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 and 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.”
