Doomsday Warrior 10 - American Nightmare Read online

  The storm was cooperating divinely now, providing an effective screen between Rockson and his tormentors. As the jeep struck out along a rocky road leading up an incline, Rock searched through the blinding, whirling sands. Visibility was no more than twenty or thirty feet, and he figured they would soon stop. Then he saw what he was looking for: a large boulder along the side of the road. Nearing it, the jeep made a swerving turn. Rockson, with his last strength, snapped the rope at the worn knot between his hands. He was free.

  His body rolled with the force of his momentum, tumbling over the edge of the road and down the steep incline.

  The jeep disappeared up the road and into the sandstorm. He quickly freed his ankles from the remaining rope.

  Then, his clothing shredded into rags, his body burned and raked with bruises, his mind delirious, the Doomsday Warrior staggered toward the eye of the storm.

  Three

  They appeared on the horizon, twin pillars of black fire that Moses himself would have been proud to conjure. An eerie chill swept across the desert plains. It seemed as if the hand of God had come to arm-wrestle with the devil in Utah.

  Rockson shielded his face against the stinging winds but was carried away like a piece of straw and dashed against a gravel-strewn slope. The force carried him roughly against the moving rocks for several yards before he was finally able to wedge himself between three large boulders. From his temporary sanctum, he peered through the cracks in the huge rocks. He could more sense than see the swirling monoliths in the distance. Then he knew. It was what the Indians called Kala-Ka, the “Battle of Winds.”

  First spawned in the holocaust of the great nuclear war, the Kala-Ka were violent upheavals of nature, storms marked by sinister double tornado funnels, often over 100,000 feet high, each spinning in opposite directions. They formed over the magnetic poles from impulses excited by intense irradiation of the earth’s upper atmosphere. The spires acted as runaway generators, actually powering each other through a combination of magnetic force and atmospheric pressure. The Kala-Ka combined the most potent elements of a typhoon and a hurricane, and carried each to its furthest extreme. The twin towers would sweep across the terrain, spinning around each other wildly, wreaking destruction in wide swaths. Eventually, one of the funnels would achieve a sufficiently greater force than its counterpart, and engulf it. This combination of opposing forces created a cataclysmic explosion and a massive vacuum hundreds of miles square. Anything within its tracks would be instantly sucked into the center at speeds exceeding the speed of sound.

  Indian legends were rich with tales of the storms. Some fanciful tales claimed that the storms were “Time-tornados”—tunnels in time! Whatever, they had never been known to occur below the Canadian Plains. This one had broken free and run down the North American continent, following the eastern ridge of the Rocky Mountains. What the heat of the desert would add to the storm’s forces was anybody’s guess. But Rock wasn’t interested in finding out. All he knew was that the storm was here, and he intended to put as much distance between him and it as possible. He decided to try and make it back to the missile silo and take his chances with the Russians. But he wasn’t giving himself very good odds.

  Struggling to his feet, he looked out over the plain and witnessed an awesome phenomenon. The sands of the desert, billions upon billions of tons, were sucked into the eye of the storm. Oddly, visibility became crystal clear for miles as every bit of debris rose into the towering behemoths of the storm. The entire spectacle opened up before Rock’s eyes, revealing, a theatrical performance on the universal scale. A drama of Nature gone mad.

  It was clear that one of the twisters had grown noticeably larger than the other and was moving toward it, drawing in matter, charging it with electromagnetic force, and adding it to its hulking, oppressive power. Then Rock saw why the Indians called it the “Battle of Winds.” He hung onto the boulders just out of the danger zone, about fifty miles away, as the show reached its climax.

  The two murderous funnels began to circle each other in a macabre, titanic dance, slowly at first, then faster and faster until they were dancing twin stars, creating one giant funnel while an ear-splitting screech announced the imminent explosion. By now, the desert floor had become a sea of bedrock, stripped of every grain of sand. The sky was as clear as glass, as every speck of debris had been dragged into the dynamo, and the air was filled with lightning flashes.

  Then, on the desert floor in the state of Utah, in the area once known as Monument Valley, Nature orchestrated her dramatic show of vengeance with savage fury and icy precision. In the flash of an instant, a massive vacuum formed and collapsed, polar and desert winds collided, billions of tons of charged debris crashed back to the earth . . . It seemed as if the Furies themselves ran wild across the range. A double-whammy of dynamic forces converged into a combined implosion-explosion. Rock looked back to kiss his ass good-bye as he was pulled up from his hiding place into the wild blue yonder.

  Once engulfed within the pressurized magnetic field of the storm, Rock shed the puny force of gravity and encroached on another dimension. He felt himself spinning through space, yawing and tumbling, protected from collisions with other objects by a strong magnetic field that charged everything within the storm’s eye, causing objects to repel each other. He was like a planet in deep space, unable to breath yet not needing air to live. All perceptions were twisted but he could sense objects floating alongside him, seemingly motionless but actually hurling with him at breakneck speeds in their own upward orbit. Images appeared like phantoms in his midst: parts of buildings, vehicles, people, horses, phasing in and out of his consciousness in a parade of surrealism. The bubble of silence burst with a cavernous roar, a sonic boom, the force undulating in waves through Rock’s body.

  He seemed to fall forever. He fell for so long that he began laughing and lashing about at the darkness all around him, not knowing whether he was dead or alive, falling to earth or to the bowels of hell.

  When he finally stopped falling it was not with a bang but with a whimper. He landed on his feet, almost as if he’d jumped off a low roof, and his momentum carried him forward in a run. As he braked himself, the darkness ebbed, the terrible pressure lifted, and his eyes adjusted to the bright sun burning high in the midday sky. His ears popped.

  But when he looked around him, instead of the desolate sandy plain and rocky buttes he expected, he found himself in the middle of a thriving metropolis. He had barely arrested his forward motion when an automobile screeched by him only inches away, the driver leaning on the horn and cursing out the window. It was a red Toyota.

  “Out of the road, you tramp!” he bellowed.

  Rock, exhausted, drenched in a cold sweat, his shredded sealskin garb dangling from his tortured body in shreds, darted from the midst of the roadway he found himself on, while an endless stream of strange automobiles and trucks whizzed past, horns blaring, people scowling, the midday sun baking the asphalt tarmac. Where the hell was he?

  He stood on a high bridge, the uppermost overpass of an elaborate cloverleaf intersection at the fringe of the great desert city. To his far right, a wide lake stretched to the horizon, the city crowding along its shores, crowned by an immense tower in its center. To the left, the desert opened as far as the eye could see.

  Parched with thirst, his mind racing for coordinates, he began stumbling along the thin sidewalk leading past the rows of traffic to the ground. Rock struggled onward for half a mile before reaching a stranger who stood fuming over his overheated engine, tie loosened, sweat pouring from his pudgy face. Behind him a chorus of drivers cursed him for “blocking the lane.”

  “Got to hell . . .” he screamed to a greasy dude driving a racy yellow convertible. An Oldsmobile! Another antique vechicle!

  Rockson stumbled up to the man as he slammed the hood down on his steaming engine.

  “What . . . where . . . who?” Rockson mumbled.

  The man looked up at the strange figure. “Huh? Oh, l
isten, pal, I got troubles of my own today . . . Gimme a break and keep moving. You know the slogan, ‘Don’t Feed the Homeless!’ ”

  “But . . . but . . .” Rockson gasped, gawking at the man’s strange clothing and pointing around in a stupor.

  “All right, all right, here . . .” said the stranger, shoving a U.S. one-dollar bill into Rock’s hand and turning away. “Now beat it before you get picked up. I’ve got my own troubles. I got six buyers waiting for sixteen thousand feet of four-inch plastic pipe while I’m stuck with an overheated rental car in the middle of rush hour on a holiday weekend. Now we all got problems, pal, so beat it.”

  Rock continued on his way, his jaw hanging open, staring into the city as he approached, then at the screaming faces in the cars, then at the strange piece of green oblong paper the man had given him, studying the picture of the funny-looking white-haired old man in the middle. George Washington.

  Four

  Rockson staggered, bewildered, down the highway ramp onto a city street. The sun beat down without mercy on the concrete pavement. The air shimmered. Sweat poured down his face. God, what manner of place was this? Rockson stared in awe at the tall glass-and-concrete buildings that lined the broad avenues full of the hustle and bustle of a great city. He’d seen towns before that were large—but they were Soviet-occupied. And none were so populated as this. It was a veritable beehive of activity. The city actually hummed. It sounded, sometimes, like a song.

  Traffic was relentless. The streets were filled with cars, trucks and buses heading pell-mell to their various destinations. The buses were the worst. Their exhaust filled the air with a malodorous blue haze that stung his nostrils and made Rockson choke and gag. He walked on, half in a daze.

  Throngs of people filled the sidewalks, entering and exiting the various stores, restaurants, and supermarkets that advertised their wares in the windows. Every now and then a group of people would gather at the streetcorners as if waiting for something. Suddenly the cars would stop as if by some prearranged signal and the people would cross in a group, and then the traffic would start up again. No one had time to answer his questions. At best they’d give him a funny look, but most walked by as if he weren’t there.

  The most popular stores, with bunches of citizens gathered in front of the windows, were the music stores. Everyone in this city seemed to love music. But music store was spelled Muzik Store.

  Odd.

  Numerous people were wearing headphones and would occasionally fiddle with small metallic boxes attached to their belts. Music tapes? And for those without headphones, there was always the canned music which poured forth from loudspeakers mounted atop every light pole. Rockson was getting annoyed. The city’s din was largely caused by the homogenized rehash of ancient popular middle-of-the-road tunes.

  He came to a restaurant called Happy Face. The sign in the window promised service with a smile. Rock pushed open the door and was greeted with a welcoming rush of cold air and the equally chilly smile of the hostess wearing a happy face pinned to the collar of her frosty-pink shirtwaist dress. “I’m afraid you’ll have to leave, sir. You are not observing the proper dress code. All men must wear a tie and jacket.”

  Rockson looked around at the tables filled with people eating and drinking. There were businessmen dressed in suits and ties, but there were also a number of other people wearing shorts and tee shirts. “Listen, I’m sorry about my clothes, but I just arrived in town and—well, my—plane crashed in the desert. All I really want is some water.”

  “I’ll be right back,” she responded. “Wait here,” she pointed to a sign that said PLEASE WAIT TO BE SEATED. Her high heels clicked against the tile floor as she turned smartly and walked down the aisle. She disappeared through a swinging door at the back of the restaurant. Rockson waited as patiently as he could but the sight and smell of food and drink was overwhelming. The cashier stared at his every move. People were beginning to notice him and point. In a few minutes the hostess reappeared followed by a beefy sort of man—the manager?

  “What seems to be the problem here?” asked the manager.

  “There’s no problem. I just want something to eat and drink. That’s what a restaurant is for, isn’t it?” Rockson was in no mood to parry with the manager.

  “This establishment only caters to paying customers,” the manager went on. “By law, we are not allowed to feed the homeless,” he said, pointing to a sign that said NO BEGGERS ALLOWED. Before Rockson could say any more, he was pushed emphatically out of the restaurant onto the hot concrete.

  A few stores down, Rockson tried a small corner grocery, and asked for a glass of water. In response to his question, the counterman sprayed him with a can of air freshener. “Get out of here! You stink!” Rockson had no choice but to leave. Best not to make a fuss until he found out his situation. He walked further into the city.

  The stares he met from passersby grew steadily more hostile. The restaurants were fancier, with names like Le Posh Gourmet, or Organic Food Delicatessen. Signs were posted everywhere in front of new construction sites: “Elegant, discriminating, exclusive condos filled with all the latest conveniences a modern career couple would want. No children or pets allowed.”

  Snob city, Rockson thought.

  Finally, exhausted, confused, hungry and thirsty, and oh so hot, he saw an area of green—Pioneer Park, according to the wooden sign. At least there might be a bench to sit down upon. Though most of the park’s trees were dead and the grass parched brown, still, he was drawn to it like a magnet.

  At the park’s entrance was this sign: “No ball playing, no skating, no cycling, no food vending, no littering, and Please Keep Off the Grass.” God, there were more signs telling you what you could or could not do than Rockson had ever seen. Nevertheless, he followed a path that led to a grassy knoll and sat on the cool dew-damp grass. The big red sun was beginning to set; the streetlights came on. Rockson felt that no one would see him as he lay down and stared into the tree branches around him. Mulling over the events of the day, he gradually became less aware of the noises and sights around him and then fell asleep.

  He was rudely awakened by someone going through his pockets. Instinctively Rockson grabbed his assailant by the wrists. He heard a scream of pain.

  “What are you doing?” demanded Rockson.

  “Nothing,” came a man’s hoarse voice. “I just wanted to see if you could spare some change.”

  “Change?” asked Rockson as he loosened his grip.

  “Dimes, nickels, quarters—in short, money. Coin of the realm, so to speak,” said the old man, breaking away and standing up. By the light Rockson could see that he was bald, had a long beard. And he was wearing an old smelly torn overcoat.

  “What realm is this?”

  “The U.S. of A., that’s what. Where do you come from that you don’t know that? You a foreigner? I ain’t seen no foreigners for years.”

  “It’s a long story. Let’s just say I crashed in the desert.” Rockson thought for a moment, and reached into his one remaining pocket and pulled out the wadded bill. “You mean this?”

  The old man reached forward to swipe it out of Rockson’s hand. “Now just hold on there, old-timer. Before I give you this, you’d better answer some questions.” The old man eyed the bill hungrily.

  “First, where are we? What city is this? Is it Red-controlled?

  “Brother, this is Salt Lake City, biggest burg in Utah, U.S.A.”

  “Is this a Free city? How do you keep the Reds from blasting you all to hell?”

  “I don’t have any idea what you mean, citizen. Gimme the buck.” He made another grab for it, but Rockson was faster.

  “Not yet.” Rock held it away from grasping hands.

  The old man eyed Rockson quizzically. “You ask funny questions. But ask all the questions you want. I’m enjoying the game. You must be a recent homeless—right?”

  Rockson was getting nowhere fast. The old man must be addled. He thought he would try one more
time. “Where can a stranger get a bath—and a drink of water?”

  “It’ll cost you,” the old man said, holding out his hand.

  “All right, here.” Rockson handed him the funny-looking piece of paper. The old man was as good as his word. He led him to a large fountain overlooking what looked like a plaza. Not exactly what he had in mind, but the fountain looked cool and inviting. Rockson couldn’t resist the urge to jump in. What the hell, the cool water soothed his fevered brow, and more importantly he assuaged his thirst, cupping his hands and drinking. The old man stared at Rockson running like a wild man through the waters which sprayed from the mouths of marble seagulls. Suddenly he looked alarmed. “The rookies are coming!” he screamed, and then took to his heels.

  Madder than a hatter, Rockson thought as he dove into the waters again. But when he emerged, he faced two machine guns held by men wearing red coveralls topped with mirror-visor helmets.

  “Come on, derelict. Nice and easy. This fountain isn’t the public bath. Get your ass over to the city dump, where you belong.”

  Rockson climbed sheepishly out of the pool. “Are you cops?” he asked.

  “We’re rookies,” the tall one answered, pointing to his badge with a castle insignia. “Don’t backtalk us. Murphy, let’s run this one in.”

  “Put your hands in the air,” said the one called Murphy. He held his gun on Rockson while the tall one frisked him, sneering in hatred. Why?

  “It’s okay. He’s unarmed,” said the tall rookie. He stared at Rockson and asked, “Got a name, bum?”

  “My name is Ted Rockson. I’m an American. A Freeman.”

  Murphy snapped up his visor and squinted at Rock. “The name sounds familiar . . . Yeah, maybe I know you. We’d better take you down to headquarters and run you through R and I. Get you home. I recognize you now.”