Doomsday Warrior 18 - American Dream Machine Read Online Free PDF

boulders and sand and scrub pines. Rockson climbed down from his lofty place, went down the rubbled slope, heading northeast—he hoped—once more.
    With just the setting sun’s position to guide him, Rock couldn’t be absolutely sure of direction. But hell, what IS sure in life? Except death. That is sure.
    Eventually he came to another rise, this one composed of reddish soil and, blessedly, clogged with blueberry bushes. He ate his fill of the juicy godsends, slobbering them down like a mad bear. Sated, Rockson climbed to the bald top of the blueberry hill, and in the twilight he saw it: a settlement. To his amazement, Rockson was staring down into a verdant valley. There were twentieth century ruins down there—the leftover cracked pavement of an old road, and some large concrete-block buildings. Each building was surrounded by grass-pocked parking lots. But what attracted his attentions most was the sole sign of life down there. From the largest building, which looked like an airplane hangar, curled some black smoke. The smoke was coming from a huge shiny new metal chimney pipe. The pipe looked like it had been jerry-rigged very poorly—and very recently. It wouldn’t stand much of a wind, that was for damn sure.
    An ancient, huge advertising sign hung half-collapsed at the edge of the structure’s old parking lot entrance. The rusty words said BOWL  G C N ER. Probably once had said BOWLING CENTER.
    Yes. Rock smiled. This must be the Bawl Corner of Archer’s message! The gentle giant he had come so far to rescue could be the one making all the smoke. After all, Archer was never very good at making clean-burning campfires! “Maybe the danger has passed. Maybe we could have a drink together, laugh about the long trip I’ve taken for no reason . . .”
    “Then again,” Rockson cautioned himself, “it could be some enemy down there making that smoke. Maybe some cannibals are cooking up Archer’s massive fatty body! Grim thought! But could be right! Better go down cautiously.”
    Rockson scrambled down the steep, weed-strewn incline onto the flat surface of the old parking lot. He took cover behind the disintegrating hulk of an old oil truck. You could still see EXXON in red on its side. The truck cannister must have been made of aluminum.
    Something caught his foot in the near total dark. A foul, musty smell of death assailed his nostrils, almost making him gag. Rock had found the first of many bodies he was to discover moldering away in that asphalt charnel ground!
    His vision was very keen, so he could see in the starlight that the deceased were all men, all in unmarked gray uniforms. They were mean-looking mothers, each and every one. The bodies all had had their guts blown out of their stomachs. Some of the bodies were crawling with large ants and grasshoppers, insects that seemed not to know it was winter and that they shouldn’t be out walking around now. Rockson drew the obvious conclusions.
    No doubt about it, there were all the signs of a recent battle here. There were bullet holes in the rusted cars and trucks, and craters made by some sort of artillery fire in the parking lot’s weeded surface. And there was one big hole in the wall of the large building as well. Right in the middle of the bowling center itself. A mortar had made that hole.
    Rockson ducked from cover to cover, coming closer and closer to the building. He was heading as silently as he could manage for the man-sized shell hole in the wall.
    He was just ten feet from that hole, hidden behind the carcass of a twentieth century RV, when a cold thing touched his left temple. It felt like a gun barrel. No, make that a double gun barrel. The wide double aperture of a twin .10-gauge shotgun was pressed hard against his head.

Four
    R ockson was most definitely slipping! No one had been able to sneak up on Rockson like that in a long, long time. Having no other alternative, Rockson froze in place, not moving a hair. He half winced, expecting