Free Doomsday Warrior 10 - American Nightmare by Ryder Stacy Page A

that was drawing so much attention—he still had a big pink smack on his left cheek. He carefully wiped it off.
    Rookies, their uniforms bearing chess symbols, were everywhere in the city, directing traffic, strolling the sidewalks. Their presence seemed threatening to him. And why not? He was feeling and acting like a psycho.
    The store windows displayed bizarre goods—more plastic things. Rockson passed cafés and restaurants. He remembered the eight dollars in his pocket—but still had no appetite.
    Nearly everyone he passed was neatly dressed. The city itself had a sterilized look. So Rockson was surprised when he saw dirty derelicts loitering on street corners and sleeping in building nooks. If this society was so concerned about proper behavior and attitudes, why were these homeless and jobless not aided and taken care of? No! Wrong! Why were they tolerated and allowed to sully the landscape? That was the correct thought. His mind flip-flopped.
    The TV ads said, Don’t feed the homeless, let them work, the lazy bastards. But there weren’t any jobs. Confusion.
    Rockson turned a corner and came upon a man in rags pawing through a waste container, picking out scraps of food and stuffing them in his mouth. He found himself going up to the man, offering him his eight dollars, and pointing to a café across the street.
    The derelict shook his head vehemently. “I wouldn’t eat there—drugged food. All the fresh food’s drugged.”
    Rockson was taken aback, but he pressed the man. “Eat somewhere else—anywhere you want. You don’t have to go through garbage to get a meal.”
    The derelict moved off, shaking his head, leaving Rockson with his outstretched hand full of money. I am crazy to do this, thought Rockson. There’s a law against helping these people, though I can’t imagine why.
    Crisscrossing, contradictory ideas filled his mind.
    He continued on his way. His walk took him past a beautiful green park. He was startled when a lump in the bushes near the sidewalk moved and hissed, “Hey, you!”
    He stopped and looked closely. The lump moved again and separated from the bushes—it was another derelict, a short, rotund man with several days’ growth of beard and greasy clothing. Judging from his girth, he had no trouble staying fed. There was something piratelike about the man.
    The man crooked a finger at him, and Rockson responded, going closer. “I’ve been watching you, mister—you don’t look like the rest of the fine citizens of Salt Lake City.”
    Rockson caught his breath. Was the bum going to turn him back over to the police? He didn’t answer.
    The man went on. “Good for you.” Rockson expelled his breath in relief. “I don’t know how you managed, but you seem to be a free man,” the derelict said, twisting his head.
    “What do you mean?” Rockson said nervously.
    “You know what I mean. Shhh! We must be careful. The police are all around, and they listen.” The derelict peered around him with wide eyes. He crouched lower. “They’ll find you out before long. Free men never last without help. But we can help.”
    “Who’s ‘we?’ What help are you talking about?”
    “Never mind. If you want help, come back to this area at night. I sleep on the grates. The name is Barrelman.” With those words, the derelict drew back into the shrubbery and disappeared from sight.
    “Wait!” called Rockson, but the man was gone.
    Rockson was intrigued and confused at the same time.
    Rock walked and walked, trying to get his mind on some definite track—and failed.

Seven
    N ight was falling. He just couldn’t go home. Not until he’d sorted things out. The pain in his head was getting greater by the minute. He wandered for hours, found himself in a sleazy part of town. There were more street people, darker corners, garbage. Rockson saw a red blinking neon sign; TERMINAL HOTEL —Cheap Rooms.
    He fished in his pocket for the lunch money Kim had given him—eight bucks. He wandered into