Doomsday Warrior 06 - American Rebellion (23 page)

As if to reassert his strength, Matsu went into a series of Katas—lightning fast moves from the Goju system, flexing into different attack modes to show Rockson the speed and power of his system. It was designed to frighten, but with the Doomsday Warrior, it did the opposite—it showed him an opening. For Rockson knew the Katas too, having worked on them with Chen. And he knew that the double fist strike came right after the windmill dragon parry. He waited, every muscle in his body coiled, ready to strike. Matsu spun both arms around at full length and then shot out with both fists straight ahead simultaneously. Rockson was ready. He grabbed Matsu’s wrists as they came out like arrows toward him, locking onto them with all the strength of his veined hands. At the same instant he grabbed hold he jumped up with both legs, slamming them into Matsu’s chest and fell backward. As he fell to the ground on his back he kicked the assassin up and over him so the killer fell hard on his back on the icy cavern floor behind Rockson. But Rock didn’t give him a chance to rise—somersaulting backward and coming down with all the momentum of his body with the heel of his booted foot on Matsu’s head. The face split open from chin to forehead in a gush of blood as the cracked frontal part of the skull exploded out in a spray of teeth and bone. Rock kicked again, and then again, knowing that the assassin would keep coming until his last breath. One of the killer’s eyes popped out as the heel slammed into it, dropping down the side of the bloody face, dangling on thin blue veins. The third kick opened up the brain itself and pink liquidy tissue spilled out over Rockson’s leg.

Matsu was dead. The Doomsday Warrior rose once again, not wanting to turn, not wanting to face his next, and somehow he sensed, his most formidable, adversary.

Twenty-Two

A
cross the wide cavern the rest of the Freefighters were in for the fight of their lives, as they waded into battle with the martial arts assassins. Two of the technicians bravely charged at the Smasher—an immense man nearly 7-feet tall, who carried a mallet in one hand, nearly four-feet long and in the other, a huge double-sided cleaver that looked as if it had butchered many a man into strips of bloody meat. Their attempts were noble, but shortlived, as they fell to the cave floor in bloody heaps.

The Smasher turned to face his next opponent, letting forth a deep belly laugh as he saw the diminutive Chen standing with his hands loosely held out in front of him. This would be short work, the killer thought, then he would join the others across the floor who were having their problems with The Rockson.

“Puny fool,” the Smasher roared out. “Prepare to die!” He lunged forward, slamming the 40 pound head of the mallet at Chen’s head. But somehow the Oriental Freefighter wasn’t there when it arrived. The Smasher charged again, whipping both of his devastating weapons around like battle axes searching for Chen’s skull. But each time they descended they merely whistled through empty air as Chen danced around the killer, who outweighed him two-to-one. He could see the man was strong as an ox, but slow. Let him do his thing for a minute, Chen thought to himself, then I’ll do mine. He retreated a step at a time as the Smasher furiously sought him out, his mallet veering off for a moment to smash in the skull of another of the untrained technicians who tried to help. The tech fell to the cold floor, his brains dripping over his face and mouth as the assassin once again turned his attentions to the Chinese.

Chen could see the giant was growing frustrated as his blows were continuously missing. He saw his opening—and took it. The assassin charged forward slamming with both of his weapons at the same moment pulling himself slightly off balance. Chen came in from the side landing three roundhouses kicks in a row to the heart side of the man’s chest. The blows knocked the wind from the Smasher, pushing him backward a few steps. He grunted and instantly came at the Oriental again in an animal rage. The wilder the better, Chen thought as he timed his next strike. The instant the man’s right foot came pounding down on the rock floor, Chen whipped his foot around in a wide circle just inches above the ground, knocking the Smasher flat on his back. He was on him in a flash, like a tiger on its prey. The assassin’s thick bull-like neck was too thickly muscled to even try to damage it. Instead Chen went for the softer tissue—the eyes. He made spear hands with the fingers of each hand, tightening them so they were stiff as knives and drove them with all his strength down into the eye sockets. The fingers ripped through the moist tissue and in a good five inches so that Chen could feel the sticky brain tissue sliding apart beneath his blow.

He pulled his hands out, sucking out a swamp of the pink tissue with a loud slurping sound. He rose without looking down. He had scarcely gotten to his feet when he heard a whistling sound—a sound he knew well—a star-knife bearing down on him like a meteorite from hell. He threw himself up and into the air in a full body twist, coming down a yard away as a five-pointed metal blade screamed by him and off into the flickering darkness of the cave. Chen turned to see a man about his size, also Oriental, in skin-tight purple plastic body suit, his hands loaded with the deadly throwing blades. The assassin flicked his right hand and sent out two more of the buzzsaws at Chen who barely evaded them by dropping flat on his face as they spun by overhead. He had never seen a man so adept, so quick with the star-knives except for his own Master—Wu Su—and himself. As he rolled over and over on the cold stone ground Chen whipped out four of his own death stars from beneath his jacket, gripping two of them tightly in each hand. He came up to one knee and flicked out one of them toward another of the assassin’s steel blades that was coming in at him. They met in mid-air, slamming into one another, sending sparks flying and then fell to the ground. Hu Chang, The Starknife looked at his opponent with a sudden wariness. The man should have been dead already. Only Rockson was supposed to be a worthy opponent—and yet . . .

Hu Chang retreated behind a rock pillar and unleashed another two of the pointed knives. They flew through the air like rockets inches apart. But Chen spun and dodged, heading straight toward the assassin’s cover. Suddenly the Starknife killer was in full retreat, running as fast as his legs could carry him until he reached the cavern wall—and there was nowhere left to run. He turned, pulling out another handful of the blades and prepared to unleash them. He never got the chance as one of Chen’s death-stalkers spun through the air and buried itself in the assassin’s chest. Only this one was an exploding blade, created by Dr. Shecters’ weapons team, a mixture of steel and plastique. It exploded upon contact with the killer’s chest and sent out a hail of bloody bone in all directions. Hu Chang looked down at his open chest and stared with horror at the still beating heart that lay exposed within, half falling out of the huge hole where the rib cage had been a second before. Then he toppled over falling onto the bloody flesh that had preceded him.

Seventy-five feet away Detroit was edging back from the Red Avenger—cloaked in a shimmering red silk brocaded gown. The man whipped out a gold bladed sword and pushed a button at the bottom of the hilt. The single blade suddenly sprang into four blades, each nearly four feet long, all joined at the handle. Detroit gulped once and fired his .45 twice. But the assassin spun the four blades of his weapon around in a blur of motion and deflected the streaking slugs. Then he came in for the kill, whirling the blades like an airplane propeller, heading right for Detroit’s neck who fortuitously bumped into a small stalagmite and fell backward. The swords whizzed by and the attacker screamed out a roar of victory. But the roar was too soon. The Red Avenger saw in an instant that he had missed and whipped the golden swords down at Detroit, who floundered around the ground trying to avoid the slashing blades. One of them ripped down the side of his leg slicing his thick work pants in two and leaving an inch deep wound nearly a foot long which began leaking a stream of blood. Somehow the black Freefighter managed to stagger to his feet just out of range of his attacker, his dark skin coated with an icy sweat.

He knew he couldn’t take many more attacks—the man was just too fast even for Detroit’s quick reflexes. He shot out another three slugs but again the golden blades whirled faster than the eye could see and the bullets ricocheted off the gold/tungsten/manganese surface with loud pings. A large smile crossed the Red Avenger’s face as he came in for the death blow. He liked killing and had never liquidated a black before. It would make a nice addition to his quarters back in Moscow, where he burned a different colored candle on his death altar, commemorating each of his kills. He would light a black candle when he returned, for his negro.

The assassin sped forward, seeing that Detroit had unknowingly backed himself against one of the cave’s huge stalagmites that ran from the ground up to the cavern’s ceiling, slashing the four blades down with all his strength—and hit paydirt. One of the razor-sharp edges ripped into Detroit’s arm just above the elbow, severing the appendage cleanly. It fell to the ground with a sickening thump as the black Freefighter fought to keep from sliding into shock. He turned his head down and saw the stump that was now his left arm and nearly fainted. There’s something about seeing part of your body sliced off that has a somewhat drastic effect on one’s outlook. But he was still alive—and like all Freefighters—he would fight to the last. The .45 was empty although it hadn’t seemed to have any effect on the killer anyway. Using every bit of mental and physical strength that he possessed, Detroit reached around with his good arm and grabbed one of two grenades he had put in his jacket before leaving Century City—his weapon of expertise—with which he was never without. This was his last shot and he knew it.

The Red Avenger lifted the swords high over his head in a dramatic pose, savoring the moment of murder. It was this instant that he lived for—when he took another man’s life—when he could feel the life force leave the corpse he had just created—sense the soul departing its lifeless shell and heading down into whatever hell awaited below. But his moment of high theatrics was his only mistake. Detroit saw the hovering swords and made his move. He leaped forward, pulling the pin of the grenade and stuffed it deep into the Avenger’s 20,000 ruble silk gown. At the same moment he kicked as hard as he could against the assassin’s leg, sending the man tumbling to the ground, his sword flying from his grasp. As the killer hit the dirt, Detroit jumped on his back swinging his good arm around the man’s throat and pulling with all his strength. The Avenger reached up and tried to pry himself free and had just ripped Detroit’s weakening arm away when the grenade went off. To Detroit, on top, it felt like he was riding a bucking bronco for a split second as the assassin’s entire body shot off the floor, nearly two feet into the air. Then it dropped back down again, a shattered bloody hulk. Detroit rolled off the dead thing beneath him and stared at it. There was hardly anything left on the front side that was recognizable as a man—just oozing slime and pieces of organs pasted over the body like a bad paint job. The black Freefighter ripped off a strip of the red silk outfit and tied a tourniquet around his bleeding stump. Then he crawled over to a stalagmite and collapsed against it unable to move another inch. His eyes barely open, he watched the continuing conflagration around him.

As the assassin team broke up to engage their Freefighter opponents, Archer found himself face to face with a much smaller man, wearing short, cut-off gray pants and leather vest. The half mute grinned as he saw who he would fight—for the fellow was surely no match for the strongest man in Century City—whatever kung fu he knew. But as Archer came in swinging his hamhock-sized fists, looking for a quick end to it, he grew quickly concerned. Wherever he struck the smaller man spun away. Kenoi—Master of the Monkey Form went into a peculiar stance, his legs bent at the knees as if he could hardly stand up, his arms held out dangling ahead, the fists unclenched like loose fruits about to fall. The killer’s face was completely expressionless, just his eyes showing a coldness as frigid as the depths of space itself. As Archer came in for a third attack trying to grab the nearly foot shorter assassin, Kenoi whipped one of his almost rope-like arms around and the loose fist snapped up and into Archer’s face, cracking two of his teeth. The giant staggered backward in shocked surprise. No man had ever hit him that hard before—not even The Rockson—and this was just a string bean of a man compared to his own 7 foot plus, 400 pound stature. With a roar of primitive rage he came forward again, wanting to destroy the man who had dared attack him, with the mindless bravery of a beast.

But against the super honed skills of Kenoi, the giant’s blows were completely ineffectual. The Monkey Form, based on observations of the movements of monkeys centuries before by the buddhist founders of the form, used relaxation and long circular punches to get through its opponent’s defenses. For every punch Archer threw—and missed—the assassin seemed to get in two or three. The huge Freefighter could feel the blows beginning to take their toll. It was like being struck by lightning, each punch rocking the near-mute through to his very backbone. He slowed down for a second or two trying to calm himself. He had always relied on sheer brute strength to get the job done, but for the first time in his life he could sense that that would not be enough.

He tried to think like Rockson. The Doomsday Warrior had tried to teach him some of the martial arts but Archer had just scoffed. Now he desperately searched through his mind for something—anything—that would get him through the toughest battle he had ever faced. Softness Rockson had always told him that if he could train his body to relax—to strike with a loose punch using all his body weight, he could knock down trees. Archer sank down on his legs, breathed out and held up his arms in imitation of Kenoi, long and loose in the Monkey style. The assassin laughed out loud for the first time in all his years of killing men. The clumsy imitation the giant was trying to make of the deceptively simple-looking Monkey form was quite absurd—every angle wrong, every alignment of the joints out of place. Well, it was his choice how he chose to die.