Doomsday Warrior 16 - American Overthrow Read Online Free PDF

an ominous trembling in his stomach and he knew it wasn’t lizard meat. They were facing a battle the likes of which he had never encountered before. Having to take on his own people, his own fellow Freefighters. He didn’t know what the hell was going on, but it was clearly a mess. He barely even saw the landscape shooting by in gray shadows, so immersed was he in his mind; questions that just led to more questions.
    They’d been riding hard for about an hour when Rock suddenly heard a ghastly whinny and the sound of rocks clumping all over the place. He ripped his head around to see Detroit’s steed stumbling over as it fell right onto its side. The black Freefighter went flying off a good fifteen feet through the air and landed hard, rolling over and over about a good fifty feet down the slope to their left.
    “Deity,” Rockson muttered, reining in his ’brid Snorter hard. The animal stopped on a quarter, if not a dime, and Rockson was off the saddle and tearing down the slope before Detroit had even come to a full quivering stop.
    “You all right, Detroit?” Rockson shouted in abject fear. The ebony fighter was one of his toughest men, not to mention closest friend, he had ever had. He didn’t even dare to think that the man might be dead. But Detroit’s eyes opened slowly as he lay on his back and looked straight up into the Doomsday Warrior’s face.
    “Was that the Cyclone at Coney Island or am I dreaming? Hot damn.” He sat up with a little help from Rockson and then came to his feet shaking his arms and kicking out both legs. The ’brid must have stepped into a gopher hole or something. “Where the hell is he?” Detroit asked.
    They both looked down the slope another hundred feet or so where the hybrid was already looking around for something to eat.
    “If it’s hungry, it’s got to be all right,” Rockson laughed as they headed down. The animal had a large gash, which was bleeding, down along its right flank. But no bones seemed to be broken. They bandaged it up from some medical supplies in their emergency packs and then slowly led the animal back up the slope. They mounted up again and moved slowly at first, testing Detroit’s steed to make sure it wasn’t going to have a repeat episode of the dropsies.
    “I think he’s okay,” Detroit said, increasing speed. “I don’t notice any change in gait or feel him shifting to one side.” Within five minutes they were back up to ninety percent of their previous speed. Detroit’s animal was more nervous now, but more cautious too, its eyes darting from side to side as it reached galloping speed. Neither of them wanted to do any more rock-sliding.
    They had ridden perhaps another two hours when Rockson grew nervous. He didn’t know what it was at first, just his mutant senses picking up something wrong from the environment. A noise, a smell . . . His sixth sense was on full alert. He scanned the woods on every side of them as they continued up and down the slopes of the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. But saw nothing. They rode on and Rockson noticed that Snorter—his mount—was getting a little uptight as well. Then Detroit rode up closer.
    “Something’s up, Rocky, I can feel it in my gut—and I ain’t even a star-patterned mutant like you.”
    Suddenly they heard them—barks, howls not too far behind. Rock stood up in his saddle and turned around, not slowing Snorter a step. He could see them, lit like pale demons in the moonlight, suddenly coming out of the shadows about a hundred yards behind. Dogs, wild ones, there must have been sixty or seventy of them. They were still loping along sniffing at the air, determining what was ahead and whether it was a danger to them—or food. But even as he watched, and Detroit, as well, turned to make the eye contact, the pack speeded up. They had caught the scent.
    “Let’s move pal,” Rockson screamed to Detroit, knowing they were taking a chance to speed up much more in the dim night