Doomsday Warrior 11 - American Eden (13 page)

“What
exactly
is this Death City?”

Danik sighed. “About twenty-five years after Eden was sealed off, there was a secession of a sort by a thousand followers of a sect of people that worshipped Renquist.”

“
Worshipped
Renquist? The millionaire who set up the city?”

“Exactly, Rockson. Renquist had assumed the dimension of a god to those who attributed their safety to his forethought and planning, to his choosing them to survive when the world was plunged into nuclear war. Naturally, the other inhabitants thought this group a bit odd, but they were tolerated. The sect grew as troubles beset Eden—and when the women of our world became barren, after the thirtieth year of being sealed off, then the cult really grew. They demanded the worship of giant statues they erected of Renquist. They said we should sacrifice a human being to the statue, so that Renquist would forgive us and all would be well again. The government refused.

“The Cultists said we would all die if we didn’t worship the correct god—Renquist. They went off on their own—further into the natural caverns. This mountain is much like the Carlsbad Caverns of Virginia, which I saw pictures of in Century City. The mountain is honeycombed with giant chambers. The Renquist cultists sealed off their cavern and have seldom been
seen
since. But there were incidents of our women being carried off if they came too close to the Death City side of Eden. Women—our women—used to go to the area of the ‘fresh winds,’ near the waters of Eden, to drown their deformed babies. These hideous creatures started to be born shortly before the women of Eden became entirely barren.

“The babies were spirited away almost instantly. We know that because some of the women changed their minds and returned to the area to find the hideous children gone. Sometimes the
women
did not return, either. There were screams, the women’s clothes were found. No amount of searching ever turned them up. We believe that they were sacrificed to the statues of Renquist in Death City.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that before?”

“The memories were vague. And then as I remembered about Death City, I was afraid you would abandon the journey. For there are thousands of these fearsome Cultists. They are even more dangerous than Stafford. The cultists know of the passageway to Eden. We were in the tunnel, and we heard marching feet—we froze in position, but weird greenish lights played over us—possibly some sort of detector ray—and then gas came rolling at us. We ran—we were but a short distance from the surface—I could see the blue afternoon sky. We were lucky . . . I am not brave. I am not a warrior. I am sorry—”

Rockson said, “Men, we must immediately post a guard . . .”

The bald stocky man with the muttonchop moustache peered over the rocks. His name was Manion. He gazed with interest at the group of strangers. One of them appeared to be an Anasazi Indian—Indians had been seen before on these patrols on the surface. But the others, dressed in military khaki, they were unusual. Wait—one of them was a woman. Manion watched the tall woman excitedly. A surface woman. A necessity for breeding purposes. And there was something about— The woman sat down and started going through a pack of supplies. She took off her big insulating jacket and the black helmet. She shook loose her long red hair. That aquiline nose, those high cheekbones—the hair—she looked like . . .
It was the Goddess Sandra
. It was. Manion had seen her photos a thousand times in the Temple, memorized her every nuance, her every gainly move, on the videotapes. He had seen the Sandra, and the God Edward Renquist to whom she was consort, strolling the streets of Dallas, Texas, in those most sacred videotapes. Yes, Manion was sure it was her, The Sandra. She had returned.

Excitedly the blue-robed figure that was Manion scurried back down the defile and told his comrades of the discovery. In whispered excitement he told them his decision. He decided that the sleep gas had to be used—the Goddess was among an odd group—perhaps she had been intercepted on her way back to the Faithful Ones of Death City. Perhaps the Sandra was a captive. Or perhaps they were merely her earthly companions, demigods appearing to be humans. “Nevertheless,” Manion said, “we can’t go wrong to use the gas. And we must hurry before the breeze shifts—if their vicious-looking mastiff gets our scent, we will be consumed surely.”

Each of the shaved-headed followers—ten in all—loaded their silvery tube weapons with something like bazooka shells, only made of transparent plastic. The liquid inside the shells had been originally developed to handle the rioters in the late 1980s. It was still effective, though a century old. The great Renquist had stockpiled these weapons and many others knowing in his mind that the day would come when they must be used by the Devout to protect the Faith.

“Quickly, up to the top,” the muttonchopped bald man said to his minions. “Fire in a circle around the intruders. Make sure you do not hit our Goddess. Anyone who harms the Sandra will be added to the Snake Temple’s Mound.” With that admonition the flock stealthily crawled up to the edge of the ridge and, on signal from Manion, fired their silent weapons. The gas shells exploded in a perfect circle around those below, and even their strange animals succumbed instantly.

Fifteen

W
hen Rock and the others awoke it wasn’t long until they realized that the one person missing was Rona Wallender.

Detroit Green ran over and lifted Danik, who was only up on one elbow, off the ground. “You skinny weird bastard,” Detroit threatened, pulling back his left hand in a fist. “Your lies have resulted in Rona being taken. How do we know you aren’t one of these Cultists yourself? I know you had something to do with this—you led us into a trap.”

“No, no, I swear . . .” Danik stuttered. “I didn’t.”

“Sure you did. You already admitted not telling us about Death City—now your friends have taken away Rona—you set this up—and you’re gonna admit it. Spill it—where’d they take Rona?”

Chen stayed Detroit’s fist the second it started traveling for the albino’s nose. “Stop, Detroit. He doesn’t know—he didn’t set us up . . .”

“How the hell do you know that? He lied to us—he admitted it.” Detroit didn’t let go of Danik’s collar.

Rockson was the only one taking effective action. He had crawled up on the rise and peered over to the mountain. He pulled up his electron binoculars—equipped with a night-vision mode—and scanned the area. There was no sign of the woman he cared so much for. He looked for tracks. The ground was rocky, and there were none. He scrambled back down to the arguing Freefighters and Danik.

He passed a burst-open metal thing—one of the sleep-gas shells, half buried in the soil. He touched it. A strange canister—soft metal.

As Rockson approached the noisy Freefighters, he heard the gist of the argument, which was continuing. Then he saw the position of the three—Chen holding Detroit’s arm, Detroit threatening Danik, having lifted the poor man off the ground by his coat collar. Chen was saying, “Detroit, your reasoning isn’t logical. If Danik did set us up, why did he warn us about the Cultists, why did he tell us to be on guard just before the attack came? We were about to take precautions. Why was only Rona taken, why are we still alive? Why is Danik still here with us?”

“I don’t know the answers, Chen, but I’ll bet I can beat some answers out of—”

Rockson intervened. “Chen’s right, Detroit. Let Danik go. We have to find Rona. There’s no sign of her. Danik,” snapped the Doomsday Warrior, “where’s the entrance to the tunnel. We’re going in after her.”

Danik said, “I—I think I can find it. Just over the hill near the three big boulders.” Then he added most pathetically, “I didn’t plan this—I’m sorry. It’s all my— It is all my fault—please forgive me . . . I will do what I can to help you free her before she is sacrificed . . .”

“Never mind that,” said Rockson. “Find me that hole in the ground, Danik. If we run into them, and the Cultists object to releasing her immediately . . .” Rockson unholstered his shotpistol and raised it, “this will take care of them.”

The team was all together on this sentiment. It was time for manly action. Archer growled and lifted his steel crossbow over his head, Chen
wooshed
his nunchaku sticks. McCaughlin lifted his Liberator rifle, joining in the tumult of anger.

Within minutes, the Edenite had led them through a bizarre jumble of oddly shaped rocks, looking for strange symbols that were drawn on certain stones. He found them. They paused at the tunnel entrance. It was wide enough for one man at a time to squeeze through. Class Act, sniffing madly, on the scent from the hat Rockson had let her smell—Rona’s hat—led them on eagerly.

Rockson, then McCaughlin, squeezed through; they helped the others drop down the six feet to the floor of the tunnel. It was Scheransky’s turn. “I feel like we’re going down the rabbit hole—and I’m no Alice,” said Scheransky.

“Never mind the allusions to literature, get down here.” Rock said, pulled on the Russian’s dangling legs. McCaughlin had his flashlight on, so they could see.

One by one they cautiously dropped into the hole, lighting their torches when they hit the floor. Archer and McCaughlin had to crouch to stand inside. Slowly they advanced down the narrow passageway hewn from the living rock of Mt. Obispo.

Rockson let the mutant canine go ahead of them. There were twists and turns in the tunnel Danik admitted that he didn’t remember, and forking passages. He did his best to keep them on the right track, but in a matter of ten minutes, despite his best efforts, they were lost in the maze. Rockson had been dropping little torn pieces of notebook paper behind them, in case they had to retrace their steps. He said there was no danger of being lost, and all should push on. It was growing warmer, and they opened their combat parkas and loosened their shirt collars. “Archer,” Rock whispered, “stop clanking your cross-bow against the damned walls.”

“Meee tight—”

“Shhh,” Rockson implored. “Class Act has frozen in place—there is something ahead.”

Sure enough, in a short time the dog’s instincts had proved correct. Shuffling noises, mutters of male voices. “Douse the lights.” But Rock had them turned on again when he realized there were no lights ahead in the direction of the noises. The floor vibrated; they were very close to the enemy. Rock was the first to figure it out. “We’re not in the right tunnel, but this tunnel is right next to the correct one—feel along the walls, everybody. Find out where the vibration is coming from.”

By the time the marching feet faded, they had decided that the footfalls and voices were to the right of their slow descent. The Freefighter team started digging with the sharp ends of their metal batons. The walls were porous rock here, and came out in chunks. “Keep the hole just wide enough to crawl through,” Rock admonished.

It took two hours to go the six feet and reach the other tunnel. First just a little hole showed light, then, cautiously, they widened their opening. Rock crawled through to find himself up on a ledge above another tunnel, a bigger one. There was a dull flickering light and some footfalls far off. The others were advised to slip through. They packed along the shelf of rock, nearly turning over some small barrels and boxes.

“Death City.” gasped Danik. “Now that we are here, it’s six of us and the dog against a thousand fanatical Cultists.”

“Let me worry about that—you just keep up with us.”

“Yeah, and keep
quiet,’
’ McCaughlin added.

They huddled down as soldiers—or at least what looked like soldiers—bald tall men in blue uniforms bearing long silver tubes on their shoulder straps—passed underneath them.

“We need some of those uniforms,” Rockson said. “We don’t have a prayer of rescuing Rona unless we get some disguises.”

They watched the ten soldiers, who seemed to patrol this part of the tunnel, pass underneath the rock shelf six times, and the Doomsday Warrior timed their movements.

There was only once course of action—attack the ten men, silently, without use of the rifles or shotpistols.

On Rockson’s approval, Chen handed to both Danik and Scheransky one
shuriken
. Only Chen and Rockson were proficient in throwing the lethal little five-bladed knives, but they might get lucky. Rock and Chen poised their own star-knives. “Aim for their Adam’s apples. If we get more than two, that will help. Archer—you use your arrows. Hit them someplace that will avoid their crying out. You too, Danik. Then we jump the ones still standing—before they can call out. I hope this works. Try not to make it too bloody either—we have to use those uniforms.”

“I’ll throw, but whether I hit one or not, I’ll jump down and use my cudgel,” said Scheransky.

Archer silently lifted his bow into the air and smiled. “I will doooo twoooo,” he growled.

“You really think you can skewer two at a time?”

Archer nodded up and down vigorously, and removed the longest barbed arrow Rock had ever seen from his quiver and set it in the steel crossbow’s slot.

“We’re counting on
everyone
scoring.”

Danik whispered, “But I never killed—”

“This will be your first time then, Danik,” Rock said, and winked. “You can do it.”

They waited till the right moment. Right after the guards had passed, they let fly with the star-knives. Rockson’s and Chen’s made target, bringing their men down gurgling out blood. Scarcely a noise passed their lips. The Russian’s swooshing blade hit his man in the temple and that shut him up. He didn’t even flop around, just fell dead.

Archer’s huge arrow flew with a hiss and went right through the neck of the next man in line and out his throat, and, remarkably, right back into the man in front of him. Skewered together, gasping out quarts of blood, they tumbled to the side, their eyes wide and staring at darkness.

The Freefighters were upon the remaining Cult soldiers before they had a chance to whirl around. Scheransky bludgeoned down his prey with ease, cracking open the man’s skull and spilling his brains on the stone floor. Detroit slammed his baton into the base of his man’s skull. Scratch one more Cultist. Smokestone’s massive tomahawk spilled brains right and left.