Doomsday Warrior 06 - American Rebellion (6 page)

Rahallah jabbed his forearm repeatedly with the spike-sharp lion’s tooth in his hand and let the wound drip down onto Vassily’s chest. “This man must not die, Oh Great Lion God,” he chanted in Swahili. “You must make him live, or my awful dream of evil will come true. The force of death—Col. Killov—will assume world power. And he will destroy the earth and all who inhabit it.” For Rahallah knew that that was Killov’s mission on earth—to end it all—to destroy the entire planet. Only then could his savage sexual lust for total power be satisfied. “O Lion hear me, grant my master’s life to him for even one more year.”

The next day, in the Kremlin building known as the Presidium, Vassily sat in his office, trembling—half drooling—in his wheelchair. Rahallah’s treatment had worked—but only partially. He sat shaking, every nerve in his body vibrating wildly—but he was alive. Only the next few days would tell his fate. The premier listened to Rahallah read, for he liked to hear the articulate soft voice of the ebony man—it soothed him. His servant could tell that the premier was responding by an occasional nod of his head, and the thinnest of trembling smiles. Rahallah read from Robert Burns poems of love and peace. And peace though it seemed further away than ever was all that he prayed for.

There was one difference in the usual scene of the room-of-power. Vassily’s wheelchair was not
behind
the marble-topped premier’s desk—it was
alongside
the desk. And behind it sat Ruwanda Rahallah, who had been declared deputy premier, with all the powers of the office for the period that Vassily would be indisposed. Days before, when the premier had sensed that darkness was near, he had signed an Imperial Order, “I am hereby appointing Rahallah as deputy premier with all my powers—as long as I’m indisposed.” Rahallah had objected but the premier had said, “They do not like you, but they fear me and they know you speak with the authority of my voice. They will obey you—or they will fear for their own hides.” Then he had added cryptically, “Trust no one.”

Now, the premier was little more than a vegetable, and a black man in a white tuxedo sat behind the same desk that Peter the Great had given orders from. The generals, Politboro members, the petitioners from the many Soviet provinces who came to see Vassily were amazed—horrified—to see the black man sitting there, giving orders. But not a soul dared question him—not as long as Vassily survived.

Rahallah signed paper after paper, forging the premier’s signature, which he had done many times in the past when Vassily’s hands had been so wracked by arthritic pain that he couldn’t move a finger. The next group in to see the premier was a contingent of military officials—from all the branches—whom Rahallah had ordered to join him in the premier’s office. But Rahallah knew that the brass would not listen to him alone, so he rigged a small electric stimulator into Vassily’s wheelchair. When he pressed a button hidden beneath the desk, the barely functioning premier would open his eyes, smile and nod yes. And Rahallah would need those signs of assent, for he was about to order a strike against KGB headquarters in his native country of Kenya. An all-out attack to wrest the province from the cruel rule of the KGB which had staked the country, and that of much of East Africa, for its own within years of the nuclear war a century earlier. Rahallah had tried for years to get the premier to agree to such a move. But the Grandfather would only tell him “someday Rahallah, someday—when our power is totally consolidated.” But Rahallah could wait no longer for such a promised day. The premier might never recover, and Rahallah knew that when he went, so would he himself be burned in the funeral pyre. It could mean his life—but he would gladly give it if it meant freeing his homeland from the tyranny of a century.

But when the knock came at the door and one of the palace guard opened it, instead of generals and admirals, it was secret police chief Bukunin and six armed plain clothes men.

“What is the meaning of this?” Rahallah shouted, standing up to his full 6' 6" height.

“Orders of the New Committee for Proper Succession,” Bikunin said smiling grimly. “You are removed from office on specific charges of—”

“Charges? What charges?” Rahallah asked, staring back at the usurper with cold dark eyes. “I occupy this office by virtue of the premier’s proclamation.”

“Ah yes, the proclamation, blackie. A proclamation acquired by the illegal use of sorcery! Sorcery is a crime against the state—it cannot exist under atheistic communism.” He turned to his men, their cutoff subs hidden just beneath their large dark trenchcoats. “Remove this man to section B at Lubykana Prison.” If Rahallah could pale he would have. Lubykana was nothing but an execution chamber—he would never return.

“Premier Vassily disapproves of this illegal interference of my carrying out his specific orders. Don’t you Grandfather?” the black servant asked. He pressed the button beneath the desk. The premier appeared to wake up, as the slight electric charge surged through his central nervous system. His mouth grimaced open in what appeared to be a smile and then his head bobbed up and down several times as the neck muscles were stimulated. Rahallah released the button and the premier appeared to slowly close his eyes and sink back into sleep.

“See,” Rahallah said imperiously, as a bead of sweat trickled down his forehead. “The premier orders you six men to arrest Comrade Bikunin—and all the conspirators involved in this New Committee—whatever that is. Immediately. Don’t you Premier Vassily?” He pressed the button again—Vassily awoke and nodded, looking amazingly awake considering his true virtually unconscious state.

The guards looked at each other, frightened and confused.

“Do it!”
Rahallah screamed out in the most threatening tones. The guards slowly turned their weapons toward their commander and took his weapon. Their fear of the power of the premier was greater than their fear of Bikunin. They would obey the Grandfather and Mother Russia.

“You,” Rahallah said, pointing at the most intelligent looking of the secret police squad. “You are the new commander of the S.P. Premier Vassily will want a complete report on your rounding up of the conspirators by tonight. Put Bikunin in—Lubykana Prison.” The African let a slight smile twitch across his face, as Bikunin went white as a sheet, his lips unable to even talk. The guards took him at gunpoint from the room.

Rahallah collapsed back into the chair. This couldn’t go on for long like this. Hours—days. The entire Russian command was doubtless, plotting how to get rid of Rahallah—and kill the badly weakened premier. Somehow Rahallah had to buy time, for himself and the premier. They’d have to get out of the country until he regained—if ever—his powers. But how? How could he assert his power, consolidate his position and make it appear that the premier was still in power, yet be safe? The answer came to him in a flash. He would go the U.S.S.A.—a fact finding mission with the premier. He would call a summit, with Col. Killov and President Zhabnov. He would tell them it was to bury the hatchet between the Red Army and KGB forces—to get their real enemy—Ted Rockson, the Doomsday Warrior. He was the one man that could bring them all together. Rockson was the key. Rockson—who had blown up the ICBM Missile Control base in Moscow; Rockson who had destroyed their invading Nazi army in the Rocky Mountains; Rockson who had scarred the pale face of the mad Killov just months before; Rockson who had humiliated President Zhabnov right in the Oval Office of the White House. That would be the summit’s reason. And at the same time, it would get Rahallah and the premier away from all these plotters. Away from the New Committee.

Seven

H
e was dreaming—strange, twisted thoughts weaving in and out of his mind like a crazy quilt pattern of half-forgotten images, faces, battles. He saw a city, an incredible city beneath the ground filled with futuristic architecture, lighting, computerized machinery. But just for fleeting seconds, as the images were whizzed across his mind like a swarm of burning meteors, visible for a moment and then vanished into the very air.

He saw faces—a woman with long flowing red hair, and another woman, blonde, with blue eyes as clear as a still pond on midsummer’s day. His heart filled with aching for both of them—yet who were they, their names, their places in his life—he knew nothing. The dreams lasted through the night, torturing him as the part of his unconscious that knew the past tried desperately to get through to him.

He was dreaming of a man, a Chinese man, who fought with him. But they were not trying to harm one another, just learn from their contests. The man was his friend. Rockson again felt a surge of love and then terror as he had no idea who the man was or if he really had ever met him. They were sparring, the man’s hands whirling like a windmill in front of his eyes. Rockson felt something hit his shoulder and he parried.

Suddenly voices were rising around him. The Doomsday Warrior opened his eyes to see three Nazi guards, their rifles aimed at his chest. A fourth guard lay on the floor wiping a trickle of blood from his lip.

“You fool,” the man said, rising, “what do you mean striking me? I could have you shot this very second.”

“I apologize,” Rockson said as he rose slowly to a standing position not wanting to meet his fate, as if he was about to, lying down on his back. “I was dreaming—and had a nightmare and I thought you—” The German officer lashed out with a swagger stick he held in his right hand, slamming Rockson across the face, so that a two-inch gash appeared in the Doomsday Warrior’s thick mutant skin and a line of red ran down his cheek. The officer seemed satisfied with that, and told his men to uncock their weapons.

“He will not repeat such an error again, I assure you of that,” the officer said, addressing the slaves in the room. “Nor any of you, I dare say. Now go. You men, go to your morning departure station—the new ones who came in last night come with me.” The S.S. officer led Rockson and four of the other captured Freefighters, their chains still around their ankles, down the main road to the central square of the fortress, where nearly three hundred other recently arrived slaves were lined up having their chains removed and being branded with name and number. As they approached Rockson heard a spine-tingling high-pitched wavering sound, blasting out from speakers mounted around the square. With a start he realized it was someone screaming—a human being screaming for his very life. The voice rose and fell, occasionally begging for mercy before it resumed the terrifying animal shrieks of ultimate pain.

“What are those?” Rock asked the guard, who turned to him with an angry expression as if affronted that a slave had dared to ask him a question.

“That is the Screamer, scum. Each day, one of the slaves who has caused trouble is taken to the House of Pain and tortured. Tortured most horribly. Those are his screams. You will hear them a lot, scum. They will remind you of what happens to those who go against the rules and order of the Fourth Reich.” The guard paused. “And scum, do not dare to ask me or any other German officer a question again. It will be your last.”

Nearly a hundred S.S. guards surrounded the prisoners with their Kalashnikovs at the ready. The machine-gun posts mounted on towers throughout the fortress city were trained on them from six different towers that ringed the square. Rockson’s leg chains were at last unlocked and he was led to the next line where two fat S.S. slugs sat in chairs, electric branding irons in their hands. As each man passed, he was given his new name, which was simultaneously burned into his flesh forever.

“Smith 27,” sizzle.

“John 52,” sizzle.

“Herbert 75,” sizzle. The scent of smoking flesh filled the air, giving off a sweet smell almost of pork. At last it was Rockson’s turn and he looked down, not even averting his head as the portly brander yelled out, “Joe 113,” and slammed the white hot tab of electric fire with the words “Joe 113” onto Rockson’s forearm. The Doomsday Warrior didn’t flinch from the pain but let it enter his body as a source of pure energy. He would use the pain, the anger from it to fuel him. He wanted to remember it so that perhaps some day he could return the favor.

When the unlocking and branding procedures had been completed, the new slaves were lined up in rows at one side of the square. A tall platinum blond man came swiftly down a row of stairs from the largest building in the fortress city—the S.S. Headquarters. He wore his full dress uniform, black, creased in razor-sharp lines, black boots kneehigh, and the dark general’s cap with its single lightning bolt with “S.S.” on each side.

“I am General Kohl of the S.S. This is the only time you will ever see me. If I should see you again it will be only to look down on your dead face. You are slaves of the glorious Soviet/Nazi forces. Your lives are now devoted to the construction of this city. You may die now if you wish—just step forward and my men will be glad to send you on your way. If you wish to live, work. Work harder than you’ve ever worked in your life. I do not promise you a long life, but I do promise you death if you do not keep working. It is simple. If you entertain any absurd thoughts of escaping, let me inform you that there are nearly one hundred machine-gun towers around this fortress, sheets of barbed wire, and beyond, mine fields. No one has escaped from here alive. Many have tried. Their rotting remains are in the swamps.”

He looked them over, trying to instill the fear of his very soul into every one of them. Fear was what drove these slaves, drove them like workhorses, like lifeless machines—the fear of guaranteed death should they not be able to work their quotas. It seemed to work very well as motivation, very well indeed.

“Goodbye then,” the general said, pursing his shrunken, almost white lips together. “And remember—you are contributing to a great cause, are being given the opportunity to do something worthwhile with your wretched lives.” He saluted the guards and turned, heading quickly back up into the S.S. building, with two truck-sized flags hanging limply outside, immense swastikas emblazoned in black on their blood-red fabric.

“Move on,” the guards said, breaking the men down into the units they would be working in. Rockson and the twenty men around him were shuffled off to Work Group G, which lined up at one side of the square. Trucks poured out of nowhere and down onto the main avenue and the slave laborers were loaded into the big dark green transport vehicles.