Doomsday Warrior 18 - American Dream Machine Read Online Free PDF Page B

the shot that would send his brains flying in a hundred directions. But that didn’t happen. As he took a few short breaths he inhaled body odor. That would be the person with the shotgun. The gunner smelled like a wet bear! As a matter of fact, he stank to high heaven.
    A gruff, gravelly voice snarled out, “STAY still!”
    “I’m not going anywhere,” Rock replied. That voice sounded MIGHTY familiar. And that smell, come to think of it. Rock moved his head a tiny bit, so that he could put the corner of his vision over to the side. He saw the mountainous man holding the weapon. The huge man was wearing a wide-brimmed leather hat, and was covered in furs crudely sewn together. He had a huge, tangled black beard, with red and white strands in it. The beard was stuck with old pieces of chewing tobacco and what must have been pieces of food—the menu of a month. The dark, beady eyes were calm and direct, if a bit blank. He knew this fellow.
    Rockson said, in a soft voice, “Archer, it’s me Archer! You fuckhead, put down that shotgun!”
    The shotgun didn’t move. “Huh? Rockson?”
    “Yes, you heard me. It’s your old pal, the Doomsday Warrior, come to rescue you. Is this anyway to treat—”
    Now the barrels of the shotgun lifted away from his temple. Rockson turned slowly and put his steady, ice-chip blue eyes upon the mountain man’s big brown orbs. “Yeah, it’s me! ,” he complained. “Why, you stupid bastard! You coulda killed me!”
    The man, still holding the shotgun in one meaty hand, threw out his arms to give Rock a big bear hug. A wide, candy-eating grin broadened on the lips above the tangled beard. “Rock! You came!”
    As Archer nearly squeezed the life out of his would-be rescuer, both barrels of the shotgun discharged. They blasted a hole a foot deep in the soil right next to their feet. Rock’s ears rang, and he could hardly hear for the next few seconds. He checked to see that his feet were still on his body—they were.
    Archer looked embarrassed. “Sorry! Hair trigger!” He stepped back, red-faced, looking like a child about to be admonished for wetting his pants.
    Rock just frowned. “Okay Arch, what’s the big emergency? Tell me why I came here.”
    “See bodies? It over now!” the big man replied. He smiled broadly once more. “Big bad gang. But I MORE bad!” Archer punched Rock on the shoulder in a friendly gesture and nearly knocked the Doomsday Warrior down. “Come!”
    “I will, if you stop shouting!”
    “OK,” Archer said more softly. “Sorry. I make up little mistake with gun! You come! Eat! Drink! Later screw nice girl! Me happy. You no forget Archer! Come we have beers!”
    Rock nodded and trudged along beside the huge man, who headed, not for the hole in the building, but for a door further down along the same wall. Rock was still miffed about the near accident to his braincase, and demanded more explanation for the urgent message, as they walked. He received a terse elaboration of the events that had forced Archer to send the message: a gang of marauders called the Black Magic Boys had surrounded Archer’s little retirement place and given him a hard time for a week. It had been Archer against about twenty well-armed men. Archer had been besieged and desperate when he sent the message. Then he’d had a neat idea. He let them break in where he stored his liquor supply: a thousand cartons of twentieth century Scotch. Then, as the gangsters became too drunk to fight, Archer sneaked around, taking them out one by one, with this very same hair-trigger blunderbuss.
    “Well, I’m glad that you survived,” Rock muttered as Archer held the door open, “but next time send a nevermind message, OK?”
    “You no come see me, if I not in danger?” Archer looked hurt. “You no miss me?”
    “It’s not that, pal,” Rock replied, feeling guilty. He had hurt the big man’s feelings. Archer was like a kid. “It’s just that I wouldn’t have hurried here. I would