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Authors: Ryder Stacy
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fingered the thin material, finding it hard to believe it could really keep out the kind of heat that sometimes hit them from the glaring unshielded sun. But he knew Shecter tested his toys a thousand times before letting C.C.’s citizens or fighters use them. The scientist couldn’t have forgiven himself if something went wrong that was his fault.
“And lastly, a mini-gun,” he held out what looked like a primitive medallion about three inches wide and roughly arrow-shaped. “It’s really a gimmick I suppose, but we’ve been playing with all kinds of weapons shapes and sizes—and this is one of the permutations that came out.” Rockson took the pendant and held it up, twisting it around in the air.
“What exactly does it do?” the Doomsday Warrior asked skeptically.
“What any pistol does; shoots. Fires a single pellet with the muzzle force equivalent to a .22 long. We have to use what would be the equivalent of what you could call a .05 caliber slug. But what it lacks in size it makes up in projectile thrust. This baby shoots hard; I mean it can pierce metal—or flesh. You just squeeze the two dots—around both sides twice—and bang. I can see you’re looking at it like it’s just about the last thing on earth you want to mess around with. But do an old man a favor, take it with you and fire it, just to give it a little field testing.”
“Sure,” Rock replied slipping the thin chain that came with it around his neck so it hung down over his chest. “Anything else?”
“That’s it for this time around,” the chief scientist said, rising and shaking hands with Rockson, who had also risen. “I know you’ve got to move, so I won’t take up any more of your time or bore you with more of these gizmos.”
“It’s never a bore to talk with you, Dr. Shecter,” Rockson said with deep sincerity as he shook the man’s hand. It was a surprisingly firm grip for someone his age. “I wish we could spend a whole day going over your latest inventions and theories of de-evolution. I find them all quite fascinating.”
“Good luck, Rockson,” Shecter said. The Doomsday Warrior turned and headed off. Somehow there was a strange feeling in his chest as if he might not ever see the man or this place again. Something about the mission was filling him with a Kierkegaardian brooding feeling.
It took Rockson only an hour to choose his team. They’d have to travel fast and light. He picked Detroit, of course; and Chen, the martial arts teacher of C.C., and long time fighting partner of Rockson. And he also chose Archer, whose sheer seven-foot strength could make up for a lot of problems when the shit hit the fan. Their ’brids were already fully supplied by the time they met at the outer stables. The four men were excited, wide-eyed and flushed, filled with excitement as they were always were when heading out on a mission. Only Rockson was drawn and pale. He felt something, a darkness that he had rarely felt before in his life. A trembling of the soul.
The guards opened the wide camouflaged gates to the north of Century City and the four men rode out on their snorting hybrids. They headed out down the mountain slopes with a white sun blazing down threatening to burn them all to a crisp. The Freefighters headed out into a nasty world, a world that had absorbed the shock of nuclear war and threw it back at mankind in a thousand ways. And Bitch Nature could really dish it out!
Eight
T he mountains were staggeringly beautiful even to the jaded men who had seen it all before. There’s something about the beauty of pure nature that makes it always new, eternally shimmering, an electric current to the soul. Especially in a world of mega-death and vast patches of terrain that were little more than ashes and burnt soil. Thus, these rebel American fighters felt the beauty even deeper, sharper, perhaps than citizenry of the old days might have. It had a poignancy to it just because it was surrounded by so much
“And lastly, a mini-gun,” he held out what looked like a primitive medallion about three inches wide and roughly arrow-shaped. “It’s really a gimmick I suppose, but we’ve been playing with all kinds of weapons shapes and sizes—and this is one of the permutations that came out.” Rockson took the pendant and held it up, twisting it around in the air.
“What exactly does it do?” the Doomsday Warrior asked skeptically.
“What any pistol does; shoots. Fires a single pellet with the muzzle force equivalent to a .22 long. We have to use what would be the equivalent of what you could call a .05 caliber slug. But what it lacks in size it makes up in projectile thrust. This baby shoots hard; I mean it can pierce metal—or flesh. You just squeeze the two dots—around both sides twice—and bang. I can see you’re looking at it like it’s just about the last thing on earth you want to mess around with. But do an old man a favor, take it with you and fire it, just to give it a little field testing.”
“Sure,” Rock replied slipping the thin chain that came with it around his neck so it hung down over his chest. “Anything else?”
“That’s it for this time around,” the chief scientist said, rising and shaking hands with Rockson, who had also risen. “I know you’ve got to move, so I won’t take up any more of your time or bore you with more of these gizmos.”
“It’s never a bore to talk with you, Dr. Shecter,” Rockson said with deep sincerity as he shook the man’s hand. It was a surprisingly firm grip for someone his age. “I wish we could spend a whole day going over your latest inventions and theories of de-evolution. I find them all quite fascinating.”
“Good luck, Rockson,” Shecter said. The Doomsday Warrior turned and headed off. Somehow there was a strange feeling in his chest as if he might not ever see the man or this place again. Something about the mission was filling him with a Kierkegaardian brooding feeling.
It took Rockson only an hour to choose his team. They’d have to travel fast and light. He picked Detroit, of course; and Chen, the martial arts teacher of C.C., and long time fighting partner of Rockson. And he also chose Archer, whose sheer seven-foot strength could make up for a lot of problems when the shit hit the fan. Their ’brids were already fully supplied by the time they met at the outer stables. The four men were excited, wide-eyed and flushed, filled with excitement as they were always were when heading out on a mission. Only Rockson was drawn and pale. He felt something, a darkness that he had rarely felt before in his life. A trembling of the soul.
The guards opened the wide camouflaged gates to the north of Century City and the four men rode out on their snorting hybrids. They headed out down the mountain slopes with a white sun blazing down threatening to burn them all to a crisp. The Freefighters headed out into a nasty world, a world that had absorbed the shock of nuclear war and threw it back at mankind in a thousand ways. And Bitch Nature could really dish it out!
Eight
T he mountains were staggeringly beautiful even to the jaded men who had seen it all before. There’s something about the beauty of pure nature that makes it always new, eternally shimmering, an electric current to the soul. Especially in a world of mega-death and vast patches of terrain that were little more than ashes and burnt soil. Thus, these rebel American fighters felt the beauty even deeper, sharper, perhaps than citizenry of the old days might have. It had a poignancy to it just because it was surrounded by so much
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