands to his crew and the rafts were quickly poled up onto the bank of black mud which grew solid after a few feet. Rock had his whole team drag their ’brids from the rafts onto shore. He had the polers throw their equipment into the swamp, so they couldn’t suddenly try to attack them, and then had his men all mount up. “But,” complained the king, “you can’t leave us without our pole-weapons!”

  “Sure I can,” Rockson said, with a cynical expression as he looked at Bailey. “I can see the valley wall right ahead. Your men can dive for the damned poles. But you look sweaty from this little trip in the country. Archer, maybe our friend here needs a little bath to get the grime off?” He nodded his head twice, as all the blood drained from the king’s face.

  “No, no! Please! Not the swamp! Not the—” But Archer was already lifting the man high over his head, and with a slight bend in his massive legs the Freefighter threw him as far as he could into the swamp.

  Bailey splashed around in the water feet first, but before his guards could swim out and extricate him, several immense heads rose from the water. And even as the snakemen looked on in horror, the alligators charged at their king. Several of them snapped their massive jaws around the snakeman’s extremities. And with hundreds of red bubbles foaming and a final scream, Bailey was pulled down into the swamp.

  And didn’t surface again.

  Fourteen

  They rode for ten hours, and camped in a nice, dry spot. The first thing Ted Rockson saw when he awoke the next morning was a large, black, ugly bird, with wings that must have been at least eight feet across and a strange hooked beak. It was flying in circles perhaps ninety feet above him, its red eyes looking down with great curiosity.

  Suddenly it swooped lower, the table-sized wings flapping out sharp snapping noises in the air. Rock’s heart sped to double time as he reached for his shotpistol. But the moment he had the gun in hand and his arm thrust out, the great bird saw the motion and was already swooping away, the huge black wings releasing a few feathers here and there as they stroked hard. The bird gave him a quick little turn of the head as it tore across the prairie, and then was just a dot in the sky.

  Rock had almost fired before he realized what it was—a vulture. A big one, but vultures are only interested in the dead. These huge birds were carrion eaters. He had never seen one go after something living, not even a rabbit or small mammal. It was just one of nature’s scavengers, a living vacuum cleaner without which the environment would be filled with the rotting flesh of tens of thousands of animals.

  He looked around with a sheepish expression on his face, but no one had seen the action. Next he’d be firing at chameleons and ants, at the rate he was going.

  The rest of the men were just starting to rise up themselves, yawning and stretching out their arms. Rockson sat up and slipped the big .12-gauge shotpistol back into its home and jumped to his feet.

  “Rise and shine,” an annoying voice shouted out as he banged a coffeepot against some other loud cooking utensil. The Scotsman walked around the encampment, slamming two music makers together as if he were trying to wake the dead. “Up, up, before you miss one of my amazingly tasty wasteland breakfasts,” McCaughlin bellowed. “With real eggs. You hear me—real eggs.” Men groaned and a number of not very savory phrases came hurtling back at him.

  “Come on now, men,” the Scotsman said with mock hurt. “I’ve been up since dawn—found some eggs. Cooked up a whole shitload of snake-sausage too. You’ll all be happy if you come get some chow. Before it runs out.” He banged the pots a final brain-jarring time and headed back to his fire.

  None of them was particularly enthusiastic about either getting up or eating snakes. But since the only culinary alternative was the energy packets in the ’brid bags, they made themselves move over to the fire. Even Rockson stumbled over, feeling unusually sleepy this morning. The food he forced down without much enthusiasm, even though he knew it was pleasing his stomach a lot better than Shecter’s synth-chow. It was the coffee, even if it was hydroponically grown, that got his juices going.

  While the others finished up, Rock took out field binocs and surveyed the land ahead from Snorter’s back, jumping up onto the animal’s broad shoulders and grabbing hold of the hanging mane. He could see herds of bison, other smaller creatures that looked like a cross between a mountain goat and large deer. Rock had never seen a hybrid mix quit
e like that before. On the other hand, everywhere he went, every terrain seemed to bring new creatures. The old days, the old pre-war animals—were gone forever. God knew what the bison ate out here. It didn’t seem as if there was nearly enough to sustain such large herds of big animals. But there must have been something just at the ground’s surface, or even hidden below it, to sustain them.

  The autocompass on the side of binocs showed him north. He didn’t always trust the direction finders, especially since the magnetic pole seemed to keep shifting over the years, sometimes slowly, sometimes changing a number of degrees within hours. Old Shecter explained it with all kinds of complex facts, including axial shift, gravitaton readjustments between the sun and the earth, and so on. Rock never quite understood it all; he wondered if even Schecter did, as the man didn’t like to admit he didn’t know what was going on in any subject. But between the high-tech binocs, the direction of the sun, and his own mutant sixth sense, Rockson figured it was as good a guess as anything.

  “All right, let’s load up,” the Doomsday Warrior said, turning and shouting from atop Snorter’s back. “You bastards have had your chance to be lazy enough this fine morning.”

  As the men gathered their gear together, McCaughlin quickly broke down the mini-kitchen. He seemed able to put up or break down, in just minutes, a full “Cookie” setup!

  Just when Rockson was wishing for another cup of the black brew, they were ready to move on. The prairieland was actually fairly hard-packed once they got farther out on it. The sandy ground compressed instantly and the hybrids’ hooves hardly sank in at all. Yet, they moved fairly slowly at first as Rockson never trusted anything he didn’t know, be it human, animal, or terrain. But it was clear after about five minutes that this stuff was solid enough, and he had them all moved to medium cruising speed. He kept lifting up his binocs every five minutes or so to scan all around them.