Doomsday Warrior 17 - America’s Sword (17 page)

“But power?” Detroit broke in, suddenly realizing everything was electric-powered as light-beeping door locks were everywhere. “What about power?”

“Ah, that’s the best thing of all—” Handelman went on with a sly grin. “We found that, though the original electric generators and wiring were nearly destroyed, there was a heat source below—a volcanic spring which some of our delegates were able to hook up to the power grid of the place. Instant power for over a century,” Handelman said with clear pride. “Can’t say that about too many post-nuke cities,” the man added, pulling on his red suspenders.

“Nope, that’s for damn sure,” Rockson whistled as he thought again about slipping away from this joint.

“Anyway, we fixed the whole place up, at least my sanctified holy father and his pals did. And things have pretty much been the same ever since. This whole place is really a miracle, a holy blessing. God deposited it, and us, on this Earth so we could carry out our Nominee’s divine orders.”

“And those orders are what?” Rock asked curiously, over the echoing rumble of equipment working and hammers banging. Up to the plastic-curved rafters men were hanging precariously on ropes, dangling down as they made final adjustments and sewed small rips in the material of a huge American flag.

“To serve the Nominee, of course! To renominate him, over and over,” Handelman went on, religious awe creeping into the sound of his voice.

“But, who is the Nominee?” Chen asked nervously, knowing from Century City anthropological classes that when it came to people’s gods, you’d better be damn careful. But it also meant knowing that you’d damn better find out.

“The Nominee is the Mysterious One who comes from the great Policy Position Committee in the sky. He will deliver us all through the Election to a greater and more beautiful world. We do our thing here to please Him. He is immortal, you know. Without Him there is no order, no continuity. In fact, He cannot be explained. He is very handsome and strong. Only He can lift the Great Sword! You will get to experience the many pleasures and revelations of being one with us.” Rock frowned. “Belonging is really nothing—in comparison to working for Him. He gives freedom from pain, from confusion, from the Eternal Vote.”

Handelman stopped and looked up. The Stadium lights were slowly growing dimmer, as if God’s bright eyes were growing tired. Rock suddenly noticed that Archer had not come with them along the platform.

“No!” Handelman suddenly screamed out with such sharpness that the words seemed to echo off walls hundreds of feet away. “Sacrilege! You are committing sacrilege!”

Rockson spun around and saw his friend Archer at the Nixon-glob. Archer’s huge, meaty hand was reaching out to stroke the strange sculpture in the center of the speaker’s platform. The mashed and melted together advertising/Nixon-promotion glob lit up suddenly. And Nixon’s neon arm upthrust and gave the “V” for victory sign once more. Archer had activated something in it.

Then, all sorts of sparks began to fly from the display. Rock saw that Archer had wrapped his big hands about the sticking-out sword hilt. Nixon’s neon face contorted, as if he were unhappy. His plastic glowing hand fought with Archer for possession of the sword.

The whole thing was glowing brighter and brighter, as if the statue had a sacred fire inside of it. Rockson could feel a wind rising, coming from the glob. Archer’s hair stood up, charged with some primeval electricity. It was as if he had made a connection to the nuked-out old world. Energies were running wild through the thing, energies that could be picked up by all the Freefighters.

“No! Don’t touch it!” Handelman exploded again, tearing his straw hat off, and starting to bite on its brim—a very strange response, thought the Freefighter leader.

“YEEESSS TOUUCCCHH!” the huge bear of a Freefighter growled. Rockson could see that the mountain man was in one of his more ornery moods. Whatever they didn’t want him to do—he did.

Suddenly there were yells all around the platform and a good dozen of the carts, moving fast, zeroed in on them.

“Step back from the Sacred Nixon Soul,” Handelman barked out. He made a move toward Archer, then thought better of it. Handelman was terrified of the huge mountain man, especially as Archer’s face was growing redder by the second and his blubbery lips curled back like a wolf that had just spotted a wounded forest creature.

“No, Archer!” the Doomsday Warrior shouted out in his most forceful commanding voice. “Get back from the statue!”

Archer snarled a little louder, though he took his hand back from the hilt of the sword. He now looked at the assembled carts surrounding the stage with some alarm. His face squinched up, as he tried to figure out just what the hell they had in mind to do with the silly little vehicles. They hardly looked as if they could harm him. And why was everyone mad anyway? He just wanted to play with the sword.

Handelman threw his torn-apart-by-his-teeth hat at Archer. It sailed a good thirty feet, soared past Archer so he could feel the wind of the thing. Then it came back, like a boomerang, on the other side.

Rock yelled, “Duck, Archer!” He could see that the brim had been removed to reveal a razor-sharp piece of metal sewn into the hat. It was a weapon.

Suddenly the mountain man got the message and gulped hard. He made to block the hat with his arm. Not a good move. Rockson grabbed Archer by the shoulder and pulled the mountain man the hell out of the way. The hat missed by an inch.

But that wasn’t the half of the commotion! The Caucus people weren’t about to calm down on this case of sacrilege. Even as the two of them stepped back, the fronts of the carts opened up just below their mini-headlights. There was a whirring sound from within, and out popped the muzzles of twin 7.2mm cannons!

Rock could see now that these things sure as hell did more than carry maintenance men. Rock saw Archer start toward the nearest low-wheeled apparatus. The Doomsday Warrior knew what was about to hit the fan, and shouted again. Heeding Rock’s warning, the mountain man surged across the platform, just as the carts let loose with a stream of shells that flew down the platform, missing Archer by inches at most.

Rockson did a judo foot-sweep at the giant, to knock him off his feet. Standing, he was a great target. Rock had to stop this maniac before he was full of large holes. Archer turned as he hit the floor, thinking someone had sucker-punched him, his immense arm raised to take care of biz.

But he saw Rockson lying there, groaning slightly, holding his knee, and stopped.

“ROOOCCCKSOONNN?” the giant said as he looked around at all the stunned workers, at Handelman, at his friends. Confusion took Archer’s mind off causing destruction for a few seconds. Rock patted the big fellow on the arm and Archer calmed down a little. The carts surrounded them, cannons focused on the giant.

Rock gave his best “aren’t we pals” grin and spoke out to the attackers, who didn’t look at all pleased. “Hey, no harm done! He gets like that sometimes,” Rockson apologized to one and all. He saw Detroit and Chen ready to go at it, with or without weapons, if the cart drivers pressed on. “Just a joke,” Rock said. He winked at the Caucus people. “Archer is like a kid, really. He didn’t mean any harm.”

“He touched the Sacred Nixon!” one of the cart drivers retorted, his finger poised right over the surface of the firing button on the cart’s handlebars.

“No! He didn’t actually touch it. He was just tracing the shape of the thing with his palm. Been doing that since he was just a young tree. No harm’s been done. Not even Nixon’s nose got a blemish.” Rock could see them all relaxing if only slightly.

“All right,” Handelman said, waving the carts back and tugging at Rockson’s sleeve to get the damned man-monster away from the statue area.

“Why don’t we get some food,” Rockson said good-naturedly, somehow getting the feeling it was time to get out of here. Archer smiled.

“Yeah, I suppose,” Handelman grunted back. They were in his charge, so he felt responsible for the bunch of strangers. “But please, no more trouble, okay, Mr. Rockson? Keep your fellow-Coloradoan there under control.”

Rockson had seen Archer touch the sword—because of the angle he had been standing at. Archer had made contract for just an instant with the Nixon face, too. He had come in close to squeeze the huge, bulbous nose that filled the face with flickering purple and blue. But no one else had seen, evidently. Another close call.

Twenty

H
andelman led them back out of the main chamber of the great Caucus Dome and down one of the many corridors that went off in every direction. The killer cart crews up on the great podium just stared after them. Then they retracted the cannon-extensions on their little war wagons. Once sure there was no more immediate danger to the Nixon-shrine, they let another slot open. Pairs of cylindrical brooms began turning slowly under the front of the carts, sweeping all the dust and whatever off the platform. It should be as clean as if the Holy Nixon were coming to walk and talk on it, this very night. That’s what the crews had been told.

“Now, I’m glad to say, we’re heading for food,” Handelman said. He walked at the lead of the small group, Rockson right behind him. Handelman didn’t want to be near the mountain man. For some reason Archer scared the living daylights out of him. How much gas did the giant need to inhale to calm down? Handelman was worried. The main thing that Handelman was supposed to do was keep things calm. If he couldn’t even do that, he thought, at the next general vote on promotions, he was out. They had their eye on him already, he knew that. The General Committee was watching. They had surely seen how he had let an unkempt new delegate almost touch the holy-of-holies!

The way they were spaced walking now, at least Archer was on the far side of the group from him. Handelman knew Archer was looking around at the walls and the ceilings like some gawky child. He doubted the giant would ever make a good delegate.

Rockson saw Handelman keeping his distance from Archer, his mouth holding a strange expression. And the Doomsday Warrior decided to tease Handelman. “I wouldn’t ignore Archer that way,” Rock spoke up. “Just relax yourself,” the Doomsday Warrior went on with a grin. “He won’t bother you, unless he feels your fear.”

“Fear?” Handelman gulped hard, looking like a squirrel with too many nuts in its mouth. “No, no fear, everything’s fine.”

Archer just hummed and burped here and there as he felt the walls with his fingertips, smelled the air—all kind of neat junk lay around decaying. Ahead, faint but nonetheless clear to his nose, was the scent of food. Different kinds, cooked and fried. Vegetables and . . . meat. His gait suddenly picked up.

Chen came marching along a few yards behind Archer. If there was such a thing as “enlightenment,” Chen mused to himself, then this tree-sized son-of-a-bitch was pretty close to achieving it! He just took things in stride and concentrated on what was just ahead!

Masses of delegates sat eating at a hundred tables arranged in squares, eight to a group. The place was brimming with the pale, bloated faces of bureaucrats who just dug into the steaming repast without regard for taste or content. The Freefighters were amazed at how fast they ate. “This way,” Handelman granted as he led them across to the far end of the commissary. “A miracle of mass fine cooking,” Handelman said, rubbing his stomach a few times. “Just take what you want—put it on a tray.”

He looked at them all rather skeptically, especially the giant. He shouldn’t even be allowed to be with normal people. But then that’s what Handelman’s very function was in the Great Caucus Dome. Facilitation, taking firm control of new delegates—and guiding them into their proper places. So they might soon join the bliss of the Great Nominee.

The Freefighters filled up their glistening new plastic bowls, set them atop aluminum trays and walked down the commissary aisle. Rock glanced into a vast kitchen, which was steaming away with huge pots and vats. Breads were being baked, meats grilled. He noted that no one dishing out the food in the cafeteria-type line said a word. You just indicated what you wanted, took it, and headed around until an empty table could be found.

Handelman waited at the far end of the serving area, knowing it would take his charges a while. They just loaded up until there was no room on their trays. Then the new delegates from Colorado came walking down the aisle all smiles. Archer was humming or mumbling. Heads pulled back here and there at the tables when the giant passed. He was big, and smelled, and looked so pleased.

“Here, the best seats in the place,” Handelman said with a false, upbeat smile. He indicated a nearly empty long table. Three blue-jacketed eaters moved over to let the newcomers sit all together. The Freefighters threw their trays down on the table.

Rockson took a single bite of something that looked like a blue version of a T-bone steak and let a smile travel across his face. He’d have to compliment the chef for damn sure. It tasted like the finest steak he’d ever had!

“Hey, pal,” Rock said, to the nearest blue-coat eater, “Ain’t this food the greatest?”

The man didn’t look over, just stared straight forward, as if he were dead. Rock took another fierce bite, and then repeated his remark. It was a little disconcerting to get again no response at all.

“Good food, nice around here,” the Doomsday Warrior went on softly, not wanting Handelman to hear him, as the fat paper-pusher was clearly trying to listen to his every word.

“Can’t complain,” the eater finally replied to Rockson, noncommittally. He wore the exact same dumb-looking cheap blue suit, straw cap and red, white, and blue tie as all the other men of his rank in the Republam Party. And was about as good a conversationalist as the others, too.

Rockson suddenly noticed something. There was hardly any sound from the entire room. Oh, dishes were clanking and silver as well; steam hissed, rising from all the cooking apparatus behind the glass deli counter in the back. But the diners just weren’t talking. Here and there someone said, “Please pass me the salt.” Or, “Is there more water on the table?” Many of them said these words without turning their heads or lifting their eyes. They ate mechanically too. Rock counted their chews. Each man chewed each bite thirty-two times, exactly!