Doomsday Warrior 10 - American Nightmare Read Online Free PDF

with an overheated rental car in the middle of rush hour on a holiday weekend. Now we all got problems, pal, so beat it.”
    Rock continued on his way, his jaw hanging open, staring into the city as he approached, then at the screaming faces in the cars, then at the strange piece of green oblong paper the man had given him, studying the picture of the funny-looking white-haired old man in the middle. George Washington.

Four
    R ockson staggered, bewildered, down the highway ramp onto a city street. The sun beat down without mercy on the concrete pavement. The air shimmered. Sweat poured down his face. God, what manner of place was this? Rockson stared in awe at the tall glass-and-concrete buildings that lined the broad avenues full of the hustle and bustle of a great city. He’d seen towns before that were large—but they were Soviet-occupied. And none were so populated as this. It was a veritable beehive of activity. The city actually hummed. It sounded, sometimes, like a song.
    Traffic was relentless. The streets were filled with cars, trucks and buses heading pell-mell to their various destinations. The buses were the worst. Their exhaust filled the air with a malodorous blue haze that stung his nostrils and made Rockson choke and gag. He walked on, half in a daze.
    Throngs of people filled the sidewalks, entering and exiting the various stores, restaurants, and supermarkets that advertised their wares in the windows. Every now and then a group of people would gather at the streetcorners as if waiting for something. Suddenly the cars would stop as if by some prearranged signal and the people would cross in a group, and then the traffic would start up again. No one had time to answer his questions. At best they’d give him a funny look, but most walked by as if he weren’t there.
    The most popular stores, with bunches of citizens gathered in front of the windows, were the music stores. Everyone in this city seemed to love music. But music store was spelled Muzik Store.
    Odd.
    Numerous people were wearing headphones and would occasionally fiddle with small metallic boxes attached to their belts. Music tapes? And for those without headphones, there was always the canned music which poured forth from loudspeakers mounted atop every light pole. Rockson was getting annoyed. The city’s din was largely caused by the homogenized rehash of ancient popular middle-of-the-road tunes.
    He came to a restaurant called Happy Face. The sign in the window promised service with a smile. Rock pushed open the door and was greeted with a welcoming rush of cold air and the equally chilly smile of the hostess wearing a happy face pinned to the collar of her frosty-pink shirtwaist dress. “I’m afraid you’ll have to leave, sir. You are not observing the proper dress code. All men must wear a tie and jacket.”
    Rockson looked around at the tables filled with people eating and drinking. There were businessmen dressed in suits and ties, but there were also a number of other people wearing shorts and tee shirts. “Listen, I’m sorry about my clothes, but I just arrived in town and—well, my—plane crashed in the desert. All I really want is some water.”
    “I’ll be right back,” she responded. “Wait here,” she pointed to a sign that said PLEASE WAIT TO BE SEATED. Her high heels clicked against the tile floor as she turned smartly and walked down the aisle. She disappeared through a swinging door at the back of the restaurant. Rockson waited as patiently as he could but the sight and smell of food and drink was overwhelming. The cashier stared at his every move. People were beginning to notice him and point. In a few minutes the hostess reappeared followed by a beefy sort of man—the manager?
    “What seems to be the problem here?” asked the manager.
    “There’s no problem. I just want something to eat and drink. That’s what a restaurant is for, isn’t it?” Rockson was in no mood to parry with the manager.
    “This