Anarchy in the Ashes (23 page)

The woman shook her head and sobbed out her reply. “I have never had sex with a black man. Only with my husband.”

“You a lie!” another man told her, walking up to the nude woman. His robes were satin, much more ornate than any of the others. “You nothin' but white trash, woman. We caught you travelin' with niggers.”

“We were only helping them escape!” the woman screamed. “I've told you people that. Why don't you believe us?”

“‘Cause you a lie, 'at's why.” The man turned away from her. He looked for a moment at the beating, then called, “ 'At's enuff, Henry. Don't want to kill the boy. Cut him down. You, Richie, you go get that nigger buck, drag his monkey ass out to the circle.”

A slender black man was dragged into the circle of robed men and women. He was naked. His eyes were blazing with fury and shame. “You people had no right to do this,” he told the Klansmen. “This man and woman were merely helping me and my wife to escape from the IPF.”

That got him a crack across the mouth from the Klan spokesman. “Shut your nigger mouth, boy. You stay in your place, you hear? 'Round here, boy, niggers talk when spoken to.”

The horsewhipped man was cut from the whipping post and dragged into the center of the circle. “Dump some water on his ass,” the spokesman said. “We want him to watch this.”

A bucket of creek water was poured on the sobbing, bleeding man. He struggled to sit up on ground and at the same time cover his nakedness.

“You wastin' your time a-tryin' to cover that little thing of yourn,” a man leered at him. “You must have to stick it up your wife's asshole afore she even knows you got anything in her.”

That brought hoots of laughter from the circle of men and women. More than one Klan woman had her eyes on the genital area of the naked black man.

“ 'At there's not a bad idea,” the spokesman said. “Luther, you go get Big Jim and brang him over here. We'll have us a show 'fore we let the nigger buck and the white bitch have at it.”

Within moments a huge white man entered into the circle of the white-robes. That the man was mentally deficient was obvious at first glance. His eyes were dull and his face wore the slackness of the near-insane.

“Big Jim,” the spokesman said. “I want you to shuck outta your pants. Now, you go on and do 'er now, boy, show us all your equipment.”

Big Jim dropped his ragged jeans to the dirt. He wore no underwear. Many of the Klan women licked their lips at the sight of his enormous penis.

“Go git the nigger's wife,” a man was ordered.

A well-shaped and pretty light-skinned woman was dragged naked and weeping into the circle.

“That‘un got more'n her share of white blood in her,” Henry said. “Big Jim gonna have him a high ol' time with her, awright.”

“Missy,” the spokesman told the white woman. “You crawl over there and jack off Big Jim; git him up good and hard.”

She refused at first. Several hard slaps across her face changed her mind. Reluctantly and with revulsion on her face, she complied.

Big Jim soon became more than enormous. He was deformed. The woman released him and was dragged back to the hard hands that held her.

“Tear that nigger gal's pussy up, Big Jim,” the spokesman said with a laugh.

The young black woman's screaming soon echoed around the circle gathered around the burning cross. When Big Jim left the woman, she was huddled in a ball of hurt on the dirt. The grinning man was pointed out of the circle. He left carrying his pants.

“Position the nigger-lover,” the spokesman ordered the men holding the woman.

She was forced to her hands and knees. The black man was told, “Git it up, shine. We gonna watch and see what you got that this nigger-lover laks so much.”

“I will not!” the black man said.

The Klansman grinned. “How'd you lak' for me to call Big Jim back in here and have him fuck your wife unnormally?”

The man hissed his revulsion at the thought.

“Will you let us go after we . . . do that?” the naked white woman asked. “If we . . . have sex, will you promise to let us go?”

“We'll let you go alive. Shore we will.”

“Do it, Jimmy,” she told him, all resistance gone from her. She sagged in defeat. The cries of the black woman were still very much in sound and fury. The woman was bleeding. “Do it, Jimmy,” she repeated. “If you don't, they'll torture and kill us all.”

“You bes' listen to the woman, nigger.”

“Why are you doing this to us?” Jimmy asked, anguish in his voice. “We haven't done a thing to you people. Why?”

“You be a nigger, boy, and that there is reason enuff. This area is pure ‘round here – for miles and miles. Pure white. No nigger, no greasers, no spics, no wops, no Jews, or nobody else lak' 'at 'round here – and they ain't never gonna be neither. Now don't none of us know nothin' 'bout this Russian ya'll keep flappin' your gums about, and I don't really care. But it sounds lak' – if they is such a feller – he's on the right track with his thinkin'. Now you get that cock of yourn up hard and dog-fuck this white bitch. Then ya'll can leave here. When you do git gone, pass the word: No niggers allowed in here.”

“I ... can't get an erection under these circumstances,” Jimmy said.

The Klansman kicked the white man in the side. He fell to his back and screamed in pain.

“White boy, you lak' niggers so much, you crawl over here and suck this black bastard hard. And you either do it, or I'll have your balls cut off.”

His wife's tears dropped to the dusty ground.

Jimmy stood trembling in rage and humiliation and helplessness.

His wife sobbed on the ground.

The bloody young man crawled toward the black man.

The circle of robed men and women began laughing.

“We're going to have trouble in central Illinois, Ben,” Cecil said. “We're getting more reports stating a strong Klan resurgence in that area. And they are getting nasty with it.”

Main Command Post, Poplar Bluff, Missouri. Ben sighed and looked up from a map.

“How many and how strong?”

“Field reports show the IPF is sending in teams to talk about an alliance with the Klan, and the Klan is buying their garbage.”

“Shit!” Ben spat the word. “God, that's all we need at this time.”

“Lots of hate, Ben. I think even more so than back in eighty-eight.

Ben rubbed his face with his hands. He blew out a long, sighing breath. “It's time for some good news, Cec. What's the word out of north Georgia?”

“Hostile at first. But Captain Rayle said in his last report the people are getting stirred up about the IPF. Most are willing to see us come in. Captain Rayle says they'll work with us.”

“Good. I want those mountain people on our side. I just can't help remembering the reception I got in the Smokies back in eighty-nine.”

“Oh?”

 

 

The first of May, 1989 found Ben in the middle of the Great Smoky Mountains, sitting in a motel room in a deserted town, eating a cold, canned meal.

These mountain people, he concluded, were weird. He couldn't get close enough to any of them to say a word. At a little town just south of Bryson City, a man made the mistake of taking a shot at Ben. Ben had reacted instinctively and spent the next few, long hours watching the man die from a stomach wound.

“Why did you shoot at me?” Ben asked. “I wasn't doing a thing.”

“Outsider,” the man had gasped. “Got no business being here. We'll get you.”

“Why? Why do you want to ‘get me'?”

But the man had lost consciousness and Ben never learned the answer to his question – at least not from the man he'd shot.

Sitting in the motel room, Ben was filled with doubts and questions. Where had all the people gone? The people of Atlanta? What was the use of spending years writing something . . . ?

His head jerked up as Juno growled softly, rising to his feet, muzzle toward the door.

“We don't mean you any harm, mister,” a boy's voice said. “But if that big dog jumps at me, I'm gonna shoot it.”

Ben put a hand on Juno's big head and told him to relax. He clicked on the recorder. “So come on in and sit,” he invited.

A boy and girl, in their mid-teens, appeared in the door. They looked to be brother and sister. Ben pointed to a couple of chairs.

The boy shook his head. “We'll stand, thank you, though.”

“What can I do for you?” Ben asked.

“It ain't what you can do for us,” the girl said. “It's what we can do for you.”

“All right.”

“Git your kit together and git on outta here,” the boy said. “They's comin' to git you tonight.”

“Who is coming to get me – and why?”

“Our people,” the girl told him. She was a very pretty girl, but already the signs of ignorance and poverty were taking their toll, affecting her speech and features.

The poverty and ignorance of her parents, Ben thought.

Root cause – in the home, passed from generation to generation, parent to child.

When will we ever learn? But . . . is it too late now? He thought not.

“I've done nothing to your people,” Ben said.

“You kilt our uncle,” the boy said. “Ain't that doin' somethang?”

“Your uncle shot at me for no reason. All I was trying to do was catch some fish for my supper.”

“Our roads, our mountains, our fish,” the girl said.

“I see,” Ben's reply was soft. “And you don't want any outsiders here?”

“That's it, mister.”

“If you feel that strongly, why are you warning me?”

The question seemed to confuse the pair. The boy shook his head. “'Cause we don't want no more killin' around here. And if you'll leave, there won't be no more.”

“Do you agree with your people's way of life?”

“It ain't up to us to agree or disagree,” the boy said. “The word's done been passed down from Corning. And if you stay here, mister, you gonna die.”

“Who or what is a Corning?”

“The leader.”

“Ah, yes.” Ben smiled, but was careful not to offend the young people, or rib their manner of speaking or thinking. “Let me guess: This Corning is the biggest and the strongest among you all. He is a religious man – or so he says – and he has a great, powerful voice and spouts the Bible a lot. Am I right?”

“Mister” – the girl's voice was soft with awe – “how'd you know all that?”

Ben looked at her. She was pretty and shapely and ripe for picking. “And I'll bet this Corning – I'll bet he likes you a lot, right?”

She nodded her head. “He's taken a shine to me, yeah.”

“No doubt.” Ben's reply was dry. How quickly some of us revert, he thought. Tribal chieftain. He stood up and the kids quickly backed away, toward the open door. “Take it easy. I won't hurt you. Are you going to get into trouble for coming here, warning me?”

The girl shook her head. “We come the back trails. We know where the lookouts is. You leavin'?”

“Yes, I'll be gone in half an hour.”

She stood gazing at him. “We're not bad people, mister. We jist don't want no more of your world, that's all. Why cain't ever'body just live the way they want to live, and then ever'body would git along?”

Why indeed? Ben thought, and once again, the Rebels entered his mind. He felt compelled to say something profound. Instead he said, “Because, dear, then we wouldn't have a nation, would we?”

She blinked. “But we ain't got one now, have we?”

Then they were gone.

 

 

“Wonder what happened to that cult?” Cecil asked.

“Died out, hopefully. Maybe someone bigger and stronger than Corning came along and killed him. That's the way it usually happens, I guess.” He stood up and stretched. “Any word from Dan?”

Cecil grinned a warrior' smile of satisfaction over hearing of an enemy's defeat. “Not since yesterday. That is one randy Englishman. His bunch completely destroyed a full column of IPF troops. Wiped them out to a person.”

“For a fact, Cec, Dan does not like to be bothered with prisoners. Those SAS boys were randy as hell.” Ben grinned. “Besides wiping out an entire column, they demoralized the hell out of a bunch of other IPF troops.” Ben's grin grew wider. “I can't help but wonder what happened to that colonel who was commanding the unit.”

“Dan said he turned tail and ran.”

“Well, he got his tit in the wringer for that, I'm betting.”

Cecil gave Ben a mock grimace. “God, Ben! I'm glad Gale isn't here to hear that crack.”

Ben laughed. “Me, too.”

 

 

General Striganov at first could not believe his ears. He stared at Colonel Fechnor for a full moment. “The entire battalion!” the general finally roared. He rose from his chair to face a still-badly-shaken Fechnor. “I can't believe this. You lost an entire battalion?”

Colonel Fechnor's driver stood by the colonel's side. The young man was trembling from fear and exhaustion: fear at General Striganov's rage, and exhaustion from the long and sometimes-harrowing drive north, all the while imagining all sorts of dire repercussions from the general. Much to his regret, what he envisioned was coming true.

Fechnor stood at full attention, no give in him at his general's rage. “Yes, sir,” he replied. “First a bridge blew, then we were forced to wait and regroup. Then we were ambushed in Ottumwa. I – ”

“I
am not interested in excuses!” Striganov roared. His face was red with fury. “Excuses are a weak man's forte. You are not a weak man, Fechnor. Fechnor – ” he visibly calmed himself – “you are a trained, experienced combat veteran. You were decorated for your work in Afghanistan, for bravery as well as for common sense. We've been together since you were a mere lieutenant. What in the name of everything we hold sacred has happened to your courage?”

“There is nothing the matter with my courage, General,” Fechnor flared, forgetting to hold his tongue. “My scouts reported the town deserted. I am forced to accept their findings – as any field commander must. We approached the city with all due caution. My people fought well. But in vain. As for me – ”

“You ran.” Striganov stated the damning fact flatly, considerable heat in his voice. “You should have remained there, fighting and dying with your people.”

The colonel met the general's stare, refusing to back down. “What you say may be true, General. If so, I am ready to accept and face whatever punishment you deem necessary, including, of course, the firing squad. I – ”

Striganov waved him silent. He ordered the driver to leave the room. The young man almost fell over his feet in his haste to obey. Both men were forced to smile at the young man's antics. They both remembered their own youth, and their fear and awe of superior officers. The eyes of the two senior officers of the IPF met and held, and understanding passed between them in silent messages.

“Don't be ridiculous, Valeska,” Striganov said. “I have absolutely no intention of putting you against a wall. I spoke in haste; you should not have stayed and died. You are my most experienced and valuable field officer. I cannot afford to lose you; you know that. I apologize for losing my temper. Your scouts are to blame for not thoroughly checking the city. They should have – as you did – sensed an ambush.” Striganov returned to his chair and sat down heavily, sighing deeply. He remained thus for a time, brooding silently. Finally he looked up, catching Colonel Fechnor staring at him. The colonel was still standing at attention.

“Stand at ease, Colonel,” Striganov said. “No,” he amended that order. “Relax, make yourself comfortable. Have some tea. I insist.”

Colonel Fechnor relaxed and walked to the tea service, pouring a cup of tea. He sugared and creamed the beverage and returned to sit in a chair facing General Striganov's desk, carefully placing cup and saucer on the desk.

“Valeska,” the general said softly, “do you believe in any sort of supreme being?”

The question caught Fechnor off-guard. He thought for a few seconds, then said, “Why I . . .” He paused, not sure how to reply.

“Truthfully, now, old friend,” Striganov said with a very slight smile, as if sharing some secret with the man, a confidence only the two of them knew. “We have no one listening to report our conversation back to the Central Party Headquarters.”

Fechnor returned the slight smile. “Yes,” he said. “One does tend to forget the old ways no longer apply,
da?”

“Old habits are difficult to break,” Striganov agreed.

“Yes,” Fechnor spoke after a time. “Yes ... I do believe there is something . . . something – I don't know what – after death. Good or bad,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders. “Yes – I simply cannot believe that all the world, with its trees and flowers and animals and. . . beings just evolved. I have felt that way for a long time. Since maturity.” Colonel Fechnor felt better for having said that.

“I see.” Georgi spoke the words so softly Valeska had to lean forward and strain to hear them. The colonel waited for his commander to drop the other shoe – if he had another shoe to drop. He did.

“Yes,” Striganov said. “I find that interesting, Valeska. For I, too, have felt for some time there just might be some truth to the belief in a higher power. Although I do not profess to know what type of higher power – I don't believe anyone does. I ...” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “But I do believe... I have this thought, this theory, that President-General Ben Raines stands – quite unknowingly, I think – very close to this . . . this higher being.
If
there really is some sort of . . . supreme being.”

Col. Valeska Fechnor could but stare at his commander. He could not believe the words his ears had heard.

Striganov's smile held more than a touch of amusement. “Oh yes, Valeska. Your ears have not deceived you. But I repeat: I do not believe Ben Raines knows of his . . . closeness. If my theory is correct, that is. However, I do not think Ben Raines is always viewed in a favorable light by – ” he grimaced – “by whatever it is that we believe might exist as some higher power or order.”

Colonel Fechnor sat stunned in his chair, the excellent tea in front of him forgotten, cooling its fragrance. “Are . . . are you saying, Georgi, that we are locked in combat with –
God?”

Georgi lifted his eyes to meet Fechnor's amazed look. “In a manner of speaking, yes. If one believes in God. But if there exists such a person or thing or being – whatever – He is not known for direct interference or intervention. Lately I have studied the babblings of the Bible. I have studied them quite closely, over a period of months. Of course, it goes without saying I reject most of the writing as a figment of someone's imagination, but . . . parts of that book disturb me. The New Testament is quite bland and uninteresting – it's the Old Testament that intrigues me, fascinates me. Since you used the word, let us maintain the usage: Why would
God
interfere so directly and openly in the Old Testament and not in the New? I find that contradictory. Very much so.” Suddenly his features hardened. “And the goddamned Jews just persist in surviving. No matter what happens to them, no matter five thousand years of attempting to wipe them out, the bastards manage to survive. Through thousands of years of persecution – they survive. And now Ben Raines shares his bed and blankets with a Jew bitch.” He shook his head. “I do not believe it was an accident.”