Read Doomsday Warrior 10 - American Nightmare for Free Online

paper. The old man was as good as his word. He led him to a large fountain overlooking what looked like a plaza. Not exactly what he had in mind, but the fountain looked cool and inviting. Rockson couldn’t resist the urge to jump in. What the hell, the cool water soothed his fevered brow, and more importantly he assuaged his thirst, cupping his hands and drinking. The old man stared at Rockson running like a wild man through the waters which sprayed from the mouths of marble seagulls. Suddenly he looked alarmed. “The rookies are coming!” he screamed, and then took to his heels.
    Madder than a hatter, Rockson thought as he dove into the waters again. But when he emerged, he faced two machine guns held by men wearing red coveralls topped with mirror-visor helmets.
    “Come on, derelict. Nice and easy. This fountain isn’t the public bath. Get your ass over to the city dump, where you belong.”
    Rockson climbed sheepishly out of the pool. “Are you cops?” he asked.
    “We’re rookies,” the tall one answered, pointing to his badge with a castle insignia. “Don’t backtalk us. Murphy, let’s run this one in.”
    “Put your hands in the air,” said the one called Murphy. He held his gun on Rockson while the tall one frisked him, sneering in hatred. Why?
    “It’s okay. He’s unarmed,” said the tall rookie. He stared at Rockson and asked, “Got a name, bum?”
    “My name is Ted Rockson. I’m an American. A Freeman.”
    Murphy snapped up his visor and squinted at Rock. “The name sounds familiar . . . Yeah, maybe I know you. We’d better take you down to headquarters and run you through R and I. Get you home. I recognize you now.”
    “R and I?”
    “Research and Information.” Rockson was handcuffed and escorted to a shiny red Toyota Camry with PATROL written on its door idling at the corner. Rockson had hardly climbed into the back seat when the door slammed and they took off like a rocket. Within a few minutes they were at the station house, a sooty concrete-slab gray building.
    “Got a drunk citizen,” said the taller of the two rookies to the desk clerk. “We caught him playing in the fountain. Can you believe it? Right now he looks like a good candidate for Twenty Questions.”
    “He’s not the only one. We’ve got a full house tonight. Must be a full moon,” the desk clerk laughed. The tall rookie sat Rockson on a bench and started typing up an officer’s arrest report.
    “All right. Take him down to Psychiatry,” the clerk added as he took the typewritten form from the rookie and handed him back his carbon copy.
    Rockson was fingerprinted, photographed, and booked. Then he was turned over to a consultant, a pale silent man wearing a blue blazer with a chess king emblazoned on his pocket.
    The consultant said, “Stand up,” and waved his long thin stick ominously. The tip of the metal rod flickered red. A weapon?
    Rockson was led down a staircase, and through a long corridor. At the end of the tiled white hall, was a door. The sign on the door stated, Roy G. Biv, Psychiatrist. The consultant opened the door for Rockson, and he was shoved into a chair. Rockson’s natural tendency when shoved around was to shove back. But somehow he knew that would be futile—if not deadly. He sat back in the cool leatherette and faced the man behind the desk. The man was reading something, but he put it down. He stared at Rockson a long time through his thick round wire-rim glasses. The man had a gray beard and looked like Freud.
    At last the psychiatrist spoke. “Do you know why you’re here?”
    “They said I was drunk,” Rockson said.
    The psychiatrist stood up, walked around the desk, and leaned over so close to Rock’s face he could smell the Binaca. “Weren’t you drunk? What were you doing in the Seagull fountain?”
    “I was thirsty. And hot.”
    “Hmmmmmmm. Do you always wear such—unusual—clothes?”
    “Not usually. But I was up in Alaska. An Eskimo gave it to