Free Doomsday Warrior 16 - American Overthrow by Ryder Stacy

moisture down to the earth. Mini-tornado funnels came out of its guts and spiraled down to the earth below. A mega-blow, a black rain. Rain whose acid drops could eat away at steel, let alone human flesh. Bitch Nature.
    “We’re into the shit, boys,” Rockson said, holding up his right hand in the stop signal. “We got us an acid-blow coming on fast.” The rest of them could see it now too, could feel the sudden change in air electrical currents. Rock dismounted slowly, not wanting to spook either the men or the steeds, though they had been through this before, and should feel spooked.
    “Where should we set up?” Chen asked as he walked alongside Rock, his ’brid’s reins in his hands.
    “A clearing will be better than beneath any of these big sucker trees here,” the Doomsday Warrior replied, looking around. He had seen the dark acidic drops eat right through branches sending them flying down to the ground.
    They found a basically flat sandy area which would be good, as it would absorb the death-rain and began taking out their alumnisynth space blankets. Acid-repellant. Another of Shecter’s inventions. Before them, any man caught out in a blow who couldn’t get into a cave was dead meat. Storms like this had made travel, particularly for long distances, extremely hazardous. Rock could remember the salutations that Freefighters had given to each other whenever they had departed on missions, as little as ten years ago:
    “May the acid rains not burn you.”
    He smiled inwardly, he hadn’t heard that expression for a long time. But now although they were never 100% safe, Shecter’s acid-proof snap-together tents afforded them a fair degree of safety. Assuming the things didn’t get blown right out of the ground. The men broke out their sections of blanket. Each could be used singly if a Freefighter was out alone or all four could be joined at the seams to create a small square tent. It took them only minutes to get the thing up, slamming the tent poles into the ground, attaching the different corners and sides with nylon cord.
    But they could hear it now, the black rainstorm growing closer. It had sound now, as it came in like a freight train from hell. A roaring, chomping thunder which crackled with danger. The ’brids grew nervous and the men had to keep patting them and slipping them pieces of synthetic sugar to keep them cooled out.
    But at last the whole structure was assembled and Rockson made a quick circumference of it, slapping at the silver coated thing, hitting it hard at the corners to make sure it was storm worthy. It was.
    “All right, let’s get in,” he said glancing up at the mountain of black and brown clouds that was closing in fast now just miles away. He could hear the bleats and howls of the woods animals as they ran in terror from the impending blackness. Poor bastards, he knew what the fates of most of them were likely to be. They led the ’brids inside, putting blinders over their eyes which generally seemed to cool them out. But the big creatures were quite skittish now, apparently set off by the cries of the forest dwellers.
    “Hold ’em tight,” Rock told the others. “If one of those suckers breaks free and stampedes out through a wall—we’re all cooked goose and I mean cooked.”
    The others laughed, but lightly and not with much conviction. They led their mounts in one after another, making the ’brids kneel slightly to get through the opening. Rock led his mount in last and closed up the tent wall behind him. It sealed easily, a velcro-material, self-adhesive, so that not a fraction of an inch of space was open to the outside.
    He had barely sealed them in and set up a lantern in the middle of the tent when the first real winds hit them broadside. The tent rippled and shook like it was going over already before the brunt of the storm had ever arrived. But Rockson knew the thing was designed to give a lot. Nothing stiff and rigid would have survived even a few