The Rabid Brigadier

by Craig Sargent

  She pulled herself hard against him, crushing her breasts with all her strength against his lean strong chest. She buried her face in his neck and groaned as his hands stroked up and down her back and along her womanly hips. Suddenly her whole body began jerking uncontrollably as if she were on fire, as if steaming lava were pumping into her veins. She cleaved to him and spread her legs quickly apart and wrapped around one of his thighs. Almost involuntarily she reached down and felt for his hardness and gasped when she found it. It seemed impossible that she could take all of him.

  She rose suddenly and undid the zipper on her back and slipped out of her nurse’s uniform and let it drop to the floor. Stone looked at her with wide eyes that still had trouble focusing. But from what he could make out, she was a veritable goddess—breasts like pomegranates standing out straight and firm, a thin waist and below glistening treasures that made his own erect staff stand a little taller. She ran over to the door of the recovery room, locking it, and then turned off the light of the supply closet. Now the only source of illumination was a kind of night-light—a five-volt bulb that plugged into the wall, casting a gentle sheet of gold over the entire room.

  Suddenly she was back in the bed with him and her body felt like Christmas and the Fourth of July and Polish Independence Day all wrapped up into one. He had felt exhausted when he fell asleep and had slept in a near coma for four hours before stirring from his nightmares. And somehow she made him feel awake. To say the least.

  “Come here, nurse,” Stone laughed in the dark, reaching for her. “What is your name anyway?”

  “Elizabeth,” a soft, quavering voice said from beside him on the bed.

  “Elizabeth,” Stone whispered almost to himself. A beautiful name. She came to him ready to give him the perfect art and beauty of her young body. Her breasts seemed to almost swell as his hands grasped them firmly and he squeezed hard. Her face flushed with desire as she boldly dropped her hand down again and grabbed hold of him. Suddenly, as if under the control of a puppeteer, she began twitching again as her frozen sexual energies unlocked and her muscles filled with jolts of electricity. She slid down his entire body, licking him with her wet pointed tongue, from chest to navel. Then lower.

  She kissed his staff, making it spring even higher, as if it had a life of its own. Her tongue rushed over the swollen shaft as a moan of animal pleasure sang softly through her parted lips. Stone could smell the intoxicating aphrodisiac of her aroused golden triangle of fur below. She moved up and down on his stiffness, barely able to take it into her small mouth, but wanting to, trying to. Stone reached down and grabbed her around the already wet mound of fur between her legs. He grabbed hard and squeezed and she responded like a cat in heat, dropping her head down, arching her whole back up. He played with the pink petals of her sex and then pushed a finger deep into her. She seemed to spasm up and let out a whoosh of air, as she clenched and unclenched around him.

  Suddenly he reached down and put his hands around her waist, lifting her up toward him as if she were light as a pillow. He pulled her to his chest and then reached down and grabbed behind each of her creamy thighs and pulled her up onto him as he guided the long spear of flesh with one hand into her parted wet lips. She groaned, her eyes shutting tight, her head falling to his shoulder in a swoon as the stiff organ plummeted into her core. She whipped her legs up around his waist to make room for him and locked her ankles together behind his back.

  He started pumping into her, slowly at first, and as both their passions heated up, harder and faster until he was like a steam piston of slamming sensation inside of her, her triangle of light blonde hair dripping with the juices of her passions. Stone forced himself ever deeper into her, as if mining for something, some vital part of her soul. He tore into her body, forcing her legs apart, pushing into the darkest recesses of her body, taking her to the very summits of sensation that a woman can know on this earth.

  Suddenly she seemed to go into a complete frenzy of movement as waves of super sensation streamed up from her stomach and her clitoris, which grinded against him. Her head slammed back and forth, eyes tightly shut, as the lowest of wildcat growls rumbled through her mouth. Stone could feel his manhood grow even stiffer and longer, hard as hammered steel, and he grabbed her round buttocks, pulling her against him until they felt as if they would merge into one pulsing flesh. His eyes suddenly closed as he felt the thick fluid rise up and surge through the swollen organ, pumping into her with powerful, wild stabs. He erupted in a volcanic explosion of white hot lava shooting into her boiling caverns.

  Her entire body went completely rigid and her face paler and paler until it seemed all the blood had drained. Suddenly she sucked in a breath and the blood filled her face again and she let out with a long half scream, half howl of pleasure as her body vibrated around him like a blender trying to take down a whale. It seemed to go forever, her entire body contracting from stomach to breasts, through her thighs. She jerked and vibrated as he thrust into her, and came with the most powerful orgasm she had ever experienced. They groaned simultaneously, and for one glorious second they merged into one being, joined together in mindless, wonderful animal bliss.

  CHAPTER

  Eleven

  WHEN HE awoke again she was gone. The place in the bed by his side was still warm but her body was gone. She had run from him in fear. Women were like that sometimes when they felt they had enjoyed themselves too much the night before. The superego reasserted itself over the inner animal passions. But the animal would rise again. The superego would be hurled aside, and she would come again.

  He felt almost one hundred percent. The poison had run its course through his body, making love with Elizabeth had restored him, had recharged his body. That’s why a man needs a woman—to replenish his battery with power. There is nothing like it. Nothing. Who could say how or why. But touching her, being inside her, had healed him. The perfumes of a woman’s body were more medicinal than all the sterile bottles science had to offer. Even his hand, which he lifted and looked at, was losing its ghastly black-and-purple color and returning to a reddish pink. The swelling had subsided completely. He still had a little trouble bending it, but it worked.

  He had scarcely had time to dwell on sweet musings of the night before when there was a loud knocking on the door. A barrel-chested sergeant with clipboard and drill instructor’s hat barged into his room. He had a face like a squashed pumpkin—like something that had been stepped on a few too many times—and huge cauliflower ears with what appeared to be worm holes embroidering their edges.

  “Training has begun. Report to the parade field in five minutes. And please don’t be late,” the man screamed with a mock sarcasm of politeness. Stone stared after the sergeant as he pulled the door shut hard and stomped out, waking half the patients in the place. Before he knew it he found himself up and dressing. He hadn’t even decided what the hell he was going to do. But his curiosity was aroused. In a way he wondered just what the training was like. Besides, there was a lot about this whole operation that confused him no end. There was nothing he could put his finger on but something was wrong somewhere. Or was it just his fucking cynical core that found it so hard to believe that all these guys were for real, that he had found the kind of people he had been searching for. Stone couldn’t even tell anymore; his intuitive distant early warning system seemed to have blown a fuse.

  He headed out of the building and walked down the main asphalt road that led through the center of Fort Bradley. Stone made his way over to the twenty-five recruits who stood in slightly uneven lines facing a pole that held the flag of the NAA, crossed M-16’s over the stars and stripes, this one a good six by seven feet in dimensions and hand-stitched with vivid red and blue and white—and a silver metallic sheen for the rifles. It whipped loosely around in the breeze, about thirty feet above their heads. Stone got into one of the back rows. A few hours of calisthenics would be good, he thought to himself. Stretch him out. Get things shook up in there a little.r />
  The drill sergeant waited impatiently, looking at his watch and then his clipboard. At last two more men came running down the street pulling on their jackets and settled into place.

  “Now, gentlemen, you are about to make the magical transformation from idiot into fighting soldier. We don’t go about training the usual way here. Instead we have what we call the make-it-or-break-it method. This is, gentlemen, for the next two days you are going to be pushed until every cell in your body is ready to explode; you will run and fight and climb and build until you think your feet are going to turn to porridge and your legs to rubber bands. But still you’re going to go on, because I’ll be right behind you, ready to kick you in the ass should you slow down. But mostly you’re going to to go because you WANT to be a member of the most illustrious fighting force in America today. Don’t you, idiots?”

  “Yes sir,” a few of the recruits in the first row spoke out.

  “WHAT’S THAT?” the D.I. screamed so loudly back at them that a dog nearly half a mile away in the pens started barking.

  “YES SIR,” every one of them shouted back, standing bolt upright, backs ramrod stiff. Even Stone joined in. Sort of.

  The D.I. walked back and forth in front of them, a huge Polack, with a face like a cow and a body and shoulders that looked like they could lift one. “I’m Sergeant Zynishinski. Don’t try to pronounce my name, just say ‘sergeant’ whenever you want to address me. I’m the guy who runs this forty-eight-hour marathon training. General Patton has his own ideas of war. If you get through this, you’re for us. If not, it’s better to find out now. You’re going to hate my guts by the time we’re through. And wish you could send a howitzer on my head or run a bayonet through me. And you know what, I’ll give you the opportunity to try it. But first”—he looked into their apprehensive faces and snorted out a sigh of disgust. Then he spat a cupcake-sized gob of spittle onto the dirt. “Let’s start with the basics.”

  “First the sacred oath of our army. This oath is signed and sealed in blood. Only blood binds us together so that we can’t be broken.” He handed a knife to the men at each end of the three lines. “These are the direct words of General Patton himself, gentlemen idiots: ‘It is our common sacrifice of blood on the field of battle that makes us one, unites us in the war on evil,’” He looked around at them, making sure they knew how to use the damned blades.

  “Now, cut yourself and when you all have blood coming out, put your bleeding fist over your heart.” He sliced his arm, which Stone saw had been cut over and over again so the forearm had healed into a scarred purple surface as jagged and ugly as the stark face of the moon. Each man sliced himself and passed the knife down the line. Some of them did it with eyes open, others with eyes shut tight as doors; some sliced their own flesh as if carving a piece of bologna, others stabbed forward into palm or wrist or arm, wanting to get it over with fast. A few just cut into themselves with total detachment, sawing as if they were slicing up a roast and had forgotten if it was a quarter or half pound they were cutting up. Groans and gasps chorused through the men but not a one screamed, not in front of their fellow initiates.

  Stone took the knife when it was handed to him and stared at it. He looked over the sergeant, who had already placed his bleeding forearm over his chest so that drops fell onto his uniform and down onto the ground. What the hell, Stone thought, trying to muster his own shield of grim detachment. When in Rome, as they used to say. He placed it against the front of his forearm on the outside fleshy part and nicked the tip in about a half inch and then sliced forward for about two inches.

  “Shiiiit,” he hissed, gritting his teeth together, snapping his eyes suddenly shut in pain. He looked down. There was a reasonable amount, Stone decided, as a stream of red flowed slowly out as if through a crack in a dam. He handed the blade onto the next man. Within a minute and a half they had all made their cuts.

  “Now face the flag of the NAA,” the D.I. said, turning toward the fluttering symbol of military strength that snapped in a sudden gust of wind. “Now swear after me, swear on your own blood allegiance to our flag. And repeat after me. I—say your name.”

  “I, Martin Stone,” Martin said, trying to get into the spirit of the thing. But not quite able.

  “Swear total and complete obedience to the New American Army, its commander General Patton and all its officers.” They repeated his words, some stumbling over them. Some of the more uneducated ones from the sticks were a little slow at this sort of thing and kept looking at the D.I. in horror, afraid that they would make a dumb mistake.

  “And I pledge to give my life for my fellow soldier, just as I give my blood today.”

  “—give my blood today,” they echoed after him.

  “And I swear to carry out all the orders I am given, whatever they entail.”

  “—whatever they entail,” they barked back.

  “Now, walk to the base of the flag, one at a time, and throw some of your blood on the rocks. You’ll see where; it’s red with the blood of all the men who’ve come through these gates. You’re joining not just the men of this army, but also our ghosts. The spirits of our fighting past. This is the most sacred oath you’re ever going to make, so leave now if you can’t hold up your end. There’s no backing out later.”

  They walked forward one by one and waved their arms around at the base of the flagpole until a few drops or sprinkles fell atop the faded waxy buildup of red—the blood from a thousand veins. It came Stone’s turn and he stopped and hesitated just before the rocks. There was something in him that didn’t want to do it, didn’t want to swear in blood to anything. Yet it was too late to pull out now. The ghosts of his ancestors would just have to kick the ass of the ghosts of the Third Army if it came to it. He shook his arm and a whole thimblefull of blood sluiced down and made a plopping sound on the rocks. Stone looked around proudly at his contribution but the others were all too engrossed in their own mental trips, their eyes locked on another dimension—the past, the history of their own lives—for they were about to enter a new life, to change forever. And who could say how they would turn out or what their fates would be.

  “You are now official recruits of the New American Army. And God be with you.” Sergeant Zynishinski said the final words in a kind of undertone that made them sound quite ominous. And the recruits started wondering just what they’d gotten themselves into.

  “That was the easy part; now comes the fun,” the D.I. said, turning to look at them with the happy eyes of a panther when it spots a gazelle sunning itself on a nearby rock. “First, let’s do a little running—just to get ourselves loosened up. Now count off. One after another.”

  The recruits, after staring at one another in confusion but at last getting it going, counted off from one to twenty-five. Stone was twenty-three. Way in the back, just the way he liked it.

  “Now one line is evens, the other odds. You got that, you idiots?”

  “Yes sir,” the recruits screamed back.

  “Now odds step out and come up alongside the trooper in front of you.” They looked confused and stumbled around in front of one another for a few seconds. “Jesus God, have you sent me the dumbest of the dumb—cows instead of men,” Sergeant Zynishinski asked his own private god as he glared up with a look of wary disgust at the dawn sky just starting to paint itself in with pastel oranges and faded reds. When they were at last paired off, he started jogging around the parade ground, a rectangle about two football fields long that had been cleared down to a thin layer of dead brown grass, which just gave it the tiniest bit of a cushion against their boots.

  The D.I. kept it going, setting into a medium, even pace and took them around the track. The recruits smiled confidently at one another. If this was it, it was going to be a snap.

  “This it—this as fast as your running exercise here get?” a mountain boy with a long drawl asked as he ran in the front row just behind the mountain-sized instructor who slammed on like an elephant a yard ahead.

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p; “This is it, boy,” the D.I. grunted back. They ran around the circumference of the long field back to where they had started and then continued on another round. By the end of the second completion—each complete go-around equaling about half a mile—some of the men were already starting to huff and puff a little. But they sucked in and just pushed harder.

  And they ran. And ran. And ran. After half an hour, some of them started to grow impatient, restless. But the sergeant wasn’t answering questions, just running ahead of them, pulling them relentlessly on. After an hour, half of them were dragging their feet on the ground. Even at the slow jogging pace they couldn’t go on. Yet they had to. By the end of the second hour, every man’s face was beet red, his lungs heaving. By the end of the third hour, they would have welcomed a heart transplant.

  At last the sergeant stopped and turned to them. He wasn’t even breathing all that hard. “Five minute rest. So meditate or masturbate—or say your prayers. ’Cause that was the easy part.”

  The men collapsed onto the ground, Stone along with them. Four men lay fallen in heaps of exhaustion around the field. The D.I. walked around to them and sent them off to the debriefing building. They were out. After what seemed like just seconds he came back to them.

  “On your feet, assholes. Attention!” They jumped to—or tried to, standing in somewhat shaky lines, praying there would be no more running.

  “Now we learn how to kill. Which one of you idiots thinks you can kick my ass?” He glanced around challengingly, trying to catch a pair of responsive eyes. “Come on now, you’re all tough bastards, right? I mean that’s why you’ve volunteered, ’cause you want to kick ass.” The recruits looked around at one another, wondering who would be fool enough to try. In their own villages and ramshackle towns, each had been one of the toughest in the teeth-smashing brawls on Saturday night when they got loaded up with rotgut at what passed for the local tavern. Here they were just another cow in the herd and their toughness suddenly seemed to have become somewhat laughable.