Doomsday Warrior 13 - American Paradise (15 page)

There was a crack and a spurt of blood. Nakashima, his eyes rolling upward, fell like a lead-filled sack at Rocks’ feet. And stayed down. Rock went over to him. Hesitantly, he felt for his pulse at his jugular and found no throb. He was dead, whoever he was. Time to go back and smash the panel.

No.
The panel could just be repaired. If Killov wasn’t here to
die,
better to just plant the last of the listening devices.
Damn,
if he had realized he could actually get into Killov’s lair, he’d have brought
plastique!
Especially since there were structural faults here because of the unsupported large south windows. He would return with explosives—sixty pounds would do. It would have to be placed one flight up, to put downward pressure on the window area; then
Goodbye tower!

But to do that, he’d have to first cover up that he’d ever been here.

Rockson did a quick floor search and found no other occupants. Then, Rockson dragged the body to the window. He opened the window and lifted the dead man into the opening, and letting him roll out into empty air. He left the window open and glanced around quickly: broken glass, a few drops of blood—nothing a distraught man wouldn’t commit if he was intending to
end it all by suicide.

There was a loud thump outside—the body hitting. Well, it would have to
do,
Rock thought grimly.
Time to leave!

Rock made his way down to the lobby via the same elevator. He managed to just get out the lobby door when a pair of KGB guards grabbed him. “What are you doing in a restricted area?” one asked. “Don’t you see that bloody body lying there old man? Don’t we have enough problems?”

“Excuse please!”
Rock answered. “Winter sunset coats hills with—”

“Not so fast!”
The guard that spoke grabbed him by his robe and said, “We’ve had about enough of you old silly poets roaming around the city at all hours.
Semenov!
Take this geriatric case to the looney bin! That will teach him to walk in a restricted area!”

Rock almost smiled. The jerkoff didn’t realize he was holding onto the Doomsday Warrior! He let himself be led away—muttering poetry—into a police van. Surely, this was an opportune way to escape the immediate area!

Twenty

B
eing in the insane asylum was like being in hell. Rockson couldn’t believe all this was happening to him. He had been injected with a strong drug the second he stepped out of the police van, just as he was about to dart away.

The first few hours were a dream, a hazy nightmare. All he remembered was being taken into the cell and again injected—this time with some drug that immediately made him feel paranoid, as if he were at the bottom of a deep pit, staring up at the menacing world above. Two hulking attendants had strapped him down on a dirty stretcher and wheeled him through long underground tunnels with steam rising out of pipes and past dark rooms that seemed to disappear into eternal blackness. He was taken to a small room with another patient already in it, a man who kept yelling something about the devil coming out of the sidewalk and eating all the Russians. I guess they put all the paranoid loonies in the same place, he thought, as he fell into unconsciousness.

When he awoke, two Japanese men in long white coats walked in and introduced themselves. “Good morning, Mr. Noname. I am Dr. Nisai, and this is Dr. Hakamisha. We are here to help you.”

“The only help you can give me,” Rock said groggily, struggling against the straps that held him down, “is to get me out of here. I’m not insane—I’m the Doomsday Warrior!”

“Of course, of course. But first we would like to talk with you a little. Listen to what you say, too. Now, apparently you have been going around causing a lot of trouble for other people and yourself. Shouting some stupid old poetry at our Russian friends.” The two doctors, one tall and thin, the other, short and nearly bald, stared at him. They smiled warm false smiles.

“Not stupid poems, you idiots,” Rock yelled. “Basho!”

“Ah yes, Basho—the great,” the tall one, Dr. Hakamisha said. “But why are you speaking English, Mr. Noname? Forgotten your Japanese?”

“I just can’t believe that this is all happening. I thought it was just Russians that put people in mental hospitals for opposing them. I am a
friend
of the Japanese.”

“Ah, a friend, Mr. Noname? What is a friend?”

Rock decided he had to risk it. He proceeded to tell them his story. About how he was part of an American attack team intent on destroying the tower’s crystal weapon and Killov’s occupying army. “Surely,” he said, “you are
Japanese.
You are against Killov!”

When he had finished, the two doctors looked meaningfully at one another. Dr. Nisai—the short bald one—took out a black notebook and said to Rock, “Mr. Noname, has it ever occurred to you that perhaps you are afraid of what the tower represents?”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Rockson asked, moving uncomfortably within his bindings.

“Well the tower is large and stands erect. Very big. Tell me . . . do you feel
inferior
to it in any way?
Sexually
perhaps?”

Rock burst out laughing. “You mean you think I’m jealous of the potency of the Tokyo Tower? Well let me assure you, gentlemen, I’ve had no trouble in that department! Women have always found me completely satisfactory. In fact, I’ve been quite a ladies man in my day. Now let me go! I must destroy the crystal!”

The doctors looked happy. “Tell us about this, Mr.—Warrior?” Dr. Hakamisha said. “In great detail.”

The questioning went on for almost an hour, then the two psychiatrists turned to leave.

“So now you know I’m all right. Right? Now let me out!”

“Oh yes, Mr. Noname,” said Nisai. “All in due time. There’s so much more to talk about.” They both left, an amused sparkle in their beady eyes.

Rockson screamed, “Goddamn crazy bastards,” as the two closed the door and locked it. He lurched and heaved against the bindings until his shoulders and arms were raw and red. The other patient in the room soon joined him, and the two men howled like wolves until a nurse came in and gave them each a shot of something. Rock suddenly felt very confused again. And the other man, who had the bed behind his, started screaming again about the devil coming up through the sidewalk to eat the Reds.

Maybe he’s right, Rock thought, dizzily. Maybe the devil
is
coming up through the sidewalks. Maybe they’re right, these crazy docs. Or else—would I be shut up in a straight jacket just like this. I must really be crazy!

He laughed. That was it! It was just an hallucination. He really wasn’t Ted Rockson; the Doomsday Warrior.

He didn’t know who he was. He
was
Mr. Noname!

He slowly fell asleep, seeing dim forms that looked like mixtures of his doctors and the devil about his bed. They were rising from the sidewalks, flying right up through the concrete and high up into the sky. They circled the Tokyo Tower like vultures, drifting slowly, looking down on Mr. Noname, who ran like a frightened rabbit through the tunnels and dark basements of the mental hospital.

“Coming out of it now,” a kindly female voice said. “My, what an unusual specimen. What did they say he was brought in for?”

“Shouting and being in a restricted area. He’s Caucasian beneath the makeup. He must be a Russian gone mad,” the Japanese doctor concluded.

Dr. Nisai scratched his bald head, “Well, in that case—if he’s not Japanese he will only be trouble! We’d better release him.”

The grey-haired woman doctor started unsnapping Rockson’s straight jacket, but Hakashima grabbed her arm. “Don’t do that! If he’s Russian, we’ve already condemned ourselves to death for the way we’ve treated him so far! We must continue to list him as Mr. Noname and keep him here!”

The woman nodded. “I see your point.”

They all left the room.

Rockson passed out again. When he awoke, he sat up. It was hard to do because he was still in a straight jacket. But his head felt clearer than it had since he arrived. He would have to use the time before he got another injection to try to escape. Or be here
forever.

The other patient in the room—also in a straight jacket—spoke up.

“Ah, my weird friend,” said the middle-aged, squat Japanese patient. “And just who might you be?” There was derision in his voice.

Rockson decided to tell the truth. If the truth confused the sane doctors, perhaps it would be clear to this insane man!

“I’m an American. I’m in town to destroy the Soviet weapon. Who are you?”

“Ah me? The name’s Morimoto!”

Rock said, “Not The Morimoto, leader of the Bushido fighting clan?”

The man bowed his head. “Same as you state, my friend.”

“You’re just the man I’m looking for to help me,” Rock said eagerly.

“Really?” Morimoto laughed. “Well, I think that might be difficult. I can’t help anyone in a straight jacket!”

Rock said, “I see what you mean . . . It looks grim. But a Freefighter never says die.” Rock wished he believed what he had just said.

He explained why he had come. Rock told all, either because the mind drug was still working or an instinctive need prompted him to trust Morimoto.

“I will help you, sir,” Morimoto said. “We
can
escape if you have some
ability.
And it is imperative that we get out of here within the hour!”

“Why?”

“They will drug us with the Q-14 formula—the one they use for long-term inmates. It makes you like a zombie. We must escape
now.
And as for
how,”
Morimoto added, “I’ve been thinking of how for a month. All I needed was an accomplice. You have mismatched eyes, so you are undoubtedly a mutant. Are you double jointed, as most mutants are?”

“Somewhat—though it hurts like hell. I
can
disjoint my shoulders.”

“Then, please remove yourself from your straight jacket by that method—then undo me.”

“Then what?”

“There is a way out. If we can but be free of these damned jackets. Hurry!”

Rock grunted and groaned for five minutes. He then was out of the jacket, badly bruised and sore—but
out.

“A regular Houdini,” complimented Morimoto.

The Japanese was freed from his straight jacket by Rockson, and then Rock said, “Okay. Where’s the way out?”

“There,”
Morimoto said, pointing up at the top of the right wall. “That small opening. It’s a grating.”

“Too small to crawl through,” Rock said, his heart sinking.

“Just
look
through the grate friend. What do you see?”

“It—is a room of some sort,” Rock said, once up on the stretcher peering through the wire mesh grate.

“And on the wall are sets of levers. Do you see them?” Morimoto asked.

“Yes. There
are
levers,” Rock replied.

“See the electrical wires at the baseboard in this room? What if we make a line-and-hook out of it and snag the lever marked cell three? That’s the lever that opens our door. I learned that by observation on my trips to and from the electric-shock chamber.”

“You’re a whiz, Morimoto! But we need a good hook.”

“There are several on our straight jackets!”

“Damned if you’re not right, Morimoto, my pal. You’re a genius!”

It took over an hour of careful throwing of the makeshift line and hook through the grating to snag the lever. Any second an attendant could have come in and discovered their work, but God, or the demigods that watch over fools, was on their side! Morimoto did the honors, jerking the line. The hook caught the lever and pulled it open before the hook fell.

Their cell’s steel door slid open.

“After you,” the Japanese said. “Just walk down that staircase over there. I’ve seen them take off their work smocks and put on their regular garments, and then they exit there.”

They opened a wardrobe closet and found some doctor’s jackets there, put them on and ran down the stairs. They were quickly out the street door into the steaming heat of the evening.

It was now time for Morimoto to ask questions. “Where do we go?”

Rock answered, “Anywhere! But fast!”

Twenty-One

K
illov, who had returned just as they had been scraping his only friend off the sidewalk, spent the whole day in seclusion.

“Why, Nakashima, why?” he kept saying over and over. “Why did you commit suicide?”

Nakashima, Killov knew, was obsessed with death. Indeed, he had wanted to die—by Killov’s hand. He had made the colonel promise to
personally
kill him. So why the suicide leap? Why couldn’t he wait?

Killov grieved for himself, too. After all, he was alone again. No one except Nakashima had
ever
understood Killov. Understood that life is inherently evil, inherently bound up with the dark forces; understood that to live is to kill. Nakashima knew that every day man kills to survive. He knew that we eat the bodies of living things, we step on insects as we walk and we destroy their tiny homes when we build our homes. Nakashima knew and
appreciated
that life
was
killing. That life and death were inseparable. And the chauffeur knew that to truly live, you have to throw your will behind the forces of death.

Poor Nakashima—such a great person didn’t deserve to die so ignominiously, he thought. And—there was something
fishy
about his death. Killov, for that reason, had ordered the first men upon the scene be sent to his office.

The officer who had first found the body, the one who had given the report of the Japanese madman being at the scene instants after Nakashima fell, now was sent in. Killov looked up at the nervous corporal’s pock-marked face.

“Kimlovsky,” Killov shouted, “what happened to that madman you found at the scene? Who was he? Did you let him escape?”

“Sir! He was not let go. I sent him to the insane asylum, sir!”

“Really?” Killov said. “That was—insufficient. He should have been held for questioning by me. I suspect that he had something to do with Nakashima’s fall. I
sense
it!” Adrenaline flowed like an icy river of energy into Killov’s rapidly beating heart. “Quickly—get on the phone to the asylum! Tell them to make sure to hold the man you sent to them for my interrogation.”