by Ryder Stacy
Rockson carefully picked off a man who was driving a killer cart down the aisle at them, preparing to fire its cannon. Archer used up his last arrow to take out a man way up on the balcony who aimed a bazooka at the stage. Detroit lobbed the last two of his grenades, taking out a whole section of seats where a group of die-hard delegates was holed up.
After that, the intense silence that fell over the auditorium indicated the battle for the Dome was over.
Twenty-Four
Rockson stared out over the assembled survivors who sat around the great stadium looking very tired. Many of the Caucus people’s red and white jackets were ripped, half falling off them. Others had changed into their work clothes.
The whole place had a different smell to it now without the gasses constantly being pumped in. The Caucus people looked pretty spaced out—but their eyes had a new clarity. They were at last seeing through the lies, the illusions, the ant-like culture they had been living in for as long as they could remember.
“I am Rockson,” the Doomsday Warrior said, addressing them over the huge loudspeakers. “The Great Nominee is dead. Many of your top officers are gone, too.” Rockson said this all in cold, measured tones. “You’re on your own now,” Rock went on, repeating that just to make sure. “You were all given large amounts of a mind-altering gas over the years. You’re coming out of it now, so be prepared to feel some strange things. The important thing is that you are free! You can stop worshipping that pile of melted nuclear waste you call the Nixon God.”
A man in the front row jumped up. He looked lost and panicky. “We of the Caucus need your guidance, need to obey.”
“That’s bullshit,” Rockson screamed over the P.A. so the whole audience jerked in their seats, almost having heart attacks. He continued a little more softly.
“This is an incredible place,” Rock said, sweeping his eyes around the huge dome. “All of you are very lucky to have it to live in.”
They looked proud.
“But you must learn to use it,” Rock continued. “Those of you who decide to stay must form a new society. A free society.”
They looked at one another, the concept of Freedom was so alien.
“That’s right! You must do it, because me and my pals here are leaving. We don’t have the time to stay here and coddle you all. We have our own city, our own people to help.”
“Why don’t you stay?” one of them shouted out. “Be the new leader, the new Nominee. You held the sword!”
“No more Nominees!” Rockson spat out on the floor. “You all have real votes. Vote on how to run this place. Elect your own candidates.”
They all looked at one another and the place buzzed with a kind of new energy. Maybe this whole damn place could make it. But Rockson knew this place was out in the middle of nowhere, cut off from the real world. It would be hard. He wished them all luck and then gave the hand signal to the Freefighters to move out.
They rose and mounted their ’brids, having loaded them to the brim with supplies from the stadium: ammo, uncontaminated food, and water and electric supplies. They were set to go to C.C. with all the stuff their home needed.
“Thank you and good luck,” Rockson said, knowing the Caucus People would have to fight and think like tigers to obtain the slightest chance to survive. He turned and headed Snorter out the door. It felt wonderful to be outside.
“How the hell did you know where to find us?” Rockson queried McCaughlin, as he rode alongside him later, as the towering dome shrank behind them.
“Oh, we managed to find some shelter—a tunnel—after we lost you in the storm,” the big Scotsman replied. “Stayed there for about three days and then it was over. We didn’t give the ’brids any water. I knew that after about forty-eight hours they’d get a little thirsty and head off to find some. Which led us right to the stadium. We sent a couple of guys inside, to do some scouting—and they pretty much figured out what was going on. I figured it would be nice to have a good dramatic entrance,” McCaughlin went on with a laugh. “You always seem to appreciate them!” he beamed.
“Well, you did good,” Rockson said. “You, too, Sheransky! I’m proud of the whole damn bunch of you, even though your techniques of attack were a little on the sloppy side. But I’m not going to talk about that now. Southward ho, Freefighters,” Rockson said, turning in his saddle and addressing them. “We have succeeded in our mission.”
NEXT:
Table of Contents
Back Cover
Preview
Titlepage
Copyright
DOOMSDAY WARRIOR #17 AMERICA’S SWORD
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four