by Ryder Stacy
The Doomsday Warrior glanced behind him and saw the rest of the team close on his heels. Already Chen and Detroit were preparing to leap from their mounts onto the back of the second car—the Communications Car—which would have to be put out of business within seconds, before the operators inside had the chance to send even a partial distress call. He looked forward again just as Snorter came alongside the open doorway of the engine.
The engineer suddenly sensed something and turned his head. A look of complete terror crossed his face, his cheeks turning bright red. He pushed the waist-high throttle forward at the same instant he reached for a pistol on the shelf right in front of him. But Rock’s .12-gauge equalizer sent out a hailstorm of steel that ripped into the man’s abdomen, releasing his internal organs onto the floor in a single tidal wave of blood. The engineer looked down at his own guts and then slumped to the floor.
Yet the train barely slowed. Had Reston been bullshitting about the deadman’s throttle? But as the mist of blood and flesh cleared, the Doomsday Warrior could see that the dead man had fallen so that his body was half sitting, propped up against the chromed throttle.
“Shit,” spat Rockson, barely keeping pace with the Silver Bullet. He leaned forward and whispered in Snorter’s ear.
“Go, boy, run like you’ve never run before.” Whether the hybrid understood his exact words or not, it felt the urgency in his voice and surged forward, reaching down inside itself for its own brand of courage and strength. At last the running board was right beside him, and Rockson pulled his feet free of the stirrups and set both of them in the center of the saddle. The train rattled along seven feet away as the ’brid tried to steady itself at full gallop so its master could have firm footing. Rockson relaxed his mind, trying to pretend he was back on the mat at Century City, jumping over the backs of kneeling students. He pushed up with all his strength, uncoiling his muscled legs, and flew onto the side of the engine, barely catching a steel rod with one hand. Instantly, Rock pulled himself up and into the locomotive, kicking the dead man to the side to release the throttle.
“Not so fast, mister brave, brave man,” a voice threatened from behind. Rock turned to see a shotgun leveled at his chest, held by a husky, disheveled man whose red face was covered with sweat and coal dust. “I see you killed my pal here,” the man said coolly, glancing at the thing that lay on the floor, still pumping blood. “Don’t matter. He was an asshole, anyway.” He grinned. “In a way, you did me a favor, fella. I’ll be top dog around here now. So thanks a lot.” He sighted down the long twin-barreled weapon. “Too bad I has to kill you, too—but see, that’ll make me a hero, and then—well, you understand.”
Rock sent the command to his legs to jump, knowing it was too late. The blast of the wide muzzle would catch him within yards. He flew through the air, hitting hard on the other side of the wide engine room, slightly astounded that he was still alive. He turned, raising his shotpistol quickly, and stared in amazement. The man’s entire head had been severed from his body and was slowly falling over, pulling a trail of bloody arteries behind it. A boomerang whistled out the other doorway of the Silver Bullet’s engine room, a boomerang with a narrow, murderously sharp blade protruding from the front of its V shape. The boomer stopped on a dime without slowing its spin, and whipped around the front of the engine and then back along the side of the train. The head of Rockson’s would-be destroyer fell from its body, sending a geyser of bright red blood straight up, and slapped down onto the floor rolling a few feet like a bowling ball. The body seemed to melt like butter, the legs bending, the backbone folding up like an accordion. It slammed into the floor where it lay, hands and feet twitching spasmodically in shock at the quick end to what had seemed about to be quite a promising and financially rewarding life.
With the body released from the fail-safe throttle, the braking system of the train locked every wheel on the engine, bringing the entire train to a screaming halt, sparks flying as if the wheels were on fire. As it stopped Rock ran to the door the boomer had come in and looked out. Lieutenant Boyd grinned back at him, wiping his weapon clean.
“It’s bloody awful messy—but it does get the job done.”
“Bloody is the word,” Rock said, his clothes drenched with the dead man’s supply. “But I’ll buy that boomerang a beer any fucking time it wants one.”
In the car directly behind Rock, Chen and Detroit had clawed their way aboard and hung on for dear life as they waited for Rock to do his thing up front. The moment the train came to a halt, they smashed through the door and came in running. The five Red Army Com men inside were still rising from their chairs in front of their communications equipment. Their faces froze as they saw the dirt-encrusted Freefighters with their fierce eyes. Detroit unleashed a burst of fire from his Liberator, hitting one wall.
“Who wants to die?” he yelled out. “Speak up, ’cause I’m more than ready to oblige.” The five Reds looked at each other for a split second, then three of them grabbed the pistols hanging at their sides and searched out the pair of bandits who dared attack the heavily armed train. But their fingers never got the chance to even find the triggers. Detroit shot off another stream of slugs, catching two of them in the chest. They flew backward as if struck by the fists of a giant, hitting the side walls of the Com car and sliding to the floor, leaving a smeared trail of blood on the wall behind them. The third man had his Turganev pistol nearly sighted on the blackie when he heard a soft whistling sound. He turned for a split second just in time to see one of Chen’s star-knives rip into his face like a buzz saw. When it came out the other side, there wasn’t much left up top.
“Any more heroes?” Chen yelled out, holding another of the five-pointed blades in his right hand, ready to fling. The remaining two Reds cowered on the floor, their hands nowhere near their pistols.
“Please don’t kill me,” one of them, a skinny acned man with thick-lensed glasses, begged them. “We are not battle soldiers—just communications men.”
“No one gets killed who don’t ask for it,” Detroit assured the man. “We just want to borrow this train for a little vacation ride—not massacre every one of you bastards in here. Though, God knows, I’m sure you all deserve it.” The two Freefighters walked to the Com equipment, looking it over. Headphones crackled with static electricity, but no voices were frantically asking what had happened—so it appeared they’d stopped any signals from being sent out.
“All right,” Detroit said, lowering his rifle slightly, knowing that Chen, with his star-knives and super fighting abilities, would cover his back. “Now which one of you Russian warriors wants to volunteer for overtime?” The two men looked at one another, their eyes debating whether to be brave—or alive.
“I will help,” the acne-faced one said, slowly rising from the floor. “Just let me live—and I will do what you want.”
“Good. Better than good—excellent,” Detroit said, walking with the man back to his chair in front of the complex-looking transmission equipment. He sat down and put on some earphones, but as Detroit looked away momentarily, thinking he heard something at the far end of the car, the Red threw a switch and began broadcasting frantically.
“We are under attack, we are under attack. This is the Silver—” He never got to finish his sentence, as one of Chen’s star-knives flew across the room like a bird seeking a home. It found one—dead center of the man’s neck. The five-pointed blade sliced through the back of the spinal chord, sending out a light spray of blood, and the body slumped down into the seat, the headphones falling from the man’s ears.
A crackling, static-punctuated voice was talking back through the earphones. “Who is this? Who is sending this distress call? Please send again. What force is this? Who is attacking you?”
Detroit didn’t dare touch any of the buttons or dials on the floor-to-ceiling Com equipment. He stepped away from it as if it were on fire and looked down at the Red who still sat on the floor, twitching with final death quivers.
“Well, pal, looks like you’re the last one left. Let me put it to you straight,” he said, looking into the fear-filled face, trying to gauge just what kind of man he was. “I need you—and you need me. Whatever you’ve heard from your Red propaganda machines—we ain’t just bloodthirsty killers. If you do exactly what I say, you live—I guarantee it. We’ll even tie you up, make it appear you were tortured by us. You understand what I’m saying? We’re taking this train all the way to the end of the line—and we need a Com man to get us through.” He lowered his rifle again, until the tip of the barrel was pointing right at the Red’s tear-filled eyes. “So what’s it gonna be, fella?”
“I’ll help, I will, I swear,” the cowering Russian replied. “I—I—just don’t want to die. I have family—children—here, see,” he said, reaching toward his jacket slowly, and extracting a picture of his happy home in Moscow. “See—three little babushkas. I have never killed any Americans. I am just a—”
“Calm down, pal, save your breath. You’re hired. Now just get back in that chair—do exactly what we say—and you’ll be seeing your babushkas again. You have my word.” Detroit looked the man square in the eyes, trying to show him that, unlike the Reds, the Americans could be trusted—were true to their promises.
“Yes, yes, I believe you. I will help.”
In the cars behind the Com Unit, nearly two hundred Red officers ranging all the way up to the rank of General had been having leisurely drinks and snacks in the Silver Bullet’s four dining and recreation cars. The train really was little more than a vacation cruise à la rails. When speed was of the essence, the Russian officers would fly to their destinations. But men, even Communists, need relaxation—and the two-thousand-mile journey across the central and eastern part of the country was one of the few places they could let it all hang out, bring their mistresses aboard, enjoy the gourmet food of the cooking staff, and take in the views—through radiation-shielded windows—of the beauty and devastation that was America. Though this particular journey had started out as R&R for the Reds aboard, with the Mad Killov on the loose they were always in danger. Yet, where were they all to go? If the Red fortresses had been captured, they were all doomed. Most on board had elected to continue on to Washington, which they were sure was still in the hands of President Zhabnov. They prayed godless prayers that they wouldn’t be attacked en route by KGB forces—and tried to enjoy what little time they might have left. But their dining, card playing, and sex with the fifty or so young beauties who were always on hand to carry out even the most depraved desires were rudely interrupted.
Sipping a cup of spicy cappuccino, Major Korsky stared out the wide pink-tinted window next to his linen-covered table. He was deep in thought when he suddenly saw shapes appearing out of the woods. He rubbed his eyes, wondering if he was seeing things, as he hadn’t slept more than a few hours in the last four days. But when he took his hands from his bloodshot eyes, the apparitions were still there, looming closer by the second. Wild-looking men, brandishing rifles and weapons he couldn’t even begin to make heads or tails of, riding the strangest assortment of beasts he had ever seen. The officers seated around the dining cars jumped up from their tables and ran to the windows to stare out at the motley caravan of hybrids, camels, Freefighters, and Aussies. At first, the mob brought smiles to some of their faces. Of course there was no way the group could board the train—not while it was moving. But when the Silver Bullet lurched to a stop, their expressions of amusement changed to stark terror.
Suddenly the impossible army was aboard the train, men charging in from every door, their weapons ready to create an ocean of blood—if that’s what the Reds wanted. Most of them didn’t even reach for their pistols, tools of the trade that these high rankers hadn’t had to pull for years. They rarely went out on the search-and-destroy missions. That was for underlings. Besides, they knew they would be ransomed—for surely that was what these bandits wanted—rubles to buy food for their stinking mules. But a few of the Red brass, perhaps seeing a chest full of medals or that eternal dream of every Russian—a mansion on the Volga—drew their service revolvers, sure that the rabble would flee at the sight of a Russian officer staring them down. They were leveled in their tracks, crashing backward onto the perfectly arranged tables with their little vases of flowers, their embroidered linens.
In every car the scene was the same—two or three of the officers resisting—and paying for it with their quickly terminated lives. Within a minute the Silver Bullet was firmly under the control of the Freefighters. Now all they had to do was figure out how to run the damned thing.
Sixteen
President Zhabnov was in bed, fondling three preteen-aged girls his sex squads had picked out for him, when the first blasts came. He jumped from the bed, nearly squashing one of the drugged girls, and ran to the White House window. Explosions were going off everywhere, lighting up the capital’s sky with searing flashes. Paratroopers were descending from above by the thousands.
“We’re being attacked, sir,” a servant screamed, bursting through the door.
“I can see that, you idiot,” the Russian President bellowed in fear and rage. “Those Freefighters must be mad to think that they can take the Capital. I’ll—I’ll crucify every one of them.”
“Sir,” the servant said, his lower lip trembling as he was not quite sure he wanted to be the one to break the news. “It’s not Freefighters—it’s—it’s KGB forces. It’s coming over the radio—they must have taken the stations already. Colonel Killov himself is demanding that all Red Army officers throw down their weapons—or they’ll be destroyed. And—and—”
“Go on fool, tell me,” Zhabnov screamed, standing naked by the window, his fat hanging stomach lit as if by a strobe light from the constant bombardment outside.
“And—there’s a hundred thousand ruble reward for the man who brings you to him—alive.” Zhabnov paled, and put his hand against the wall to steady himself. It was impossible—Killov didn’t dare make a move against him. Why, the Grandfather would send over a strike that would destroy the Blackshirts once and for all. Surely the man was mad to think he had the slightest chance of success. But, mad or not, the blasts from bombs and artillery rained down on the Capital in a thunderstorm of death.
He ran to the phone and pressed the autodial for his command headquarters. The phone rang several times, and then a voice answered.
“KGB Command—who is this?” Zhabnov put his hand over the mouthpiece and, paling even further, slammed the phone back down on the receiver. There was no time. He saw it instantly. With him dead and Killov’s forces in control of the entire Red hierarchy, the country might never be regained. He had to flee. There would be another day, another battle. But it was of paramount importance that he—the figurehead of the government, the pinnacle of Red power—survive. Thus he justified his immediate flight from the city, leaving his forces without their top leader.
He threw on his clothes, which he had left lying at the foot of the bed, and ran down the stairs leaving everything else behind. On the main floor, another servant ran up, his eyes stretched wide in panic.
“Excellency, Excellency—they’re already landing on the front lawn.” Zhabnov jerked his head around and looked through the wide windows. Hundreds of elite commandos were floating down from the sky, landing right in his rose garden, trampling the precious petals into red paste. “They’ll pay,” he promised himself, tears filling his eyes at the sight of his garden thus destroyed. Every one of them would somehow know the full meaning of pain. But not today. Zhabnov turned with such speed that he nearly toppled over, sliding on the freshly waxed wooden floors. His bodyguards appeared from other rooms, forming a defensive circle around him, cut-off submachine guns in their hands.
The President ran toward the back of the White House without a word, praying they hadn’t landed there yet. He peeked tentatively through one of the back doors, and seeing no one, yanked it open and tore down the stairs. A small black jet helicopter sat on the
lawn, the rotors already spinning. The pilot—who Zhabnov had fortuitously kept in the White House itself on twenty-four-hour alert—had also heard the blasts and started it up. With the circle of bodyguards surrounding him, the President dashed as fast as his fat legs could carry him the hundred feet to the whining chopper. Two Blackshirts suddenly appeared out of nowhere, raised their Sten guns, and released a hail of firepower. Four of Zhabnov’s ten Palace Guards crumpled to the ground, leaking their lifeblood from countless holes. But the rest of them turned and concentrated their own barrage on the KGB’ers who were slammed backward, becoming useless containers of bloody meat.
Zhabnov reached the chopper door and flung himself inside, scraping his arms and legs in the process. The bodyguards tried to climb in after him, but the obese man slammed the sliding door right on their hands, screaming out, “Go, man, get the hell out of here.” The pilot pulled the controls back and the craft shot up from the ground like a missile. Below, Zhabnov could see spits of flame from his guards’ weapons as the commando force closed in on them. They all fell in steaming heaps. Someday, Zhabnov vowed to himself—to alleviate the twinge of passing guilt he felt at having caused their deaths—he would build a monument to those brave men who had sacrificed themselves to save him. Someday.