Anarchy in the Ashes (12 page)

Hartline slid his hand downward, caressing her satin belly, his fingers dipping into the crispness of pubic hair. “Get down on your knees, yellow gal. Start working that mouth and tongue of yours. Get me wet.”

She knelt down, afraid to do otherwise.

“Get me ready for the back door,” he concluded with a smile.

She looked up from her naked, kneeling position on the floor. Cold fear touched her with a chilling hand., “Hartline – don't, please. I can't take you there. You'll kill me.”

“I never heard of anybody dying from it,” Hartline told her with a grin. “But I sure have made more than my share holler, though. You got to be taught a lesson, honey, for your lies. And both of us might as well get some pleasure for it.”

Pleasure? she thought. No way. She unzippered his trousers and removed his thickening penis, already massive. It was at that moment she made up her mind. She opened her mouth, worked her lips over the head, took it as deeply as possible, and bit down hard.

Hartline screamed from the white-hot pain and tried to jerk away, but Peggy held on with the determination of a bulldog, with Hartline literally dragging her across the carpet.

He slammed a hard fist against her head and she saw bright lights and shooting stars. Releasing him from her strong teeth, she grabbed his ankles and jerked. His feet flew out from under him and his head banged against the floor. He groaned once and then was still.

She searched him for the key to the dead-bolt locks on the house, locks that had kept her a prisoner, and located the keys. She dressed hurriedly and then kicked Hartline on the side of the head, insuring he would stay out for a few moments longer. She prowled the house, in hopes he had brought some sort of gun with him, but she could find no weapon. She peeked out the drapes and saw the street was dark and deserted.

Peggy Jones slipped out the back door and melted into the night.

 

 

“How many personnel can we field?” Ben asked.

“I've got two thousand,” Al Malden said. “And that isn't leaving many at home.”

“Don't spread yourself too thin,” Ike cautioned. “The Russian might try to flank us and then come up from behind.”

“Yes,” Al said. “There is that danger.”

Al Malden seemed a bit more human each time Ben met the man – more likable. And Ben found that he did indeed like the man. He had found a sense of humor that heretofore had been kept hidden.

Al sighed and rubbed his face with his hands. “If we don't stop this ... this madness, this horror, and stop it right now, there won't be much point of having a home to return to.”

All agreed on that.

“I can field about twenty-five hundred,” Juan said.

Ben nodded. “By stretching it, I can put three thousand in the field. But I'm wondering if all that force at once is the way to go.”

Ike perked up. “You thinkin' guerrilla action, Ben?” That was getting to Ike's liking.

“Yes. Hit and run. Neutralize one town, then move on quickly. But we're going to have to arm the people. And then have the worry of wondering if they'll fight after we do arm them.”

“There is a hitch to that, Ben,” Juan said. “How about the people who like what General Striganov is doing? Those that actually support his policies? What about them?”

“That is one fly in the ointment,” Ben said. “There are partisans working up there, right?”

“Yes.” Mark Terry spoke up. “A mixture of black and white and Hispanic. But they are poorly organized and even worse off when it comes to arms. Radio contact with them is spotty, at best.”

Ben could understand that. “And I'd bet they are infiltrated.”

“Yes,” Al replied. “We're sure of that.”

“Name one you can trust.”

“Lois Peters,” Mark said. “She's put herself on the line dozens of times. She runs an underground railway out of that area. Lot of the people who came to us got there with her help.”

“Has she secure communications?”

Both Mark and Al shrugged. “Doubt it,” Mark said.

Ben glanced at Ike. “Get a few people infiltrated up there. Tell them to get in, get to Lois – if possible – plant the radio, and then stay low until they hear from us. I don't want any heroics, Ike. It's too early in the game for that.”

“Got it.” Ike left the room.

Ben looked at each man. “How many of your people have training in a regular military unit?”

“Quite a few, Ben,” Juan said.

“I have several hundred,” Mark said.

“All right. Start forming them into teams of ten. Juan, on my signal, you'll send your people in from the west.” The Mexican nodded. “Mark and Al, your people will go in from the east. My people will go straight up. I'll contact those people we met up in Iowa and tell them to hunt a hole if they're staying, or pull out now.”

Ben rose from the table to pace the floor. “People, you are not going to like what I'm about to say, but it has to be this way, or not at all. This is the way the operation is going to be run: no prisoners.”

Juan, Al and Mark stirred in silence.

“I'll return to a 1950s slogan that was pretty popular until our government lost its guts: If you're Red, you're dead.”

“Ben . . .” Juan began.

“No! Any person willing to switch sides that easily is not to be trusted again. That is something that has been proven time and time over. Those of us who were in actual combat – most of us – whether it was World War II, Korea, or especially Southeast Asia could never understand why those people who attempted to destroy or undermine the war effort were not branded traitors and shot. A person cannot have it both ways; one is either against communism or for it. Against liberty, or one hundred percent for it. You can't be wishy-washy on the subject.”

Ben's smile was grim as he looked at Al Malden. “Al, you want all the bigots that support Striganov over in New Africa?”

“Well, I don't want them either. Juan, how about you?”

“You have got to be kidding, Ben. A macabre joke, but I get your point.” He met Ben's eyes. “My people have traditionally loved life, Ben. If we have a flaw, and that could be called a flaw, that is it. It is going to be very difficult for them to kill wantonly.”

“They won't be killing wantonly, Juan – not at all. They will be killing to preserve liberty, as strange as that sounds.”

“Yes, there is something dreadfully wrong with that statement,” the Hispanic said, shaking his head. “But, again, I see your point.”

“If they can't cut it, Juan, let me have it all up front.”

“They will do what I tell them to do,” Juan replied, just a touch of stiffness in his tone. “They might not like it, but they will do it.”

Ben shifted his eyes to Al and Mark. Al met his gaze with a hard stare. “I will personally hand-pick the people that go in, Ben. I can assure you, they will not hesitate to kill a bigot.”

“That's what I like to hear, Al,” Ben said with a grim smile.

“You're a cold-blooded son of a bitch, you know that, General?” the black said. He said it with a smile, meaning no offense.

Ben took no umbrage. “I sure am, bro. I damn sure am.”

 

 

“Pax vobiscum,”
Emil Hite said to each of his followers at that morning's service. “Pax vobiscum and
absit omen.”
He didn't have the foggiest notion what either term meant, but they sounded good.

His followers returned his smiles and the love they felt for him shone through their eyes. Those that weren't so stoned they couldn't smile, that is. Or wired.

“Pinxit obiter dictum
and whop bop a loo bop a lop bam boom!” Emil proudly announced. He was a little high himself. Damn good grass they grew in these mountains. Shit hit you like a bomb. It was as good as Maui Wowie used to be, back in the good old days when Emil was selling grass along with well-used cars in Tennessee.

“Be bop a lula,” Emil said.

One of his flock gave him a curious glance, shook her head and hurried out. She had to prepare her twelve-year-old daughter for Emil's attentions that afternoon. And that was quite an honor. She wondered if she had really heard what she thought she heard the Master say.

No matter, she decided. Gods sometimes meant one thing while saying quite another. Maybe it was the pot. Or the speed. Or the coke. But regardless, everyone knew Emil the Master was a god. There could be no doubt about that.

And there was no doubt Emil had probably saved a few of the men, women and kids that had drifted into and were now residing in his camp. They had straggled in, half-starved, some of them beaten and sick. And Emil had cared for them.

But early on another thought had come to Emil: What was he getting out of all this good will on his part? The answer was: nothing. The next day he had discarded all manner of conventional dress and had appeared in a robe. Actually, it was a wool army blanket that itched like hell, but it had slits for his arms and head and looked pretty damn good.

He had held out his arms and announced to the few hundred or so men and women that he had just had a vision while praying, and he wanted to share it with them.

Emil had not prayed since he was a child in a local Holy Roller church (actually it was a tent) back in rural Tennessee. But he remembered vividly how that lay preacher could work the folks into a wild frenzy, with many of the churchgoers jumping up and down and staggering around the pews, babbling in the unknown tongue.

And Emil had watched more than one so-called preacher squeezing a goodly number of tits and asses while spreading the word, folks. And Emil figured that ol' boy was probably getting more than his share of pussy, too.

So Emil thought he'd give that act a whirl here, see if it worked with these folks.

It did.

He told them God had spoken to him. He told them God had ordered Emil to look after the survivors and to take care of them, to open his arms and give him succor. (And lots of stiff cock, but Emil kept that thought to himself.) He told them God said if they were to survive, they must band together and live in a commune and follow Emil's orders.

Emil prayed long and hard, with that fucking wool blanket about to drive him nuts. He whipped the people verbally, causing many of them to weep uncontrollably. Emil went to each member and laid on hands, and really poured on the B.S. He hadn't been named the best damned used-car salesman in Chattanooga for nothing. All that morning and well into the afternoon, Emil prayed and preached and led the people in songs. Then he began waving his arms and shouting, babbling, inventing a language he would later tell them only he and God knew how to interpret.

Actually, what he was doing was speaking in carny. Many carnival and circus workers of years back used to converse in pig latin when they did not wish the townies to know what they were saying. But too many citizens could understand pig latin. So someone – it is not known who – invented carny talk. It was not that difficult to learn. Take the sound of “ease” and put it behind the first letter of each syllable. Thus Bill comes out sounding Beaseill. Number would be neaseum-beaser. One can become surprisingly fluent in carny in only a short time. And to someone who has never heard the language, it sounds like a snake attempting to talk.

After a time, one can vary the position of syllables and still be understood by those who speak the language.

Iease ceasean seasepeak ceasearneasey.

Most of the people in the camp were, by this time, ready to believe and accept anything. They had survived a nuclear and germ attack; they had seen subhuman mutants and rats as big as dogs. They had been starved, beaten, many of them tortured and robbed and chased, many of the women sexually assaulted (and some of the men) and brutalized. Only a very few walked out when Emil began his pitch. The rest stayed and became believers. Soon the word went out and every nut and goofball and wacko and banana cream pie in a three-state area was drifting in, eager to join.

And Emil had it made.

He had been a corpsman in the navy, and knew something about medicine. He began visiting deserted towns nearby, grabbing up every book he could find on the subject of doctoring. He studied herbal medicine, and really became pretty good at healing – as long as it wasn't anything too serious. If the medical problem was beyond his rather limited realm of knowledge, Emil would pray, babbling in his personal unknown tongue. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't. When it didn't work, and the patient died, Emil would simply say it was God's will.

And anyone who was dumb enough to join a cult in the first place would believe it.

But, Emil mused on this day, all that was secondary to this communist thing that was shaping up in a rather nasty fashion up north. Emil did not want the communists in this area. Ben Raines was bad enough. Emil was scared to death of Ben Raines. But the communists would really frown on his little scam. They would take away his robes and sandals and steady pussy.

And he would have to go to work. Just the thought of that was appalling.

What to do?

Emil didn't know what to do. But one thing was certain: His little kingdom of wackos would come crashing down around his ankles if the commies ever took over.

Emil thought and pondered and schemed and connived and finally decided he might have to take the problem to his followers and place it at their feet. But that was risky, for Emil was supposed to be the head Pooh Bah, Lord of the Beasts, direct communicator with the Almighty, Master of the Multitudes, and all that happy shit.