Doomsday Warrior 16 - American Overthrow Page 3

  “This looks like as good a Holiday Inn as we’re going to find around here,” Rock smirked at Detroit, who reined in his mount a few yards away. They dismounted, untethered the ’brids and took off their loads. Unpacking was a tedious process, but they couldn’t let the animals stand there all night with the backbreaking loads on them. They’d be as weak as an overweight accountant with a hernia by morning.

  At last everything was stacked safely in piles and the ’brids were eating contentedly on alfalfa and energy pellets in their feed bags. Detroit built a fire, while Rockson sighted up on some low mountains ahead against a map he took from a satchel in his saddle. He knew most of the land around C.C. for hundreds of miles. But this particular route was new to him and he wanted to make sure they weren’t off course.

  “It’s looking good,” he said to Detroit, after double and triple checking their course for the next day. “We’re dead on. I reckon C.C.’s about fifty miles north as the crow flies, make that seventy as the ’brid stumbles.”

  “Let’s not bust our butts to get home,” Detroit said as he slapped two more steaks down onto the fire and took out a can of baked beans, a luxury but one which he felt they were both entitled to tonight. “I’m in no great rush to get home. You know some kind of shit will have hit the fan. And they’ll be wanting us, you particularly, to put the pieces together again.”

  “Hey, I’m in no race, partner,” Rockson replied with a smile as he walked over to the fire and sat down on a smooth stone a few feet away from it. “You sure your grandfather didn’t chef at Le Lutece? You’ve got a way with even the cheapest cuts of meat.”

  “My mom was the best cook Georgia’s ever known,” Detroit said, crossing himself and gazing heavenward, “God rest her soul. She could cook tree bark and make you think you were in heaven. I guess a little of it rubbed off. Here, have some beans à la garlic avec mutant supreme,” the ebony-faced Freefighter said, handing Rockson an alumnisynth plate full of steaming chow. They shoveled it down for a good twenty minutes until they were both so full they could barely move, and lay back on opposite sides of the fire staring up at the purple-black skies. Meteors were in full view tonight, streaking back and forth across the ethers every second or so with bursts of golden and silver brilliance. A lightshow to digest by.

  They could see yellow and red eyes gathering in the darkness of the groves of trees that surrounded the clearing and heard growls and slurping sounds. Clearly the locals had come to see what all the scents were about.

  “Better throw a few more logs on the fire,” Rock said lazily, “I think we’ve got some hungry company.” Detroit pushed himself up with a grunt and dropped a whole armload down into the flames. Within seconds the fire roared up skyward. The ’brids were tied to a tree at the highest point of the clearing so the Freefighters could keep an eye on them. Let the woods creatures watch, there was no way they were going to get any of tonight’s meaty treasures. Rock took out his shotpistol and laid it alongside him as Detroit unslung his Liberator, just in case. But the eyes didn’t move forward. Fire was their enemy. It had always been, since primeval days when cavemen discovered that flame could both warm them and keep the predators away. It had been the significant difference between humankind and beast. One kind of creature used the energy of the flames, the other feared it with instinctive loathing.

  They were just both starting to drift off into a slow sleep, lying back in their synthcotton sleeping bags, when Rockson heard new sounds. He opened his eyes slightly, not coming fully awake, figuring it was something making the rounds of the perimeter of the camp. Suddenly the sounds were louder, stomping; and he heard harsh breathing. He was on his feet fast, .12 gauge in his hand ready to fire. Detroit was just a fraction of a second behind him, the Liberator submachine gun held ready to unleash a barrage of auto fire.

  “Rockson, Rockson, is that you?” a voice yelled from the shadows, and suddenly Rock could see two figures atop hybrids coming over the rise on the other side.

  “Who the hell is that?” the Doomsday Warrior shot back. “You just nearly got your heads blown off, boys.” The figures rode another ten yards and he could see they were from C.C. with the distinctive riding gear that the city’s hybrids were outfitted in, and Liberators in their saddles. Rockson holstered his huge shotpistol as Detroit let his autorifle fall back next to his bag with a snort of disgust. His stomach felt queasy with the sudden rush of adrenaline after that mutant au gratin they’d had earlier.

  “Sorry, sorry about all this noise,” the lead figure said as he rode up to them. “I’m Anderson, this is Questel,” he nodded to the other man, whose face was cast in orange light by the fire. “We wouldn’t even be riding these wilds at night except—”

  “Except what, man, spit it out,” Rockson snarled, still annoyed as he remained standing.

  “Except we’ve learned that Pattonville has been taken over by a military coup d’etat. Months ago, actually, but somehow they’ve been able to keep it under wraps. And worse—President Langford and his daughter Kim have most likely been taken prisoner.”

  “Shit,” Rockson said with disgust, knowing this little hunting vacation was over right then and there.

  “The Century City Council sent us out to get you. They’ve been meeting nonstop for the last twenty-four hours to try to deal with the events.”

  “Looks like I was right,” Detroit said with sarcasm. “The shit has hit the fan already. Humpty Dumpty has fallen. We ain’t even going to get time to digest.”

  “Can you boys handle the load of meat we got stocked up on the ’brids?” Rockson asked as his mind was already working fast.

  “That’s what we’re here for, sir,” Questel said, saluting from atop his steed. “They’re expecting you pronto. All hell’s broken loose in the debating assembly. I’d say you’re needed and fast.”

  “All right, Detroit, cut us a few more of those steaks, fry ’em enough so we can chew ’em down. We’re on the starlight express tonight, pal. Got some hard riding ahead.” Within fifteen minutes they were all packed up and as the two Freefighter messengers watched with not a little awe, the Doomsday Warrior and Detroit were riding hell bent for leather into the darkness of a hostile night.

  Four

  They rode through the moon-shattered darkness like they were coming into the gate at the Kentucky Derby, Both men were highly experienced riders and their ’brids among the strongest in all of the C.C. stables. Still, it was rough going. The hills changed to rocky slopes and then to steeper and steeper inclines. The ’brids did all that they could but they had to slow down just to get proper footing on the treacherous slopes. The sky was murky, high strontium clouds passing over the crescent moon. But there was some light from the stars and the lunar illumination that was able to filter through. Fortunately for the Freefighters the ’brids had excellent sight, akin to that of a cat, and were able to see far better than their ancestors had.

  Rockson grew increasingly worried as they rode, Detroit just yards behind him. If Pattonville indeed had been taken over by a coup, it meant big trouble for the whole Free City Confederation. And how had they been able to keep it secret? The messenger had said months. Why had they only found about it now? Even worse, if President Langord, the recently re-elected President for all the rebel cities, was captive—and Kim too—it meant whoever the hell was running the show there had some mighty powerful hostages.

  Rockson felt an ominous trembling in his stomach and he knew it wasn’t lizard meat. They were facing a battle the likes of which he had never encountered before. Having to take on his own people, his own fellow Freefighters. He didn’t know what the hell was going on, but it was clearly a mess. He barely even saw the landscape shooting by in gray shadows, so immersed was he in his mind; questions that just led to more questions.

  They’d been riding hard for about an hour when Rock suddenly heard a ghastly whinny and the sound of rocks clumping all over the place. He ripped his head around to see Detroit’s steed stumbling over as
it fell right onto its side. The black Freefighter went flying off a good fifteen feet through the air and landed hard, rolling over and over about a good fifty feet down the slope to their left.

  “Deity,” Rockson muttered, reining in his ’brid Snorter hard. The animal stopped on a quarter, if not a dime, and Rockson was off the saddle and tearing down the slope before Detroit had even come to a full quivering stop.

  “You all right, Detroit?” Rockson shouted in abject fear. The ebony fighter was one of his toughest men, not to mention closest friend, he had ever had. He didn’t even dare to think that the man might be dead. But Detroit’s eyes opened slowly as he lay on his back and looked straight up into the Doomsday Warrior’s face.

  “Was that the Cyclone at Coney Island or am I dreaming? Hot damn.” He sat up with a little help from Rockson and then came to his feet shaking his arms and kicking out both legs. The ’brid must have stepped into a gopher hole or something. “Where the hell is he?” Detroit asked.

  They both looked down the slope another hundred feet or so where the hybrid was already looking around for something to eat.

  “If it’s hungry, it’s got to be all right,” Rockson laughed as they headed down. The animal had a large gash, which was bleeding, down along its right flank. But no bones seemed to be broken. They bandaged it up from some medical supplies in their emergency packs and then slowly led the animal back up the slope. They mounted up again and moved slowly at first, testing Detroit’s steed to make sure it wasn’t going to have a repeat episode of the dropsies.

  “I think he’s okay,” Detroit said, increasing speed. “I don’t notice any change in gait or feel him shifting to one side.” Within five minutes they were back up to ninety percent of their previous speed. Detroit’s animal was more nervous now, but more cautious too, its eyes darting from side to side as it reached galloping speed. Neither of them wanted to do any more rock-sliding.

  They had ridden perhaps another two hours when Rockson grew nervous. He didn’t know what it was at first, just his mutant senses picking up something wrong from the environment. A noise, a smell . . . His sixth sense was on full alert. He scanned the woods on every side of them as they continued up and down the slopes of the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. But saw nothing. They rode on and Rockson noticed that Snorter—his mount—was getting a little uptight as well. Then Detroit rode up closer.

  “Something’s up, Rocky, I can feel it in my gut—and I ain’t even a star-patterned mutant like you.”

  Suddenly they heard them—barks, howls not too far behind. Rock stood up in his saddle and turned around, not slowing Snorter a step. He could see them, lit like pale demons in the moonlight, suddenly coming out of the shadows about a hundred yards behind. Dogs, wild ones, there must have been sixty or seventy of them. They were still loping along sniffing at the air, determining what was ahead and whether it was a danger to them—or food. But even as he watched, and Detroit, as well, turned to make the eye contact, the pack speeded up. They had caught the scent.

  “Let’s move pal,” Rockson screamed to Detroit, knowing they were taking a chance to speed up much more in the dim night light. But he knew as well that once the dogs caught them it was all over. They weren’t huge—but there were just too many of them.

  Rockson had seen, from afar, thank God, the creatures take down a bison. First they surrounded it and then closed in, ripping at the legs to slow it down, then the throat. They started in on the stomach before the creature was even dead, fighting and snarling over the prize juicy items. He didn’t want to go out like that. Dying in bed with a beautiful blonde, maybe two, was more his style.

  The Freefighters slapped their reins against the sides of their ’brids’ necks, pushing them to full speed. Not that the powerful animals needed a hell of a lot of encouragement as they had scented the pack as well. Their eyes wide, nostrils flaring, the mounts tore through the darkness, their broad legs pumping. For a while they kept ahead, but the dogs broke up and spread out in smaller units darting through the woods, circling around trying to get ahead.

  Rockson could see that the animals were highly intelligent, moving in formation, planning, cutting off like any human general. And he saw that the dogs were slowly gaining as well. It was only a matter of time.

  As they came to the bottom of a slope, five of the mangy overtoothed mutts leaped out of the shadows. One of them caught its teeth around Rockson’s boot but he slammed it in the head with the butt of his shotpistol and it went flying off again with a wild yelp. The Doomsday Warrior opened up with the weapon, releasing three quick shots at the next three who were snapping at his ’brid’s legs. And they fell behind him in bloody heaps in the cold darkness. Detroit ripped off two grenades and heaved them straight back, not particularly caring where they landed, as long as they did something. There were sharp explosions and a momentary brilliance behind them.

  Suddenly they were surrounded, the woods on both sides filled with crunching branches and glowing eyes, howls of anger and hunger everywhere.

  “What is it with us tonight?” Detroit screamed as he rode alongside Rockson, the two ’brid’s almost touching flanks as they flew along. “We seem to be attracting every fucking meateater for a hundred miles. Didn’t I wear my deodorant?”

  “Could be all the lizzie-meat we’ve been hacking,” Rockson shouted back. “The scent must be coating us, driving them to a frenzy.” As they flew along a field covered with dead vegetation and pulled ahead about twenty yards of the closest of the lead dogs, Rockson saw something that made his heart leap with hope. At first just a dark band but as they galloped hard he saw that it was a raging river, about a hundred and fifty feet in width. Escape. Dangerous—but it was something.

  “That river ahead—see it?” Rock screamed.

  “Bet your balls I do,” Detroit yelled.

  “Let’s take a midnight swim. I don’t think these poochers are great water puppies. Not as good as hybrids, that’s for damned sure.”

  Rock knew that though the steeds didn’t exactly love water, they could navigate all but the roughest currents. As they grew closer, Rock could see foam bubbling along the top of the swift river. There were currents, eddies everywhere. It wasn’t exactly a bathtub, but he’d seen worse.

  They didn’t even slow down, but pushed the ’brids’ forward, kicking at their flanks. And if the mutant horses had their own doubts about taking a bath, they were more afraid of the dog packs. Both steeds kept turning their heads in full gallop to see them gaining, toothy mouths opened for the kill.

  They came to the bank and without the slightest hesitation the ’brids leaped forward. Both of them hit the river ten feet out almost side by side and began swimming frantically toward the other shore. Rock could feel the current was stronger than it even had looked from the safety of the solid ground. And they were quickly pulled along down-river, even as the hybrids struggled across.

  Rock looked behind and saw that about a dozen of the dogs had jumped in as well. But they weren’t faring too well. Quickly they were sent swirling around in all directions like leaves in a storm, disappearing down river.

  Rockson leaned forward on Snorter’s neck and shouted words of encouragement to the ’brid.

  “You can do it, boy, move those piston legs of yours.” The words seemed to help, for Snorter surged forward. Before he knew it they were across, and the hybrid was scrambling up the far bank, dripping wet like a water-logged mop. Rock turned in his saddle and saw that Detroit’s mount wasn’t doing quite as well. It was fifty feet behind and starting to head down river. Ahead several hundred feet, the river turned to pure whitewater, surging rapids.

  If Detroit went into that he wasn’t coming out again! In a flash Rockson ripped off the coil of nylon rope on the side of his saddle and let go with a powerful swing of one end. He knew he had only one chance and it had to be perfect.

  It was. The rope soared through the air and found the bullseye of Detroit’s hands. The black Freefighter quickly wra
pped the rope several times around the horn of his saddle and motioned with his hand for Rock to do his thing.

  “Come on boy, pull with everything you got,” Rock sweet-talked Snorter, the biggest of C.C.’s mounts and the strongest. The ’brid was tired after its swim, but it sensed just what the situation was and pulled hard. With water dripping down every side, the great legs surged forward one step after another, fighting the very forces of nature, the sheer kinetic energy of the river. It seemed to take forever, as if they were pulling a tree through quicksand. But at last Detroit and his mount came forward and after a good sixty seconds of struggle were up on the bank.

  “Son of a bitch, that was close,” Detroit said, shaking his wet body as his ’brid did the same. “My mama always told me I didn’t wash enough. I should send her a snapshot of this.”

  Both men looked behind them. The dog pack was on the far bank, howling and raising up a storm as they glared angrily across the river. Of the dozen dogs that had come in after them, there wasn’t a trace. The river had claimed its share.

  There was a sudden scurrying in the bushes just ahead of them as they started forward, and both men reached for their weapons.

  “What the hell is it now?” Rockson blurted out with disgust, ready for anything from a mammoth, to Godzilla-in-drag to leap out at them. But as they sighted up on the shadows, three large wild turkeys came trotting. Just twenty feet or so in front of the ’brids! The big birds looked disdainfully at the men and their mounts, made a few cackling noises that sounded like laughter, and then ran right across the trail they were following. Rockson laughed and reholstered his .12 gauge.