Doomsday Warrior 04 - Bloody America by Ryder Stacy

Author:Ryder Stacy
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 0821715569
Publisher: Zebra Books
Published: 1985-03-04T08:00:00+00:00

Thirteen

Archer never liked never being underground. He was a man of the open fields, the mountains. Even in Century City, Archer had, despite its airy plazas and wide underground passageways, felt claustrophobic. Here in the ancient Moscow subways he felt doubly uncomfortable. Once outside the large terminal the ceilings were oppressively low in sections, and Archer kept bending his seven-foot-plus frame for fear of scraping his head. He took to wearing an ancient WW II Russian Army helmet provided by the dissidents. He walked around, mouthing annoyed grumbles and grunts that no one could understand.

The next morning Archer woke up early, before Rock, and headed off down the tunnel in search of the toilet facilities that the dissidents had shown him. He walked through the dark tunnel lit by an occasional flickering light bulb that the jazzmen had strung up every few hundred feet, run by stolen electricity from passing power lines. Somehow he managed to take a wrong turn and headed deeper into the depths, sure that he would stumble upon the tunnel latrine. Within minutes he was completely lost within the labyrinth of the elaborate unused Moscow subway system. He began groaning and rushing this way and that, desperately hoping he would stumble upon the way out. He could take on twenty men at a time but to be lost underground scared the giant half to death. He pulled out the little penlight flashlight the dissidents had given him and Rock, but it was hardly enough to do more than dimly light up a few steps ahead. The immense freefighter was sure that he saw thousands of little green eyes peering at him from out of the impenetrable darkness of the endless tunnel. Rats? Mutated bugs? If they were big enough and would come forward he would tear them apart. But no, they hovered in the distance, watching, waiting as he lost himself deeper within the subterranean world.

At last he came into one of the wider chandeliered stations with several of the lights still working. Here the thousand green eyes disappeared, not wishing to enter the brightness. Archer sat down on a half rotted passenger bench near the center of the station and tried to figure out just what the hell to do next. He saw a shiny object at one end of the seat and reached over. It was a small metal flute, probably one of the dissident’s, dropped here by accident. The huge freefighter picked it up and lifted it to his lips. He began playing—mournful, sorrowful notes, a slow anarchistic tune that would have warmed the heart of any Zen master of the late Twentieth Century world. Each poignant note echoed down the multiple tunnels that led out of the terminal.

It didn’t like music. It had been scared many times, nearly killed by the dissidents and their screaming musical weapons. It had no name. It was forever. It was simply—it. It especially didn’t like this music! But this music could be approached and the player

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