Free Doomsday Warrior 07 - American Defiance by Ryder Stacy

times—Sumeria, Egypt, even the Stone Age—there’s been war, fighting, one army invading and another defending. We’re just a part of a long line of poor suckers who happened to get born into the wrong body, the wrong mind—that of the fighter. It’s what we do, Detroit. Do better than anything else. And without us, the Free Cities of America would crumble like sand castles beneath the Red waves. For better or worse, pal, you and me are in this life to fight. There won’t ever be cozy get-togethers with the kids and wife and dog around the fireplace. Won’t be picnics and ants, or junior’s first beanie—won’t even be no goddamned marshmallow roasts.”
    “I don’t know whether to laugh or cry,” Detroit said, staring at Rockson with a strange expression as he sat bobbing a few feet away in his saddle. “You make it all sound so unappetizing, I don’t think I even want it any more, anyway.” The black Freefighter barked out in a loud laugh.
    They came to a stadium-sized field filled with large blue and red melon-like fruits. At the far end, a grove of large-leafed trees grew, perfect cover for camping during the day.
    “What do you think, McCaughlin?” Rockson asked, riding back around to the large Freefighter who rode with a pair of ’brids running along beside his. As the official cook of the attack force, McCaughlin was also responsible for all the kitchen supplies, mounted high on the two hybrids. He had to keep a constant eye on them, since without riders, they never stopped trying to slide the heavy loads from their backs. Like all living creatures, they were basically lazy by nature.
    “I’ve eaten fruits like that,” McCaughlin said, eyeing the bounty now being trampled by the ’brids’ hooves. “Good, they were. Sweet as sugar,” he added enthusiastically, his eyes starting to grow at the prospect of cooking a full-scale meal for the team. “Might we be stopping at yonder trees?” the bear of a fighter asked with a mock-English accent.
    “We might be, yeah,” Rockson answered with a grin. “Think you can whip up one of your miracle specials?”
    “I was hopin’ you’d be askin’,” McCaughlin answered, slapping his ample stomach. “It’s been growling for hours. Told it I’d shoot it if the damned thing didn’t shut up.”
    The men dismounted their ’brids and walked slowly through the fertile field overflowing with nature’s food. It felt good to stretch their arms and legs after traveling non-stop for almost twelve hours. They bent down and picked up some of the smaller fruits, stuffing them into burlap knapsacks that hung at the sides of the hybrids’ saddles. Then they headed on to the canopy of trees and set up camp for the day, unsaddling the ’brids and letting them graze on the leafy branches. They prepared their own blankets for some quick shut-eye. They had dozed off for less than an hour when the scent of McCaughlin’s cooking came drifting over, awakening them. Hunger is a more compelling instinct than the need to dream.
    A big black bowl of rabbit and melon stew hung over a low fire, simmering to perfection. McCaughlin tasted it every few seconds, adding extra pinches from his cache of herbs and spices. At last he pronounced it “perfect” and doled out steaming bowls to the team. They were all here on this excursion. Rockson had wanted the very best, knowing they couldn’t get into a Red fortress with a major force. But a small, highly trained mobile unit like his might just have a chance.
    It was the Rock team, of course—Detroit, Archer, McCaughlin, and Chen. In addition, Rock had chosen two of Chen’s top martial arts students, Du Soo of Korean ancestry, and Lenny Brown, a black teen, distant cousin twelve times removed of Detroit’s. He had been impressed by their speed and fierce warrior natures when he had seen them fight their way to the top of the Inter-Free City Fighting Championships. They were ready for the real thing. Rock had asked