Freedom Express

by Maloney, Mack;

  Devillian had two favorite spots in the twenty-room phantom mansion: One was the War Room; the other was his Play Pen.

  The Play Pen was a lust chamber that contained, among other things, a giant sauna and whirlpool, a huge video screen, a forty-foot-long, marble-topped bar, several massage tables and a massive waterbed. The ceiling and most of the walls of the huge room were covered with large mirrors; the remaining wall featured a bizarre catalog of sexual restraining devices.

  It was here that Devillian headed as soon as he climbed out of the Hind. Despite the period of stimulation provided by gunning down scores of helpless Indians over the past two days, the long trip from Football City had left him tired and just a little tense.

  But he knew exactly how to take care of that.

  As he entered the Play Pen, he immediately yanked a long velvet cord dangling from the ceiling, sounding a bell in another corner of the house. Less than a minute later, two young women—a young, busty brunette and an older, slimmer, very pretty blonde—entered the room. Both were wearing sheer silk robes that did nothing to hide the alluring contours of their bodies.

  “It’s been a long two days, girls,” Devillian told them crudely. “And I’m aching all over. So get to work.”

  The two girls helped Devillian undress. He stretched out on the massage table, and for the next several minutes, their nimble fingers roamed all over his white, pudgy body.

  Finally he sat up.

  “Make drinks,” he said to the blonde. Then he turned to the brunette and barked, “And you, help me put in a movie.”

  The blond girl, whose name was Desiree, scampered to the bar to make cocktails, while Diamond, the brunette, accompanied Devillian to a long, low sofa situated in front of the video screen. Devillian opened a large cabinet at one end of the sofa, revealing several shelves filled with hundreds of his homicidal pornographic videos.

  “Get out three-oh-three,” he commanded. “And make it quick.”

  Diamond’s heart sank as she pulled out #303. She knew it featured women making love to each other in a variety of sadistic ways. She also knew the effect it would have on Devillian. After watching it for only a few minutes, he would order Desiree and her to perform the same perverted acts on each other. She hated it, but she had no choice. She was one of Devillian’s many love slaves, young girls bought on the Southwest’s free-wheeling white slavery market. She knew that the only escape from Devillian’s lair was by death.

  By the time Desiree returned with the drinks, Devillian already had started the movie.

  He ordered the blonde to sit at his feet and lick his toes, while he forced his hand inside Diamond’s robe and roughly began fondling her lovely breasts. As the action on the screen grew more heated, Devillian’s excitement rapidly mounted. A snap of his fingers ordered Desiree to produce a large vial of crack cocaine, and soon Devillian was forcing both women to inhale the drug, all the while taking many long, greedy drags himself.

  Of the two, he liked young Diamond the best.

  “You do what I tell you, when I tell you,” he said, pulling the teenager up by her hair. “Right?”

  She stifled a cry and nodded her head. “Yes …” she said.

  Devillian laughed cruelly and shoved the crack pipe into her mouth. Then he looked up at Desiree. At twenty-two, the blonde was much older than Diamond, and more in tune to Devillian’s perverted ways of living. He stared into her eyes for a long moment, watching her pupils turn glassy as the cocaine smoke did its work. Then he winked at her. She smiled seductively and winked back. Both knew what lay ahead for Diamond.

  The video played on for another ten minutes before Devillian could wait no longer. He roughly stripped Diamond’s robe off and threw her back on the sofa, spreading her thighs wide apart. Putting his hand on the back of Desiree’s head, he pretended to force her toward the other girl, at the same time putting one of her hands down to his own expanded crotch.

  “You know what to do, you bitch,” he whispered, closing his eyes and thinking back to all the helpless victims he had killed over the past two days. “Now do it right.”

  That evening, refreshed and revived, Devillian met in the War Room with the High Command he had assembled over the past few weeks for the Knights of the Burning Cross.

  It was a motley crew.

  Major Heck of the Twisted Cross was there as was Studs Mallox, a huge beast of a man with a totally bald head who recently had seized control of the turbulent Skinhead F-4 squadron by garroting and then disemboweling their previous commander.

  Next to Mallox sat a dozen other disreputable-looking types who were in charge of the major units of Badlands bandits and air pirates that made up the Burning Cross.

  Two people stood out in this latter group: a Mexican named Jorge Juarez and his sister, Juanita. Jorge was one of the fattest people Devillian had ever seen. Rolls of flab spilled over his gunbelt onto the chairs on either side of him. His eyes were mere slits in his bloated, malevolent face. A black, greasy mustache drooped from either side of his sneering mouth. Various scars and pimples rounded out the man’s totally repugnant appearance.

  This is one truly disgusting human being, Devillian thought.

  But also a very powerful one. Jorge had managed to pull together an army of bandits, renegades, escaped felons, war criminals and other misfits from all over Mexico and turn them into the nastiest, crudest gang of cutthroats doing business in post-war America, second only to the Skinheads in total savagery.

  At first, Devillian had serious reservations about inviting Juarez to join his organization. As a rule, he regarded Mexicans as barely a half-step above blacks. But several of his confidants in the Burning Cross convinced him that Juarez was a master of spreading terror and creating chaos. In other words, he was someone who could be an invaluable ally for a while—until he became expendable.

  But there was another reason Devillian decided to let Juarez into the group: the man’s sister, Juanita.

  Ordinarily, Devillian preferred young, white women. Juanita, of course, had reasonably dark skin. But she also was one of the most beautiful and downright sexy women Devillian had ever seen.

  As obese and repulsive as Jorge was, he faded into the woodwork when his sister was in the same room. Her job within the Cross was to sign up mercenaries for the cause, and in this regard, Devillian knew she would be an unbeatable recruiter. Her dark hair swirled around a face that was both angelic and inviting; her black eyes glistened with promise. In stark contrast to her brother’s mountains of loose flesh, every inch of Juanita’s body was tight-skinned and smooth. She was slender, yet she had remarkably large and perfectly formed breasts, rising like beautiful mountains from a landscape created in a desert paradise. Her legs and thighs were long and lean. She moved like a jaguar in heat.

  And the Colt .45 pistols strapped to each shapely hip always sent a thrill through Devillian’s loins.

  Someday, somehow he would have her, Devillian promised himself. That is, if he could get by those damn pistols.

  The terrorist leader forced himself to stop staring at this bewitching creature long enough to call the meeting to order.

  “Gentlemen … and lady,” he said, smiling hopefully at Juanita and getting absolutely no response. “Since we last gathered, a lot has happened within our organization. As you already know, Major Heck and his men have officially joined our cause. We welcome their expertise and valor.

  Devillian paused for dramatic effect.

  “What you may not know,” he continued, “is that Major Heck and his men were responsible for destroying the Modern Pioneers’ train that so foolishly attempted to travel through our territory, trying to reach Los Angeles.”

  Devillian’s news brought a round of congratulations for Major Heck.

  “Well done, amigo,” Jorge Juarez burped in what amounted to a show of comradeship on his part. His sister gave Heck a half-smile, and the Nazi thought he detected a hint of interest in her dark eyes. Or so he hoped.

 
Devillian continued. “But we can’t dwell too long on that success. Another train is trying to make the same trip. And this train is much bigger and more heavily armed.”

  “Do you know who’s behind this one?” grunted Mallox.

  “The United Americans themselves,” Devillian replied with a smile. “There’s no doubt about it. I saw the train myself in Football City. And our spies tell me that Hawk Hunter was in town at the same time.”

  An invisible ripple of tension went through the room at the mention of Hunter’s name. As if on cue, each of the terrorists—the Nazi Heck included—shifted nervously in his seat. Only Juanita seemed unaffected. In fact, Devillian thought he saw a strange, bemused look flicker briefly across her lovely face. But she said nothing.

  “With Hunter and his people involved, I’m sure you’ll all agree that we have to take this latest train very, very seriously,” Devillian said, expertly holding back his real feelings.

  “Bullsheet,” Juarez rumbled, his voice filled with gas and mock courage. “We weel crush him like a snake!”

  “Don’t kid yourself,” Devillian told him. “Hunter is a very dangerous man, and this train is carrying a lot of weapons.”

  The nervousness of the group went up another notch until Devillian smiled and said, “But, on the other hand, my friends, this is exactly what we’ve been waiting for.”

  He then outlined the first part of a plan that he promised would culminate in the eventual destruction of the train. However, this first phase involved little more than a series of sneak attacks, each one designed to stall the train—not destroy it outright.

  When he finished, there was one question on everyone’s lips.

  “Why not just bomb the tracks in front of the fucking thing,” Studs Mallox piped up, “and then blast the shit out of the train itself?”

  “He’s right, Herr Devillian,” Heck said. “With the firepower we have, we could probably destroy this train in two, possibly three attacks, no matter how many weapons they have. My Skull and Crossbone battalion would be happy to lead the first assault.”

  Devillian was smiling and shaking his head at the same time. “You’re missing the point here,” he said. “If we destroy the train right away, we will be losing a golden opportunity to advance the cause of the Burning Cross.”

  “How so?” Heck asked.

  Devillian closed his eyes and saw dead bodies. “Because, if we attack now,” he went on, “all we do is kill the men on the train, and instantly, they become martyrs. But if we wait for the right moment and the right place, then we can kill not only the men on the train, but also the spirit of every do-gooder on both coasts.”

  “I still don’t understand,” Juanita said, speaking for the first time.

  “We play like the spider,” Devillian replied. “We lure them farther along. Hitting them hard, but selectively. And then, just when the whole country is rooting for them to succeed in this grand adventure—boom!—we destroy them, utterly and without compromise.

  “The effect will be devastating to the American population once they see how easily the Burning Cross snuffed out their heroes. And following this glorious show battle, it will be our names on everyone’s lips. We will emerge as the new power in this country.”

  “But how can you be certain the country will know about this so-called show battle?” Heck asked. “We can’t leave such a crucial victory to the mercy of conjecture and rumor.”

  “I agree!” Devillian shouted. “And I have already taken steps, my friends, to make sure this battle will be seen by literally millions of people. Millions of witnesses who will come away with no doubts about who won or the power of the Burning Cross.

  “But to accomplish all this, we must stick to my plan.”

  Suitably, if temporarily awed, the majority around the table nodded their agreement.

  Devillian smiled again and involuntarily rolled his twisted eyes. “Already the plan is working,” he told them. “Some of our advance groups made contact with the airborne elements of the train’s defensive forces.”

  “And they snuffed them?” Mallox the Skinhead asked.

  “No, no!” Devillian replied with a mixture of confidence and frustration. He knew the doltish Skinheads would have trouble understanding his intricate scheme. “Per my orders, they simply clashed with them and retreated.”

  One of the minor bandit leaders—a man named Mink—chose to speak up at this point. “Whaddaya talking about?” he asked crudely. “You let these United American pussys kick ass on our guys? On purpose?”

  “You just don’t understand,” Devillian told him calmly. “The United Americans don’t even know we exist. By letting them think they are making progress on this trip of theirs, we will lure them in deeper and deeper.”

  “Still sounds like a fairy way to fight,” Mink said. “And that means you must be a fairy, too—”

  Just what Mink was expecting from his ill-timed outburst would always remain a mystery. A nod from Devillian to one of his nearby bodyguards produced the flash of a knifeblade. Two seconds later, Mink’s throat was slit from ear to ear.

  “Now, my friends,” Devillian continued, his pants instantly sopping wet. “Are there any other questions?”

  Chapter 15

  Dodge City

  THE FREEDOM EXPRESS PULLED into Dodge later that evening, running right on schedule.

  Hunter, Crunch and Elvis were sitting in one of the coach cars, drinking beer and trying to relax as they told Catfish of the mysterious behavior of the Starfighters and the resulting unopposed occupation of the airport. While they spoke, the long process of disconnecting the three heavily armored railway cars that would make up the Dodge City mini-fort had begun.

  “So those bandits just high-tailed it out of there, eh?” Catfish asked for not the first time.

  “Not your typical air pirate modus operandi, is it?” Hunter replied worriedly. When low-lifes like air pirates went against their normal operating procedures—swarm tactics sometimes fought to the last man—bells went off in his head. He immediately began to think trouble.

  “Could be they’re just laying back,” Crunch said. “Maybe they’ll hit us tonight and try to reclaim the airport.”

  “Maybe,” Hunter said. “Maybe not.”

  “Fitz already called Jones with the news,” Catfish said, opening four more beers and passing them around. “He’s making arrangements to borrow a dozen F-5’s and crews from the Free Canadians. They will be out here tomorrow. It’s only temporary, but it should keep the air pirates away from our fort.”

  While the others nodded in agreement, Hunter just pulled his chin in worry.

  “That’s a good move,” he said. “But I’ve got a feeling that those Starfighters aren’t coming back. And dammit, that bothers me.”

  After another hour of conversation, the weary men turned in for the evening.

  Hunter fell asleep almost immediately, though he tossed and turned most of the time. Usually his sleep was deep and peaceful, but again tonight his head was filled with strange voices. Still he did not feel the commotion around two AM when the three mini-fort railway cars were finally disconnected from the rear of the train and pushed onto a side spur at the old Amtrak station.

  Thus, the new Dodge City was born.

  This done, the Freedom Express started up again and, while most on board slept, slowly moved out of town.

  The next stop was a small settlement named Cimarron, located in the northeast corner of New Mexico. This was going to be one of the most dangerous sites on the entire route for establishing a new settlement. Not only was Cimarron right on the edge of the heart of the southern Badlands, it was less than a hundred miles north of Santa Fe.

  Once an attractive and prosperous city, Santa Fe had become a symbol of all that was wrong with the southern Bads. A boiling pot of vice and corruption, it drew bandits, murderers, criminals, black marketeers and other disreputable types from all over the West. Prostitution, drug dealing, gunrunning, white sla
very and terrorism were in such vogue, the place made the anarchic cities of west Texas look like vacation resorts.

  During the dark early morning hours, the Express made its way steadily across western Kansas and into the tip of the Oklahoma panhandle. A night patrol by Crunch and Elvis found nothing unforeseen coming toward the train from any direction.

  But then suddenly, just before dawn, Hunter found himself sitting straight up in his bed, wide awake in a flash.

  “Something’s wrong …” an inner voice called to him. He was strapping into the Harrier less than a minute later.

  Skinhead Commander Studs Mallox spotted the train from twenty-five miles out at twenty-five thousand feet.

  At this height, the Freedom Express looked like a great silver serpent, slithering through the foothills of Oklahoma. Already he could see the two patrolling Phantom jets circling above the train, a sure indication that his strike force had been detected.

  No matter, he thought. In fact, that was the whole idea.

  Studs barked out a series of orders to his five accompanying F-4’s and the pair of creaky, radio-controlled B-57 Canberra bombers they were escorting.

  “You know what to do,” he commanded after each of his airplanes had assumed its attack profile. “Don’t anyone screw up, or I’ll personally fry his ass in butter.”

  The lumbering remote-controlled B-57’s dropped down to a perilously low three hundred fifty feet and roared over the set of tracks toward the approaching train. In the meantime, Studs ordered three of his F-4’s to engage the trio of aircraft—one of them a jumpjet—that was coming right toward them.

  “Just keep ’em busy,” Studs told the other F-4 Skinheads. “That’s all….”

  Hunter sent the Harrier roaring through the formation of oncoming Phantoms, twisting and turning to avoid the cannon fire that suddenly filled the air. He zeroed in on the lead F-4, unleashed a Sidewinder and immediately put the Harrier into a steep climb to escape the flying debris from the resulting explosion.

  Per their hastily devised plan, Crunch and Elvis dove and plunged right into the path of the Canberra bombers, knowing the bigger jets could cause more damage to the train than the smaller Phantoms. The Wreckers combined to send both B-57’s crashing to the tracks—and did so with surprising ease. Meanwhile, Hunter had circled around for another pass and destroyed a Skinhead Phantom that had doubled back to try and protect the bombers.