Doomsday Warrior 07 - American Defiance (11 page)

“I think I get the drift of what you’re saying,” Rockson mumbled as Archer stared on, scratching his huge head as if he were listening to Martian. “But as impressive as these boomerangs of yours are, I’m afraid our mission is of such ultimate importance that I just can’t risk it. If it was anything else, perhaps I’d bring you, but—”

“Ah, shove it, matey,” Lieutenant Boyd said, crumpling up his can of Foster in one hand and throwing it to the ground in an angry gesture. “What the ’ell do we care that we’ve flown 18,000 miles, nearly got shot out of the bloody sky a ’alf dozen times, and parachutes ourselves right into a sunbaked billabong where the bloody Yankee cacti are ripping our butts into pillow stuffing—and then the bloody head Yank tells us we ain’t wanted and can just head on home again—camels and all. This bloody country is not only not a nice place to live, it’s not even a nice bloody place to visit.” With that, Lieutenant Boyd and his men retreated, holding their cans of beer high, and began singing patriotic Australian songs of resistance on the far side of their angry howling camels.

Nine

“A
re they still following us?” Rockson whispered to Detroit, who rode several yards away on his chestnut brown ’brid.

“Trailing us like a snar-lizard stalks a deer,” the black Freefighter replied, swinging his head back around. “That Lieutenant Boyd is about thirty yards behind McCaughlin and the kitchen ’brids. The whole Aussie crew is just piled up on top of their camels there, keeping a perfect pace.”

Rockson couldn’t resist turning, even though he didn’t want Boyd to catch him looking at them, didn’t want the man to think that the Doomsday Warrior was even taking notice of them. But it was hard not to look—not with thirty camels all trying to bite their riders, the camel in front of them, or the camel behind in no particular order. They were piled high with crates of food and weapons—and the amber ale—and were all swaying from side to side with their mountainous backs threatening to send their cargo flying at any moment with an extra-hard shift of weight. Their riders whipped at them with short sticks and screamed out bloody murder, using every curse that thirty Australians had picked up over their combined nine hundred and thirty seven years of life. It was as if a continuous argument was going on between human and animal about just who was running the show, each trying to outshout the other. Why anyone would want to ride the foul-smelling awkward creatures in the first place was beyond Rockson.

“Give me an old flea-bitten hybrid any day of the week,” he grinned at Detroit, who was staring straight ahead, his warrior eyes taking in every shadow, every dropping quill.

“Amen,” the sweating black Freefighter replied, not shifting his head. “But what the hell are you going to do about the Aussies? They could attract attention—all that noise and everything. I know they’re well-meaning and all, but . . .”

“I know,” Rockson said. “It was a noble gesture. I’m praying that their camels just won’t be able to keep up and they’ll drop behind. We’ll go all night—won’t stop until dawn—and if they’re still with us, we won’t stop at all.”

“Those lumbering things won’t be able to keep pace with these sweet mutant babies,” Detroit said, patting the head of his slowly accelerating hybrid horse. “Not a chance.”

But four hours later, the camels hadn’t fallen an inch behind. In fact, as they adapted to their new terrain and realized they weren’t going to be shoved out of any more planes, the huge ungainly beasts settled into stride and not only kept pace with the ’brids but seemed to get stronger with each passing hour.

But Rock suddenly had more pressing problems confronting him.

“I don’t like the looks of those clouds up ahead,” he said to Detroit, who rode lead alongside of the Doomsday Warrior.

“I been keeping these ol’ eyes on ’em too, Rock,” the bull of a black man replied. “They don’t look good. Have that mean twisted look of black rain.” Both men had their eyes fixed on a writhing mass of purple-black clouds about ten miles dead ahead. Clouds that moved like a pit of snakes, changing color and shape all the time and dropping down toward the land below. The Doomsday Warrior took out his binoculars and quickly sighted up. Up close, the mountainous clouds were even more terrifying, like black holes, sucking everything into them in whirling tornado winds and then spitting it back out again. The northern sky seemed to fill with the dark ocean of descending death as the air around them took on a translucent greenish tinge. The atmosphere around Rockson’s head suddenly crackled with static electricity and he felt a strange tingling sensation in the center of his stomach.

He threw his hand straight up and turned the ’brid sharply, nearly colliding with two of the Freefighters riding just behind him, and yelled out at the top of his lungs, “Acid Rain—dismount—deploy Magnasheets.” The Rock team had been through this before but some of the newer members of the Attack Force—Ashton and Douglas, especially—looked on in confusion, reining in their ’brids but not dismounting. Rockson ran over to them and pulled them right down from their saddles.

“Here, in the saddlebags, the metal sheets, get them out immediately!” There was no time for instructions or polite requests for action. They might have only minutes—or seconds. The Rock team—Chen, Archer, Detroit, McCaughlin—quickly unzipped the thin but super-strong metal/plastic alloy, which was one of Shector’s more useful inventions, and attached them to thin fiberglass poles, building instant tents. The sides of the metal blankets could be attached to one another by Velcro edgings. Within three minutes, a large square tent, nearly forty feet in diameter and six feet high, had been erected.

“In, get the animals in first,” Rock screamed out to the Freefighters who were standing in front of the entrance, holding their ’brids.

“Rock, what about—” Chen pointed to the Aussies and their camels, who had pulled to a stop about forty yards off and were just staring at the whole mad scene with wide grins, as if the Yanks had gone a little bonkers from all the travel.

“Oh shit—I forgot about those crazy bastards,” Rockson spat, feeling one of the rare headaches he got beginning to slam into his brain like a karate chop. He waved his hand frantically, signaling for the Aussies to come forward.

“Get over here, you limey maniacs,” Rock yelled out, cupping his hands together and screaming at the top of his lungs. Lieutenant Boyd tapped his guide stick against his Biteback’s neck and it started instantly forward, followed by the rest of the motley crew.

“Taking a bit of an afternoon snooze are we?” Boyd asked, looking down at Rockson from high atop the mangy brown beast. “By the way, just for your files, Cap’,” Boyd added, “limey’s are English—we’re Aussies—and you’re the Yanks. There—everyone knows just ’oo he is, don’t we now?”

“Listen, you Australian bastard,” Rock screamed out, his face growing red, “it doesn’t matter what I call you because every damned one of you is going to be dead within five minutes if you don’t do exactly what I say.” Rock pointed at the approaching cloud of pure death. “That ain’t no regular rain coming this way. That’s a smoking, burning acid rain that will melt tissue like it never was. You hearing me, pal?’ Rock yelled, trying to shock the man into reacting. “You may have your boomerangs and kangaroos and whatever the hell all God on a bad night might have created down there—but over here we got us a thousand ways of dying—and one of the worst of them is coming this way.”

“All right, all right,” Boyd said, tapping his camel so that it lowered its forelegs, enabling him to slip easily over its side and to the ground. He motioned for the rest of the Australian fighting force to do the same. “So, what’s the plan, matey?” the Aussie lieutenant asked, sidling over to Rockson.

“There is no goddamned plan,” Rock bellowed, angry because he didn’t know how in hell he was going to save these looney bastards who had come to save
him.
“We got that tent to protect us—that’s it. Somehow we’ll have to squeeze your men in—but not the camels, no way.”

Boyd folded his arms across his chest, got a very obstinate look on his face, and said firmly, “No camels, no Australians. These are our mates, matey. We been through ’ell and back with these ’ere whining dinkums. Can’t leave ’em. It’d be bad taste. Wouldn’t leave your mule creatures over there now, would you?” Rockson knew he wouldn’t—not if there was any way in hell to avoid it.

“I’ll make a deal, Boyd,” Rock said through steel-tight lips. “My men in first, then yours—then our ’brids, then the camels. That’s all I can do. Take it or leave it.” He started to walk away toward the front of the shining metallic tent as Boyd looked up real hard at the approaching storm cloud. It was just coming over a nearby mountain range perhaps eight miles off, and even from here he saw the black curtains of liquid it dropped from its smoking innards. It didn’t look good.

“Okay, okay there Mr. Ted Rockson,” Boyd said, running over to Rock and catching him by the shoulder. “You got yourselves a bloody deal. Though I must say that your whole bloody country is not receiving us in a very welcome manner. I daresay as ugly as our platypuses and ’roons and whatall are—you won’t find them all trying to bite you and claw you the moment you set foot on Down Under.”

Rockson rushed forward to the opened flap of the large but stable tent draped over the super-resilient plastic ribbing that the men had quickly snapped together.

“In, in!”
he yelled, half shoving Detroit, Chen, and the rest of his ten-man team through the flap. Then the Australians. Boyd stayed outside, offering to help with the camels. Rock accepted the assistance readily, having seen the mangy beasts in full operation. The ’brids were the first to go in, pulled up to the flap by the reins and then taken inside by the Freefighters and led to the very back end of the protected enclosure. While still colts, they had received rigorous training at Century City and been taught how to lie down flat and stay completely still. And though nervous, they complied, piling atop one another in a jigsaw of furry heads and thick legs. As Rock pushed the last of the mutant steeds in he took a look through the flap. It was already nearly filled and the place stank to high heaven.

An ominous clap of thunder that seemed to shake the very earth beneath their feet hit Rockson’s ears and he pulled his head out, glancing up at the source. The Clouds of Death were almost on top of them, just a mile or so off, and moving at a rapid clip as if eager to get to the finish line. The curtain of black rain was clearly visible, darkening the whole mountainside in a waterfall of murder.

Rock turned back to Boyd. “How the hell are you going to get these things in there? If even one of them goes crazy and jumps up and knocks part of the tent out, we’re all dead. Every one of us, I guarantee.”

“Not to bloody worry,” the Aussie replied with a cheerful grin, slapping Rockson on the back. “We’ve got our own contingency plans worked out too, you know.” He flipped his hand over the long blonde hair that kept threatening to cover his deeply tanned face and yelled inside the tent, “You blokes ready in there or what?”

“Send the bloody biters on in,” a voice screamed out. Boyd grabbed the first in the line of camels who stood relatively peacefully, looking curiously at the metallic tent. The Aussie leader yanked hard on the Backbiter’s reins and pulled its head far enough down so that it could just fit through the tent opening. Inside, his men threw a piece of rope around the forelegs, disabling the creature. It fell forward on its side and another man ran quickly to the back and got its hind legs knotted up as well. Five of them dragged the head camel, head flailing but otherwise disabled, across the dirt floor of the instant tent and deposited him next to the snorting ’brids.

Rock looked on, amazed at how easily the Australians were handling the big critters, moving with such precision, tying them up so rapidly that there was hardly a bit of commotion or danger to the tent. But time was running out. The mountain range of clouds roared again, sending out streaking bolts of lightning that seemed to land all around them, sending up showers of sparks and flames from the cacti and thorn trees that they struck.

“There’s no time,” Rock screamed as he dove through the flap. “It’s here, it’s here!”

“Just a few more,” Boyd yelled down. “I swear—just a few.” Somehow he kept them coming—two, three, four—pulling them down and kicking them through the flap into the darkness within, taking only seconds for each. He heard the rain, just ahead of him now, heard its sizzling descent, and the death cries of the plains animals in the near distance who screamed as it burned them slowly, turning their lizard and scaled hides into smoking bubbling fire.

Boyd half dove through the closed flap, dragging one more of the camels with him. He landed hard on his side, pulling the beast’s neck down like a rodeo steer wrestler. “Tie the bloody bludger down,” the Australian lieutenant screamed out in the darkness. “Over ’ere, I got one’s ready to go bonkers.” Two of his men dove over the pile of bodies in the center of the tent and latched onto the struggling camel’s legs, tying them together before it could do more than kick a few humans in the face.

The stench inside was almost unbearable—human sweat mixed with the scent of fear, the pungent animal smell of the ’brids and the indescribably acrid, sharp, urine-like smell of the camels, who, as the rain slammed down on the alloy roof of the tent with loud pings, began setting up a roar of disapproval.

Outside, the remaining eight camels who had not been brought in felt the first of the penny-sized drops on their backs. It took a second or two to sink in to their disgruntled brains. Then they felt it—the exquisitely painful sensation of their own flesh dissolving right from the bone. The drops of bubbling black rain ate away at whatever they landed on, sending up a mist of burning skin, blood, leaf, cactus. Whatever it was that it destroyed was of no concern to the Acid Rain. It had no conscience, no consciousness—just chemicals. Chemicals sucked up from the radioactive strontium clouds, from the poisoned rivers and seas—which it deposited with a vengeance back on the planet that had created them. But those whom it dissolved with unrelenting tongues of liquid fire
did
have consciousnesses. Camels could feel pain as surely as any creature that has ever lived. And they died screaming.