Doomsday Warrior 08 - American Glory (16 page)

“Archer!” Rockson screamed out, restraining his anxious ’brid, who wanted to jump into the river to escape the heat that it too could feel on its hindquarters. “Archer!” the Doomsday Warrior screamed again. The bear-sized mountain man cut his rope loose, came flying out of the middle of the pack atop his own monstrous steed—even larger than Rockson’s, with legs like pillars—which it needed to carry the 380 pounds-plus that rode it.

“R-R-Rooocksson,” the huge near-mute croaked out like a frog in heat.

“Archer,” Rockson said, pointing across the rough waters. “That wide oak tree on the other side. See it? Shoot one of your cable-arrows into it. Do you understand me?”

“Arrrchher shoooot treee,” the giant groaned back as he swung his huge steel-wired crossbow around to the front. He reached around behind him and took a narrow but deep spool from one of his saddle bags and attached the quarter-inch alloy cable to the back end of the arrow, resting it in the firing slot. Putting one leg up on the ’brid’s neck, Archer positioned the front of the yard-wide crossbow on his knee and sighted up. His target was a gnarled age-old tree, six feet wide at the base, which drooped wide leafy branches out over the opposite edge of the river, creating shadows where fish swam to hide from their bigger-jawed relatives.

The mountain man let his body settle, waiting several seconds until his arm stopped shaking from the adrenaline rush. Then he gently squeezed the wide trigger, which was big enough for a finger as large as most men’s wrists. The arrow shot from the front end of the primitive but powerful weapon with the slightest whoosh as it sliced the air with a razor head. It flew unerringly just above the river, which reached up as if trying to suck it down, and slammed into the oak a yard above the ground. The arrow hit with tremendous velocity and the specially designed arrow sank in eight inches, burying itself forever in the dense wood fiber.

“Give it to me,” Rockson yelled above the din of the volcanic maelstrom unfolding all around them and the frantic braying of the now completely unhinged hybrid horses. He jumped down from his ’brid and grabbed the spool of cable from Archer’s hands, running over to a large tree by the shore. Rock wrapped the thin steel mesh cable, tested at up to a ton for tensile strength, around the wide trunk and leaped back up on Snorter and started the ’brid forward before he hit the saddle.

“I’ll go first,” he yelled at the disoriented squad of Freefighters, who were dizzy from the gases and coated from head to foot in a fine layer of ink-black soot. “Take your link-up ropes from your saddlebags—every one of you has one,” the Doomsday Warrior cried out as he held one of them up, his eyes glued to the throbbing wall of white-hot slag coming toward them in a rushing waterfall of flame. “Slip the lower clamp around the saddle ring and when you get your ’brid into the water—fit the other clamp around the wire. Don’t screw up—or you’re dead.” He prayed that his words had stirred them from their near comatose states—there would be no second chances.

Rockson headed his ’brid into the ripping river at full gallop, creating a big splash. But the animal was a sure swimmer and headed in the direction Rockson pulled the reins. He slipped the hinge clasp over the cable and breathed a sigh of relief. At least they wouldn’t get swept off. Snorter swam forward, guided by the constant tug of the cable, as Rockson spun around on his saddle so he was facing the other way. The rest of the team steered their mounts into the river one after another, hitting the blue with splashes of white and then linking up. They all seemed to be doing it right and the cold water rushing over them woke them up with frigid slaps.

As Snorter swam toward the center of the river it grew rougher, the whitecaps bigger, hitting hard. They slammed into the ’brid’s side, trying to sweep it downriver. The huge animal slowed to a crawl as it fought furiously beneath the surface with all four legs, paddling the wide oars at a fast pace. The whole lower portion of the mammal’s body was pulled sideways by the current, forcing it to swim at a nearly 45-degree angle. But swim it did, never faltering, never doubting it could make it. The massive mountain of fire was moving right up to the other bank, snapping a grove of trees two hundred yards off and chewing them down like flies, sending up little fogs of super-heated sap that were ignited by the heat before they rose fifty feet. Animals trapped by the killing lava rushed forward in streaks of furry lightning and dove head-first into the waters without a second thought and began paddling, holding their heads high up above the lapping liquid. Beavers, gray foxes, desert armadillos—all swam feet apart as if in an animal Olympics—to see who would live.

At last the ’brid touched solid ground and hoisted itself up out of the water, hitting the shore at full stride. Rock leapt down, reaching the ground before the animal could stop, and ran to the sandy shore yelling encouragement to the others.

“Keep going—you’re almost here,” he yelled out to Rona, cupping his hands like a megaphone. He could see that she was barely hanging on and was being buffeted around in the saddle like a pingpong ball. But she had wrapped her arms around the hybrid’s neck and was clutching the thick furred mane tightly with both fists.

Rockson’s attention was suddenly diverted to the back of the watery stampede of men and animals as the screeching neighs of an animal in mortal terror filled the air. Somehow one of the clasps had come loose from the cable—and man and animal were instantly swept beneath the wire and down the river. Rockson opened his eyes wide to see who it was—Karston—one of the siege-experts Rock had picked for the mission. The speed of the river picked up enormously just a few hundred feet downriver and waves rose up to six and seven feet from the surface, slamming wildly around in grinding jaws of white. Karston, tied to his mount, hit the roughest part of the foam and disappeared beneath the waves, the hybrid’s legs spinning over several times before vanishing into the lower reaches.

Knowing the man was dead, Rockson turned his gaze back to the living. The rest of the party was struggling but somehow forging their way across, and within sixty seconds most of them were up on the far shore, some laughing and nearly hysterical that they had survived sure death. McCaughlin brought up the rear and Rock kept an anxious eye on the man as his mount moved at a turtle’s pace, its nostrils and eyes only inches above the stinging waves. The big Scotsman hung on tenaciously, his legs wrapped tighter than an anemone around a clam to his ’brid’s back. And behind him, tethered by twin ropes, were the three ’brids the supply man was trailing, all of them churning up the waters in their own desperate reach for survival.

The river of fire met the river of water behind them and the sky filled with smoke and steam from the concussive rendezvous. The vaporized liquid shot out like superheated water from a broken pipe, streaming out across the river. Rockson reached out to guide McCaughlin’s ’brid, who found it hard footing, but somehow between them they pulled the last member of the team up onto dry land.

Rock mounted his ’brid again and headed the team away from the river. The million-gallon flow of water had stopped the lava—for now. Who knew how much it could swallow up—or how much the volcano was going to pump out as it continued to belch forth like a giant factory chimney on a 24-hour work shift.

They rode for a good ten minutes until Rock knew they were miles off and safe—until the next thing that tried to do them in, anyway. The team halted and turned their ’brids around, the fighters saying not a word. The volcano was eerily beautiful from a distance—they could appreciate it now that they knew it wouldn’t burn them alive. It spouted up a geyser of fire in a perfectly shaped plume that had stabilized at a height of about 800 feet. It erupted with a fiery grace, its sheets of flame forming a flower-like shape before cresting and falling back down in wide symmetrical curves onto the sea of red rock below, where it joined in the wild push of the inanimate matter like lemmings on the path of least resistance.

The gases of the volcano had collected high in the atmosphere and were creating hypnotic rainbow effects, as if a sheen of oil had been sprayed across the heavens. Luminescent purples, blues, greens, and golds shimmered and meshed with one another in an almost living undulation of color and shape. All along the river a line of steam rose up, creating a hot wet fog that covered the vegetation for miles, not killing most of it, but wilting it, drooping leaves and flowers so they looked as if they were drunk, and in their intoxication had fallen flat.

Twelve

T
he gases of the volcano formed an immense brown hemisphere of soot that covered the land for twenty miles around the spouting center. Twelve hours later Rockson and his party could still see the fountain of burning rock gushing into the sky as if trying to reach the beckoning fires of the sun ninety million miles away. Rock had decided to make a wide circle around the perimeter of the gas. Everyone on the team had already breathed too much of the stuff—and they were all looking a little green around the gills. It would add a day to their journey to Fort Minsk, but they were ahead of schedule by nearly two days and could afford the delay.

So they headed east for half a day and then north again. The land grew thick with vegetation, small ponds, and animals—unicorn deer, poison-quilled porcupines, flying squirrels with feathered wings—all moved in nature’s harmony around the weary fighters. Toward night they bagged a big buck and roasted it over a spitfire, cutting off huge chunks and wolfing them down like savages. Rock had okayed the feast. The men needed a rest—some good food—and the nurturing warmth of a fire. They were smack in the middle of nowhere—between prairie and the next mountain range—with no Red forts for a hundred miles. It would be safe. It would have to be. One couldn’t go on endlessly without some sort of respite, some relief.

They slept under the trillion-starred sky, Rona and Kim continuing to lie on each side of Rockson, but far enough away so it didn’t appear that either of them was on the make for him. It was just accidental that their sleeping sacks ended up there. A biting wind from the north made them all burrow deep into their synth/down bags—but it also cleared away much of the sulphur and other gases that the earth had regurgitated.

By morning, after a night of breathing the clear frosty air, everyone—even the ’brids—was alert, bright-eyed, their lungs cleaned out. The attack team broke camp and headed out. Rona and Kim, since they were feeling their oats, went at it almost instantly once they hit the trail.

“Darling, had the most frightful dream about you last night,” Kim said, turning her small blond head toward Rona, whose ’brid trotted happily along a yard away, ears up.

“Oh really? How fascinating,” Rona said, tossing her flaming red hair back around one side of her head as if it really wasn’t particularly intriguing at all—but quite boring.

“Yes, you turned into a giant spider and were waving all these hairy legs at everyone.”

“Hairy legs—I would think that would be more in your department,” Rona said with a stifled yawn, referring to the fact that her rival didn’t shave her legs, although her downy blond covering was hardly noticeable. Rona, on the other hand, always the female, brought razors along even on military expeditions, stripping the fast-growing dark hairs on her own calves every few days. “Didn’t try to
eat
you, did I?” Rona laughed with a cold quick giggle. “Spiders
do
eat little
weak
fruitflies.”

“Oh, you tried,” Kim smiled, “so I had to shoot you. I felt terrible about it, apologized to everyone. But there it was—you had turned into a giant, ugly spider—it wasn’t my fault.”

“Oh, little one,” Rona said icily, “in a million years, if every second of them was your lucky day, you couldn’t take me with a howitzer in each hand. I’d split your sweet head open with one chop. Of course, only in a dream.”

“But darling, I left my howitzers at home,” Kim answered immediately. “Prefer to use one of my bear stoppers here.” She glanced down at her shining .45’s sitting on each hip, waiting for the next battle that would bring them to life.

“Come on, you two,” Rockson said, leaning around in the saddle and looking sternly at the two women he loved. “No one in my outfit talks about doing someone else in—no matter how much they’re playing around. Okay? Keep your barbs friendly.”

“Of course, Rock,” Kim said, looking genuinely abashed. She didn’t want to appear bloodthirsty in her lover’s eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Rona smiled in her most come-hither look at the Doomsday Warrior, who broke into a broad smile. He still had no better way of dealing with either or both of them but to grin idiotically and say nothing. He crossed his fingers. Somehow the thing
would
work itself out. Thank god they had a war to fight.

Both were back at it again within minutes, unable to resist the nasty temptation like a moth flying closer and closer to the flame, playing with itself, testing its wings to see what it will take to stroke them into fire.

“Little one,” Rona began this time, a syrupy tone in her voice. “No one on the team has the nerve to say it—but when are you going to wash those fatigues? They’re starting to—well—smell rather strong.”

“Wash them—oh yes, I had planned to back at the river, but a volcano so rudely interrupted me,” Kim said in a frost-coated tone. She cast a wicked glance at her rival, this time stung by one of Rona’s many attempts to icepick her way through Kim’s defenses. It was somehow ironic that the very characteristics each possessed were what they attacked in the other. Rona, who was always going after Kim’s small stature and girlish qualities, was herself intensely female and played it to the hilt. She prided herself on her body and dressed in skintight clothing, both to be appreciated and to permit quick movement of all her limbs, since she was highly skilled in a number of martial arts. Kim, on the other hand, who needled Rona for her largeness and masculine strength, clothed herself in half-torn combat fatigues and an olive-green field jacket with pockets stuffed full of ammo and food. To disguise her own small size and lack of male strength, she dressed the part of a jockey-sized combat vet, disheveled, unbathed—and if she’d had whiskers, unshaven. It made her feel tougher, a little more able to cope with the unrelenting pressure of being in a man’s world of death and blood.