Doomsday Warrior 10 - American Nightmare (15 page)

It didn’t take Rockson long to realize the heat was on. He carefully loaded and watched as the cordon of rooks deployed and the red knights began their search. Hiding inside the sporting-goods store, he could see the vast numbers of horsemen galloping up and down the street as columns of smoke rose everywhere. He ran to the back of the store and peered through a small window in a bathroom. Two doors down, a team of horsemen waited while their companions kicked in a door and went in, their RPGs flaming before them. Rockson ran to the stairwell leading back to the basement, but smoke was already collecting there from fires in neighboring buildings. He could hear the screams of citizens caught in the path of the destruction.

Rockson had no sooner turned back up the stairs when the front door of the store was kicked in and a blast of flames erupted in his face, singeing his skin.

His arm jerked up instinctively and released a salvo from the 16-gauge automatic shotgun he had collected. He hit one rookie with a broadside to the head, splattering the man’s cerebral matter into the face of his partner, who entered laughing right behind him. He had no sooner wiped it off when Rockson charged the door and caught the man’s neck with a flying scissors kick that snapped his spinal column instantly. Rock tumbled to his feet and out the door, discharging the shotgun in a circle of blasts, sending three more rooks to hell. A red knight galloped up. Rock tore him from his mount, then pulled himself up on a wild-eyed white stallion as it galloped past and sunk his heels deep into the horse’s ribs, sending it charging through the streets. Squads of horsemen began closing in on him from all directions. The entire section of the city was erupting in senseless violence. Citizens caught in the melee were running for their lives, leaping from windows of burning buildings and diving to escape being trampled by the rampaging horsemen. The red knights were now out of control. Caught in the frenzy of the moment, they were blasting their RPG-7s at anything that moved. The public speakers blared with confusing and contradictory orders. Knights galloping one way ran into rooks moving the opposite way, and in the confusion, arguments and disorder swept through the ranks.

Rockson was riding the gauntlet like a pro, his steed not spooked by the raging fires and the screams of burning people. He emptied his shotgun at a band of knights caught off guard in an alley, then threw it aside, whipping his compound gun from his shoulder, employing it with murderous accuracy. But no sooner would he strafe down one squad of horsemen when another would appear galloping around a corner, inaccurately blasting away. Then, just as he thought himself breaking away, a solid line of rookie cars appeared, blocking the roadway, causing him to wheel about back into the fracas. He was riding with reckless abandon, shooting from the hip, his horse leaping fences and taking corners like a champion.

He turned onto a broad avenue with a score of knights in hot pursuit, their flaming weapons licking at his charger’s long tail. Dead ahead, a roadblock stretched across the pavement. Old apartment buildings with bricked-up doorways lined the street—there was no escape. He would have to break the blockade.

He sped straight into the wall of vehicles, the galloping knights at his heels preventing the rooks from firing on him. Rockson stood high in the saddle and whispered into the ear of his foaming, frightened mount.

“One more jump, baby,” he said calmly, “just give me one more
great big leap
and I’ll take it from there.”

He closed at breakneck speed. Everything depended on his horse. If he made the jump, he had a chance. If not, it was all over but the barbecue . . . literally.

Fifty yards to go, the barricade loomed larger and larger, the horse gasping for air, the knights gaining on him . . . forty yards and he could feel the heat at his back, his horse bursting its lungs in fear, a trickle of blood appearing at the beast’s flaring nostrils . . . thirty yards . . . twenty . . . ten . . . Rock screamed and stretched over the horse’s neck, pulling it into its leap over the cars.

The rooks who had been lying flat on the roofs firing dove off as the horse stretched into a magnificent picture-book leap, reaching over the vehicles in a gracious arc. Rockson strained forward desperately. Would the horse make it, or—

The horse cleared the roadblock, but had given everything it had, and it came down on bent forelegs, throwing Rockson in a somersault over its head.

Rock had expected as much and rolled with his momentum, coming down a good fifteen yards past the barricade and rolling another ten yards before coming up firing, wiping out the band of rooks who stood with gaping mouths as the cruel weapon spit fire, cutting them to shreds. The mounts in pursuit were not up to the leap, those that tried crashing into the barricade, the others pulling up short as Rockson sprinted for cover.

Rock ran and ran, firing bursts at anything that moved. Finally, exhausted, bleeding, and thirsty, he ducked into a cellar well into another district. He’d hole up for a while. Like most stores in the city, this one was shut down. He went upstairs. It was a tailor shop—full of dusty clothing. He found several blue blazers and pants in the dim interior. On an inspiration, he looked for, and found, needle and thread. Later, dressed in consultant-like blazer and tan pants, he walked casually into the gathering night, the compound gun in a satchel made for tennis rackets. Again he headed toward the Tabernacle. He hoped that the black shoe dye he’d put in his hair worked as a disguise. The P.A. systems kept giving out his old description. He was ignored.

He tried to stay away from bright light—and from the blue-blazered thought police. It had taken him hours to sew on the insignia he had made with thread and a swatch of cloth. In the dark, the little medallion looked like the real insignia, although it wouldn’t have passed close inspection. When he boldly strode into the Tabernacle Square—King’s Square itself—and approached the church gate, he nodded and pointed to his medallion and the guards saluted. He joined the stream of midnight-mass attendees. He was walking up the steps with the others of high rank—the politicians, the higher cops, and some consultants—no women. This was a male-chauvinist society. He took a seat in one of the last pews inside the awesome cathedral. He had no plan except opportunity—he’d see what developed. Find a staircase.
Anything!
Besides, he wanted to hear this service—what would the midnight mass be? What was the midnight sermon that was supposed to be so special?

The red-robed bishops came in with candle-carrying altar boys. Like an old church service, Rockson thought. Not like the twenty-first-century religion of no sects. In the future it was all united—Buddhist, Christian, Hindu, Moslem: all meditated in the simple chapel at Century City.

There were at least a dozen priests, wearing black and clerical collars, on the wide altar. A half dozen or more preteen boys—acolytes—went around assisting them in the manipulation of religious articles. The boys chanted up a storm of Latin, while the priests handed the articles and received them back from one tall red-robed man—the bishop, judging by his peaked hat. The priests and acolytes finished up their mystic business and left. The bishop climbed steps to a high, ornate pulpit with horrible wooden carvings—gargoyles. He put his figure into the light. He was narrow-faced, middle-aged, and wore thick horn-rimmed glasses. He cleared his throat and adjusted the microphone.

He began his sermon: “I am Bishop Pohsib. All ye gathered here know that it is not whether you win or lose, it’s how you play the game. My talk tonight will dwell on that simple truth.” He smiled, adjusted the microphone closer to his mouth, and continued. “My flock, know ye that it doesn’t matter what square you occupy in the game of life, it is
how
you occupy that square . . .”

Applause.

“Ye are thanked . . . my flock, know ye that it doesn’t matter if you are driven off the board, if the view is good on the way down . . .”

Rockson only half listened after that point—it seemed to be drivel. Finally, after ten minutes of it, the topic became more interesting to him. After the bishop made the sign of the square and blessed all, he said: “It is with sadness that I report to you that His Holiness, Mayor Chessman, moved to City Hall Tower yesterday. He will spend the next few weeks working there while his suite upstairs is modernized.”

A sigh of disappointment rolled through the gathered consultants and other solid citizens.

Shit,
Rock thought, I’ve sneaked in here for nothing, risked all to penetrate the Tabernacle when Chessman
isn’t even here!

The lights came up. It was over. People got up and started to file out. Rockson decided to hide, and when all the audience had left, to still perform the second half of his mission. If he couldn’t find and checkmate the Chessman tonight, he could
still
destroy the radio tower at the peak of the roof, and stop the mind-bending hypno-music.

He remembered Barrelman’s advice that the marble crypts—heavy white coffins of stone carved with the same hideous gargoyles as the pulpit—demons with wings, hunch-backed twisted-faced dwarves with tridents—were advantageous places to hide. There were a half dozen along the left side of the vast room.

Rockson crouched and ran along the aisle until he could dash the ten feet to the nearest crypt, and with all his mutant strength pushed the heavy cover aside. Inside it was dark and cool and about four feet deep. Barrelman better be right, he thought as he jumped in, I sure hope to God these
are
empty. I don’t want to get cozy with a bunch of bones right now.

Barrelman
wasn’t
right. He landed in a crunchy pile of powdery bones, judging from the white dust. He was sure, when he struck a match for a brief instant to see. Only the skull seemed to be intact. The rest of the skeleton had completely disintegrated. Stifling a sneeze, he bent lower.

Oh, well, I’ve been in worse places, he thought. Bending into a push-ups position over the corpse, he slid the cover back so that only a crack of light showed. Then he put his eyes to the opening. He could see the activity at the high altar. The bishop that had given the sermon, Bishop Pohsib, was dousing the thousands of candles with a long snuffer. A group of acolytes were helping him. If the six boys left, Rockson was determined to rush the high bishop, capture him, and wring some information from his lips. Information such as how to reach the radio tower, or maybe how to penetrate the City Hall Tower and get at Chessman. But for now, until the rigmarole upon the stage was completed, he would bide his time . . .

If this was like any of the ancient churches he’d read about, the bishop would perhaps have a go at a prayer alone before he left.

What the hell, it was a plan. And any plan was better than none. The compound gun was by his side; he’d soon make a move.

But the best-laid plans of church-mice and men sometimes go astray. Rockson heard what sounded like drums—no, not drums—footfalls in rhythm. A whole squad of synchro-stepping rookies, perhaps. Maybe they had
counted
the people who went into the church. Maybe they counted as everyone left, too and were
one
short!

Twelve

R
ockson was desperate. Instead of catching the bishop, he himself was in risk of being caught, he realized. The crypt might become his tomb. The old marble coffin with carved gargoyles on the lid could become
his
coffin, if those tramping footsteps were what he suspected. But he’d take some with him!

Peering out from his crack, Rockson saw that the Tabernacle was crawling with armed rookies and thought police with trank-wands. Most of them wore helmets with mirrored visors that covered their faces. They were scurrying everywhere, as if they had caught his scent and were closing in for the kill. He had to get out. He reached in the darkness for the compound gun.

Suddenly the crack was filled with darkness, and Rock’s vision was cut off. Someone was standing in front of the crack. Rockson drew back, diving for the darkness of the crypt—but it was too late. The lid was inching up, the view above filled with mirror-faced rookies.

Rockson reached for the compound gun, but before he could bring it up to fire, the long steel rod of a consultant slipped into the sarcophagus. Rockson felt its cold red tip touch his right sleeve. Instantly he was thrown into confusion. He was sprayed with a tranquilizer fluid from the long trank-wand.

He didn’t know who he was, where he was. A rush of confused, disjointed thoughts rushed through his mind. And upon that wave of confusion was a powerful pleasant sensation, like sinking into mud while being sprayed with perfume—contradictory sensations. A smile broke out on his lips, and as the lid was fully removed, Rockson sat up.

“Hi, fellas,” he said to the gathering of rookies and the consultant who now withdrew his weapon. “Wonderful, wonderful night, isn’t it?”

The rookies were told to lower their weapons by the consultant. “He got a good dose,” the consultant told them. “No need for guns now.”

Rockson was asked to come out of the crypt. He did, dusting off the bone dust with his hands, still smiling. “It’s fun in there—you should really try it sometime.”

“Perhaps I will,” said the consultant. “Now, you want to come with us, don’t you?” No one looked into the dark reaches of the crypt. The compound gun was forgotten by Rockson also.

One of the rookies said, “Say, you don’t suppose this is the freak that shot up half the town, do you?”

The consultant shook his head. “He doesn’t fit the description—and he has no machine gun. He’s just one of those church-break-in guys; some people adore Bishop Pohsib so much, they’ve got to see him in person.”

Rockson was no longer smiling; instead his face twitched. He realized he had been captured. “Some sort of drug in that—metal rod,” he mumbled. “Where are you taking me?” The consultant sneered. In his icy, dead eyes, Rockson saw his own distorted reflection, moving up and down with the man’s snapped-out words. “You have a great ability to withstand the drug. Pawns like you require treatment. You will get it.”