“You see, my dear Miss Jones,” he said, returning his hand to its busy work between her legs, “it was I
who finally convinced General Striganov he was making a terrible mistake by sterilizing all the minorities, inferiors that you are. I said to Georgi, “Georgi, just think what we can do for the generations of scientists yet to come. What a contribution we could make in the field of genetics.””
A woman began screaming down the long hall in the sectioned-off warehouse. The woman was howling in pain and fright, begging to someone not to do this to her. To kill her. To please have mercy on her. That this was inhuman. She just could not…
Her scream changed in timbre, ending in a series of heavy, painful grunting sounds.
“Hartline…”
“Be quiet, dear. What is happening to … whatever is that woman’s name? It escapes me at the moment. No matter, as I was saying, it won’t happen to you. You have already been-how to subtly say this-spayed like the dog-bitch you are.”
He threw back his head and howled out his laughter.
Something in the warehouse growled.
Peggy had heard that sound before. The realization of what was taking place in the experiment rooms struck her with all its savagery. “Hartline … you didn’t! I mean, you can’t be serious?”
“Oh, but we are serious, sweetmeat. Really. Look at it this way: We are making real contributions in the field of genetics. It is as I told Georgi: Take the inferior races and start a program of breeding them to the beasts. Male mutant to female human inferior. Female to male human inferior.”
“That is what is currently happening to our Mr. Linderfelt and to Miss, ah, yes, Llado. That is that
greaser’s name. We have to give the human males large injections of aphrodisiac in order for them to cooperate-large doses of Valium work wonders in many cases-and it is really working out well, I believe. Our doctors don’t, as yet, know the gestation period for the female mutants, but it is very fast, we believe. It should produce some interesting offspring, don’t you think, my dear Miss Jones?”
“You’re savages!” Peggy whispered. “Nothing but dirty, filthy monsters.”
Hartline looked hurt. “Oh, not true, not true. If everything works out as planned, we shall have a race of beings with some degree of intelligence, able to perform menial jobs, thus freeing the more intelligent for other work. It’s science, my dear, that’s all.”
He freed her from her bonds and forced her to a low table, strapping her on her belly, legs spread wide, her bare feet on the cold floor, her buttocks elevated. She knew what was in store for her.
“I believe, my dear,” Hartline said, removing his trousers, carefully folding them and hanging them on the back of a chair, “we were in the process of doing something when you turned savage on me. were we not?”
He was naked from the waist down, his penis already swelling in anticipation of the assault.
Peggy did not reply.
She felt grease or oil being spread between the cheeks of her buttocks.
“Yes, we were,” Hartline said, positioning himself.
Peggy began screaming.
By maintaining daily radio contact, Ben learned that Ike’s and Hector’s columns were having as much equipment trouble as his own. Ike had been forced to halt at St. Genevieve in Missouri for major repairs. He reported to Ben that the city contained survivors, but they had, so far, shown no interest or inclination in fighting General Striganov. They would take whatever form of government happened along.
Ben resisted an impulse to tell Ike to shoot them.
Hector’s column was bogged down in Warsaw, Missouri while his mechanics worked frantically on the engines and transmissions.
The troops from North and South Carolina had been halted in Illinois.
Juan was the only one to have reached his objective and was digging in for the fight.
But the IPF was having no problems.
The rumble of Jeeps and heavy trucks grew louder to the small team of LETTERRP’S hidden by the side of the road in central Iowa. The column of IPF forces stretched for miles.
“Must be four or five battalions,” a LETTERRP said to his buddy.
“At least that. And they’ve got more heavy guns than we first thought. We got them outgunned, all right, but they’ve got us out-manned.” The LETTERRP picked up his mic and called in, speaking softly.
“At least five battalions of infantry heading south in trucks. We counted forty of the six-bys pulling cannon. 105’s.”
“Tanks?”
“Negative on tanks. Here comes another convoy. Hang on.”
The LETTERRP’S counted the heavily loaded trucks-those loaded with men and those loaded with equipment. They radioed back to Ben’s HQ.
“Three more battalions rolling south.”
“Acknowledged. Maintain your positions and stay low.”
“If I got any lower my buttons would be in the way.”
The radio operator took the bad news to Ben.
“Seven or eight battalions,” Ben read aloud the hastily scrawled message. “Damn! General Striganov knows he’s got to defeat us; once that is done, he’s home free. Get me Ike.”
Colonel McGowen on the horn, Ben said, “Ike-we’ve got six thousand troops coming at us, buddy. They’re in central Iowa now. Whatever you have that will roll, get the wheels turning north and assume your positions. Get ready for hell, partner. We’ve got to have time to dig in, so move them out now! The clock is ticking. Interstate 70 is the stopping point for the Russians. We’ve got to hold them. The personnel you leave behind can catch up ASAP. I’ll be talking with Hector in a moment. Roll it, Ike… and God go with you.”
“Ten-four, Ben. Luck to you, ol” buddy.”
Ben spoke briefly with Colonel Ramos, telling him to move out and dig in. No sooner had he released the talk button than Mark Terry was on the horn.
“We are engaging the IPF in central Illinois, Ben. And we are meeting heavy resistance. We are holding.”
“Dig in and slug it out, Mark. Don’t let those people break through and come up behind me. I can’t spread
my people out any thinner. General Striganov is throwing some six thousand troops in my direction.”
“Jesus,” Mark said. When he again spoke, his voice was calm, the sounds of gunfire heavy in the background. “I have instructed my people not to surrender, Ben. I can only hope they will obey to the last man. Good luck to you.”
“The same to you, Mark.”
The connection was broken.
Ben turned to tell the radio operator to get him Juan Solis on the horn when the Mexican’s voice came through the speaker.
“We are looking at some two to three thousand troops, Ben. We have the Missouri River to our backs and we are not going to surrender. It’s up to you, Ben. Good luck.”
His company commanders, platoon leaders and squad leaders had gathered around the communications van. They looked at Ben in silence.
Why is it always up to me? Ben thought. Why me? All I ever wanted was to be left alone and to live out my remaining years in peace.
Why me?
“Move out,” Ben told his people. “We’ve got to stop the advance of the IPF. Good luck.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Lord God of Hosts, be we us yet, Lest we forget-lest we forget.
-Kipling
The bridges crossing the river at St. Louis were long gone, and Ike had left personnel at Memphis, Caruthersville, Cairo, Cape Girardeau and Chester, with orders to blow the bridges if any IPF forces attempted to cross and come up from behind. Ike began spreading troops from St. Peters, Missouri west to Warrenton. Ben would spread his personnel from Warrenton to Columbia, and Hector would cover the area from Sweet Springs east to Ben.