Anarchy in the Ashes ta-3

by William W. Johnstone

  “You’ll see someday, Juan,” Al replied. He smiled, but his smile was void of humor. “Big Ben Raines,” he said sarcastically. “The great white hope.”

  Ben decided the best action he could take was none. He ignored Maiden. When he spoke, his words were directed to Juan and Mark. “I don’t see how any of us can sit on our hands and do nothing about this situation. Are we in agreement with that?”

  “I agree with nothing you say,” Al said.

  Juan said, “Are you suggesting we take the fight to them, Ben?”

  “Have we any choice in the matter?” Mark spoke. “My people will work with you in any way we can, Ben. You can count on that.”

  “Hey, brother!” Al rose from his chair in open anger. “I run the government of New Africa, not you-or have you forgotten that?”

  “You run the political arm of the parts of North and South Carolina our people have settled in,” Mark said pointedly. “But I run the military arm of it. That is a position the people placed on my shoulders-not yours. Al, are you so full of blind hate for all whites that you can’t see that Ben is trying to help us?”

  “Ben Raines never did anything except for Ben Raines,” Al retorted heatedly. “Are you forgetting he once threw the national president of the NAACP out of his office when he was in charge of this nation?”

  “No, I haven’t. But did it ever occur to you the man might have deserved being tossed out? I never did learn what happened. All I got was the one side-the side the liberal press chose to report, as usual. And,

  Al, I seem to recall that back in the early eighties, when Reagan was president, the same man, before he took charge of the NAACP, once referred to President Reagan as a California cow-shit kicker. Now, Al, playing devil’s advocate for a moment, I wonder how that man would have felt, being from Colorado, if President Reagan had stooped to his level, and called him a Colorado Coon?”

  Cecil burst out laughing, as did Juan and Ben. Al Maiden bristled with anger.

  “All I’m saying, Al, is how about some fairness? That’s all.” He again looked at Ben. “We’re with you, Ben. I’ll give you all the help and personnel you feel you need.”

  Maiden kept his mouth shut, but the hate in his eyes was intense.

  “Same here, Ben,” Juan said.

  “All right,” Ben said, rising to his feet and walking to a large wall map in the office. “Gentlemen, let’s get down to nuts and bolts.”

  Emil Hite stood in the bedroom of his quarters in the Ouachita Mountains of Arkansas and looked out over his growing kingdom. Not so little anymore, he thought. Growing daily.

  On his bed lay a young girl, sleeping after her first initiation into sex. Her breasts were still developing and her pubic hair was sparse. She was just the way Emil liked his female sex partners: from twelve to fifteen. Younger than that and they screamed and cried too much; older than that and he felt inferior, inadequate in the act.

  To say that Emil Hite was a bit twisted mentally would be putting it most subtly.

  Emil walked back to the bed and caressed the soft skin of the child, smiling as he did so. Lovely. Lovely little children. Too bad they had to grow up and become such bitchy women.

  His kingdom of followers now numbered almost fifteen hundred, and was growing daily. Not with the numbers of the past, but several came straggling in almost every day. And Emil had found the mutants responded-in their own peculiar way-to kindness. Ugly fucking brutes. But they did make great watch … watch what? Things. That would do. They made their homes on the fringes of the mountains, some of them actually constructing shacks of tin and scrap metal and wood. Emil had found that among the mutants, just as in normal human beings, there were varying degrees of intelligence. Some of them, Emil felt, might even be trained to do menial jobs-if he were so inclined to do that-which he wasn’t.

  A knock on the door of the cabin meant that Emil’s lunch was ready, the tray left by the door. Honey-bread and fruit and nuts and raw vegetables.

  Yuk!

  Emil desperately longed for a thick, juicy steak, but that would have appalled his followers, all vegetarians, and he had too good a thing going to screw up this late in the game.

  Jumping Jesus Christ, some of the people out there were real fruitcakes. They had built him a throne from where he held an audience twice a week. Emil had to sit very patiently, listening to his followers heap long, boring speeches of love and adulation upon him. And

  he would smile and nod his head and make the sign of the cross and look pleased while the yo-yos ranted and raved and groveled at his feet.

  And Emil had to read his Bible daily, darkly reshaping the passages to suit his own twisted mind and perverted desires.

  He sighed, thinking: I shouldn’t complain about it. He had it made. Steady tight pussy from young girls and tight assholes from young boys. Love and servants and people to wash him and shave him and rub his feet and back. So he had to preach a couple of times each week.

  Sure beat the hell out of selling used cars in Chattanooga, Tennessee.

  The young black woman fought the hard hands that gripped her arms, dragging her to the van parked on a side street in the small Iowa town. She fought the men, but her efforts were fruitless. One of the men could not resist this opportunity to squeeze the woman’s breasts, causing her to scream in pain as he gripped them brutally. The other men laughed at this.

  “You can’t do this to me!” she screamed. “I’m a human being, not an animal!” She cut her eyes to the few people standing on the Uttered main street of the town. “For God’s sake!” she screamed at them. “Please help me.”

  The men and women looked away, not wanting to meet the woman’s eyes. But they could not close their ears to her panic-filled cries for help.

  She screamed as the doors of the van were pulled open. Her eyes rolled in fear and desperation as she

  spied the banks of medical equipment and the straps on the narrow, white-sheeted table inside the van. A man and woman stood inside the van, both of them dressed in white. They smiled at her.

  She fought even harder. “My baby!” she screamed, hoping against hope someone would find the courage to help her. “My baby!”

  She was four months pregnant.

  “It won’t hurt,” the white-jacketed woman inside the medical van told her. “I promise you you will get the best medical care. We really don’t want to hurt you. But you are going to hurt yourself if you persist in this struggling.”

  “Please don’t do this to me!” she wailed. “You have no right to do this!”

  “You are impure,” the blond woman told her. “Although that is not your fault, you are imperfect. As with the mother, so goes the child.”

  The young black woman began cursing the people as they forced her into the van.

  She was screaming as she was lifted into the van and placed on the narrow table. Leather straps were tightened on her ankles and wrists. She felt her dress being cut from her. Cool air fanned her naked flesh. She was suddenly immobile.

  “Look at the pussy on this one,” a man said. “God, what a bush.”

  The young woman opened her eyes, looking into the hard, pale eyes of the blond woman standing over her. The woman licked her lips.

  The young woman felt the weight of a man covering her, his hardness pushing against her dryness. He grunted his way inside her.

  She was raped four times within an hour.

  “Enough,” she heard the blond woman say.

  The man on top of her climaxed and withdrew.

  Coolness of alcohol touched the young woman’s arm, followed by the tiny, brief lash of a needle.

  “That’s just to put you under for a time, miss,” a man’s voice spoke. “We promise you as little pain as possible. We’re not savages, you know.”

  Laughter followed that remark.

  She felt herself falling, falling. She fought the blackness that promised soothing, inky arms. Lights spun in her head, pinwheels whirled and sparkled. Blackness overtook her a
nd she sank into midnight. There was some pain through her unconsciousness, but the young woman did not recognize it as such. She could feel herself falling deeper.

  The midnight darkness began to be tinted with light. When she opened her eyes, she was in a hospital bed, in a clean, white, sterile room. An older black woman was standing over her, looking down. The woman smiled.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Shitty.”

  The black face smiled. “So did I. It was a forced miscarriage, honey. And I’ll tell you straight out: You will never have any children.”

  “They?” She could not bring herself to speak the awful words.

  “Yes,” the older woman said. “It just takes one shot to destroy everything that God gave us women. The same with men. I don’t know what’s in that shot, but it’s a devil’s mixture, for sure.”

  The young woman turned her face to the pillow and

  wept hard, uncontrollably, the tears savage, soaking into the pillow.

  “Hell, sister, that won’t help none. I know. Was you raped, too?”

  “Yes,” she sobbed.

  “I was raped so many times I don’t know how many men took me. Look, honey, I thought I’d kill myself after… after they give me that shot. But then I got to thinking-why? Then I thought some more, and came up with a better idea.”

  The young woman looked up at her through a mist of tears. “What?”

  “Keep on livin’ and think of more ways to stop these Russian bastards.”

  “That won’t help my baby.” She turned her face away from the woman.

  “You right, it sure won’t. But nothing on this earth will. Listen, we can help save some others from what was done to us. Honey, this is just one of a dozen or more hospitals the IPF has set up-and this one, like all the others, is jam-packed full. This place is full of blacks, Jews, Hispanics. Anybody that don’t have fair skin is in trouble with these Russian honk bastards, let me tell you that for a fact, honey, and you’d damn well better believe it.”

  Through her pain, the mental anguish much more severe than the physical, the young black woman asked, “What can we do?”

  “That’s more like it.” The older woman smiled. “All right, we don’t do nothin’ “til you get to feelin” better. Right now, though, we can talk. It’ll help some, believe me. What’s your name?”

  “Peggy. Peggy Jones.”

  “I’m Lois Peters. The IPF put me in here after I was … was worked on,” she spat out the last. “Made me kind of a den mother, you might say. I’ll tell you this: Be careful who you talk to, “cause they’s some black women copped out, agreed to breed with light-skins, anything to stay fertile. I thought about it some-rejected it. You?”

  “They didn’t even ask me that. I ran and hid for several weeks, but they finally ran me down and caught me. Lois, I’m not going to take this. Someway, somehow, I’m going to fight.”

  “Good girl. That’s the spirit. You gonna make it now, talkin” like that. All right, what do you know about guns?”

  “Nothing. I was born in New York City.”

  Lois shrugged. “Ever’body has their faults, I suppose.” She smiled. “That’s a joke, honey. Well, we can teach you about guns. OK. Now then, you ever heard of a man named Ben Raines?”

  “Are you kidding! Sure, I have. General, president. That’s the man who broke away from the union to form his own country. Why?”

  “Word I get is he met with the commander of the IPF, a guy name of General Georgi Striganov. That man is, so I hear, one bad dude.”

  “Sounds like something you’d eat.”

  Lois laughed softly. “Son of a bitch stick it in my mouth, hell pull out a nub. Talk is General Raines put the evil eye on the Russian, gave him a double whammy. Said he was gonna fight him, stop him and his IPF from doing this-like what was done to you and me.”

  “Anybody can,” Peggy said, “General Raines is the man’ll do it.”

  “Damn right. That’s the way I feel, too. You get better, honey. It won’t take long. And you be careful who you talk to “round here. Soon as you’re up and about, we’ll talk some more.”

  “You’ll teach me how to shoot a gun?”

  “Somebody will, don’t worry. We ain’t got all that many guns, now, but we’re gettin” some.”

  “The people in that little town where the IPF finally caught up with me, they just stood and watched them take me away. I couldn’t believe it. They just watched, didn’t do anything.”

  “Most of them couldn’t do nothing. The IPF come around, gatherin’ up all the guns. You too young to remember the way it was back in the mid-eighties, honey. The goddamn government of the United States passed laws that gave the Feds the right to take all the privately owned pistols. That was the worst law Congress ever passed. Ain’t no son of a bitch ever gonna take no gun of mine-not ever again. I’ll die first; but I’ll go out shootin’. Believe it.

  “Some of the white folks are in favor of what the IPF is doin’. A lot of them hate it. White folks is just like black folks: No two think alike “bout ever’thing. But General Raines got all kinds of folks in his new Tri-States, so I hear. EverTsody works together. No hate, no KKK, nothing like that white-trash group of people. God! Just think how wonderful that must be.”

  “Maybe we can link up with General Raines’s people.”

  “Could be. It’s a dream to sleep well on.”

  “Anything we plan on doing, Lois,” Peggy said, a new firmness to her voice. “It can’t be passive resistance.”

  “Lord no, child. Them days is gone forever. Let me tell you something else t greater-than out this General Striganov: He’s got folks testin’ other folks’ intelligence. Lot of fancy machines and words. He’s weedin’ out what he calls the mental defectives. Anyone under a certain IQ is in bad trouble. They just been disappearin’. The IPF is takin’ it slow and easy and quiet on that, not wantin’ to stir up a bunch of people. But they’re collectin’ folks and takin’ them away. Where is up for grabs. Nobody ever sees them again after they’re taken, so you can guess what is happenin’ to them.

  “Something else: That evil Sam Hartline was in here this mornin’. Just after you come out of the operating room. I heard him tell one of the orderlies that after you got all better, he wants you in his stable.”

  Peggy looked at the older woman. “Just what in the hell does that mean?”

  “You a beautiful woman, Peggy. Young, light-skinned. You could pass, you know that?”

  “I’ve thought about it.”

  “Sure you have. Don’t blame you. But Hartline wants you for one of his women. He’s an evil he-goat, honey. Likes to hurt women. And he’s built up real bad, if you know what I mean.

  “Son of a bitch will never get me!”

  “Just settle on down, now. Think about it. You be the first black gal he’s put his evil eyes on. Be nice to have someone reportin’ back to us on ever’thing he says.”

  Peggy could not believe what she was hearing. “You actually want me to prostitute myself?”

  Lois smiled. “A stiff cock never killed no one I ever

  heard of, honey, and women been spreadin’ their legs to get information out of men for centuries. My grandmother told me that her grandmother told her that back in the olden days they was called house niggers. Kept them down in the quarters informed as to what was goin’ on in the big house. You get my drift?”

  Peggy nodded.

  was “Sides, once a man gets it up and hard and in you, you got him in a damn good position to slide a knife ‘tween his ribs. You follow me, girl?”

  Peggy’s smile was grim. “I can dig it, honey.”

  “I’ll talk to you later. For right now, you beside” get some rest.”

  “How?” The question was bitter.

  “Just close your eyes, girl. It’ll come. You may think it’s the end of the world, but give it some time-it’ll heal.”

  “Yeah,” the young woman said. “Just give it time.” She closed her eye
s as the door to her room hissed open and closed. Peggy was asleep in five minutes. But her sleep was restless and troubled. She dreamt she was hearing a baby screaming. Tears rolled from sleeping eyes to dampen the pillow.

  Refugees from the IPF’S brutal tactics began drifting into the only known safe havens in the country: Juan Solis’s southwest, Ben Raines’s Tri-States and Al Maiden’s New Africa. The stories they told were horror stories.

  And in the three areas of freedom, the commanders pushed their troops hard during training. The people, of all races, all religions, realized the urgency of the

  training. No one complained.

  As summer began to wane, Al Maiden grudgingly began to realize Ben Raines was not a bigot or a racist, and that if any type of democratic government was to survive, the three leaders had best work together. They maintained daily radio contact, using a scrambler network of codes.

  “I was wrong about Maiden,” Ben told Cecil. “He’s not a bad sort.”

  “I was even further off base with my thinking,” Cecil said. “He’s coming around. It’s the damnedest metamorphosis I have ever witnessed.”

  “I wish to hell ya’ll would speak American,” Ike said with a smile. “I’m a Mississippi boy, “member? We ain’t used to them big words.”

  Cecil groaned and Ben laughed. They both knew Ike was one of the most intelligent people in Tri-States; he just liked to act the redneck part. And did a very convincing job of it.

  “I’ve got over two thousand in here,” Juan informed Ben. “I spoke with Mark and Al yesterday. Al said close to that number have drifted into his territory. How about you?”

  “Just about the same, Juan. Most of them in pretty sad shape, both mentally and physically. I’ve found very few fighters among my group.”

  “Same here,” Juan told him. “And Al reports the same.”

  “Well… it seems General Striganov is stepping up his moves, and getting rough with it. I’ve heard some grim stories.”

  “Same here. There are some pockets of resistance in Wisconsin, but Hartline and his boys are brutal. No

  prisoners, except for women, and then they’re used pretty badly.”