Doomsday Warrior 07 - American Defiance Read online

  “Let’s get the hell out of here,” he yelled out to his subordinates, who pushed Langford and Kim toward a waiting transport truck. “I hate this desolate radioactive world out here. Let’s get back to Fort Svetlanya, where we can warm our goddamned flesh with fire and our blood with vodka.”

  Five

  “I seen it with my own two eyes,” Mountainman Farley said, “I swear it. I was jes coming over Chisholm pass when I sees Langford and his daughter—and I wuz jes about to go greet them, when wham, this Red Army squad swoops down on ’em and they get themselves tied up and hustled off. I seen it myself.”

  “Are you sure it was them—the Langfords?” asked Magrundy, a buckskin-and-fur clad rugged-looking fellow whose bearded face was covered with scars.

  “Positive. We bin expecting them for days now in Wallingstown. I was sent out to scout ’em and lead them in to town. I found them all right—but too late. So, I figured, how the hell we gonna get them two out of Fort Svetlanya? I mean, that’s one of the biggest Red military posts in these parts. Now, I reckon the people of Wallingstown are as brave as any Freefighters in this country, but they got thirty, forty, maybe fifty thousand Red soldiers over there. So I ask myself how in blazes we gonna get them out?” The nearly toothless mountainman smiled broadly. “Then it come to me—like in a flash—only one Freefighting city could free ’em—Century City and Ted Rockson. I knows they’d come. So I come to you, Magrundy—to take the message down there.”

  “You did good,” Magrundy said, throwing a saddle over his hybrid palomino. “Me and the Pony Express can get the message there within thirty-six hours, I’d reckon.” The Pony Express was the Freefighters’ most valuable means of communication between their Hidden Cities. They were unable to use radio or any other electromagnetic form of communication, since the Reds could pick up their messages from monitoring satellites. So a network of hybrid-riding message carriers—Post Atomic Pony Express—was set up, extending like a spider web across large parts of the country.

  Jeb Magrundy loaded the frisky hybrid with water and rifles, waved good-bye to Farley, and rode like the wind across the shattered terrain of South Montana—past the setting sun, which fell like a blazing blood-red pumpkin from the purple sky. It was dangerous to ride at night. The sturdy palomino was a Nocturnal, one of those mutant mountain horses that could see well in darkness. But it didn’t matter what you saw if it was hungry. And Magrundy knew there were plenty of things out there that could eat him and his ’brid in one bloody bite. But it was the President. The goddamned President of the Yewnited States. He gritted his teeth and checked the .12-gauge pump shotgun in the saddle beneath his right leg. He was glad he’d oiled the trigger that morning.

  He watched the moon rise—bluish in the mist over the mountains to the east—as his ’brid’s clattering hooves beat a tune of speed and recklessness heading south. He heard the wolves howling at the moon, the growls of tree bears, and the whine of the distant Larkloons. And the snar-lizards. If they were out tonight . . . he shuddered at the thought.

  Southward, ever southward he rode, hanging on in the nearly impenetrable darkness. Suddenly the ground gave way under him, and the palomino pitched forward into the blackness of night. Magrundy woke up minutes later, his face a mass of blood. The ’brid—its two front legs broken—struggled and whined in pain behind him. He crawled over to the horse and took his pistol from its holster. “Sorry, fella,” he said. He pointed the shotpistol at the horse’s temple and pulled the trigger.

  He managed to get up and walk, though with a bit of a limp. He had sprained his left ankle—otherwise, just cuts and bruises. How far did he have to go to the next post? Twenty miles, he figured. Twenty miles of desert, and it was near dawn. What had tripped up the surefooted horse? Magrundy walked behind the dead hybrid—and in the dim light of the half moon he found the holes of Curudiggers! Christ, he thought, Curudiggers only came out of the ground every thirteen years. They had once been cicadas, but the great nuking had changed them. They had become a hundred times larger than before . . . ground-living insects that tunneled like gophers. They stung, too, and their sting was deadly. He saw one, a whining, red-eyed thing—and then another. He backed off. They were repairing the damage the horse had done to their burrows, though, and didn’t have time for him. They worked fast, like scarab beetles, but on an enormous scale—wetting the sand in their mandibles, rolling it into balls, and packing it over the exposed burrows. Others came out now and tentatively touched the hybrid’s dead body, stroking it with their long razor-edged jaws. Then they dug in, ripping the dead beast of burden apart within minutes. There were nearly a hundred of them at the feast. Magrundy couldn’t watch. He gathered what he could of his supplies—canteen the most precious—and started hobbling toward the next Pony Express stop.

  The sun rose, beginning what promised to be a hellishly hot day. Twenty miles had to be covered. Twenty miles before he fell for the last time. But there was more than his own life at stake—he had the future of America in his hands.

  By three o’clock that afternoon, Magrundy was crawling. Exhausted, out of water, the sun beating down like a hot poker on his torn shirt and the exposed skin of his back, at times fusing fabric and flesh together. Since the nuke war, the radiation shield of the ozone layer had weakened, and to non-mutants like Magrundy the sun could be as deadly as venom.

  He was on a slowly rising slope of sand. This was the fiftieth or sixtieth dune he had crossed—what did the numbers matter? If he remembered correctly, there was a mile or two of dunes before the steep drop into Brooke Valley—and then water and the shade of the trees at the Pony Express stop. But his lips were so dry, his flesh like a sun-cooked chicken. He could barely move his legs. He wanted to give up, wanted to lie down and die. Maybe if he were going on for just his own sake, he would have given up. But for the President, the goddamned fucking President! As long as there was some life in him, he wouldn’t allow the Red butchers to do their grisly work.

  He put his swelling leg forward again, then the other, his hands grasping at the hot air. In half an hour he reached the top of the dune—this was it. This was the end. He was nearly blind. He crawled up, rolled sideways over the crest, and looked down through parched eyes. “Oh, my god,” he cried. A narrow valley, an oasis lay before him. The rippling water of a pool a hundred yards down the slope—could it be a mirage? How could he even get there?

  Suddenly, he realized—roll. He turned over, the twisting motion wrenching him forward. Faster and faster he went, ignoring the stabs of the sharp rocks beneath him. “Roll, you bastard, roll!” he screamed out loud. At last his descent slowed, and, spitting up dry dust, his tumbling body came to a stop. His left hand had landed in something cool, unbelievably soothing, a dream. It was water. He cupped it, struggling to bring a handful to his mouth. It was real—cold, clear water. He grabbed another and licked his palm. Then another. There was shade a few feet away, and he crawled toward it. There he fell into unconsciousness.

  Magrundy awoke at sunset. He knew where he was—Brooke Valley. The shack was just beyond the hill. With supreme effort, he pulled himself up. One more mile to the Pony Express stop.

  “Is there somethin’ out there, fella?” asked Billy “The Kid,” scratching the back of his Ridgerunner, Greg—one of the mutated species that selective breeding had managed to reintegrate as domestic dogs—servants of man rather than his deadly enemy.

  The dog looked up anxiously. It saw something, and the boy saw it too. A dust cloud. Then a lone walker. Coming from out of the desert. Billy got out his old .22 rifle, a squirrel gun with a difference—it was loaded with explosive, armor-piercing bullets. The kid took up his old binoculars and peered through them. A limping man, in buckskin. It looked like . . . “Magrundy!” he yelled. Greg ran forward to greet the old friend. From even fifteen yards away the shack was invisible in the deep copse of trees surrounding it. Magrundy hadn’t seen it, and he hadn’t seen the kid until this instant.

  Greg ran rig
ht up before him, followed by Billy. “No time to talk, son—where’s your dad?” Magrundy asked. “He’s got to ride with an urgent message—he’s got to get to Century City!”

  “But—but he’s away,” the boy replied.

  “Well, Billy, then it’s you has to ride. I can’t go another ten feet.” Magrundy recited the message as they walked to the house. “You know the way,” he concluded, “and tell Rockson or one of his men what I told you. Now repeat it for me.” The boy recited the message, and saddled up. Then he was off—a twelve-year-old boy on a man’s errand.

  “I hope to hell I haven’t sent him to his death,” thought Magrundy as he slipped off into a dark sleep.

  They tore across the plains, the kid on top of an immense wild black stallion. Half maverick, half mutant—it was one of the largest steeds around and fast as the wind. The dog, a mutant Ridgeback, raced alongside. It was a huge animal, a good two hundred pounds, taller than the Great Danes of pre-War years. Indeed, it was said that all the Ridgebacks in the area had originally been created from the mating of a rad-mutated Great Dane and a wolf, back in the last century.

  They came to a series of low hills with groves of black-barked trees and rode into them, the air growing cool and dark around them.

  The Ridgeback’s fur suddenly rose. He froze. “What is it, boy? What?” asked Billy.

  Suddenly from out of the gathering darkness sprang three pairs of the reddest eyes that the kid had ever seen. Woodswolves, snarling and edging closer to them. There were others, too, waiting out there. The kid ripped out his shotgun and fired into the darkness. He was suddenly knocked to the ground—a double row of Mutawolf teeth sank deep into his left shoulder. The wolf let go and went for Billy’s throat. The boy pressed the barrel of his gun into the hard chest and fired.

  The dead wolf was so heavy that the kid had a hard time pushing it off himself. His dog had torn another beast into bloody pieces, and had leapt into the darkness, pursuing the others who cut and run.

  “Greg! Greg!” the kid yelled into the night. Minutes later, the dog returned. He was bloodied and torn. A row of teeth marks grooved the dog’s steel collar.

  “And you never liked that steel collar. Well, boy, I’ll bet you like it now.” The anti-wolf collar, designed to protect the jugular vein, had saved the dog’s life.

  They rode on for hours, the kid avoiding any forested areas where they could be trapped. With the wild hybrid horse beneath his legs, going at full speed across the evening landscape, nothing could stop him. The moon rose, clear and calm as a luminous pearl in a sea of velvet blackness, lighting the increasingly steep hills that turned into mountains as they hit the upper Rockies. They rode through the night, Billy’s heart beating with excitement at the danger and importance of the mission.

  The sun was just beginning to sink its teeth into the star-spotted skin of dawn when Greg again snarled and looked up at his master with pleading, anxious eyes. Billy reined in his horse and pulled out his shotgun again. The Ridgeback could smell something a half-mile away—and it wouldn’t have growled and stopped unless something were headed toward them.

  The kid wanted with all his heart to go on, to get to Century City to pass on his vital message. But he knew that patience was essential out here. Only a fool barged on into the unknown.

  Within a few minutes they came by—a Red patrol, six men—Soviet army, luckily, and not the KGB. They were dressed sloppily, their rifles hanging haphazardly from their shoulders. Their jeep groaned from the burden of carrying all six and its load of lumpy, heavily packed leather bags. Turquoise and other tradables, Billy thought. These troops were out at night doing some raiding up and down the road, taking for themselves what the scattered American settlers couldn’t defend. Perhaps their commander, wherever they came from—probably Fort Dzersk, a hundred miles east—gave them some percentage of whatever they looted. The stuff would be shipped out and fetch a good price back in the Soviet Empire. The soldiers and their commander would amass a nice little nest egg from their unpleasant service in radioactive America.

  The kid was itching to hit the trigger and blast the bastards. Who knew how many these six pigs had murdered for that loot. But he waited, the Ridgeback silent at his side, alert, until they passed. Then he headed on.

  Six

  “Rock, Rock!” Rath yelled down the corridor of the Archives Room, where the Doomsday Warrior and his companions were in the midst of recovering all the historical files and books they could salvage. “A message for you—urgent!”

  Rockson got up off his knees; he had been gluing together an ancient document from the era of the original Founding Fathers that one of Century City’s scouting expeditions had found nearly submerged in the rubble. He dusted himself off and headed down the corridor toward the outer hall where people were scurrying by.

  “So, where’s the message?” asked Rockson, holding his hands out to Rath.

  The Intelligence Chief grinned and pointed to a filthy, sweat-covered boy who was breathing hard, a wild look in his eyes. “Won’t tell this ‘important message’ to anyone but you, Rock. I sorta suspect it’s just a way of meeting his idol—but we’ll see.” Rath folded his arms, leaned back against the wall, and waited.

  “You Mr. Rockson?” the kid asked, wide-eyed. The Doomsday Warrior was indeed his hero.

  “Yeah, kid, I sure am,” Rock said, grinning down at the tiny package of courage and grit. “Now, what’s so important that you’d get so dirty and tired to come here?”

  “I’m with the Pony Express, sir, Mr. Rockson. My father was away and so—when one of the men up near where I live came to our place and told me the message—well, I just had to deliver it.” Billy took a deep breath and began again, giving a monotone recital of the message Magrudy had had him memorize. “The President, Mr. Charles Langford, and his daughter, Kim, have been caught by the Reds, Mr. Rockson. Taken to Fort Svetlanya.”

  “When?” Rockson asked, leaning forward, grasping the kid by the shoulders.

  “About two days before I left to come here—so figure about four days—something like that.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Rockson said, raising his steel frame to its full six foot two inches, his face white with rage and fear. “We’ve got to get a fighting force together immediately and rescue them.”

  He looked Rath square in the eyes. “Look, man, you know there’s no time to go through a lengthy debate in the City Council about whether or not to send out a rescue team. So as Commander of the City’s military forces, I hereby declare this an Emergency Military Response, Priority One, and command ten men and supplies to leave within two hours.”

  “You could be heading for trouble on this one,” Rath said, fixing a hard stare on the Doomsday Warrior’s face. “Any military response is, at least in principle, supposed to go through the Military Committee.”

  “I’ll take full responsibility,” Rockson said. “Hours, minutes could be crucial in a situation like this. They won’t kill them right away—there’s too much knowledge to be gained. They’ll be careful with them—as soon as they realize what they’ve got.”

  He turned back toward Billy, who was looking around the super-modern walls, lighting, awed by the speed and efficiency with which everything moved around him—and by Rockson. The Rockson himself, standing just feet away. It was all like a dream. “Rath, take care of this kid here. You did good—real good, boy,” Rock said, resting his hand on the child’s shoulder. “Any man in this city would be proud to have someone like you fighting alongside him—and that includes me.”

  The Doomsday Warrior turned and headed down the corridor. He rushed down the sloping fiberglass-and-cement ramp toward the lower levels. Already he was planning just who to bring, method of travel, route. And how to attack Svetlanya—he’d have to see if any plans for that particular Red Fortress had been gathered by the Intelligence Forces. There was always so much to do before the Freefighting Strike Force was sent out. And this time, it all had to be done in hours. But he cou
ld handle it. As he walked down the ramps into the sub-basement of the world that had been carved into the mountain, his eyes grew bright, sparkling with a violent energy—one blue, one violet star, threatening to nova on the Red Galaxies surrounding him. They’d need heavy armaments and explosives. For there was no question about it—rivers of blood were about to flow.

  Seven

  The moon swooped up into the dark violet sky like a thing alive—searching, hunting as it sent down its burning waves of white. Tonight it looked so pure, untouchable against the radioactively glowing upper atmosphere of the earth, streaked with endlessly orbiting webs of green and pink that had come from the isotopes released by the atomic war of the last century.

  Ted Rockson, high atop his golden-maned hybrid, surveyed the heavens with a cynical eye. Behind him the rest of the expeditionary attack force rode in silence, each ’brid about ten feet behind the next. Beautiful, Rock thought to himself, staring up at the perfect harmony of the moon and the stars, the rose-tinged clouds that floated over it all. It created for a second a vision of ultimate beauty, a Japanese print spread out across the epic heavens, made for his eyes only. “Beautiful,” Rockson mumbled to himself, spitting to the side of the leaf-covered trail down which the squad was slowly headed. Beautiful until you knew, as Shecter’s astronomy team had discovered, that those heavens, those high clouds were filled with radioactive elements, atoms whose super-hot nuclei would transmit rays of death for thousands, tens of thousands of years.