Doomsday Warrior 07 - American Defiance (24 page)

“And now you, Rockson,” the KGB commander said, turning back to the two Freefighters who still stood locked in a vise of flesh. “You think you are so clever—but now I shall have the final word.” His face relaxed and took on a black malicious look. “Perhaps this will be more fun than I had anticipated. For I shall have your little girlfriend here watch as your brain is melted from your very skull.” He seemed pleased with the idea and the thin lips curled up into something approximating a smile. “Yes—take them both to the Mindbreaker—and we shall all have a most entertaining finish to this evening.”

The guards came into the cell as the Freefighters threw their clothes back on, and dragged them both off down the corridor with Killov in the lead. Kim looked with adoring glances at Rockson. Whatever happened now, she had been given her final dream. They were taken to a large room filled with rows of the brainwashing machines and strapped down in the plastic chairs of the devices, facing each other.

“Yes, perfect,” Killov said, sitting down in one of the curved seats several feet away. “Now we shall all be able to experience Mr. Rockson’s demise.” He popped a few blue pills into his mouth—up’s to wake him and give him energy to witness the destruction of his enemy. “Begin,” the KGB leader said simply, leaning back in the chair with his hands folded behind his head.

The technician who ran this particular den of pain walked over to the Doomsday Warrior and checked the straps that bound him hand and foot to the chair. Then he carefully lowered the large semi-globe of metal that stood a foot above Rock’s head until it was just touching his scalp. He pushed a few buttons and the headpiece lit up with blinking red lights. Two icepick-thin pieces of metal lowered themselves from the innards of the Mindbreaker, stopping fractions of an inch from the Freefighter’s head. The tech pushed one more button and the twin slivers of steel lit up at the ends with brilliant ruby dots of light—the laser probes that would soon send their burning shafts into the skull below them.

“All set, sir,” the technician said, stepping back and resting his hands on the lever that would set it all in motion.

“Yes, yes, go ahead,” Killov said, waving his hand impatiently. The technician pushed the lever down.

Twenty

T
he first explosion knocked the Mindbreaking headglobe from atop Rock’s skull, sending it flying to the white linoleum where it smashed to pieces. The second explosion pushed the heavy chair he was strapped into over onto the floor, as Killov and his henchmen were likewise thrown down flat on their faces. Thunderous roars ripped through the Octagon, making the very walls shake as if in the grip of a hurricane. Dust poured down from the ceiling as cracks appeared on the walls, which quickly widened, sending huge chunks of plaster over the prone bodies.

From his vantage point on the floor Rock saw the door to the Mindbreaking chamber burst open and a squad of heavily armed men rush into the room, their eyes blazing with the fire of the warrior. Rock’s eyes widened in amazement—the porters—dressed all in black with rifles and submachine guns in their hands and big packs on their backs. They looked nothing like their former subservient selves but fierce, powerful, standing tall and moving with the speed of trained fighters.

“Thought we might find you here, Mr. Rockson,” Rufus said, his submachine gun trained on the Blackshirts who started for their guns and then thought the better of it. “You didn’t pay your bill for all that food and drink you and your boys quaffed down,” he said with a grin, “so we thought we’d come around and collect.” Killov lay on the floor trembling, the drugs in his system making his heart race like an engine. He shot angry looks at his men as if telling them to go for their weapons. But with so much firepower trained on them not one dared make a move—even on command of the “Skull.” Rufus rushed forward, pulled a long-bladed hunting knife from his belt, and sliced the leather straps that held Rock in the death chair. The Doomsday Warrior rose, rubbing his wrists together, amazed that he was still alive. He could still feel little stabs of pain on top of his head where the twin laser probes had just barely broken through the skin before being knocked off by the explosions. Rufus walked the few steps to Kim and freed her as well. She jumped up and ran to Rockson, tears steaming down her face.

“I know I’m just a crybaby—but when I saw those glowing horrors starting to go down into you . . .”

“We better get out of here, Mr. Rockson,” the head porter said, keeping an eye on the sprawled Blackshirts. “This place is gonna be hotter than a monkey’s asshole in about five minutes. My men are all over the building laying down plastique. We’re gonna blow this place right out of the ground—they’ll never torture another person here. I can tell you that. Here.” He handed Rock one of the packs that they all wore and a submachine gun. “Got enough plastique in there to blow a whole side of this place out.” He looked at his watch. “Got four minutes, thirty-seven seconds to get out of here. We’re going to get your pals out. Rendezvous is by the truck at the front gate. Okay?”

“Yeah,” Rock said, smiling. He put out his hand. “And thanks. Thanks to all of you. I had a feeling there was more to all of you than met the eye.” Rufus took his hand firmly.

“Believe me, and I speak for all of us, Mr. Rockson. It’s an honor to work alongside a man like you. You give us all hope in these dark, dark times.” He released Rock’s hand and looked over at the dozen or so KGB’ers cowering on the floor and their master Killov trying to squirm behind a table.

“What do you want to do with this scum?” Rufus asked, an expression of utter revulsion on his face.

“I’ll handle them,” Rock said with a wide grin.

“Let’s go, boys,” Rufus said, turning and heading out the door. “Four minutes exactly Rockson,” he said as he disappeared down the hall. Rock immediately walked over to the KGB leader, who covered his head with his arms as if that would somehow ward off the impending attack, while Kim covered the guards with a second submachine gun, ready to pull the trigger at the slightest motion.

“You heard the man,” Rockson said. “We got just a few minutes—so let’s not dally, okay?” He reached down, grabbed Killov by the collar, and lifted him up like a rag doll. With the KGB leader frantically struggling like some trapped rodent, Rockson carried him over to one of the Mindbreakers that still seemed to be in working condition and threw the man down in the seat, immediately pulling the headpiece down.

“No, no, Rockson—I’ll do whatever you want, anything.”

“That’s right—you will do what I want. Where’s the President?”

“He’s alive—just four doors down this corridor. I swear—we only did preliminary drilling—he still—he still has his mind.”

“Which is more than I can say for you,” Rock said, leaning over and pushing the same buttons that the tech had. But nothing happened. The electrical system had been shorted in the explosions. He looked at his watch—three minutes. There wasn’t time to play around with this fool. Rockson walked over to Kim and pulled her to the door.

“But Rock, you can’t let them get away with—” Before she could finish her sentence, the Doomsday Warrior extracted one of the little packets of plastique from the backpack Rufus had given him and set the timer for five seconds.

“Bye-bye boys,” he said, throwing it through the doorway and then slamming the thick metal door behind him. “Let’s go—fast,” he screamed at Kim, grabbing her hand. They tore down the main corridor as the plastique went off with a muffled roar, shaking the floor for a second. Rock found the fourth door and burst through it, his submachine gun swinging back and forth ready to fire. But no Russians were in the room. Just one American—Charles Langford, the President of the Reunited States of America—with his mouth hanging open dripping green drool.

“Father,” Kim cried running to him. “Father, it’s me, Kim,” she screamed just inches from his face. But there was no response—his eyes were vacant as a cow’s, staring, focused straight ahead. His scalp had been burnt and two little holes had been drilled in the center of his head. “Rock, Rock, he’s gone,” Kim began crying, her tears falling down onto the President’s face.

“There’s no time, Kim,” Rock yelled. “We’ve got to get out of here—there’s one and a half minutes left.” He lifted Langford under the armpits and got him standing, but the man was obviously unable to walk—unable to do anything. Rock took the pack from his back and handed it to Kim. “Hold onto this baby—we may need it.” He reached forward and lifted the President up, throwing him onto his shoulder with a single powerful heave.

The Freefighters ran back down the corridor toward the main door. Explosions were going off here and there as the porters confronted their enemy, plastique style. They reached the central hub of the Octagon, which was a wreck—bodies everywhere, covered with concrete and dust from the crumbling ceiling and walls—and tore down the long hall with its doors kicked open, hanging by their hinges, with Rock carrying the President over his right shoulder with one arm.

“Ahead,” Rock suddenly screamed, “to the right!” Kim jerked her head around and saw two Blackshirts aiming Kalashnikovs from a doorway. Without a moment’s hesitation, she threw the plastique she had pulled from the pack and set for two seconds. It skidded down the shiny waxed floor as the Freefighters stopped in their tracks and glued themselves against the far wall.

The mini-bomb went off like a lion’s roar, teeth of fire reaching out and ripping the KGB’ers into a thick spray that flew backwards slamming into a wall with a picture of Colonel Killov hastily thrown up on it. Rock and Kim shot forward through the smoke and at last reached the main door where a whole pile of DeathHeads lay blown apart—heads, arms, legs lying unattached to anything in particular. They flew through and out into the cool night, Kim grabbing another death packet and readying it. Rock saw the gate ahead and the porters—already standing around it with the rest of the Rock team. They waved at him frantically to run faster, pointing at their watches. But running at full speed while carrying a one-hundred-and-eighty-five-pound man on your back is not the easiest of endeavors.

They were about a hundred feet from the high mesh fence when the Octagon went up like Mt. Vesuvius, throwing them both to the ground as if a Mack truck had slammed into them. The entire roof of the eight-sided structure flew up from the sheer pressure of the expanding air below, breaking into countless pieces, which flew off spinning wildly. Whole backpacks of the plastique had been set at all the main girders of the building, and their detonation instantly severed the supports in a maelstrom of burning metal. The building shook violently and then collapsed at the same instant on every side. Enough concrete and steel to build a small city came crashing down as if the world itself were crumbling. Dust and debris filled the air, shooting out in every direction in a tornado of rubble, covering the Freefighters with a coating of thick gritty particles. A funnel of writhing smoke rose up into the sky, higher and higher, forming an almost mushroom-shaped cloud that hovered over the devastation below like a funeral shroud.

When the shrapnel had stopped flying, Rock and Kim slowly rose from the ground, dusted themselves off, and walked over to the rest of the team who were also lifting themselves up. Rock carried the President in his arms.

“Is he dead?” Rufus asked with a worried look.

“He ain’t dead—but he ain’t alive, either,” Rockson said bitterly. “The Reds got to do a bit of their handiwork on him. I just don’t know.” He shook his head slowly, a look of pure murder etched on his chiseled face.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” the head porter said. “This place is going to be crawling with the bastards within minutes.” The fighting forces loaded up into the truck the porters had brought and headed off into the night, leaving behind them the biggest piece of burning wreckage on earth.

Like the opening of a horror movie of the days before the Great War, a hand wriggled up through a covering of black ash, the fingers moving slowly as if trying to grab hold of something. Then the arm broke free. Like a corpse rising from its grave, digging itself free of its own resting place, a body covered in thick gray ash clawed its way out of the earth. The thing sat up trying to rub the soot from its eyes so it could see. And it saw only death, destruction on a mega-scale, as the tiny black eyes took in the magnitude of what had just occured minutes before.

Colonel Killov sat up, blood dripping from every part of his battered flesh. He was slightly amazed to be alive.

The moment Rockson had tossed the package of high explosives into the Mindbreaking room, Killov had been off. His paranoid propensity to check the closest escape exit of every building he went into had paid off this time. For the others all lay dead, crushed to a pulp that couldn’t even be buried. But the KGB commander had somehow managed to make it out the back, running as fast as his trembling, drug-propelled legs could carry him. And he
had
made it—barely—getting a hundred feet away from the Octagon before it erupted in its final dance of death.

He tried to stand up but fell instantly to the rubble, his right leg broken. The pain didn’t matter—as the Master of Death Killov thrived on pain—even his own. For pain was his philosophy—the religion by which he ruled. But the destruction of the Octagon—where his top commanding officers had been bivouacked—and the escape of Rockson and the President—that was another story. The KGB commander looked up at the rising cloud of what had once been the immense structure, looked up at the black ocean of smoke and fire—and saw death, its eyeless sockets looking down, searching for souls to carry off. And the colonel’s own eyes met the fiery face of the Destroyer and screamed up to it.

“Hear me, great one. Let me live. Let me continue so that I may deliver the wretched ones who have done this to you. Look in my heart—for I am your servant. I live only to carry out your promises of eternal pain.” On the brink of madness, the Blackshirt Commander raised his fist and shook it up at the blackness. And far above—the face of Death wrapped in a shawl of human flesh—nodded yes.