Anarchy in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  She swung reluctant eyes toward the screen. A cattle prod touched the man’s naked buttocks. His scream chilled her. The prod touched his thigh, then his genitals.

  “Stop it!” Sabra shouted.

  The man screamed and ground his teeth in pain. Several teeth broke off, bloodying his mouth.

  “Goddamn you, Hartline!” Sabra yelled. “Stop it.”

  “You’ll cooperate with us?”

  “I said I would, Hartline.”

  “Anything I say?”

  “Yes!”

  “I have your son ready to perform for us. Would you like to see that?”

  “Goddamn you!”

  Hartline laughed. He spoke to the minicam operator. “Start rolling it.” He unzipped his pants. His flaccid penis hung out. “Come here, Sabra baby. This one is for VP Lowry. And if you ever fail to obey an order, if you ever let any copy air without government approval, this tape gets played – in its entirety – on the six o’clock news.”

  “You goddamn low-life, miserable son of a bitch!” Sabra cursed him.

  “Strip, baby. Take it all off while facing the camera. Let’s give Lowry a really good show. That’s it. Play with your puss a little bit. Good, good, now you’re getting into the spirit of things.”

  Naked and embarrassed and trembling with anger, Sabra faced the mercenary.

  He hefted his penis. “In case you have it in mind to take a bite of me, Sabra baby, bear in mind your son is now bent over a table just down the hall. You get hinky with me, he gets gang-shagged. Understand?”

  She nodded.

  “Kneel down here, baby. On your pretty dimpled knees. You know what to do. You probably sucked cocks getting to where you are in the network anyway.”

  She took him as the camera recorded it all.

  Just as Hartline climaxed, the semen splattering the woman’s face, Hartline laughed. “It’s just so fucking easy when you know how. Just so fucking easy.”

  The tiny hamlet of Vienna was deserted, completely void of any type of life, human or animal.

  “Strange,” Ben muttered, conscious of Gale’s eyes on his face. “I don’t recall ever seeing anything like this.” He ordered scouts out to give the place a quick once-over.

  Gale put her hand on Ben’s thigh. “This place scares me,” she admitted.

  Ben, as usual, kept his emotions in close check. At least outwardly. Inside, he felt a little shaky. This place was, he concluded, a place of death – but somehow much different from all the other towns he had seen.

  A Rebel jogged toward the pickup, his words breaking into Ben’s deep thoughts. “You gotta see this, General. It’s unreal.”

  Ben, with Gale in tow, followed the Rebel on foot to a weather-beaten old frame church. The church had once been painted white. Now the paint was almost gone, the wood rotting from years of abuse from the harsh elements of sun and wind and cold.

  “The door is locked, sir. From the inside. I looked through the window around here at the side. But you both better brace yourselves for what you’re about to see. It’s tough, sir.”

  The scene grabbed at Ben’s guts. Fifty or so people – or the skeletons of what had once been people – filled the pews. Many of the ladies still had rags of what had been their Sunday hats perched on their white, bony skulls. About half of the worshippers still sat upright, grinning grotesquely and staring through sightless eyeholes at the bones of a man who sat in a chair directly behind the rotting pulpit. He would wait forever to deliver his Sunday sermon.

  “Look at the watch on that guy’s ... wrist,” the Rebel said, pointing to a nearby skeleton.

  Ben rubbed at the dirty windowpane and stared. The watch was a LCD type and was still silently exhibiting the time in the House of the Lord, to pews full of bones.

  “What happened, Ben?” Gale asked in no more than a whisper, almost breathlessly. “I mean, how could this be?”

  “I can’t answer that, honey,” Ben said, his eyes still fixed on the scene before him.

  “I can,” Lamar Chase said.

  “Jesus Christ!” the young Rebel blurted, jumping about a foot off the ground.

  “Naturally, he can,” Ben said dryly, but with a grin.

  Lamar glanced at the badly shaken young Rebel. “I warned you about keeping late hours, son. Bad on the nerves.”

  “Yes, sir,” the young man said, grinning, red-faced with embarrassment.

  “It was airborne,” Lamar said. “At least some strains of it.”

  “Airborne, Lamar?” Ben said. “The plague?”

  “What the hell do you think I’m talking about?” the doctor said. “Gonorrhea? Yes, the plague. The only answer I can give is there must have been several strains of it. Very short-lived. What are you going to do with these . . . remains?”

  “Leave them right where they are,” Ben told him. “I can’t think of a better resting place than this, can you?”

  “Yes,” Doctor Chase said with a sour grin. “Don’t die.”

  “Little sweetmeat,” Hartline said, stroking the unwilling flesh of Peggy. His touch made her skin crawl as if covered with thousands of lice. Somewhere in the old warehouse-turned-interrogation-center for the IPF, a human being was wailing in agony. Gender was not identifiable by the hoarse yowlings.

  Hartline raised his head at the sounds, a smile on his handsome face.

  “That would be Mr. Linderfelt, I should think,” he said. “Would you be at all interested in knowing what is being done to him, sweetmeat?”

  “No. I’m sure it’s horrible and perverted. What are you going to do with me, Hartline?”

  “Oh my, sweetmeat, that does present a dilemma. Yes, it does. Quite a dilemma. You see, I just haven’t made up my mind as yet. How about you calling the tune, dear.”

  “Your humor is sick, Hartline. Just as sick as the rest of you.” She struggled against the leather straps that held her to the operating table. She was naked, her legs spread wide.

  Hartline’s right hand was busy between her legs, his middle finger working in and out.

  He laughed at her struggles.

  “Let me tell you what is being done with Mr. Linderfelt, dear.”

  She screamed and fought against the straps. She struggled until her slender body was bathed in sweat, light bronze shining under the harsh lights that hung above her. Hartline stood and watched her, a smile on his lips. She finally ceased her futile writhings and glared up at the mercenary.

  “You see, my dear Miss Jones,” he said, returning his hand to its busy work between her legs, “it was I who finally convinced General Striganov he was making a terrible mistake by sterilizing all the minorities, inferiors that you are. I said to Georgi, ‘Georgi, just think what we can do for the generations of scientists yet to come. What a contribution we could make in the field of genetics.’ ”

  A woman began screaming down the long hall in the sectioned-off warehouse. The woman was howling in pain and fright, begging to someone not to do this to her. To kill her. To please have mercy on her. That this was inhuman. She just could not . . .

  Her scream changed in timbre, ending in a series of heavy, painful grunting sounds.

  “Hartline . . .”

  “Be quiet, dear. What is happening to ... whatever is that woman’s name? It escapes me at the moment. No matter, as I was saying, it won’t happen to you. You have already been – how to subtly say this – spayed like the dog-bitch you are.”

  He threw back his head and howled out his laughter.

  Something in the warehouse growled.

  Peggy had heard that sound before. The realization of what was taking place in the experiment rooms struck her with all its savagery. “Hartline . . . you didn’t! I mean, you can’t be serious?”

  “Oh, but we are serious, sweetmeat. Really. Look at it this way: We are making real contributions in the field of genetics. It is as I told Georgi: ‘Take the inferior races and start a program of breeding them to the beasts. Male mutant to female human inferior. Female
to male human inferior.’

  “That is what is currently happening to our Mr. Linderfelt and to Miss, ah, yes, Llado. That is that greaser’s name. We have to give the human males large injections of aphrodisiac in order for them to cooperate – large doses of Valium work wonders in many cases – and it is really working out well, I believe. Our doctors don’t, as yet, know the gestation period for the female mutants, but it is very fast, we believe. It should produce some interesting offspring, don’t you think, my dear Miss Jones?”

  “You’re savages!” Peggy whispered. “Nothing but dirty, filthy monsters.”

  Hartline looked hurt. “Oh, not true, not true. If everything works out as planned, we shall have a race of beings with some degree of intelligence, able to perform menial jobs, thus freeing the more intelligent for other work. It’s science, my dear, that’s all.”

  He freed her from her bonds and forced her to a low table, strapping her on her belly, legs spread wide, her bare feet on the cold floor, her buttocks elevated. She knew what was in store for her.

  “I believe, my dear,” Hartline said, removing his trousers, carefully folding them and hanging them on the back of a chair, “we were in the process of doing something when you turned savage on me. Were we not?”

  He was naked from the waist down, his penis already swelling in anticipation of the assault.

  Peggy did not reply.

  She felt grease or oil being spread between the cheeks of her buttocks.

  “Yes, we were,” Hartline said, positioning himself.

  Peggy began screaming.

  By maintaining daily radio contact, Ben learned that Ike’s and Hector’s columns were having as much equipment trouble as his own. Ike had been forced to halt at St. Genevieve in Missouri for major repairs. He reported to Ben that the city contained survivors, but they had, so far, shown no interest or inclination in fighting General Striganov. They would take whatever form of government happened along.

  Ben resisted an impulse to tell Ike to shoot them.

  Hector’s column was bogged down in Warsaw, Missouri while his mechanics worked frantically on the engines and transmissions.

  The troops from North and South Carolina had been halted in Illinois.

  Juan was the only one to have reached his objective and was digging in for the fight.

  But the IPF was having no problems.

  The rumble of Jeeps and heavy trucks grew louder to the small team of LRRPs hidden by the side of the road in central Iowa. The column of IPF forces stretched for miles.

  “Must be four or five battalions,” a LRRP said to his buddy.

  “At least that. And they’ve got more heavy guns than we first thought. We got them outgunned, all right, but they’ve got us outmanned.” The LRRP picked up his mic and called in, speaking softly.

  “At least five battalions of infantry heading south in trucks. We counted forty of the six-bys pulling cannon. 105s.”

  “Tanks?”

  “Negative on tanks. Here comes another convoy. Hang on.”

  The LRRPs counted the heavily loaded trucks – those loaded with men and those loaded with equipment. They radioed back to Ben’s HQ.

  “Three more battalions rolling south.”

  “Acknowledged. Maintain your positions and stay low.”

  “If I got any lower my buttons would be in the way.”

  The radio operator took the bad news to Ben.

  “Seven or eight battalions,” Ben read aloud the hastily scrawled message. “Damn! General Striganov knows he’s got to defeat us; once that is done, he’s home free. Get me Ike.”

  Colonel McGowen on the horn, Ben said, “Ike – we’ve got six thousand troops coming at us, buddy. They’re in central Iowa now. Whatever you have that will roll, get the wheels turning north and assume your positions. Get ready for hell, partner. We’ve got to have time to dig in, so move them out now! The clock is ticking. Interstate 70 is the stopping point for the Russians. We’ve got to hold them. The personnel you leave behind can catch up ASAP. I’ll be talking with Hector in a moment. Roll it, Ike . . . and God go with you.”

  “Ten-four, Ben. Luck to you, ol’ buddy.”

  Ben spoke briefly with Colonel Ramos, telling him to move out and dig in. No sooner had he released the talk button than Mark Terry was on the horn.

  “We are engaging the IPF in central Illinois, Ben. And we are meeting heavy resistance. We are holding.”

  “Dig in and slug it out, Mark. Don’t let those people break through and come up behind me. I can’t spread my people out any thinner. General Striganov is throwing some six thousand troops in my direction.”

  “Jesus,” Mark said. When he again spoke, his voice was calm, the sounds of gunfire heavy in the background. “I have instructed my people not to surrender, Ben. I can only hope they will obey to the last man. Good luck to you.”

  “The same to you, Mark.”

  The connection was broken.

  Ben turned to tell the radio operator to get him Juan Solis on the horn when the Mexican’s voice came through the speaker.

  “We are looking at some two to three thousand troops, Ben. We have the Missouri River to our backs and we are not going to surrender. It’s up to you, Ben. Good luck.”

  His company commanders, platoon leaders and squad leaders had gathered around the communications van. They looked at Ben in silence.

  Why is it always up to me? Ben thought. Why me? All I ever wanted was to be left alone and to live out my remaining years in peace.

  Why me?

  “Move out,” Ben told his people. “We’ve got to stop the advance of the IPF. Good luck.”

  THIRTEEN

  Lord God of Hosts, be we us yet,

  Lest we forget – lest we forget.

  – Kipling

  The bridges crossing the river at St. Louis were long gone, and Ike had left personnel at Memphis, Caruthersville, Cairo, Cape Girardeau and Chester, with orders to blow the bridges if any IPF forces attempted to cross and come up from behind. Ike began spreading troops from St. Peters, Missouri west to Warrenton. Ben would spread his personnel from Warrenton to Columbia, and Hector would cover the area from Sweet Springs east to Ben.

  They were all spread thin, with very few troops left in reserve. It would be a tiring campaign, with little time for the troops to rest. And they would be outnumbered almost three to one.

  But Ben’s Rebels had something going for them the IPF personnel had never known in all their lives: a belief in God Almighty and freedom.

  When Ben’s column reached the outskirts of Columbia, he met with Colonel Gray. After the two men shook hands, Dan brought Ben up to date on the latest developments his scouts and LRRPs had radioed in. Ben said, “I want to meet with General Striganov one more time, Dan, even though it will probably do no more than buy us time. When I am doing that, you take your scouts and LRRPs and circle behind the IPF people; begin a guerrilla campaign against them. No holds barred, Dan, I want as much blood and terror and demoralization as possible. I don’t have to tell you how to play dirty.”

  The Englishman’s grin was decidedly nasty. Now the game was getting to his liking. The men once more shook hands. “Good luck to you, General, and Godspeed.”

  “To us both, Dan,” Ben said.

  Ben turned to his commanders. His message was brief.

  “Dig in.”

  The thin line of defense of democracy stretched some 140 miles – and it was stretched thin. Much too thin, Ben knew. But Striganov knew, too, that to punch one hole in the line of defenders would accomplish very little, for Ben would simply order his people to tighten up, swing ends around, and then trap the Russian’s spearheaders in a box.

  No, the Russian would be careful, very careful, for he had read every book Ben Raines had ever written – read them many times – and had teams of psychiatrists study the writings and give personality profiles on the man. Georgi had reached the conclusion that Ben Raines was a madman. A man who would fight to the death f
or a mere principle. That, to the Russian’s way of thinking, certainly and irrevocably constituted insanity.

  And Ben Raines did not like to lose. Ever. He was – if his major characters were any indication of the author’s true personality, and Striganov knew that to be true in most cases – the type of man who would resort to any tactics to win, if it took him a lifetime to do so.

  So Striganov concluded this battle was to be of the classic style, the classic-fought duel between armies, the two forces slugging it out, wearing the other down, with Interstate 70 the no man’s land.

  But the Russian knew, too, that it was only a matter of time for the Rebels. He felt sure and confident in that, for he had Ben Raines’s Rebels outmanned. Yes, he knew the mission would be costly in human life and limb. But his perfect people were not being thrown into this battle; they were safely tucked away back in Minnesota, back at the warm and comfortable breeding farm.

  Striganov smiled as he sat in the cushioned back seat in his armor-plated and bullet-proofed car in the center of the convoy heading south to Interstate 70 and Gen. Ben Raines and his foolish, idealistic Rebels. He was proud of what he and his people had accomplished in so short a time. They had sterilized several thousand inferiors, had disposed of several hundred mental defectives, and were coming along splendidly with their breeding programs. But just look what he had to work with: those lovely people of his command, the cream of perfection. The women were so fair and blond and beautiful and intelligent; the men so tall and fair and blond and handsome and intelligent – both genders pale-eyed, of course.

  All families of the perfect people had been researched carefully for flaws. And so far, the children born to the IPF over the past decade . . . perfect. Not one defective. All beautiful. Selective breeding would work, even that idiot Hitler had known that.

  Striganov stirred restlessly in the back seat. He poured a glass of wine and dipped a cracker into black caviar, chewing slowly, savoring each bite.