Doomsday Warrior 07 - American Defiance

by Ryder Stacy

  “Murder,” Rock spat out, wondering if the man had even the foggiest idea how many hundreds of thousands he had killed without a second thought.

  “Such an antiquated phrase, murder,” Killov smirked. “Come now ‘Mr. Ultimate American,’ I thought you and I disagreed on a higher philosophical level,” Killov said with a mock tone of disappointment.

  “There is no higher level,” Rock replied, “only lower.”

  “Well, as much as I would love to stand here and talk all day, I do have pressing business elsewhere. Taking over a country is such a complex task. I’m sure you can understand. But we shall meet again very soon, and shall have plenty of time to, how shall we say—explore your thoughts at a much deeper level.” The words struck the KGB colonel as immeasurably funny and he began laughing, a wretched scraping sound that could barely emerge from his throat.

  “Put them in the main holding cells—double security. Except for Rockson—put him in Maximum Cell No. 1. When I tell you, I want him, the girl, and that doddering idiot of a President brought to MindCenter No. 4. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, Excellency,” the head of the Elite DeathSquad replied, holding his submachine gun diagonally across his chest. “Understood.”

  “Until this evening, then,” Killov said, sneering at the Doomsday Warrior across the wide floor. “And please—do let me know if there are any problems with the accommodations or the service.” With that, the KGB commander clicked his heels and exited quickly.

  “A friend of yours?” Lieutenant Boyd asked Rock from a few feet away.

  “Shut up, scum,” the head of the DeathShirts screamed. “You are in my charge now. There will be no talking, no movement, no anything without asking me or one of my men. Punishment for disobeying will be painful and instantaneous.”

  “I just love those black leather outfits you’re wearing,” Detroit said sweetly. “I’d love to know where I could buy one.” The DeathShirt leader rushed the few yards to the black Freefighter and slammed the butt of his submachine gun into the side of Detroit’s head, knocking him to the ground. Detroit went with the blow—but it hurt.

  “Anyone else?” the KGB’er asked, waiting a moment. “No—then let’s go.” They were marched single file with two men on each side of them several yards away. There was no way in hell they could move an inch without losing it. At the wide chrome elevators, Rockson was split up from the rest and taken under guard of ten men up in his own glistening elevator to the fourth floor. He was marched quickly to one of the Octagon’s maximum-security holding pens and pushed inside. The head of the guard spat through the bars at him, the gob landing near Rock’s boots.

  “So ends the great American Freefighter,” he said contemptuously. “I thought you were the one who survived it all—the unkillable one. Isn’t that what the slave rabble call you?”

  “As one of America’s greatest fighters once said,” Rock answered, finding himself the most comfortable position that he could on the bare wooden sleeping board, “it ain’t over till it’s over.”

  “It’s over, Rockson—it’s over.”

  They left him alone, posting guards all along the aisle in front of the cells, though Rock was the only one in the block. Within minutes, five KGB officers came strutting down the hall to the cell. The guards opened it up, their guns trained on every part of Rock’s body, and the five walked in.

  “Up against the wall, Freefighter,” the largest of them said. Rock rose slowly and walked over to the far wall where he stood still and waited. Two of the KGB’ers came over and clasped his hands, then his feet, to shackles that came out of the wall. When he was completely secure, the chief of this particular batch of killers walked in slowly, looking around as if curious about the cell. He meandered over to Rockson and looked him straight in the eyes for nearly ten seconds with a smirk that grew wider every moment.

  Suddenly, he slammed his right fist into Rock’s stomach with all his might. The Doomsday Warrior had known it was coming from the second they had walked in. He tightened his solar plexus, absorbing the blow, and let his body go backward slightly with the energy. But they weren’t content with a few well-aimed blows. No—this was meant to be a first-class torture party and they went to work with gusto. Fists and feet rained in on Rock from every quarter, and try as his might, he could do barely anything to avoid them. Chained on four sides, he lacked any mobility and was as helpless as he had ever been in his life. All their hatred of America and its filthy citizens who constantly attacked them came out on him—the living symbol of resistance. Their faces were contorted, eyes bulging, spittle spraying from their opened mouths as they flailed at him.

  There was no way to defend himself, so the Doomsday Warrior let every muscle in his body go limp and put himself into a meditative state to circumvent the pain. Still, he was conscious—and though detached from the ripping sensations that hammered away at him, it was an odd feeling to know that one’s body was being smashed as if by jackhammers while one watched through a trance of anesthetization.

  But at last the Deathshirts had had enough—or had grown tired from all the blows they’d thrown—and pulled back from the apparently unconscious Freefighter dangling like the dead from his chains.

  “I think I broke my fucking hand on the bastard’s chin,” one of them said, rubbing his knuckles, which were beginning to swelling up.

  “Didn’t kill him, did we?” another asked nervously. “Killov said to have our fun. But he wants his, too—with the Mindbreaker.”

  “That scum ain’t dead,” a third piped up. “All these stinking rebels are experts at playing possum. They don’t even feel pain like we do. I swear they’re not even really human.” The leader of the pain crew walked back over to the still body and put his hand over Rock’s chest.

  “Yeah, his heart’s still beating—got plenty of life left in him—at least enough to give the “Skull” his fun and games.” They walked from the cell in a fine mood, the kind of men for whom inflicting punishment on another human being was the highest form of pleasure.

  Rockson came to out of a spinning hole of blackness. He opened his eyes and for a moment forgot where he was. But the throbbing pain that covered his body and the chains around his hands and feet quickly brought him back to a rather depressing reality. He didn’t have much time to contemplate the situation however, as within minutes more stone-faced KGB’ers appeared at the cell door, came in, and took him down from the wall.

  “Time to die, Ultimate American,” the head of the group, a short squat fellow with protruding, almost beaver-like teeth, said as his underlings tied nylon strips around Rock’s wrists, pulling them roughly behind his back. “Colonel Killov asked me personally to convey his apologies that he has not been able to keep this evening’s appointment with you. But, he will be finished soon—and is greatly looking forward to your meeting.” They marched Rock back down the corridor and to the elevator taking him down two floors. He was deposited in another, larger cell—the holding pen for those about to experience the exquisite pain-giving abilities of the Mindbreaker—and kicked to the floor.

  “Soon, very soon, Freefighter,” the beaver-faced killer smiled through the bars. “You shall not be disappointed.”

  “I certainly hope not,” The Doomsday Warrior said through swollen lips. “I’ve heard so many wonderful things about it.” The Blackshirts marched off again, leaving five guards who immediately sat down and began playing cards as soon as their superiors had left. Rockson looked around the cell he was in. There were scrawled markings on the concrete walls in the back and he walked over to take a look.

  “I was here, June 23, 2088.”

  “Do not forget me—once I lived.”

  “God, why hast thou forsaken me.”

  The words had been clawed onto the cement with the prisoner’s fingernails or spelled out in their own blood. Rockson spent several minutes reading them though most were hard to decipher. Final messages of pain. Men about to die who wanted someone, anyone, to know
that once they had existed—before they had been taken away to be utterly and totally destroyed. And now he was one of them—one of the soon-to-die.

  There was a sudden noise behind him and Rockson turned, expecting to see Col. Killov—but instead the KGB guards were dragging a struggling woman who was spitting and cursing at them like a wildcat.

  “Kim,” Rockson yelled out, rushing toward the bars.

  “Stand back, scum,” one of the guards screamed, thrusting the muzzle of his submachine gun through the thick steel bars. Rockson stepped away from the cell door, which was opened, and Kim was thrown inside nearly smashing into the side wall. But Rock leapt forward and caught her in his arms.

  “Rock, Rock,” she said over and over, tears streaming down her puffed face like a cloudburst.

  “It’s all right, baby,” Rock said, holding her tightly in his arms, never wanting to let go. “I’m here now—we’re together.” He let her cry for several minutes, absorbing her pain in his tender embrace. The guards watched at first, getting a kick out of the melodrama, but grew bored and stepped back to their card game. At last there were no more tears and she stepped back, her eyes wide as a frightened deer.

  “Oh, Rock—what they’ve done to me. I—I—”

  “Shh, it’s okay,” the Doomsday Warrior said, knowing it wasn’t at all okay, wishing more than anything he had ever wished for in his life that he was free, that he was armed, that he could mow the bastards down in a bloody sea of vengeance.

  “Your father, the President, is he—”

  “Oh, Rock,” she nearly burst into tears again. “They’ve hurt him—hurt him bad. The—the Mindbreaker. They’ve been taking him there every day. I—I—don’t even know if he’s alive.” She seemed to calm down momentarily, and she looked deep into his eyes with such intensity that it was as if she were trying to burn her way into his soul. “I’ve wanted you so bad, Rock. Wanted to hold you once more before I died, touch you.”

  “I’m here, Kim,” Rock said, pulling her close again, nestling his face in her hair. He wished he could add “and everything will be all right.” But he knew it wasn’t—it wasn’t at all.

  “We’re dead, Rock,” she said, wiping her tears away with the sleeve of her half torn shirt.

  “No, we’re not, there’s still—” She reached up and put her fingers over his lips.

  “Don’t lie to me my love. We both know what awaits us.” The slimmest of smiles appeared on her ashen face. “But now that you’re here—I’m no longer afraid. In my prayers I had asked only that I see you once more—and they were answered.” Kim stepped back, looking at him, his face, his body, hardly daring to believe that it was really him. She glanced over through the bars and saw that the guards were embroiled in their cards, arguing with one another, totally oblivious to their prisoners.

  “Rock,” Kim said in a sudden desperate whisper. “Make love to me. Once more—before . . . we’re gone. I want to feel you inside me, want your lips on my breasts.”

  “It seems like we’re always meeting this way,” the Doomsday Warrior grinned, remembering the first time they had met—behind bars. They had made love then, and Rockson had fallen instantly in love with her ivory skin, her pixie blonde hair, her scent, taste, touch. Her eyes were wide with a mad desire. In the very jaws of death she wanted to feel the highest pleasure of life, wanted to cling to this earth before she returned to the dust from which all things are born.

  “It doesn’t matter where we are, my love. I would kiss you in the midst of the fires of hell and wouldn’t even feel them if your lips were on mine.” Without another word she stripped off her shirt and soiled khaki pants. She stood before him naked, giving him the beauty, the art of her perfect body. Her pear-shaped breasts seemed to swell, reaching out for him like ripe fruits waiting to be plucked. Her face flushed with desire she boldly put her hands out and undid his pants, letting them fall to the greasy, blood-splattered floor in a heap. She got down on her knees and kissed his manhood, making it spring up as if it had a life of its own. Her tongue slid over the swollen shaft as moans of purest pleasure came softly through her lips, and Rock could smell the perfume of her aroused sex.

  She moved up and down on the long stiff rod barely able to take it into her small mouth as it reached its full extension. Rock reached down a hand and squeezed her firm round breasts, the most wonderful things he had ever touched in his life. He looked up startled for a moment as he heard a sudden commotion in the corridor—but it was just the guards arguing over an extra card dealt to one of the players.

  He reached down and put his hands around her, lifting her up to him as if she were as light as a feather. He grabbed her behind each of her creamy thighs and pulled her up onto him as she guided the long spear of flesh into her parted wet lips. She groaned, her eyes closing, her head sinking onto his shoulder as the stiff organ penetrated her to the core, and wrapped her legs around his waist, locking them both together. He began pumping into her, slowly at first, and as their passions grew, faster and harder, until he was a jackhammer of sensation inside her, her triangle of light blond hair dripping with the juices of her ecstatic passion. They couldn’t make a sound for fear of the guards and kept their lips tightly shut as Rock pulled her even closer to him, forcing her legs apart, pushing in to the deepest recesses of her body, taking her to the very peak of pleasure that a woman can know.

  She seemed to suddenly go into an almost animalistic frenzy as waves of sensation streamed up from her core, grinding against him, crushing her breasts against his muscled chest. Her head rolled back and forth, her eyes closed as the softest catlike growls escaped from her lips. Rockson felt his manhood grow even more rigid, hard as hammered steel, and grabbed her buttocks, pulling her against him until they could be no closer. His own eyes closed as he felt his life-giving fluid rise up and shoot through the huge organ, pumping into her with powerful, almost violent thrusts. As he exploded in a volcanic eruption of burning lava her whole body went rigid and then jerked wildly against him, pushing closer, ever closer as if she were trying to take him all into her—every bit of him. They both groaned simultaneously trying to muffle the sounds as they merged into one being for a moment, joined together in mindless bliss.

  “What the hell is going on here,” a voice screamed out from behind them, jarring them both into the real world—a world neither of them wanted to return to. Still locked together, they both turned their heads, dizzy from their mutual passion. Colonel Killov stood peering through the bars, a look of purest hatred in his dark, pin-pricked eyes. The sight of his most hated enemy being allowed to experience pleasure of any kind in the midst of this building of pain had seemed to drive him into a violent madness. He turned to the Elite Blackshirts who accompanied him and screamed out with a roar that reverberated down the antiseptic white halls.

  “Take these idiots,” the colonel bellowed, pointing to the guards who had been playing cards, “and shoot them immediately.” The five were dragged away, screaming, begging for their lives.

  “And now you, Rockson,” the KGB commander said, turning back to the two Freefighters who still stood locked in a vise of flesh. “You think you are so clever—but now I shall have the final word.” His face relaxed and took on a black malicious look. “Perhaps this will be more fun than I had anticipated. For I shall have your little girlfriend here watch as your brain is melted from your very skull.” He seemed pleased with the idea and the thin lips curled up into something approximating a smile. “Yes—take them both to the Mindbreaker—and we shall all have a most entertaining finish to this evening.”

  The guards came into the cell as the Freefighters threw their clothes back on, and dragged them both off down the corridor with Killov in the lead. Kim looked with adoring glances at Rockson. Whatever happened now, she had been given her final dream. They were taken to a large room filled with rows of the brainwashing machines and strapped down in the plastic chairs of the devices, facing each other.

  “Yes, perfect,” Kil
lov said, sitting down in one of the curved seats several feet away. “Now we shall all be able to experience Mr. Rockson’s demise.” He popped a few blue pills into his mouth—up’s to wake him and give him energy to witness the destruction of his enemy. “Begin,” the KGB leader said simply, leaning back in the chair with his hands folded behind his head.

  The technician who ran this particular den of pain walked over to the Doomsday Warrior and checked the straps that bound him hand and foot to the chair. Then he carefully lowered the large semi-globe of metal that stood a foot above Rock’s head until it was just touching his scalp. He pushed a few buttons and the headpiece lit up with blinking red lights. Two icepick-thin pieces of metal lowered themselves from the innards of the Mindbreaker, stopping fractions of an inch from the Freefighter’s head. The tech pushed one more button and the twin slivers of steel lit up at the ends with brilliant ruby dots of light—the laser probes that would soon send their burning shafts into the skull below them.

  “All set, sir,” the technician said, stepping back and resting his hands on the lever that would set it all in motion.

  “Yes, yes, go ahead,” Killov said, waving his hand impatiently. The technician pushed the lever down.

  Twenty

  The first explosion knocked the Mindbreaking headglobe from atop Rock’s skull, sending it flying to the white linoleum where it smashed to pieces. The second explosion pushed the heavy chair he was strapped into over onto the floor, as Killov and his henchmen were likewise thrown down flat on their faces. Thunderous roars ripped through the Octagon, making the very walls shake as if in the grip of a hurricane. Dust poured down from the ceiling as cracks appeared on the walls, which quickly widened, sending huge chunks of plaster over the prone bodies.

  From his vantage point on the floor Rock saw the door to the Mindbreaking chamber burst open and a squad of heavily armed men rush into the room, their eyes blazing with the fire of the warrior. Rock’s eyes widened in amazement—the porters—dressed all in black with rifles and submachine guns in their hands and big packs on their backs. They looked nothing like their former subservient selves but fierce, powerful, standing tall and moving with the speed of trained fighters.