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.
He pointed his staff at Ben. “Your life will be long and strife-filled. You will sire many children, and in
the end none of your dreams will become reality. I have spoken with God, and He has sent me to tell you these things. You are as He to your people, and soon-in your measurement of time-many more will come to believe it. But recall His words: No false gods before me.” The old man’s eyes seemed to burn into Ben’s head. “It will not be your fault, but it will lie on your head.”
He turned away, walking back into the street.
The Rebels stood in silence for a few moments, until a Rebel from the outside stuck his head into the doorway.
“Sure is quiet in here,” he said.
“What did you make of nutsy?” he was asked.
“Who?”
“The old guy with the beard and the sandals and the robe and staff.”
The Rebel had seen no one answering to that description.
“Well, where the hell have you been?”
“I been sittin’ outside in the Jeep!” the guard replied indignantly. “And there ain’t been nobody wearing robes or sandals and carryin’ a stick come out of this building. What the hell have you people been doing-smokin’ some old left-handed cigarettes?”
Later, Ben spoke with Buck Osgood, who had just pulled in from Arizona. He told Ben he had seen some old man who called himself the Prophet.
“When did you see him, Buck?”
“Ah, last week.”
“In Arizona?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What date, Buck?”
“Ah, the ninth, sir.”
“Time, approximately?”
was “Bout noon, I reckon.”
“That’s the same date and time I saw him,” Ben told the young sergeant.
Buck looked at the general strangely. “I didn’t know you were in Arizona on the ninth, sir.”
“I wasn’t,” Ben said. He met the man’s eyes. “I was in Little Rock.”
Gale paled at the telling of the story, one hand going to her throat. “Ben-I saw him and spoke with him the night before the IPF shelled the camp alongside Interstate 70.”
Ben leaned back in his chair and studied her. He sighed. The mystery man was beginning to disturb him. Who was he? What did he want? What did he represent? And why did he keep popping up?
“What did you two discuss, Gale?”
She repeated the conversation almost word for word.
Lamar Chase leaned forward, listening intently.
Ike and Cecil sat open-mouthed.
Hector crossed himself.
When she had finished, Ben said, “I don’t want you to leave this camp, Gale. Not for any reason-not on your own. I’m going to have guards with you at all times.”
“Ben, why are you scaring me like this?”
“I’m not doing it deliberately, Gale, believe me. I just have this feeling Striganov might try to grab you or harm you; he might think he could get to me that
way. I want you to be very careful from now on, Gale. Very careful.”
She sat down, a worried look on her face. “All right, Ben. From what I’ve heard about Sam Hartline, I don’t want to fall into his hands.”
“You won’t,” Ben assured her. “Just do as I say and don’t argue about it.”
“That’ll be the day,” Lamar said dryly.
Gale stuck her tongue out at him.
“The beast is impregnated from the sperm of a human male,” the IPF doctor informed General Striganov. “And the Mexicans, the blacks, and the Jew bitches are pregnant from the sperm of the male mutant. I believe gestation time is going to be very short.”
Striganov smiled his pleasure and approval. “Give me an educated guess as to gestation time,” he pushed the doctor.
The doctor shrugged and lifted one eyebrow. While in Iceland he had discovered old George Sanders movies and had begun emulating the late actor’s mannerisms. “X-rays show the fetus developing very rapidly. I would say no more than sixty days, at the outset.” He held the X-ray up to the light and clipped the print in place.
General Striganov studied the picture. The shape of the baby was very clear, depicting a form more human than animal, but still clearly showing animal characteristics. The Russian leader again nodded his pleasure. “Very good, doctor. Now-cease, at once, all sterilization projects on the women remaining in our camps. I want them fertile for the mutant experimentation.
I will issue orders for teams to fan out, to gather more women, as many as possible. I believe-if all works out, and I see no reason for failure-we just might have stumbled upon a new race of workers, doctor. I think, doctor, we are going to go down in history as great men.” He smiled and rubbed his hands together. “Yes indeed, doctor. A pure master race with subhuman workers at our command. I like that concept, don’t you?”
“Very much so, General,” the doctor replied, his smile as large as that creasing the general’s face. “Perhaps the Jews and other inferior minorities have finally found their true niche in life, da? Copulating with mutants!” He laughed.
Both men found that hysterically amusing. They were laughing as they walked out of the office and into the hall.
But to the women who were desperately attempting to devise a method of aborting the half-human fetuses they carried in their bodies, and to the men who had been forced to copulate with the female mutants, it was anything but amusing. The women could not put into words their feelings at being strapped onto specially built tables and experiencing the horror and pain of the male mutants jamming their sex organs deep into their bodies. The hideousness of the sex act was so disgusting, that if given a choice, all would have chosen death over the mating. Several women had gone into such deep shock they had died. Several more had tried to kill themselves. Another was mauled so badly when the male mutant became excited during the act, she would carry the physical
