Doomsday Warrior 04 - Bloody America (15 page)

Rock went through the crates carefully examining the state of the goods. He found it all in apparently functioning condition, along with fuses and blasting caps. It would do—it would have to.

Fourteen

T
he best laid plans of mice and dissidents . . . After they lugged nearly a ton of the explosives back to the encampment, Rock wanted to test them just to make sure. With three of the dissidents leading him and Archer they made their way several miles to an immense linking terminal where ten sets of tracks met. The space was wide and high enough for Rockson to see just what the effects of the antiquated dynamite would be. They set ten sticks in the curved wall of one of the tunnels with a one-minute timer and ran back to safety. The stuff went off with a thunderous roar, and when they went back to check, they found that it had indeed torn out a ten-foot chunk of the solid rock.

They were just leaving the terminal when they heard noises behind and ahead of them. Reds—on one of their infrequent attempts to track down the homebase of the dissidents. They tore down the tunnel from all directions in search of the creators of the explosion.

Colonel Dzeloski stared down the dark subway tube with his special night-vision glasses. There—there they were about a quarter mile ahead—the swarthy creatures—but there appeared to be two large men with them, one of them nearly twice as tall as the jazzmen. Could it be—he had heard of the escape of the freefighters. It had been a humiliation for the premier. If he could capture them . . . He screamed out orders to his men—an elite squad of MKVD troops—broken into four fifty-man units. “Get them! Forget about the dissidents. I want those two!” Troops coming from a linking tunnel were just a few hundred feet from the fleeing rebels. The colonel screamed out orders through his walkie-talkie. “Flank them! Bring up the flamethrowers.” The dissidents saw that they were cut off. Reds were coming at them from both ends of the tunnel. The jazzmen raised their clarinets as Archer and Rock raised their weapons. A slew of arrows and slugs and ear-piercing notes tore into many a Red, but there were just too many of them. The dissidents rushed forward for a better aim, and the flamethrowers went off, turning the three guides into a mass of burning putty. The fallen bodies lit the tunnel with flickering shadows. Now troops were upon the two Americans, filling the tunnel from every side. The colonel instructed the throwers to be extinguished.

“Stun gas load,” he commanded the first ten kneeling soldiers. The colonel watched as three more of his men keeled over from the arrows and bullets of the fiercely fighting Americans. “Fire,” the Red commander yelled, and ten gas shells shot out down the tunnel. It took only seconds. Rock and Archer felt themselves growing dizzy and then slumped to the ground unconscious. The colonel ran forward and turned the limp bodies over. It was them—his career had just taken a giant step. “Quickly to the surface with these two. Forget the dissidents for today. These are worth all of those white-faced mutants put together. And a medal for every man here. The premier will be serving us hors d’oeuvres from his own hand inside the Kremlin walls by tomorrow night.”

When Rockson awoke he was chained to a stone wall in a crude concrete cell with barred windows high above. There was straw on the floor and a metal shield, battered and dented on the far wall. Rock stood up and nearly tumbled to the ground. His legs were still unsteady from the gas attack. How long had he been under? His chains were long enough to allow him to jump up and catch hold of the bottom of the window. He peered out onto an immense arena with stands filled with seats rising as high as the eye could see. Where the hell was he? He dropped down and stumbled over to the small barred window of a thick wooden door at one end of the cell. There were more cells across from him, each with a prisoner.

“Anyone out there?” he yelled across the straw-littered corridor. A familiar voice groaned back.

“Rooockson!” At least Archer was still alive. The Doomsday Warrior pushed against the door with all his strength. Nothing. The thing must be bolted with steel. Suddenly he heard a clanking and a guard came into view. He was bald and quite large, only a few inches shorter than Archer with a face full of scars and thick muscular arms. He wore a thick leather vest and black leather pants and carried a large sword in a scabbard at his side. He looked at Rockson with his one good eye, the other covered by a patch, and spoke through a long jaw that appeared distended, perhaps reset after being broken.

“Against the wall,” he shouted to Rockson, “Or I don’t bring this food in.” Behind him two men pushed a large vat filled with a pungent meat stew. Rock was starving. He must have been out for days. He retreated to the far wall. The guard opened the door and the assistants filled a large bowl and handed it to the Doomsday Warrior.

“Where am I?” he asked, taking the food in his still trembling hands. The guards laughed loudly at the question, quite amused.

“Where are you? In the pits of hell. In the training rooms of the gladiators. You’re going to be entertainment for the rich and powerful in just a few days. This is where slaves and troublemakers come to die.” He looked Rockson over. “You look strong. You’ll put a good show for the crowd before you get cut to ribbons.” He started back toward the door, then turned. “Eat well, my American friend—you will need all your strength. Those who wash out on the first day of gladiator training are disposed of.” He slammed the wooden door shut and headed across the corridor where the servers opened the door a crack and slipped food into Archer who growled and slammed against the quickly shut wood. They moved on down the rows of cells doling out the stew to each occupant.

So they had decided to send Rock to the gladiator games. He had heard some of the troops talking about the upcoming contests of warriors when he had been the guest of the premier back in the Kremlin. Vassily had obviously decided there was nothing further to be gained in dealing with the freefighters. And Rock could hardly blame him. He had had no intention of honoring the absurd dictates of the treaty, a document that would have sent the U.S. into legalized slavery forever.

An hour later the guard, this time with an escort of equally tough-looking comrades, returned.

“Time for beginner’s class.” He smiled as he led Rock and Archer from their cells. “I hope you guys are as fierce as you look. The chief gladiator will test your abilities today and decide whether to have you compete in one of the lesser games. The premier is quite interested in seeing your performance. I understand you—annoyed our esteemed leader.” He sneered at the word leader. The man had little regard for the power elite of Russia. He was as cynical as they came, having witnessed enough death for a thousand lifetimes. Perhaps he could be useful.

“What’s your name?” Rockson asked.

“Funny you should ask,” the scar-faced gladiator said. “I don’t remember. Been hit in the head too many times. Just call me Keeper—that’s what they all call me. I’ve been in combat for nearly twenty years—and never lost. So don’t try anything on me. There are crucifixes outside the arena with the rotting flesh of those who tried to jump me and escape. A most painful death I am told. If you are a good gladiator you will live well for a brief time and die by the sword—not by crucifixion. Believe me—it’s the man’s way to go.”

After that kind of advice Rock and Archer were led to one section of the vast dirt-covered arena where men were practicing with various weapons—sending out chips of bark as they chopped away at tree branches, snapping whips with loud cracks through the cold winter air, learning to punch and kick by immense trainers who kept knocking them to the ground with a single punch of their ham-sized fists. They trained with broadswords, pikes, tridents, sabers, maces, and battle-axes, desperately trying to gain the skills that would give them a fighting chance against the highly trained gladiators they would soon be facing.

“These are the two Americans—Rockson and Archer,” the Keeper said to a man who made
him
look scrawny. The gladiator’s girth was that of Archer’s, his broad arms even thicker. His sharp blue eyes bore into the American pair with disdain.

“The Americans? How am I supposed to train them? It is said Americans are wild, uncontrolled beasts. Feed them to the animals would be better—”

“Orders are to train them in combat,” the Keeper snapped back. “For the Centennial spectacle. The big one in net and trident, and the mutant here,” he said, pointing to Rock, “in duo-blade. The premier’s orders.”

The huge trainer sneered. “Duo-blade? That weapon is only for the most skilled. The premier wants to assure this man’s death. It takes years to learn duo-blade. So be it.” He turned toward the freefighters. “American scum—you will call me Trigrily. I am also known as the Mauler—so don’t get any funny ideas. Now,” he said with a smile, “we begin the training.”

Archer was handed his trident and net. He took it and looked around wondering. But a glance at the sub-toting guards who ringed the lower seats of the stands quickly dissuaded him of the notion. Rock stared at the odd weapon that the Mauler handed him. It had a fist grip in the center from which two weapons extended on each side. One was a two-edged, razor-sharp blade nearly a foot-and-a-half long, on the other end a hooklike attachment that looked like it could rip a man’s intestines out. Rock wondered if he could learn this new weapon well enough to make french fries out of his opponents.

There were about seventy-five gladiators in training on the dusty field, and they were all going at it with a vengeance under the careful eyes of their whip-master trainers. There were pygmies riding each other’s shoulders, wielding samurai swords that cut the air with a whoosh before decapitating melons. There were short, squat, hairy, almost apelike men who were practicing strangling treelimbs or crushing enormous hollow steel globes with their bare hands. Mutants and strange races of all sorts filled the arena floor, mock fighting one another, even a few Amazonlike green-haired women who slammed their axes into thick logs over and over, sending up clouds of sawdust. All were intent on surviving the ordeal ahead. They had to win their battles to live. A gladiator vanquished, beheaded, would mean a few more days of training, of life, sweet, horrible life for them.

Rockson was taken aside by a fairly stocky fellow who didn’t seem unkind. At first the Doomsday Warrior dismissed the man’s abilities due to his portliness and jowly face, but he quickly showed himself to be fast, cunning, and an expert with the lethal duo-blade. “You don’t have a chance,” were the first words he said to Rock. “But I’m going to do my damndest to teach you everything I know anyway. I hold no love for the masters of these games. We are all slaves under the Reds. But make no mistake: As tough as you may be, your opponent will be the strongest man you have ever faced.” He showed Rock how to keep the wrist as loose as possible so as to be able to spin the weapon from side to side. “Flexibility is the key to the duo-blade,” he said over and over after every move, as if wanting to imprint the words on Rockson’s brain. “Once you tighten up, you’re dead.” He showed the Doomsday Warrior how to feint, parry and thrust, how to catch an opponent’s weapon with the hooked end, spin it and then attack with the blade. They practiced together for nearly three hours under the cold silvery Moscow sky that threatened snow that somehow never quite fell.

Suddenly there was a great commotion at one end of the arena. All stopped in their tracks, swords frozen in midair. A princely-looking man garbed in silk tunic and turban with an entourage of several dozen men entered the training area and behind them, walking step by arrogant step was a gargantuan man. He was nearly stark naked, except for a leopard loincloth, and black as ebony. He must have stood nearly eight feet tall and made even Archer appear small. A red-eyed megaman who snarled and spat with jaws of double rows of hooked teeth. The gladiators in training stared in amazement, not just at his size and obvious power but at the third arm he possessed which came from the center of his chest and which was clearly as strong and mobile as the foot-and-a-half thick arms that dangled at his side. He stopped and stared around at the slave fighters, and his mouth widened into a grotesque smile. Then he laughed.

Rock’s duo-blade trainer leaned over and whispered, “That’s the one they call the Black Menace, especially bred for generations is his kind. See that third arm and those rows of teeth? Watch them carefully. He’s been known to reach down in the midst of a fight and rip the head from his opponent with a single snap of his jaws.”

“Why should I have to watch them?” Rock asked, a little nervously. “I have no intention of getting near that charming fellow at all.”

The trainer stepped back. “Rockson, didn’t they tell you?
You
are to fight the Black Menace in a week’s time, armed only with the duo-blade. No—they didn’t tell you.” He could see by Rock’s wide eyes that it was all a rude surprise. “Train well, my friend. I will teach you all that I know. But no one has defeated him—or even come close. They are raised on genetic farms in Africa solely for the Moscow Gladiator Arena. You haven’t much of a chance. But you, too, are some sort of mutant, are you not—with your strange mismatched eyes and that streak of white in your black hair. Perhaps you have a chance—you are strong. But practice, Rockson, practice. You have one week. Shall we begin again?”

Rock looked at the giant black man with some trepidation. The Menace caught his glance and stared back. He raised all three arms forward and squeezed his hands tightly shut as if strangling the Doomsday Warrior from a hundred feet away. Then he laughed again and turned. The procession headed off once again, disappearing into the dark doorway of the arena, holding pens.

“Train me well,” Rockson said, turning back to the master of the duo-blade. “I’m not ready to die.”

Fifteen

B
uglers stood on every parapet surrounding the coliseum, announcing with their clarion calls the start of the Games of Death. Immense Red flags flapped briskly in the fall wind. Far below, the vast dirt-covered arena awaited the blood that would soon soak into its parched soil. The day of the gladiators had arrived. The rulers of the world, the bureaucrats of Moscow, resplendent in their medal-bedecked, razor-pressed uniforms filled the stands of the coliseum, accompanied by their overly made-up mistresses. They greeted one another with the usual platitudes. The elite of the world—the men who ran the Soviet Empire. And as if their bloody domination wasn’t enough—now they thirsted for the blood of the arena. Safe in the stands with their flasks and fur coats they bristled with excitement as this was going to be a special day, indeed.