Doomsday Warrior 12 - Death American Style Read Online Free PDF Page A

slipped in along one side of the netting, which gave easily, sliding out of the way as the ’brids happily realized they were home, and that food and rest awaited them.
    Dr. Hart, Biology Chief, was already waiting at one side of the large chamber where most of C.C.’s commerce with the outer world went on. It was bristling with activity, men, women carrying loads, leading teams of hybrids. The scientist’s small face wrinkled up in distaste, as did those of his two pale assistants who stood watching with cameras and notepads.
    “You killed it,” Hart said as Rock stopped in front of him, tethering the pack team to a steel post as a whole team of white-smocked tech’s unloaded the huge carnivore onto a steel dolly capable of holding ten tons. The Chief of Biology walked around the animal examining the various ways it had been ripped, torn, and gashed open. His close-set, small gray eyes filled with fury.
    "Really— we did ask for a specimen in mint condition! Otherwise, what good is it? You’ll have to go out again and—”
    “Look, pal,” Rock said, the smile fading from his tan, sweat-coated face. “We’re lucky to be here talking to you, instead of in this thing’s stomach. Not only won’t I go out after one again, but I suggest that nobody try to take a redhide alive—or that man’s gonna end his days in a digestive tract. It’s here, it’s big, it’s still warm. I’m sure you guys can figure out something to do with it.”
    “Yes, I suppose so. I suppose so,” Hart said, deep in thought, his brow furrowed as he contemplated the possibilities. “I still think you could have brought it back alive, we need specimens. Everyone expects miracles of us.” The half unhinged (as far as Rockson was concerned) Bio Chief led his group of bear-pushing assistants off to some hidden lab in the back recesses of the fourth level. There they would dissect and gene splice to their heart’s content, and probably create some horrible species that would make the recently deceased seem like a teddy bear, he thought.
    “Come on, baby,” Rock said, putting his arm around Rona as they exited the outer chamber and headed into the underground hidden metropolis that was Century City. The city was quite startling at first, so sudden was the sound and the energy as they stepped through the sliding, magnetic, nuke-shock-proof doors. The subterranean fortress of Freefighters was composed of sixteen levels. The one they had entered was hundreds of thousands of square feet in dimension and contained nearly two-thirds of all of Century City’s industry. C.C. was known among other things for producing Liberator rifles and machine guns. The weapons were reliable, ammo-interchangeable; best of all, they worked. So they were much in demand throughout the entire region. Other Freefighting cities brought their own creations—computers, produce, medicines, clothing, furs, milk and eggs. Each made what it could and traded with the others. Thus had an entire hidden economy sprung up over the last fifty years, supporting a complex interrelation of the Hidden Free Cities of Soviet-occupied America.
    Crates of Liberators with the C.C. stamp of inspection on their sides were waiting to be carted off by mule and jeep, and even on human backs, in some cases. While at the other end of the Trade Chamber, the goods that had been brought in were being sorted and carried off. And what a commotion it was, as such interchanges always involved live chickens and goats, horses, cattle, even snakes and such. One never knew for sure what the visitors would bring in hopes of getting some of what the famous Century City produced. “Let’s get beyond this racket, Rona,” Rock said.
    The subterranean city had been carved out of the mountainside, and it still had a sort of cool dampness to it, which Rockson didn’t find unpleasant as he walked along. The city never ceased to amaze him, even after the thousandth time he reentered it. That all this had