by Ryder Stacy
FREEDOM’S FIGHT
America lies in ruins, the victim of a Russian thermonuclear first strike. Invaded and occupied by the Soviets, the U.S. has become a slave state repeatedly raped and plundered by its Red overlords.
But there are those who refuse to knuckle under to Russia’s rule . . . those who will fight for freedom . . . and die for freedom. Led by Ted Rockson, the ultimate soldier of survival, these FreeFighters have vowed to drive the hated Russians into the sea. And with the vicious KGB and Russian Army locked in a power struggle, Rockson and his FreeFighters are about to strike.
The first blow against the Red conquerers will be in the very heart of their American empire: Washington, D.C. In a perilous trek across a shattered nation, Rockson leads the FreeFighters in a daring raid that will signal the bloody start of the second War of Independence!
DOOMSDAY
WARRIOR
BARRICADE OF DEATH
The whole Russian fort was coming to life and there was only one chance to escape. Gripping the long wooden pole in his hands, Rockson ran toward the sixteen-foot-high barbed wire fence and without breaking stride planted the pole in the dirt. With every ounce of strength he kicked off with his piston legs and climbed up in the air in a perfect arc.
A spotlight suddenly caught Rockson dead on, and a stream of Red slugs headed toward him like a swarm of man-eating locusts. The top of the fence was coming and Rock made it over—barely. The very upper strands of barbed wire ripped across his right calf, slicing open a three-inch-long gash that oozed a stream of blood. Then he was arcing down to the ground, curling as he made contact, rolling over and over into the blackness where the circle of searchlights ended.
This particular bunch of Reds wasn’t going to get the Doomsday Warrior. Not tonight.
ZEBRA BOOKS
are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
475 Park Avenue South
New York, N.Y. 10016
ISBN: 0-8217-1745-6
Copyright © 1986 by Ryder Stacy
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
First printing: January 1986
Printed in the United States of America
One
It was the ugliest damned thing Ted Rockson had ever seen—the head of a lion-like creature with immense saber-toothed fangs erupting from its jaws like ivory tusks. Its feline head was set atop a ten-foot-long lizard body, iridescent green, rippling with waves of color along its length all the way down to the thick black tail, a nasty-looking spike, that hung limply on the ground behind it. It was as if three or four different killer beasts had been sewn together into one, and the result was not very appealing—or friendly.
It stared at Rockson absolutely motionless, like a cat watching a mouse, frozen in time, in space, its every mode of perception focused on the human prey. Its black, saucer-sized eyes were like mirrors, black holes from the darkest ends of the galaxy. And within them the Doomsday Warrior could see his own image, as if reflected from another dimension. A lizard tongue, dark red and thick as a man’s wrist, darted in and out of the saber-toothed jaws, as if tasting Rockson’s scent on the air. And evidently it liked what it tasted, for it rested back on its haunches, preparing for what the Doomsday Warrior could see was an imminent attack. Nothing on earth coils up like a spring unless it’s about to uncoil again right into something else’s face.
Without turning his chiseled, sun-hardened face, Rockson whispered out of the corner of his mouth to the extraordinarily beautiful woman, long red hair flowing to her waist and a Liberator semi-auto in her hands, who stood several yards behind him.
“Move real slow, Sugar Pie. This thing’s looking dinner right in the eye and I don’t think it’s going to want to go home empty-handed.”
“Let me take a shot at it,” Rona Wallender, Rock’s fellow Freefighter from Century City, said, sliding almost imperceptibly to the side out of the direct striking range of the thing. She wore only cut-off shorts and a T-shirt in the hot noon air of the low Colorado Rockies. Her tan legs rippled with muscles, and her bare arms peeking out from under the thin white T-shirt were equally strong. She gripped a modified Liberator hunting rifle with tight hands.
“No!” Rock said softly, moving one foot at a time ever so slowly to the opposite side. He moved with trained fighting instincts that had been honed down over the years so that now he was a pure fighting machine, a survivor in a world where death lay behind every bush, every tree, where the prettiest flower could be filled with poison waiting to explode out, where the sky, the water, the very ground beneath one’s feet were all part of the endless battlefield of America 2089 A.D. So far, Ted Rockson, aka the Doomsday Warrior, had withstood all that this cruel world could hurl at him. But he knew deep in his heart that someday something would come at him that would be too big or that would move too fast—and he would be but a memory of those who knew him, perhaps a footnote in the history books of postwar U.S.—if there were ever such things again.
But Rock didn’t feel like taking a trillion-year snooze in the soil today. Whatever got him was going to have to try hard, real hard. He kept his eyes directly on the creature’s own burning saucers, waiting, looking for the sudden flicker that meant attack. But the creature, whatever the hell it was, was in no great hurry. Its hunting instincts had taken over, and it stood frozen, its forward right leg raised up, its feline head pointing like a hunting dog straight at Rock. The immense reptilian eyes darted back and forth between the two possible victims as the tongue sampled the scent of each of them. It was apparently trying to decide just which one would be the tastier, flicking the nearly three-foot-long tongue out in a blur of motion ten times a second. The thing at last made up its mind and sprang into the air, uncoiling those tree-trunk-sized legs, and headed straight toward Rockson’s throat, the saber-toothed jaws opening as wide as a steam shovel to sever the head in one swift bite.
Rock sensed the mutation’s attack a split second before it came and dove sideways, flying through the hot humid air and landing flat on his stomach several yards away. The predator’s lion jaws snapped shut on the spot where the Doomsday Warrior had been standing but it got only a mouthful of air. It came down hard on its thick lizard legs, sending a flurry of dust up from the ground. As tough as it was, and at nearly two thousand pounds, with a reptilian hide two inches thick and jaws that could snap a steel bar in two, it was for its size perhaps the most vicious creature that had ever roamed the planet earth—it was also one of the dumbest. Its brain was not much larger than a plum, but then it had never had to do much beyond snapping its teeth around whatever was handy—and gobble it down, fur, bones, tail and all. And at killing it had never failed, having taken on whatever got in its path—from elk to buffalo to twisted, armored monstrosities that man had never lay eyes on. And it had won every match. Until now.
It snapped a few more times at the substanceless air, its black eyes tightly shut—part of its adaptive physiology—protecting them from horns or teeth and claws of its intended victim. Then it opened its eyes again, and saw, as dumb as it was, that it was not actually eating anything. The immense jaws opened with a howl of furious hunger, the saber teeth standing out from its red thick lips, pointing at each other like razor swords at attention. The chair-sized head swiveled around quickly until the black orbs found the victim, several feet away, scampering along the ground to escape. But the thing knew there was no escape—not from it. It knew its power. It knew that all it had faced had died. All. Some had escaped for a moment, or several moments. They had hidde
n, climbed trees, and fought back. But all had ended their miserable animal lives in its ripping jaws and stomach—dissolved by digestive fluids powerful enough to melt metal. It was the most murderous killing machine that the dark side of Mother Nature had ever created—green scales shimmering with sparks of reflected sunshine, huge reptilian claws extended far out, curved daggers nearly a foot long; jaws apart like the very gates of hell; rows of icepick teeth extending deep into its throat. It leapt again.
Rockson had landed hard when he dove out of the way of the first attack, his shoulder slamming down onto a jagged stone and nearly dislocating it. But the pain didn’t distract him—it was just a reminder of things to come if he didn’t act fast. Rock knew—from bloody experience—that tenths of a second meant everything out here. He let the fall take him over the rock, curling into a ball and rolling along the ground for a few yards. While still in motion, just a blur of bronzed skin and olive fatigues, the Doomsday Warrior reached around with his good arm—the other was numbing up from the blow—and whipped out his .12-gauge rapid-fire shotgun pistol. It was Rockson’s equalizer circa 2089 A.D.
Magna/steel shot, coated with teflon, blasted out in an X-pattern at the speed of a jet. Anything it hit within twenty feet would know it—Russian, snar-lizard, mutant—or this pretty little critter in front of him. That is, if he could get it. For he had barely pulled the 14-inch-long chambered pistol out in his left hand, brought his roll to a stop, and begun to turn when he felt the energy of the thing almost upon him. There wasn’t time to complete his spin and fire. With split-second reflexes Rockson, relying on his tai chi training, breathed out in an explosive burst of air and let his body go instantaneously limp. He dropped like a stone as the creature flew just overhead, its body blocking out the sky for a second, its right hind claw just nipping Rock’s already-throbbing shoulder and digging an inch-deep ditch in the skin, which instantly bloomed into blood. For something the size of a barn door, the monstrosity was amazingly fast. The thought flashed through the Doomsday Warrior’s mind, as he slammed down onto the hard dirt, that if this was a whole new species . . . every goddamned other species was doomed.
The second he could see sky, Rock rolled over onto his stomach and without sighting up pulled the trigger all the way back. The gun jerked in his hand like a python trying to escape. Only Rockson’s steel strength kept the mini-cannon from flying right into his face as it sent out a stream of shells, firing automatically every half second. Behind him Rock heard the crack of Rona’s Liberator in between the thunderous blasts of his own death dealer.
The first of the .12-gauge packets of shot spread out only an inch or so before making contact with the rear end of the lizard lion, which hadn’t even landed yet, as it had flown a good twelve feet past Rockson on its second abortive attack. Pieces of shot dug into the thick black leathery tail like teeth flying at the speed of light and gouged out a whole section of the two-hundred-pound, seven-foot long appendage, nearly severing it, so that it dangled by thick pulsing arteries that continued to send their streams of swamp-colored blood through the wide veins. The mutant predator let out a roar of pain which seemed to shake the very skies above, filled with a vast, slowly floating mosaic of green strontium clouds, changing, rearranging themselves constantly into soft, heavenly paintings. The second stream of whistling death caught the thing in the left thigh, ripping into the bone and tendons and exploding the leg off the creature in an eruption of blood and green scales. The third, fourth, and fifth shots tore into the thing’s side, and with one leg gone, it hobbled for a moment, unable to escape. The alloy shotgun pellets ripped into the mutation’s stomach and chest like a scythe splitting its whole side open. The two-inch-thick reptilian hide opened like bloody doors and the entire contents of the killer sprayed out in one whooshing wave. Organs, miles of arteries and muscle and nerve, bones, and skulls from the undigested food in the thing’s stomach and gallons upon gallons of blood splashed out in all directions as if fired from a cannon. Rockson covered his head and face as some of the revolting stew landed on his back and shoulders.
He waited a second and then opened his eyes, looking up. The thing was dead. Of that there was no doubt. It was barely recognizable as something that had once been alive, but looked more like a mass of green moss that had been covered with the ground-up remains of a whole forest of animals. Only the proud head still remained, atop the shattered hulk of the thing, the golden fur streaked along one side with bright red, the other side untouched, one eye still open, staring, too stupid, perhaps, to even know that it was dead.
The Doomsday Warrior stood up, brushing off the slime and pieces of organ with a look of infinite disgust on his face. The streak of white hair that ran down the center of his scalp—one of the signs of the true mutant, the Homo Mutatiens, as Dr. Shecter had designated them—was drenched bright red as if Rock’s own skull were oozing its life’s blood.
“Rock, jesus, are you all right?” Rona half screamed out as she ran over to his side. “Your head, it’s—it’s bleeding!” She put her hand over her mouth in horror as she stood just inches away from the man she loved, staring at him. Rock lifted the hand of his right arm, which was moving again, though still tingling with streaks of pain from the fall he had taken, and ran it through his hair.
“No, my brain’s still there,” Rock answered. “As much as I began with, anyway. It’s that thing’s lunch and dinner and every goddamned thing. It’s all over me.”
“Oh Rock,” she cried out, throwing herself toward him, wrapping her arms around the Doomsday Warrior. “I thought you were—were dead.”
“Shhh,” Rockson said, putting his fingers over her lips as he felt her firm melon breasts crushing against him, the warmth of her soft perfect body, enveloping him like a golden blanket. “Don’t ever talk about someone dying, my dear. It’s bad form. Gives death a chance to stick a word or two in itself.” He stepped back from her, taking her shoulders in his weathered hands, which were lined and baked and hammered like driftwood, floating, ever floating, as the waves of the world slowly, indelibly, etched a violent picture of life on them.
“Besides,” he continued with a smile, “you’re a descendant of the Great Wallender Trapeze Family—and I know that those brave people never talked about death on the high wire.”
“That’s why nearly half of them died,” Rona said with a quick pout, stepping away and mock-punching Rock’s face.
They both turned and looked down at the head of the dead beast sitting atop the red mess below it. It wore a somehow regal air, proud, uncowed. It had lived as it had died—in utter and pure violence—and perhaps that was its destiny. Those who live by the claw shall perish by the claw. The two Freefighters stepped through the death-swamp of red-and-green on the ground and walked up to the head, the one eye staring back, as cold and vacant as the vacuum of space. The saber teeth, two on each jaw, white as ivory and curving up nearly a yard, were awesome. With a ton-plus body weight behind those deadly tusks, the thing—alive—looked as if it could have taken on a tank—and bitten through it.
“You ever seen one of these fellas?” Rona asked, as she reached down and ran her hand along one of the smooth glistening saber teeth.
“Never,” the Doomsday Warrior answered, reloading his shotpistol, taking a full barrel-load and slamming it in—one of Shecter’s designs. The turn chamber was disposable and could hold seven shells of .12-gauge murder. When the last shot was fired, the pistol automatically ejected the magnesium/tungsten chamber, and Rock could slam in a new barrel within seconds. It had saved his life more times than the Freefighter liked to think about.
“They’re beautiful, Rona said softly, looking at the immense tusklike teeth from different angles. Then, with a look of fierce determination, she said, “I want one,” and whipped her tempered-steel hunting knife from its sheath at her side.
“Want what?” Rockson asked, as she bent over and began hacking away at the base of one of the upper saber teeth with the edge of the razor-sharp
blade. Bits of bloody bone from the jaw flew out all around her like shavings from a saw.
“What the hell are you doing?” the Doomsday Warrior asked, his jaw half dropping open at the sight.
“I’m taking one of these teeth here,” Rona answered in a matter-of-fact voice. “It will look great on my wall—just like an elephant tusk. Oh, Rock,” she said excitedly, “it will be so beautiful next to my red bedspread.”
“Gimme a break,” Rockson muttered under his breath as her blood-splattered hand moved at lightning speed trying to uncover the root of the great tooth.
“Gimme a hand, would you, Rock dear?” Rona said in her most seductive little-girl tone. The Doomsday Warrior shuffled over to the female Freefighter, who had a somewhat mad look on her face as she cleaved into the thick gums and jaw of the dead beast like a novice butcher not quite sure which end is the rump and which is the ribs. Rockson put his thickly veined arms around the top of the yard-long incisor and pulled with all his might. Slowly, like a great tree unwilling to give up its roots, the tooth bent over and pulled free of the jawbone. With a sudden loud snap it ripped completely out, dangling red-coated tendrils and nerves. Rockson nearly fell backward, but jumped as he went and regained his balance. He reached forward with a bow and handed the mutation’s dental work to Rona, who took it with a smile.
She hoisted the nearly-seventy-pound tooth up onto her shoulder and began marching back toward their hunting camp about a half-mile away. Rock looked after her for nearly thirty seconds with one side of his mouth lifted up in a wry grin. Then he walked several yards and lifted the already skinned and filleted spotted elk they had shot before they had been attacked. Meat. Meat for the beleaguered Century City, nearly destroyed by a neutron bomb which, a month after the attack, was still reeling from the devastation as it dug itself from the rubble, salvaging whatever remained. Rock and Rona, one of fifty hunting expeditions, had been out for three days and accumulated close to five tons of meat, salted and loaded for transport on a pack of twenty hybrid horses, stronger, thicker, and more resistant to radiation than horses of the pre-War era. This had been their last trip out before heading home. They had nearly joined someone else’s meat-gathering foray.