Doomsday Warrior 05 - America’s Last Declaration by Ryder Stacy Page A
Authors: Ryder Stacy
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. . . parlor.” He pointed to a door which was open to the back room just a crack. Cigarette and cigar smoke drifted out amidst the sounds of cards slapping down on a table.
“Yeah, thanks,” Rock said. “But we have to clean up and get some shut-eye. Maybe later.”
“Well, sure, any friend of Shirley’s a friend of mine,” the manager said. “I’ll ring for the bellboy.” Maliber pounded a little bell on the counter, put a small round red hat on and came around the front. “If you’ll follow me this way, sir.” He led them outside and down a few yards to one of a row of small bungalos. The room inside was big and comfortable-wood panelled with pictures of seagulls hanging on the walls. It even had an ancient television set inside. “Sheets, towels, everything’s all ready,” Maliber said, waiting by the door with an expectant look on his face.
“Oh yeah,” Rock muttered, remembering the etiquette of old. He took out the smallest coin he could find, a five-ruble silver piece and handed it to the man. Maliber’s eyes lit up like pinball bumpers.
“Thank you, thank you very much, sir, and I hope you have a pleasant night.” He gently closed the door but they could hear him laughing out loud as he walked back to the office.
Rock tested the bed—soft as cotton and then walked over to the TV set. He knew it had to be dead but couldn’t resist turning the knob. It lit up—with a picture of John Wayne, lit from behind by a light bulb, staring out at him. A voice on some kind of record spoke out from the speaker. “Reach for it, pardner, or I’ll blast you to the sky. Reach for it, pardner, or I’ll blast you to sky.” The recording played over and over, skipping slightly on a scratch. Rock turned it off. Somehow he doubted that ancient TV had been quite like that.
He heard noises from the other room. Archer was already in the shower, humming his version of “Home on the Range.”
“Save some soap—and water—for me,” Rock yelled, flopping down onto one of the two massive beds made out of tree logs. The images of the diner kept sweeping through his mind like a mad dream. Just when he thought he’d seen it all, something would pop up to challenge any ideas he had about becoming jaded.
The water stopped and Archer came out wrapped in a towel that barely covered his midsection—with the three bears printed on it.
“You must be Poppa Bear,” Rock joked, rising and heading for the shower himself. He took a long one, washing off the grease and dirt of their last few days’ ordeal. When he came out he heard elephantlike noises from one of the beds. Archer was snoring like a buzzsaw. But Rock was so tired that the second he hit the cool white sheets he fell into a deep sleep—snores or no snores.
The doorbell to their cabin rang when it was already bright and sunny outside. It was Maliber, holding a tray of scrambled eggs and bacon. “Breakfast in bed. You might want to tip the bellboy, gentlemen,” he said, the absurd little hat perched on his head like a red bird’s nest. Rock found another small silver coin and pressed it into the motel manager’s meaty hand. “Thanks, mister. Checkout’s at 11:00—unless you want to pay for another night.”
“What’s the daily rate?” Rock asked. Maliber took his bellboy cap off again.
“Ten dollars each per night—plus five for the water.”
“Sounds steep,” Rock said, aware of his dwindling supply of gold.
“Mister, this here’s the only operating motel north of the Mason-Dixon line. You’re lucky as hell to find us.”
“Well, maybe I can win some of it back in the game room,” Rock said, grinning.
“That’s the spirit,” Maliber said. “You might. Then again . . .”
Rockson grabbed his plate off the tray just as Archer was about to consume it, having long since finished his. “Not so fast, pal,” the Doomsday Warrior said. “I may be smaller than you but I got to eat too.” Their clothes had been cleaned and
“Yeah, thanks,” Rock said. “But we have to clean up and get some shut-eye. Maybe later.”
“Well, sure, any friend of Shirley’s a friend of mine,” the manager said. “I’ll ring for the bellboy.” Maliber pounded a little bell on the counter, put a small round red hat on and came around the front. “If you’ll follow me this way, sir.” He led them outside and down a few yards to one of a row of small bungalos. The room inside was big and comfortable-wood panelled with pictures of seagulls hanging on the walls. It even had an ancient television set inside. “Sheets, towels, everything’s all ready,” Maliber said, waiting by the door with an expectant look on his face.
“Oh yeah,” Rock muttered, remembering the etiquette of old. He took out the smallest coin he could find, a five-ruble silver piece and handed it to the man. Maliber’s eyes lit up like pinball bumpers.
“Thank you, thank you very much, sir, and I hope you have a pleasant night.” He gently closed the door but they could hear him laughing out loud as he walked back to the office.
Rock tested the bed—soft as cotton and then walked over to the TV set. He knew it had to be dead but couldn’t resist turning the knob. It lit up—with a picture of John Wayne, lit from behind by a light bulb, staring out at him. A voice on some kind of record spoke out from the speaker. “Reach for it, pardner, or I’ll blast you to the sky. Reach for it, pardner, or I’ll blast you to sky.” The recording played over and over, skipping slightly on a scratch. Rock turned it off. Somehow he doubted that ancient TV had been quite like that.
He heard noises from the other room. Archer was already in the shower, humming his version of “Home on the Range.”
“Save some soap—and water—for me,” Rock yelled, flopping down onto one of the two massive beds made out of tree logs. The images of the diner kept sweeping through his mind like a mad dream. Just when he thought he’d seen it all, something would pop up to challenge any ideas he had about becoming jaded.
The water stopped and Archer came out wrapped in a towel that barely covered his midsection—with the three bears printed on it.
“You must be Poppa Bear,” Rock joked, rising and heading for the shower himself. He took a long one, washing off the grease and dirt of their last few days’ ordeal. When he came out he heard elephantlike noises from one of the beds. Archer was snoring like a buzzsaw. But Rock was so tired that the second he hit the cool white sheets he fell into a deep sleep—snores or no snores.
The doorbell to their cabin rang when it was already bright and sunny outside. It was Maliber, holding a tray of scrambled eggs and bacon. “Breakfast in bed. You might want to tip the bellboy, gentlemen,” he said, the absurd little hat perched on his head like a red bird’s nest. Rock found another small silver coin and pressed it into the motel manager’s meaty hand. “Thanks, mister. Checkout’s at 11:00—unless you want to pay for another night.”
“What’s the daily rate?” Rock asked. Maliber took his bellboy cap off again.
“Ten dollars each per night—plus five for the water.”
“Sounds steep,” Rock said, aware of his dwindling supply of gold.
“Mister, this here’s the only operating motel north of the Mason-Dixon line. You’re lucky as hell to find us.”
“Well, maybe I can win some of it back in the game room,” Rock said, grinning.
“That’s the spirit,” Maliber said. “You might. Then again . . .”
Rockson grabbed his plate off the tray just as Archer was about to consume it, having long since finished his. “Not so fast, pal,” the Doomsday Warrior said. “I may be smaller than you but I got to eat too.” Their clothes had been cleaned and
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