Doomsday Warrior 06 - American Rebellion Read Online Free

rather than years.
    The group of men which Rockson was in was already consigned to the S.S. of Goerringrad. The S.S. Col. Struhl, Quartermaster of the Fortress City, had told Yigmar, the leader of this particular band of Slavers, that they would pay cold cash—gold rubles—on delivery for able-bodied men who could be used to build roads, landing fields, housing. “But don’t bring us any garbage,” Struhl had warned him, “or you will take their place.” Thus Yigmar, riding in a rusting 40-year old Red Army jeep with a black flag of chains around a skull snapping in the wind on the front right bumper, had decided on the Death March as a way to weed out the undesirables. Those who made it were obviously strong enough to work for the Nazis, those that didn’t—well. The weaker died all the time, every second, everywhere on earth.
    “Water, water,” an aging Freefighter walking along the dusty road a few feet away from Rockson cried out for the fifth time in the last minute. His lips were dry as sand, with a thick white foam surrounding his mouth. His eyes kept rolling up in his head as he stumbled along. Rock kept leaning over to lend a supporting hand but a guard would rush over and slam at his arm with the butt of his Kalashnikov, screaming, “No help. Must walk on own.” It was a game of ultimate stakes and every player was on his own.
    Rockson was near the very back of the file of bedraggled, captured Americans. All of them were Freefighters from Century City and a few of the other nearby Freefighting cities who had lent support. All of them somehow left behind, unconscious, wounded, hidden beneath other bodies. They were brothers in war and wanted nothing more than to aid their weakening comrades faltering on the long march. For some men it is easier to die oneself than to see one’s friends, fellow warriors through countless battles, dying alongside, and be able to do nothing. Every hour or so one of the men, their wounds just too severe, would collapse, falling over on the dusty back road, like a tree whose roots have been cut. Even the slamming of the Slaver’s steel-tipped boots into their ribs wouldn’t make them move. So they were left, without water or shade, to die in the roasting sun, baked red and literally cooked to death before this day came to an end. Within 12 hours of the start of the Death March ten of the prisoners lay along the sides of the road, their lives slipping away like so much dust in the wind. And there was still nearly 50 miles to go before reaching Goerringrad.
    Rockson was siekened by the sight of the wounded being left like worthless beasts. He felt a fury inside of him that threatened to explode out at any moment. He didn’t know who he was but he knew what he was—a fighter. His powerful arms, his heightened senses, the almost endless energy that his body seemed to possess, carrying him along the road with almost no effort. Even the lack of water didn’t bother him. Somehow, he was different from the rest. There were many things about him which seemed strange. He could almost hear—not the words—but somehow the thoughts of the men around him, the prisoners and the guards. It seemed to happen when he was looking at a tree or the sky for a second and forgot where he was. His body relaxed—then it would occur, the world would start broadcasting out its thoughts, emotions, from all around him. The energy felt like an attack to him and he would tense up in fighting readiness—instantly the signals would vanish. But it was strange. He knew that men did not possess telepathy—yet he did. But when he reached deeper inside for his identity it was like coming up against a brick wall, a steel wall, completely impenetrable.
    The Slavers marched them until midnight and Yigmar pulled the convoy of human commerce over to the side of the road.
    “We rest scum. Give them water—but no food,” he ordered his dozen or so heavily armed guards who surrounded them. He would cull out