Doomsday Warrior 16 - American Overthrow (24 page)

Suddenly Rock saw movement behind one of the vats. It was Hanover, dragging President Langford along by his handcuffed wrists. The tuxedoed President was stumbling and smashing into the metal sides of the huge vats, blood streaming from a broken nose.

“Hanover!” Rockson screamed as he tore into the room. “Let him live, and I’ll let you live. I swear I will, on my honor as a commander in the United States Armed Services. I’m authorized to dispense justice on the spot. Let him go, slime, and you walk.”

As much as Rockson hated Hanover, it would be better to let him escape, and save the President. He knew what he did in the next few minutes would affect the future of America itself.
Easy
now, boy, he told himself, trying to cool out. There was time. Go slow.

“Rockson, throw down your weapon immediately,” General Hanover bellowed from about sixty feet away where he held President Langford right at the edge of one of the bubbling gas tanks. He
could
take him out in a flash, it was clear. “Your
gun,
man, I’m not playing games.” The psycho general put his hand against Langford’s shoulder and nudged him slightly toward the bubbles. The President didn’t seem to mind. It was just bath time;
where’s my rubber ducky?

“Okay, okay!” Rock shouted back above the constant whir of machines, generators, pumps around the room. He dropped the .357, and walked forward with his hands up. It was Hanover’s smug smile that he hated most. Like he knew he’d won now, knew that this was the
real
battle, whatever was going on out there.

And he was
almost
right.

Rockson walked past the rows of cannisters ready for gas loading and up to the two men standing by the immense vat. The liquid stuff below was ugly, a brownish red liquid boiling like it was filled with eager piranha. You didn’t want to go swimming down there, that was for damned sure. But somehow he had the feeling that was exactly what Hanover had in mind, for the Doomsday Warrior.

“Stop! That’s close enough,” the general said, as he stepped back a few feet from the edge of the vat, not wanting to splash himself with Rockson’s demise. “Now step in, won’t you please?” the general laughed, holding his .45 to the President’s head. “You can test it and tell me how the water is.”

Rockson walked slowly toward the side of the vat, wondering what the hell he could do. If he had any kind of weapon . . . Suddenly he remembered the medallion around his neck that Shecter had given him. The
mini-g
un! Was it still
—yeah,
the last time he’d looked it was still hanging on. It fired a single round. He needed something more for insurance. The general was too quick, too cold a killer to not take out the President fast. And suddenly there
was
something more. For as the general stepped back again and motioned for Rockson to take the plunge, the President suddenly got a burst of human consciousness for an instant. He did something smart. It wasn’t much, or all that thought out, but it was enough. The President sank his teeth into Hanover’s hand, the one holding the gun. The general managed to retain hold of the pistol, but he ripped his other arm away in pain from around Langford’s throat.

It was all that Rockson needed. As Langford stumbled backward, Rock ripped the mini-firearm from his throat and held it up sighting the small medallion along his hand. General Hanover regained his balance and raised his own .45 up toward Rockson and began firing wildly. Rock took the extra second and sighted him carefully. He’d have no second chance. Then he squeezed the medallion’s two dots, and it shook like a living thing in his hand for a second. The shot flew right into the general’s shoulder, not inflicting a mortal blow, but sending him spinning like a top from the impact.

A spinning human top that slammed right into the side of the vat of gas liquid. The general was now tottering on the edge, and with all his effort he was able to stay alive, sort of half-dangling on the side, balanced on one hip. He might even have been able to throw his weight backward after the terror subsided and pull himself back from the precipice. But President Langford, with another jolt of human rage breaking through his gas-induced zombieism, rushed forward, both arms outstretched. He didn’t push with a hell of a lot of strength. But he didn’t
need
to. Suddenly Hanover was flipped over and splashed down into the bubbling liquid.

Rockson rushed forward, grabbing at the President, who was starting to topple in himself from the exertions. And as they both stood there, they saw General Hanover, the man who would rule a free people, the man who would gas all of America into slavery, was screaming and flailing for help in the frothy foam. The bubbles seemed to rise up like a trillion liquid teeth and licked at him and snapped at him. The liquid in its present state had more than just gaseous dangers. For it was acid. The general’s skin—his face and arms—were all red and blistering, rising up in melting patches everywhere. The general screamed just once more, a sound that made goose-pimples run up and down Rock’s arms and neck.

And then he submerged, both hands sinking beneath the rapids of death, his screaming turning to a gurgle.

Twenty-Seven

R
ockson stared out over the ranks of the zombie army. There were thousands of them now, Mason’s crew, and all the released male and female work drones and sex-toys that the army had created. It was a little overwhelming. They stood in long lines, stretching about a hundred yards across, in twenty rows stretching back. They stared up at a makeshift pipe and plastic tubing constructed platform where Rock stood. Next to him on the mall’s platform-of-honor were the rest of the Freefighters, along with Dr. Mason, Kim and old President Langford.

Rockson knew he had to say something inspiring as everyone looked up at him expectantly. Only he didn’t know what the hell it was. The ex-zombie audience was mostly in pretty bad shape. He couldn’t deny it. But they’d sure as hell tried, and succeeded. No gain without
pain!

“My fellow
Freefighters,”
he said, over a crude microphone that had been set up on a table placed before him on its side, creating a makeshift speaker’s platform, “I applaud your courage. You have proven once again that the last four letters in the word ‘American’ are the most important letters in the world. The letters spell
“I can.”

The zombie masses all seemed to understand. Dr. Mason had already set his top brains to work airing out the place, now that they’d used the gas successfully. Defumigated the air, as it were. As well, there were numerous women among the gashead ranks, women Hanover had had chained up in factories making clothing and other accessories for the troops, that hadn’t been totally zonked. They cheered now.

“The main thing I want to say,” Rockson said, addressing them, “is—we’ve won.
You’ve
won. I’m saying that you’re heroes—because you are. You’ve made an incalculable difference to our country. All of America is in debt to all of you.” He paused, wondering if the words were getting through to them, any of them. Dr. Mason swore that a lot were already getting nearly full functioning back, after just three days. Since the “revolution of the zombies,” as Mason laughingly referred to it, a lot had happened. They were at least functioning at four and five year old levels now. Some, Mason wasn’t sure about. But they were what he had to work with. The men and women down there listening were the seeds of New Pattonville, for better or worse, and they were listening to hear
inspiring
words.

“And because of what you did in rescuing President Langford,” Rock went on, “I think that you should let yourselves feel somewhere inside, that you
are
men and women of strength and intelligence now. You’ve earned the right not to be gasheads anymore. You’ve changed yourself, liberated yourselves, by your very actions.” Rock knew it was all coming out wrong, too
windy,
too philosophical. He looked around. Some did seem to hear, to understand. That was enough.

“I know that this city, its functions are a wreck. We can’t pretend it’s not,” Rock said, looking with concern over all of them. “But you’ve got to try, got to try to rapidly rebuild this city—and yourselves. Got to make sure more than anything, that nothing like this can ever occur again here in Pattonville. Century City, where I come from, will send technicians and psychologists to help reestablish the structure of your society. And help restore your minds, if need be. So there is help on the way.” Rockson paused again. He was going too fast. He had to be slow with them.

“But as all men are, you’re ultimately on your own,” he continued. “It will be
your
decisions from now on, not the decisions of the gas-men, that will decide things.” He stood back from the mike, feeling a little dumb. Not that he’d expected applause or anything to say the least, but being used to speaking on various issues back in C.C., he was nonplussed when not a single hand clapped, not a single head nodded assent to his words. Other than his own team and Dr. Mason, of course.

Then, as he stepped down from the table stage, one pair of heavy hands began hitting hard against another. It was slow, heavy like a seal on a jar of qualudes, but loud. And as the first pair of hands slammed open and shut, more joined in with the same plodding rhythm. And Rock got a grin as big as a canyon on his weathered face. The whole ex-zombie crew began clapping like
living
men and women. Every second of clapping made them more alive, just by the sheer act of clapping. They started to cheer and shout and hug one another.

Dr. Mason slapped Rock hard on the shoulder with his good arm and had them help him get up on the table. The Doc raised his good fist. “Three cheers for Pattonville, the
New
Pattonville!

The ex-zombies joined in the doc’s cheers. Eagerly. For they respected Rockson, but they loved Mason. It was obvious. The man was like a god who had liberated them from bondage. Well good, they’d obey him then, follow his directions for a while, until things were patched up, Rock reasoned. And Rockson trusted the good doctor enough to know he’d do what was good for the city, not try to make a power-base himself. Rock had no doubt but that politics would bore him, and he would go half mad wanting to return to his beloved scientific work.

“My fellow citizens,” Mason coughed out over the mike. “We have much to do. I’m not going to give speeches, I’m not the great speaker type—like Rockson! Just say we kicked the bastards’ asses, and leave it at that!”

The Freefighters chuckled behind him and let loose with their own round of applause.
“Now,”
the doc continued, “we’re going to divide up into groups right now, start reorganizing things
today.
Front line is
A
group, second is
B
group. Group-leaders will be appointed, and will assign specific duties.”

It all sounded like too much for them all to comprehend, Rock mused as he watched the man address the citizens. But he seemed to know what he was doing.

After a while, Rock walked over to his team, who were standing around at stage-edge, talking. He slapped them all the shoulders. It was miraculous that they had all survived this encounter. Someone should write it all down. Free people should know about what sacrifices men make to keep their freedom!

“This is the story, boys,” Rock said as they walked away out of the haranguing organizational speeches of Mason, who went over certain basic concepts of restructuring the city with his citizenry again and again. “I’m going to head back to C.C. with the President and Kim. I’ll take Archer. You two guys,” he said, pointing to Detroit and Chen, “are more needed
here,
helping get the place reorganized.”

“I’d rather go back to C.C.,” Chen said. “And we have to protect the President’s ass, as well as yours,” he reminded Rockson.

“It’s a straight trip back to Century City, especially now that we’ve charted our way through those earthquake prone areas. Shouldn’t be too many problems if I avoid lava-people, lizards and leaping dogs. I think Archer can take care of them.” They all laughed, as the big man grinned with foolish pride at that remark. “Besides, we’ve got to have your
firm
presence here. Mason will have too much to deal with alone. After all, I don’t want to see any resurrection of the Hanover officers corps.” The officers who had survived the bloody battles for the takeover of the city had all been imprisoned, but prisons can be escaped from. The lower ranks had been disarmed and released into the populace to help rebuild it all. “The doc needs you both, even if he would never ask for it.”

“Will do then, Rock,” Detroit said softly, handing Rockson a few grenades like good luck charms. “Just get the psychological rescue teams back here pronto, okay? I think I’m going to get tired of zombie-eyed dames real quick!”

Twenty-Eight

I
t was a cold and desolate morning when they set out the next day on ’brids. The two Freefighters rode up the Pattonville ramp into a most unwelcoming morning. Even Archer, who liked the outdoors and was covered in wolf-furs, shivered slightly and bundled up his collar around his throat. Rockson checked back on Kim and her father, who were riding in the center of their four ’brid caravan. Rock had picked the best ’brid in Pattonville’s stable for Kim— Hanover’s white stallion.

He wondered if perhaps he should have left President Langford stay until the rescue teams came. He looked in poor health. Kim seemed a lot better, if a little groggy, and could pretty much talk normally now. But then she’d only had several gassings, just enough to make her the perfect blushing bride.

Langford, on the other hand, was still spaced out. There was no question. He was acting like an old senile man, hardly able to dress himself, tie his shoes, or knot his tie. It gave Rock a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach to see the President of the United States so incapacitated.

Rock knew they had to get the man back to C.C. and fast. If there was anything that could be done, they would be able to do it there, in the ultra-modern medical facilities. He had to try. Rock had thought that when he rescued the President from the barrel of Hanover’s gun, that he would feel relief. But
now,
if anything, the responsibility seemed awesome. Getting the leader of the atomic-blasted nation back four hundred miles through prime wastelands, without getting a white hair on his head tousled, was going to be a chore.