Colonel Fechnor sat stunned in his chair, the excellent tea in front of him forgotten, cooling its fragrance. “Are … are you saying, Georgi, that we are locked in combat with-God?”
Georgi lifted his eyes to meet Fechnor’s amazed look. “In a manner of speaking, yes. If one believes in God. But if there exists such a person or thing or being-whatever-He is not known for direct interference or intervention. Lately I have studied the babblings of the Bible. I have studied them quite closely, over a period of months. Of course, it goes without saying I reject most of the writing as a figment
of someone’s imagination, but… parts of that book disturb me. The New Testament is quite bland and uninteresting-it’s the Old Testament that intrigues me, fascinates me. Since you used the word, let us maintain the usage: Why would God interfere so directly and openly in the Old Testament and not in the New? I find that contradictory. Very much so.” Suddenly his features hardened. “And the goddamned Jews just persist in surviving. No matter what happens to them, no matter five thousand years of attempting to wipe them out, the bastards manage to survive. Through thousands of years of persecution-they survive. And now Ben Raines shares his bed and blankets with a Jew bitch.” He shook his head. “I do not believe it was an accident.”
Fechnor waited for a moment, then said, “What is at the base of all this, General? I gather it centers around the Jewess. What about her?”
Striganov drummed his finger tips on his desk. “Kill her,” he said.
“The advance of the IPF has halted in southwestern Iowa,” Cecil reported to Ben, a puzzled look on his face. “And I don’t know why and neither do any of our intelligence people.”
“Striganov is up to something,” Ben replied without hesitation.
“That is our consensus,” Cecil said, sitting down. “Without solid proof, of course. Dan Gray’s LETTERRP’S report the eastern column stopped at Muscatine and Dan says his people have reported the center column halted at Oskaloosa. Everything has stopped dead in
its tracks.”
Ben looked around him at the roomful of men. “Anybody care to venture an opinion as to why?” he asked.
No one would venture an opinion. The Russian’s action was confusing to all of them.
Gale took that opportunity to stick her head into the motel room Ben was using as an office.
“Give your Jewess a great big kiss for me, da?” The words of the Russian popped into Ben’s consciousness. Maybe, he thought.
But what would Striganov hope to gain by harming her? Ben silently asked.
He could find no answer.
“Come on in, Gale,” Ben told her.
Gale smiled. “Am I intruding on this all-male gathering?”
“Honey.” Ike returned the smile. “As pretty as you are, your presence could never be considered any sort of intrusion.”
“Ike,” she said, looking at him, “you are so full of shit as to be unreal.”
“I do so love a plain-spoken woman,” Ike replied, taking no umbrage at her remark. Ike could take it as well as dish it out.
“Ben,” Gale said, turning to him, “I just spoke with some stragglers that wandered into town. They came from California. They told me about seeing and talking with some old fellow who called himself the Prophet.”
Ben nodded his head; he had not thought about the strange-appearing old man in some time. “A lot of people have seen that old guy, Gale. I’ve seen him—
Ike, a number of others. Why? What about him?”
“Who is he, Ben?”
As Ben began to talk, telling her what he knew of the old man, memories flooded him, taking him back to Little Rock, more than a year before.
Little Rock was a dead city. Twelve years of neglect and looting had reduced the once-thriving city into blackened girders, stark against the backdrop of blue skies and burned-out buildings. Dead rats lay in heaps, stinking under the sun, fouling the air of the dusty streets.
Ben drove by a high school that somehow looked familiar. Then he recalled that troops had been sent to this high school in the 1950’s to integrate it.
He told Rosita as much, but she did not seem impressed.
“Doesn’t history interest you, Rosita?” he asked.
She shrugged her indifference. “It don’t put pork chops on the table, Ben,” she replied with her usual air. She was one of the few who dared to speak to Ben in such a manner.
“What?”
Her smile was sad. “Ben-I can’t read much.”
“Dear God,” Ben muttered. He glanced at her. “You must have been about eight when the bombs came, right?”
“Pretty good guess, Ben. I was nine.”
“How much schooling since then?”
“Lots of lessons in the school of hard knocks,” she replied, going on the defensive.
“Don’t be a smart-ass, short stuff,” Ben said with a grin to soften his words.
“OK, Ben. I’ll play it straight. Not much schooling. I read very slowly and skip over all the big words.”
“You don’t understand them.”
“That’s right.”
“You know anything about nouns, pronouns, adverbs, sentence construction?”
“No.” Her reply was softly given.
“Then I will see to it that you learn how to read, Rosita. It’s imperative that everyone know how to read.”
“I got by without it.” She pouted.
“What about your children? Damn it, short stuff, this is what I’ve been trying to hammer into people’s heads. You people are make or break for civilization. I don’t understand why so many of you can’t-or won’t-see that.”
He stopped the truck in a part of the city that appeared to be relatively free of dead rats. They got out and walked.
“So I and my ninos can learn to make atomic bombs and again blow up the world, Ben? So we can read the formulas for making germs that kill? I-was
“Heads up, General!” a Rebel called.
Ben and Rosita turned. Ben heard her sharp intake of breath. “Dios mio!” she hissed.
A man was approaching them, angling across the street, stepping around the litter. It was the man in the dreams Rosita had been having. Bearded and robed and carrying a long staff.
The man stopped in the street and Ben looked into the wildest eyes he had ever seen.
And the oldest, the thought came to him.
“My God,” someone said. “It’s Moses.”
A small patrol started toward the man. He held up a warning hand. “Stay away, ye soldiers of a false god.”
“It is Moses,” a woman muttered, only half in jest.
Ben continued to stare at the man. And be stared at in return.
“I hope not,” Ben said, and his reply was given only half in jest. Something about the man was disturbing. “Are you all right?” Ben called to him. “We have food we’ll share with you.”
The robed man said, “I want nothing from you.” He stabbed his long staff against the broken concrete of the street. He swung his dark, piercing eyes to the Rebels gathering around Ben, weapons at the ready. “Your worshipping of a false god is offensive.” He turned and walked away.
Rosita stood in mild shock, her heart hammering and racing wildly.
Gunfire spun them around. Then the radio crackled with the news a patrol had found a family unit of mutants and the mutants had attacked them. The Rebels had killed them all. Ben and his patrol went to the building that had housed the mutants and were wondering what to do with the only survivor, a small mutant child.
“Here comes nutsy,” a Rebel called into the basement.
“Who?” Ben looked up, then realized the Rebel was referring to the old man in robes.
The old man appeared at the shattered basement door. “I am called the Prophet,” he spoke.