was elated. He would update the Uzi with spare parts from some of the other weapons in the front room—including some long clips from the badly damaged Browning anti-air World War II vintage weapon in the window display. Still, the Browning’s barrel was clean . . .
Working efficiently but rapidly, Rockson took the classic Colt .45 and a Widley .45 magnum—which could chamber 200-grain slugs—out of the cases in the front room and started disassembling them. He found some cases of .9mm bullets manufactured in Finland, too. Good ammo.
The barrel assembly of the magnum weapon consisted of a ribbed barrel, poston, and bolt housing. The other weapons weren’t meant to come apart in the same way, but with Rockson’s skill, they did. The lathe made a lot of noise. It couldn’t be helped. In two and a half hours, using the clips meant for the Browning anti-aircraft weapon that held a hundred rounds each, he finished his work. Rockson turned off the lathe, undid the clamps, and held his Uzi-Colt-Widley-Browning anti-air hybrid weapon. A beauty of deadly power!
Sure it was heavy, but it was meant for heavy work—and it still could be concealed under a coat held over one arm. Damn, if this compound gun couldn’t do the trick, what weapon could?
He took six of the long Browning bandoliers along. Lots of high-caliber death for any opponents. It made his clothes fit terribly, but what the hell. It paid to be well-armed more than it paid to be well-tailored.
Nine
R ockson’s anger knew no bounds. He’d smash this Chessman and his hypnotic power, destroy the damned police who cremated innocent people, who kept this burg under their thumb. But how, alone?
He remembered the derelict outside his office building. The one who had whispered for Rockson to come see him if he was really a free man. Perhaps there was an opposition to Chessman—allies.
Rock left the shop with the gun covered by his jacket held over his arm. It was a sullen wet day. He reached the dark alley near Nietzsche Square, where he’d gotten off the bus to go to work. There were the trashbins that the street person had been rummaging through. But nowhere was the decrepit man to be seen.
He went over to the little corner newsstand. “Citizen, where are the street people that used to congregate here?”
The toothless newsman smiled. “The brush-eaters got some of them. Came the other night, caught two or three. The rest runs off. They’d be back over in Sadtown, the city dump—if any are left. That’s where they belong, the filthy, shiftless bastards!”
Rockson asked where Sadtown was. The newsdealer said earnestly, “Wouldn’t go down there, fella—lots of street people—they eats off the dump there—should be closed down.” Still, he gave the Doomsday Warrior directions.
Rockson came to the south edge of the city. The city dump. There he saw people you could hardly identify as such, scurrying and foraging around the piles of garbage with the rats. He grabbed one. “I’m looking for Barrelman— Do you know where he is?”
The man told him, “Third pile to the left,” and pulled free.
Rockson made his way over the shifting piles of reeking garbage till he found Barrelman, who looked up and smiled. “You are free? Glory be. Just don’t eat fresh food—it’s not only the muzik, it’s the food, that hypnotizes. Drink a lot of liquor—keeps your mind off of it. At night, especially when you sleep, take care—sleep up on a roof. The brush-eaters can’t climb stairs well, and make a lot of noise doing it. That’s my advice.” He went back to picking garbage.
“Thanks for the advice,” said Rockson, “but I need more than advice on survival.” He pulled the coat from his arm. “See this weapon here? It can kill a hundred rookies—I want you to get the street people together to fight back. I can show you how to make these weapons. I made mine from parts at a gun store. There must be hundreds of you strong enough to fight the
Working efficiently but rapidly, Rockson took the classic Colt .45 and a Widley .45 magnum—which could chamber 200-grain slugs—out of the cases in the front room and started disassembling them. He found some cases of .9mm bullets manufactured in Finland, too. Good ammo.
The barrel assembly of the magnum weapon consisted of a ribbed barrel, poston, and bolt housing. The other weapons weren’t meant to come apart in the same way, but with Rockson’s skill, they did. The lathe made a lot of noise. It couldn’t be helped. In two and a half hours, using the clips meant for the Browning anti-aircraft weapon that held a hundred rounds each, he finished his work. Rockson turned off the lathe, undid the clamps, and held his Uzi-Colt-Widley-Browning anti-air hybrid weapon. A beauty of deadly power!
Sure it was heavy, but it was meant for heavy work—and it still could be concealed under a coat held over one arm. Damn, if this compound gun couldn’t do the trick, what weapon could?
He took six of the long Browning bandoliers along. Lots of high-caliber death for any opponents. It made his clothes fit terribly, but what the hell. It paid to be well-armed more than it paid to be well-tailored.
Nine
R ockson’s anger knew no bounds. He’d smash this Chessman and his hypnotic power, destroy the damned police who cremated innocent people, who kept this burg under their thumb. But how, alone?
He remembered the derelict outside his office building. The one who had whispered for Rockson to come see him if he was really a free man. Perhaps there was an opposition to Chessman—allies.
Rock left the shop with the gun covered by his jacket held over his arm. It was a sullen wet day. He reached the dark alley near Nietzsche Square, where he’d gotten off the bus to go to work. There were the trashbins that the street person had been rummaging through. But nowhere was the decrepit man to be seen.
He went over to the little corner newsstand. “Citizen, where are the street people that used to congregate here?”
The toothless newsman smiled. “The brush-eaters got some of them. Came the other night, caught two or three. The rest runs off. They’d be back over in Sadtown, the city dump—if any are left. That’s where they belong, the filthy, shiftless bastards!”
Rockson asked where Sadtown was. The newsdealer said earnestly, “Wouldn’t go down there, fella—lots of street people—they eats off the dump there—should be closed down.” Still, he gave the Doomsday Warrior directions.
Rockson came to the south edge of the city. The city dump. There he saw people you could hardly identify as such, scurrying and foraging around the piles of garbage with the rats. He grabbed one. “I’m looking for Barrelman— Do you know where he is?”
The man told him, “Third pile to the left,” and pulled free.
Rockson made his way over the shifting piles of reeking garbage till he found Barrelman, who looked up and smiled. “You are free? Glory be. Just don’t eat fresh food—it’s not only the muzik, it’s the food, that hypnotizes. Drink a lot of liquor—keeps your mind off of it. At night, especially when you sleep, take care—sleep up on a roof. The brush-eaters can’t climb stairs well, and make a lot of noise doing it. That’s my advice.” He went back to picking garbage.
“Thanks for the advice,” said Rockson, “but I need more than advice on survival.” He pulled the coat from his arm. “See this weapon here? It can kill a hundred rookies—I want you to get the street people together to fight back. I can show you how to make these weapons. I made mine from parts at a gun store. There must be hundreds of you strong enough to fight the
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