Doomsday Warrior spat out like a bullet.
“Rockson?” Rock asked curiously. The name sent a shiver up his spine. “Who is Ted Rockson?”
The man sat up and spoke in a loud whisper as the others grew silent. Every one of them knew the legendary name. Only Rockson himself did not.
“Rockson is the one man the Russians, and the Nazis, fear,” the man said with some pride as if sharing in the Doomsday Warrior’s strength just by speaking of him. “He is a Freefighter and has done incredible damage to their armies. He’s the most wanted man in America. The Russians have his name and picture, only no one really knows for sure what he looks like, anyway. They have his description up in every military base in the country. Reward of 100,000 rubles for any man, Red or slave, who finds him and turns him in. He could save us,” the man said almost prayerfully, as he looked out the window through narrow tearful eyes at the burning moon above. “He’s the only one who could. There are stories that he has even freed slaves and prisoners in many fortresses. But no one knows for sure. The Russians don’t speak of him. So it is all just told from stranger to stranger. But I know he is real,” the man went on, growing more and more quiet as the others listened attentively, their minds somehow more awakened by the events of the evening than they had been for a long, long time.
“I know he exists. And I know he will never come here, to this camp, to save us. Not here. We are the lost, the forgotten. The unknown dead.”
Eleven
S he was kissing him. She was all over him, her naked long-limbed body squirming hard against his as she frantically sought for his manhood. Then he was in her. Her face was so familiar as he looked down at her ecstatic beauty. How incredible she looked, like a goddess. He stroked into her harder and harder. He searched for her name. What was her name? Damn it, why couldn’t he remember?
Suddenly voices were calling to him from everywhere. Her voice, multiplied 1,000 times. Her mouth opened again and again, calling his name. Calling his name. Her lips formed the words, but somehow no matter how close they came he couldn’t make out what they were saying. Then a chorus of sensations shot through his entire body. They were talking to him. Their melodic voices, like a thousand minds telepathing at once, somehow linked into one pulsing harmonious being, spoke to him. Tried to reach him. He knew them, they were—The Glowers. Their name, he knew their name. They reached for his mind, sending out their telepathic signals from far off . . .
“Arise. Arise, now. Danger, danger is all around you . . .”
He felt a burning pain rip through his head and neck. The sensation was unbearable, as if his entire spinal cord was being severed. He opened his eyes. He had been sleeping, someone was above him. A weapon, a hammer. It descended with the swiftness of a guillotine for its second strike. But Rockson, even with the racking pain in his upper neck from the hammer’s first blow, was still alive—and fast. He rolled his body over, suddenly shifting his hips so that he snapped to the side just as the hammer came down. The 15-inch long, three-inch wide, heavy industrial iron-crafting hammer whizzed past its intended victim and into the floor, cracking the concrete into spider-web like fissures around the point of impact.
It was Foster 236, Rock could see as he jumped up from the floor, slamming one hand around his throbbing neck. No blood, but it hurt like hell. The fool must have missed his skull, and hit just on the muscular side of the neck . . . where he could absorb the blow. He was alive anyway. And something else. He suddenly realized—he knew who he was. The blow—it had made it all come back! I’m—I’m the Rockson. He almost laughed with joy even as the hulking attacker turned with a snarling contemptuous shriek, attacking with the dread hammer cocked treacherously overhead, threatening
“Rockson?” Rock asked curiously. The name sent a shiver up his spine. “Who is Ted Rockson?”
The man sat up and spoke in a loud whisper as the others grew silent. Every one of them knew the legendary name. Only Rockson himself did not.
“Rockson is the one man the Russians, and the Nazis, fear,” the man said with some pride as if sharing in the Doomsday Warrior’s strength just by speaking of him. “He is a Freefighter and has done incredible damage to their armies. He’s the most wanted man in America. The Russians have his name and picture, only no one really knows for sure what he looks like, anyway. They have his description up in every military base in the country. Reward of 100,000 rubles for any man, Red or slave, who finds him and turns him in. He could save us,” the man said almost prayerfully, as he looked out the window through narrow tearful eyes at the burning moon above. “He’s the only one who could. There are stories that he has even freed slaves and prisoners in many fortresses. But no one knows for sure. The Russians don’t speak of him. So it is all just told from stranger to stranger. But I know he is real,” the man went on, growing more and more quiet as the others listened attentively, their minds somehow more awakened by the events of the evening than they had been for a long, long time.
“I know he exists. And I know he will never come here, to this camp, to save us. Not here. We are the lost, the forgotten. The unknown dead.”
Eleven
S he was kissing him. She was all over him, her naked long-limbed body squirming hard against his as she frantically sought for his manhood. Then he was in her. Her face was so familiar as he looked down at her ecstatic beauty. How incredible she looked, like a goddess. He stroked into her harder and harder. He searched for her name. What was her name? Damn it, why couldn’t he remember?
Suddenly voices were calling to him from everywhere. Her voice, multiplied 1,000 times. Her mouth opened again and again, calling his name. Calling his name. Her lips formed the words, but somehow no matter how close they came he couldn’t make out what they were saying. Then a chorus of sensations shot through his entire body. They were talking to him. Their melodic voices, like a thousand minds telepathing at once, somehow linked into one pulsing harmonious being, spoke to him. Tried to reach him. He knew them, they were—The Glowers. Their name, he knew their name. They reached for his mind, sending out their telepathic signals from far off . . .
“Arise. Arise, now. Danger, danger is all around you . . .”
He felt a burning pain rip through his head and neck. The sensation was unbearable, as if his entire spinal cord was being severed. He opened his eyes. He had been sleeping, someone was above him. A weapon, a hammer. It descended with the swiftness of a guillotine for its second strike. But Rockson, even with the racking pain in his upper neck from the hammer’s first blow, was still alive—and fast. He rolled his body over, suddenly shifting his hips so that he snapped to the side just as the hammer came down. The 15-inch long, three-inch wide, heavy industrial iron-crafting hammer whizzed past its intended victim and into the floor, cracking the concrete into spider-web like fissures around the point of impact.
It was Foster 236, Rock could see as he jumped up from the floor, slamming one hand around his throbbing neck. No blood, but it hurt like hell. The fool must have missed his skull, and hit just on the muscular side of the neck . . . where he could absorb the blow. He was alive anyway. And something else. He suddenly realized—he knew who he was. The blow—it had made it all come back! I’m—I’m the Rockson. He almost laughed with joy even as the hulking attacker turned with a snarling contemptuous shriek, attacking with the dread hammer cocked treacherously overhead, threatening
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