“Then you’re a damned fool!” a woman cried, her face flushed with anger. Ben noticed she had a pistol belted around her waist. “Man, have you lost your courage or your senses-or both?”
“I won’t fight them people,” the man insisted. “So what if the niggers and the spies and Jews are wiped out? Be a better world without them people.”
About a third of those present agreed with the man.
Gale stirred beside Ben, but kept her mouth shut. But if her eyes could speak, they would be speaking volumes. Her fingers dug into Ben’s arm with a hard fury.
“Then why don’t you take those of like mind and join up with General Striganov’s people?” Ben asked the man.
“By God, maybe I’ll do that little thing!” the man flared, his eyes furious. “I just cain’t see what is so wrong with what he’s doin’. And a lot of others around here agree with me.”
“Mister.” Another man stepped forward, his hands balled into hard fists. “Why don’t you just take those that agree with you and carry your goddamned ass out of here? My wife is Mexican, and I don’t like what you’re saying or what you’re all about. And if you open your fat mouth one more time, I’m going to knock your goddamn teeth down your throat.”
The man who thought he might like to join Striganov’s IPF opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it. He walked out of the small encampment with about two dozen other men and women following him.
“I just can’t believe Americans are really doing this,” Gale said. “This is … unreal.”
“Oh, you can believe it, dear,” Colonel Gray spoke. “There is a lot of hate in this world. Or, rather, what is left of this world.”
“And it will get worse,” Ben cast more gloom. “Count on it.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Ben shook hands with Juan Solis and Mark Terry and then offered his hand to Al Maiden. Maiden merely looked at him and folded his arms across his chest.
Ben shrugged it off and gazed out the window. It was late June and the weather had been ideal. If these conditions prevailed, there would be a bumper crop of wheat and corn and thousands of acres of vegetables.
“So from what you have seen, General,” Juan said, “you think that perhaps thirty percent of those approached are buying the garbage the Russian is spewing?”
“At least that many, Juan. There’s a lot of hatred in this country directed toward minorities. Striganov is bringing it to an ugly head.”
“Placing yourself amid the pus of that boil, too, I hope, General,” Al said.
Cecil sighed and looked out the open window. Mark caught Ben’s eye and shook his head in disgust. Ben could but smile.
“Al,” Juan said, “you’re a real asshole, I hope you know that.”
“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.