Doomsday Warrior 09 - America’s Zero Hour (16 page)

Rock sensed the Sasquatch’s attack just a split second before it came. He dove sideways, flying through the icy cavern, landing flat on his stomach ten feet away. The thing’s hairy hands squeezed shut on the spot where the Doomsday Warrior had been standing.

It snarled in frustration, its eyes setting again on its target. The immense mouth opened, emitting a howl of fury. The Sasquatch came bearing down on Rock again.

“Now,
Chen!” Rock yelled, jumping aside as Chen threw his weapon. The star-knife flew accurately into the thing’s bowels, which exploded in a rain of red guts.

Three other Sasquatch ran in, letting out with a chorus of bellowing roars that echoed and reverberated in the Freefighters’ ears. But from behind the new looming red-haired figures came a black form with a fire—something Sasquatch-sized and mean—
Archer!
A flaming arrow shot from his crossbow caught the closest Sasquatch squarely in the belly. It sank in deep, and set the thing’s thick hair on fire. The Sasquatch tried to pull the hook-tipped arrow out but every time it yanked, the serrated hook-tip made it scream in pain. The thing ran around ablaze, slamming against the rock walls, its burning, smoking flesh brightening the scene.

“Meeee goood!” said Archer, removing yet a second self-igniting steel arrow from the quiver on his back and notching it onto his taut crossbow string. But before Archer could finish, another still-active monster was upon him, swinging a huge ax—sharp edge forward—at the human giant. Archer deflected the first two blows, but the third swing smashed into his hair-matted skull and splashed red all over his face. The ax stuck there, and Archer slid to the floor gurgling up a red paste. His eyes rolled upward.

Rock took to the air, using a two-legged kick against the icy rock wall to hurl his body forward, somersaulting into the Sasquatch’s huge form. It was as if seeing Archer fall had driven Rock to new heights of anger-energy. The Sasquatch actually was staggered by Rock’s blow. Chen, for his part, capitalized on its stunned condition by raising his Liberator and letting out a stream of slugs—the last of his clip. The bullets bit into the half-human, cutting a bloody seam up the center of his chest like a pair of scissors. It fell and rolled away along the cavern’s floor and out of sight.

Rockson raised his hunting knife—not much of a weapon—as one of the remaining attackers shot forward like a meteor and slammed Rock to the ground. The big knife spiraled through the air like a wounded bird and fell in the frozen dirt yards away. Pedersen poured out the hot lead from his shotpistol, though, and took the creature down.

The last three Sasquatch stepped forward in the semidarkness, flickers of the declining cooking fire lighting their ugly faces. One seemed to snicker, like a human does when he’s just pulled a royal flush in a poker game. Rock was picking himself up slowly; dazed, vulnerable. It evidently thought Rock was about to cash in his chips—and so did the Doomsday Warrior. It came forward, a crude ax raised in its hair-covered hand. Rock groggily rolled to the side to avoid the blow but the thing was good at axing—it whipped the ax in an arc, striking backhand at Rock. The side of the stone blade caught the Doomsday Warrior just on the side of the skull and he fell backward, staggering, almost falling unconscious. His eyes were spinning around in his head like balls on a roulette wheel, and he could feel a stream of blood flowing down his neck. He blinked, trying to regain his vision. He couldn’t go under—not with that hairy man-beast coming at him. Suddenly it was McCaughlin to the rescue. He had been cut free by Chen. “I got him, Rock,” the Scotsman yelled. He struck out with a roundhouse kick that could demolish a cinder-block wall—and had, in several practice sessions back at Century City. The blow was aimed at the wrist of the ax-holding hand. The ax spun loose and Rock caught it. Before the Sasquatch could take a step, Rock swung down with both arms and buried the sharp end into the forehead of the Sasquatch with every ounce of strength he possessed. Its eyes flew out in a gush of yellow fluid as it fell to its knees. Pieces of bone and flesh scattered all over the killing field. Its head was split in two. The last two Sasquatch alive hightailed it.

Rock’s lungs hurt more than his body. The pain of sucking in the icy air as he fought, the pain of his many injuries, were now the dictator of his numb world. The Doomsday Warrior tried to stay on his feet and started walking toward the blood-soaked figure of Archer. His vision clouded. He felt the throbbing pain in his skull from the ax blow turn into a hammering whirlpool of blackness—and he fell into it.

Seventeen

R
ock awoke several hours later, and realized he was moving. The pale Arctic sun on the horizon let him see that he was on the sled again, this time lying under a mound of blankets and pelts. The driver of the sled was McCaughlin. “Where?” Rock asked.

“We’re through the woods and on our way to Ice City,” McCaughlin answered cheerfully. “As far as we can tell, you’re in one piece,” he went on. “You might want to move around a bit to see if any bones are broken. You took quite a blow—but you’ll live. Thanks for the rescue, buddy!”

Rock carefully moved an inch under the blanket. He felt soreness but no stinging pains. Arms, legs, fingers, toes—all were in good working order.

“Archer . . . is he? . . .”

“No, he’s alive—but barely,” McCaughlin said with concern. “We bandaged up his skull, pushing the bone together, and sealed it with plasti-salve. But I don’t know—the ax entered his brain.”

“Maybe,” Rock said, “he can be helped at Ice City.”

“Don’t talk . . . Here, sip some of this Foxmeat broth—the Sasquatch just threw it aside: they preferred human meat. Robinson caught the fox just before we were captured. You’ve been unconscious for hours. I skinned it and cooked up a stew. We’ve all had some.”

“Thanks,” Rock murmured as he pushed the cup to his lips. He didn’t care what the hell it had in it. He needed some energy. He sipped the cup of tepid brew down and half swallowed, half chewed the bits of meat in it. When he’d finished he asked, “What was the total damage?”

“Everyone except Archer is okay. Of course, Robinson was—”

“I know,” said Rock. “What else?”

“The damned Sasquatch that survived ran out of the cave and found our sleds. They took three sleds complete with dog teams when they hightailed it.”

“How far to the Ice City?”

“I’m not sure,” admitted McCaughlin.

Rock tried to sit up, and managed. His face was cold. He wrapped the flaps of the huge furry hood closer around his face, only letting his nose and eyes show. “Where’s the map?”

“Under the blanket. Near where your right hand was.” Rock groped around until he found the bundle, drew it out from under the blanket and unrolled it in his lap. He quickly found the edge of the Sasquatch Forest and, doing a little figuring based on McCaughlin’s compass reading and the number of hours they had traveled, decided they were only ten miles or so from Ice City.

They sped through the snow-covered forest of dark majestic evergreens with trunks as huge as the redwoods of California. It wasn’t long till the party began traveling steadily upward. They must have gradually ascended a few thousand feet, when the forest stopped abruptly and they were on a plateau of snow and ice—entering a mist. They moved ahead, slowly, hardly able to see. Suddenly the mist cleared, and the small band stared down at the most fantastic sight any of them had ever seen.

“Behold!” said Tinglim, exultantly. “There is the Ice City!”

Eighteen

“I
can’t believe it,” said McCaughlin, pulling his sled up alongside Tinglim’s. Below them, built on a frozen lake that filled the mile-wide crater of a long-dead volcano, was a frost-covered city of spires and towers. All the buildings were made of ice—over a hundred buildings, of every size, all shining like frosted glass.

There was traffic along the winding streets: great sleighs filled with people and pulled by horse-sized elks; sleds of every size and description filled with furs, foods, clothes; all moving around the fabulous metropolis.

At the far end of the crater, half up the lip, a spired castle rose like a diamond dream. “The Potala,” said Tinglim. “That’s what they call the palace. The king of the Ice People, Yiglim, lives a life of luxury there!”

As they snapped the whips and their teams rode down into the valley, Rock heard the strains of a distant organ—unearthly, awe-inspiring.

They reached level ground and rode through the city’s main gate. The inhabitants were noticing them now. The Eskimo types turned from their rounds in the street and waved.

It was a beautiful little city. Rock realized now that it was not simply white. There were the palest of pastel colors to many of the buildings, glowing in the cracks of sun spilling through the clouds above. Brightly colored pennants waved from pale azure minarets, pastel-pink spiraled towers, and faintly golden turrets.

The strains of the deep-throated organ grew louder as they passed a Gothic-style cathedral with steeples of many-colored splendor. The music came from there. It rolled and echoed through the icy streets.

The sleds went right under arching jets of water shot from twin sculptures—sea lions carved out of solid ice! The huskies were barking excitedly at the commotion of people and the yelping of other dogs around the city. They strained against the harness as they pulled the gliding sleds down the main approach to the castle, between two white walls of snow.

In the courtyard of the Potala, they were greeted by ten white-garmented “snow guards” armed with spears. Though the guards didn’t seem to expect a fight, they still visibly relaxed when Tinglim spoke and explained in his native tongue who they were.

Tinglim turned to Rockson, “It is all right. They are friendly to my tribe. Now that they know who we are, we will be welcomed, fed, and treated as guests.” He smiled. “It is as I said, Rockson. I did not steer you wrong.”

“Good, Tinglim. You did well,” Rock replied, realizing that Tinglim was digging for some praise here. “But tell them we have a seriously wounded man with us. Tell them I implore them to do anything they can do for Archer.”

Tinglim led one of the Ice City guards to Archer’s sled. The man peered down at Archer. He was visibly shaken when Tinglim lifted the bandage on the giant Freefighter’s head. The man said something to Tinglim which Tinglim translated. “He says we must rush this man to the Crystal infirmary. There he will stand a chance of survival. I can go with Archer—while you go to the king’s palace and wait there for news,” Tinglim volunteered.

“No, I want to see this infirmary. My pal has to have the best of care. I’ll come with you and Archer. The rest of you men—Scheransky, you too—follow these friends. Get some chow, or whatever else they have to offer.” Rockson felt much less woozy now, and got off the sled.

Tinglim and Rockson watched as the guards placed Archer gently on a stretcher, and then walked alongside as the men carried Archer to one of the side buildings in the palace courtyard, a single-story building of translucent pink ice that looked like a quartz crystal.

Once inside, they found themselves under a vaulted ceiling faced with a maze of corridors—all of translucent ice—that seemed to glow of their own accord. They were led by an orderly to the operating theater, a pentagonal chamber of thirty odd feet in diameter, the center of which contained a table. The table was, as far as Rockson could see, the only thing not made of ice. The guards were instructed to lay the wounded man upon the table by two shaven-headed Eskimo men wearing pale blue uniforms. Each of these men wore an elaborate crystal necklace. Their authoritative and professional manner seemed to indicate that they were doctors of some sort.

The doctors bent over Archer and placed the ends of the crystal necklaces against the wounded man’s face and body at various points. The crystal necklaces seemed to come to life, sparkling and glowing with multi-colored reflection.

One of the doctors spoke to Tinglim.

“This man is very ill,” Tinglim translated. “The doctors do not know if they can save him. But it might be possible with the use of crystal accumulator.”

“Tell them to try,” Rock said gravely. He didn’t have the slightest idea what a crystal accumulator was, but Archer was turning blue and his breathing was shallow. The wound would have long ago proved fatal to a lesser man.

Tinglim told the doctor what Rockson had said. The doctors went into action, moving their hands over a control panel of some sort in a corner of the room. There was a ringing in Rockson’s ear, then a low hum. The floor vibrated. Rock watched in amazement as a huge part of the ceiling, filled with countless multifaceted crystals, began lowering toward the table.

The towering mass of crystals had a recess in them the size of a table. The whole apparatus slowly engulfed Archer. Then the crystals started to give off pleasant tinging sounds and began glowing in many colors, each crystal winking on and off like a Christmas tree bulb.

“That is the crystal accumulator,” said Tinglim. “It will begin tapping the earth’s magnetic sphere and channeling that energy into Archer. It will—hopefully—speed the reknitting of his tissues. The doctors say it will take days.”