

Whom the Gods Would Destroy:

A Memoir

The Experiences of Harry Coldcutte as told to and recorded by G. Edward Farson

Whom the Gods Would Destroy:

A Memoir

The Experiences of Harry Coldcutte as told to and recorded by G. Edward Farson

Published by Harry Coldcutte at Smashwords

Copyright 2020 Harry Coldcutte

ISBN: 9780463097625

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to all the soldiers, sailors, marines, and airmen of every color, race, creed, religious belief, and no religious belief, who fought and died for the freedom of all Americans regardless of their color, race, creed, religious belief, and no religious belief. May they not have died in vain. Our soldiers do not sacrifice their lives so that some of us may live more free than others.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS:

This tome would not have been possible were it not for the tireless efforts of my mother, Dorothy, who kept me and my brothers alive through some very trying times. Thank you.

My wife, Eileen, whose heroic and resilient efforts in the face of seemingly indomitable curmugeonism proved invaluable in the completion and readability of this work of fiction. She has earned my deepest respect, genuine sympathy, and enduring love. Sorry.

I can claim no ownership of any of the ideas, philosophies, points of view, or conclusions presented in this work. I simply gathered together the thoughts of many great thinkers and added some characters--which are the product of my dementia. I owe an inexpressible gratitude, in no particular order, to: Hunter S. Thompson, George M. Marsden, William G. McLoughlin, Jr., William L. Shirer, Luther Standing Bear, Walter M. Miller, Jr., Chris Hedges, Jeff Sharlet, Richard Dawkins, Frank Schaeffer, H.L. Mencken, D.T. Suzuki, Christopher Hitchens, Art Spiegelman, Nicholson Baker, Garry Wills, Sam Harris, Robert S. McElvaine, Jonathan Kirsch, Sinclair Lewis, Samuel Clemens, Howard Zinn, Ruth Hurmence Green, the Saint James' Bible, and of course, God, all his Apostles, disciples, and Messiahs, without whom none of this would have been possible...or necessary.

The contribution made by the public educational system, the G.I. Bill, and the state university system cannot be overstated. I would have been lost to the backwaters of ignorance had it not been for the teachers and excellent professors who enlightened me and showed me the way. There is no question in my mind why fascist governments seek first to destroy the free access to education. I give special thanks to my history, sociology, literature, philosophy and psychology instructors. Thank you, one and all. Ignorance may be blissful, but it is also irresponsible.

I would never have approached a project as large as this if I were not made so very angry by the greed, selfishness, racism, cruelty, vanity, intolerance, narrow-mindedness, hate, narcissism, bullying, criminality, arrogance, meanness, ugliness, and stupidity of big business, religion, our government, and the politically correct. Shame. Thank you.

Without a doubt, I have left many, who deserve credit and my gratitude, off this list. It is the unintentional oversight of a lazy man. Sorry.

Finally, I would like to thank my Latino landscaper, Javier, who has shown me the true meaning of family, hard work, and civilized behavior. Gracias!
DISCLAIMER:

This is a work of fiction, which chronicles the events and characters of a parallel universe, far, far away and a long time ago. Any resemblance to a character, event, place, concept, persons--living or dead, countries, governments, entities, and/or beings--real or imagined in our universe, is purely coincidental, accidental and unintended.

It is important that we remember that Coldcutte suffers from delusions, hallucinations, paranoia, and malnutrition. It would be shameful and unforgiveable for one to hold an addlepated, psychotic, senile old man accountable for his mad ravings and carryings on.

Those of excellent ego strength and strong character will hold Coldcutte blameless and may be even slightly amused.

Those who suffer from weak self-awareness and poor self-appraisal may take offense with Coldcutte. They would do well to seek therapy.

Any god who suffers offense, misses the point. Gods are so very big and humans so very ordinary, that to take offense would be to render a kindness to humans that they certainly have not earned nor deserve. A god should know better. And, being a god, he knows that already, doesn't he?
CONTENTS

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Disclaimer

Preface

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

The Final Chorus

Appendix
PREFACE:

Eve knew the big question never concerned the existence of God. For Eve, the bigger question was, is there enough good in religion to excuse the bad? Eve knew the answer, and by the end of this story, so will you.

Should there be anyone alive to read the following rant, I believe, then, that some preliminary remarks would be helpful for its understanding.

As a matter of introduction, I, Harry Coldcutte, the originator, have lived alone, in a cave, in a desert, somewhere in the Southwest United States for a very long time. I've taken to seeing things and to talking to myself. Fortunately, however, I don't think myself mad, yet, because I know the things I see to be hallucinations. And, I seldom argue with myself. And, when I do, I usually win. There's the proof of it. I do not know the year of this writing. Hell, it's very hard to even tell the time of day, because the sun has not been visible since the nuclear holocaust. It's brighter and then, it's darker.

My scribe, the Farson fellow mentioned in the subtitle (odd name...for an odd little fellow), died maybe ten years ago, so the manuscript is already aging. I have not seen another living person for a very, very, very long time. I believe I may be one of the few survivors of the apocalypse. I, of course, have no knowledge of any human beings in any other parts of the world, alive or dead. But I doubt very much if any have survived. I would not normally be so pessimistic, but experience has made me very realistic.

I suppose my bothering to take the time to share my story smacks of optimism. The question is begged: Why bother to share, if I truly believe there is no one left to read? But, then again, perhaps I share solely from a need to feel that, somehow, I've done my part...some small part...helping myself to feel that my life has not been an entire disaster. Perhaps, I can feel better for having at least tried to do some good in the telling. But, I'm at a loss to tell what good that might be. Maybe I simply need to pass the time, there being no TV. Perhaps, I am mad after all.

The "CHORUS"'s found scattered about the text were inspired by the ancient Greek plays. The Chorus device was used to provide the necessary background and character/plot development not provided for in the play's narrative. It serves the same purpose here. The CHORUS is presented in quotes to both separate it from the narrative and to indicate that it is I, your humble narrator, interjecting myself into the story. Apologies. I would not consider it disrespectful to read the story without the CHORUS's, it is quite easily done, if you so desire.

In a very short period of time, you will no doubt become aware that I am not a storyteller by trade. Also, you will notice that I am no academic. I've always been too emotional to be intellectual, anyway. But, I suppose, I'm creative enough to get an idea across, even if it isn't the most artful or poetic expressive attempt. I can only hope that the content more than makes up for my lack of skill.

Understanding the story required some extensive historical background information. I did my best to remember facts I learned many decades ago, but without any reference material at hand, only a torn and faded Oxford Dictionary, a well-read copy of A Canticle for Leibowitz (ironic, really), Churchill's The Hinge of Fate, a French/English dictionary, and a mangled copy of the James' Bible, I probably have made a mess of it. But I think it no matter. The story is not intended as a textbook. It is not even intended as entertainment. It is a story of tragedy and irony, of lost and longing, of ignorance and cruelty, of missing the point. It is my wish that one _feels_ the story more than one _thinks_ about it. If there had been more empathy, there would have been less tragedy.

Like everyone, I have my personal ideas, my prejudices, my philosophy, and my unique interpretation of life's events. My interpretations are solely mine, as are my prejudices, and you should not construe my word to be gospel. I don't consider it gospel, and neither should you consider your word as gospel. The story is, however, a simple collection and telling of my experience, and one should take that into account when passing, what will surely be a judgment, harsh or no.

I knew Eve personally. Most all of the scenes involving her, described herein, were witnessed by me and/or described to me by those present. As Burt's constant companion, one of three members of his fighting team (not his lover, if knowing that sort of thing is important to you), placed me in the unique position of nearly always being somewhere near her and the action. And, knowing that I was witnessing history, and considering myself an amateur historian, I kept notes...lots of notes. I hoped, naively it turns out, that one day I would be able to share Eve's tale with my children and grandchildren. In any event, I'm there, in the story, though I never mention my presence. I did nothing of great importance, so I see no need to toot my horn.

I also had the unique and disgusting experience of knowing both Huckleberry and Patboy, _et al_ , serving as a House Nigger before, during, and after the holocaust. (A House Nigger was _any_ Dominionist prisoner whom the bastards thought presentable enough to wait on them hand and foot. The term was intended to be derisive and insulting. It had no relationship to melanin levels). I was a witness to most all of the described events, until my rescue by Eve nearly eight years following the nuclear devastation. (I was rescued during the raid that resulted in the capture of the three Relics described in Chapter 1.) During my captivity, I learned enough about Huckleberry and Patboy, and their despicable organization, to imagine, without much difficulty, the unfolding of events following my rescue. Not all of my reporting, however, is supposition. Some is based on reports made to me by rescued Seculars. In some cases, I was as a paleontologist, building whole skeletons of scenes from a few bones of description. I knew enough of the species to complete the skeleton and flesh out the beast without much difficulty. Judge as you will.

Now, these pages reveal the story as it was told to me and as I witnessed it. Whom the Gods Would Destroy is my memoir, of sorts. I am more an amateur than a professional historian. So, it's possible I may have gotten a bit or two of the facts turned around, but I believe it's mostly right. I apologize for any errors and for any unattributed quotes or passages. I am old and have experienced and learned much over the years, while not necessarily keeping notes or paying close attention to sources. My errors are unintentional, and I desire no credit for other's work. Indeed, this story is not about fame or glory, nor is it meant to entertain. This is a story of tragedy and irony. That said, now comes a bit of what I believe is necessary, but boring: background and history. Bear with me and give an old man his attempt. It'll be over soon enough. Then, to the story, which, I hope you will find, both illuminating and instructive.

What I know for certain (the evidence is lying all around me), is that the Dominionist Family was an extremely radical and militant "dispensational pre-millennial" sect of Christians who believed that God, ultimately, would destroy the world for its sins in a great apocalyptic devastation. And, before you say it, I realize that all that pre-millennial dispensational stuff is just that...stuff. But, to continue, the Dominionists believed that the world's history was divided into chapters and that certain things were foretold in the Bible to happen in predictable ways...more or less. These chapters comprised the dispensation. The pre-millennial part foretold the return of Jesus before the end of the millennium and His "Last Judgment" of we fucked-up humans. The Last Judgment culminated in the casting of all us sinners into the flames of Hell, agony and so on, and so on. As an aside, there were " _post_ -millennial dispensationalists", as well, but they don't figure into this story in large part, because the Dominionists saw to it that the " _posties_ " were made unpopular in a very definitive way. The " _posties_ " were shamed, marginalized, defunded and, eventually, eradicated. The " _posties_ " were eradicated because they held the shocking belief that humans would eventually come to rights with the Bible and make God happy, Jesus would come back rejoicing, and there would be some kind of party. But that's a tale for another time and some other storyteller, on some other planet. In any event, the Dominionists weren't having any of that happy ending stuff.

The Dominionists referred to God's devastation of the Secularists, essentially, anyone not a Dominionist, as the Tribulation, or Last Judgment. (As an aside, I believe it is important to disclose that I do not believe in supernatural entities such as Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, or gods, of any denomination. So, personally, I find it disturbing that we capitalize their proper names and personal pronouns. I think capitalization affords them a respect and regard which they do not deserve and have never earned. THEY'RE MAKE BELIEVE! I only capitalize because, in some contexts, it makes the reading more easily understandable. Did I mention that I'm old and cranky? I've been alone for many, many years and have taken to talking to myself...and, I suppose, writing to myself.)

The Dominionist Family also believed that before the Tribulation, Jesus would call all the righteous souls (144,000 souls, to be exact) to heaven. Those righteous souls would be lifted up into heaven in an event the Dominionist Family called the Rapture. The sinful souls left behind would suffer at the hands of the antichrist until the final and complete devastation of the earth by Godly fire. The Dominionists, long ridiculed as religious crackpots, looked forward to the Tribulation as a day of vindication for themselves, when, in the spirit of the Lord, they would be able to rise up and tell all non-believers, "We told you so." Clearly, payback was a very important Biblical concept. The only real problem, as they saw it, was that God's payback just wasn't coming fast enough...for them, that is. Apparently, God's time was not as urgent as their need. So, tired of waiting, they decided to speed things up a bit. It seems that even the faithful, holy Dominionist had a limit to his patience and faith.

Now the Rapture was a curious thing, for certain. I'm told that there was no account of the Rapture in the Good Book. (I could find no mention of the Rapture in my tattered copy.) But that didn't stop the Dominionists, who, through their very insistence, made many believe that it did exist, and who caused many more to at least entertain the possibility. Actually, the Rapture was made up by the premillennialist, Reverend John Nelson Darby, in the mid-19th century. He considered himself a Biblical "scientist". His Rapture was a gift to his fellow doomsday purveyors, who welcomed it as a nifty recruiting tool.

Particularly odd about the Rapture, was that, before the super good people could be lifted into Heaven, they had to lose all their clothes. Interestingly, Heaven is clothing optional. Not many people know that. Considering the Fundamentalist's aversion to sex and nudity, especially the nipple, I think nakedness an odd admission requirement. Anyway, the Dominionist Family lovingly adopted the Rapture and the living happily ever after stuff. But they loved the Last Judgment of the naughty Seculars and the eternal burning in Hellfire, even more.

The Rapture fairytale teaches us much about the Dominionists. For instance, lying was a very important tool. If it furthered their mission, then the twisting of and/or the invention of spooky scripture was quite acceptable. They were skilled con artists. Even when it could be easily proven that they were lying, people chose to believe that they were being truthful. And, fear was another very important tool. They just loved scaring the shit out of people!

Another name for a Dominionist, because many chose not to refer to themselves as such, was "a values-voter", or a "Fundamentalist", or an "Evangelical", or a member of "The Family", quickly followed with a wink and a nod. These values-voters (wink and nod) believed that they were the only people on earth to possess "good" values. They were alarmed by what they experienced as the degradation of society at the hands of an unchecked Satan and his minions of Humanists and Secularists and Liberals...who possessed only "bad" values. The Family (wink and nod) considered integration, evolution, abortion, public education, science, and human rights, to name just six of Satan's sinful ideas, to be six ideas too many. To believe in such things was proof of a complete lack of decency and "good" values.

Driven by delusion and a "scientific" reading of scripture, the Dominionist Family Evangelical Fundamentalist Values-Voters (wink and nod) convinced themselves that they had been personally chosen by God to set the world right, by either forcing everyone to become super-righteous, thus canceling the fun of a Last Judgment or, failing that, hastening the fiery end of the world by assuming God's authority and passing final judgment as His proxy...whichever was the quickest and most immediately satisfying. Of course, even to the casual observer, all of this human interference in God's plan seemed a clear contradiction of scripture and abandonment of faith in God's stated exclusive right as Tribulator-in-Chief. How the Family came to believe that they possessed the right to hijack a Biblical prophecy, and God's prerogative, was never fully explained and therefore, never fully understood...not even by the Family (wink and nod).

Setting aside the radical, yet logical, notion of hastening the eagerly anticipated Rapture and Tribulation by championing and encouraging sinfulness, the pre-millennial Dominionists, out of the goodness of their hearts, I suppose, decided to put some effort into saving the world by making everyone behave. Clearly, true altruism at work. Realizing, however, that their numbers were way too small to force anyone to do anything, the only possible course available to them then, was the monumental task of hijacking the democratic political process of the good ol' USA. (One of the built-in benefits of a free and open society is the potential for its own destruction by well-meaning misguided idiots.)

So, the values-voters grimaced and threw their self-righteous hats into the political ring. And, thus, began their rise to political prominence those many, many decades ago. Of course, many observant outsiders, who saw what was happening and who had made many attempts to warn the people, knew that the Fundamentalist's mission would destroy the free society. But, no one of importance took the outsiders seriously. It was as if anyone who could have made a difference was in on it...perhaps, knowingly.

The Evangelicals created an intricate and clandestine conspiracy, which cleverly operated within the parameters set by the United States' laws and legislative procedures, while ignoring the intent. Over time, the USA's constitutional democracy, its laws, and their enforcement were slowly eroded and eventually eradicated. The Family's strategic plan included, in no particular order: 1) interfering with the voting process by purging "undesirables" from the voter rolls, gerrymandering voting districts to favor themselves, enlisting the aid of foreign governments and utilizing specially engineered voting machines to manipulate the vote count; 2) systematically dismantling and diminishing the public education system, including the state university system, by making education prohibitively expensive and by permitting uncertified, unaccredited private voucher schools, specifically engineered to "teach" unquestioning obedience to authority, disdain for science, and to instill biblically correct thought; 3) insinuating "In God We Trust" on the currency (first appearing on the 2-cent piece in 1864 and added to paper currency in 1957), erecting "In God We Trust" plaques in court rooms, schools, and government buildings and printing it on state's vehicle license plates; 4) inserting "under God" in the pledge of allegiance (1956), and then insisting that the Founders had never intended a separation of church and state despite the Constitution, and its Framers, providing overwhelming evidence to the contrary; 5) erecting huge Roman crosses in military cemeteries ignoring the fact that many men and women of many faiths, and no faith, had died in service to the USA; 6) normalizing Christian prayer at government functions while discouraging the prayers of other faiths; 7) instituting religious tests for public office in defiance of the Constitutional mandate that there be no religious test for public office; 8) attacking and ridiculing intellectuals, scientists, scholars and the press by belittling and labeling them as traitors, elitists, eggheads, fakes, un-American and illegitimate, while offering the public sensational "alternative facts", pseudoscience, and fake news, more favorable and supportive of the Family and reflective of the general population's false beliefs, urban myths, and popular conspiracies; 9) taking advantage of the sense of fair play and intellectual rigor insisted upon by the Liberal press as a means of enlisting their assistance in giving equal time to the Dominionist crackpots and, thus, bestowing an unearned and undeserved legitimacy to any crackpot, especially a religious crackpot, (unlike H. L. Mencken who, unapologetically, was always willing to call a crackpot a crackpot. Tyranny thrives when honesty, courage, and integrity fall to the side.); 10) replacing the system of democracy with a "kleptocratic oligarchy", whereby a few filthy-rich individuals wielded unlimited and disproportionate power in setting agendas and enacting legislation favorable for their Fundamentalists friends; 11) stuffing the Federal judiciary with as many Dominionist Family friendly judges as could be bought; 12) purchasing vast media conglomerates, including television, radio, print and the internet, thus, facilitating the broadcasting of the Family's "truth" and their "alternate facts," into the public conversation, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. In time, their propaganda efforts, combined with a compromised educational system, had the predicted effect of feeding and creating a mass of ill-informed, ignorant, and emotionally charged paranoid citizens, who believed and trusted no one but their Dominionist overlords, and who began questioning the legitimacy of the United States Government; 13) creating an atmosphere of constant outrageous controversies, intentionally keeping the Liberal/Humanist opposition in a perpetual state of shock and confusion, thus, disrupting and rendering its leadership largely ineffective; and 14) adopting a rigid, immutable position of no compromise and no consideration of any idea or principle that varied from, or challenged, even the most minor construct of the Dominionist philosophy."

This position was known as "Jesus plus Nothing", a zero-sum philosophy and a decidedly undemocratic method of governance (essentially, Christian Absolutism) designed to filibuster and bully all opposition into helpless ineffectiveness. The Dominionist Family, in their pursuit of dismantling and replacing the American representative democracy with their brutish theocracy, ignored all precedent, all procedure, every ethical consideration, every unfavorable statute, all common knowledge, any inconvenient truth, any oppositional opinion, and all tradition, regardless of the outrage and opposition created.

The Dominionists knew that the laws which governed the USA, and its people, were only as good as the intentions of those wielding the power. Those laws which could be used for the good and benefit of the people could also be twisted and used to benefit the criminal and genocidal, as well. Admittedly, the Dominionist plan was even more complicated and complex than the one outlined here, but even this brief and incomplete exposition gives a sense of the scope and diabolical intent of the Family (wink and nod).

The majority of the Christian community, from which the Dominionists split, rejected the Dominionist's plan as un-American and evil in intention. They quietly considered the Family modern Pharisees: immoral, hypocritical and not at all Christian, in either belief or behavior. But mainstream Christians also realized that all boats are lifted by a rising tide and knew that they would share in any gains made by the Fundamentalists. But, like too many citizens, they trusted too much in the system of "checks and balances", which they believed would eventually limit and stifle the Fundamentalist's coup. They never quite appreciated the negative impact upon "checks and balances" that the Dominionists would have by gaining control of all three branches of government, the press, the police, and the military.

In the end, the more mainstream Christian church, looking only to benefit from the by-products of the Dominionist's audacity, did not possess the required meanness of spirit and the maliciousness of character necessary for survival. Over time, what began as a "friendly" disagreement over different religious philosophies, argued under the guise of ecumenicalism, evolved into a civil war with one player (the Family) fighting for the complete eradication of the opposition, and its beliefs. The "Jesus plus Nothing" Dominionists, in a surprisingly short period of time, eliminated the mainstream Christians, who suffered from too many diverse points of view and an inability to unify under one guiding principle.

Historically, the Christian Church, in all its manifestations, had played a prominent, if not always welcomed, role in American politics since before the American Revolution. Although, traditionally, they had disavowed, in large measure, any overt political involvement as beneath the dignity of God-fearing people and inconsistent with a true calling to God's work, they could not entirely abandon the new society to the Secular influences which governed the new nation. They would not simply retreat to their churches and demonstrate their faith in God's divine plan through patience, prayer, and meditation.

Their task, as they saw it, was the saving of society, not only through the redemption and/or condemnation of sinners, heretics, and blasphemers, but also through steadfast observation, and the full-throated objection, of any behavior or law they perceived to be in contradiction of God's law. The Secular society's task, as the Christians understood it, was the recapitulation of Biblical law and enforcement of the church's judgments within the system of state's courts, and the keeping of the peace and domestic tranquility necessary for the churches to preach without interference. This had been the traditional relationship between church and state since before the inquisitions.

In this way, the church engineered a clever system, which held itself harmless before the eyes of God and its congregations (not judging less they be judged) whenever unpleasant punishments such as physical disfigurement, executions, and imprisonment were called for. In this "head and heart" approach to governance, the church was able to maintain its image as a benign agent of God's infinite understanding, forgiveness and love, while using the state as the sword of God's wrath. Sort of like Pilate washing his hands of it all. The Christians saw the government as a necessary evil, while the Secular government, well-schooled in the violent history of church politics, realistically regarded the church as powerful, but better seen and not heard, tolerated, but not invited.

The USA's Founding Fathers were well aware of the history and the role churches had played in governance. Historical examples included the three major Inquisitions which saw Jews persecuted unto death, Cathars burned alive, and countless purveyors of the Protestant Reformation murdered; the Crusades, one of which, the Children's Crusade, resulted in the killing and murdering of 800 children in the name of Catholicism; the hanging of outlawed Quakers by the Massachusetts Bay Colony at the behest of the Puritans, including the "infamous" and persistent Quaker, Mary Dyer, whom the Puritans had hanged because she was a public nuisance; the beatings and imprisonment of Virginia's Baptists; the exclusion of Presbyterians in the New England colonies; the Catholic riots in Philadelphia, New York City and Cincinnati; and the Colonial practice of the Secular state supporting an established church with public tax dollars collected from both members and begrudging non-members alike. The early Colonies and territories did not enjoy a separation of church and state and thus were subject to all kinds of civil turmoil. Surprised?

The church's role of setting policy, and the state's role of enforcing that policy, is referred to as the "Covenant of Grace" (the domain of the church), which existed between Jesus and the saved, and the "Covenant of Works" (the domain of the Secular authorities), which existed between God and Adam, respectively. Later denominations, especially the Dominionists, who were not fond of nuance, did away with such distinctions and created a greatly simplified system: the "Covenant of the Dominionist".

Because the Dominionists saw no distinction between themselves, their God, and the state, the tasks of setting policy, of judging, and of smiting fell solely to them; the Covenants of Grace and Works all rolled up into one efficient genocidal package. As they saw it, God's law was the only law and man's law was utter nonsense and blasphemous: you were either a saved Dominionist American and above the law, or you were a heathen Secularist and therefore un-American and inhuman, and subject to smiting. (Author's note: you no doubt have noticed that I capitalize Secularist, Humanist, Liberal, and Progressive. I do so out of respect for these principles which define the rights of people and which have done much to further the human condition. I reject those who insist on celebrating blind, nonsensical, baseless, destructive, superstitious, childish philosophies, and who think that by capitalizing they can bestow respect upon systems that have done nothing to earn any respect or deserve any such consideration. Other than that, I remain completely objective. )

The Dominionists did not worry about God judging them for chastising their fellow humans...er sinners, rather. As a matter of fact, they never worried about anything that they thought or did, because they "knew" that God had chosen them to lead and had given them special dispensation from any righteous judgment. As they saw it, they were so completely awesome, that Jesus had forged a very special relationship with them, and that they stood protected in His grace. This doctrine of the "State of Grace" ensuring one's salvation despite a host of bad behavior is called Antinomianism—essentially, Christian anarchy. As long as they could rationalize or justify that anything they said or did was for God's benefit, then they were free to do whatever they thought necessary and convenient. It was as if the State of Grace contained within it a convenient get-out-of-Hell card, signed by God...something akin to the "superior race" and "I was just following orders" defense. What could possibly go wrong in a world governed by a philosophy like that?

Well, for now, that's enough fractured history. But, do not despair, for there will be more history scattered throughout my story...sigh. Anyway...

My biography would read something like, born to an alcoholic father and an indecisive dependent mother. Father was both physically and emotional abusive. Mother was loving, nurturing, and kind, but ineffective at stopping father's abuse and incapable of leaving same. Two younger brothers, all born five years apart. Harry was the eldest and, essentially, an only child.

Both parents worked full time. Harry practically raised himself. Harry had few playmates thus he was socially awkward for much of his life. He was not generally liked or sought out.

Harry was intelligent. IQ test scores placed him at the 2nd Standard Deviation: Gifted. He enlisted in the Army and earned enough credits to attend college following his Honorable Discharge. He received both a four-year degree and a Masters. His studies included: sociology, psychology, fine art, and, curiously, geology. He received a 4.0 in his graduate studies.

Harry was a licensed Mental Health practitioner until his capture by the Biblical Morale Office Police for the crimes of wickedness, Liberalism, and "impure thoughts" (a ubiquitous catchall charge, applied liberally and indiscriminately).

Educated and well-spoken (usually), he served as a "House Nigger" for his Dominionist overlords until his rescue by Patriot forces in year eight of the nuclear devastation.

Harry died in a cave, alone, unmourned, forgotten, derelict, and unburied. He was somewhere near his late nineties when he met the ferryman.

And, I thought it would be impossible to be more depressed.

I will not invite you to enjoy my memoir. It is not enjoyable, on so many levels.

Love,

Harry

Post Script:

On reconsideration, one may think of my memoir as a kind of love letter, written with all the anguish and longing displayed by one for an unrequited love. I loved and idealized her far more than I realized and, it turns out, far more than she deserved. Love is blind, after all. You may well ask, who, or more accurately, what, is the love object in this tale. I know and will leave you to speculate.
PROLOGUE:

Late fall in central Ohio, USA, can be, and often is, an unpredictable time of year. The joke is that the unpredictable weather is the only predictable condition. Sometimes sunny and cool, but more often cloudy and cold, the weather will change in an instant; a sunny temperate day becoming cold, blustery and wet in just a matter of hours. The wise and experienced do not rely on weather reports, but, rather, leave home prepared for any weather condition. This autumn, however, broke with precedent and had become very predictable. The sun had not been seen for nearly seven weeks and the rains, nearly constant, had saturated the earth so that one's feet made squishing sounds if one dared to venture off the pavements. Overall, it had become a very depressing and disheartening autumn in central Ohio.

Kathryn had given up praying for the sun. She had become resigned to the half-gray light and seemingly constant drizzle which had defined her waking hours these past seven very long weeks. So, understandably, she was perturbed when an intense and unfamiliar light broke through her bedroom window, laid siege to her undefended eyelids, and threatened to end her comfy repose. She groused quietly and half-consciously fended off the ill-mannered assault by throwing a slender pink pajama'd arm over her eyes. But the bright light, now filling her room, was persistent and, discovering a chink in her defenses, renewed its assault. Disturbed beyond annoyance, a now fully awake Kathryn, intent on confronting the practical joker, threw open her eyes and, instead of a prankster, she was greeted by an unfamiliar golden glow filling her bedroom; a glow she had not experienced in some time. It took her a few moments to realize that the golden light was the result of a sunrise. And, a few moments later, it occurred to her that the rain must have stopped, finally!

Overjoyed, Kathryn threw off her quilts and sprang from her king-sized bed. From her second story bedroom window, far away on the South Eastern horizon, framed by scudding clouds, rising in a steel blue sky, she saw the glowing orange red light of a very welcome and long missed solar orb. Excited as a schoolgirl on a Christmas morning, she stood tiptoe and jumped round and round on her delicate pink toes, quietly clapping her slender pink hands. Around and around she went.

Suddenly, she stopped cavorting and, gently placing her slender fingers to her rosy pink lips, she exclaimed, "Oh, how selfish of me... I must wake the children! They will be so pleased! We all must share in this wonderful surprise!" Quickly, Kathryn donned the quilted pastel floral print housecoat and fuzzy bunny slippers, recent birthday presents from her husband, Phillip, and the children, and ran down the narrow, carpeted hall of her modest three-bedroom tract home and, one by one, awakened her three youngsters.

"Wake my love. Wake my love," Kathryn spoke to each child in turn. "Together let us greet God's glorious day of sun and warmth. Oh, dance with me! Dance with me!"

The four spent a full five minutes frolicking and cavorting in excited celebration of the glowing sunrise which grew stronger and brighter by the second. Nearing exhaustion, they all fell and lay in a loving heap upon the eldest's bedroom floor. After a moments rest and loving smiles and kisses all around, Kathryn directed her loves to wash, dress, and join her for breakfast. They happily followed her instructions, without question or complaint.

Placing the eldest in charge, Kathryn descended the deep pile carpeted stairs and prepared three bowls of cereal, each adorned with playfully colored cross-shaped marshmallows. She prepared no breakfast for herself, preferring instead a single cup of coffee with a dash of milk, and one carefully measured teaspoon of sugar which, of course, would have to wait until the housework was completed.

Yet, on such a glorious and festive occasion, she couldn't resist lingering, for just a moment, in the sunniest and warmest spot of the house, the south facing kitchen. The day was dawning bright and clear. The gloomy gray autumn skies were gone. The chill October air of central Ohio was growing warm and inviting.

Kathryn continued to selfishly stare out of her kitchen door window at the frost covered lawn and the fallen brightly colored leaves littering her yard and the surrounding neighborhood. She played with the notion of taking a step into the frosty morning, breathing in deep draughts of the crisp rejuvenating air, and of running through the leaves, something she had not done since she was a single girl of fourteen. Impulsively, she placed her thin delicate fingers upon the doorknob and quickly withdrew them, thinking better of the idea.

"What if the neighbors saw me frittering away time on myself rather than using God's precious time preparing a solid Dominionist home for my husband and his three children?" she worried, "There would be gossip, certainly suspicion and, worse still, possible charges."

Still, Kathryn couldn't help but to feel a bit resentful. She so very seldom had any time for herself. The few moments she could steal for herself out of every day were no more than just a dozen or so minutes for a stupid cup of coffee! Then, shockingly, she felt herself bristle, just a tiny bit mind you, but bristling was so far outside her nature that it was truly a shock for her!

"No," she found herself resolving, "I shall have my cup of coffee...and maybe, even run through the leaves!" She stewed at the window a moment longer before resolutely turning and reaching for the coffee maker. Then, just as suddenly, she was overtaken by a deep sense of shame. Her gently sloping girlish shoulders sagged. "How selfish of me," she lamented. "My sacrifices, after all, have been so tiny compared to the great sacrifices made by our blessed Jesus and the Glorious Army of the Apocalypse, who are, at this very moment, fighting and suffering, and dying, all across the Middle East, and Europe, and Asia...and lots of other places, too." She softly bit her lower lip in shame.

"Because of them my family lives free and happy." Kathryn thought that it would be helpful for her to make a mental list of things for which she should be grateful, as her pastor instructed all the young wives to do in times of "irrationality".

"Let's see...ah...there are the Dominionist Family's leaders. Ah, Jesus praise the Most Reverend President Leader Huckleberry, the most praiseworthy of them all, whose hard work passed the laws that put good Christian prayer back into our schools." Kathryn crossed herself out of respect for the Reverend President. "Uhmmm...oh yes, remember the many who fought and died to rid the world of that vile and disgusting homosexuality." She shuddered. "Then, there were those who fought and sacrificed to imprison those pathetic heathen women who clamored for equal rights and the vote...of all things...what silliness," she tittered. "And, where would I and my loves be if good, God-fearing Christians hadn't captured and reeducated all those bad, bad scientists and their terrible Liberal demon students...yuck. And, I should be grateful that those very bad abortionists were finally arrested and executed." She shuddered with disgust as she thought of millions of murdered babies, torn limb from limb by despicable abortionists, who literally danced on the tiny pitiable corpses and slid around on their tiny guts. She had seen the pictures on her pastor's computer device. Her stomach twisted in disgust, and she had to place a hand on the wall to steady herself. Her eyes flooded with tears for the innocents. The list was short, but it was enough.

"No," she realized, "I have sacrificed so very little. I have no right to complain or feel sorry for myself. I gave up girlish things, like running through leaves, and selfish things like a morning's cup of coffee! I did my duty and married Phillip when the Family told me to. I am now a wife of the Dominionist Family and it is past time for me to grow up!" Kathryn put her palms together and looked toward heaven. She prayed for forgiveness of her selfishness.

Her soft pink cheeks now red with embarrassment, she finished her prayer and wasted no more time on herself. Kathryn began busying herself with the morning's chores. She carefully washed the morning dishes, while her loves quietly played "Saved and Sinners" in the adjoining family room. She laughed at all the creative and funny punishments the children created for the sinners. "They are so smart and clever...just like their father," she thought.

When she had finished the dishes, she straight away polished the countertops, dusted, swept the floors, straightened the pantry, and vacuumed. Then, she allowed herself the small reward, almost a sinful indiscretion, that single cup of coffee with one carefully measured teaspoon of sugar and one small splash of milk.

Even to the careful observer, Kathryn's home was much cleaner than most... even before she started with her cleaning. But, to Kathryn's husband, Phillip, it was never quite clean enough...and, of course, there were the neighbor's opinions to be considered. Kathryn had many duties as a Dominionist woman, wife, and mother, but pleasing her husband and her loves was top-most among those duties. "Jesus plus Nothing" was a luxury reserved only for the men. The women had the extra responsibility of "Jesus plus Family", in every sense of the phrase. This morning, Kathryn was doing an extra special job of house cleaning, just in case the news was bad.

Phillip, fifty-three, a low-level ear, nose, and throat physician with the medical branch of the local Dominionist Family government, had left home early, before the sun was up, to meet with the Dominionist Council for State Affairs. Phillip, his wife Kathryn, their young son Isaac and two young girls had not been selected by the council for a position at Freedom Center Levi, located in the Great Smoky Mountains of Tennessee. Phillip was driving to Columbus, where he would argue before the Council to reverse their decision, as per his right of appeal.

He had, on the seat beside him, his laptop full of what he thought to be those statistics which would be most pertinent in demonstrating the importance and significance of his work within the Dominionist Family community. It had been bad enough that the local Dominionist council rejected his application for a House Nigger to assist Kathryn with the children and her chores, while some of his neighbors had been awarded two and even three House Niggers. Phillip was certain that the council's repeated exclusion of his family from their rightful benefits, as reputable leading members of the Dominionist Family in his community, was an oversight made by his fellow believers too overburdened with responsibilities...much like himself. He was convinced that the facts of his importance simply had not been made available to them or that the facts had been misrepresented or misinterpreted. His chief motivation, of course, was to be recognized as a respectable member of the Dominionist Family. After all, selection to a Freedom Center was widely considered a great honor.

Within the overall Dominionist community, the unofficial but all-powerful opinion was that rejection of Freedom Center membership implied unworthiness, unwholesomeness, and worse still, undesirability. Of course, no one with any real authority had ever said as much of him or his family. And, no official had ever told Phillip, or anyone else for that matter, that the importance of acceptance went way beyond being able to hold one's head up in polite society. Yes... acceptance actually meant survival, while rejection meant a death much earlier than anticipated. Phillip had no idea just how important it was for him to win his appeal.

The morning work traffic was light, as usual, yet, with all the mandatory police checkpoints and military convoys, for which the law required that every citizen slow and allow to pass, it would take him over two hours to reach Columbus city center. He recalled when the trip only took thirty minutes, but that was many years ago when life was very different. Everything now, though, seemed routine...so far, Praise Jesus.

Kathryn had just gathered her children in the playroom for the day's history lesson about the important evangelical works of George Washington and Thomas Jefferson among the wild Indians and savage black Africans, when she heard a very deep and loud boom and rumble, which rattled the windows and shook the floors of her modest two-story tract home. She would have thought it an earthquake if it had not been preceded by the most awful explosion.

She and her three loves sat motionless, staring wide eyed at one another, each trying to find meaning in the other. Each, instinctively, was too frightened to move. They seemed to know that the explosion had put them all in danger. Evangeline, five, the youngest, began to cry. Kathryn reached for the girl and pulled her close. "Shhh, my love, it will be alright," she comforted the child as much as herself.

Ordering seven-year-old Isaac and Sarah, six, to remain seated, Kathryn carried Evangeline to the kitchen's south-facing windows. There, to Kathryn's horror and Evangeline's wonderment, rising far up into the autumn morning air, blocking out the sun, far away over Columbus, was a huge mushroom-shaped cloud. Kathryn, who could not get her mind around what she was seeing, stood momentarily transfixed. Then, slowly, it all became clear to her. Kathryn's crystalline blue eyes widened with excited realization. Instinctively, she reached for the golden crucifix dangling from her neck. She muttered, "Behold, He cometh with clouds; and every eye shall see him: and all kindred of the earth shall wail because of Him. Even so, amen...It is done. And there were voices, and thunders, and lightnings; and there was a great earthquake..." Then a second blast shook her out of her trance. Once again, the house shuddered, and the windows rattled in their frames. She turned her head away and reflexively threw a protective hand over Evangeline's eyes, shielding them from the dazzling flash of light, miles away in the southern sky. And, after a moment, another mushroom cloud climbed out of the blinding flash and searing heat. What, at first, she thought could not be real, was very real, indeed.

All doubt left her now. Her face glowed as if it had been illuminated by a trillion million candles. "Praise be," she turned and shouted to the children, "He has come, He has come! The Day of Judgment and Atonement is upon us, praise Jesus!" Tears of ecstasy welled and spilled from her sparkling blue eyes. "Praise Jesus!" her children shouted as they came to their feet and began dancing on tip toe. Kathryn remained at the window standing on tip toe, jumping for joy and turning in circles. Every nerve-ending in her petite girlish frame of twenty-two years seemed to fire at once. She was so overcome with happiness, and so certain that the day of Rapture had come, that she did not realize the danger she and her loves were facing... until it was too late.

In the distance, moving very fast and coming closer by the second, as she turned, she saw a huge cloud of dust and debris. She stopped her gamboling and regarded the vision for a few moments. "And He opened the bottomless pit; and there arose a smoke out of the pit, as the smoke of a great furnace; and the sun and the air were darkened...," she muttered to herself. Shaking her head to regain her senses, she pondered for a moment and then quickly turned. Still carrying Evangeline, Kathryn grabbed Sarah's hand and ran for the basement door. "Follow me!" she screamed to Isaac.

The first shock wave hit Phillip and Kathryn's house just as she and the children reached the basement door. She and the children were slammed down the steep steps and into the blackness. Then, the whole house blew apart and disintegrated in the super-heated wind. Kathryn and her loves, like all the pretty leaves of autumn, were sucked into the maelstrom and blown away.

Phillip arrived at the Dominionist Council for State Affairs on time and about thirty minutes before the first blast. He presented his travel and identity papers to the humorless cadre of black uniformed police officers manning the checkpoint and unhesitatingly complied with the order to pull to the side and exit his car.

Frightened, Phillip stood quietly nearby, under the fierce gaze and razor-sharp teeth of a pair of barking guard dogs straining at their handler's leashes, while a bomb sniffing dog and two officers thoroughly checked his vehicle for explosives and contraband. All of this security had been initiated years ago in response to the worker's riots, the hunger uprisings, and the massive citizen's strikes, which had threatened to destroy the entire country. Evidence of the battles between the Tribulation Warriors (TW's) and the heathen Secularists were still clearly visible. Entire blocks of the city remained charred from the massive fires. Many buildings, with their bullet-pocked facades and blown out windows, stood as unrepaired gaping relics.

Those had been extremely dangerous times, he recalled. Tight security was very necessary then. Yet, it had been nearly two years since the soldier's revolt, the last of the great uprisings, which pitted those soldiers loyal to the scripture of Matthew against those soldiers swearing allegiance to the new Most Reverend President Leader, his Dominionist Family, "Jesus Plus Nothing", the Book of Revelation, and the new United Dominionist States of America.

Life had quieted down quite a bit since then, but the security details still existed and the Biblical Morale Officers (BMO's) still quietly terrorized the remaining population. He realized, of course, that battles against rioters were still being fought in the metropolitan centers of the East and West coasts, but he also knew that there had been no local rebellious activity in nearly two years. Phillip privately wondered if all this security and the secret police wouldn't be put to better use elsewhere. Why were they being wasted in the Mid-west and on him? He pursed his lips and kept his musings to himself. It was just safer that way.

After several minutes, he was cleared for entrance onto the government grounds where, he soon discovered, finding a parking spot for such an important and busy government center on a Monday morning was easier than expected...perhaps, just a bit too easy, but not enough to cause concern. Most everything else appeared quite normal though; the sounds of light traffic on the city streets, the rumble and clank of a convoy of army trucks carrying their cargo of heretic and heathen prisoners off to their final destination, each truck repeatedly hitting the same loose manhole cover, as if it were choreographed. Small groups of black-suited men, half-running to work, being followed at a respectful ten steps by black- and gray-frocked female assistants with bowed heads carrying cups of coffee and stuffed briefcases. Nearby, the wail of a siren pierced through the city noises as an ambulance rushed some unfortunate to one of the few local Dominionist hospitals.

The city scene Phillip saw this morning was scaled way back from the mad frenetic experiences of his youth. He was old enough to recall the time when thousands of cars crowded the streets and sirens wailed, and horns honked, and hundreds of pedestrians fought for control of the crosswalks with anxious drivers nearly late for work. Columbus, then a city, was full of confusion...and very frightening for a child. Now, though, it was relatively quiet... almost silent...and nearly empty.

Colorful pedestrians no longer hustled off to business meetings and law offices, or accounting firms, and banks, and anyone of a hundred other occupations. The few workers who remained, dressed in black suits and ties with crisply starched white shirts, hustling off to work on this clear bright autumn morning, were mostly functionaries of the Dominionist Biblical Morale Officer Corp, whose job was to hear complaints of various blasphemies against the state, and investigate charges of witchcraft, sorcery and all other kinds of heresies. These functionaries dispatched the arresting officers, compiled and maintained lists of arrests and the family affiliations of those arrested (guilt by association was assumed--bad seed, curse of Ham, mark of Cain stuff), and filed lists of charges with the Dominionist Courts, collected depositions, and tracked all incarcerations and executions. They were a new sort of bureaucrat...soul counter instead of bean counter, if you will. Attorneys and judges, in the old sense, were no longer necessary. All of the legal work was carried out by Pastor Judges and Pastor Lawyers and the Pastor Police, all righteously schooled in the only real and justifiable law, God's Law. The old, abandoned US Constitution was considered a dangerous curiosity, as was the Bill of Rights, the Law of Evolution and, Phillip shuddered to think, freedom of religion. Yes, the city seemed a much less confusing place for Phillip, but curiously, he didn't feel much safer.

Most of the old inhabitants were long gone, of course. Most were probably dead or crowded into the huge ghetto prison, which, the local Dominionist leadership humbly boasted, was the largest collection facility for Satanists in the UDSA's Eastern Sector.

It was supposed that millions, from all over the east, were crammed into the area south of I-70, east of old State Route 23, and bordered on the West and South by the old I-270 bi-pass. The area had been walled off from the rest of the city, of course, with huge earthen berms, electrified barbed wire, mine fields, guard towers, patrols of police dogs, machine guns, drones, etc., etc., etc.

The Satanists that existed there were said to suffer the torments of Hell, day and night, but this was not a concern for Phillip. It was easy for him to understand. The Liberals chose to follow Satan. Therefore, they should be glad to live in Hell. There was absolutely no reason for them to complain. Yet, for Phillip there was one little niggling concern, lurking in the back alleys of his mind, which he pretended to ignore.

Phillip's niggling worry was the National Defense Authorization Act. The act was foolishly signed into law a long time ago, by a president whose name no one cared to recall. The Act, lauded by the Dominionist Family leadership as a brilliant example of legislative excellence, permitted the Most Reverend President Leader to arrest anyone for any reason, or for no reason at all. The mere suspicion of terrorist intent was enough to put someone away for an indeterminate period of time. Phillip knew that anyone, himself or any member of his family, could be arrested at any time solely because of someone making an anonymous complaint against him; nothing more than a suspicion of wrongdoing or wrong thinking was required. Phillip thought it very curious that a law intended to make him feel safer had quite the opposite effect. He found it quite disconcerting that he and his family could at any time join the Satanists in their hellhole...and he had never ever thought of worshipping Satan in all his life! Obviously, it was very important in Phillip's time for one to be especially politically correct.

Privates First Class Theodore and Martin arrived in their powder-blue and white thirty-three-foot panel trucks at their designated jumping-off points, precisely on time. Martin, per his orders, parked his truck on a carefully selected side street just west of High in the Worthington subdivision, miles north of Theodore. Theodore parked his truck, per his orders, in a no-parking zone in front of a long ago shuttered pagan church, just across the street from the Dominionist Council for State Affairs office building (the old Ohio State Capitol building). His truck, just like Martin's, bore the official markings of the Biblical Morale Office (BMO) Department of the Secret Pastoral Police. A large circular seal displaying a golden cross set in a bed of fire, surrounded by the words, "United Dominionist States of America Biblical Morale Office" across the top and, "Jesus Plus Nothing" along the bottom, adorned the truck's doors. And, written large in blood red on a papyrus scroll, across the side panels and the rear of the truck, were the words: THOU SHALT HAVE NO OTHER GODS BEFORE ME: Exodus 20:3.

The BMO Secret Police, licensed to kill, torture, and maim, swore fealty to and answered only to the Most Reverend President Leader of the United Dominionist States of America and, as such, were free to move around the country without challenge. No one ever dared question a BMO order and no intelligent person willingly approached a BMO official without summons. Theodore and Martin knew that they were free to sit in their trucks for as long as they desired. Absolutely no one would bother them.

Yet, PFC's Theodore and Martin were not BMO's. Instead, they were specially selected volunteers from the cadre of Tribulation Warriors (TW's), privates in the United Dominionist States of America's Glorious Army of the Apocalypse (GAA), disguised as BMO's. Both had been selected for his exceptional righteousness, unquestioning obedience, and willingness to die for the glory of Christ. Both had been selected as a special agent of the Lord to perform a special mission requiring the ultimate sacrifice and offering the reward of ultimate and eternal sanctification and salvation. Both would sit at the right hand of Jesus for eternity because of the actions they would perform this day. Both unquestioningly subscribed to the principle of "Jesus Plus Nothing."

CHORUS

"Jesus Plus Nothing is a principle and lifestyle which demands that absolutely nothing, no one and no principle, is more important than Jesus. All action, all belief, all loyalty is effected solely to glorify, strengthen, teach and spread the love and the way of Jesus. Any other motive is frivolous and evil and exposes the purveyor to the most extreme punishments--including death."

*

PFC Theodore pulled his truck to a stop at the curb and set the air brake. He lowered his driver's side window a couple of inches and filled his lungs with the fresh cold autumnal air spilling into the too-warm cab of his truck. He exhaled. His warm breath turned to smoke as it hit the cold morning air. He lowered his window all the way and sucked in another lung full. He stole a moment from his sacred mission to admire the piles of gold and brown and red leaves that littered the lawn of the Dominionist Council for State Affairs. The massive gray granite edifice stood just off his left shoulder and across the wide street.

He lamented that as a child, in happier times, he sometimes liked to kick his way through the piles of autumn leaves. The colorful leaves and crisp autumn air combined to make autumn his favorite season. He always felt more alive in the fall than at any other time of the year...

PFC Theodore's reverie abruptly ended when a passing truck with squeaky brakes stopped for the cross street red light. Returning to the present, he looked hurriedly at his watch and realized that he had been daydreaming for nearly a quarter of an hour. Feeling the press of time, he fumbled for his Bible and held it to his chest. If he was quick, he would have just enough time to recite the required scripture, say his prayers, and execute his mission.

Theodore reached for the switch which would activate the truck's public address. He turned the volume knob to eleven and held the microphone a few inches from his mouth. He read Isaiah 13:9-16:

"Behold, the day of the Lord cometh, cruel both with wrath and fierce anger, to lay the land desolate: and He shall destroy the sinners thereof out of it.

For the stars of heaven and the constellations thereof shall not give their light: the sun shall be darkened in his going forth, and the moon shall not cause her light to shine.

And I will punish the world for their evil, and the wicked for their iniquity; and I will cause the arrogancy of the proud to cease, and lay low the haughtiness of the terrible.

I will make a man more precious than fine gold; even a man than the golden wedge of O-phir.

Therefore I will shake the heavens, and the earth shall remove out of her place, in the wrath of the Lord of hosts, and in the day of His fierce anger.

And it shall be as the chased roe, and as a sheep that no man taketh up: they shall every man turn to his own people, and flee everyone into his own land.

Every one that is found shall be thrust through; and everyone that is joined unto them shall fall by the sword.

Their children also shall be dashed to pieces before their eyes; their houses shall be spoiled, and their wives ravished. Amen."

All around pedestrians turned and traffic stopped to regard the truck and its messenger. All were rightfully both puzzled and concerned. Traffic lights turned green, but no vehicle moved. People were transfixed and uncertain with what was required of them by the man in the BMO truck. They all stood quietly and respectfully listened as the message continued. Those pedestrians, who could not see and were thus not aware of the truck, looked to the heavens, believing that some visiting angel or the Christ Himself was speaking to them from on high. Their eyes strained searching the morning sky for some vision. Many fell prostrate upon the pavements, convinced they saw the face of Christ speaking from the departing scudding clouds.

Meanwhile, feeling a great welling of pride and self-righteousness, PFC Theodore set his jaw and his eyes became stony with self-righteous defiance. He then recited the holy scripture of Jeremiah 4:7:

"The lion is come up from his thicket, and the destroyer of the Gentiles is on his way; he is gone forth from his place to make thy land desolate; and thy cities shall be laid waste, without an inhabitant. Amen."

And, finally, Theodore moved on to his most favorite book, Revelation;

"And the fourth angel poured out his vial upon the sun: and power was given him to scorch men with fire. And men were scorched with great heat, and blasphemed the name of God, which hath power over these plagues: and they repented not to give him glory. Lord God Almighty, true and righteous are Thy judgments. Amen."

Overwhelmed with the spirit of the Lord, PFC Theodore's eyes glared out from under his heavy hairy brow and upon the city of fornicators laid out, tantalizingly, before him. His heart pounded and his face flushed red with righteous and glorious anger.

He reached for the control panel sitting on the passenger seat, pulled it to his lap and unclasped the chain which held the arming key around his neck. He inserted the key into the control panel with steady hands. He turned the key one-quarter turn to the right and then pushed the key in and finished turning one-quarter turn more. The LCD display on the sixty-megaton device, contained in the truck's vault directly behind him, lit up and glowed red in the darkness. The Day of Judgment and Atonement was nigh.

Theodore returned the microphone to his mouth. He turned his eyes heavenward and shouted. Everyone for blocks could hear his words, "He that believeth on the Son hath everlasting life: and he that believeth not the Son shall not see life; but the wrath of God abideth on him. Praise Jesus, amen." He then raised the red locking cover on the control panel and flipped the detonation switch.

PFC Martin in Worthington, following the same ritual proceedings, detonated his judgmental decree just moments later.

Phillip, intent on the business at hand, did not at first notice the powder-blue and white truck parked on the far side of the wide boulevard. If he had noticed the truck, he would have recognized it as an official vehicle of the BMO, and he never would have dared to look directly at it, again.

Phillip, instead, simply exited his car and began walking the short distance to the council building. He delighted in breathing the crisp, autumn air and wondered at the beauty of the stark gray government building, which appeared to glow in the warming orange light of the early morning sun. Slightly concerned by the time indicated on the council building's large clock, he picked up his pace and took a shortcut across the beautifully manicured lawn. He kicked through a pile of colorful leaves that lay in his path. Happy and full of confidence, Phillip took long strides, but pulled up short when he rounded the corner and caught sight of the ten-foot-high golden Christ nailed to a rough wooden crucifix, hanging over the Dominionist Council for State Affairs main entrance.

The morning sun's reflection off the Savior's golden countenance had created the disturbing illusion that the Christ was leering at Phillip with a most unsettling demonic grin. Phillip stood transfixed. His flesh crawled. He blinked his horrified eyes, thinking that perhaps they were playing tricks on him. But, Jesus' ghoulish grin only widened and intensified. Gathering himself with some effort, Phillip dared to inch forward a few steps. As he moved closer, the grin slowly morphed into the more familiar gentle and saccharine smile of Phillip's savior. (Interestingly, it did not seem at all odd to Phillip that someone nailed to a first-century torture device and left to suffocate would have anything to smile about in the first place.) Relieved, but still shaken, Phillip took a moment to calm his heart. He bent forward and placed his hands on his knees to steady himself. He offered a silent prayer to his toes and to the grinning Jesus. He asked that his Savior take just a little time from His busy schedule to make everything right for Phillip and his family. Disregarding the fear that perhaps he had prayed a bit too quickly, Phillip gave his thanks, said his amen, and took a long look at the Christ. His Savior seemed to have returned to normal. Phillip, relieved, but still shaken a tiny bit, approached the council building.

He gave one of the double doors a sharp pull. Surprisingly, it was locked. He tried a second door and it was locked, as well. He gave the door a couple of sharp jerks just in case it might be stuck. It wasn't. Everything had seemed more or less normal, until now. He had an important meeting with the council in less than fifteen minutes. "How could the offices be closed?" he wondered. Then, Phillip noticed some people, whom he assumed to be employees of the council, milling about a second set of doors a few yards to his right. He approached the small gathering.

"Praise Jesus," Phillip said as he raised his arms and turned his palms to heaven in the customary and mandatory greeting.

"Praise Jesus," the gathering replied as one, raising their arms in return.

"Please excuse me, but I was hoping that you could help me. You see, I have an appointment with the Council in fifteen minutes, but the doors seemed to be locked," Phillip said.

"Yes, brother, we all have appointments with the Council," said a tall heavily perspiring overweight man.

"We've tried every door and they all seem to be locked," an overly thin, acne-pocked balding man offered.

"Well, I'm confused," Phillip replied, "what do we do, where do we go? There must be some mistake."

"We can't tell you any more than that sign on that door, brother," the fat man said pointing at an obviously hastily written sign, taped crookedly to one of the glass doors.

Phillip moved to the door and read, "council offices closed emergency meeting."

Phillip let the words and their implication sink into his mind. "That can't be right," he said turning to the fat man. "There must be some mistake. I have a confirmed appointment." Phillip reached for the confirmation letter concealed in the inner breast pocket of his black suit jacket and presented it to the small gathering of similarly dressed men.

"That's pretty much in agreement with what all of us think," the balding man said, revealing an identical confirmation letter, "but there it is...the offices are closed." He shrugged his shoulders to show his complete befuddlement.

Just then a small contingent of men returned from an exploration of the back of the building, bringing news that a janitor had been summoned, and that the offices would be opened momentarily. Everyone, mistaking the janitor's meaning, felt relieved. It appeared that everything would return to normal now. But the janitor did not mean that the offices would be opened for business. He simply meant that he would open the doors so that they would not have to stand in the cold.

Phillip was just as relieved with the news as the others, yet he knew that this was all very odd. It was extremely unusual and uncharacteristic for high placed Dominionist officials to ever be late or to close a government building, except, of course, on religious holidays, which were many, but not today. Phillip looked at his gold watch and made a note that the Pastor Judges were very nearly late and very close to risking charges of negligence. He was considering lodging a complaint with the office of the States Pastor Governor, a very serious matter, when he heard the man in the blue and white BMO van shouting Isaiah 13:9-16 followed by yet more Biblical verses and ending with John 3:36: "He that believeth on the Son hath everlasting life: and he that believeth not the son shall not see life; but the wrath of god abideth on him. Praise Jesus, amen."

Understandably, Phillip and the small gathering fixed their attention on the large powder-blue panel truck parked across the street and listened respectfully. No one dare think it odd that a BMO would initiate an impromptu church service on an autumn morning in a city center as people scurried off to work.

The small gathering repeated amen just as the bright morning sun exploded into a searing white light. The building's doors and hundreds of windows disintegrated into a billion razor-edged projectiles which instantly vaporized, just like Phillip and his complaining companions. When the smoked cleared many days later, all that remained of Phillip and his fellow petitioners were shadows burned permanently into the hard granite walls of the once stately edifice. That section of granite wall, containing their shadows, would have made a wonderful centerpiece for a national monument to ignorance and superstition.
CHAPTER1:

Thousands of the featureless little assassins, only inches high and appearing every bit as though they had been cut from black construction paper, tiny discs forming their heads and bodies and limbs, climbed out of the darkness and poured over the edge of the parapet. The little paper terrorists should have seemed comical, but somehow, they were not. They stood in the thousands, panting and preparing an assault which Eve knew would tear her limb from limb. Terrified to near panic, Eve struggled to escape her tormentors, but her feet were as lead and would not move. She opened her mouth to scream but she could not make a sound. The little butchers drew ever closer, huffing and flexing, preparing to pounce...when her eyes burst open. Eve's attention immediately fell to the roof of her tent which flapped violently in the stiff wind raging outside. She lay sweating and tightly clutching the tattered fringe of her sleeping bag. She held her breath and stared wide eyed into the half-light. Slowly she became aware of who and where she was. She drew a deep breath and slowly released it. Her dirty, dark brown, sweat-soaked hair lay plastered against her brow.

"Fucking dreams," Eve mumbled to herself, only slightly grateful for being awake. She lay there a while longer breathing slowly, waiting for her heartbeat to once again settle into its natural rhythm. Eve hated the terrifying paper cutouts who threatened her nearly every night, but there was no way she could avoid them. She couldn't go without sleep, as well.

Eve became aware that her right leg was very cold. It had fallen out of the sleeping bag during her struggle with the assassins. She half-raised herself to cover it when a fit of coughing overcame her. For nearly a minute her body convulsed. Unable to find a rag to cover her mouth, she coughed red and black spittle into the sleeve of her dirty gray long john shirt. After the fit had passed, physically spent, she collapsed backwards onto her sleeping bag, closing her watering eyes to the half-light. She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand.

"Son of a bitch," Eve hoarsely muttered to herself, "another great start to what certainly is going to be another stellar fucking day."

She cleared her head with a shake, rolled over, unzipped the flap of her heavily patched hiking tent and looked out from the opening. All around her, the battered refugees that called themselves her army, were rousing. Out of habit, they were extraordinarily quiet. Across the snow-dusted clearing she saw the three captured Relics. She guessed that it was no more than forty degrees, yet it was clear to her that their hair was matted and frozen with sweat. She could see the little puffs of frozen wind escaping their mouths and spilling into the frosty morning air as they breathed what she imagined were frantic prayers for deliverance.

It had snowed that night, as it often did, and Eve's bones were stiff from the chill. She was exhausted. She was always exhausted. In the east she could see that the sun had risen by the telltale muddy smudge low on the horizon. She hauled herself, stiff and aching, from the threadbare tent and stretched her thin five-foot six-inch frame. Shivering, she pulled on her baggy pants and closed her faded, overlarge fatigue jacket against the cold wind. She surveyed the camping area and the surrounding rocky bluffs. Here and there she saw more movement as her frozen army came to life. There were no campfires. There never were any campfires.

Eve would have loved to have forgotten the responsibilities of this day and every day, for that matter. She would have loved to return to her bed and take her chances with the nightmares, but there was too much that had to be done and too little time before the ink-black night enveloped them all, once again. Now, it was time to wrestle with the living cardboard cut outs who, resting on their knees not thirty feet distant, prayed to their invisible and apparently unconcerned and absent deity.

Thus, began another day of struggling to survive for Eve and her thirty-five-hundred followers; another day of killing those who were intent on killing her.

CHORUS

"It was the eighth year of the Tribulation, the great religious war of world domination instigated by the Dominionist Family, or 'Relics', or 'Snakes', as Eve's followers were fond of calling them. The Relics had grown weary of waiting for their God to commence the long-anticipated smiting of the heretics, as foretold in the Biblical stories of His second coming. They, in their impatience and haste to rid the world of evil and thus create the promised new Eden on earth, had jumped the gun on God's timeline and reduced most of the world to cinders and uninhabitable powder. All the great civilizations had been blown asunder. What remained was a brutal and barbaric world which only the Snakes could mistake for an Eden. Ironically, in the pursuit of self-apotheosis, the Relics had created the very evil they were hoping to eliminate; an army of non-believers bent on their destruction."

"Eve's battered army operated in a relatively low radiation zone east of the Rockies once called New Mexico. Her army had no permanent home. It was constantly on the move evading detection, attacking Relic convoys, and liberating captive Patriots whenever possible. Eve's soldiers relied on the frozen desert and captured Relic stores for sustenance. Her soldiers, who fought and died to end theocratic tyranny and to revenge the destruction of their families and the long-gone constitutional democracy, referred to themselves as Patriots."

"Informally, the Relics referred to themselves as "God's chosen" or "the Swords of Jesus", or "the Way", or "the Light", or any one of a number of self-flatteries. Formally, they preferred to be called the Dominionist Family, or Dominionists, or just the Family, the self-appointed purveyors of the Holiness Movement. The Snakes lived much more comfortably than Eve and her wilderness army. Their highly fortified, organized, and stocked areas, called Freedom Centers, made for comparatively easy living. But the nuclear winter had lasted nearly five years longer than anticipated, and the strain on the Dominionist' resources was beginning to stress the Dominionist's infrastructure and their faith. God's timeline and theirs, it seemed, remained very much out of synch."

"The Dominionists spent their days worshipping their savior, praying for the nuclear winter to end and trusting that Jesus would assist their engineers in keeping their Centers functioning, in the face of the steadily decreasing availability of replacement parts. They were all too acutely aware that their food stores depended on the wind generators which were breaking down more and more frequently and which were becoming harder and harder to repair. Yet, while they worried about their survival, they still found time to continue searching out and killing any survivors that were not of their own tribe; the scattered Jews, Muslims, Catholics, Mormons, Buddhists, Hindus, populist fundamentalists (or 'white trash', in Relic-speak), the many non-Dominionist protestant sects, any heretics who were 'too stupid' to die in the nuclear maelstrom, any person too dark skinned to be human, any physical or mental 'cripple', any Asian with their 'Satan eyes', or any vagabond. This list is not exhaustive."

"But, as much as the Relics hated everyone, they hated the Patriots even more. They considered the Patriots remnants of the atheistic agents of Satan's Wilderness; inhuman whores and bastards, demons, one and all. The Relics referred to the Patriots as Satanists, or Humanists, or, when particularly incensed, as Liberals, or faggots, or the much reviled, Atheists. Even a Jew, or a Catholic, or even a Muslim, who worshiped the same god as the Relics--although wrongly, of course--was rewarded with a quick death from time to time, while a Patriot captive, if time permitted, was never afforded such a luxury."

"The Relics, apparently not quite convinced of the existence of Hell, made every effort to dispense as much of Hell's suffering as they could upon the unfortunate Patriot captive before sending him or her, adult or child, into oblivion. Eve's soldiers knew that suicide was preferable to capture. Their last bullet was always saved for themselves. Eve carried her bullet, a .38 caliber, in the breast pocket of her overlarge fatigue jacket."

"No quarter was ever given on either side."

"The Dominionists never trusted and, therefore, never asked a Patriot to change allegiance and convert to Dominionist beliefs. Captured Patriots, who were not tortured and executed on the spot, were transported to the Freedom Centers where they were branded, imprisoned, and made to confess their sins in a process known as a 'Blessed Conversion'. Once confessed, or not, those who did not die from starvation, disease, or during the Blessed Conversion 'exercises' were executed, some by fire in a public _auto de fey_ known as a 'Blessed Cleansing,' or they were stoned (popular among the Relic youth who, knowing very little about the actual history of the phrase, referred to the activity as 'getting stoned', followed by a wink and a laugh), or by firing squad, or burying alive in massive pits dug into the desert sand by the victims themselves. On really special occasions, such as the capture of a Satanist doctor (who were all abortionists, by definition), only a crucifixion, following a riotous celebration, was appropriate. The occasional Patriot was hanged, of course, as a field-expediency, but only when time did not permit a more formal termination."

"Truth be known, the Dominionist leadership had no real desire to convert anyone (wink and laugh). Some naysayers suggested that they just loved to torture and burn. Others, of a more sympathetic temperament, argued that the process of torture and burning recalled the halcyon days of the Inquisitions and reminded the Dominionist faithful of their position as God's chosen people, His personal cadre of judges on earth, personifications of Jesus' sword, and executors of His will. Those in the know, of course, understood that the nuclear devastation, the Blessed Cleansings, the Blessed Conversions, all of it, the stonings and the scourgings, were nothing more than the Relic's revenge on a world, which, for millennia, had made fun of and discounted them as crackpots. This authoritative madness--just one of many insane religious expressions--eventually infects all religious persuasions. Predictably, and unavoidably, believers will come to conflate God and themselves."

"All of it, all the horror and the terror, was a child's tantrum thrown by deluded adults armed with the weapons of ignorance, mass delusion and a nuclear stockpile. And if, as maintained by the Dominionist leadership, the Conversions and Cleansings served as a warning to the faithful of the cost of backsliding, well, that was just bitter icing on the cake. The Dominionist Family knew very well that fear and hate were very effective means of persuading ignorant and needy people to believe and do anything. After all, it was fear and hate, in their most extreme form of paranoia, that had conceived and motivated the Dominionist Family in the first place; the same paranoia that had motivated and cultivated the regimes of Torquemada, Hitler, Stalin, Smart the Self-Proclaimed, Huckleberry, and countless other genocidal despotic movements."

"Of course, need I mention that the Dominionists considered Hitler to be a saint among men? They admired him for his ruthlessness, discipline, efficiency, and thoroughness in the execution of his policies. He was the master of obedience, deception, and results. His likeness was always found hanging on the wall just to the left of the likeness of their blonde, blue-eyed, pale skinned Savior."

"Of course, Eve, as well, knew that it was folly to believe that members of the Dominionist faithful would ever renounce their beliefs. Only a fool would trust a member of the Dominionist Family who claimed to sincerely renounce. No oath or demonstration could ever convince her or her followers that a Relic captive had sincerely converted to the Patriot ideology. Likewise, no Relic could simply be released in some misplaced gesture of humanity or kindness, because ultimately, they would return to their Freedom Centers and resume killing non-believers. Therefore, the Patriots abandoned their values, swallowed their disgust, and became fanatical killers themselves. When captured by the Patriots, which was admittedly rare, a Dominionist was interrogated for military intelligence, stripped of his religious artifacts (which were destroyed), and then executed with prejudice. Fortunately, most Relics committed suicide rather than be captured. Suicide was, after all, ordained and sanctified as blessed, if committed as a last resort to prevent capture by demons. The Relic high priests, or Pastor Leaders, the preferred title, possessed an uncanny ability to find obscure biblical references and interpret their meanings, most liberally, to suit just about any need or cause at hand. This interpretive ability, or talent, or scam was most appreciated by the faithful following who, mysteriously and interestingly, often found themselves in need of the most liberal interpretations of scripture."

*

Eve stood shivering in the freezing morning mist, mesmerized by the sheet lightning flashing between the yellow, brown, and red clouds, which tumbled and rolled low overhead.

A guard approached. "Ma'am, what are your orders?" he asked, nodding in the direction of the prisoners.

Eve jumped, "Jesus, Tommy, don't sneak up on me like that!"

"Sorry, ma'am," Tommy apologized.

"Do you think we'll ever see blue sky again, Tommy?" she asked wistfully.

Tommy followed Eve's gaze skyward. He witnessed two blinding flashes of lightning jump from cloud to cloud. "Sure, it'll clear up someday, ma'am. Ah, soon, I think," he added, lying.

"I hope it clears up before I die. I'd like just one more glimpse of blue before I kick the bucket." Eve turned her collar to the cold wind that blew out of the west. A sudden shiver shook her frail body.

"Ah, yes, ma'am. Umm, what are your orders, ma'am?" Tommy repeated, "Meaning the prisoners, ma'am."

"Morning, Tommy," Eve said looking up to Tommy who stood another head taller than she. Eve was no more anxious to start this day, than any other day.

Tommy was 62. His eyes were a watery faded blue, just a shadow of the intense blue that they once were. With a face heavily lined from a lifetime of struggle and hard work, he regarded the world humbly and wisely. Tommy was a tough, yet kind and simple man who had lived with the Marist Brother's (a Catholic monastic sect) as a lay brother until he left the order at 45: "To satisfy my curiosity about the Secular world and get my noodle wet," he laughingly liked to explain. He had been "enjoying immensely a satisfying life of debauchery" when he learned that the Biblical Morale Office (BMO) had issued a warrant for his arrest. Tommy made an attempt to evade the authorities, but he was eventually captured and imprisoned. He had a large "A" for apostate burned into his high wrinkled forehead.

The Dominionists hated papists, but they hated ex-papists even more. From the Dominionist point of view a papist worshipped God wrongly, but he did worship God, therefore, a simple _auto de fey_ would suffice. But an ex-papist, especially a debauching apostate ex-papist, had abandoned God entirely. This, of course, required a particularly torturous Blessed Conversion preceding the mandatory Blessed Cleansing. Tommy's crimes were judged to be so heinous, that only Crucifixion, usually reserved for abortionists, seemed fitting.

Fortunately, Tommy's ordeals seem to have had little effect upon his personality. He remained quick to smile, laughed easily, and enjoyed a self-deprecating joke from time to time. He still held firmly to his belief in God, but he also believed that the quest for spirituality was a very personal and private affair to be pursued quietly and humbly, and individually. He loved the gospel of Matthew and considered boisterous public displays of religiosity nothing more than showing off to impress a crowd-- having nothing to do with righteousness and everything to do with fear and diminished self-regard. Therefore, he kept his spiritual opinions to himself, and given the current political climate, he would have considered sharing his beliefs imprudent, anyway. He would, however, enthusiastically share his opinions about the Dominionists, whom he laughingly referred to as "verbose term after-life insurance salesmen, all promises and give me your money, with little actual benefit to anyone except themselves."

Agreeing to serve Eve, Tommy had made, what to him, was the greatest sacrifice of all. He had in essence agreed to sacrifice his soul by assisting Eve in eliminating Dominionists from the face of the earth. Considering all the evil they had wrought, he thought it a more than worthy vocation. He, of course, hoped that God might somehow forgive him in the end, but seriously, he doubted it. Yet, characteristically, Tommy's thoughts and concerns turned more to the innocent victims than to himself. Tommy, like so many of his compatriots, owed his freedom and life to Eve, who had rescued him from the Maricopa Prison shit detail while awaiting his crucifixion. Eve had given him an opportunity to do right by others and not, selfishly, right by himself.

"You know, you'd think they would have had the decency of freezing to death last night...look," Eve said gesturing with a nod toward the prisoners, "puzzling...with a god as powerful as theirs and a certain ticket to paradise just moments away, you'd think they'd be happier. You know, Tommy, it makes me wonder if they really believe in all that heaven crap." Years of emotional and physical battering had taken its toll on what was once a genuinely caring human being. Eve, out of necessity, had become hard and callous. She and her followers had quickly learned that there was no other way. She hated the Dominionists, as much for their cruelty, as for the cruelty they had forced normally peaceful people into adopting.

Eve's words sometimes hurt Tommy, but he understood and could not help but feel a deep love and respect for her, and her suffering.

"Did we get any usable information from them?" Eve asked.

"Ah, no ma'am," Tommy responded, "they spent most of the night praying and shouting damnation at all we heretics. The man seemed to sleep some, but he threatened his women to keep praying or else."

"Or else... what?" Eve asked looking up at Tommy.

"I'm not certain, ma'am, but I imagine it was a threat of bodily harm or damnation of some kind," Tommy sadly replied.

Eve sighed. "Follow me," she said.

Eve slowly walked to and looked down upon the three kneeling and praying Family members. After a moment of consideration, she kneeled in front of the older of the two women, and placing her hand gently under the woman's chin, Eve raised her head. Their eyes met. She stared into the red and swollen eyes and saw clearly the fear living just behind the woman's stern and arrogant expression. The shivering woman held Eve's eyes for longer than she dared. Conscious of her man's leer, she averted her gaze and resumed her prayers. There was no mistaking that the woman had been crying and, unless she was mistaken, Eve had seen the pleading of a frightened child within those eyes. She had seen that very same look on many a child's face these past seven years. A stiff breeze from the south lifted a cloud of dust and snow which curled into a small dust devil. It raced across the clearing scattering dust and sand.

"Why do you cry?" Eve asked flatly.

"Mother Anne Marie and mother Gretchen, you are forbidden to gaze upon or talk with this she-devil," the male prisoner snapped, "you are in danger of having your very souls corrupted!"

"You witch!" he shouted turning his attention to Eve, "do that which your foul creator has instructed and leave us to die in peace." The male prisoner was much older than his two female companions, who apparently were his wives. Wives were sometimes referred to as "mothers" by their Relic husbands.

Streaks of black die, used to conceal the man's graying hair, were coursing down the male prisoner's jowls and staining the crumpled collar of his once bleached and starched white shirt. His black suit jacket was crusted with dirt and torn in several places. The usually immaculate gray body-length traveling frocks, used by the women for modesty and warmth, now crumpled and soiled, draped loosely from their shoulders as they prayed. Their waist-length hair, one blonde, the other brunette, usually worn in a tight bun on top of their heads, lay tangled and disheveled around their arms and down their backs. (Unless the husband received special permission from the Dominionist Council, his women were not permitted to cut or style their hair beyond wearing it in a tight twisted knot high on their heads, which was then concealed under a white bonnet.)

"Exodus 22:18, Exodus 22:18," the man shouted while pointing a trembling bony finger at Eve. Instantly, twenty or so Patriots brought their weapons to bear on the shivering madman. "Surely you shall burn in the fires of eternal damnation, you blasphemous she-demon from Hell! All of you..." he shouted defiantly, coming to his feet and gesturing to those Patriots who had gathered nearby, "...all of you will surely see the vengeance of almighty Gawd before this day is out. I can assure you of that!" He then fell to his knees and resumed praying frantically, as a believer who knows his time on earth is coming to a rapid conclusion.

Eve looked at Tommy. "Exodus 22...what?" she asked coming to her feet.

"22:18, ma'am," Tommy replied. "Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live."

"Oh?" Eve replied and grinned. "I suppose I'm the witch?"

"Ah, I think...yes ma'am, begging your pardon, ma'am," Tommy replied uncomfortably.

"Nice," Eve replied. "You don't think I'm a witch, do you Tommy?" She smiled playfully.

"Ah, no ma'am...certainly not," Tommy's faced flushed red with embarrassment at having been asked such a question. Eve wondered if Tommy was still a virgin, after all.

"Relax, I'm just pulling your chain," Eve said placing her arm around Tommy's waist and giving him a gentle pull.

"Yes, ma'am," Tommy replied while gently leaning away from Eve's rare gesture of affection.

But Eve could not hide her pain from Tommy by playing with him. She stifled a cough using a handkerchief, more rag than hanky, to collect the bloody result. Wiping her mouth, her attention returned to her captive crackpots.

"So, you think I'm a witch. What if I am...what's it to you? You're not God, are you?"

"She blasphemes!" the man shouted pointing an accusing finger at Eve.

The gathering laughed at the comical figure scrabbling in the dirt desperately trying almost any measure to win sympathy, and his life.

"Isn't whether I'm a witch or not between me and God?" Eve asked. "Who appointed you middleman in the discussion?"

"Gawd has seen fit to make me and my kind, messengers of His will to all who would listen."

"You don't say?" Eve toyed with the little despot. "Then I suppose this God of yours can't speak for himself...that He needs your help. Hmmm, not much of a God if He needs the help of the likes of you, I would think."

Laughter all around.

"Gawd works in mysterious ways, His wonders to achieve," the man said with defiant authority. He drew his thin pale lips into a tight crease and fixed Eve's eye, daring her to retort. Apparently, he thought the victory was his. Without a doubt, he had made an inaccurate assessment.

"From the looks of you, He sure does," Eve offered the coup de grace to the amusement of her followers.

Cowed, the man offered no more argument...for now.

"I'll never understand you Dominionists," she said shoving her hands into her fatigue jacket's pockets for warmth. "You speak of trust and faith in the word of your God, so highly of this place you call Heaven, your so-called City of Light in the sky, the thousand points of light, the Golden City on a hill, whatever, yet, when faced with the certain possibility of going there, you start blubbering for forgiveness and deliverance, as if you were afraid to die. I would think you'd be excited, not frightened out of your wits."

"We are not fearful of thee, whore of Satan," the condemned man barked. "We fear only the wrath of our Gawd and our worthiness in His eyes. Heed not the lies of this she-demon...," he spat at his female companions, "...lest ye burn in the fires of eternal damnation! Fear not: for Gawd is come to prove you, and that His fear may be before your faces, that ye sin not!"

"Exodus 20:20," Tommy whispered into Eve's ear.

Eve leaned back and regarded Tommy for a moment. "You really know this shit, don't you?"

Tommy allowed a frown at the use of the word "shit", not for its vulgarity, but for its implication, "I, ah...get lucky from time to time, ma'am...ah, somebody quotes something I happen to have read."

"Yeah, I'm sure that's it," Eve responded skeptically.

She addressed the Relic male. "Despite what you say and supposedly believe, your angry display suggests to me that you are very afraid, and you are using fear to keep these women...or rather, woman and a little girl, cowed." One of the "mothers" was barely a teenager in Eve's estimation.

Obeying their husband, the woman and little girl ignored Eve and continued their prayers.

After a pause for a response that did not come, Eve continued, "If your husband wishes to die, that is his business, but you do not have to follow him in death. You can declare your freedom from him and join with us if you want." Eve paused and afforded the women some time to consider abandoning their cause, but, predictably, there was no indication that they were about to do that.

The Patriot warriors, who had heard Eve's invitation to the women, looked questioningly at one another. They had never heard an offer of commutation made to a captured Dominionist. Many wondered what made these prisoners unworthy of death. Many more wondered why Eve would even entertain such a dangerous suggestion. Few, if any, of Eve's thirty-five hundred, had any sympathy for the religious fundamentalists who had so callously and maliciously betrayed their country and murdered billions. Most considered them to be nothing more than sub-human, self-deluded madmen deserving of every brutality visited upon them; no more than throwbacks to the Neanderthals and alchemist shamans, and murderous Aztec holy men. The Patriots had been forced to trade their humanity for barbarism, and a quick execution seemed mercy enough for any Relic. To offer a Dominionist sanctuary went beyond all reason.

"Get on with it, murderer of righteousness!" the man, a prisoner to his panic, shouted. "Our Father, who art in heaven...," he recited as he came to his feet and lifted his face to heaven. His eyes were as wide as the storybook madman. He held his arms outstretched to his front and high above his head with the palms facing skyward.

Eve's eyes narrowed to angry slits in response to his shameless hypocrisy. "Oh, that's rich," she scoffed, "when you murder it's righteous, because you are just following God's orders...it's...it's all in your recipe book, isn't it! And, those of us, whom you intend to murder and torture, are wrong to question or condemn you. We've all got to forgive and understand you, because you're really the victims here... right? You think you're so much better than the rest of us? You, fucking asshole!"

Eve pulled the .38 pistol from her fatigue jacket pocket and took one step towards the Relic male. He fell to his knees and clenched his eyes tightly, hysterically mumbling some unintelligible words. "Hell," Eve continued, "you even excuse the killing of billions of human beings as righteous, because you were just following orders from on high. Well, we have all heard that bullshit defense before and it's not any more legitimate now than it was then...God or no God." She stood poised to blow the man's brains out.

"Well," Eve continued, "I'm following my orders...from me to me...no middleman." She cocked the .38 with her thumb and slowly began squeezing the trigger. Her hand began to tremble, but she was clearly going to end the man's life, there and then. Tommy stopped her by placing his hand on her arm and gently pushing the pistol's muzzle towards the ground. Eve did not resist. She stood, the pistol hanging at her side, and looked to Tommy. She inhaled deeply and steadied herself.

"Ma'am," Tommy spoke softly, "you've suffered enough. Let someone else take the burden of this task...that is, with your permission, ma'am."

Eve nearly collapsed from the shock of Tommy's soft steady voice.

Tommy steadied her until he was certain she could stand without his help.

Eve regarded the Relic male who was being supported by the eldest mother.

"Curious, isn't it," Eve whispered, "that you believe your God could sanction the murder of billions at your hands, yet not even consider that your God would sanction having you murdered at mine."

There was no response other than the sobbing of the younger mother.

The Relics resumed their desperate prayers, trembling almost uncontrollably now, only pretending to ignore her.

The man, his fear morphing, once again, into an expression of angry defiance, prayed more loudly, so all could hear. Tears stained the mother's cheeks, who grew more agitated as the moment of judgment rapidly approached.

Recovered, Eve resumed her harassment, "You do not seem so certain of yourselves now. Do you believe in this god-damned Heaven of yours or don't you? Or, maybe you're not so certain you are going to end up there. Is that it?"

Tommy, growing uncomfortable with the escalating confrontation, gently grabbed Eve's elbow in an effort to calm her. She quickly pulled herself loose and looked angrily at Tommy. Tommy stood down and placed the pistol he had taken from Eve, quietly into his jacket pocket.

"We have no mandate from God to justify ourselves to you, blaspheming she-devil, or any of your kind. You are beneath us and not worthy of consideration," the man replied, his voice cracking out of his parched throat. "Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness' sake: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven..."

"Oh yeah, you are God's chosen, alright," Eve laughed, "ignorant, retrograde, Neanderthals who assume the mantle of the elite, while condemning all whom they accuse of the mortal sin of being elite. You think membership in the Dominionist Family makes you more right and more human than the rest of us riff raff...more deserving of life than the rest of us; we, the unclean, suitable only as slave labor, concubines, and as entertainment, easily murdered, and easily forgotten? In the very process of condemning us you've raise yourselves to the status of the elitists you've condemned. Why not kill yourselves, then? Why leave it to us?"

"It is you who think yourselves better than the rest of us...better than Gawd. You are the true murderers, abortionists, the takers of sanctified life. We do not kill or murder. We only purge what the Devil has wrought and that which Gawd has so gloriously and justifiably condemned."

"Purge...purge?" Eve barked, her hand moving instinctively to her empty jacket pocket where it fumbled about for her missing pistol. "Like we're so much vomit?" Eve looked at Tommy and knowing that he must have taken it, she held her hand out for the pistol. Tommy pretended not to notice her.

"I'll deal with you later," Eve said to Tommy.

"Yes, ma'am," he replied.

"Let's be clear, you delusional fuck," she said tearing into the Relic male once more, "you have, ostensibly, under the direction of your glorious Gawd, murdered billions of people, and in all of that destruction you have not killed at least one righteous person...one righteous and perhaps very pregnant person, not one innocent baby?" Eve was incensed. There was no mistaking that. Once again, Eve had reached and would soon go beyond any self-control. "Tell me, how many abortions did you commit in the wars of the Middle East, with your artillery and surgical strikes and collateral damage...in your nuclear holocaust, you ignorant, cretin fuck?"

"We committed no abortions," the man, now on his hands and knees, croaked to the ground. "Glorious Gawd would not have permitted it. All who died, died because their names did not appear in the Book of Life, and they were thrown by Gawd into the lake of fire along with Death and Hades, praise Jesus, amen. Even the nations are like a drop from a bucket, and are accounted as dust on the scales..."The Relic male, losing himself in his self-cast role as savior of all mankind, steadying himself on the shoulder of the eldest mother, rose unsteadily to his feet, one finger pointing skyward as if he were shaking his finger at everyone from his seat on high. He quickly dropped back to his knees again when he heard one of Eve's Patriots, a tall, muscular, silent man, Burt, cock his .45 pistol.

"In all that genocide He did not kill one woman who was pregnant with innocent life?" Eve whispered disbelievingly while looking at Tommy for some sort of reaction.

Tommy understood the pain and horror fueling her anger. But, what could he say to comfort her? Why did she insist on arguing with these people? What was the use? With a whole book of contradictory Biblical passages, attributed to an infallible deity, translated by fallible men, passages available for twisting into whatever meaning they desired, interpretations reflecting more their fears than the word of God. How could she, or anyone else, hope to ever win an argument using reason? She was right, of course. Everyone within earshot knew she was right, and everyone felt as helpless as she in the face of all this murdering madness dressed up as love...dressed up as...as some mutated aberrant Jesus, high on nuclear meth.

CHORUS

"The whole notion of Jesus, of course, had been corrupted long ago. The Dominionists had taken the Sermon on the Mount and turned it on its head. The rich became the Almighty's chosen and the poor were demoted to refuse. Waging war on the different replaced tolerance and peace on earth. Bigotry became the standard of the new religious freedom, and tolerance was the Devil's work. The meek deserved nothing, while the rich deserved everything. Boisterous braggarts replaced the humble and meek, as the new spiritual gurus. Vanity and greed crushed selflessness. Seeking public office as a way to help others became a way to help oneself. The number of possessions one owned became the new passport into Heaven, while poverty became evidence that the poor had failed in the eyes of God. Under Dominionist rule it was easy for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle."

"The Dominionists did not have one one-thousandth of Jesus' righteousness, or faith, or strength of character. He had withstood far more ridicule and abuse than they. Yet, He did not turn from His beliefs and turn on His fellows, as they had. Of course, Jesus was about love and acceptance. While the Family, motivated solely by hate and fear, turned Him into a judgmental maniac to better suit their purposes. They had created Him in their image."

*

"All I can say to you, ma'am," Tommy began, quietly and calmly, "is that you are right and he," Tommy indicated the captive Dominionist male, "is a madman...a homicidal maniac, playing at being God. Giving that man, or any man, for that matter, a Bible, is no different than giving a child on a crowded playground a loaded handgun." Tommy paused and took gentle hold of Eve's shoulder.

"Belief was never intended as a mass movement with leaders, ma'am," he resumed, "...because it is so easily corrupted by corrupt men. The Dominionists are just one of many examples throughout history of corruption and fear masquerading as Jesus' gospel. Belief was intended as a code of conduct for individuals by individuals...it's important that you get my meaning ma'am, er...begging your pardon ma'am." Tommy apologized for presuming his leader needed information for which she had not asked.

Overhearing Tommy's comments, the man came to his feet yelling, "Who shall lay anything to the charge of Gawd's elect? It is Gawd that justifies! It would not have been permitted by Gawd for us to kill innocents and it is not genocide to kill the spawn of Satan! Those unborn of heretics and the unregenerate, and not baptized in the name of the Lord, are not sanctified and are guilty of original sin! And, there is no hope of them ever becoming regenerate for they are pagans and idol worshippers and devils. There is no innocence to kill!" The man glared at Tommy who steadily met his gaze with a passive loving confidence. The man, unnerved, slowly dropped back to his knees. He heard the cocking of several more weapons.

Eve took a step back. She found the whole notion of original sin shocking, but to use it as a justification for the murder of children was...ghastly!

"You just said that a fetus, because it has not been baptized, is guilty of sin and, therefore, that its death is meaningless in the eyes of your God. You used that justification, based somehow on your so-called Good Book. I suppose, you believe this excuses the murdering of billions of human beings, the born, and the unborn. You believe yourselves forgiven for this murder, while you condemn to crucifixion a doctor who performs a medically necessary abortion?" She paused to give her words a chance, and then she continued, "You realize, of course, well...maybe you are incapable of the realization...that your original sin defense may have undermined your argument against abortion and stem cell research...and birth control, for that matter. You may have just provided an excellent defense against your anti-abortion ravings. And, if that is the case, then your crucifixion of physicians is indeed murder."

The man's eyes opened widely in horror as he realized what he had just said. "You twist my words...she twists my words," he pleaded with everyone. "She is a witch...a witch, I tell you...you are foolish...fools to follow her...I was foolish to speak with her...mother Gretchen, mother Anne Marie, I have just taught you a valuable lesson and...you should be grateful to me. Pray with me, from Ephesians 4:14, That we henceforth be no more children, tossed to and fro, and carried about with every wind of doctrine by the sleight of men, and cunning craftiness, whereby they lie in wait to deceive." And then looking directly at Eve, he gave a great shout, "Get behind me Satan!"

Eve had confronted this kind of bigotry and ignorance too many times, a treacherous replay of Nazi eugenics, but with a theocratic twist...theogenics, she called it, the plague of her time. Yet, she still could not avoid standing before this phony brave man and feel completely dumbfounded by his lack of awareness and empathy and...love. In him, as in all the Relics she had ever seen or heard speak, there was only the contagion of hate and fear. Their only focus, as the self-appointed prophets of a god, was energizing the fearful and hateful, and convincing anyone else who would listen, that there was much to fear and many more to hate. Their infamous contribution to humankind was enlisting the ignorant and covetous, the Devil's allies, in the pursuit of world domination.

Eve pressed on, "The only difference between a Secular abortionist and a Dominionist abortionist are the feelings of guilt and pity...and, of course, method and scope. We Humanists lament the loss of life and hold ourselves personally responsible should we take it, while you seem to rationalize and rejoice in the destruction of life, while using your God as justification and hiding behind His aprons. You see, those of us who have no God behind which to hide and play at innocence, must accept responsibility for ourselves and our behavior. We have no one else to blame or hold responsible. As a result, we experience feelings of guilt when we do wrong, feelings you are no doubt unfamiliar with. The only good in your religion, and let's be clear that there is very little in your religion that is good for anyone but yourselves, is that it allows you and yours the ability to avoid responsibility for your ghoulish behavior. It is the backbone in your arrogance, this absence of guilt and personal responsibility. You have created, by your belief, the greatest of all sins, the abandonment of personal responsibility. You tout free-will and then yell to the heavens that God made you do it!"

There was no reply. The man had buried his head in his hands, repeating over and over, "Satan, get behind me. Satan, get behind me."

Eve shook her head slowly. All she could feel for the arrogant, ignorant and self-absorbed murderers that kneeled before her in the dirt...was...rage. Nowhere within her could she find an ounce of sympathy or understanding...and although justified, she hated herself for it. She had, out of necessity become as her adversary. She had nothing left. Her only solace lay in the one great difference between she and them; she was not Jesus, and she knew it, while they, thinking that they were doing Jesus' work, had confused themselves with the great man himself.

Eve hated what she and her species had become...or rather, had never quite escaped...the ignorant and superstitious barbaric beliefs that had plagued her species since unrecorded time...holding humans back and holding them down.

At one time she was content, like most, to let others believe as they wished as long as it did not threaten her right to believe as she wished. But the Dominionists' slow and successful bid for power and insistence that everyone believe in their god and their ways, the inevitable end of civil rights, the initiation of a cruel inquisition, and the devastating thermonuclear holocaust, had ended humanity and all that the word was supposed to represent. It ended too, Eve's Pollyannaish tolerance. She hated the Dominionists for what they had undone, and the lion's share of her fellow survivors shared in that hate. But many, like she, realized that the Patriots also shared in the responsibility. Had it not been for their lazy voting habits, inattentiveness, an irresistible need to play fair, and their denial of the obvious transgressions against decent values, perhaps all of this could have been avoided. It was not evil that destroyed great civilizations, but inattentiveness and spinelessness.

With calm resignation and not a hint of satisfaction, Eve looked at Tommy and said, "Kill them, bury them, and destroy all their religious effects."

"No!" shouted the oldest mother half rising to her feet. "Spare mother Gretchen...she is so young and..." Her thought was cut short by a hard punch to her face. She fell backward into the dirt and was quickly covered by mother Gretchen. Gretchen glared at the male Relic who stood glowering down at his two female companions, his fist raised to administer another punch.

"Who shall separate us from the love of Christ," the man's voice cracked as he struggled to keep his feet, "Shall tribulation, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword..."

Eve's personal bodyguard, Burt, who had stood quietly behind Eve all this while, not waiting for Tommy to ask for volunteers or for the man to finish his rant, stepped forward, leveled his .45 pistol and, without hesitation, fired three times. Eve watched their heads explode and bodies fall one after the other.

Only the wind could be heard whistling through the nearby rocks and dying sage as she quietly regarded the three Relics sprawled on the ground before her. Echoes from the shots bounced along the low canyon walls.

"God damn it," Eve said as she turned and walked away. One man, a woman and a girl, barely of childbearing age, laid face down in the scrub, their dark red blood staining the yellow and brown dust. Steam rose from their wounds as the rich warm liquid hit the cold air. It was snowing again.

"If the prophet be deceived, I the Lord have deceived that prophet and will stretch out my hand and destroy him. I will bring them down like lambs to the slaughter...whom the gods would destroy, they first make mad," Tommy mumbled to himself. He then made a sign of the cross with the index finger of his right hand, which remained at his side, and unseen by his fellow Patriots.

CHORUS

"Seldom have gods ever been about universal love or inclusive love. Gods, and history offers plenty of examples, have been more about chosen people and the exclusion and/or extermination of nonbelievers and outsiders. Even when a god is purported to be inclusive and tolerant, men, the usual suspects, corrupt the message, over time, into one of hate, derision of and exclusion of all outsiders. Yes, even the Buddhists have had their wars."

"I suppose an intolerant god made a great deal of sense to the ancient tribes who struggled over scarce resources; who relied on their holy texts to provide the justification and motivation for the inhumane treatment of outsiders. Yet, no matter how utilitarian a god may be for the needy, fearful and ignorant, it is clear that those gods are created in the image of the men who create them. Understandably, then, it is not puzzling that such omnipotent beings possess such fragile egos, that they fear rejection, distrust difference, avoid strangers, and that they, absent of evidence, imagine outsiders to be threatening and dangerous; all very petty, unnecessary, lethal and very human. Humans want to murder, and gods make it OK."

"Humans seek only to flatter themselves when they create gods and then claim to have been created by those gods. I ask you to consider this: which is more flattering: believing yourself descended from a god or accepting your ascendency from 'lower' animals? Which would you prefer to believe? Which requires an act of humility?"

"Consider, as well, that only a human would be audacious enough to claim knowledge of the mind of an omniscient god. Would anyone of sane mind make such a claim? Yet, we are surrounded by preachers who claim to speak for Him; who claim to know His mind and intention, who, incredibly, just know He is a 'he'. I ask you: God needs to have a gender? Why not female? Why not asexual? How tall would a god be? Are gods Caucasian? Do you think Jesus of the Middle East had blue eyes and blond hair?"

"When humans create a god, they cannot create a being which is greater than them; what human could know the internal workings of a god? Witness that no god ever amounts to the glory humans like to bestow. The need to create gods proves that humans have abandoned any hope of greatness for themselves. They bury hope in a fantastic creation of divine proportions."

*
CHAPTER 2:

Eve was fifty-three, very intelligent, tough, and brittle. Her thin frame made all the more thin by poor diet and disease, gave her the appearance of being frail, but she was, as the Appalachian people would say, "wiry". Most thought that she was attractive enough, but the words "pretty" and "beautiful" were seldom used to describe her. She wore her graying medium brown hair shoulder length to please her man, and not herself. She would have preferred her hair to be short, but Eve was strong enough to honor her mate's wish without feeling compromised. She had been an emergency physician before the Dominionists came to power. And like all the other Liberals, "wrong-believers", back-sliders, sinners, and demons, she was forced to either submit to their pogroms or flee. Many people, Eve among them, fled. She escaped into the Tonto Forrest and the Mazatzal Mountains east of Phoenix, in what was once the Dominionist stronghold of Arizona. It was there, nine years ago, that she began her education in guerrilla warfare. Eve carried a .38, a box of cartridges, two canteens, and a weighty medical pack. For seven years now, she had successfully led her army of survivors. She did not ask to be followed. They followed her of their own free will. Under Eve's guidance, they had successfully destroyed many Relic convoys and raided most of the smaller Relic checkpoints in the southwest. She led without challenge.

Eve and Burt walked the short distance to her tent. Burt, against his better judgment, began building a small fire upon which he placed a mess tin half-filled with water and some flaked oats...oats that had been pilfered from Relic stores. When it was ready, he would offer it to Eve, and she would graciously accept his kindness. Meanwhile, Eve tried to push the morning's events out of her mind by pouring over some captured area-maps.

Eve selected a nearby rock as a seat. She placed a folded blanket beneath her ass to protect herself from the ice-cold rock and sat quietly with her stealth blanket draped loosely over her shoulders. Nearly all of her army had stealth blankets. The blankets were lightweight insulated affairs that were both effective at holding warmth and effective at concealing one from night vision sensors. There was very little need of the latter quality, however. Due to the heavily silted low ceiling, high winds, and constant threat of sandstorms, aircraft rarely flew, and Dominionist' columns seldom moved at night.

After several minutes, his tasks completed, Tommy approached Eve, whose back was turned to him. "Ma'am," he said...

Eve, who had not heard Tommy's approach, was startled, again. She turned quickly while plunging her hand into her fatigue jacket hoping to find a pistol. She stopped when she recognized Tommy standing behind her. "Damn it, Tommy, don't sneak up on me like that," she admonished, "...and give me my god-damn pistol!"

Burt came to his feet and stared disapprovingly at Tommy. He tolerated Tommy because Eve liked him. Burt, however, thought Tommy was just another religious nut job, a quiet nut job maybe, but a religious nut job all the same. For Burt, Tommy carried the seed of religion and all the danger associated with it.

"Er...ah...sorry, ma'am...I meant no harm." Tommy said handing Eve her .38 while casting a fleeting glance at Burt, whom he knew not to provoke.

"Yeah, I know, I know," Eve relented. "Sorry I snapped...but..."

"The Relic's effects have been distributed," Tommy interrupted. "The bodies are being buried, and all their religious stuff is destroyed. What are your orders, ma'am?"

"Send for Juanita and Bill. I want to see them right away." Eve pretended to return her attention to the maps.

"Yes, ma'am, right away," Tommy responded. He turned and moved off to find a runner who could relay the message to her two company commanders. Eve leaned back on the cold brown stone of the bluff wall and sighed deeply. Before her, a rotting and broken saguaro cactus was losing its battle to live. Her eyes welled, but she did not cry. She bit her cracked lower lip. Burt stood silent guard nearby, pretending not to notice while he stirred the oats, which were nearly ready.

Burt was six-foot-five and two-hundred-twenty-five pounds...give or take...muscular and considered, by the wise, to be formidable. Because he refused to renounce as sinful his research into stem cell therapies, his tongue had been cut out by the Dominionists. His argument that saving the lives of millions of human beings was more important than the lives of one-hundred-fifty cells, which could not even be seen without the aid of a microscope, carried no weight with his interrogators. In the third month of his Blessed Conversion, his tongue had been cut from his mouth, without benefit of anesthesia. Eve found him unconscious from pain and loss of blood, lying in his cell at the Dominionists' Santa Fe prison complex. Eve had Burt carried to a make-shift desert hospital, where she attended to his wounds. It took months for Burt to regain some vitality. He had been a peaceful and gentle man, but that was before the great hate had gripped the country. Following his recovery, Burt adopted Eve as his personal charge and was now committed to snapping the neck of anyone who meant to do her harm. He took orders from no one but Eve. And, he took no orders that challenged his self-appointed role as her personal bodyguard. No one dared to suggest that he do otherwise.

Eve sat on the rock with her maps held in her lap, but she wasn't looking at them. She was staring into the murky distance, thinking...struggling for answers...a mind of reason attempting to make sense of nonsense. She knew a lot of things...a lot of things that made little sense...a lot of things that only made her more angry. For instance, she knew that Jesus had no power to stop anyone from killing in His name. In fact, more people had been killed in the name of Jesus than any other deity, ever. She thought that perhaps this was true because believing in Jesus, or any god of any stripe, for that matter, made the believer believe he was a better, more deserving person than the next guy. Believing in the right god and, curiously, everyone's god seemed to be the right god, justified and made it easier to shun, persecute, condemn, and then murder all those others who believed in the wrong god. So, it made some kind of mad sense that murdering Buddhists, or Muslims, or the followers of the Great Spirit, what have you, in the name of Jesus' love was...love of Jesus. Maybe the whole point of religion, she thought, was to give the ignorant and lazy the needed justification and license to judge and murder, without regret...without responsibility, fully justified and sanctified. "The religious wear belief like a bully wears a chip on his shoulder," Eve realized.

As far as the existence of God was concerned, Eve did not yet know what to believe, except that the Dominionists made it harder, rather than easier, for her to believe in a super being. If Dominionists were the standard by which one measured God, then it was not a matter of attraction, but more one of revulsion. God may be omniscient, but she questioned the wisdom of God enlisting such a corrupt, ignorant, and retrograde group of people to represent Him. Maybe, she reasoned, that God challenged us to believe in Him even after we experienced the self-appointed assholes who claimed to represent Him; a divine test to reveal the true believer. "Garbage in, garbage out," Eve smiled.

Eve pulled the collar of her jacket tighter against her neck as the wind picked up. She just couldn't get warm. Beads of sweat dotted her forehead. The heavily silted sky pressed down on her like a great shit slathered leaden weight.

"Why would an omnipotent being need these assholes to defend him?" she thought. "Wasn't He capable of defending himself? Couldn't He just snap his fingers, if He has fingers, and make all the bad guys disappear? Didn't He snap his fingers and cause all this to appear, in the first place? Wasn't it prophesized that He'd snap his fingers and make everything disappear in a great tribulation? It didn't appear that He had much trouble obliterating Sodom and Gomorrah. So, what's been holding Him back?"

"Make that fire a little bigger," she requested of Tommy, who had returned from his detail. "I'm colder than hell." Eve coughed a little. The beads of perspiration along her forehead merged into tiny rivulets which ran into the corner of her eyes. Eve rubbed her hazel eyes with the back of her gloved hands.

Tommy looked at his commander with alarm. "No," Tommy replied, "...beggin' your pardon, ma'am." He flushed with embarrassment. "Ah...we shouldn't have a fire at all, ma'am...it can be seen for miles in this gloom."

Eve straightened and regarded Tommy, wide eyed. "No...did you say...no, Tommy?" Eve asked incredulously. She wiped her mouth and forehead on the sleeve of her fatigue jacket.

"Er...yes, ma'am, meaning no disrespect," Tommy replied. He looked at the ground.

Burt smiled and stood with the finished pot of oats.

"Good for you, Tommy," Eve said smiling at her embarrassed and contrite aide. "There's no need to feel apologetic. You are right...a fire is a bad idea."

"I'll fetch you another stealth blanket, ma'am," Tommy said and shuffled off.

Eve accepted the small pot of oats as Burt offered them to her. "Thank-you."

Burt nodded and resumed his stoic watch.

"Won't you have some?" Eve asked.

Burt signed that he had already eaten, which she suspected was not true. She had never known him to serve himself before serving her. It was nothing she demanded or expected. Burt just seemed to insist upon waiting his turn.

Eve took a spoonful of the hot oats, blew to cool them and then placed the spoon in her mouth. She pulled the hot, pasty, bland mixture from the spoon with her teeth, chewed and swallowed. The goop seemed to stick in her throat. She chased it with a swig of bitter water from her canteen.

"Mmmm, good," she lied.

Burt smiled at the lie and poked his tiny fire with a stick.

Eve took another bite with a water chaser. She considered Burt for a moment. "You don't like Tommy, do you?" she asked.

Burt turned, and fearlessly, looked her in the eye. He slowly shook his head.

"Why?"

Burt considered his answer. "Too religious," he signed. "I don't trust him."

"He seems harmless enough to me," Eve replied.

"He is not harmless...he carries the seed of religions to come," Burt elaborated. "That makes him dangerous to you, to me, to everyone. Harmless does not mean not dangerous."

"How?" Eve asked.

"He carries the seeds which nearly killed all of us. There is no guarantee that he can make it safe...to keep it out of the wrong hands. No one can. He relies on others thinking him harmless and counts on them to leave him alone. This only adds to the danger. Religions must be destroyed entirely...like the nuclear bombs should have been destroyed. It is dangerous to believe that such things can be made harmless. Complete annihilation is the only way we...future generations...can be safe."

Eve carefully considered Burt's thoughts. She agreed wholeheartedly. "First you said 'we' and then changed it to 'future generations'," she observed. "Do you think it is too late for future generations?" Eve asked.

Burt pointed to the heavily silted sky and indicated the frozen desert that lay all around them. "Yes."

"I see," Eve said. "Yet, we must try to set things right, no matter if we believe that ours is the last generation. No?"

Tommy arrived with a stealth blanket. Without speaking, he draped it over Eve's head and pulled it around her shoulders. The shiny silvery matrix on the inside of the blanket not only concealed a person's temperature signature from heat sensors, but it also had the additional benefit of holding body heat; a very nice feature in this frozen desert, not so nice in the deserts of the Middle East, where they had been developed many years ago.

"Thank-you, Tommy," Eve said.

"You're welcome, ma'am," Tommy replied, "and, ah, ma'am, I've sent runners to find Major Arturo and Captain Tucker," (Tommy, despite insistence from the two commanders, could not bring himself to call them by their first names, Juanita and Bill) "...they set up an ambush last night...on the road about two miles back...I was told."

"Expecting to get lucky two nights in a row?" Eve asked. "I hope they got some sleep."

"I doubt it, ma'am."

Eve returned to her maps while Burt and Tommy began packing the campsite and stowing gear for the march that was certain to happen before the day was out. Patriots never bivouacked twice in the same spot. It was just too damn dangerous.

"Ah, Tommy," Eve said after a short while, "I'm curious, what did you mean when you said...well, I think you said that religion was never intended for groups...wasn't it?"

Tommy stopped packing Eve's tent and turned to look at her. "Yes, ma'am...except I think I meant to say belief or, rather practice."

"Say more," Eve encouraged, welcoming the distraction.

"Organized religion is a very dangerous thing."

"No shit," Eve shot back.

"Er...yes...ah, sorry...well, any self-deluded individual can do a great deal of damage with no help from others. But, all around us is proof of the apocalyptic damage that is made when millions organize under one genocidal leader's beliefs. God should not be an ally to be used by the fearful and intolerant."

"But he is...all the fucking time," Eve shot back.

Burt stopped packing and stood. He turned his focus to the two's conversation.

"Yes...that is right," Burt signed.

Eve nodded in support of Burt.

"So, if there are no standards of behavior, no governors, no religious police to keep tab on the religious crazies, then we are right to eliminate them...entirely. Are we not?" Eve asked.

"Yes and no," Tommy replied.

"No?!" Eve replied incredulously.

"There is some good in believing," Tommy risked.

Eve's mouth fell open in disbelief, "What fucking good is there that is fucking god-damn good enough to excuse all this fucking unbelievable waste...?" Eve made no attempt to conceal her agitation.

Burt moved to stand before Tommy whom he towered over. "Your God is supposed to make us better humans, but all He does is provide excuses to behave inhumanely," Burt challenged.

Frightened, Tommy, not literate in sign language, looked to Eve for a translation...and some protection.

"Burt says your god is better at inciting and excusing inhumane treatment than in curbing it," Eve shared.

Burt remained glaring down at Tommy. "Well?" he signed.

"Well?" Eve translated.

"Can we talk about this some other time?" Tommy's voice cracked. He regarded his two inquisitors and, not waiting for an answer, resumed packing Eve's tent.

Eve did not bother to conceal her annoyance.

Burt found a rock, sat down, and grinned sardonically while watching Tommy. Lightning flashed and cracked a few miles off to the west. The air was full of static electricity. Eve briefly considered that her stealth blanket would probably make a good lightning rod.

"You know, Tommy," Eve stated, returning to her maps, "and maybe Burt will agree with me...as I see it, there are but two types who are attracted to supreme beings: those who mean well by humanity, and those who see a means to revenge...the annoying do-gooders and the genocidal holier-than-thou's."

Tommy looked dumfounded at Eve who, without any apparent difficulty, seemed to express a perfect understanding, but of what he wasn't certain. "Yes, ma'am, er...I don't know, ma'am," he stammered. Then tragically, Tommy couldn't resist going out onto the limb once again.

"When religion organizes, it loses sight of the person and quickly becomes about the ideology, protecting the ideology, convincing others that 'we' are right and 'they' are wrong...a 'we' versus 'them'...about fixing others, not ourselves. It's only natural. Religion begins to exist solely for itself. It creates outsiders...er, targets, if you will. When we take His teaching as a personal thing...a thing a person must strive for as an individual, then there is no 'we' and it's harder to visualize a 'them'. It's more a personal thing, between you and G..." Tommy was going to say God, thought better of it and stammered to silence.

"God? I don't think it's necessary to bring God into it," Eve said, acknowledging Tommy's stumble, to his horror.

"No, ma'am, of course not," Tommy lied.

"If you're determined to be a better person, then it is better, I think," Eve continued, "that you work toward being better, because that is the right thing to do, and not because you want to avoid some kind of punishment by impressing some god. It seems to me a more genuine act, coming from a sense of personal need and responsibility, rather than coming from a need to please a deity to avoid damnation."

"Yes, ma'am, understandably so," Tommy agreed.

"In the latter case, you might agree to change only so long as the punisher is observing you, or you think you are being observed, but as soon as he turns his back, it is anything goes," Eve continued.

"You mean, it's more real to do it because we want to be better people, than to resent having to do it to please someone else or to be forced," Tommy clarified.

"Exactly," Eve responded. "I've never known anyone not to harbor resentment, little or great, for someone who makes him do something under threat, or against his will. Have you, Tommy?"

"Ah, no ma'am...that certainly makes sense," Tommy smiled.

"And, if I were the punisher, I'd never trust anyone whom I had forced into bending to my will," Eve added.

"Neither would I," Burt signed from his perch atop his rock.

Eve gave Burt a "thumbs up" in agreement.

"You are saying that everyone who believes, believes only to avoid punishment and that the believer secretly resents his god?" Tommy questioned.

"Few would admit it. Most would strongly argue the opposite, I suppose," Eve offered. "But, those who argue the loudest in defense of their god and their situation, I believe, suffer from Stockholm Syndrome," she chuckled, "...captives caught in a hopeless situation, in fear of their lives often develop a sympathy and empathy for their captor...even to the point of defending and joining with him and "loving" him. And, let's not forget those who believe out of a desperate need to belong, to feel important and a sick desire to lord it over others."

"That sounds very cynical, ma'am...beggin' your pardon," Tommy risked.

"The truth can sound cynical to those unprepared to accept facts," Eve retaliated.

Burt couldn't resist a muffled guffaw.

Tommy took the hit hard. Embarrassed and hurt, he looked at the ground.

"And another thing, Tommy, the principle of acknowledging our shortcomings and changing through the practice of better behavior, if it even can be ascribed to God, the practice is not original to your savior," Eve continued.

"It isn't," Tommy asked?

"The same principle was known to eastern philosophers long before Jesus and is...was the basis of many insight therapies used by psychologists who had little interest in gods. It is one of the basic principles behind human change. No god is required." Eve squatted next to the small fire and warmed her hands. After a short pause she continued. "Tommy, you know your Bible, I have no doubt, but I think that sometimes your interpretations are a tad off the mark," Eve concluded.

"You mean, he and his Relic friends are full of shit," Burt signed from his perch.

"What did he say?" Tommy asked, casting a suspicious look at Burt. Tommy did not know how to sign, but knowing the sign for Relic, he knew that Burt had said something about him and Relics.

"Never mind," Eve answered shaking her head in mock annoyance at Burt. "Jesus," Eve continued, "was a Jew talking to Jews. I believe he made it clear, several times, that Gentiles were dogs and unworthy of his teachings..."

"Yes, ma'am, that is clear, ma'am...'I am not sent but unto the lost sheep of the house of Israel. It is not meet to take the children's bread and cast it to the dogs'...er, "dogs" being the gentiles, that is," Tommy elaborated and then continued with another example." 'Go not into the way of the Gentiles, and into any city of the Samaritans enter ye not: But go rather to the lost sheep of the house of Israel.' And, then there's the one..."

"Yes," Eve interrupted, "you make my point, but I hadn't finished my thought."

"Yes, ma'am, sorry ma'am," Tommy replied.

"If we put His remarks into historical context...He was speaking to a host of poor, unprivileged, oppressed Jews who had no means or hope of escaping their oppressors. They were subject to Roman law with no power to change the system. Jesus was powerless to offer them any recourse or any hope of escape, except to promise them paradise after death..." She placed a stick on the fire.

"Only if they kissed his ass," Burt interjected.

"Seems that way," Eve concurred.

"Because, he wasn't a god and he didn't have any real power to do shit," Burt continued, "if he ever existed at all."

"Looks like that to me," Eve said. "He tells them that abject poverty is a good thing, because, it just so happens that, because of their poverty, they will be blessed with a heavenly residence in the afterlife. Looks to me like, being derelict, nearly naked, starving, and living in squalor is the way to go." Eve regarded the devastation surrounding her, "Shit, it never occurred to me, we must be going to Heaven!" She laughed.

"Keep the oppressed quiet, thinking they are going to get the last laugh, while the oppressors live it up," Burt chimed in.

Tommy, paying no attention to Burt, pressed on, "But then what of Matthew 6:6, ma'am...I mean, I think that makes my point...or a bit of it, I mean about, you know, that people should practice their belief in private and all, be humble, not flashy."

"I don't know the Bible by heart, Tommy," Eve admitted.

"Sorry, ma'am, er...Matthew said, 'And when thou prayest, thou shalt not be as the hypocrites are: for they love to pray standing in the synagogues and in the corners of the streets, that they may be seen of men. Verily I say unto you, they have their reward. But thou,' Tommy continued, "and this is the part I think is important...," 'But thou, when thou prayest, enter into thy closet, and when thou hast shut thy door, pray to thy father which is in secret; and thy father which seeth in secret shall reward thee openly.' "

Suddenly, several Patriots, stationed as lookouts, began blowing whistles, which were quickly followed by many more. Everyone stood to the warnings, their senses sharpened. Then shouts warned of the approach of a low flier. Everyone scrambled to grab their gear and ran for their pre-selected hiding spots. Everyone, and everything, was stowed in under a minute.

In that minute, Eve had stamped out the fire, and much to Eve's chagrin, Burt picked her up and carried her away to some nearby rocks. Burt, characteristically, ignored her orders to be put down.

In the tense quiet which existed between the chilling gusts of wind, the "whup", "whup", "whup" of a gunship's rotors could be heard a mile or so off to the east.

The brown and yellow camouflaged Cobra gunship burst out of the murkiness like a great white from the murky marine depths; all menace and murderous hunger. The Cobra's Vulcan mini-gun turret traversing, right and left, as it followed the head movements of its pilot, surveying the shallow ravine stretching out before him.

As the gunship passed Eve's position, she could clearly see the pilot and the weapons officer, who sat behind and slightly higher in the tandem cockpit. Along its flanks, the markings of the Glorious Army of the Apocalypse (GAA or "gay" as the Patriots laughingly preferred) were clearly visible; a golden cross set in a bed of flame on a circular field of powder blue.

"I'd guess that they've heard about yesterday's ambush," Eve said to Burt, who crouched over her.

Burt smiled and nodded his head in agreement.

The Cobra swept southwest along the ravine, came about and flew back up the ravine for another look. The pilot, experienced as he was, knew he would be lucky to see any sign of Satanists from his speeding perch, yet, occasionally some undisciplined panicked heretic would run, or unwisely attempt to bring the gunship down with ground fire. Strafing had worked in the past. He prayed that it would work again.

Word was that twenty-three Dominionists were killed in yesterday's cowardly ambush by the she-witch and her Satanist followers, and that another three had been taken for interrogation...presumably. The pilot shuddered to think of the blasphemies they were made to endure at the hands of the she-beast's henchmen.

"Do you see anything, Lieutenant?" The pilot asked his close shaven weapons officer.

"No, sir," came the reply, "but I'm certain I saw a fire, or a light, somewhere around here."

"Don't see one now, do you?"

"No, sir, but they're down there somewhere. I'm sure of it."

"Oh, there down there alright. They're like little demon cockroaches that scramble and hide as soon as you turn on the light. The problem is though: into which one of these gorges did the cowards run?"

"Sir, why don't we stir things up and see what happens?" the lieutenant suggested.

"Couldn't hurt," the pilot laughed into his mike.

He then pulled on the stick, pointed the nose of the Cobra towards the brown and yellowish overcast, rolled to starboard and reversed his direction back down the ravine. He raised the red safety switch cover on his control stick to expose the Vulcan mini-gun's arming switch. He armed the gun and then scanned the ravine's walls, right and then left, while depressing the gun's trigger.

A high-pitched hellish buzz issued from the Vulcan's barrels...a buzz saw on meth. Three-thousand hyper-sonic rounds a minute (fifty rounds per second) smashed into the gorge's rock walls. Bullets and dirt and rock debris ricocheted from boulder to boulder. Dust was everywhere. Occasionally, a projectile would find an arm, a leg, a chest, or a head. Pressing and releasing the mini-gun's trigger, the pilot peppered the rocks for nearly two-hundred yards.

Eve choked and gasped on the dust which, predictably, provoked a fit of coughing. Burt pulled her in closer to the boulder and held her down while she hacked uncontrollably. Tommy watched helplessly from a nearby gully, which offered him scant concealment and protection.

Ending his run, the pilot nosed his gunship up once again and wheeled it back around to fly up the ravine once more. Flying much slower this time, he and his weapons officer surveyed the area for the results of their strafing. The dust created by the gunship's rotors as it passed, only obscured the area more. There was nothing to see.

"See anything?" the pilot asked his lieutenant.

"No, sir, I don't see a thing."

"Well, they're either well-disciplined cockroaches dug in tighter than a tic, or they're in another ravine."

"Yes, sir."

"There are usually at least one or two dumb asses that run when the mini limbers up...let's see if we can stir something up in one of the other gorges."

The Cobra swept the nearby area for nearly an hour flying up and down ravines, shooting its Vulcan, or firing rockets in its relentless attempt to scare the heretics out of hiding. They found no one.

Here and there, around Eve, she could hear cries for help, a woman wailing, and some quiet sobbing. She wasted no time joining the survivors who rushed to doctor the wounded. She was drawn to the wailing woman. She treated five bullet wounds (two serious), a handful of head injuries (one probably fatal), and attempted a CPR (unsuccessful), before she reached the woman.

Covered in blood and sweat, Eve stood, shaken by what laid before her. A woman...a mother...collapsed against the rock face, now silent, in shock, staring at the ground. Not three feet distant, laid her son's torso. His head was painted on the rock above him.

"What was that you said about building fires, Tommy?" Eve choked.

"I thought they were a bad idea," a stunned Tommy replied.

Burt returned to the campsite to rescue what provisions he could.

In total, thirty-seven of Eve's army suffered wounds in the assault: seven dead, two likely, four serious, with many walking wounded filling in the ranks.

CHORUS

"Long before the time of Eve and an army of Patriots fighting to revenge the destruction of America at the hands of fanatical religious fundamentalist theocrats was just an idea for fiction writers, the United States, in a very non-fictional way, had struggled with religion and its attempts to dominate the Secular society. Indeed, it would be safe to say that the entire history of America, from its earliest colonization by Europeans seeking wealth and the freedom to use their religion for the persecution of others, to the advent of the United States and its inevitable devastation, was a history of religious/Secular struggle; a rolling history of one superstitious group after another attempting to dominate other superstitious groups, completely callous to the needs of the people they were permitted to live among or, supposedly, chosen to represent. The history of the U.S. of A., despite its lofty intentions of freedom and liberty for all and bold statements of uniqueness and exclusivity, was no different, in the final analysis, than the history of Europe, which until the resolution of the Northern Ireland conflict in the twenty-first century, had been, from conception, a history of perpetual religious strife resulting in wars, inquisitions, burnings, ritual drownings, hangings, beheadings, unspeakable tortures and indescribable suffering by innocents, guilty only of being in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong beliefs."

"The people who ostensibly came to America to escape Europe and its religious wars, inquisitions, and so-called persecutions, ironically, brought with them the same conditions of arrogance, ideological supremacy, brutality, and, of course, superstition. You see, they came to America seeking the freedom to practice their religion without interference from the state and its laws, which set limits on the behaviors, religious or not, that would be tolerated of its citizens. The Puritans, for example, came to America to escape ridicule for their peculiar fanaticism and to escape restrictions placed upon their persecution of those they considered undesirables. Free of state interference, the Puritans of America were free to hang Quakers and to scourge Baptists to their hearts' content. For the Puritans, religious freedom meant being free to discriminate against anyone they believed was a threat to them, imagined or not. That a religion-driven America would suffer the same fate as Europe was a foregone conclusion, written in its history long before anyone realized or would admit it."

"Of course, America's Founding Fathers circa 1776 knew well the history of Europe, and they did their best to save the newly created republic from suffering as their neighbors across the sea had suffered. Of course, there were long arguments with the religious types who, straight away, demanded that the United States be conceived as a Christian nation. Wisely, more learned heads prevailed, sort of. A compromise of sorts was reached. There was declared a separation of church and state and the right to believe and practice any way one wished, as long as that practice did not impinge upon the right of another in their free exercise. But, the wisdom of the Seculars was soon undermined by the relentless superstitious chunterings of religious schoolboys and soothsayers, who saw more reason in suppressing another's ideas for the sake of their own, than wisdom in allowing all to live their lives as they wished; who saw, by extension, more wisdom in war than in peace."

"The United States, self-described by some as religious and God-fearing, was marketed by those same individuals as possessing some kind of goodness and wholesomeness denied to godless and pagan unchristian civilizations. The truth, however, was that the new religious America had never really been or ever behaved morally or Jesus-like. The behavior of the various religious sects of America, as in other countries where religion had played a dominant role, had been largely churlish, adolescent, destabilizing and deadly. The religious, buoyed by the notion that God was on their side, too easily and often abandoned their so-called high ideals, to which they reportedly subscribed (and demanded others subscribe), in favor of their more base and corrupt natures and instincts. Religion, ostensibly designed to temper the animal had, as proven by history, failed gloriously. There, in the abandonment of their lofty principles, fueled by their all-too-human ignorance, superstition, vanity and fragile egos, was genocide of unimaginable scope: murderers of fellow Christians; burners of competing churches; killers of priests; enslavers of entire races of people using biblical justifications; lynchers; cross-burners; purveyors of renditions, torture, wars; suppressors of rights; suppressors of facts to protect their religious prejudices and misinformation; persecutors of the poor; defenders of the rich; seditionists; tyrannical despots and, ultimately, engineers of nuclear Armageddon. And, all of it was justified, subscribed to, and executed for the love of someone's god...especially, the Prince of Peace, Jesus! Never has a more corrupting and devastating philosophy been witnessed than the corrupting force of an all-powerful God too weak to do his own smiting."

*
CHAPTER 3:

CHORUS

"To reprise: Repeated failures of converting non-believers to their way of thinking, and an inability to tolerate others belief, or non-belief systems, forced the Family to conclude that complete world domination was the only answer. God's promise of an apocalyptic end to the old world order, and the rebirth of a heavenly paradise on earth, was long past due by their reckoning. And, the decadence and sinfulness of Liberals only seemed to grow and worsen as the decades passed."

"The Family thought the situation completely hopeless, until the day their prayers were finally answered. One of their number, whose identity is now lost, speculated that the answer had been hiding in plain sight for many decades; nuclear weapons were God's answer. It was clear. God promised them that the world would end in fire, and nuclear weapons were clearly suited to that end. The Dominionists simply had not heard the answer. It was they, not God, who were responsible for the delay. The only problem remaining was how to survive the devastation while everyone else was burning in the fires of nuclear hell. The answer, they concluded, were Freedom Centers, self-sufficient centers located in low risk areas that would withstand the nuclear devastation and the nuclear winter."

"The Centers were named after the twelve tribes of Israel. There was Freedom Center Judah (J), Huckleberry's Center; Freedom Center Reuben (R), Patboy Robert's Center; followed by Gad (G); Aser (A); Nephthalim (N); Manases (M); Simeon (S); Levi (L); Isachar (I); Zabulon (Z); Joseph (JH); and Benjamin (B). Each Center housed twelve-thousand born-again regenerates, making one-hundred and forty-four-thousand sealed souls as foretold in Revelation, the Biblical book most revered by the Dominionists."

"Ultimately, the Centers were designed to serve two ends: extermination and slave labor centers for any survivors of the thermonuclear devastation, and as safe havens from which the Dominionists could repopulate the world in their own image; sort of a new Heaven and...Hell on earth. In the meantime, however, they would serve as forced labor camps for those Satanists selected as fit enough to work. Fifteen-hundred concentration camps, unaffiliated with the Freedom Centers and holding millions of former citizens, were scattered around the UDSA. They were used as the primary extermination camps for those deemed too unfit to live or work: the old, the young, the sickly, the sinful, the infertile, the weak, the insane, the developmentally disabled, illegal aliens, people of the wrong color, homosexuals, the homeless, heretics, blasphemers, backsliders, apostates, atheists, abortionists, prostitutes, drug abusers, troublesome women, etc, etc. (An interesting aside was that the Dominionists, at first, legalized and/or decriminalized drugs in an effort to render as many people politically ineffective as possible. Drugs would join with religion to become the 'opiates of the people'.)"

"Each Center was guaranteed a continuous supply of heretics and fornicators to replace the many hundreds of thousands who annually died from starvation, exhaustion, exposure, disease, torture and outright murder. Dominionist citizens and their children were eager to do their part in supplying the Centers with a continuous flow of inmates. Encouraged to demonstrate their true calling to Jesus, the loyal and faithful citizenry gratefully accepted the challenge of rooting out and reporting moral inferiors, fornicators, homosexuals, adulterers, pornographers, atheists, capitalists, alcoholics, drug addicts, the homeless, the mentally ill, witches, demons, anyone suspected of practicing any form of Secular Humanist religion, in short, anyone not considered suitable enough to repopulate the promised new paradise on earth. Informers were rewarded, not only with a feeling of moral superiority, but with a range of 'gifts' from extra food rations to better jobs and housing assignments in more affluent neighborhoods."

"Definitions of unfitness were quite broad, and arrests were alarmingly high. Many towns disappeared entirely, and most cities had entire neighborhoods, most notably the poor and minority neighborhoods, completely depopulated. Neighbors accused one another, children their parents, parents their children, pastors reported pastors, pastors their congregants, congregants their pastors. No one was safe, except those at the very top of the Dominionist hierarchy. And, for whatever reasons the powerful deemed appropriate, those whom the powerful liked or desired, had their transgressions 'forgiven'. Of course, bribery, payoffs, and favors were employed by the better healed, to avoid arrest."

"In the years preceding the Wars of Tribulation, hundreds of millions of Humanists and Takers (sinners who only took from the state and offered nothing in return) were rounded up, incarcerated and purged along with the inmates of the existing prison and mental health system. Only a few ever escaped to tell of the degradations and 'blessed conversions' committed in the name of Jesus."

"When the time came for the great exodus out of the cities to the Centers of those born again, only the most essential, righteous, fit, fanatical and Caucasian of the Dominionist order were chosen. Doctors, nurses, educators, skilled craftsmen, combat specialists, biblical scholars, young attractive fertile women, agriculturalists, engineers, and virile men--all of unimpeachable genetic stock (researched to five generations)--made the trek to the 'Uplifted Communities for Exceptional Souls', as the Freedom Centers were so tastefully advertised."

"Those of the Dominionist tribe who were left behind were pacified with the promise that perhaps they too would someday be selected for inclusion in a Freedom Center, if only they worked harder on their piety and denouncements. Not a one of the Dominionist parishioners, chosen or left behind, knew about the planned nuclear holocaust. They were kept in the dark for obvious reasons, as well as, for the less obvious reason that the leadership, while feigning shock, horror and disbelief at the outbreak of nuclear war, would be able to declare their salvation a miracle and further proof of their worthiness of Jesus' favor and love—evidence of their unimpeachable authority to tell others what to do and how to believe. The Family leadership prided itself in covering all contingencies, thinking of everything, and conning everyone."

*

Eight years earlier, The Most Reverend President Leader Huckleberry, Reverend Leader of the United Dominionist States of America, stepped from his gold cross-emblazoned powder-blue and white helicopter as Onward Christian Soldiers, the new national anthem, blared from the overhead speakers of the concrete and barbed wire compound. A broad, impossibly white smile devoured his face. His pale blue eyes were slits of self-approval. The Reverend Leader's powder-blue and white robes flapped in the breeze, and his polar white hair, sculpted into a huge wave towering above his high forehead, glowed in the brilliant sunlight of the New Mexico desert. Not a hair was out of place to obscure the large tattooed circular seal centered upon his tanned brow; a golden cross set against a golden sunburst. At six-feet-four and tastefully tan, his presence was commanding. He oozed confidence and self- assurance, which many of the unsaved read as arrogance. In less than a year, Huckleberry would give the order for the world-wide nuclear devastation.

The gathered crowd of twelve thousand was arranged into ten regimental blocks. Each block consisted of twelve columns, one-hundred deep. The presentation was reminiscent of the Nuremburg rallies of old--not only in appearance--but in enthusiasm and political sentiment, as well. Each congregant, dressed in white robes, holding a palm leaf and bearing an identical, but smaller, seal upon his and her forehead, roared with approval. Hundreds of standard bearers, each holding the new national flag, with its twelve red and white stripes honoring the apostles, the blood of the Lamb, and righteous purity, strained to hold their snapping banners high in the stout breeze. Set upon a powder-blue field, in the upper left quadrant of the flag, was a golden cross set against a golden sunburst. There was no need for fifty stars on a field of blue, as before. The United Dominionist States of America was one state under God, with the golden cross representing their Blessed Savior's sacrifice and atonement.

The Reverend Leader ascended the flag-draped podium, arms raised to heaven, his pale palms facing skyward in the Dominionist salute, as he shouted "amen" and "praise the Lord", over and over. On his left arm, encircling the bicep, he wore a powder-blue arm band and, upon the arm band, set on a white circular field, there was a golden cross. His armband was identical to the armbands worn by the twelve thousand enthralled onlookers. Organ music, adding dramatic effect, was piped into the gathering from large speakers mounted on the Center's walls. It swelled to a crescendo and suddenly stopped. The frenzied crowd bristled with righteous passion and some, overcome by emotion, passed out. Huckleberry knew he had complete control. He beamed.

"Brethren! Brethren!" Huckleberry chuckled into the public address with much effect. The crowd erupted into a spontaneous chant of "praise be to Huckleberry!" while raising and lowering their arms in salute.

"Brethren! Please!" Huckleberry half-heartedly shouted a few more times, but the demonstration continued. He continued chuckling with false humility and displayed his unbelievably white toothy grin. Huckleberry never wanted the admiration to stop, yet he would only allow the crowd to praise him a short while longer.

Finally, concerned about the time, yet never losing his smile, Huckleberry called upon his adjutant, Pastor Dick, to bring the crowd to silence. Pastor Dick, in turn, called upon the regimental commanders, who, with the help of company captains and sergeants, shouted the crowd to attention. The gathering, in fine military fashion, snapped to order.

Only the flag's flapping and snapping in the superheated breeze could be heard. The Most Reverend President Leader, tall and proud, and with the sun beaming high overhead, surveyed his wide-eyed, scrubbed and polished brethren. It was obvious to him that they were eager to be led. All had sworn loyalty to him and him alone. He knew that he could ask anything of them and that they would do his bidding without question. Huckleberry was very pleased. It was good to be worshipped as a god.

CHORUS

"It is important that I note, before we continue, that Huckleberry pronounced the 'J' in Jesus as 'ch' as in 'cheese', drew out the long 'e' and added a breathless 'ah' at the end, so 'blessed Jesus' sounded more like 'bles-sed Cheesus-ah'. He, like so many of the gospel preachers before him, used a lilting, sing-song voice that broke his words into unusually distinct syllables, which created, for some, a mesmerizing cadence. Extra emphasis was placed on some syllables for dramatic effect by holding the syllable for a beat or two too long. The 'cheese' in Cheesus-ah and God pronounced as 'Gawd' with a hard 'D' were ideal examples of this syllabic emphasis. It has been speculated that these vocal idiosyncrasies were the tell-tales of the truly righteous and regenerate."

*

"Brethren," he began, "you whose robes have been made white with the blood of the lamb (spontaneous shouts of 'hallelujah' came from the crowd), you who have come out of great tribulation, you shall hunger no more, nor thirst, nor suffer the heat or the light of the sun, because the lamb shall feed you, and shall lead you to the living fountain of waters, and shall wipe away your tears, amen." (Huckleberry, without crediting his source, gave no thought to freely borrowing quotes from the Bible. He practically wrote the thing himself, so, obviously, it would be vainglorious to self-acknowledge...would it not?)

And the gathering responded as one. "Amen: Blessing, and glory, and wisdom, and thanksgiving, and honor, and power, and might, be unto our God forever and ever. Amen."

Huckleberry raised his face to the heavens and continued, "The kingdoms of this world are become the kingdoms of our Lord, and of his Christ (shouts of hallelujah and praise Jesus from the crowd); and He shall reign forever and ever. We give you thanks, O Lord God Almighty, which are, and was, and are to come; because you have taken to thee thy great power, and have reigned, amen."

And the gathering responded as one, "And the nations were angry, and your wrath has come, and the time of the dead, that they should be judged, and that you should give reward unto thy servants the prophets, and to the saints, and them that fear your name, small and great; and should destroy them which destroy the earth."

"Now is come salvation," Huckleberry shouted into the crowd, which on cue, fell to its knees as one, and pressed their foreheads firmly into the desert sand, "and strength, and the kingdom of our God, and the power of his Christ: for the accuser of our brethren is cast down, which accused them before our God day and night."

With the words "cast down", Huckleberry threw his arms down from shoulder high, index fingers pointing toward the ground as he spun in a circle on the tips of his tanned toes, encased in fine leather sandals. From this point in his sermon, to the end, he would seldom stand still. He would dance and gambol, sway, leap, spin, shout, throw punches, and punctuate his oration with unbridled drama. He was famous for it. The organist, too, would add drama by punctuating and emphasizing the Reverend President's every word and phrasing and gymnastic leap. They were a well-oiled machine.

"And they overcame him by the blood of the Lamb and by the word of their testimony; and they loved not their lives unto the death," the kneeling crowd spoke as one into the heated sand.

Huckleberry's steely blue eyes became two pinpoints of searing self-righteousness. He looked beyond the gathering to the overly crowded diesel-powered livestock haulers, which were lined up and waiting, just beyond Freedom Center Reuben's gates. He pointed the spidery thin, perfectly manicured, accusatory index finger of his left hand at the livestock haulers. His voice boomed over the public address, "You filthy dreamers, defilers of the flesh, despisers of dominion...you who speak evil of dignities...you unregenerate sinners and fornicators, the Day of Judgment draws near!" Scattered cries of 'praise Jesus' and 'hallelujah', erupted from the crowd. The organ music began rising in anticipation of a rousing climax. "Repent now your sins," Huckleberry pleaded, bending his knees slightly and raising his right arm as if offering to embrace the captives in the waiting trucks, "and receive Christ as your Savior who died for your sins or...," he paused dramatically before continuing with a hushed and ominous tone, "...forever banish your souls to the flames and torment of the Fiery Pit! Fear God and give glory to Him; for the hour of His judgment upon you has come; and worship Him that made heaven, and earth, and the sea, and the fountains of waters." Huckleberry danced a jig in a tight circle holding his arms tight to his sides as he pontificated. The music swelled and rippled and crashed.

Then, he and the organ music came to an abrupt stop. Huckleberry stared wide eyed--his gaze fixed just above the heads of the crowd. He began swaying side to side and back and forth, pantomiming the struggle for the lost souls of the damned with an adversary, presumably Satan, whom no one, except his righteous minions, who possessed the most remarkable of imaginations, could actually see. His arms were outstretched, and his fists clenched, as if he were strangling someone or something. Around he went in circles, first one way, then another. Suddenly, Huck leapt, and standing on tip toe, rocking to and fro, he shouted "Ha!" and "Ho!" and then, "Ow!", as he absorbed a phantom punch. The completely transfixed crowd gasped in horror. Growling like a junkyard cur, Huck strained for mastery over the evil thing. It was apparent to everyone that his struggle with the demonic entity was nearly apocalyptic. A bead of sweat broke through the makeup on his tastefully creased brow. Unnoticed, it eroded a deep gully down the side of his heavily made up and contorted face.

All the while, the crowd cheered on their fearless leader with repeated shouts of "halleluiah" and "praise Jesus". They interjected various "ooo's" and "aaah's" and grimaces, as their leader continued to take blows from his spectral, demonic adversary.

"Get behind them Satan. I command you!" Huckleberry thundered once, twice, thrice, all the while feigning a struggle which grew increasingly epic and threatened to spill off the stage. He fell to his knees, struggled to rip invisible hands from his throat, threw punches into thin air, and eventually regained his footing, with great difficulty. The crowd cheered!

Finally, with his invisible adversary presumably beaten to the floor and, ultimately vanquished, Huckleberry made a show of being spent. He stood trembling and struggling to regain his breath. He swayed left to right, front to rear. Pastor Dick, his face frozen in mock concern, rushed to and fro in a heroic attempt at catching the collapsing Huckleberry. Dick, however, could not prevent the completely spent Reverend President Leader from falling to one knee. The congregation's cheers and hallelujah's changed to gasps and cries of horror. Searching frantically, with his arms, for some physical support, much the same as a disoriented blind man, Huckleberry eventually "stumbled" upon Dick. He grabbed Dick's shoulder with his smallish, delicate tanned hand. Painfully squeezing Dick's shoulder and leveraging his full weight against the tiny man's frame, Huckleberry fought to regain his legs, once again.

Never one to lose sight of the importance of timing, Huckleberry remained silent and wide-eyed until the white robed gathering began to stir and murmur in concern. For maximum dramatic effect, his long, thin arms hung useless at his side and his chin rested against his chest, as if his neck was incapable of supporting his head. And then, slowly, the gathering became aware of his voice, quavering softly, as he spoke into his chin mike (which, miraculously, was still in place). "Woe to the inhabitants of the earth (cough, cough) and of the sea!" Stunned, the mesmerized crowd began a spooky, whispering chant of "woe" and "woe" and "woe", over and over again. "For the devil is come down unto you...cough, gasp..." Huck's weak voice gradually rose towards the familiar, glorious, and much-loved boom, as the organ music swelled, "... (cough, sputter)...having great wrath, because he knows that he has but a short time. And all that dwell upon the earth shall worship him, whose names are not written in the book of life of the Lamb slain from the foundation of the world!" Huckleberry finished with his voice soaring past boom and into an irresistible sonic thunder that threatened to rip the world asunder. Finally, it cracked and then abrupt silence. Apparently, completely spent from his titanic struggle, the Glorious Reverend Leader collapsed (carefully) into the waiting arms of his assistant, Pastor Dick, who being quite a bit smaller than the President Reverend Leader, was not acting in his desperate attempt to keep Huckleberry off the stage floor...and, himself.

The organ music stopped when Huckleberry collapsed. A concerned gasp arose from the crowd. Some shrieked in horror and still others swooned. There was near panic.

The sound of seven horns blaring from the overhead speakers brought the crowd to silence. Huckleberry pantomimed regaining consciousness. He inhaled deeply and slowly raised his head. Pastor Dick, his skinny arms strained to near breaking, helped steady Huckleberry as he slowly regained his feet. For nearly a minute, he swayed gently left to right, as if finding his balance. Many in the crowd swayed along with him. And then, he rose triumphant to his full six-foot-four stature.

The crowd's relief erupted into shouts of "praise Jesus", and "hallelujah", and "woe", and "repent" all at once, as they danced in circles their arms raised to heaven. It was impossible to believe that he could have fired them up more than they had been upon his arrival...but he had.

"Let us pray," Huckleberry boomed into the p.a. Some in the crowd immediately fell to their knees and pressed their foreheads into the dirt, while others raised themselves so they could lift their faces to heaven. Still others stood and lifted their arms in front of them, high above their heads, with their palms facing the sky. Many of those who stood, began swaying gently to and fro, as Huckleberry spoke.

"Oh, bles-sed Cheesus-ah," Huckleberry began, raising his face and arms to the pristine azure sky, "thank-you for the bountiful harvest of heretics you have so generously set before us."

"Guide us in this great moment of reclamation and deliverance." He continued, "Let us not hear the Liberal elitist, demon pagan cries and shouts as anguish against thee, but let us instead hear the great cry of redemption as your bountiful grace befalls them."

"Hallelujah's," erupted from the crowd. Many winked and shared sly grins with one another.

"Look down upon these woeful Satanists, who unashamedly wear the seal of blasphemy upon their foreheads, as signs of their foolish rejection and mockery of your gifts. Oh, holy Cheeeesus-ah," Huckleberry pleaded, "smite them mightily with your righteous vengeance."

"Amen," the congregation excitedly shouted.

"...but, of those whom repent," Huckleberry intoned, his voice sweetening, "bless them with your infinite mercy, O Cheesus-ah, and with your dee-vine love raise them up to a station of righteousness and grace! Behold, now is the accepted time; behold, now is the day of salvation...and righ-tee-ous judgment." The President Reverend Leader, overcome with emotion, hanged his head and wept quietly...and, on cue, one tear cut a path down his tanned cheek.

The gathering let loose with a salvo of "Halleluiah's" and "Praise Huckleberry's". They were as gleeful and expectant as Christian children on a Christmas morning.

"For all have sinned," Huckleberry beseeched, tears now freely streaming from the corners of his eyes, "and come short of the glory of Gawd. But, Gawd commendeth His love toward us, in that while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us."

As one the crowd shouted, "praise Jesus!" Some of the more excitable in the congregation lay passed out in the sand. The females, who had swooned, were being revived by their squad Sergeants, all men, of course--one of the rare occasions when single men and women could touch one another.

"Praise Cheesus-ah," Huckleberry whispered into his chin mike and paused. Then, after a moment, he resumed, his baritone voice, barely a whisper becoming ever louder, "Jesus saith unto him, I am the way, the truth, and the life: no man cometh unto the father, but by me. Except a man be born again he cannot see the Kingdom of God!"

"Amen" and "praise Jesus'" erupted from the crowd, who were now in a near frenzy with anticipation. Some danced on their tip toes and clapped gleefully, as little children might.

"I pray," the Reverend President shouted over the organ's intrusion, whose strains were, once again, beginning to rise to a crescendo, "glorious Cheesus-ah, guide our minds, our hands, our hearts as we choke the demons from these tortured souls and cast these unrepentant fornicators, blasphemers, apostates, usurers and inferiors of every kind into the everlasting fires of Hell!"

"Yes, brother Jesus!" some in the crowd yelled, while others shouted the ubiquitous "amen" and still others let forth with the popular "hallelujah". Some, overcome with the Spirit, spoke in tongues and turned in tight circles with their arms raised and eyes closed. The organ accompaniment swelled in compliment to their excitement. Many more, experienced physical collapse as their spiritual frenzy spilled over and consumed them. So many collapsed, the powder-blue clad ushers were rushed into service to carry the senseless to the rear.

"In your loving name we pray, amen."

Together the crowd echoed "Amen".

"Amen!" Huckleberry shouted into his chin mike one more time.

"Amen!" the crowd repeated.

"Amen!" Huckleberry shouted dancing in circles with his right arm thrust skyward and his hand balled into a tight fist.

"Amen!" the crowd shouted as they raised their arms and danced in circles.

While turning, Huckleberry caught the eye of a fat figure, dressed in powder-blue, standing at stage right and, unnoticed by the crowd, he gave the porcine figure a little nod.

"Open the gate," Pastor Patboy Roberts, the recently confirmed Spiritual Leader of the new facility, said to his adjutant.

The adjutant, standing just to Patboy's left, spoke into his two-way radio. "Open the gate."

A deafening basso horn blast, designed to mimic the blaring trumpet of the Apocalypse, sounded from somewhere high on the prison's wall. And the gates began to swing open.

The frenzied crowd quickly regained its earthly presence and, one by one, stopped dancing, talking in tongues, and mumbling prayers. Eventually, all eyes were glued to the huge prison gates as they swung slowly outward, squealing and squeaking on their huge iron hinges. When the gates were fully displayed it was as if the jaws of Hell had opened to receive its sacrifice.

And with that, the newest Freedom Center, Freedom Center Reuben, was open for business.

With a gesture he thought reminiscent of Moses parting the waters, Huckleberry signaled for the crowd to part and thereby open the way for the hundred or so cattle haulers, staged to enter the Center's prison. The crowd, as if rehearsed, silently split in two, revealing the short, wide ribbon of newly laid asphalt, which led past the iron gates and disappeared into the prison's maw.

The starters of the giant powder-blue diesel rigs whirred, and their engines shot huge choking clouds of black and brown smoke into the sky. The crunching of metal upon metal could be heard as the drivers selected first gear. And then, the first of the trucks lurched forward as its clutch engaged. Slowly the trucks filed by, one after the other, with their iron barred trailers filled beyond standing room. Only those prisoners deemed too unfit and far gone to reside in the polite company of Dominionist society, the irretrievably damned, the unrepentant, and the most sorely depraved were considered suitable for Freedom Center Reuben's opening ceremony.

The procession of trucks slowly rumbled by, so all in attendance could get a good look at their fate, should they ever question a Dominionist directive, miss a religious meeting, or backslide, that is, stray from the holy word as interpreted by the Reverend Leader.

The polished assembly looked upon the dirty and frightened faces of men, women, mothers, fathers, grandparents, children, people of color, and the infirm. Each prisoner had the symbol of their offending blasphemy burned into their foreheads with a branding iron. Some had a large "S" burned into their foreheads for sodomite, others had "L's" for lesbian, stars of David or "CK" (Christ Killer) for Jews, "P's" for papists, "F's" for fornicators and prostitutes, and others had a large ugly "A" for atheist, which the Dominionists took great pains to make especially ugly and painful. Upside-down pentagrams were burned into the foreheads of convicted witches and Satanists. Pornographers stood naked their genitals mutilated. Scientists who refused to modify their discoveries to fit Dominionist doctrine had had their tongues removed. Artists were made blind with acid or had their eyes plucked from their sockets and/or their fingers broken. Capitalists and bankers, once the unsuspecting lackeys and "indispensable" financiers of the Relics, had their mouths sewn shut and their fingers horribly broken, their sentence of death by infection, dehydration and/or starvation already being carried out. All the unfortunates, thousands of them, were scourged in the name of divine love and its need for retribution. All would serve the Dominionist need for human sacrifices to appease a god angered by the excesses of sin.

Some questioned the inclusion of practicing Jews and Catholics on the arrest rolls, but it was clear, they had been included in the first broad-based ecumenical assault upon human rights only because they brought a huge population base, political clout, and much needed cash and property to the table. No longer needed for their assets and clout, they were superfluous. Besides, their strong belief and work ethic made them fine prisoners and slave laborers.

For nearly five hours the trucks crawled into the concentration camp and disgorged their condemned cargo, while the contemptuous congregants shouted "heathens", "apostates", "Pharisees", "Sodomites", "Jezebels", "repent", etc.

When, finally, the last truck pulled slowly out of sight, the golden cross-emblazoned powder-blue gates of iron closed slowly on their huge squealing hinges and seated with a low hollow echoing thud, the finality of which sent a shiver of cold fear through most of those who experienced it. The giant walls of concrete and steel separated the saved from the damned. The desert, and all in it, stood in an unnatural silence. Only the flapping and snapping of hundreds of the UDSA flags could be heard.

The exhausted crowd, their voices now hoarse, turned their rapturous faces left and right searching for Huckleberry, who, during the demonstration, had descended the podium and boarded his helicopter. The powder-blue helicopter rose slowly into the sky, and the crowd raised their self-satisfied faces to watch. Most everyone waved good-bye.

CHORUS

"Of the 12 Freedom Centers, Centers Levi and Isachar took direct hits from nuclear warheads during the first round of nuclear exchanges a few months hence, their prayers of deliverance going unanswered. Zabulon, Joseph, and Benjamin, located in isolated wilderness areas within the mountain ranges of the East and West coasts, were destroyed by the intense radiation following near misses during the second and third round of nuclear exchanges. The seven remaining centers: Judah, Reuben, Gad, Aser, Nephthalim, Manases, and Simeon survived the devastation, in part, because they were better positioned and...perhaps, luckier."

"Each Center had an army varying in size from three to five-thousand soldiers. Patboy's Freedom Center Reuben was second only to Huckleberry's Freedom Center Judah, which was located in a deep verdant valley northwest of a city once known as Colorado Springs. Of the twelve-thousand Relics housed in Patboy's Center, five thousand were regular soldiers of the army and air corps. Huckleberry's Center housed the largest army, numbering seven thousand. Of course, all men between the ages of fifteen and fifty-five were expected to defend the Homeland against all invaders...real or imagined."

"The armies maintained by the Centers were justified as a means to ferret out, arrest and/or murder any unauthorized survivors of the nuclear devastation. This was a mission in which the armies would certainly excel. Yet, armies consisting of thousands of combatants to police a world where only a handful of poorly armed, disorganized, starving survivors, and no standing armies of any significant size or threat remained, seemed a bit overmuch to some. But the armies were not considered overmuch by the Reverend and Spiritual Leaders who knew their unspoken purpose."

"Huckleberry calculated that a strong military and police presence, loyal to him, would serve to deter coups arising from the general population of Relics, who sometimes fooled themselves into thinking that God had suddenly blessed them with the one true belief; more true than the true belief of the Most Reverend President Leader. (Unbelievably, this did happen from time to time.) Moreover, the leadership thought it prudent to keep a healthy defensive posture in the event that Satan was successful in convincing one Center to attack another. The Relic leaders were not so naïve to believe a desire for absolute power could be kept at bay by oaths of loyalty and a so-called Good Book. The Good Book had never dispelled greed and murder in the past, and there was no reason to believe that it would now. People were still human, after all, and humans were sinners...always. Of course, the leadership only had to look at themselves, and history, for thousands of examples of this kind of treachery. In this one instance they had become students of history, attempting to avoid the errors of the past."

"Patboy's Center was roughly two miles on a side. It was fortified with an eight-foot-high earthen and concrete perimeter wall, gouged out of the desert floor. The wall was topped with razor wire interrupted by evenly spaced bunkers. Each bunker was assigned a three-man squad and contained a heavy machine gun, grenade launcher, and assorted small arms. Beyond the perimeter wall there was a cleared Kill Zone extending five hundred yards. This Zone consisted of claymore mines, trip flares, booby traps, low lying barbed wire, called tangle foot or the 'Hands of Hell', and listening devices. There was one main gate located in the west wall, flanked by two tall observation towers."

"A huge array of grow lights, powered by one-hundred wind generators, illuminated large irrigated areas of the desert outside of Patboy's Center, where wheat, oats, and corn were grown to feed both the inhabitants and the few-hundred head of cattle. Greenhouses located within the Center were used to grow various fruits and vegetables."

"There were barracks for married couples and their families. The single men and women lived in widely separated areas, which were patrolled to keep everyone chaste. There was the megachurch, of course. There was a hospital, a school, airstrip, motor pool, armory, store houses, underground cisterns, fuel stores, command center with communication towers, and, in the center of the compound, there was a round edifice, towering high and overseeing all: the concrete and steel prison with its pretty, powder-blue gates. The thirty-five hundred newly arrived unfortunates would struggle to survive within its circular walls along with the thousands of heretics and blasphemers who had, for years, worked as slaves constructing Freedom Center Reuben."

"No one knew the exact number, but it was estimated that there were well over a million Humanists imprisoned within the entire complex of Freedom Centers, prisons, and concentration camps on any given day before the war of extermination. Tens-of-thousands of the denounced were murdered daily, by various means, as part of a mass extermination intended to eliminate undesirables and thus ensure Dominionist power in perpetuity. Those fit enough to work, worked until they died. In a humorous way, work, indeed, made them free."
CHAPTER 4:

CHORUS

"Eve wasn't a historian, but she had paid attention in school and knew some history. She knew, for instance, that billions of people had suffered and died at the hands of religious zealots whose stated intentions were always for the greater good, with very little good actually being realized. She recalled that there were "The Troubles" of Northern Ireland, Catholics and protestants killing one another; numerous Muslim and Christian wars, including the religious purging of northern Africa, Spain, the Balkans and the Indian sub-continent by the Muslims; the retaliation by the Spanish that established Spain as Catholic and introduced the Spanish Inquisition and the subsequent expulsion, persecution and murder of the Jews; the numerous Crusades to reclaim the Holy Land for the Prince of Peace, including the infamous Children's Crusade, which ended in death for hundreds of misguided children; the Salem witch trials and the death of nineteen Puritans at the hands of their superstitious neighbors; the genocide of the Pequot by the Puritans, who in the name of the Price of Peace, reclaimed "Eden" (the Wilderness) from Satan by slaughtering his minions, the Native Americans; Puritans hanging Quakers as Satanists; the murder of Baptists by Catholics in Europe and the United States; numerous inquisitions including those against the Cathars, who dared to live as they imagined Jesus had, suggesting the dangerous idea of a more humanistic form of Catholicism; the purges of suspected witches and heretics during the Middle Ages, the most famous victim being Joan of Arc; the near eradication of the Native Americans at the hands of the God-fearing Catholic Spanish Conquistadores, and later, by the US Cavalry in its quest to fulfill the mandate from God of a Manifest Destiny for the Christian white man; the cries of holy war as southern preachers, armed with their Biblical justifications for slavery, condemned the northern preachers as abolitionists and heretics, fanning the flames of divisiveness and launching the United States into a bloody civil war; the wars of the Protestant Reformation, Catholics killing protestants, Anglicans killing Catholics, and Catholics killing Baptists; the persecution of the Puritans at the hands of Elizabeth the First; the thousands upon thousands of gentiles killed at the hands of the Old Testament Jews; Old Testament Jews killing Jews--not of their tribe; and, most tragically, billions dead at the hands of the Dominionists, who could not tolerate anyone thinking or living differently from themselves. And incredibly, all of this murder was done in the name of love ascribed to an invisible God and his purported son, Jesus."

"And, what of God himself," Eve wondered, "...what kind of a role model has He been? How many hundreds of thousands has He killed with his floods and fire and brimstone and pestilence...didn't He kill all the first born of Egypt and drown Pharaoh's charioteers? How great can a creator be who is incapable of creating a thing that pleases Him--that creates only that which He hates and, ultimately, must make suffer and destroy in his disappointment. And, not only fails in His creation once, but over and over again. If there is such a creator," she mused, "He is as insane as those He creates." No excuse, not even the old chestnut that 'atheists have their wars, too!' can excuse a religion that murders in the name of love!"

*

Spiritual Leader Patboy Roberts stood in the prison guard tower and followed Huckleberry's powder-blue helicopter as it climbed to thirty-five hundred feet, turned, and made a beeline for Freedom Center Judah, three-hundred miles to the Northwest. He watched the helicopter until it was no longer visible. He then turned his gaze upon the demonstrators who were slowly coming back to earth. The once immense gathering was dispersing into small groups of people who would now return to their various duties. Patboy was pleased. Within his four-square-mile barbed-wire Eden his word was God's decree. He was, for all intent and purpose, a god of his own little heaven on earth. He smiled to himself. "All was as it should be," he thought.

A crow landed on the prison wall some ten yards from where he was standing. The large black bird was pulling at a shredded piece of black, rotten meat, which it held in its right foot. Patboy smiled. He lifted his gaze and looked beyond the Center's gate to the dirt perimeter road, a little more than three-quarters of a mile distant. There he saw the three activist judges swinging from their gibbets, long dead and bloated by the sun, and, directly across the road, the thirteen bodies of the abortion doctors, each one nailed to a crude cross. Above each cross, carved into rough wood, was Exodus: 21: 22-23. The freshest corpse nailed alive and screaming just two days ago, was being swarmed by a host of black specks, each one a ravenous crow.

From experience, Patboy estimated that the abortionist's bones would be picked clean in another two days. He pursed his fat lips and squinted down his piggish nose at the far away corpse. "Can you believe he called _us_ mad?" Patboy, recalling the doctor's last words, asked the prison guard standing alongside him.

"No, Spiritual Leader," the guard replied, coming to attention. He was made both nervous and proud to be singled out by the Spiritual Leader for comment...speaking only when spoken to.

"That took some balls, didn't it?"

"Yes, Spiritual Leader."

"Which, do you think is more mad...being incapable of understanding that Jesus is about love and life, or crucifying heretics that defy Jesus' compassion?"

The guard stood nervously not knowing if the question required a reply.

He was saved by Patboy, who did not wait for a response. "Rejecting Jesus is madness and there's the proof," Patboy continued, pointing at the nearby crow pulling at its prized strip of abortionist jerky.

"Amen," the guard responded.

"Amen, brother," Patboy replied. "We must nail them all to crosses for all to witness the fruits of their madness and wickedness. It would be madness _not_ to crucify them."

"Hallelujah, Spiritual Leader," the guard enthused, risking a small smile.

"Hallelujah," Patboy rejoined. "They clearly are, those judges and abortionists, above all others of Satan's spawn, the most vile creatures ever to live. And, we have done our duty to God. Amen."

"Amen, Spiritual Leader."

Patboy felt a sense of pride in his accomplishment. And, at no time during his exchange with the guard, did Patboy ever look at him. All was definitely as it should be.

Of course, most municipalities, by this time, had dedicated a portion of their town centers to these grotesque displays of hanging judges and crucified doctors. It was not as difficult to find candidates as one might assume. An activist judge was simply defined as any jurist who disagreed with Dominionist values. A fair and impartial judge was anyone who agreed. An abortionist was simply any doctor that did not whole-heartedly belong to and participate in the Dominionist church, or one who refused to sign a loyalty oath, or any doctor unfortunate enough to be denounced by his neighbor. One benefit of Dominionist society was that it greatly simplified the system of jurisprudence. Accusation, often times, served as the trial phase, and the time from accusation to punishment was short and swift. Dominionist courts were kept very busy yet, were seldom backlogged with cases.

The last truck disgorged its unclean cargo onto the prison assembly area and exited through the prison's rear gate. The heavy iron gate moaned and creaked on its hinges and slammed shut, crushing all hope. Above the front gate, in large gold block letters, was a message for all who despaired, "GOOD WORKS SHALL MAKE YOU FREE. (Huckleberry 20:33.)" Above the rear gate was another sign, "LET THE DEAD BURY THEIR DEAD. (Matthew 8:22.)"

CHORUS

"Now, few, if any, had any question regarding the second verse, Matthew 8:22. It was clear to everyone that the dead's chief vocation at Freedom Center Reuben, or any Freedom Center, was to bury their fellows and their fellows, them. Seldom is a Biblical quote so clearly understood and realized. The first verse, however, did cause some consternation."

"Huckleberry 20:33 (from The New Revised Dominionist Bible: written to soothe and calm the easily excited) suggested 'salvation' came from good works, while in actual Dominionist practice this was not the case: 'salvation' was bestowed upon the chosen Dominionist by the grace of God, neither sought for, nor earned. This contradictory sentiment, therefore, presented a puzzling conundrum for the scholars. Of course, for the Dominionists themselves, there was no inconsistency in what they understood to be more a cruel trick, and a very funny one at that. That is, misleading the doomed into believing that they could work off their sin and damnation was an often-told joke around the Dominionist dinner tables. To understand the joke, clearly one had to know that the Dominionists believed that salvation was actually an accident of birth. Simply put, they were predestined to be saved, their names having been written in the Book of Life eons before. One was either born saved and therefore, precious in the eyes of the Lord, or one was not. One was either born to grace or not. One was either born to lead as ordained by God, or not. Actions or deeds, whether good or bad, had very little to do with one's state of grace. If one found oneself in a position of power, then one could assume he was placed there by God's good grace and that he, therefore, could count himself among the chosen. The concept was just one of many found within the philosophy of good ol' Antinomianism."

"Antinomianism had been employed many times throughout history, most notably in western history, as the Divine Right of Kings and Manifest Destiny. For justification, the Dominionists borrowed heavily from the Good Book, especially from the pages of Ephesians, an epistle attributed to Paul. Specifically, one only need read Ephesians 1:3-13 and 2: 4-10. An excerpt from the reading: 'For by grace are ye saved through faith; and that not of yourselves: it is the gift of God: Not of works lest any man should boast. For we are His workmanship, created in Christ Jesus unto good works, which God hath before ordained that we should walk in them.' This is all fair enough, I suppose, if your position of power has gifted you the right to declare yourself one of the Chosen. Not so fair, otherwise."

*

The prisoners stood alone in the assembly area, starving, shivering and shaking with fear. Some clung to each other for support, while others looked up at the high walls which surrounded them. It looked to them as if they were at the bottom of a deep pit. Those who looked up saw, far overhead, a circular patch of blue sky and fifty-or-so heavily armed guards, grinning sardonically down at them, from a six- story parapet.

Except for the whimpering of the little children, and the moaning of the injured and physically ill, little happened for the first few minutes. Then, without warning, two sets of double steel doors set in the North wall burst open. A cadre of hungry police dogs, held loosely by their handlers, set upon the startled crowd. The dogs barked and snapped at the heels of the terrified Satanists. Hundreds of guards, following the dogs, rushed from the doors and joined the confusion. They pushed, prodded, punched, and kicked the men, women and children. Those prisoners who tried to defend themselves were thrown to the dogs or shot. Everywhere people were screaming, and children were crying. Some tried to run but soon discovered that there was nowhere to run, and that the dogs could run faster. There was no escape...no salvation.

Slowly, and with what appeared to be much amusement, the guards beat the thirty-five-hundred prisoners into a formation of thirty-five columns, one-hundred or so deep. Six Satanists lay dead, four with bullet wounds, shot by guards on the wall, and two whose throats had been crushed by the dogs. Several prisoners suffered brutal bites to their arms and legs. Many more suffered burns from the cattle prods, which were wielded enthusiastically and expertly.

The guards ordered everyone to silence and demanded that the Satanists keep their eyes down. They then walked slowly around the outside of the formation, swinging their cattle prods, while threatening and daring their charges to disobey.

The Satanists were made to stand at attention for the next ten hours, while each column in its turn was marched into the processing area. Those who fainted or fell to the ground were dragged from the formation by their feet or hair. They were taken behind the double doors in the north wall. Those few, who eventually returned to the general prison population, did not do so for a long, long while. Most, however, simply disappeared. The survivors of in-processing would eventually join the thousands of prisoners already housed on the gloomy floors, high overhead.

In the processing area, the Satanist's were ordered to strip and shower. No privacy provisions were made. Men, women, and children stood naked and humiliated. Heads were shaved and they were deloused. They were issued faded, patched, and blood-stained orange prison uniforms, an old army blanket, and an old plastic cup and spoon. Each prisoner was assigned an identification number which was crudely tattooed on the forearm. The number identified the prisoner's sin, Freedom Center name, the group to which the prisoner was assigned, and the prisoner. For example: the number FJ320995 would indicate that prisoner 20995 was assigned to the 3rd group of Freedom Center Judah. The "F" indicated that the prisoner was guilty of fornication. The tattoos were cut quickly and crudely into the flesh. Everything was completed with an emphasis on efficiency at the expense of humanity. Anyone caught talking, grumbling, or complaining was beaten severely...or shot, depending on the guard's mood. The dogs, which barked constantly, heightened the sense of confusion, horror and hopelessness.

Patboy watched the prison yard melee from the security of the guard tower. He found the proceedings amusing but, typically, he quickly grew bored. He retired to his plush and gaudy living rooms, where he took a large lunch and amused himself with two of his parishioner's wives. After a long, and what he considered to be a well-deserved nap, his reverie was interrupted by a loud knock on his bed chamber door. Patboy's female visitors said hasty good-bye's and exited through a rear door. Patboy then shouted permission for the person to enter.

"Praise Jesus!" his manservant said. Henry, the servant, thought it best to always observe the preferred greeting. "Spiritual Leader," he continued, "A Tribulation Warrior has arrived with a message from the Satanists."

"Oh, goody. Show him in, Henry," Patboy said keeping his eyes fixed on Henry, while hurriedly concealing a woman's plain, white cotton stocking under a pillow. Henry, pretending not to have noticed the stocking, bowed and exited the room.

Almost immediately, a boyish Tribulation Warrior marched into Patboy's airconditioned chambers, snapped the heels of his spit-shined boots, and raised his arms in the Dominionist salute. "Praise Jesus!" he shouted, perhaps a bit too loudly. "Spiritual Leader, the Satanists eagerly await your greeting." The TW stared straight ahead and stood straight as a post. The TW's brown and yellow camouflage fatigues were immaculately pressed and starched. The powder-blue arm band with gold cross set in a circular field of white was displayed proudly on the left bicep of the soldier's fatigue jacket. A powder-blue beret covered his shaved head. A TW Basic, he displayed no rank.

Patboy smirked and rolled his eyes at the boy's show of mindless obedience. Shamelessly, Patboy expected unquestioning obedience, yet often, was observed by many to belittle those in the position of having to offer it.

"That's good of them. We shouldn't keep them waiting," Patboy laughed, while positioning his girth on a wall of pillows arranged against the intricately carved, gilded headboard of his bed. The headboard depicted scenes of Christ's crucifixion and resurrection. Not bothering to conceal his disdain or girth, he looked down the short distance of his pig-like nose at the strapping TW. Apparently unimpressed, he shooed the TW away with a couple quick flicks of his deeply dimpled hand. "Wait in the sitting room and send Henry in. I'll be along shortly."

Three hours passed before Patboy was ready to do his duty. He exited his bedroom, bathed, well-fed, and resplendent in his overstuffed powder-blue suit, gold chains and rings. Upon his head, clashing ridiculously with his scrubbed and shiny pink skin, was an expertly coifed black wig which he used to conceal his own thinning wispy blonde hair. He stood for a few seconds posing for the TW before he noticed that the bored warrior had fallen asleep in a chair.

"Wake him!" Patboy cried.

Henry quickly moved to the TW and placed his hand on the warrior's sturdy shoulder. He gave the poor boy a couple of shakes. The TW slowly lifted his head from his chest and looked around the room. Suddenly, realizing where he was, he jumped to attention. Disgusted, Patboy pushed by the TW and stomped out of his rooms. The TW rushed after Patboy. The boy knew that he would be chastised.

Patboy reached the prison administration entrance a dozen steps behind the TW, who had rushed forward to escort his Spiritual Leader. The TW opened the steel door of the administration entrance, stood to the side and waited for Patboy to pass through. Patboy stepped across the threshold and then waited for the TW to close and lock the door behind him. They then moved to the elevator where the TW pressed the up button. The elevator doors opened immediately. Patboy, and then the TW, entered the elaborately decorated gold and powder-blue lift. Patboy waited impatiently while the TW pushed the button for the observation level, the upper most level. The elevator rose quietly, leaving the first-floor processing center, the barking dogs, and the assembled Satanists behind.

They glided past the individual holding cells and Blessed Conversion rooms of the second floor, and the huge open dormitories of the third through sixth floors, and stopped on the upper most level, the top of the prison wall. The elevator doors slid open.

Patboy stepped out and onto the prison wall and into the chill desert air of the evening. Far above him, concealed by the glare of hundreds of yellow-tinged mercury lights, which transformed the powder-blue walls of the concrete compound into an eerie green, was spread the magnificent and indifferent firmament of stars. To his left and right was a corridor enclosed in chain-link and barbed wire, which ran along the entire prison circumference. On the third story, far below him, was his skybox. It was there that he conducted, and officiated, the Blessed Cleansings. This one time, however, he would turn right and walk along the top of the prison wall, one-hundred-sixty feet above the desert. He moved carefully to the closest gangway, which led to the main observation platform. The TW followed close behind, his keys ready to open the several locked gates, which barred access to the main observation platform. Patboy kept a firm, clammy grip on the wall's guardrail as he shuffled along, daring not to look down into the pit.

The main observation platform was suspended one-hundred-fifty feet above the prison's ground floor, high enough above the level of the sixth floor to afford a good view, and in the approximate center of the open dormitories. It could be reached by one of four gangways set at right angles to one another and running to the outer wall. The gangways were supported by large metal rods anchored into an overhead bridgework that permitted the gangway to sway and bounce a bit as one walked along it. The gangways were only wide enough to allow two average-sized people to walk side by side. Patboy's girth put him well above average width, so he walked ahead and alone on the gangway. This was probably for the best, because his fear of heights was betrayed by a face soaked in perspiration and completely devoid of any color.

Patboy was exhausted, and only slightly relieved, when he finally reached the main observation platform. He entered the climate-controlled sanctuary and rested heavily against the platform's control panel with its twenty TV screens fed by the dormitory's security cameras. The TV images flickered in protest as the platform oscillated. Immediately, the on-duty TW snapped to attention and shouted, "Praise Jesus," which made the platform swing and bounce, even more. Patboy emitted an audible squeal and tensed.

Patboy made no effort to acknowledge the platform's attendant. Instead, he stole a few minutes to collect himself and allow his overburdened heart to regain a somewhat more natural rhythm. When he thought himself collected enough, he slowly stood erect. With careful movements, contrived to not set the platform swaying, he straightened his gold silk tie with ring encrusted fingers, and wiped his face with his unusually large, white silk handkerchief. When he lifted his arms, large dark blue circles of sweat staining the underarms of his powder-blue three-piece suit were revealed.

The TW stood motionless, politely ignoring Patboy's distress and waited for some sign from his Spiritual Leader, indicating readiness to address the Satanists. After what seemed like ten more minutes of labored breathing and frequent face wiping, Patboy nodded his head. The TW rushed forward and switched on the microphone of the prison address system. The platform bounced gently and Patboy tensed, his heart resumed pounding in his ears.

The TW handed the microphone to his Spiritual Leader and took three steps back. Gingerly, Patboy removed a chrome flask from his suit jacket inner pocket and took a deep drink of, presumably, a non-alcoholic beverage. After returning the flask to his suit pocket, he lifted the mike to his mouth. He swallowed hard and inched toward the glass, which made up the four walls and floor of the observation platform.

Below him, through the glass floor, Patboy could see all the way down to the main floor, one-hundred-fifty feet below; a distant, yellow-lit, circular bit of brown desert. His knees almost buckled at the sight, but he steadied himself by placing a large, powder-puffed pastry hand against the glass. The platform bounced a bit with his sudden movement. He stiffened and waited for the oscillations to stop. When the swaying finally subsided, he carefully removed his hand from the glass and stood as still as he could. His hand left a large greasy print on the otherwise pristine surface.

Patboy could see that above the far-away ground floor and the patrolling guard dogs, there were five tiered floors jutting out from the prison walls, each supported by the concrete columns of the floor below. Each floor made a continuous open platform of concrete, which ran around the interior circumference of the prison. Viewed from above, from the very center of the prison, the circular platforms appeared concentric, with the largest opening and smallest platform comprising the uppermost level. A twelve-foot wall of chain-link, stiffened with rusting vertical steel bars, and decorated with hundreds of stands of razor wire, comprised each floor's interior wall. The chain-link was all that prevented a fall to the next lower floor, twenty or so feet below. Nothing prevented a determined prisoner from scaling the wall and jumping. Most prisoners, however, saw little benefit to the exercise and, consequently, wasted no energy on the effort. While some, who mistakenly believed that a forty-something foot fall would be fatal, only suffered broken bones and very unpleasant deaths from lack of medical attention, or by the hand of their ruthless captors.

Each floor, being narrower than the one below, permitted a moderately unobstructed view of the activity in the prison from the main observation platform. Satellite observation platforms were positioned strategically to observe that which could not be seen from the main platform. Hidden cameras covered any remaining areas. There was no place that a prisoner could go to be out of sight of his Dominionist overlords. The general prison population lived out their misery in full view of their captors, and each other. From Patboy's vantage point, it would be easy for anyone familiar with Dante's Inferno to imagine the levels of Hell spread out at his feet.

There were no individual cells except those to hold prisoners during interrogations and their Blessed Conversions. The northern section of the prison contained the elevators, processing rooms, Blessed Conversion Chapels, and Patboy's ceremonial suites, where he presided over thousands of Blessed Cleansings and other religious celebrations.

From his perch, Patboy could see that the thousands of starving and battered prisoners were crowded against the interior chain-link walls of each level. Behind them the entire cadre of six-hundred-fifty guards armed with cattle prods, tasers, truncheons, pepper spray, and dogs, pressed the prisoners tightly into the chain-link and razor wire. Many were bleeding from cuts. For obvious reasons, no firearms were allowed on the prison floors.

The prisoners were ordered to look up and give their undivided attention to their Spiritual Leader, suspended high above them, like a god floating in a neon green, crystal cocoon. The newly arrived prisoners did not know the man who was about to speak, but they could see the fat man in powder-blue swaying, far out of their reach, in the tiny glass box far above them.

"Welcome to Freedom Center Reuben," the public address pierced the air and ricocheted off the eerie green, concrete prison walls. "I am The Reverend Patboy Roberts, Spiritual Leader of Freedom Center Rueben. I am in absolute control here...my word is that of God. Praise Jesus, amen."

"Praise Jesus, amen," the guards repeated as one man. Their noise echoed around the concrete walls.

"Many of you are no doubt asking," Patboy continued, using his familiar sing-song phrasings common to all born again preachers, "what in the world is going on? What is this place? Why am I here? What are they going to do to me?" Patboy's tone was mocking. His only wish was to terrify and torment the prisoners.

"Surely there has been some kind of terrible mistake. I've never done a thing wrong in my life." His mouth twisted into a cruel grin, "Blah, blah, blah, poor, poor, poor, poor...you!" He shouted the "you", which startled many of the prisoners.

"You worshippers of Satan have no excuse," he cried. "We Dominionists have been warning you for centuries that the Judgment Day was coming, and you ignored us...mocked us, even. You said we were crazy, that we were crackpots and, you laughed at us. We warned you of the great tribulation that would be visited upon all sinners and the agents of Satan by the just and almighty Gawd. Yes, we warned you and called upon you to be born again, to throw off your sinful ways, and to resist the temptations of Satan. And, what was your response? Did you listen? Did you thank us? Did you appreciate us? Did you flock to us with gratitude? No! You ignored us! You scorned us! You laughed at us! And now, my little sobbing heretics, it is our turn to laugh...at you!" Patboy laughed loudly, but carefully. His laugh was a disgusting nasal snort, breathy and full of spittle. He waited until the echoes of his cachinnations died, before resuming his rant.

"You thought the Day of Judgment was a farce...a joke. You thought we were a farce...a joke. Well the joke, my heretical friends, is upon...you! Almighty God's judgment is upon...you! The great tribulation is upon...you! You were warned!" He paused to mop his face with a large white silk handkerchief and draw air into his laboring lungs.

"Oh, you are all so innocent, aren't you? What could you have done to deserve this? What did you do that someone else hadn't done before you? What could your offense be?" Patboy mocked as he hit his stride and lost himself in his gloat. He was so lost in his exultation, that he nearly forgot that he was perched high above an open pit with only a glass floor to prevent a fall to his death.

"Well, your offense, my little Satanist whores, is as simple to perceive as the stench that surrounds you. All of you chose to listen to the serpent-tongued Liberal elites, those darling agents of Satan, rather than the enlightened word of Jesus!" Patboy's angry voice ricocheted around the unforgiving concrete walls. "You chose to listen to yourselves, thinking yourselves wise and clever, and not to those of us, who speaking from our hearts with love and concern, hoped only to invite you into our fold and set you upon the righteous path."

"But, you sodomites, pornographers, adulterers, pederasts, incestuous lechers, and fornicators made the choice to overindulge your wanton passions with no concern for the cost to yourselves, your souls, your country, or the rest of us. You selfishly jeopardized the sanctity of yourselves and of the righteous and the glorious U.D.S.A in your wantonness. Selling your God-given temples for profit, and pleasures of the flesh, insults the almighty God. Self-fulfillment was your only concern. And, you reveled in your debauchery while you laughed...at us, the righteous made clean by the blood of the Lamb--who only tried to love you as Jesus loves us all." Patboy raised his head heavenwards and stretched out his arms in a gesture of humility and inclusion. His movement sent the platform wiggling slightly, and he clenched his ample cheeks.

"Amen," the guards yelled. Their attention was no longer on the prisoners, but on their glorious Spiritual Leader.

"You heeded not the Almighty's laws," Patboy raged, pointing the index finger of his right hand heavenward and glaring down his nose at his captive audience. "Thou shalt not lie carnally with thy neighbor's wife, to defile thyself with her. Thou shalt not lie with mankind, as with womankind: it is an abomination. A man who lies with a man as he lieth with a woman, shall surely be put to death! None of you shall approach to any that is near of kin to him, to uncover their nakedness. Leviticus' instruction is clear...there is no confusion...your penalty is death! So sayeth the Lord." Patboy's pink face glowed as red as a skinned knee; his anger and self-righteousness consuming him. He wiped a bit of spittle from the corner of his mouth with his handkerchief, unaware of the droplets of drool staining his perfectly pressed lapel.

"And you harlots and Jezebels be advised that any woman who profanes herself by playing the whore," Patboy continued, "she profaneth her father and she shall be burnt with fire!"

"Halleluiah, halleluiah, halleluiah," the guards shouted, their faces rosy with righteousness.

"Now, you bankers, capitalists, and industrialists, usurers...little pathetic Caesars, one and all: greed and corruption were your gods," he shrieked, shaking a finger of scorn.

"Now, what were you thinking? You don't think I know, do you?" Patboy erupted into a spontaneous high-pitched inhuman squeal of a laugh.

"You thought you could use us to advance your greed and pathetic agenda of usury and corruption. Oh yes, you bought elections for us, helped us hide bank accounts, and bought influence for us in the halls of government. Yes, you did that...but not just for the righteous cause of the born again. No, no, no...didn't you have a thought to your own reward? Didn't you think you deserved some kind of credit...some kind of payment...with interest...for your gen-er-os-i-ty? Didn't you think that a minimum payment would be, at the very least, an invitation into our world...the world of salvation washed in the blood of the Lamb? Or, maybe you thought your reward would be merrily flying away on your private jets to your private islands, to be left alone, while others were brought to accounts?" The Spiritual Leader glared past his short pug nose into the green Hell far below him. He rested a sweaty palm against the platform's glass in a vain attempt to stop the swaying. After a few deep breaths, he resumed his speech.

"Yes, your money bought votes and seats in the houses of power for those of us, in our righteousness, washed in the blood of the Lamb, who only had the love of God in our hearts. And, with that money, we multiplied our might a thousand-fold and brought the Lord's justice to this land of corrupt souls and Satan worshippers. Yes, you made it possible for us to buy power in righteousness' name. Through your greed, God reigned victorious, as foretold. And when we had, with patience and prayer, consolidated our power, you were the first to fall, because, as always, you loved and worshipped only your bank accounts. As you attempted to deceive and use us, we deceived you in a glorious turnaround of fair play. In the end, you have learned that real power rests with the Lord and the poor, not in your gold and riches and whore brides."

"But, in all fairness, what reward should be given to those whose only god is the god of wealth, and money, and covetousness, and greed, and selfishness? What reward is a just reward for those who did not give freely of themselves, but kept their tally of expenditures, hidden charges and debtor lists? Did you think you could buy respectability? Did you not hope to deceive us by dressing yourselves as Christians? Is it not written that no righteous man shall follow a cheating capitalist unless it be to the gates of Hell? Did you not court us to enhance your bottom line and use us to elevate yourselves before the people and the eyes of God? Did you give a thought to Heaven and the Almighty? Did you delude yourselves into believing that God applied his law to everyone but you? Did you think that your generosity to the blessed Dominionist cause concealed your greed? Did you ever bother to read the Bible? No? Too bad, for all is revealed in Matthew 19:24: 'It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God!'" Patboy paused to catch his breath and to allow the platform to settle.

"You, in your greed, caused millions of the righteous to hunger for food and thirst for justice. At your hands, the people suffered the frozen sting of winter as you threw them from their houses and ignored their cries for mercy. Now, your hands broken, and your mouths sown shut, you will reap what you have sewn, thirst, cold, and hunger, as God has written."

"You are but serpents in the garden. And, you shall die because you were never even as clever as the serpent, never clever enough! All the while, thinking that you were taking advantage of us and laughing at our naïveté. Wasn't it God, in the end, who took advantage of you? Think on that and weep your crocodile tears. Shame and evil hang about you like a filthy stench, a stench so great that not even the Blessed Cleansing will wash away your filth!"

Patboy paused and mopped the rivulets of sweat from his face. It was easy to see the course of his silk tie beneath the saturated fabric of his shirt collar. He turned his face to heaven and drew a deep breath. He stood motionless for a good while, listening to instructions from his God -- instructions only he could hear. Reenergized with the blessing of his Lord, he resumed his sermon on the platform.

Moans of physical pain and fearful cries rose to Patboy's ears from the sickly green prison. He smiled broadly--the smile of a completely satisfied sadist. "Woe, and woe, and woe," he teased.

"Woe and woe and woe," the smirking guards cried as one.

Patboy bowed his head, clenched his fists and closed his eyes, "From James 5:1-6: 'Go now you rich men, weep and howl for your miseries that shall come upon you. Your riches are corrupted and your garments are moth eaten. Your gold and silver are cankered; and the rust of them shall be a witness against you, and shall eat your flesh as if it were fire. You have heaped treasure together for the last days. Behold, the hire of the laborers who have reaped down your fields, which is of you kept back by fraud, crieth: and the cries of them which have reaped are entered into the ears of the Lord of sabaoth. Ye have lived in pleasure on the earth, and been wanton; ye have nourished your hearts, as in a day of slaughter. Ye have condemned and killed the just.'"

"Let's recall First Timothy...," Patboy cleared his throat. He was possessed and trance-like, no longer seemingly in control of his words or actions. Some of his ilk would say that he was "of the spirit," a vehicle for the Almighty's words and nothing more. If asked, he could not have told where his words would take him. All were at the mercy of his madness, itself a torture for all who were forced to bear it. He continued, "'But they that will be rich fall into temptation and a snare, and into many foolish and hurtful lusts, which drown men in destruction and perdition. For the love of money is the root of all evil: which while some coveted after, they have erred from the faith, and pierced themselves through with many sorrows.'" 'Sorrows' drifted away into a hoarse, faint whisper, and the Spiritual leader stood motionless, staring into nothingness, trance-like.

Everyone waited, but for what, none were certain. Then, following several minutes of silence...

"And, now for you homosexuals, suckers of cock and lickers of shit, men who lie with men and women who lie with women. God in his justice has delivered you unto His judgment, as was written, for we are righteous in His eyes, and He hath honored us to serve as the agents of His judgment and retribution upon you. Sodomites, Sapphists, and pedophiles! Let us recall Leviticus 18:22 and weep...recall Leviticus 20:13 and die: 'Thou shall not lie with mankind, as with womankind; it is abomination. If a man also lie with mankind, as he lieth with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination: they shall surely be put to death; their blood shall be upon them.'"

"And, what can we say of you Sapphic whores, who play at being men?" Patboy sifted his weight as he felt a familiar pleasurable fullness in his groin. He coughed, cleared his throat, and pulled at his collar which was way too tight. "Let us look to Romans 1:26: 'For this cause God gave them up unto vile affections: for even their women did change the natural use into that which is against nature'. Against nature...against Almighty God...what confusion can there be? It is clear. You are an abomination before the Lord who charges us with your destruction! You laughed at us and now you will cry out in agony and we shall laugh at _you_. The Lord's Day has come. Blessed be the Lord, amen."

"Amen," the guards echoed and laughed.

"And you uppity niggers, you mongrels, you unashamed bearers of Cain's mark and the curse of Ham. You dared to live far above your station for far too long, and now you will be brought low with righteous (pronounced: "rie-tee-usss") judgment...and, yes, death is your inheritance for putting yourselves before the word of almighty God! Let us recall Colossians 3:22, 3:25, and Ephesians 6:5-6 and Exodus 21 and, last, but not least, Leviticus 25:44-46. You are slaves and nothing more, set by the mark of Cain and the shame of Ham. Before we are done, you will pray for hell as a relief for your delayed and justified suffering! We will now see to it that you pay dearly for your excesses and for the sins of integration and affirmative action. The Day of Judgment is upon you! The days of shuck and jive and...and...and tap dancing are over...except, perhaps dancing at the end of a rope! (ha, ha, ha, snort, snort, choke, guffaw)," Patboy howled. He had cracked himself up with what he thought a clever pun.

"Praise Jesus, amen," the guards laughed. Few things made them prouder than knowing that they shared the white skin and purity of their Savior. And few things made them laugh as heartily as a good, old fashioned lynching.

"And, let's not forget the greatest of the least among you...the Humanists, the Seculars, the Liberals, the do-gooders, the self-worshippers, the intellectual know-it-all's, and all their little e-lee-tist friends, whose instruction and corruption was so foolishly followed. You cried for equality for all and insisted that man's law was more just than God's law. You championed marriage equality for sodomites and the pussy lickers. You put the rights of harlots and scum above your Lord! You coddled the poor with food stamps and Medicare, excused the homeless and hungry their idleness, criticized men of righteousness, rebelled against God's natural order of things and, for all your do-goodery, you have sealed your doom. You called for the integration of the mongrel races and took prayer from the schools! And, in a wickedness surpassed only by the beast, himself, you legalized the death of the innocents! Abortion reveals your deliberate maliciousness and evil soul. To slither is above your station. You preached equality and tolerance and gave us Satan! You will die most cruelly for your foul deception. You Secular witches shall know the Lake of Fire and the bottomless pits of Hell...I assure you! Praise the righteous judgment of God almighty! Let us recall Ephesians 6:12: 'For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places', glory be to God in the highest."

"Glory be to God in the highest!" the guards shouted.

Patboy paused, not only to catch his breath, but to afford the imprisoned masses time to savor his greatness and the hopelessness of their situation. He was buoyed to hear some prisoner's cries for mercy, their entreaties of innocence, and their despicable self-serving pleadings to spare the children. He granted them their brief moment of protest only because it did his heart good to hear those suffer who had belittled him all his life, those who had made him suffer. He relished the certainty of God's vengeance and did not think it at all strange, or coincidental, that God's will so perfectly matched his own.

"Welcome to Hell!" he shouted over the wailing and pleading. "Your stay here will not be pleasant!" He snorted at what he thought was a very clever turn of a phrase.

The guards laughed along and celebrated their merriment by liberally applying cattle prods to the prisoner's dirty and scarred flesh. The screams and cries were music to Patboy. The scene unfolding on the floors below were as if Dante's Inferno had been revealed for his pleasure.

Then Patboy softened his voice. And, with mock concern, he spoke in a voice just above a whisper, as he often did when he wanted his people to pay very close attention to the very important thing he was about to say. But, while the beguiled guards grew silent and strained to hear his every word, to his captives, his words were wholly saccharine, false, and terrifying.

"You thought that there was no God, so you thought it reasonable that there was no Heaven, and that there was no Hell. Even the most ignorant of you must surely know by now, that you were wrong...very, very, very terribly wrong, because, as you can see, Hell is very real...very real, indeed. Oh, please don't complain to me. You were given the choice to either live in righteousness or sin, and you chose sin. You, therefore, chose to be arrested, charged, tried, found guilty and condemned in the court of God Almighty."

"You have been sentenced to Hell. Oh, do not blame me. Do not blame the Almighty. Blame yourselves. Retribution is upon you. God demands his payment and He will not be denied. Amen, sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet Jesus!" Patboy, arms outstretched to Heaven and eyes tightly closed, trembled with excitement. Sweat dripped from the end of his pug nose and stained his powder-blue draped gut. He reveled in his total victory.

"Amen, sweet Jesus!" the guard shouted.

Then, Patboy noticed that, in his enthusiasm, he had set the observation platform swaying, again. His stomach leapt into his throat and his shiny, pale, pink skin crawled. Unable to speak, he reached for the control panel to steady himself, held his eyes tightly shut and waited for the swaying to subside. After several minutes of bouncing up and down, swaying side to side, and creaks and groans, the platform settled itself. Patboy slowly opened his tiny porcine eyes and released his breath. With his sopping handkerchief, he moved carefully to smear the sweat around his face. And, after what seemed like an age of collecting himself, he cautiously resumed his sermon. Many prisoners were startled to hear him speak again, for they thought that his harangue had ended.

"You all have been damned to hell by God as you deserve." His words were uttered carefully and succinctly. "There can be no argument. There can be no appeal. Yet, we are tasked by Jesus and our kindness and love...and, by the ever merciful God of unconditional love, to attempt the rescue and conversion of your immortal souls...to cleanse you of the burden of your sins and transgressions."

"We pray," Patboy said, his eyes closed tightly in demonstration of sincerity and deep concentration. "From Matthew 5:16: 'Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven, amen'. And, John 10:10, 11: 'The thief cometh not, but for to steal, and to kill, and to destroy: I am come that they might have life, and that they might have it more abundantly. I am the Good Shepherd: the Good Shepherd giveth his life for the sheep, amen'."

"Amen," the guards echoed.

"'No man can serve two masters'," Patboy quoted Matthew 6:24, 6:33, 5:20, seemingly unable to stop himself, "'for either he will hate the one, and love the other; or else he will hold to the one, and despise the other. Ye cannot serve God and mammon. Seek ye first the kingdom of God and His righteousness. For I say unto you, that except your righteousness shall exceed the righteousness of the scribes and Pharisees, ye shall in no case enter into the kingdom of heaven, amen'."

"Amen," the guards repeated.

"2 Corinthians: 5:17, 18, 20 tells us that...'If any man be in Christ, he is a new creature: old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new. And all things are of God, who hath reconciled us to Himself by Jesus Christ, and hath given to us the ministry of reconciliation. We are ambassadors for Christ, as though God did beseech you by us: we pray you in Christ's stead, be ye reconciled to God, amen'."

"Amen, glorious Jesus, in the highest," the guard shouted. Many were moved to tears by Patboy's sincerity and righteousness. They did not hide their tears.

"You see," Patboy mocked, staring down his short pug nose, through the glass floor, and into the harshly lit depths, "we are truly your friends and we hope only to do good by you." He extended his arms as one offering a hug to an injured comrade. "But, I'm sorry to say, that for most of you, your conversion will not be pleasant...no, not pleasant at all. But, then, the greatest results can only spring forth from the greatest sacrifice and pain...isn't that so? Look upon our Savior who sacrificed everything unto His life for you. Nevertheless, with the help of the Lord Almighty, we will make every effort to redeem your souls and, believe it or not, we will have some successes...at least, I hope, for your sake. But, sadly, I expect many more failures. But that is not up to me, or your caretakers. It is entirely up to you. We can only do so much, you know. We will intervene on the behalf of those with whom we succeed and beseech God to permit them to enter into the Kingdom of Heaven. The final decision, of course, is His alone, Halleluiah!" Patboy issued a snort and a sinister smile.

"Halleluiah!" the guards laughed a bit less enthusiastically. They had been awake for a very long time and were both hungry and exhausted from a day of torturous enjoyment. They had endured way too much excitement for one day.

CHORUS

"Dominionist policy dictated that it was always best to not only confuse, distract and terrify, but to also give the condemned a bit of hope, not that they had any real reason to hope, but because people who believe that they have nothing to lose become desperate and harder to control. The 'conversion of souls' was, of course, a euphemistic falsehood, no different than Hitler's use of 'special treatment' as a euphemism for the holocaust, or Shrub's use of the Office of Homeland Security as a blind for domestic spying, or Smart the Self Proclaimed's insinuation of a scary 'deep state' cabal against freedom, to distract from his administration's own assault upon the Bill of Rights and the US Constitution."

*

"Those of you who fail to find righteousness," Patboy continued flatly, "will find the everlasting fires of Hell awaiting you...and they are fed by one of the largest natural gas reserves in the world, praise Jesus' omniscient vision!" He laughed heartily and set his perch swaying, to and fro, once again.

"Why don't you come down here you fat fuc...," one of the prisoners on the fourth level began to yell to the bouncing, powder-blue man-pig. But he was unable to complete his editorial, because a jolt from a cattle prod dropped him to the floor. The man lay writhing on the gray, rough, cold and unyielding concrete.

Patboy steadied himself against the swaying of his platform and stole a glance to the commotion on the fourth level. He cringed slightly, as he swallowed a small bit of bile.

The prisoners surrounding the writhing man moved quickly to distance themselves from him. No one knew what would come next and no one wanted to be in the line of fire from the armed guards, stationed on the prison walls, high above them. Patboy observed a particularly brutish Dominionist guard standing triumphantly over the fallen Satanist, who was apparently conceding the point by offering no effort to stand, argue or resist. Confident that the rule of unquestioning obedience, absolute deference, respect and proper obsequiousness in the presence of the Spiritual Leader had been conveyed to one and all, Patboy resumed his diatribe.

"Your guards are the trained soldiers of God," he chortled. "They know both mercy and wrath. For some they will be you saviors, and for others, like your poor wretched friend there, they will be your unrelenting tormentors."

"Amen, sweet Jesus," the chastising guard shouted. Grinning, he gave the prone prisoner a hard kick to the ribs as punctuation.

"The length of your Tribulation will be entirely up to you," Patboy said matter-of-factly, all mockery and condescension removed from his tone. He was becoming bored and...a little hungry. "Resist, and the process can go on for years. Submit, and your torment will end sooner. May God have mercy on your souls, because here you will be shown little mercy. His will be done, amen!"

"His will, amen!" the guards shouted as one.

Patboy turned to leave, hesitated, and returned to the microphone. "Oh yes, I almost forgot," he resumed. In his haste to sex and feed, he had nearly forgotten the exciting conclusion to his rant. "I would draw your attention to the two quotes hanging above the gates of this center. The first is taken from the Most Reverend President Leader Huckleberry 20:33; And I quote '...and the lost child looked deeply into Huckleberry's loving eyes and asked, 'but sir, how shall I find the righteousness that you so clearly possess?' And Huckleberry, smiling gently, answered unto the child, 'Good works shall make you free.' Praise, Huckleberry!"

"Praise, Huckleberry," the guard answered, throwing an enthusiastic Dominionist salute into the air.

"The second is from the mouth of the Master himself as reported in Matthew 8:21, 22; 'And another of his disciples said unto him, 'Lord, suffer me first to go and bury my father.' But Jesus said unto him, 'Follow me; and let the dead bury their dead.' Now I leave it to you to figure out what we mean. But, don't despair, you have plenty of time to work on it."

The guards joined him in a hearty laugh.

And with that, Patboy, desiring only to flee from the oscillating platform as quickly as possible, turned hastily and almost ran along the gangway and from the prison. He would never visit the prisoners or the platform, again.

Privately, he did not care if anyone was saved or not. Saving souls was neither his, nor the Dominionists' goal. It was a formality, a show, a scam, a performance for his righteous flock. Prisoner conversion was for his entertainment; vindication for all the years his preaching was ridiculed and diminished by the Intellectuals and Liberals who labeled him, and his ilk, crackpots and con artists. Now, he was on top and it was the heretic's turn to be ridiculed and diminished. God, himself, could not have wiped the self-satisfied smile from Patboy's porcine countenance.

Patboy stepped into the open air just outside the prison's main gate and, with a wave of his hand, curtly dismissed his attending TW. He took a moment to enjoy the feel of solid ground under his feet. Yet, like a sailor too long at sea, his agitated inner ear gave the impression that the earth was bouncing, slightly. He considered his recent ordeal on the bouncing platform and resolved never to again address the Satanists from that unstable perch. In the future, he thought it would be better that the welcoming ceremony be conducted in the Blessed Cleansing arena. He would officiate from his third story balcony. This made him smile. The thought of all those smart-ass Satanists, standing in the midst of the burning stakes and their "bright" futures, made him laugh. "Ha, ha, ha, (snort, choke)," Patboy laughed as he walked into the night. His laugh became big puffs of condensation in the cold air of the desert evening. All the heat of the day had bled into the night sky. It never ceased to amaze him that such a hot place could become so cold, so quickly.

Steam rose off the Spiritual Leader's head as sweat rolled down his triple chin and soaked into the too-tight collar of his shirt. He looked up at the stars whose natural brilliance was diminished by the harsh yellow lights of the compound. For a moment he wondered if a God was really up there and where 'there' might be. Then he dismissed his musing with a shrug of his shoulders. "A waste of time trying to figure that one out," he thought to himself. Ultimately, the question of God in His heaven didn't matter to Patboy, either. All he needed was the idea of a god. That, alone, was enough to get him the power, respect, women, and little girls he desired. He smiled broadly and licked his full lips. Then his smile faded as he became aware that his hands were still shaking from his ordeal on the platform. "No, never going to do that again," he thought. His distended stomach growled and rumbled embarrassingly loud. It felt a tiny bit upset. A burp escaped from deep within the cavern of his gut. A foul taste filled his mouth. Patboy gave a shiver and swallowed hard. He reached deep into the pockets of his pants. "Damn, I forgot my antacids," he mumbled while rubbing his aching belly.

"Was it nausea or was it hunger," he wondered? There were times when he couldn't be certain. "It would be midnight soon," he thought. "Perhaps another helping of supper and a good night's sleep will sort it all out and set my constitution right again. Of course, a generous helping of mothers Rachael and Babs...for desert...couldn't hurt." Patboy resolved that it was good to be the Spiritual Leader.
CHAPTER 5:

Chris remained prone on the floor until the guards left. He was lucky that they hadn't dragged him away to one of the Blessed Conversion rooms for some private instruction on manners and protocol. He rolled to one side and tried to reach the spot where the guard's cattle prod had scourged him. But the spot was located high and between his shoulder blades. He could not reach or see it.

"Here, let me help," a woman offered, as she kneeled next to him.

"Thanks...how's it look?"

The woman grabbed the edges of the burned fabric and lifted it clear of Chris' skin to get a better look at the wound.

"Ow! Careful...it hurts like hell."

"Sorry, maybe it would be better if we carefully removed your top."

Chris nodded his assent and the woman helped him take his right arm out of the stained and patched orange jumpsuit.

She observed a circular burn about three inches across. The flesh at the center was charred. The area around the burn was already swelling and turning a bright red. "It's a pretty bad burn," she said.

"Those fuckers...," Chris breathed.

"You know," the woman interrupted, "it would probably be a good idea not to draw attention to yourself. As a matter of fact, that would probably be good advice for all of you," she quickly added looking at the newly arrived prisoners, crowding around the scene. She examined the wound carefully. "You'll be lucky if we can keep this from becoming infected," she added with concern.

"Yeah...but keeping my mouth shut just isn't in my nature," Chris said, as he carefully pulled himself into a cross-legged sitting position. "I've never been good at that...especially with these Dominionist assholes." He took a long look at the woman. She had an upside-down pentagram burned into her forehead. Her orange jumper looked as though it hadn't been washed in years. Her face and hands were badly cracked, caked with dirt, and mixed with dried sweat and blood. Her half-closed brown eyes were watery and red from exhaustion and starvation. She didn't smell good.

"Is that how you came to be in here...not keeping your mouth shut?" the woman asked.

"No, I'm in here because these fuckers ambushed us in the mountains."

"Oh...who's 'us'...are they here, too?" She looked at the faces of those who stood nearby, but no one seemed more interested in the man than anyone else. She surmised that he was most likely alone...like most everyone in this hellhole.

"What's your name?" Chris asked avoiding the subject.

"Tamika. What's yours?"

"Chris," he said taking a look around at his new environment. "So how did you end up in here?"

"How do you think?"

"I don't know. I guess...because...you're black?"

"That's right...the mark of Cain or Ham or some such bullshit," Tamika said pointing to the upside-down star burned into her forehead.

"The Freedom Police kicked in my door, arrested me, my children, and my husband on some false charge of 'disseminating wickedness'. Said I was a witch and a danger to the nation. Said my neighbors saw me casting spells and performing incantations...if you can believe that. That's all it took. Said they didn't have to read me my rights or give me any kind of trial because of some law...National Defense Authorization law, or something, passed over a hundred years ago or more... never heard of it. I was told it was to make arresting terrorists easier...and witches, too, I guess. It was told to me that, that one law gave the President power to arrest anyone he wanted, without having to answer to anyone...terrorist or not...black or brown...and, I guess, white, too. They said it didn't matter anyhow, because I probably was a demon and had no rights anyway. Can you believe that? A lot of people are in here because of that law...and so am I, and so are you, I suppose." Tamika fixed her watery eyes on Chris and added apologetically, "I helped build this prison. Sorry." She covered her embarrassment with a hand, more bone than flesh.

Chris noticed that she had lost several teeth, probably from malnourishment, and that her bare feet were cracked and bleeding. "Holy shit--is this what I have to look forward to?" he thought to himself.

Tamika noticed Chris' shock. "I am a sight, aren't I?"

"Who was that fat fuck, anyway?" Chris sidestepped.

"Why, that was your Spiritual Leader, Patboy Roberts," Tamika answered with a chuckle.

"Spiritual Leader...that's a Spiritual Leader?"

"Who knew the Devil wore powder-blue?" Tamika chuckled.

"Well, I sure as shit didn't vote for him."

"You don't vote for devils...they're appointed by God...or, so they'd like us to believe."

"Yeah...," Chris scoffed.

"Well, it's got to be true, because the Relics never lie, or so they say...so, ipso facto presto chango, it must be true. Because of their honesty and unimpeachable integrity, God, himself, has anointed them infallible and all powerful...'The Chosen Ones'," Tamika's hoarse laugh soon broke and stopped. Her throat burned.

"Yeah? That must be it. And I'm pretty certain that none of our friends here believe it any more than you." Chris looked at the faces that surrounded him and noticed that no one offered any objection.

"Of course, I don't...and you shouldn't either."

"No worries there, mate. Where are your people?" Chris asked.

"I don't know," Tamika said dropping her head. Tears quickly welled in her large dull eyes and spilled down her sunken cheeks. "I haven't seen them in, what...a year maybe two, three...I don't know. I've been here more than a year or so, I guess, so...it's been longer than that. They're probably dead by now...or wishing they were dead." She stared at the cold concrete floor.

Chris slid over to her side and put an arm around her shoulder. He was shocked that there appeared to be no flesh under her clothing, just unyielding bone. Afraid that he might break her, Chris held her gently. "I lost a son and a wife when they ambushed us...they took my wife and my son from me. I don't know where they are. He was just four months old, for Christ's sake. My wife...I guess...I hope, escaped the ambush. At least she wasn't in camp when the Dominionists jumped us. I'm pretty sure she got away...Hell, I hope she got away."

Tamika could offer no hope and continued to look at the floor in front of her.

It was not Chris' intention to upset Tamika with his sad story, so he changed the subject. "These assholes put men and women together?"

"Do you think anyone's thinking about hooking up?" a voice from somewhere off to Chris' right replied. "

"Take a look around," Tamika offered. "Do you see any young women?"

Chris looked around the prison floor, as far as he could see into the harsh light. He noticed young men, adolescent boys, and elderly women clearly beyond childbearing age. The men outnumbered the women by a large margin. He didn't see one woman of a typical age for bearing children. "Where are the, er... younger women?"

"The Relics consider all women, even their sanctified wives and mistresses, as the Devil's playthings...not to be trusted and certainly not to be considered equal to any man. If the Relic women are second class or third class, then Liberal Humanist women are Satan himself." Tamika raised her head and stared directly into Chris' eyes. "The young women are executed immediately...those they don't take to rape and turn into Jezebels. They truck them into the desert and bury them alive...," her voice trailed off.

Chris caught his breath and stared horrified at Tamika. Several men could be heard to weep.

The glaring florescent lights, high overhead, flashed on and off four or five times and the large double doors set in the northern wall of each prison floor burst open. Prisoners sitting or standing too close to the doors were knocked over and pushed aside. A cadre of guards, some with dogs, rushed onto the floors and ordered the prisoners to their feet. Anyone not moving quickly enough was tased, kicked, bit, or beaten. The prisoners were ordered to face the chain-link inner wall.

Chris helped Tamika to her feet. They moved hastily to comply with the guard's demands. Crushed against the chain-link wall, their faces pushed against the cold steel and barbed wire by the press of prisoners behind them. They were unable to move. They stared into the eerie green abyss falling away before them. There was no hope that the chain-link and barbed wire would give way.

The guards selected twenty prisoners from each floor, whom they handcuffed and shackled. The hobbled prisoners were then knocked off their feet and dragged from the cell blocks. They could be heard screaming and yelling long after the great double doors banged shut.

Then someone on the public address shouted, "Praise Jesus" and advised that the Satanists should get what sleep they could because morning would come quickly. He added that work details would be assigned tomorrow. The announcement ended with another, "Praise Jesus."

Chris, favoring his injured back, lowered himself to the floor and sat sideways against the chain-link. He stared at the glaring florescent and mercury bulbs, high overhead. "They're not going to turn off the god- damned lights, are they?"

"Nope...never do," Tamika replied. "I've been in three of these prisons and they haven't yet. You'll get use to it, or you'll get so tired it won't make a bit of difference. Now we best get some sleep."

There was no roof on the prison, so the day's heat quickly dissipated into the cold desert night. The prisoners crowded together for warmth. The concrete floor, by its very nature, sucked the warmth from their bodies and bit at their hips, elbows, and shoulders. Some used their one blanket as a pad to soften the unyielding concrete and, then, rolled themselves into tight fetal positions to stay warm. Most, however, covered themselves against the cold desert night and fought to somehow tolerate the cold, biting concrete. There was no comfortable position, but most, suffering beyond exhaustion, quickly fell asleep. Daylight was five hours away.

The public address announced the start of the new day with an enthusiastic "Praise Jesus" blasted into the prison dormitories. Those who did not spring to their feet immediately, if not dead, were offered some biting dog and shocking cattle prod for extra incentive. The captives were given no time to toilet.

As quickly as possible, they were lined up and marched past a huge pot of a tepid gruel-like substance. No talking or commenting was permitted. They received one ladle of "gruel" into their plastic cups. This single cup would have to hold them until lunch, when they would be served a cup of watery "soup". For dinner, they could look forward to a thin mush of rotted potatoes with weevils, or maybe left- over greens from the cafeteria's garbage cans, or scrapings from the Relics' dinner plates. On a good day, they may each get a torn piece of moldy bread, as long as the supply held out. It would soon be clear to the newest prisoners, that which had been clear to the veterans for some time now--if they were fortunate enough to avoid the burnings, the torture, the beatings and dogs, then, they would instead die of malnutrition and starvation.

CHORUS

"The means of death did not matter much to the Relics. Starvation was just as good a means as any. It was just that, as far as the Relics were concerned, burning at the stake seemed a more rewarding, fitting, and, let's face it, entertaining end. But, realistically, there simply were not enough stakes, or time, or special holidays, to burn everyone. Some would just have to die by other means and burn later, in Hell, and away from the rapturous lustful eyes of The Chosen. Therefore, burning was usually reserved for the high-profile prisoners--Humanist mayors and governors, secular senators and representatives, doctors, scientists, artists, heretics, Jews, witches, prostitutes, pornographers, Catholics, and homosexuals. Homosexuals were especially fun for the spectators, who loved to mock them with limp-wrist dances and pantomimes of various 'perverted' sex acts, while the homosexuals were beaten and paraded naked around and around the Blessed Cleansing Arena. The chaining of the sodomites to the stakes brought the mad-like dancing and gyrating celebration to a crescendo. After a number of prayers and much recitation of Biblical passages, the flames were lit as the accompanying organ music swelled. Others, the less reviled scum, were used to fill the stakes when high-profile prisoners were scarce. Filler usually consisted of people of color, or the deformed, or mentally unsound. Children were not usually burned, unless they were found guilty of some particularly heinous crime, like witchcraft or homosexuality, or incest, for example. Besides, children usually died much too quickly and with not enough suffering and, thus, were not as entertaining as the adults, who struggled and screamed and put on a real exciting show of penance."

"The big ceremonial burnings were held on Sundays between church services, or on special days, like Christmas or Easter, or the many newly-created Dominionist religious holidays, and especially, Good Friday. On Good Friday three prisoners were honored with a very special selection ceremony, Blessed Conversion display, and a spectacular Blessed Cleansing spectacle that started very early in the morning and lasted long into the night. Sometimes, when the prisons were overpopulated, special holidays would be declared. All-day prayer services would be held as the Blessed Cleansing orgies continued non-stop for twenty-four hours, or even longer. If the people were especially righteous and deserving in the eyes of leadership, they were permitted to vote on a category of sinner that they would like to see incinerated. These special selections provided a theme for the day's religious instruction. All the Relic children looked forward to the special holidays, because they were often unexpected, and they meant that school was canceled for the day. Special Holiday Blessed Cleansings were like Dominionist snow days."

*

Following breakfast, the new prisoners were assigned to work details. Being fitter than most, Chris was assigned to the corpse disposal detail. Those prisoners who died during the night, or died during Blessed Conversions, or died trying to escape, or fell dead on the job, were loaded onto carts which, when stacked high with bodies, were pushed and pulled into the desert, far from the Center. There the bodies would be thrown into large pits, which had been dug by other prisoners. Bulldozers would have dug quicker and deeper, but they would have used precious fuel. Besides, the Relic reasoned, since there were so many Satanists to be rid of, it was much more economical and fitting that they die digging their own graves. There was a righteous justice and gruesome humor in this. But, no one ever died laughing.

Others, like the prisoners themselves, considered corpse disposal a macabre, yet, however horrific, choice job. Remember that the prisoners found themselves in a situation of extreme depravation. Survival by any means necessary was paramount. Corpse detail provided the prisoners with an opportunity to rifle through the deceased's pockets. There was no place for prisoners to hide their few treasures, except on their persons. So, when they died, they took their treasures with them...so to speak.

In the deceased's pockets one often found little goodies, a piece of bread or a sliver of soap, or other little treasures that could be traded with other prisoners for favors, or necessary items, like a bit more gruel in the breakfast bowl. Also, the prisoners reasoned, if one did not die from hard labor or malnutrition, then one would likely not be killed by other means, because corpse disposal was considered an essential occupation by the Dominionist overlords. This was, of course, true. But the Relics did not care who did the disposing. It took no particular skill to dispose of bodies, and there were so many potential disposers from which to pick. In hopeless situations one finds hope where one can, of course.

Some of Chris' fellow convicts, the more senior, were quick to complain that he must have sucked-up to the Relics to be picked for such a privileged position, while still others congratulated him for his good fortune. Most, however, kept their mouths shut, too hungry to care. Chris, given his rookie status, did not fully understand the complaints or appreciate the kudos. But, he would soon learn about the potential job benefits.

There was no danger that Chris would run out of work before he died or was killed. New prisoners arrived nearly every day to replace the thousands that Chris and his fellows carted into the desert. The prison population always seemed to number around twenty-thousand or so. One day, of course, there would be no more Satanists to bury, but that day did not seem close to hand.

Tamika had been assigned to the shit-burning detail, per her mongrel status, from the very start of her prison career.

Aside from the one spigot and short length of garden hose on each prison floor, which was meant to provide drinking and washing water for the prisoners, there was no plumbing. A concrete bench with four holes was molded into the southern prison wall on each level. Each bench connected to a long shaft which terminated in a fifty-five-gallon drum for each of the holes. Tamika and her colleagues would collect the fifty-five-gallon cans, load them on carts and haul them far into the desert. There, downwind from the Center, they would burn the feces and urine collected in the barrels. Then they would clean and return the barrels to their respective positions at the bottom of the shafts. When they were not burning feces, they would scrape down and wash the shit shafts to keep them from becoming too crusty and odiferous.

Tamika's crew, and several others, was responsible for the many outhouses scattered around the compound. The Relics could have recreated the sewer and water treatment system of a major city, if they had wanted. Labor, money, and materials were no obstacle for them, but water, on the other hand, was limited. Simply put, they did not want to waste precious water flushing prisoner waste. The Relic leadership did not plan on occupying the Freedom Centers for more than a few years following the nuclear devastation, so they did not consider the use of outhouses too much of a hardship. Therefore, they built two outhouses for each dormitory, house, and administrative building, one shit house for women and the other for men.

The Dominionist facilities were plush by outhouse standards. There were sinks, showers, and soap dispensers (inventoried daily) for washing up, mirrors and electric lights, porcelain receptacles with lids, carpeting, climate control, and plenty of paper (also inventoried daily). Everything was made to look and feel as if one had entered a modern bathroom, but beneath each of the toilets there was the ubiquitous metal drum and above each gravity-fed shower there was a large water storage tank. The shit burners would remove the soiled drums and replace them with sanitized drums partially filled with a sweet-smelling disinfectant. These drums too, which were emptied daily and never allowed to get too full, were hauled far into the desert and their contents burned. Most of the people assigned to burning shit were people of color. Typically, most non-whites were given the nastiest and most demeaning work, except for the nearly white, who were sometimes used as House Niggers, or concubines.

"I was a teacher," Chris said as he dropped to the prison floor, near complete exhaustion following a long day of corpse disposal. He wanted to sleep, but Tamika kept asking questions. "In Tucson," he quickly added in anticipation of the next question.

"How'd it happen to you?" Tamika asked.

Chris knew she meant how he had come to be arrested.

"I'm a non-observant atheist Jew, who thought it hypocritical to pray to a Christian god when I did not believe in any gods. Obviously, the Relics were not impressed by my integrity and honesty."

"Uh huh, goes without saying. Why would the Relics hire a Jew in the first place?" Tamika asked taking air in shallow gulps every few syllables.

"I had been teaching for nearly three years before they came to power. I knew it wouldn't take them too very long to figure out that I was not their ideal human. So, my wife, Brandy, and I started making plans to escape to Mexico as soon as we learned these assholes had gained the White House..." Chris paused to reflect. His eyes began to tear.

"We nearly made it...to Mexico, that is. I was guarding the packs. Brandy was hiking down the hillside to a stream to collect water. My boy and I were jumped by the border police. I don't think they ever saw Brandy. I don't think they saw her...I really mean that!" Chris' glared at the floor and became silent.

"I was thirty-three when we were arrested. We lived in Cleveland. My children were teenagers..." Tamika caught her breath "...too old to be kept alive and the wrong color to be raised as Dominionists. I hope and pray that they are alive and well."

Tamika knew that they were most likely dead.

"I was fortunate enough to be a stay-at-home mom...so many mothers couldn't afford that privilege. Shame." She looked up at Chris to see if he was still awake.

He was...staring through half-closed eyes down his dirty and gritty nose. "One parent should stay at home..." Chris agreed.

Tamika decided to continue. She just had to speak. "I participated in the PTA, was a volunteer tutor, served on the boards of two charities. My husband, Roland, was a very successful insurance broker, until corporate welfare brought us that damned "Economic Nationalism." Tamika paused for a sip of water, taken carefully and slowly from her plastic bowl. She was talking more than usual, and her throat was very dry. When she had emptied the bowl, she tucked it between her legs to keep it safe.

"Roland's company prospered, alright," she continued, straightening herself, "but he didn't...that's for certain." Tamika rolled onto her side and laughed hoarsely.

"Just like that, he was declared 'inefficient' and 'redundant' by the Dominionist Council of Business Entrepreneurs. He was stripped of his responsibilities and forced to work as an agent in an all-Black community... where 'men of his skill-set could be appreciated.'"

"It wasn't long before all of us were arrested on charges of 'Suspicion of Wickedness'. We were split up, denied any hearing, declared 'wicked' by the Supreme Pastor Leader thingy asshole...and here I am, and they're all dead." She regarded her friend through sad and weary eyes.

Chris opened his eyes a bit more. He touched her shoulder as one who grieves himself.

CHORUS

"Secular families, per regulations, were separated and sent to different prisons. Tamika's husband was burned at the stake immediately after his arrest, and the children met similar fates within the first year of their incarceration. That Tamika was able to survive for three years in the Dominionist prison system was very unusual. It had more to do with luck than to any special skill on her part. Her luck, some would say misfortune, would run out soon enough, however."

"Days began at 5:30 a.m. with dogs and shouting and beatings. Usually, an unfortunate or two was killed straight out for some offense, real or imagined. After the routine scourging and murder, the prisoners were hustled from their dormitories to the assembly area where they stood in formation for about an hour while prayers were said, and a prisoner count and inspection was performed. Anyone not praying loud enough or found to be too unfit for work, for any reason, as determined by the Relic guard, was removed to the burial pits, shot, and left to lie until the burial details arrived. The prisoner count was followed by a speedy 'breakfast'. Then the prisoners were assembled into their various work parties; grave digging, burial detail, shit burners, perimeter defense construction/maintenance, planting, cultivating, livestock waste removal, garbage sorting (a major ingredient for the prisoner's meal times, pilferers were shot), facility maintenance, road building, washing out the livestock carriers that arrived daily with new prisoners, and anyone of a hundred other backbreaking and menial details."

"There were no breaks. If a prisoner grew too weak to work and fell under the strain of the desert sun, too little water, and too little food, he or she, adult or child, was either left to bake in the sun and eventually die from exposure, or was immediately shot and thrown onto the burial wagons...which were numerous... both, shootings and wagons. The wagons were ever-present, gruesome reminders of what lay ahead."

"Days ended at sunset. Details were then assembled and marched back to the prison. No talking! There were prayers and another long prisoner count. If a prisoner was missing it was declared an escape attempt and everyone in his or her detail was marched...or dragged...to the pits and shot. The remaining prisoners, meanwhile, had to remain in formation while an exhaustive search was made for the missing heretic, who, more often than not, had died unnoticed, somewhere in the day's confusion. Every prisoner knew the cost of an escape attempt. Few ever tried escape, if out of a sense of camaraderie and responsibility to his fellow prisoners, or because no one with any sense believed they could survive in the desert alone and in their weakened state. There was no hope of rescue. There was no hope of any kind. There was only surrender to their overlords. Not to escape, of course, meant enduring the nonstop dehumanizing terror, day after day. The sign above the prison entrance could have easily read: 'Abandon hope, all ye who enter here'."

"Following the evening prayers, counts, scourgings, and murders, the prisoners were sardine- packed into cargo lifts and hoisted to their respective levels. The guards, who were a fun-loving gang, made a sport of seeing who could pack the most Satanists onto the lifts. The contests were enjoyed far more by the guards than the prisoners."

"When the prisoners finally reached the dormitories and were released from the guards' control, there was a mad scramble for 'the hose', the one source of drinking water on the cell blocks. Fights and disagreements were unavoidable. The guards, who yelled insults and derisive remarks from the parapets, and who found the heathen displays very amusing, and in their thinking, well-deserved punishment for their soulless charges, did nothing to stop the fighting. Prisoners sometimes were killed in the struggle and left to lie in their blood and filth, until the next day's burial ritual."

"An evening meal was served sometime before 'lights out' (lights which were never actually extinguished). And, at any time, just to keep the sense of horror and doom ever present in the prisoner's minds, the cell block doors would burst open and twenty or so prisoners would be selected for a Blessed Conversion."

"In observance of Exodus 20:10, Sundays were holy days and no work was permitted by either guards or prisoners. A few guards were detailed to watch over the prisoners, of course, but these were rotated every few hours in order that the day-long religious services could be attended. No work inevitably meant that the prisoners enjoyed a day of rest. Unfortunately, no work also meant that no food was served to the prisoners, and that the dead were left to rot until the next day. Sundays were also the high ceremonial days for Blessed Cleansings, the day of _auto de fey_ in which final judgment was visited upon three-score or more of the very fortunate or unfortunate sinners... depending upon your point of view or perversion. The prisoners would sit wide-eyed with hunger and terror as the growls of their stomachs and the screams of the burning floated over the prison's ramparts and resonated within the walls of their hollow hell."

*

Although it seemed like years since Tamika and Chris had met, in actuality, it only had been three months, fourteen days. The months had not been kind to either Tamika or Chris, but especially Tamika, who, already in declining health upon her arrival at Freedom Center Rueben, had grown too weak to assemble for work detail. For over a week Chris had been attending to her as best he could, even sharing portions of his small rations. He had tried using her plastic cup, so she could receive a full ration, but the guards beat him, thinking he was attempting to get more than his fair share.

"He was lying, you know," Tamika said weakly to Chris, as he sat next to her and prepared to share his evening meal. She lay on her side and supported her head upon her hand which served as a make-shift pillow. Her whole body had developed a noticeable tremor which she was too weak to conceal.

Chris offered her a spoonful of gruel with a hand that had developed a noticeable, but yet controllable, tremor. Months of malnourishment were beginning to impact Chris' once robust physique.

Initially, Tamika rejected his offer of food, but relented under Chris' insistence.

"Look, I've got a piece of potato," she observed with a weak smile. To make it easier for Chris to inspect the prize, Tamika tried to steady the plastic spoon with her bony, shit encrusted fingers.

Chris looked into her sunken, dull, watery eyes. He was careful not to spoil the silliness by speaking of the sadness he felt. He smiled at her potato piece. "Hmm, be sure to save some for later," he said, making a feeble attempt at feigning happy shock and surprise. Tamika accepted the potato offering. She let the small piece of spud dissolve in her mouth and swallowed noisily.

"Who was lying?" Chris asked, absentmindedly.

"The fat man...in the blue suit...he has no intention of letting any of these people survive, saved or not." Tamika wiped a bit of spittle that had escaped from her mouth with the back of her free hand.

"Yeah, I kinda figured as much."

Tamika lay quietly gazing at the black sky for several minutes. Chris was startled when she suddenly spoke, "They like to torture people...just to torture, I think." Tamika spoke matter-of-factly. "They try to get you to confess to all kinds of things, true or not, but it never makes any difference. Everyone ends up dead. I was in two other prisons before I ended up here," Tamika spoke as she adjusted her gaze slightly onto one of the yellow overhead lights.

"They gave the same speech about being reborn and getting saved to spare your life, in every prison I've been in...but it never happened...being spared...not to my knowledge, anyway." She paused to lick her cracked lips and continued, "They killed just about everyone that ever came in on those damned trucks. Finally, they had killed everyone in the area...I guess...so it didn't make sense to keep the smaller prisons going. One day they packed up the few survivors and shipped us off to another area prison, where they started the killing all over again. After a while, they nearly killed all of us there and shipped the remainder off to here." With a weak gesture of her left hand, she waved off the offer of another spoonful of watery soup.

"You sure?" Chris challenged. "This one seems to have a bit of carrot in it...or at least I think its carrot." He blinked his eyes to focus on the small bit of orange.

"You look worse than me." She took her watery eyes off the glaring light bulb and fixed her gaze on Chris. She forced a weak laugh. "You'd better eat it...keep up your strength."

"How is it you keep surviving?" Chris asked, collapsing against the chain link. He swallowed the bit of "carrot" and regarded his nearly starved companion. He ignored his growling stomach and prepared another spoonful of gruel for his cellmate. She would take it in a little while, he thought.

"I don't know...lucky, I guess." She offered a weak nearly toothless smile.

"Lucky?" Chris almost choked on the word.

Tamika's expression did not change. "God's will, then," she offered.

"God's will? Ah, now there's a laugh." Chris rested his head against the cold steel mesh and followed Tamika's gaze to the overhead light.

"Don't you believe in God?" Tamika almost whispered, not taking her eyes off the overhead lamp.

"You have got to be kidding," Chris said. "Belief in God is what got us into this mess."

"Not my belief...their belief got us into this mess."

"No, I don't believe in God." Chris stated emphatically.

"How do you explain things then?" Tamika's voice was weak, almost as if she were about to drift off to sleep.

"Explain things...like what?"

"Who created the universe, life, love...?"

"Suffering, war, genocide, religious fanaticism," Chris added, sardonically.

"Humans cause suffering, not God," Tamika defended weakly.

"God created humans, humans created suffering, therefore God created suffering...that's if the transitive property still applies."

"Who created the universe...?"

"No one."

"It must have come from somewhere."

"Maybe, but I don't think that the universe 'must' do anything. Creation is a human construct, because...I don't know...because we experience life as finite. We see life as having a beginning and an end. We define almost everything in our experience as coming and going, starting and ending, being and not being. It just drives us nuts to be confronted by any phenomenon that cannot be explained in terms of starting and stopping."

Chris covered Tamika with his blanket and pulled it tight under her chin. It was clear that she was shivering. He then continued speaking, weakly, while gazing at the empty space of concrete just beyond his bare feet.

"Anything we can't explain and can't wait for the scientists to figure out, we hand over to the supernatural. If we can't explain a thing, we invent a god to excuse our ignorance. God's are easy to invent. We don't realize that inventing a god to explain something, solves nothing. It only makes the problem more complicated."

"Complicated?" Tamika asked.

"Yeah...because then we must answer the question of where did God come from? It seems we can't conceive that something could just 'be', unless it's a magical supernatural being. The religious types want us to believe that God was always here...for no other reason than he's a god and gods, by definition...I guess...can just be without having to be created." Chris rested his head against the unyielding chain link wall and closed his eyes.

"Actually, it's more like the religious nuts demand we believe it," he resumed after a short pause, startling Tamika in the process. "And, we have to accept their explanation as fact...because they say so. So, gods do not need to be created...they just sort of always exist. But, then, they laugh...hell, just about everyone laughs, if it's suggested that the universe always existed and didn't need to be created. We can't get our minds around that. But we can get our minds around invisible beings floating on clouds and creating universes? It's all fucking crazy, is what it is."

"If God created the universe, then who created God?" Tamika clarified.

"Exactly, if you introduce a god, you only complicate the question."

Tamika smiled. "So, you believe that the universe is just there and has always been there."

"Probably, just like you believe that your god has always been there. We know the universe constantly changes and reforms itself, but it has no beginning and no ending. Believing that there are beginnings and endings of anything is the real fantasy. Things change, they move on, but they do not end, any more than they were created. The universe is life...always has been...always will be. As life is a part of the universe, so life is the universe, and the universe is a living thing...not just a cold collection of rocks spinning around super-heated balls of gas, accidentally creating amoebas. The universe always is, and life always is."

"That's hard to get my brain around," Tamika smiled weakly.

"See what I mean! If only you could create a super being to explain it all, then you could relax."

"But, don't the scientists think that the universe is created and ends?"

"I think they once believed that the universe exploded into existence from a mono-block of matter and that the universe expanded until it evaporated into the tiniest of particles, cooled and winked out...poof! And that, as they say, is that. And then, they believed that there was a mysterious dark matter that couldn't be measured or observed, yet, was supposedly sufficient enough to slow the universe's expansion and collapse all matter into another mono-block. And, boom, the whole thing started again...a universe in perpetual motion. But, don't you see that they are creating and ending things just like everyone else? They hope the answer lies in mathematics...not gods...but are as limited by their senses and understanding as any of us. They are making their best guess based on the facts they have gathered thus far, but they cannot escape the human need to create and end things, any more than the rest of us can. Somehow, I think that they have much, much, much more to learn about the universe...facts they cannot yet even imagine...facts that their mathematics can't explain or expose."

Chris was so lost in his speculation that he was startled when Tamika spoke. "So, you know more than the scientists?"

Chris managed a thin smile, "I know far less than they know, and they know far less than the universe has to offer. But in time, I suspect that they will...correction, would have... discovered that there is more than just one universe, that there was more than just one mono-block, that there were several or even an infinite number of mono-blocks exploding and reformulating throughout and infinite cyclical cosmos. I suspect that, if as a species, we live long enough, we will learn that the collective universe is an unimaginably large perpetual motion machine, exploding, creating space, sending material into that space, expanding and being reconstituted into other universes whose material expands in turn into still other universes, which then collapse, form mono-blocks, and explode, ad nauseam, over and over and over again, and...it's all alive! Never really ending or beginning...just being... first in one shape, and then another."

"You're crazy," Tamika laughed.

"It would be hard to argue against that," Chris smiled.

"Hmm, I suppose what you say is possible, I suppose. Sounds clever," she smiled. He thought he saw her wink at him. "Where do you think we go when we die?" Tamika asked feebly.

"We go where we were before we were born."

"Where do you think that place is?"

"I think we are dismantled back into our basic elements and redistributed into the universe. We don't die as much as we are redistributed."

"You think we are recycled?" Tamika chuckled.

Chris chuckled, too. "I never thought of it like that, but yeah, I guess we are recycled."

"Do you think we ever come back?"

"What...in our present form? I would think it highly unlikely. The chance of your atoms reconstituting themselves into you, on another life-sustaining planet, even earth, is as close to as impossible as you can get without being impossible."

"But it is possible?"

Chris thought for a moment and then responded, "Sure, why not?"

"Do you think we would recognize one another?"

Chris furrowed his brow in mock annoyance, "Don't push it, lady."

Chris looked down at Tamika, and for the first time noticed that she was dying...right now. There seemed to be no life in her eyes, which appeared to be clouding over and focused on nothing. His stomach sank. Could he take just one more death? Chris took her frail emaciated hand into his. She was cold as ice. There was nothing he could do for her. He wasn't certain that he would have done something even if he could. Dying had to be better than living in this hell hole. Tamika's eyes closed. Her breathing had become shallow and slow.

"You know, girl," Chris comforted, "now that I think about it, I'm pretty sure there is a God and a Heaven. We'll see each other there, I'm pretty...I'm pretty damn sure." He choked back his grief.

"You're being nice," Tamika whispered. "You see, that's how I know there is a God." And, she died.
CHAPTER 6:

CHORUS

"In a casual perusal of the good book one discovers many escape clauses; clauses that can be turned to any purpose, good or evil; clauses which were very easily turned to the Dominionists purpose. For example, Romans 6: 14, 17, 18 tells us that: 'For sin shall not have dominion over you: for ye are not under the law, but under grace. But God be thanked that ye were the servants of sin, but ye have obeyed from the heart that form of doctrine which was delivered you. Being made free from sin, ye became the servants of righteousness.'"

"Understandably, the Dominionists interpreted these passages to mean that, as the Chosen, they lived under God's grace and that they were free from sin. They could do pretty much anything they damn well pleased...as long as it was done with a pure heart and a desire to expand and exalt the Kingdom of God. Of course, they themselves defined what was pure and exalting. This 'little known, well known' doctrine, I referred to earlier as Antinomianism: a devil-may-care anarchy for the self-righteous crackpot."

"So, duping the ignorant and naïve into supporting a cause which, in the end, benefitted only the Dominionist's leadership, was seen, not so much as duping, but as the righteous Chosen doing whatever it took to exalt and complete God's work. Deception and deceit, lying and criminality, committed for righteous reasons, then, apparently makes God happy."

"The Dominionists relied on one universal truth, that a simple man, overwhelmed by life and crippled by his uncertainty and ignorance, would likely grab on to just about any organizational life raft that was willing to hear and address his grievances as their own. Conveniently, religion, offered such a life raft. And, it afforded its purveyors an ostensibly wholesome program of hope, direction, and redress, which could easily be run as a confidence game."

"All that was required was someone willing to run the con, and someone willing to follow blindly along; someone who would unquestioningly subordinate decency to blind obedience. Someone who would agree, unreservedly, that indecency was really decency, if performed with the glory of God foremost in the mind and heart. Such a person would instantly qualify as a foot soldier in the Dominionist Army for God. Inductees were attracted and encouraged by promises of never having to ever carry the burden of responsibility for their lives or actions. Importantly, this blind obedience was given a more palatable and righteous name. It was called 'Blind Faith'."

"The Dominionists knew that every human dreamed of control, but that only the preordained were born for mastery of that fine art. Smart the Self-Proclaimed, Huckleberry the Most Reverend, and Patboy the Phat; _et al,_ prime examples of God's greatest hits, truly excelled as masters of deceit and unscrupulous behavior. They were indeed called to exploitation of human weakness, ignorance, and vanity."

"They groomed their parishioners to be like children: blindly trusting, helplessly dependent, hopelessly naïve, terminally diffident, craving guidance and external discipline. Employing the fear of God, the reward of heaven, and absolution of all guilt, manipulation of the ignorant parishioner was as child's play. All who played along were declared 'blessed' and 'saved', and cheaply flattered as Heroes of The Family and Heroes of Christ. Any who had the strength of character to resist, and insisted upon thinking for themselves, were condemned as blasphemers, heretics, and evil-doers. Independents risked public denouncement, arrest, and destruction."

"And, therein was found, amongst all the evils inherent in organized religion, perhaps the biggest evil of them all: religion in the hands of the greedy, conniving, fearful, ignorant, unscrupulous and fanatical, was more deadly and destructive than any form of man-made governance or military ordinance. Clearly, religion was the most deadly and destructive single human invention, because it was justified by an inerrant all-powerful God and a Holy Book, the word of whom, and the passages of which, could not be refuted by any living, simple, mortal man or woman. Resistance to blind faith meant justifiable, irrevocable destruction in the fires of Hell! Scary stuff...for the ignorant."

"Whatever small works of goodness religion managed to perform, there always was, and always would be, those willing to overshadow any benefit by exercising its potential for evil. God in the hands of humans was a genocidal maniac, a fun house mirror for the human heart. It was as true in the time of the Dominionists and their God-inspired nuclear holocaust, as it was in the time of the Popes and their inquisitors, the Puritans and their genocidal proclivities as witnessed by their murder of Native Americans, Saladin and his armies of Jihad, Constantine and his corruption of Christianity into a warring nation state, the Crusaders and the plunder of Jerusalem and children, the Muslim and Hindu butchery of old India, etc., etc., ad nauseam."

"'Because there is no certainty that religion can be kept out of the hands of grifters and genocidal maniacs, there is not one justification for its continued existence. A simple person of good heart can and does more for the whole of mankind than any religious maniac. The good of religion will never offset the unspeakable evil wrought in its name'. The Book of Eve, 1: 1."

*

Huckleberry and his entourage landed at Freedom Center Judah a little over two hours after leaving the dedication of Patboy's Center Reuben.

Center Judah was nestled in a deep Rocky Mountain valley, many miles Northwest of Colorado Springs. The site was chosen for its excellent survivability, in the certain event of a massive nuclear exchange. Huckleberry's Center, it being the center of universal power, was much more resplendent than Patboy's and the other Freedom Centers. Of course, Huckleberry's Center was the "unofficial" seat of government for the UDSA. It would not be ruled "official" until the first nuclear exchanges reduced Washington, D.C. from a swamp to a radioactive waste dump. So, Huckleberry's Center demanded a certain air of dignity and majesty not required of the other Centers.

His helicopter, Savior 1, landed in the broad plaza of marble and snow-melt fountains, which spread out before the entrance to his granite and marble palace. Around the plaza were positioned various government buildings. Everything was constructed of granite and marble and liberally adorned with gold leaf filigree, as Huckleberry imagined the majestic classical temples of old. The effect was more Appalachian Rococo, than representative of Grecian beauty or Roman grandeur.

Gilded sculptures of Jesus, his apostles, nativities, and important scenes and personages from Dominionist scripture and Biblical history dotted the immense square, which measured over a third of a mile on a side. There were depictions of George Washington, wearing a very prominent golden cross around his neck, conducting Bible study with a host of unidentified savage-appearing Native Americans-- their heathen identities unimportant. The attached historical marker told of the Christian's righteous genocide of the Native Americans to fulfill their manifest destiny as God's earthly representatives. Close by was another sculpture depicting Jefferson, also adorned with an over-sized cross of gold, conducting Bible study with a host of unidentified, chained African Americans, appearing stupid and simian. Their enslavement was supported by the relative Biblical verses, displayed on the base of the statue. Thousands of Christian-themed flags, adorning the plaza's perimeter, waved from gleaming silver poles. And, surrounding it all was the expanse of Freedom Center Judah and the formidable snowcapped peaks of the Rocky Mountains.

The day was bright and sunny. Huckleberry stepped from his helicopter and onto the marble pavements. He surveyed his domain, left then right. High above his head, soft fluffy clouds, all white and pristine against an azure blue sky, sailed on stiff breezes, breezes which did not disturb the well-protected valley far below. It was warm, but at this altitude it was much cooler and pleasant than Patboy's desert. The Reverend President Leader took a deep breath of the fresh, crisp mountain air and flashed his toothy grin at the thousands who had gathered to great their glorious Leader.

"All is as it should be," he thought, as he walked tall and proud to the flag draped dais. Straight backed with his head held high, he gathered his powder-blue and white robes in his arms and ascended the twelve powder-blue carpeted steps (the red carpet was considered passé, most would say evil, and therefore, not an appropriate color for Dominionist functions). He took his position at center stage.

Huckleberry's Imperial Guard of the Glorious Host, resplendent in their powder-blue uniforms (designed by Huckleberry himself), with gold buttons, silver braid, white gloves and chromed helmets, came to attention, and the National Band of the Christian Republic of the UDSA immediately struck up a driving rendition of the national anthem, Onward Christian Soldiers, which was quickly followed by a rousing choral performance of God Bless America, made famous a century or two before by the long dead and unknown Kate Stevens or Smith, or something similar...no one could recall for certain--all the history books having been burned long ago.

Huckleberry made a show of standing erect and proud, and especially reverent, as the national anthem was played. And, he allowed a tear for his personal favorite, God Bless America. Respecting a tradition attributed to President Smart the Self Proclaimed many, many years ago, Huckleberry hugged the national flag and grinned stupidly, while the song played. Most in the crowd were moved by his strength and his open display of emotion. They joined with their fearless leader in shedding a tear or two and grinning stupidly.

Immediately following the musical entertainment, a seemingly spontaneous demonstration erupted. All around, the assembled thousands, arranged in military-like ranks and files of several hundred each, with each group identifying their brigade, or specialty, or calling, upon large banners topped with golden eagles, broke into alternating calls of "Praise Jesus" and "Praise Huckleberry", while enthusiastically thrusting their arms skyward in the Dominionist salute.

Squeezing a few more tears from his brilliant blue eyes, Huckleberry placed his right hand over his heart and flashed his broad smile with a feigned humility. He gently dabbed his tears with a white silk handkerchief, then raised his arms in the Dominionist salute. He held the salute as the demonstration continued. Here and there, Huck singled out a face in the crowd, always an attractive female, and gave a playful wink. Most of the women were still unknown to him, but it was comforting that he had all the time in the world to know them all. He flattered a few extra special beauties, with a leering smile. In private, he flattered them in much more colorful ways. Many of the women swooned, overcome with the unexpected recognition from their Most Reverend President Leader. They had sworn to give everything of themselves, even their...lives. They all looked forward to the willing sacrifice.

Then, mysteriously, with no visible sign or audible order, as if on cue, the demonstration came to an end, and all that could be heard was the flapping of the flags. Everyone waited for their Most Reverend President Leader to speak.

Huckleberry beamed. He was so proud of his disciples, who were so much more organized and righteous and...disciple-like...than those of the other Centers. But, then, his disciples would be better than all the rest, because he had handpicked them all himself...with the help of his MEEC (Most Exalted Executive Council), of course, and a few trusted others.

Huckleberry lowered his arms and positioned them as if he were offering a hug. "Righteous brethren," he began, his voice booming from hundreds of loud speakers and echoing off of the stone temples, "on this glorious occasion let us give thanks and praise to He who has made all this possible...made all of you possible...made all of us possible...made me possible, our glorious Cheesus-ah, amen."

"Praise Jesus, amen," the crowd echoed as one.

"I can assure you that all is well with the UDSA. We grow stronger by the day. Hallelujah!"

"Hallelujah," the crowd shouted.

"As you are all well aware, I have just returned from the dedication and official opening of Freedom Center Rueben, our twelfth and final Center. And, I am overjoyed to report that Spiritual Leader Patboy is off to a fine start with a commendable showing of over thirty-five-hundred recent arrests of every kind of Liberalist, satanic Humanist, evil economist and money lender, so-called educators of every heathen stripe, niggers, sodomites, witches, abortionists...every form of human degradation and filth. Praise Cheesus-ah. Amen."

"Praise Jesus," the crowd repeated.

"The world...the Almighty's great creation, made dirty in His sight by these sinners and fornicators and blasphemers, is made cleaner and more righteous this day! Praise Cheesus-ah."

"Praise Jesus," shouted the masses.

"We give our thanks, oh Cheesus-ah, for the fortitude, which you have blessed us to strengthen us in our fight against Satan and his filthy minions, amen."

"Amen," the crowd replied.

"But our work is not done," Huckleberry straightened and opened his eyes wide in pantomimic horror. "No, no, no, not done, not...by...a...long...shot! There are many more demons and witches loose in the hills, hiding in our sewers and slithering in their filth, waiting to entrap and entice and corrupt the righteous with vileness and corruption, raping our women, and stealing our children...for God knows what purpose...we can only dare to imagine..." Huckleberry closed his eyes in disgust, shuddered and slowly shook his head.

Simultaneously, a visible shudder swept through the crowd, which too imagined filthy, lecherous, scabby hands grabbing at their children...and themselves.

"We cannot rest...we cannot relax, not even for a moment...not for a moment, I say!" he boomed. "We must forever be alert and vigilant whilst these whores and sodomites, and filth mongers threaten the purity of our women, the innocence of our children, our righteous souls, our glorious Lord and His glorious creation. Praise Cheesus-ah!" Huckleberry raised his arms in a gesture to include the heavens.

"Praise Jesus," shouted the masses.

"Cheesus-ah, in His love, has called upon us to do great works. He will accept no less than our complete commitment, even unto surrendering our lives...and our bodies (wink and leer) unto his service. The question is can I trust that you will never rest, that you will always give me your full effort?" Huckleberry tilted his head back and regarded his congregation down the length of his Romanesque beak.

"YES...YES...YES...YES...YES!" the crowd shouted, hopping up and down and turning in tight circles.

Huckleberry raised his arms and brought the rally to silence. "Thank-you, yes, and praise Jesus my brothers."

"Praise Jesus," the crowd heartily repeated.

"Thirty-five-hundred Satanists is a start...a good start...but it is yet such a small number...such a small, small, tiny, teensie, eensie, peensie, little number. Consider, if you will, the billions who inhabit God's world, and then consider how precious few of them are righteous and cleansed in the blood of the Lamb. Woe and woe and woe." Huckleberry shook his hanging head.

"Woe and woe and woe," cried the masses.

"Curse and condemn them to Hell...how they fight against us, against the love of Cheesus-ah and the might of Gawd! You might well ask, what are these powers that stand in the way of the heart of love, that fear Gawd's creation, that fear goodness, that think only of themselves, who twist the sacred word for their selfish benefit, who only take and take and take, and never think to give selflessly of themselves, and their riches?"

"Who, who, who?" asked the crowd.

"Why, Satan, my brothers...Satan himself! Huckleberry boomed.

"Woe and woe and woe," shouted the incensed multitude.

"That's right, my brethren...Satan, the sworn enemy of love, the determined enemy of light, the mad destroyer of every good and Gawdly thing...the usurper, green with envy, corrupted by his jealously of the poor little helpless Cheesus-ah in his decrepit old wooden manger."

Huckleberry lowered his head and sobbed a little for the helpless little Jesus. He then made a little show of fighting back his tears and the struggle to gather himself. Finally, he stood erect and defiant and asked, "But what can we do? We are so little and helpless...in the face of all this hate." (More head shaking and sobbing).

"Cleanse, cleanse, cleanse," came the witless reply.

Huckleberry beamed. "Yes, cleanse! That's it! Cleanse blessedly the enemies of the Christ in the holy fires of redemption and salvation...it can be the only answer...the only salvation for those who wish righteousness to prevail."

"Cleanse, cleanse, cleanse," the crowd shouted, mad with a growing ecstasy.

"From the Gospel of Romans: 13:1, 2 and John: 15:6," Huckleberry intoned while raising his right arm to heaven. The gathering came to an abrupt silence. "'Let every soul be subject unto the higher powers. For there is no power but of Gawd: the powers that be are ordained of Gawd. Whosoever therefore resisteth the power, resisteth the ordinance of Gawd: and they that resist shall receive to themselves damnation. If a man not abide in Me, he is cast forth as a branch, and is withered; and men gather them, and cast them into the fire, and they are burned!' Ahhhhhmen!"

"Burn, burn, burn," the crowd shouted as one voice.

"But let us not be fooled into thinking that man, alone, is the enemy...oh no, oh no, no, no..." the Most Reverend President Leader continued. Huckleberry was rolling now.

"No, no, no, no, no," the crowd chanted.

"But, let us consider Ephesians: 6:11, 12, and 14 through 17: 'But, put on the whole armor of Gawd, that ye may be able to stand against the wiles of the Devil. For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places. Stand therefore, having your loins girt about with truth, and having on the breastplate of righteousness; and your feet shod with the preparation of the gospel of peace; above all, taking the shield of faith, wherewith ye shall be able to quench all the fiery darts of the wicked. And take the helmet of salvation, and the sword of the spirit, which is the word of Gawd, and fear not!'"

"No fear, no fear, no fear, no fear, no fear, no fear..." the masses chanted and stamped their feet. The loud clomp, clomp, clomp of their sandaled footfalls echoed around the square and drowned out The Most Reverend President Leader, at the height of his rant.

Huckleberry was surprised by the sudden demonstration. He dropped his arms and regarded his inflamed flock. His face morphed into a beaming smile of self-congratulation. "Damn, I'm good," he thought. Then, characteristically, he too began to clomp around, circling the dais while repeatedly shouting "no fear" and thrusting his fist Heaven-ward. Huck frolicked about with his usual animation, patiently waiting for the energy of the demonstration to die. When, finally, the crowd regained a semblance of order, Huck teased them with an uncomfortably long silence.

"But I will forewarn you!" the Most Reverend shouted into his chin mike, startling most in the congregation, "'whom ye shall fear: fear Him, which after He hath killed hath power to cast into hell; yea, I say unto you, fear Him. He that believeth on Him is not condemned; but he that believeth not is condemned already, because he hath not believed in the name of the only begotten Son of God'. And, so sayeth Luke 12:5 and John 3:18, amen."

"Woe and woe and woe and woe, amen," repeated his inflamed disciples.

Huckleberry hooked the thumb of his right hand under his robe's brilliant white lapel and raised his left hand. His posture was clearly intended to mimic the great orators of old. He took a deep breath and was stopped, suddenly, by a powerful tug on his robe's prodigious sleeve. He stuttered and choked. A very irritated Huckleberry looked down. He saw the top of a slick and shiny black pompadour which concealed the nearly bald pate of Pastor Dick, who tugged and tugged while nervously looking at his watch.

"What, what, what!?" a perturbed Huckleberry shouted.

"What, what, what!?" boomed out of the loudspeakers and echoed around the plaza.

"What, what, what!?" the crowd parroted.

"Oh dear," Pastor Dick said.

"Oh dear," the crowd repeated.

Huckleberry abruptly pushed the chin mike upwards and away from his mouth. He looked scornfully at Dick. "In the name of all that is sacred, what do you want?" Huckleberry seethed.

"Apologies, oh great and powerful...and merciful, Reverend Leader, but we are late for our meeting with the MEEC. There is news on the Middle East situation," Dick whispered.

"Really? Oh, bother the MEEC and their stupid report...I have much more to say, and if you would stop thinking of yourself for just one moment, you'd clearly see that the people love me ...look," Christ-like Huck extended his arms as if to embrace his flock. They cheered. "Look at all those eager faces. They hang on my every word." Huckleberry flashed one of his big toothy smiles. More cheers.

"Praise Huckleberry, Praise Huckleberry, Praise Huckleberry," the crowd demonstrated.

"See, they love me," Huckleberry bawled.

"Apologies, sir, but I just received word...there are rumors that our enemies may possibly form a coalition, one massive army...that more may join with the World Allies...against us," an incredulous Pastor Dick shared. His wide eyes betrayed his real concern. "Russia may join with them!"

"They may...it's possible...they could...perhaps? Really?" The Most Reverend President Leader oozed sarcasm and condescension.

"Yes, sir, it seems as if they may...or could...or will," Pastor Dick replied not able to conceal his confusion and growing alarm.

"Praise Jesus," Huck breathed, his face taking on the appearance of sudden reconsideration, "could this be the sign I've...er, we've been waiting for...," Huck stood tall, and smacked his fist into the palm of his left hand.

"Sign? Waiting for... sir?" an even more confused Pastor Dick squeaked. He looked rapidly to his left and right, thinking he'd somehow find an answer. If he had been an insightful man, he would have recognized the heat, just behind his ears, as a rising resentment for not being made aware of any "sign". How was he to know what to look for, if no one was ever going to tell him what to look for? "The world allying against Jesus was _good_ news...was a sign?" He was sorely perplexed.

Huckleberry accurately surmised that his Pastor Counselor had not considered the implication of his news. The Reverend Leader did not bother to hide his annoyance. "Why is it," he thought, "that my Chief Pastor Counselor always seems to never know what's going on?" His annoyance palpable, Huck snapped at Dick, "The seven-headed beast of Babylon...as foretold, you dolt!" The Reverend Leader glared down his long slender tanned nose at the Pastor Counselor. Dick's face, though red, was a complete blank.

"You have heard of Revelation, have you not? Oh, you know...the last book of the Bible, the Day of Judgment, Hell fire and damnation? Any of that ring a bell?" Huckleberry's teeth were set.

Pastor Dick, forgetting himself and betraying a touch of anger, flushed an even darker red. "Yes sir, of course I do...I'm surprised you'd even think to ask such a question..."

"If you were me, you wouldn't be so surprised," Huckleberry mumbled.

"Excuse me, sir?" Dick asked. His feelings were clearly bruised.

"Oh, for Pete's sake...does this sound familiar? Huckleberry recited from Revelation 17:3: "'I saw a woman sit upon a scarlet coloured beast, full of names of blasphemy, having seven heads...'"

Dick's eyes widened with realization. "Oh, my yes, that's right," Dick said raising his hands to his lips.

"What...what is right?" Huckleberry asked, completely stupefied that Dick would claim to understand anything, and worried that whatever it was he claimed to understand, it would be the wrong thing.

"It is rumored, sir, that Madam Chang's threat to withdraw her army from the world alliance, has won her election as the supreme commander of the World Allies," Dick, all wide-eyed, whispered as he clapped his hands with glee. He now understood the signs of which his glorious Reverend Leader spoke.

It took a moment for the gravity of Dick's report to crawl into Huck's stunned brain. Then, his eyes grew large, betraying a barely controllable excitement. "What? No? Perfect!" Huckleberry rejoiced, once again slamming his fist into his left hand. "Seven empires, led by a slant-eyed whore from...red China...scarlet China...the scarlet beast...endless unspeakable blasphemies, fucking unbelievable!"

Dick swallowed hard at Huck's use of fuck, yet prudently decided to ignore Huck's profanity. "Yes, sir, it must be the sign we have waited for all these long, uhm...thousands of years," an uncertain Dick replied excitedly. He hid his discomfort for not knowing how long ago the prophesy had been made.

"If that's true, then...He is here...He must be here...the Messiah has come...it's the Second Coming," Huckleberry said, to no one in particular.

"Yes, sir, it...it must be." Dick said as he clapped his hands and jumped up and down with childish excitement.

"But where is He...why hasn't He announced Himself? You'd think He'd let someone know He had arrived," Huckleberry continued, now completely ignoring Dick and wringing his hands in joyous rapturous wonderment.

Huckleberry was barely able to keep himself from jumping up and down in a most childish manner. He beamed and chewed his lower lip, while his thoughts immediately turned to himself, as they naturally would. He was chewing on the possibility that the Messiah had not announced His arrival because it was...he, the Most Reverend President Leader—the Chosen of the Chosen.

"Wouldn't it be completely ironic if everyone had been waiting all this time for the Messiah and it had been me all along?" he mused. "Wouldn't it be outrageously stupendous if God chose me? Of course, it would be silly for me to announce my arrival to myself," he thought. Huckleberry grinned. "It is entirely reasonable for me to be the Messiah! I am, after all, the most Chosen of all the Chosen." His eyes were as wide and frightening as any madman's.

"No word has come of anyone having seen a Messiah, sir," Dick offered as he wrung his hands, respectfully mimicking his Reverend Leader.

"Of course," Huckleberry considered, completely unaware that his Chief Pastor Counselor was addressing him, "the signs have been pointing to me all the time, but I have been too busy selflessly saving others to notice. It's just like me to sacrifice myself for others, isn't it?" Huckleberry chuckled softly to himself. "What more proof do I need...does my flock need?" He felt very proud of his selflessness...and his obvious, and well deserved, promotion.

Suddenly, Huckleberry stood still and feigned dramatic alarm. "The beast will be huge...too huge to defeat?" Huckleberry worried aloud.

"Conventionally, sir...ah, very likely, sir...but..." Dick began to reply.

Huckleberry became suddenly conscious of Dick. "But...but what?"

"Sir," Dick resumed, "consider that the bigger the threat, the more glorious and convincing the victory."

"Of course, of course, and the victory will be glorious, sanctified, righteous, blessed..."

"We cannot fail, sir. God's prophesy will be fulfilled."

Huck smiled the biggest toothy grin ever recorded. A vision of Armageddon with burnt and burning sinners filled his mind. He saw himself lit gloriously, floating victorious above the smoking heap, a sword in his left hand and the Bible in his right. "At long last, I have arrived."

"Conventionally, of course, we stand little chance against an army of billions," Dick broke in, shattering Huckleberry's glorious vision. "The huge number of soldiers alone..."

"Of course not," Huckleberry spat, making his annoyance with Dick's interruption quite apparent, "But, glorious Gawd has blessed us with the world's largest nuclear arsenal and the faith to use it. Unconventionally, my squeaky little friend, we will kick their ass!" Then, Huck started as it suddenly occurred to him, "Oh dear, oh, dear, we have much to do...much to prepare...not much time...no, time is short...very, very short!" Huckleberry carefully brushed into place a silvery lock of hair, which had mysteriously managed to break its sticky bonds and spill haphazardly across the heavy makeup of his high forehead. The Reverend Leader appeared very distracted and mysteriously self-amused.

"We should go?" Dick asked.

"Huh...yes, of course. We must recall all our Ambassadors, advisors, and general officers. We must have firsthand accounts from those closest to the action. The order must be sent immediately! For the sake of Jesus, why didn't you say something sooner?" Huckleberry chastised.

Pastor Dick pouted, stepped behind his Most Reverend President Leader, and sulked. "Recall _all_ the Pastor Generals...ah, even Pastor General Mike?" Dick asked this and secretly enjoyed the pain he had just caused his Most Reverend Leader.

Huck's shoulders sagged. "Oh, yes, _him_. How I would like to forget _him_." Huckleberry looked pained. He took a moment to amuse himself with the image of a tortured and crucified Pastor General Mike. "But, we can't, can we...we can't forget the Supreme Pastor Commander of our military," Huck sighed. "No, he must be present."

Dick smiled, just a little.

Huckleberry repositioned his chin microphone and stood silently, surveying his disciples. There they all stood, thousands of them patiently waiting. All were quiet. Only the flapping flags were heard. Huck gathered himself into what he considered the majesty of his more calm and professional public self. He betrayed not a hint of his excitement. What a day. The time for the fulfillment of God's Prophesy had been revealed to him. But, most importantly, his apotheosis as savior of the world, and the Chosen, had been revealed, as well. He sniffed back a real tear and cleared his throat.

"Brethren," he said solemnly, "I've just received news of potentially apocalyptic proportions. I cannot say for certain now, so I will not say more...at this time...but take heart, all is well...you are in good hands. You are in God's hands."

"Praise Huckleberry," shouted the masses.

"Now, take to your scripture and read the Revelation. Learn it well. The time may well be nigh."

"Woe and woe and woe," the ecstatic crowd shouted.

"I must go...now." With that Huckleberry hastily descended the dais and walked the fifty steps to his waiting limousine. He and his Chief Pastor Counselor of the Most Exalted Executive Council hastily took their seats of honor in the back of their respective powder-blue limos. On the sides of each limousine there was a large golden cross set upon a yellow sunburst. The official flag of the Office of the Most Reverend President Leader flew from atop each front fender of Huckleberry's limo. Noticeably smaller flags, representing the MEEC, adorned the front fenders of Dick's limo.

The entourage of limousines, escort vehicles and security police quickly retreated across the plaza, past all the monuments and fountains, and past the elevated crypts of "The Five Martyred Souls."

CHORUS

"'The Five Martyred Souls', their mummified faces, fixed as if asleep, and visible through little transparent windows cut into their silver and gold crypts, were set atop twelve-foot high Italian marble pedestals. They held places of the highest honor in the Dominionist's mythology. Every school boy knew of The Five: the portly petrochemical mogul, a major financier of the Dominionist's cause; the two smirking self-satisfied mass media moguls, masters of misinformation and propaganda; the balding, rotund comedian, a specialist in shaming, belittling, discrediting and besmirching the reputations of Dominionist foes; and the skinny, nervous female radio personality, a virtuoso of misinformation and incitement."

"Reportedly ignoring endless death threats, The Five unwaveringly championed the Dominionist Family cause, were relentless in denouncing all non-believers as un-American, insisted that a Biblical interpretation of the US Constitution was the only true interpretation, were indispensible in fighting against the corrupting influence of science and education, unfalteringly supported the Most Reverend President Leader, no matter his lies or incompetence, and fought tirelessly to reveal America's true history as a history of God's eternal struggle over the will of Satan."

"Colossians 3 and Romans 5 and 13 were the source of their guiding principles: 'Servants, obey in all things your masters according to the flesh; not with eyeservice, as manpleasers; but in singleness of heart, fearing God,'(Colossians: 3: 22); and, 'For as by one man's disobedience many were made sinners, so by the obedience of one shall many be made righteous,' (Romans: 5: 19); and, 'Let every soul be subject unto the higher powers. For there is no power but of God: the powers that be are ordained of God. Whosoever therefore resisteth the power, resisteth the ordinance of God: they that resist shall receive to themselves damnation, (Romans: 13)'"

"The Five were indispensible strategic weapons in the Dominionist Holy War against the USA and the Liberal Takers. They were irrefutable proof of the effectiveness of obscene wealth and unchecked propaganda. The Five were patriots of the highest esteem, who had proven their mettle by never denouncing their faith in God, despite their arrest, horrendous torture, and their eventual brutal executions at the hands of their Liberal captors. All sanctified humanity owed an unwavering reverence to The Five, unto death."

"Interestingly, however, the official story of The Five's martyrdom was very different from the actual story. As a matter of fact, The Five had been martyred for far less noble reasons than refusing to renounce their beliefs. And, perhaps, most interestingly, they had not been martyred by the Liberals or the Takers. No, they had been martyred by The Most Reverend President Leader Smart the Self-proclaimed. The Five, despite their self-proclaimed wisdom, had overlooked the fact, that, as far as Smart was concerned, they were too clever and powerful by half, and thus presented a great potential danger to him. The Most Reverend President Leader Smart correctly surmised that whomsoever they made they could break."

"These celebrities of misinformation, useful as they had been, had outlived their need. So, Smart, with Huckleberry's full support, had The Five kidnapped one warm May night. Of course, the blame was laid at the feet of the scandalous demonic Liberals. The horrible story dominated the Dominionist State News for months."

"The Five, for their potential treachery, were tortured over the course of several months. Eventually, Smart tired of the sport and bestowed mercy upon them. He ordered them executed...in a most gruesome manner. Over the course of twelve days, severed pieces of their mangled bodies were dumped, at random, in town squares around New York City, San Francisco, and Washington, D.C. Of course, the devastating wounds and bloody carnage incited uncontrollable outrage against all Liberal Humanist faggots. Predictably, inflamed by a burning patriotism and outraged beyond the spirit of common decency, Smart's uncontrollable minions rose up. What followed were bloody riots and purges of Liberal neighborhoods all across the UDSA. Many a mad dictator would have been made proud. From then on, every oath pledged by a Dominionist to the cause, included reference to the honor of The Five Martyred Souls."

*

The limousines came to a stop three-hundred fifty yards later at the polished black marble steps leading to Huckleberry's gilded elevator. He and Pastor Dick exited their vehicles and, with their black uniformed Secret Service Police detail in tow, gracefully climbed the twelve polished black steps to a broad terrace. The terrace was lined with twenty-four armed Imperial Guards of the Glorious Host, resplendent in their powder-blue uniforms, twelve to a side.

A mild breeze blew and gently tugged at Huck and Dick's colorful robes, adding an element of drama and grace to the procession. The Most Reverend President Leader and Chief Pastor Counselor Dick seemed to float through the columns of the impeccably uniformed guard. They stepped lightly into the elaborately decorated golden elevator. The ranking secret service officer pushed the one illuminated red button on the elevator's control panel. The twelve-foot-high golden doors shut silently, the elevator emitted a nearly silent "whoosh" and gave a gentle lurch. It gained speed quickly and made short work of the thirteen-hundred-fifty-foot ride to the relay elevator's platform. The relay elevator, equally resplendent, carried them an additional twelve hundred feet to the mountain's summit.

The golden elevator, whose shaft had been cut into the solid rock by Secular slaves, delivered the Dominionist dignitaries and their security detail to the powder-blue and gold antechamber. The chamber and the Royal Palace towered high above the Royal Subjects, populating the Royal Courtyard in the Royal Valley far below.

Arriving at the summit, the doors opened, and the occupants faced a pair of thirty-foot-high golden doors. Beyond the doors was the sparsely furnished receiving hall. At the far end of the receiving hall there were fifty steps of polished black marble leading up to another set of thirty-foot-high golden doors. Beyond those doors was the immense reception hall, fifty yards deep and decorated with huge, religious-themed paintings. At the very end of the reception hall was yet another set of golden doors, and beyond those was the lavish throne room. Each set of doors was attended by two armed Imperial Guards of the Glorious Host, doubling as doormen. Theirs were considered positions of great honor.

The throne room, like the other rooms, was draped in red and powder-blue velvet and trimmed in twenty-four-carat gold. Representations of Jesus, Gawd (angry and pointing a finger of judgment from the dome, high overhead), angels, prophets, disciples, the Founding Fathers, crosses, and important religious scenes decorated the walls. A huge national flag, draped from a golden standard, decorated each corner of the immense, dome-ceilinged room. And, curiously, huge mosaics of Jesus the Savior, sitting on his throne of judgment, laid into the black marble floors, rested alongside equally huge mosaics of Adolf Hitler standing astride the world, holding the words "FAITH THROUGH OBEDIANCE" high above his head.

CHORUS

"A disturbing and little-known fact was that Adolf Hitler had long been admired (actually, worshipped) by the Dominionists, largely for reasons of shared values (wink and nod): ruthless efficiency, unquestioning obedience/loyalty to the cause, and merciless revenge and murderous retaliation for disloyalty. 'Jesus plus Nothing' was nothing but a Hitlerian concept dressed up for the Christian crowd. The Dominionists, clinging to Hitler's Catholic roots for dear life, sold him as a steadfast Christian with clear-cut goals, and exemplary values, such as determination, boldness in the face of adversity, and, most importantly, an uncanny ability to extract unwavering obedience from his adoring fans. If he had any faults at all, according to the Dominionist Family, it was that he had not expressed his Christianity as strongly as they would have liked, that he could have been a bit more methodical and less inclined to spontaneous and unwise outbursts of anger, a bit more willing to engage in thoughtful planning, a bit more clever in concealing his methods from those of little understanding, and a bit more successful. His philosophy, methods, and his goals, despite his ultimate defeat, were lauded by the Dominionists. They flattered him by copying his every move. Their faith was in God, but their method was in Hitler."

*

Huckleberry's throne room was located on the top of the highest peak overlooking the long wide valley, where he literally lorded over everyone. The throne room overlooked all of his Freedom Center and nearly gave him a three-hundred-sixty-degree view of the surrounding valleys. When he wasn't getting to "know" one of his female parishioners better, he would lounge on his intricately carved gilded throne most of the day, most days of the week. From this perch, he governed his empire of over-sexed, perverted, genocidal, psychotic yes-men and submissive, ignorant, child-bearing females. From this lofty height he directed the murder of billions, the imprisonment and torture of millions, and the rapturous, revealed life of thousands. It was no stretch for him to believe that he had become a God.

His throne, constructed of highly polished oak, with intricately devised gold inlay, precious jewels and brightly colored enameled appliqués, was massive. It depicted scenes of the Annunciation, the Nativity, the Sermon on the Mount, the Last Supper, and, of course, the Scourging, the Crucifixion, the Resurrection, the Rapture, and, Huckleberry's favorite, the Last Judgment--with its many scenes of agony, misery, fire and gnashing of teeth. At the very top, standing proud of the throne and out of proportion, was a huge golden cross. And high above his head, overhanging Huckleberry's throne, like a Damoclesian Sword, was a gigantic smiling Savior, intricately modeled in gold and nailed to a rough wooden cross. Sometimes, the half-light of the early morning gave the Savior the most odd and unfriendly appearance. Fortunately, that condition was only a temporary illusion...a play of light.

Huckleberry publicly spoke of himself as next-in-line to the godhead, and that he thought his throne in the perfect position for that eventual apotheosis. Some may find it interesting that he was not considered blasphemous for making such pronouncements. Consider, if you will, that every word the Most Reverend President Leader uttered was the inerrant word of God. Huck could no more blaspheme than could God. To his congregation, Huck was a God already. After all, he was the most elite of the elite.

CHORUS

"Huckleberry, of course, like all Dominionists, humbly believed in predestination and, of course, his predestined apotheosis. Their reasoning to the common, unschooled layman seemed childish, but it went something like this: We are in a position of great power. Positions of great power are only bestowed upon those blessed by God. Those blessed by God are predestined by God to be blessed. Having been so blessed, we can do naught but fulfill God's plan. Therefore, as we are subject to the Great Divine Will, we are held blameless in the eyes of the world and the Lord. He has willed that we are His will. Or, _si vous prefere_ : We are great, because we are great. We are blameless because God made us blameless. Nothing we do is bad because God, by definition, is completely good. It sucks not to be a Dominionist."

"The special rule of God's will applied to all Dominionists, of course. But it applied even more so to the inerrant leaders, like Smart and Huckleberry, who were, after all, chosen to rule the Chosen. Obviously, being predestined to rule the Chosen meant that The Most Reverend President Leader was even more special than all the special people over which he ruled. In other words, in the absence of any real God, he was God. Understandably, when any human claims to be fulfilling God's destiny it is very tempting and convenient for that person to confuse his will with God's will, or at the very least, become lazy in discriminating between the two. But, in Huckleberry's case there was no danger of 'will confusion', because conveniently, God willed that Huckleberry's will and His be the same."

"If one has been following the discussion, then it will be easy to see that there was no difference in the two wills; by the transitive property, Huck's will, obviously, was equal to God's will. To Huckleberry's fellow Dominionists this was academic. Besides, nothing that Huckleberry/God did was harmful...especially, to them...for now, at least. So, why should they care what happened to everyone else?"

*

And, we must not forget that at the foot of Huck's throne, sitting upon a gold-painted chair of poplar with red cushions, sat Pastor Dick, like an eager puppy.

Comfortably ensconced upon the lounging pillows of his throne, Huckleberry extended his beautifully manicured, elegant fingers of his smallish hands into the colorful bowl of fruit on his right. From it he plucked a large frosted purple grape and held it before him, inspecting its color, shape, and size. Upon passing review, Huck popped the grape into his mouth and bit. Instantly, his mouth was flooded with a juice, so wonderful, so sweet, and so refreshing, as too bugger description. He smiled.

Twelve feet below, looking upon their Reverend Leader with obsequious, oleaginous, vapid expressions, excitedly awaiting their orders, were: the aforementioned Pastor Dick; the staid, stoic, polished and ever hopeful of promotion Pastor Adjutant Major General Samuel Kind (fourth junior to Supreme Pastor General Mike); the ever jovial Pastor Grand Inquisitor Harold, and the various necessary secretaries and supporting staff.

Over the course of the next few hours, Huckleberry and his advisors identified those officials who would attend his summit regarding the impending Apocalypse. Only the most essential personnel and their supporting staff would be recalled from stations scattered around the world. The summit was set for four days hence, and all would converge on Freedom Center Judah's mega-church, the only venue large enough to accommodate the gathering.
CHAPTER 7:

It had been nearly eight years since the nuclear exchanges between the United Dominionist States of America (UDSA) and its opposition, the World Allies, led by Madam Chang and the Chinese. The resultant nuclear winter had lasted nearly three times as long as anyone had predicted. Nearly all the land area of the earth laid in uninhabitable ruin. No significant commercial centers remained; the great universities were dust; the accumulated knowledge of over three thousand years was scattered and evaporated in the fireballs of ignorance, avarice, superstition, religious zealotry, and political correctness.

Eve's time was a time of anarchy. No great nation states remained. No rule of law remained. Humans had survived, some by design and most by accident: the Dominionists by design and the Patriots and a few others, largely, by accident.

Here and there, around the world, there were pockets of human activity. A few pockets of humanity were numbered in the one-or-two-thousands, but most were numbered in the hundreds and tens. The total world population was probably less than three-hundred-thousand and decreasing rapidly. As the nuclear winter persisted, food became more and more scarce, people murdered one another for ever decreasing resources, diseases flourished, and the slightest injury quickly became lethal.

UDSA's east and west coasts, and the large metropolitan centers of its interior, were uninhabitable debris fields of molten glass, twisted steel, and irradiated rotting corpses. The survivors of North America lived in the devastated and dying backwoods of the Appalachians, the frozen valleys of the Rockies, and the windblown deserts of the southwest.

It was a time of perpetual dreariness. Dirty yellow, brown, and sometimes red clouds had hovered low overhead for nearly seven years, and the sun, when visible, was only a ghostly glow, a slightly brighter spot in the overcast. More days than not, suffocating dust storms driven by fierce winds plagued the desert regions of the southwest. Huge thunderstorms flooded and pounded the old south, and monstrous blizzards buried the north and central plain regions. Globally the overwhelming share of plants lay dormant, dying, dead, or burnt to cinder. Light snows had become a common desert phenomenon. In the desert, food was plentiful, if one had a taste for rodent, grasses, scrub brush, insects--especially cockroaches--or had the guts to attack Relic convoys and raid the farm fields of the Freedom Centers.

An eerie overcast tumbled and rolled low overhead, while the unrelenting wind, and the occasional gunship, added spice to the dreariness of it all.

Eve looked out upon the shallow valley to the east. The day was six hours old, yet details of the valley landscape were still hard to make out. She looked to the sky again and searched for any sign that the cloud cover was loosening its grip on the sun. But the clouds were just as thick and turbulent as ever. Sheet lightning made odd shapes in the clouds...silhouettes, faces, a rabbit. She lowered her weary eyes.

Juanita, leader of Eve's first division, stopped in front of Eve. The gunship's strafing had injured several of Juanita's fighters, and she was angrier than hell and ready for a fight, now more than ever.

"We were going to knock that fucker out of the sky, but the dust was so frick'n thick we couldn't see a god-damned thing," she said in greeting Eve. She removed her protective goggles, which resulted in a cascade of red-brown powdered debris falling from her close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair.

Eve slowly raised her head and focused her blood shot eyes on Juanita. "Hmmm," came her weary reply.

"You O.K.?" Juanita asked.

"No," Eve breathed. "You?"

"Mad as hell, but uninjured."

"You got two dead...?"

"Yeah, two dead, eight wounded, one serious, and all seriously irate and itching for payback," Juanita replied. "That fucker!" she yelled.

Juanita was 18 when she enlisted as a private in the Marines. She served in the Middle East during Operation Indefinite Occupation, the United States-instigated oil and religious crusade, thinly veiled as an attempt to spread democracy. She had been a gunner on a tractor-trailer rig. Juanita served with distinction and received a battlefield commission for valor under fire. She resigned her commission after 9 years due to increasing pressure from the recently formed DDOD (Dominionist Department of Defense), which was directed to identify and dishonorably discharge anyone of suspect sexual orientation, no matter how skilled the individual. She had achieved the rank of Major.

About nine years ago, Juanita and her partner had settled into a modest house in the Phoenix suburbs. She and her partner, Beverly, lived quietly and secretly as "sisters", hoping that the Dominionists would overlook them. Unfortunately, on a tip from someone hoping to gain favor with the authorities, the local Freedom Police kicked in the door of their three-bedroom ranch and took them, bound and gagged, to the Maricopa Federal Penal Colony. There, Juanita and Beverly were charged with indecent and immoral behavior; their accusers citing the Romans 1:26 statute of the UDSA Constitution.

They were separated. Juanita was subjected to an ongoing and painful "blessed conversion" process. And, after three months of torture and her continued refusal to renounce her partner and her homosexuality, Juanita's forehead was branded with a large "S" (sodomite). She was sentenced to death. Juanita was detained for six months on the Blessed Cleansing block, awaiting her turn at the stake, when she was awakened by gunfire and an explosion which tore away a part of her cell wall. When the dust cleared, she saw a disheveled, thin, five-foot-six-inch woman with a pistol, hustling inmates along a corridor to safety. It was Eve. Of course, Juanita jumped at the chance to join with Eve's revolutionaries and, naturally, became a commander. Though not called upon to do so, she gladly vowed to give her life for Eve. Juanita never saw Beverly again.

Bill, Eve's second division commander, looking solemn and determined, joined the small group. William David Tucker, 36, six-feet-one-inch and one-hundred-ninety pounds, had been with Eve since the Tonto Forrest. He had been a captain and commander of Charlie Company 2ndSpecial Forces during the Iranian holocaust. He still wore his, now somewhat tatty, green beret. After serving two years in the Middle East he had seen enough of religious barbarism, on all sides, to know that religion in the hands of mere humans was a very dangerous, wasteful, dehumanizing and inglorious vocation.

The military, for some time prior to and during Bill's service, required all military personnel to be devout students of the Christian faith. Church services, Bible study, and prayer meetings were mandatory affairs. Biblical Morale Officers (BMO's) were assigned to each command to ensure that a strict Biblical code of conduct was followed. All non-Christians were barred from military service. Anyone caught engaging in un-Christian like behavior was black-listed and dishonorably discharged. Bill knew the danger. He was not religious, but there was no other way to become a Green Beret.

Overwhelmed by the hypocrisy of it all, Bill resigned his commission and returned to Phoenix where he purchased and managed an unsuccessful automotive repair shop. Two years into his marriage, Bill's wife, weary of his failures and frequent drinking, left him for a high-ranking Dominionist official. It was a short while thereafter that Bill's lack of any religious affiliation was made public in the 'WANTED' lists of the Phoenix Christian Free Press. Bill realized, correctly, that it was just a matter of time before he would be visited by the Freedom Police. A trained survivalist, he packed only the essentials and vanished into the wilderness east of Phoenix. Eve learned all she knew about guerrilla warfare from Bill.

"Morning," Eve replied, shaking her head in amusement at Bill.

"Unkempt but lethal," Juanita joked, divining the reason for Eve's amusement. She tugged at Bill's shirt tail, which had become untucked, and was now caught in his fatigue jacket zipper.

"What?" Bill asked, annoyed at the joke. He yanked hard on the jacket's zipper to free his shirt. "When you got a Cobra buzzing around your ears you don't put a lot effort into grooming," he defended.

"I need to get into the fight," Juanita almost shouted. "It's time to shit or get off the pot. We have no future, wandering around in this nowhere fucking desert."

Everyone knew that the combined effect of exposure, disease, radiation, malnutrition, and war would likely result in their complete annihilation in a year or two...if they were lucky.

"Yeah, there's the rub," Bill observed, "where to go...desert or Freedom Center? There's nowhere else. I've seen a so-called Freedom Center. It was a very well-armed death camp. I prefer the desert."

"Right now, we have the strength to pull something off...something big...a last ditch, throw caution to the wind thing," Eve said. "If we wait, there will be none of us left. Our only choice is to take a Freedom Center...or die out here."

The three were silent. An irritated and angry Juanita started pacing.

Burt, standing guard, as usual, showed no apparent interest in the conversation. Tommy, however, sitting on a camp bag nearby, heard three influential people discussing the fates of many uninfluential people. History was full of tragic stories where many died for the big ideas of a few. But, Tommy realized, this time the choices were death or death...sooner vs. a little later, so, really, what difference did any of it make?

"So, which is it, a pathetic desert death, or do we go down fighting Fuck Face Huckleberry and Fatboy Patboy?" a very agitated Juanita asked.

"Huckleberry has what, maybe eight...nine-thousand well-armed madmen?" Bill observed.

"More than ten-thousand," Juanita corrected.

"So, it's Patboy, then?" Eve asked.

"Hell, he has at least eight-thousand armed fanatics," Bill observed, "how the fuck are we going to win against those odds?"

No one had an answer. Disgusted, Bill took a seat on a nearby boulder.

"Win?" Juanita laughed. "How the hell do you think we'd ever win? I'd be happy just to kill as many of those maggots as I could, and to get my hands on that porker in his pretty blue suit!"

"Well, we sure as hell aren't going to do much damage with a frontal assault. We need trickery, diversion, distraction...something to even the odds," Eve thought aloud.

"So, you're with Juanita? The decision has been made?" Bill asked.

"Fuck, Bill, what choice do we have?" an annoyed Eve asked.

"There's a lot of open desert to cross between here and Fatboy's. We'll be vulnerable to attack the entire way. Shit, it'll take us a fuck'n week to get there." Bill observed.

"I agree," Juanita said, "but a week wandering around setting up ambushes and hoping to get lucky, is no better. You know as well as I, that it is only a matter of time before they come at us in force. They know we are out here. You think that gunship was a fluke? They're looking for us, Bill!" Juanita yelled.

"We've gotten pretty good at avoiding detection, and a week is a week, whether we're out here eating rats or humping our shit to Fatboy's," Eve added.

"Yeah, I never thought I'd be grateful for the gloom and dust, but it has helped us survive," Bill groused. "We need to get into that Center...undetected."

Juanita and Eve stared in amazement at Bill.

"Undetected...did you say?" Juanita scoffed.

"It's the only way that would give us a chance," Bill defended.

"We could get close if they thought we were one of them," Eve offered.

"Are you shittin' me?" Bill asked. "One of them...well, I guess we could eventually get enough uniforms and shit to look like them, but how could we trick them into thinking that...what...we're some kind of a lost patrol that's turned up on their doorstep? I know they're fucking stupid, but I think that they probably have a pretty good idea of who's missing and who isn't." He looked at Juanita hoping for some sanity and, seeing her narrowed eyes and set jaw, he recognized that she was as mad as Eve. He broke into a broad grin.

"What's so fucking funny?" Juanita challenged.

"We're all fuck'n nuts," Bill answered.

"It's time we paid Patboy a visit. I figure we can move north along this ridge using it for cover. Break camp and prepare to move within the hour." Eve said.

"You're fucking crazy," Bill replied. "You want to go through with this? We are what...thirty-five hundred, cold, starving, sick, and injured zombies, barely alive, and you want to take on Patboy? What's he have...maybe eight or nine thousand well-armed, fed and rested fanatical nut jobs...not counting the maniacal women and children...who think killing is a blessing from Gawd? What could possibly go fucking wrong with that plan?"

"Yes, you are right, we are sick and starving, and it's getting worse by the day. Ten died in the last two weeks from exposure and sickness. We will all be dead within the year if we don't find some permanent shelter somewhere. It's hopeless, I know, but Patboy is all we have," Eve replied.

"So, you're saying we die by exposure or we die fighting to live?" Juanita clarified, more for Bill's benefit than her own. Juanita stopped pacing and fixed her angry eyes on Bill, daring him to challenge her.

"That's right...we have nothing to lose. We are dead either way." Eve surveyed the shivering ragtag refugees surrounding her. "Hell, most of us are dead already and just don't know it."

"Go out in one big _bonzai_ attack, because we ain't gonna make it anyway?" Bill laughed.

"That's right, Bill. Except, maybe we can make it, if we can get the better of Patboy and get our people under shelter," Eve replied coming to her feet.

"A big if," Bill countered.

"Oh, Jesus fucking Christ, Bill, what the fuck do you want of me? We don't have any other choice!" Eve broke into one of her frightening fits of coughing.

"Oh, Jesus...Eve...here, sit down," Bill said taking her arms and guiding her to a nearby rock. He removed his fatigue jacket and wrapped it tightly around Eve's shoulders. He held her until the coughing subsided. She went limp in his arms.

"Eve's right and you know it," Juanita challenged. "Besides, Patboy can't be in good shape," she added, while offering sips of water to Eve. "He planned for, what...three years of nuclear winter and we are seven...nearly eight years in. Man, he's got to be having things go wrong for him...running out of spare parts, food supplies dwindling, medical supplies being depleted. Those Freedom Centers weren't designed to last this long."

"More if's," Bill scoffed.

"O.K., smart ass, what do you propose?" a hoarse Eve shot back, her eyes intense and filled with anger. "Maybe we can wander around in the cold and eat rats and stolen stores for another decade...do ya think?" Eve made no attempt to conceal her sarcasm. Unstable, she stood up, despite Bill's attempts to keep her seated.

"Yeah...and when we run out of band-aids and Rodent Helper we'll just run on down to the corner store and..." Eve's building rant was interrupted by a return of her deep hoarse cough. She was quickly reduced to uncontrollable coughing; coughs which seemed to come from deep within her bowels. Eve's knees buckled and Bill caught her. He gently lowered her to the ground. He lay with her and held her as her body contracted in spasm after spasm. Bloody spittle and mucous collected on her hands, covering her mouth. Bill rolled her onto her side and let the spittle run into the icy earth.

The fit suddenly ended. Eve, wheezing, lay in the dirt with Bill holding her. Her breathing was labored, and her body was limp. He could feel the weakness in her. His heart sank. She was dying...slowly...just as she said the others were dying. There was no hiding it.

A crowd gathered around her. Each one was moved to do something for her, but, ultimately, each was rendered completely helpless, without knowledge, medical supplies, or shelter.

"We've got to try defeating Patboy. It's Eve's best shot at making it. We can't keep living like this and expect her to go on much longer." Juanita's eyes were filling with tears as she spoke.

Eve made an effort to sit up against Bill's protest. "Sorry about that," she said. Bill reached into Eve's fatigue jacket pocket and fetched the bloody rag he knew she kept there. He wiped her mouth and hands clean of the bloody spittle.

"It's too late for me," Eve responded matter-of-factly, "but not for you. We have survived in this wilderness far longer than anyone has the right. But we can't keep going on like this. As I see it, we can die, miserable, cold and starving in this fucking wasteland, or we can take our chances...taking out that fat-ass, Patboy. If I die doing that, then I will feel like I have lived to do something great. If I die out here, I die a failure." She placed a hand on Bill's shoulder as she made an attempt to stand. But Bill interceded and came to his feet holding her in his arms. To him she weighed nothing. He then gently lowered her until her feet met the ground. He held her steady. She did not have the strength to support her own weight.

Burt watched disapprovingly. He challenged Bill with a look, which could only be interpreted as serious, determined, and unafraid. Burt picked Eve up in his arms and held her close. Bill made no attempt to resist. He knew no harm would come to Eve as long as Burt was on the job.

"Shit," Bill said, "no one dying pitifully in the desert ever had a heroic story written about them. If, we expect to go down in history as the noble, courageous fighting dickheads we truly are, then only a last desperate stand against impossible odds will serve. On to Fatboy's!" Bill threw a clenched fist into the air and flashed his most disarming boyish smile...the one that none of the girls could resist.

"Fucking Yeah!" Juanita cheered, "On to fucking Fatboy's!"

An hour later, Eve's army stood in the half-light ready to move. Point guards, flankers, and tail-end-Charlies were placed. On Eve's command the thirty-five hundred men, women and children began their frosty trek across the desert. With any luck the day would warm to at least forty-five degrees.

The army carried all that it needed on its back. They were remarkably silent. There was no talking, banging or rattling of gear. Even the children, who had witnessed the horror of war, knew the importance of silence. Everyone kept watch for any sign of Dominionist activity, especially the gunships.

The low, heavily silted sky and electrically charged atmosphere made the use of satellite reconnaissance inefficient, if not impossible, and the heavily silted air and limited fuel resources made jet aircraft impractical. But, the Dominionists had plenty of low altitude/low tech propeller and rotor aircraft that were efficient and effective enough. It behooved any unofficial traveler to be watchful of the low fliers. Any traveler considered "unofficial" was usually, and without warning, killed on the spot. Eve and her army had no doubt that they would be considered "unofficial". Usually one could hear the approach of any aircraft and be able to take cover before being spotted. But the wind sometimes masked their engines, so it was best to scan the sky diligently, as one moved about.

It took them all day, but Eve's army made it to a tributary of the Rio Puerco by nightfall--as Bill had predicted. The army dug in on the southwest side of the ridges just south of the river. Scouts reported that all was clear, and water bags and canteens were filled. Sentries were placed. The weary marchers broke out bags of dried rattlesnake meat, rat jerky, and packets of dehydrated vegetables taken from Dominionist stores. No fires were lit under strict orders.

Eve crawled into her tent. She was disappointed with the day's progress. She chewed on self-doubt for a short while and then reassured herself, "Patboy isn't going anywhere." She rolled onto her side, grimaced, and coughed up a bit of red dust. A light snow, tinged with soot, began to fall. They settled in for another cold night. The five day march would resume at first light.

The violent flapping of Eve's tent awakened her. The little black cardboard cutout men, who had very nearly succeeded in murdering her during the night, dissolved into a gray haze as she opened her eyes. Eve's stomach was upset, and she had a headache. It was nearly dawn, and the wind was kicking up a dust storm. Some sand had entered the tent through a ventilation zipper and had wedged itself between her sleeping bag and bare backside. She brushed the sand off her ass, reached into the foot of her sleeping bag and grabbed her insulated underwear and worn desert fatigue pants. She pulled them on. She and her army had survived the five-day march mostly intact. There had been only three deaths: two from the deadly tincture of old age and exposure, one from wounds inflicted by the gunship.

"Get up." Eve said, poking Bill with her elbow.

"Huh? What the hell?" Bill grumbled, not moving a muscle.

"Come on. Get up." Eve insisted. "We've got work to do."

"Uh huh. I could think of some work we could do without leaving the tent," Bill mumbled. He rolled over and pulled Eve to him, giving her a little kiss.

Eve frowned and closed her bloodshot hazel eyes, "You know what I miss?"

"What?"

"Mouthwash," Eve whispered.

Bill stiffened, "Well, you don't smell like roses and lilacs, either."

Eve pulled herself loose and unzipped the tent flap. A whirlwind of sand blew through the opening.

"Jesus Christ!" Bill yelped, "Close the god damned flap!"

"Come on." Eve said as she stood with her back to the wind and biting sand. She covered her eyes with goggles, comically large for her small head, wrapped a heavy scarf around her lower face, and tugged her bush hat as low on her head as it would go. She secured the hat with a shoelace, tied to the brim, and routed snugly under her chin. The biting sand still found exposed flesh. She fiddled some with her clothing, but the sand and wind always found a way to bite and abrade.

Eve's body guard, Burt, approached, his head bowed into the wind. "Nothing to report, ma'am," he signed. She noted his moving lips hidden behind his bandana.

"Thanks Burt," Eve shouted pulling the hood of her jacket over her head. She adjusted the loose-fitting goggles over her eyes. Surveying the area, Eve calculated that visibility was variable from about a quarter to a short one-half mile.

"Burt, get Juanita and the platoon leaders up here, please."

Burt nodded his head and gave Tommy a look that needed no interpretation. Tommy trotted off to get Juanita and the platoon leaders.

Bill crawled from the tent and stood next to Eve. He stood a shoulder and head taller than her. "I hate this fucking war," Bill said stamping his feet and flapping his arms across his chest to get the blood circulating.

"Must you swear all the time?" Eve asked, half joking.

"Fuck, yeah...ah, you've got to be shittin' me! The fucking world's blown to hell and back, and you're bitching about some cussing? Like you're some kind of Girl Scout? Gim'me a break. Besides, given all this shit we have to put up with, swearing seems appropriate and...therapeutic. It makes me feel better. Fuck, it's a badge of honor...a 'fuck you' to those fancy-ass Relic mother-fuc..."

Eve smiled at Bill while he ranted.

"What the hell you smiling at?"

"It's clear why I love you."

"Funny way to show it," Bill pouted...just a little.

Juanita and the platoon leaders interrupted any further discussion. They stood around Eve with their backs to the wind. Some were stamping and flapping their arms for warmth, while others had their hands stuffed deep into their pockets. Some had winter hats with ear flaps pulled down tight, while others had buried their heads in the hoods of their fatigue jackets. Some had cloths wrapped around their heads for protection. All wore goggles and had their faces covered with bandanas or rags, for protection against the stinging sand.

"Follow me," Eve shouted above the noise of the wind.

She walked about fifty yards to the edge of the low bluff, overlooking the river and the rock wall on the far side. The flood plain was approximately one-half mile wide. They could barely make out the rock wall on the other side of the river and guessed its height at one hundred feet or more. The shallow, slow-moving river was only about thirty yards across. The river was another monument to nuclear winter. The Rio Puerco, once an arroyo, dry most of the year, was now a tributary of an extensive river system, fed from snow melt from far-away elevations.

"The maps and captured documents indicate that this river supplies about a third of Fatboy's water," she shouted. "I'm thinking that we can blow that rock wall into the river, jam up a part of Patboy's water supply and get that fat toad out of his hole?" Eve looked at Charlie, her chief engineer, "what do you think?"

Charlie regarded, first Eve, then the valley below, "Well ma'am...ah, yeah, it's possible, I suppose." Charlie was an ex-construction crew leader and one of Eve's favorite platoon leaders.

"Do you mean that it's 'possible-possible' or "just to be nice, you'll say it's 'possible-possible'?" Eve knew better than to think Charlie would kiss her ass, but she pretended to be annoyed anyway.

"Sorry," Charlie answered, looking a bit annoyed, himself, "'possible-possible'...I suppose, but I'll need a closer look." He regarded Eve and rightly assessed that his answer was not good enough. He took a breath and then added, "If we dropped that wall right about there," Charlie yelled, pointing to a narrows less than a quarter mile southeast of their position, "it looks like, from here, that we could dam it...choke it off."

Eve thought for a moment. "You mean we'd fill this valley with water...make a lake?" Eve asked.

"If that's what you want. Yes, we probably could do that," Charlie confirmed. "But..."

"But, what?" Eve cut in.

"But any engineer worth his salt would quickly see that the dam was not natural. They'd smell a rat, sure as shit. If you want surprise, then we should try a smaller slide...reroute the course...looks more accidental that way," Charlie finished.

"How?"

"Damming a river requires thoroughness. Nature is rarely that thorough...," Charlie began.

"We need surprise...we need to fool them into letting their guard down...relaxing," Eve cut in.

"Ma'am, I need to get a better look once this storm passes," Charlie said. "I can't see enough to make any reliable recommendations."

"Charlie, we don't have much time," Juanita chimed in.

"Look, I can say whatever you want to hear, but I assume you'd like the truth," Charlie shot back.

"We'll wait," Eve relented.

Charlie and his two closest advisors disappeared into the dust. Their mission: to reconnoiter the narrow valley. With the storm, the going was slow. They returned nearly six hours later, covered in red dust. During their absence, Eve's army had dug in amongst the rocks lining the south side of the river gorge.

"I was getting worried," Eve greeted Charlie. She had gotten no rest.

"Well, it was some rough going, mostly finding a way down through the rocks and slides. From there it was the blowing sand, which seems to pick up speed in the narrows. We found a weakness on the south side of the river channel...a huge overhang which we can blow and alter the river's course off to the north," Charlie reported, "make it look like a slide, pretty easy."

"So, everything looks good, then?" Eve asked hopefully.

"Yes, ma'am, we can start setting charges...whenever you want. It'll take us maybe a day to do it right. Much less, if this storm lets up."

Eve sat silently, thinking. And, Charlie, never one to miss an opportunity to render his opinions about something other than demolition, added some ideas regarding tactics.

"I figure another day for Patboy to respond...the Relics should be here, I guess, maybe the morning of...in two days. At any rate, they won't show up at night...they ain't that brave. They'll want to get here at first light and give the place a good reconnoiter. That means they'll have to travel at night...right?" Charlie grinned behind his bandanas.

"Sounds about right...," Eve began. Then, the significance of Charlie's words hit her. She paused. "That's right, no matter what, they will have to be out in force at night...when they are most vulnerable." She looked at Bill and Juanita.

"Charlie, I agree with your assessment. And you raise some interesting possibilities," Juanita shouted to Charlie. Not all agreed.

"They're going to show up with a lot of fucking firepower..." Bill chimed.

"Good enough for me," Eve shouted to Charlie, ignoring Bill's demur.

Charlie was an old construction engineer whose word was his bond; a sometimes gruff and no-nonsense fellow who, at five-feet-two, looked to be as round as he was tall. But he was not fat; he was powerful. At first take, he would not strike many as a leader, but his courage, confidence, integrity, genuineness, and excellent judgment made him a natural commander. His company of one-hundred-ten fighters gladly followed him anywhere.

Charlie had never trusted, nor liked, Huckleberry or the Dominionists. The first time he saw one, the hairs stood up on the back of his neck. He saw that they put a lot of effort into looking all clean and polished, but there remained an evil about them that no scrubbing could wash off. He knew that goodness could never result from evil means, no matter how well-intentioned. He felt the same way about used car salesmen, who were all too friendly and up to no good. Charlie knew evil when he saw it, and it took no convincing him to leave his comfortable Chicago home for the safety of the wilderness. He had stumbled upon Eve and her army somewhere in the desert. With his genuineness and forthrightness, it did not take Eve long to accept Charlie as a likable and reliable confidant.

The gathering of principal leaders and smaller unit leaders began to create a plan for the ambush of a large, well-armed, mad, mechanized force of TW's. The Patriots would have one chance at this. If the TW's were victorious, then it would be but a short while before Patboy would release his full force upon the remaining Patriots and, thus, end them.

Reason suggested that gunships would be dispatched at first light, the very next day, following the redirection of the river's supply. For this reason, it was considered safer to camp the army in an array of gorges about one-half to three-quarters of a mile south of the river. A handful of lookouts and runners would remain at the river to observe and relay the Dominionists activity to the main body. Advanced scouts would report the approach of any engineering units sent to repair and restore the water supply. The scouts would report on unit size, compliment type, armaments, and speed. Eve and her cadre would not be able to deploy the ambush until nearly the last moment.

"Charlie, get your company up here and have your look-see. Plant your charges. When you have finished, you will blow that overhang into the river. Make certain that all evidence of us being here is removed, destroyed, buried..." Eve shouted. "If they even think they smell a rat they'll have their whole god-damned army down our throats."

"Yes, ma'am," Charlie replied. "I'll need most of my company to plant the charges and the rest of the night."

"Sure...and remember, when the wall falls, you and your crew get your asses back to the main camp. TW's will be all over this place looking for us. I don't want them to find a thing, understand?"

The overhang, on Eve's command, was ordered blown at sunset the next day. The four beige Cobras arrived, as predicted, early the following morning. They gave the entire area, two miles on a side, a thorough going over; mini-guns and rockets, here and there. Sometimes, unknowingly, they would probe a gorge which concealed Patriots.

No one ran. Some died...two, with thirteen wounded...four critical.

The Cobras strafed, reloaded, returned, and strafed the remainder of the day. Then nightfall brought relief and a long, black, freezing night of lightning shows, thunder, and the rustle of Eve's army setting about their ambush.

"I want a third of our fighters dug in on the other side of the river, creating a crossfire blocking any escape in that direction, and...I want sharpshooters dug in on this bluff to take out the low fliers. Conceal the remainder of your companies in the boulders along the southern face of the river gorge. Have them get comfortable. They will be sitting, concealed, for the greater part of a day. Bill and Juanita will be around shortly to inspect and assist you. They will report to me when all is ready. Understood?"

"Yes ma'am," the company commanders responded and exited.

Eve motioned for the others to follow her back to her campsite. She gathered them in the lee of a collection of boulders as the wind howled and sand swirled around them.

"You have prepared your companies for the long night march?" Eve asked Juanita and Bill.

"We've instructed that they take only that which is necessary for a day of concealment and a night of fighting. Non-combatants will remain here as agreed. They have the necessary supplies to fend for themselves...for a short while...should things go badly for us. There will be no rest until everyone, and everything is in place," Juanita replied.

"Excellent," Eve replied.

"Do you think this is really going to work?" Bill asked.

"Who the fuck knows," Eve replied. "But we've already decided. There is little use in reopening the debate."

"We haven't heard a thing from the four scouts we deployed last night," Juanita observed.

"They wouldn't have sent gunships, if they weren't going to send someone to restore their water supply. Hopefully, they'll need and will risk sending lots of vehicles. That's the key. If the scouts report a response in force...then, if we win..." Eve caught Burt's glaring eyes and stopped... "when we win," she corrected herself, "we'll mount up and ride in style to surprise Patboy. We'll sneak up on his gate, looking like one of his own, and we will get that fat rat out of his hole." Eve said.

Bill, looking amused, attempted some humor, "What, me worry? They only outgun us at least four or five, or even six to one!"

Juanita squinted through her goggles, checking Bill to see if he was serious.

"Yes, I know, I know. Listen," Eve shouted, growing angry, "Patboy will send trucks, equipment, and maybe an armored vehicle or two to protect his engineers as they work to restore the river."

"Oh, they're going to send armor, alright," Bill laughed. He was amused by the utter futility, but absolute necessity and rightness of what they were about to do. His was the attitude of amused, resigned recklessness. He was the Patriot, who about to be burned for a politically incorrect position, shouting 'fuck-you' and laughing at his executioners. His amusement and laughter were his way of giving the finger to the authorities...the last great act of defiance.

"It's called 'surprise', Bill, and it means everything. I think we have a chance here. Are we clear?" Eve asked. "We spring the ambush about one hour before absolute darkness. It is critical that we avoid destroying the vehicles and that the Relics are prevented from alerting their Center. It is too much to hope that the Cobras be spared, but let's make every effort to keep the Cobras intact if at all possible."

"The gunships and not their pilots," Juanita added.

"Fuck the pilots," Eve fired back.

"And what about Huckleberry...he's only about two-hundred-fifty miles up the road?" Juanita added.

Burt approached the huddled group of commanders and tapped Eve on the shoulder. He signed that the scouts had returned.

"Thanks, Burt," Eve said and then motioned for the four dust covered scouts to step forward. She asked for their report.

"Sorry we're late Ma'am, but the dust storm made reconnoitering a bastard. We've reconnoitered the area between here and Patboy's compound. There is plenty of natural cover but the areas to the right and left of the road are rocky and uneven, which will make a night march slow. The good news is that there is enough natural cover, rocks, brush and stuff behind these ridges," Rhonda, lead scout, said, pointing to her hand drawn map, "to conceal our entire army."

"What's the distance from these ridges to the Center?" Bill asked taking the map to study. The map was excellently drawn. It indicated key topographical features, positions of concealment, key elements of Patboy's defensive perimeter, and a good deal of the Freedom Center's facilities and key buildings.

"About one-half to a quarter-mile, sir," the scout replied while removing the protective scarves from her face and brushing the irritating sand from under her shirt's collar.

"How long do you estimate it would take us to reach the Center?" Juanita asked.

"About two hours, ma'am...with vehicles."

"Is there anything else we need to know?" Eve asked.

"Yes. We saw no perimeter patrols at the Center, and we saw no listening posts. It looks to me that Patboy must be pretty confident no one would dare attack him."

"Confidence built upon arrogance can be fatal in times such as these," Eve added.

"Rhonda, your team's done an excellent job. I know you're beat. Get some sleep," Eve ordered.

"Thank-you, ma'am," Rhonda replied. The four scouts turned and walked off.

"I don't know, Eve, a half-mile is an awful long way to run and hope to get the drop on Fatboy," Bill mumbled.

"Hell, a quarter-mile is long way," Juanita said.

"It is what it is!" Eve growled. "Yes, it's a long way, if Patboy's guards have nothing to do but watch their perimeter. But they're not going to be paying attention to anyone except what's right in front of them, once the shooting starts. We will be able to get right on their doorstep before they realize what's going on." Eve reflexively covered her mouth as she was struck by another fit of coughing. She quickly lost consciousness and was caught by Burt before she hit the ground. When the coughing had subsided, Eve lay unconscious in Burt's arms, bloody drool running from the corner of her mouth. Her graying, brown hair was matted with sweat. Her breathing was slow and raspy.

Bill knelt next to Eve and wiped her mouth. "God damn it," Bill said, "we don't have a choice...we've got to take that fuck'n Center."

"Or, at the very least, get a chance to torture and kill that miserable pig-fucker, Fatboy," Juanita added, feeling angry and especially lethal.
CHAPTER 8:

While Tamika lay dying at Freedom Center Rueben, and nearly five years into the Dominionists' victory over the Satanic US Government and its pathetic citizens, the Most Reverend President Leader Huckleberry stood ready to preside over the top-level meeting he had ordered a scant four days ago. The assembled members included his MEEC, various Pastor Leaders from around the UDSA, essential Pastor Generals, and all the relevant Pastor Ambassadors and associated Foreign Ministers, who just happened to be Pastors, as well. All had been recalled from their remote postings to attend "a critical and very secret meeting of the most apocalyptic import."

The assemblage sat before a huge planning map displayed on a monitor, set before them at stage right. While waiting for the meeting to begin, some of the membership chatted about world affairs and caught up on Dominionist Family news, while others stood in small circular groups and prayed with their arms laced over the shoulders of the person standing on either side of them. Some found the occasion right for speaking in tongues; appropriate...some might say.

The small prayer groups swayed to and fro, many members mumbling in Godspeak (tongues). Now and then, someone in a prayer group would yell "fumble" and all the men would fall, one on top of the other, and wrestle with one another. They would laugh and yell as they struggled for mastery of the pile. Some overly exuberant members, concerned more with dominance than displays of brotherhood, would lose sight of the good-natured intent of the exercise, and administer "friendly" blows. Consequently, some of the more unfortunate participants sported bloody noses and bruised ribs. But all was forgiven in the end. The men had been taught, that to struggle and compete in contests of strength, and remain brothers in the end, was expected of them by God. Afterwards, with one man imposing his dominance of the pile, all would rise, dust off one another, laugh good naturedly, and punch each other on the arm, or slap each other on the back, in demonstrations of good will, and to make assurance that there were no lasting hurt feelings. Then, they all would pray and talk to God, some more.

The wait staff, glorified "House Niggers" (specially selected prisoners from the Dominionist pogroms), dressed in powder-blue leisure suits with fine white linen serving towels carried on their left forearms, their branded foreheads on full display, stood silently, attending to every demand made of them. They spoke only to answer questions. They hustled around the enormous conference table serving drinks and appetizers, clearing plates and nervously waiting to serve their tormentors. There was no guarantee that their labors would bring them some extra food or another day of life.

No liquor was served at any official Dominionist event, liquor having long ago been declared illegal. Unofficially, however, in the privacy of their quarters, a Dominionist official, of some important rank, might award himself and a love interest, from time to time, with a glass of well-aged single malt.

Despite the festive trappings, everyone understood the seriousness of the meeting. The wars were not going as well as the Dominionists had hoped. This one meeting would determine the steps to be taken insuring the final victory over evil. For well over two millennia, the Dominionists' sole focus was the Last Judgment. Every decision made, every king deposed, every tribe immolated, every book burned, every election rigged, every politician bought or assassinated, every university closed, every school voucher issued, every court corrupted, every legislator bribed, every jury fixed, every career ruined, every character slandered, every lie told, every voting district gerrymandered, every intellectual renditioned, every abortionist assassinated, every fake-news story reported, every ridiculous conspiracy laid at the Liberal's feet, was for naught, if tonight's decision did not result in the final calamity, the Last Judgment. Would the Dominionists now show the world just how wrong it had been and how right the Dominionists were? Would today be the day when the Dominionists would tell the world to kiss its ass goodbye? Would this day end in the great payback?

Huckleberry had selected the auditorium of Freedom Center Judah's mega-church for the gathering of over twenty-five-hundred dignitaries _._ Designed to seat tens of thousands, it was overly large, but it was the most appropriate venue--Huck's throne room being far too small to accommodate all the necessary dignitaries and their supporting staff.

The most important attendees, the key decision-makers, sat at the large U-shaped conference table placed upon the chancel stage at the feet of Huckleberry's pulpit. Those of lesser status: ambassadors, military adjutants, support staff, various assistants, secretaries and advisors, occupied the first two rows of the nave--seats which were usually reserved for visiting dignitaries, important community leaders, church officers, and the most important of government officials, during routine church services. The gathering was lost in the sea of chairs that rose above them, forming a gigantic bowl, the rim of which disappeared into the darkness far away from the stage lights. Exit signs glowed red and tiny, high and far off, barely visible from the stage.

Suddenly, an off-stage voice shouted, "Attention, Jesus be Praised, the Most Reverend President Leader Huckleberry!" and the floor-to-ceiling powder-blue curtains with the huge golden appliqué cross, parted along the center of the cross' vertical axis. There in the gap, illuminated by a spotlight, in his pulpit twelve feet off the chancel floor, stood the six-foot-four-inch Most Reverend President Leader, resplendent in his powder-blue robes and silver hair, arms outstretched, palms upwards, in the Dominionist salute. Onward Christian Soldiers, the new national anthem of the UDSA, blasted through hundreds of speakers, filling the entire auditorium.

The gathering quieted and sprung to attention in an instant. They saluted in return, and stared vacantly straight ahead, each member finding some distant object on which to focus. Everyone was prepared to remain motionless, in deference to the Most Reverend President Leader, for as long as he demanded it of them.

Huckleberry enjoyed the tingle that ran along his spine and arms. Such displays of obedience were more than just emotionally satisfying for him. The Most Reverend presented his celebrated toothy smile of perfectly aligned overly white teeth, and held his arms outstretched as he imagined Jesus might, when blessing the poor. Huckleberry held them in thrall for many minutes while he visually inspected his flock. But it would be a mistake to think that he was admiring them. The Most Reverend was looking for any show of weakness, any telltale that would indicate a wavering of spirit, hints of a plot, a conspiracy, a challenge to his authority, perhaps someone averting his eyes, or looking bored, or experiencing discomfort, or looking defiant. He held them until some began to sway a bit on their legs. He made note of those that swayed. "Unfit?" he questioned. Then, he released them.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen, my brothers, you flatter me, please, please, as you were, as you were," Huckleberry's buttery baritone chuckled into his chin mike.

The crowd, as if on cue, erupted into a spontaneous standing ovation for their glorious leader. Shouts of "Praise Jesus" and "Halleluiah" and "Praise Huckleberry" punctuated the rapture-filled applause.

Huckleberry, of course, was overjoyed as the familiar tingle, once again, ran along his spine, making the hairs on his arms stand straight up. He, like everyone else in the room, was very proud of himself. And, like everyone else in the room, he believed that no one was aware of it. And, like everyone else in the room, he believed that if he didn't admit it to himself, he wouldn't be aware of it, either. Being the greatest human being in the world, the Chosen of the Chosen, was electrifying. His "Light of Jesus" was on full display.

CHORUS

"Huckleberry and his flock called what many saw simply as haughty, self-righteous arrogance, the 'Light of Jesus'. Dominionists believed that the Light of Jesus was clear evidence that they had indeed been chosen. Other believers, not of the Dominionist persuasion, thought that the presentation clearly indicated that the Dominionists had not humbled themselves before God, but rather thought themselves equal or superior to Him. Perhaps, some rationalized, God didn't notice or care, rendering moot any discussion of arrogance. Or contrarily, some thought the Dominionists were simply conning the masses by acting as if God existed. In any event, for the Dominionists, the appearance of humility did not seem to be a very important characteristic. So, few ever appeared humble before Him, except, of course, should they be caught in an airport homosexual tryst--then, oh boy, the tears would flow and pitiful humility before Gawd would be on full review. Curious that. Of course, there was a certain consistency inherent in believing oneself to have descended from a God and appearing arrogant."

"The truly successful Dominionist depended upon the art of clever deception as much as upon the grace of God. Those few who rose to the highest positions within the Family hierarchy were the most skilled at clever deception. Contrary to what you might think, deception was a sought-out, cultivated and much respected characteristic, more so than intelligence or honesty. A disciple who demonstrated exceptional deceptive skill was considered blessed by God. Some, however, went so far as to believe that they were capable of deceiving God, Himself. Yet, surprisingly, there was no apostasy in such belief, because, it was reasoned, that if God could make one cleverly deceptive, He could easily make one clever enough to fool the Almighty, Himself. Not many people know that. Clever deception of the non-believers and believers alike, when used to advance the Glory of God (and the Dominionist agenda), was a blessed thing. In the quaint street parlance of an earlier time, one could say that the Dominionists did not necessarily 'walk the talk'. They fooled many, but mostly themselves, and the ignorant."

*

Reverend Duane Othello Anthony Huckleberry, the Most Reverend President Leader of the UDSA, soon to promote himself to the Most Reverend President Leader of the UDSA For Life, found himself in Dominionist heaven--free of moral restraints, government regulation, bothersome laws, and... surrounded by a blessed nuclear arsenal unsurpassed in the world (perhaps) for both its size and devastative power.

Second in command was First Pastor Adviser to the Most Reverend President Leader, Patboy Roberts. The First Pastor Adviser sat at the bottom center of the U- shaped conference table facing his Most Reverend President Leader.

Huckleberry, dressed in the silk powder-blue robes with brilliant white cuffs and white Egyptian cotton under garments, required of his station as Reverend Leader of The United Dominionists States of America, gracefully arranged his overly stuffed pulpit pillows, artfully splayed his robes, and sat gracefully upon his pulpit throne, straight-backed and proud. His assembled Pastor Generals and Dominionist dignitaries demonstrated their complete obeisance with continuous enthusiastic applause and shouts of "Praise Huckleberry". Most followed his graceful movements with admiring and envious eyes.

Seated, his rapturous _derriere_ was over sixteen feet off the floor, making it quite easy for the Most Reverend to survey his flock. He raised his long, thin arms to quiet the gathering, which only applauded all the louder. Huckleberry deserved their respect. He felt little need to return the favor, however, without exceptional cause, that is...which was seldom.

"Please, gentlemen, please sit, please sit, ha-ha-ha," he chuckled playfully while feigning graciousness and humility. "Please," he insisted to all the supporting personnel who had snapped to attention, "As you were, as you were. You're embarrassing me, ha, ha, ha," Huckleberry chuckled through impossibly-white teeth, made all the whiter by his deep tan. The sleeves of his silk robes draped tastefully from his lifted arms, which he had raised in his usual Jesus-like gesture. His intention was to convey a sense of compassion and inclusiveness to all the gathered Dominionist conspirators. The wise among them knew better. Huckleberry was the deadliest viper in the garden.

Huckleberry permitted the assembly another few seconds of celebration and then he spoke into his chin mike. "Please, my brothers, please, be seated," he chuckled less heartily, abandoning his faux embarrassment. Of course, the demonstration continued until Huckleberry finally said, "Let us pray."

Everyone quieted as if someone had thrown a switch. They stood at attention and waited for the blessing from Jesus' closest representative on earth, the glorious Most Reverend President Leader, himself.

Huckleberry sighted the crowd down the long, narrow bridge of his thin sharpened nose, looking a bit like a tanned, cross-eyed stork. Observing that everyone, down to the skuzziest House Nigger, was attending, Huckleberry began, without need of notes or text:

"From Ephesians 1:1 thru 12: 'Blessed be the God and father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who hath blessed us with all spiritual blessings in heavenly places in Christ: According as He hath chosen us in Him before the foundation of the world, that we should be holy and without blame before Him in love: Having predestined us unto the adoption of children by Jesus Christ to Himself, according to the good pleasure of His will. To the praise of the glory to His grace, wherein He hath made us accepted in the beloved. In whom we have redemption through His blood, the forgiveness of sins, according to the riches of His grace; Wherein He hath abounded toward us in all wisdom and prudence; Having made known unto us the mystery of His will, according to His good pleasure which He hath purposed in Himself: That in the dispensation of the fullness of times He might gather together in one all things in Christ, both which are in heaven, and which are on earth; even in Him: In whom also we have obtained an inheritance, being predestinated according to the purpose of Him who worketh all things after the counsel of His own will: That we should be to the praise of His glory, who first trusted in Christ'."

CHORUS

"'And when thou prayest, thou shalt not be as the hypocrites are: for they love to pray standing in the synagogues and in the corners of the streets, that they may be seen of men. Verily I say unto you, they have their reward. But thou, when thou prayest, enter into thy closet, and when thou has shut thy door, pray to thy Father which is in secret; and thy Father which seeth in secret shall reward thee openly. But when ye pray, use not vain repetitions, as the heathen do: for they think that they shall be heard for their much speaking. Be not ye therefore like unto them: for your Father knoweth what things ye have need of, before ye ask Him.' (Matthew 6: 5-8.)"

"Prayers were central to Dominionist practice, even more so than for most other believers. Prayer was so important that they thought it a gross oversight and mistranslation of Matthew (above) to keep such an important activity completely private. So, they did the only reasonable thing: they ignored Matthew 6 in favor of their very own and special 'God-inspired Translation' (convenient misinterpretation). Consequently, they prayed in public, loudly, and frequently, especially when suspected Liberals, Satanists, and Takers were close by. (Takers, according to the Dominionists, were unregenerate Humanists, the able bodied, and lazy, claiming an inability to work and in desperate need of taxpayers' money, so they could purchase drugs, loose women, and participate in guilt free orgies, all while driving their welfare Cadillacs.) The Dominionists behaved very much like the abhorrent Takers, yet, somehow, the Snakes came across as more 'respectable'." 

"The Dominionists considered public prayer an opportunity to show off their God, their righteousness, and their superiority. Prayer provided an opportunity to embarrass and taunt onlookers. There was no advantage or benefit to praying and practicing religion in secret. Remember, the Dominionists wore God like a chip on their shoulder."

"For the Dominionist and, the other less pure evangelical sects, prayer was more than just an acknowledgement, or a wish, or a desire expressed to a deity in the hope of a favorable response. The Dominionists believed that God did little else but pay special attention to them. That He, at a moment's notice, would drop whatever He was working on, and attend to their every need, immediately. There was never any question whether or not a prayer would be answered in their favor."

"When they prayed for their football team to win, for their stocks to rise, or their daughters to marry rich, or their sons to someday become a Reverend Leader, or for the end of abortions and abortionists, they were communing with a god whom they knew wanted the very same outcomes. It was impossible for them to consider that their will and God's will, could be different. They were God's Chosen. There could be no difference between God's will and their will. They were chosen precisely for that reason! They were humble before their Lord, of course, but a very special kind of humble; a kind of humility unfamiliar to you and me."

"Of course, not all their prayers were answered favorably. But, the Dominionists understood that it was never God/themselves at fault. If they did not get their way, any sanctified Dominionist, understood to be in good standing by God's grace, would simply say that God worked in mysterious ways, or that wanton and tolerated homosexuality, or the prevalence of unbridled fornication, or the corrupting influence of Liberalism, or the ubiquitous Satan worshipping immigrants, or the sanctioned murder of the innocents, had distracted God and made it impossible for Him to hear, and act upon, the prayers of His Chosen people. God/Dominionists were never at fault. This could never be questioned! Period."

*

"Glorious Cheesus-ah," Huck continued, "we, your humble servants, are about to embark on the plan set by you, for us, thousands of years ago. A plan, which up until now, has been ignored, laughed at, and scorned by the pagan, heathen Liberalists...many of whom still reside among us...unsuspecting that they will soon be laid low and vanquished in your Name, amen. We acknowledge that it is your Will, honored above all others, that must and will be fulfilled. Glorious Cheesus-ah, we are honored that you, Almighty One, have chosen us, the most unworthy and meek, to see your mission through to its most Heavenly conclusion. Forgive us for our many dee-cades of procrastination, but we did not wholly understand the means. At last, though, our time is now at hand! As you command it!"

"The unholy veil of repressive Secular Liberal Humanist scum and evil demons of Satan has finally been cleared away and your shining path revealed before us. Ye, who knows all, continue to show us the way, by the light of your infinite love and wisdom. Guide our hands, our hearts, our minds, as we set about your work. Give us the strength by your infinite grace. Through your infinite mercy, keep our souls pure and protect us from the inflicted hurts of our demonic foes. And, lead us to the final victory by your glorious vengeance and infinite justice. We, brothers in Christ, the Family, pledge to you our unwavering dedication to the establishment of your new Eden on earth...as you will it, amen."

"Amen," the gathering cried.

Huck's huge mega-church, The Church of the Family of Jesus' Eternal Love, was set very near the center of his sprawling complex. After taking power, Huckleberry secretly moved the national government to Freedom Center Judah. Washington D.C., the once traditional seat of national government, continued to operate as usual, but no real power emanated from there. The Senators, Representatives, judges, and lobbyists, who continued to legislate, adjudicate, and pay for favors, were permitted to think that they wielded power, but only Huckleberry had any real power. Any laws unfavorable to Huckleberry and the Family's mission were "legally" ignored via the issuance of "executive signing orders", declarations of "executive privilege", or the enacting of "emergency powers". The precedents for Presidents disregarding the law were many and storied, covering centuries of unaddressed malfeasance. But none so clearly demonstrated disregard of the law and inspired Huckleberry as did his predecessor, the late President Smart the Self-Proclaimed, God rest his demented, lecherous, and twisted soul. Smart raised constitutional disregard to an art form during his brief and uninspired self-serving tenure as President.

The Most Reverend President Leader stood tall and proud atop his pulpit. A gold cross carried aloft on the back of a majestic bald eagle, set in a disc of white, and encircled by a powder-blue border outlined in gold leaf, was prominently displayed at the very top of his perch. Within the powder-blue border, around the entire circumference of the seal, printed in gold, were the words "The Great Seal of the Most Reverend President Leader of the United Dominionist States of America". The eagle's talons carried a golden banner which read, "Jesus Plus Nothing".

Huckleberry took as long as he needed to survey his gathering. Everyone stood quietly and waited eagerly for him to resume. His survey complete, the Reverend Leader cleared his throat, clasped his long thin hands and opened his mouth...

"Gentlemen, my fellow Brothers in Christ, welcome to my humble digs." Huckleberry's face, disappearing behind his large toothy smile, was a signal to all that it was now appropriate to laugh. The gathering laughed.

No one in the congregation dared to quit laughing first, though. One can easily imagine that if Huckleberry had not raised his arms to quiet the crowd, they'd all be laughing still.

When everyone had quieted, Huck continued, "We are gathered here today to finish what was begun nearly three-thousand years ago...the complete domination of the world in the name of our glorious savior, Cheesus-ah Christ." He raised his face to heaven.

The room burst into applause. Yells of "Praise Jesus" and "halleluiah" filled the hall. A small spontaneous demonstration broke out on the main stage, as some of the dignitaries, supported by soaring organ music, jumped into the air and began dancing in circles, with their arms raised to heaven. The ever-accompanying organ hit upon and held its highest notes in a rolling manic staccato.

Huckleberry smiled his very best self-satisfied smile. These were the joyous times that Jesus had promised. Huckleberry was made for this one glorious purpose. This was indeed his moment in history. His time had arrived, at last. He was the next great savior of the world, and just like the Jesus of Revelation, he would save it, by destroying it.

CHORUS

"The terms 'humble' and 'humility' had long been a source of resentment and derision within the Dominionist movement. Humbleness and humility were not considered virtues. Furthermore, they denied that these virtues had ever been taught as virtues by their Savior, Jesus of Nazareth. The Dominionists maintained that the misperception of their Savior as a humble, self-sacrificing patsy was a lie perpetuated by the evil, demonic, scummy Secular Humanists to pacify Christians everywhere. A proper reading of the scripture, the Dominionists maintained, revealed Christ as a proud and dominating historic figure with little patience for timidity and subservience--especially in matters of righteousness and faith. For the Dominionists, Jesus came to earth to rule with a sword and, if He had come today, He would have come with an AR-15 and nine-billion rounds of ammunition...oh yeah!"

*

"Brothers, brothers, please, ha, ha, ha. We have much work to do. Take your seats. Take your seats, ha, ha, ha," Huckleberry's irresistible baritone voice chuckled. Without hesitation, the gathering came to order and resumed their seats. The organ grew silent.

"Thank-you my brothers," Huckleberry chuckled, "thank-you. My heart swells to witness your energy and enthusiasm, but we have little time. The clock is ticking and will stop for no one. The hour of retribution draws near and we must prepare ourselves. There will be time for celebration when our work is completed. But now we must roll up our sleeves and get to work." Huckleberry turned to look at the large map. He studied it for a few seconds and then turned to address his congregation.

"How goes the Freedom Center construction?" he asked his Secretary of the Interior, the Right Reverend Pastor Roland Waverly.

The Reverend jumped to his feet. Secretaries and Cabinet members wore red silk robes with white undergarments, a bit like the Catholic Cardinals of a time long gone by. Their greased, black pompadours were covered with low black silk caps. Each cap displayed a gold embroidered patch with a cross held aloft by two cherubs, one on either side. Their black velvet slippers had the same iconography embroidered over the large toe.

"Most Reverend President Leader," Roland began with a deep bow. "And, distinguished members of the planning council," he said looking right and then left, along the length of the conference table. "I am happy to report that construction on all Freedom Centers is finishing as we speak. We are laying in the last of the supplies at center Reuben."

The assembly erupted into rapturous applause. The organ music swelled and then slowly died.

"As you know, we have been assembling a work force from the Secular population for years. And, I am happy to report that there has been no shortage of sinners to fill the ranks." Roland sported a good-natured grin, and the Chosen laughed at their cleverness.

Waverly continued, "We, of course, have been working them mercilessly, as due penance for their transgressions, and they have rewarded us well with their tireless industry (more laughter). Of course, many give it their all and die under the strain (sounds of mock sympathy). But, the prevalence of sin is soooo great in the land, that there appears to be no danger that we shall ever run out of workers (laughter and applause)."

Pleased, Huckleberry asked, "Do you want for anything?"

"No, Most Reverend President Leader, thank-you," Waverly replied. "Your inspired initiative to nationalize all industries means that every necessary resource is available to us on demand, without legislative delay, or bothersome cost considerations. We just take what we need." The room stood and delivered a congratulatory ovation for their Reverend Leader's brilliant forethought and ingenuity.

Huckleberry humbly and half-heartedly rejected the ovation, which only encouraged more adulation. "Please, please, please, you embarrass me...we will never get anything done," he said laughing.

The Pastors quieted and returned to their seats.

"You know, Right Reverend Pastor, I've been thinking," Huckleberry said as he raised himself off his plush silk cushions and used a laser pointer to hi-light areas of the fallout map, "that the Capital would be even safer if we moved it further into the mountains...hmmm, don't you think?" He pointed at a mountainous area twenty or so miles more to the west of their present position.

Not waiting for an answer, he continued, "I've scouted the area with my MEEC, and I...well, we think, that the area shows some real promise. For instance, the high mountains afford some of the very best protection from attack and provide the necessary winds to drive our generators. And, the surrounding valleys contain some of the richest agricultural soil I've ever seen." Huckleberry lay back on his cushions and regarded Pastor Roland, who stood silently with a stupid grin.

"I'd be interested in your thoughts on the matter," Huckleberry pressed.

The assembled leadership sat still looking worriedly at one another wondering if the Reverend Leader was asking for an opinion or was giving an order. No one was certain. And, no one was more hopeful than the Right Reverend Pastor, that the gathering's confusion would excuse his own. Each person tried to look more invisible than the next, much the same as school children might when they very much don't want to be called upon to answer a difficult question.

The Right Reverend's ruddy face turned redder, still, when he saw that the Reverend Leader was regarding no one but him. Roland did not know how to respond. To concur would mean delaying the Last Judgment for years, and he was certain the Most Reverend was not in favor of that. But, to demur might suggest that he did not consider the suggestion a very good one, inviting all sorts of imaginable negative consequences. He prayed that Huckleberry was giving an order and not asking for an opinion.

Huckleberry quickly grew annoyed with Roland's hesitation. His smile disappeared behind his too thin lips. "For the love of Jesus, I am asking for your opinion," he barked. Huckleberry cherished the fear everyone seemed to have of him, yet it was damnable how it got in the way of discussions and decision-making. And yet again, he did very much enjoy his people groveling and scraping. Such were the hardships of the Chosen of the Chosen.

Fearlessly, and fortunately for Rolland, Pastor General Mike, Supreme Pastor Commander of all UDSA military forces, stood and addressed the Reverend Leader. The Five Cross General was wearing his dress black field uniform with silver piping and polished silver buttons. His Jodhpurs, sporting a two-inch silver stripe along the length of the outside seam, looked slightly ridiculous and old fashioned, but no one dared to make comment. On his left bicep, displayed conspicuously, was the powder blue-arm band with golden cross, set in a white circle. The left breast of his tailored jacket was covered in colorful medals. Around his neck, he wore the Congressional Medal of the Old Wooden Cross, with two oak leaf clusters and a "V" for valor. He was square-jawed, noble, and tall. His uniform could not hide his powerful muscular physique. His face was weathered as one who had spent years in the elements. He wore no makeup and did not sport the shiny black wig made popular by the Dominionist leadership. The Pastor General preferred his hair cut in the once popular "Himmler" style of his youth, old fashioned but smart. A flesh-colored prosthetic covered his left cheek from his eye to jaw line concealing the disfiguring effects of a sniper's bullet. He did not wear it for modesty...he wore it out of consideration for others, especially the children.

"Most Reverend President Leader," Pastor General Mike said standing at attention, "Freedom Center Judah may be marginally safer in the position you have indicated. However, the logistics of moving the entire Center to the indicated area would be unimaginable considering our time restraints. The timeline itself would increase by many years, and it would mean having to delay the Tribulation. And, need I mention that the World's Allies are pressing us daily, and show no sign of relenting, or of initiating a nuclear war. Also, there is increasing unrest among our Russian allies, who daily threaten to withdraw from the conflict if more resources are not given to them. While it would not be too difficult to take advantage of the agricultural potential, a year maybe two, relocating the entire Center would take nearly a decade and...there is also the matter of cost."

Huckleberry's gaze could not successfully hide his derision for the Supreme Pastor General. Huckleberry loathed Mike for his popularity, courage, unimpeachable character and success. The General possessed the very two qualities that Huckleberry despised most, and brutally discouraged in his flock: independent thought... and guts.

"Yes," Huckleberry hissed through set teeth, "the cost would be astronomical, but then what are we to do with all our millions of trillions of dollars, hmmm, Pastor General? Perhaps, you think we should put it in the bank and earn some interest...or maybe save it for a rainy day?" Huck sported the most derisive, reptilian smile, quickly following it with a burst of laughter. Predictably, the assembly laughed along with Huckleberry. The laughter may have made a lesser general cower.

Huck, of course, relished the group's participation. Yet, one big problem he shared with all capricious dictators, who wielded absolute power over life and death, was ascertaining whether the people were "loyal" because of his excellent leadership, or loyal out of fear for their lives. But, in the end it didn't really matter. All that mattered was that the rabble would kiss his ass on command. Everyone, that is, except the Supreme Pastor General, who remained standing, professional, and stoic.

Following a brief pause, the Supreme Pastor General returned to his seat. He made eye contact with his adjutant, Pastor Colonel "Rosie" Heart, who sat across from him. The unspoken message was "our day will come." The Pastor General noticed that a few other officers were laughing, but not quite as enthusiastically as the others. "Possible allies?" he wondered. BMO Harold was taking it all in.

Huckleberry gestured and the laughter stopped. He caught a single tear with his silk handkerchief as it arched down his tan cheek, carving a path in the pancake used to conceal the wrinkles growing at the corners of his mouth. He was very aware that the concealing makeup would have made an unsightly ochre stain on his silk robes. Unacceptable.

"Oh, I'm sorry Pastor General Mike...I joke at your expense. How rude of me...er, of us," Huckleberry smiled and raised his arms to include everyone in the room (titters). "You must understand that I am giddy with excitement from our impending total victory over Satan and his horrible Humanist Liberal scum. Besides, doesn't it just make your heart swell and your mind swim knowing that, after thousands of years of battle against the demons of evil, we stand on the threshold of laying low the Beast. Praise, Cheesus-ah! Glory Halleluiah!"

"Praise, Jesus!" everyone shouted, and the room erupted into another standing ovation. The organist did his best to mimic an ovation. Standing ovations had become so common as to make them little more significant than seated ovations. Clearly, standing ovations had become more a means of expressing artless emotionality, than an acknowledgment of exceptional skill, the latter requiring an educated awareness, experience and knowledge. No one cared...or noticed, however.

"Think of it," Huckleberry said, continuing his deflection and turning his attention to the larger gathered assembly, "after centuries of war with depraved Injuns, ignorant niggers, thieving wetbacks, insane Liberals, demonic Humanists, disgusting Homosexuals, heretical Muslims, Kike apostates, Papal puppets, Secular garbage and countless other deranged, so-called religions, races, groups, movements and tribes (titters)... we have won! Cheesus-ah has won! Praise, Cheesus-ah!" The organist played a triumphant rolling march, a driving melody marked with rising and falling intonations.

"Praise, Jesus," the crowd shouted.

Huckleberry ended his speech as he ended most speeches, short or long, with his face held to Heaven, his arms outstretched. Eventually, he lowered his gaze and regarded the Pastor General, "Can you ever forgive me?" Huckleberry flashed a venomous smile through too-thin lips and waited for a reply.

A confident and strong Pastor General Mike met Huckleberry's gaze. He could clearly see the madness lurking just behind the eyes of the Reverend Leader. Mike was not the least bit intimidated by Huckleberry, but he knew that this was not the time to confront him. The assembly waited excitedly. A public war of wits, between the two most powerful men in their Family, was a very rare occurrence.

The Pastor General came to attention. Mike was a bit over six feet, but he seemed much taller. "Of course, Most Reverend President Leader, we are all giddy with excitement because of your coming victory. Yet, we cannot escape the shame of our failure at reducing the Satanists to such depths of desperation that they would launch a first nuclear strike. In response to this realization, I believe some may have become intemperate, from time to time. We cannot escape the conclusion that we, the Family of Jesus, must take matters into our own hands and, with love in our hearts, make the first strike. History may judge us harshly, but certainly, there is nothing for which you need be forgiven." Mike, looking directly into Huckleberry's eyes, betrayed none of the contempt and outrage he felt for the Reverend Leader.

Huckleberry pursed his lips and slowly scanned the attentive dignitaries. Everyone appeared captivated by the Pastor General...everyone, that is, except himself and BMO Harold.

"Who am I to question you?" Mike continued. "It was foolish of me to think of conserving funds at this critical hour. Money is of little concern for the Heavenly Empire of Jesus. And, as you have made so very clear, and rightly so, we are now an empire, and we can take as long as we like to do as we please!" Mike did not say "Cheese-us-ah" in the manner of the Dominionist spiritual leaders. He preferred the less dramatic and more common, 'Jesus'.

The assembly came to its feet in enthusiastic applause. Cries of "Halleluiah!" and "Praise Supreme Pastor General Mike!" punctuated the ruckus. Mike betrayed no pleasure in the demonstration. He was not insensitive to the fact that such rapturous displays for his benefit were dangerous for him. It was more than modesty that motivated him to quickly raise his arms and silence the room.

When all were quiet, the General added, "It is I who beg your forgiveness for wasting your time, and the time of these most esteemed Gentlemen for Jesus." Mike simultaneously bowed his head and clicked the heels of his highly polished black knee-high riding boots, in a show of deference.

For many, not of the fanatical religious right, Mike's apology to the Most Reverend President Leader was akin to a once-infamous vice-president receiving an apology _from_ the man whom he had, through incompetence, shot in the face during a dangerous rabbit hunting expedition. The apology, in fact, was ridiculous and pitiful. Yet, somehow, in the Alice Through the Looking Glass world of that time, the apology was accepted as "correct and proper".

The Most Reverend President Leader's smile lost a bit of its luster with Mike's use of the word "intemperate." A charge of intemperance made against anyone within the Dominionist Family was a serious matter, but, most especially serious, when applied to the Most Reverend President Leader. Was the Pastor General accusing him of intemperance? Huckleberry speculated that the General had just insulted him. And, did the Pastor General refer to it as "my" victory? Does he imply that I give no credit to Jesus? BMO Harold's speculations mirrored Huckleberry's. Great minds...

Huckleberry held Mike's gaze as if challenged to a staring contest, and then, fearing that he would blink first, dismissed the general with a wave of his hand. The Pastor General was taking up far too much of the agenda.

Huckleberry was aware that the assembled dignitaries respected Mike. After all, the General had been decorated for valor five times (twice while Pastor General!) and wounded three times. He was a national hero. Purging the General would require impeccable timing and masterful legerdemain. Disturbingly though, for the ever impatient Huckleberry, it was not yet the right time to invent evidence and rid himself of the bothersome Pastor General. But time was running out. Impatience, always the Family's weakness and adversary, had compelled them to ignore God's directive and impetuously order the world's fiery destruction. And, impatience would, no doubt, cloud their judgment regarding the timing of the General's destruction. The Most Reverend President Leader considered Mike through half- closed eyes. "Anyone as prideful and defiant as the Pastor General would slip up and lose his popular support...eventually," Huck hoped.

Huckleberry would request BMO Harold's advice on the matter of the Pastor General. It was never too early to begin collecting "evidence" against Mike. Huck had no doubt that BMO Harold would be a willing conspirator, because Harold was no more an admirer of the General than Huckleberry. "Prideful and arrogant and, therefore, not a true Dominionist," was the BMO's jealous appraisal of the "show-off" General.

"Please, people," Huck said after finishing his private musings, "let's not be shy. I am really interested in your comments about my suggestion."

Apparently forgetting his Pastor Secretary of the Interior for the moment (who had taken advantage of the confrontation to sit down, shut up, and hopefully disappear), the Reverend President Leader looked around the room, challenging anyone to speak.

No one spoke, of course. The assembled considered it prudent to assume that Huck was telling them what they were about to do. In reality, he had only asked to keep alive the façade that the Dominionist Family was a cooperative and open venture, to be freely participated in by all True Believers (TB's). Nothing, of course, was further from the truth. The leadership was chosen by Jesus. They had, therefore, been ordained as elite and infallible. And, considering that the Most Reverend President Leader was even more special than all the rest, it would be absurd to even consider that the opinions of others were required. Inviting feedback was a simple political expedient, designed to keep the rabble happy and feeling important.

CHORUS

"The Dominionist theocracy was no more interested in democracy and participatory decision- making, than any other theocracy. The very structure of religions, commanded by otherworldly, omnipotent, omniscient, vengeful, jealous, immortal supreme beings, naturally lent themselves to earthly dictatorships led by like-minded demigods. God was the King and He did not invite, encourage, or tolerate opinions, votes, equivocation or compromise regarding His doctrines and precepts. Naturally, therefore, neither did His personally chosen representatives on earth. God's word was law. Therefore, Huckleberry's word was law. The wise were alive because they never challenged that fact. The stupid and ignorant were alive, because they were content to go along with anything they were told, happy to have all their decisions made for them, happy to have respectability thrust upon them, with no more effort than claiming faith in the Gospel and their Reverend Leader, right or wrong, sincere or not. The alternative was a most gruesome death."

"The Dominionists loathed participatory government, but that did not prevent them from shamelessly greasing their crawl to power with lies about their love for 'democracy' and 'patriotism' and 'freedom'. Not surprisingly, however, their claims of being the true bastions of human rights and common decency were soon enough proven false by their abhorrent, degenerate, and inhumane behavior. All semblance of democracy was quickly abandoned once the Dominionists had achieved absolute power. Patriotism then came to mean unquestioning blind loyalty to the Most Reverend President Leader and his tyrannical self-serving interpretation of the Bible. Of course, this was no different that the patriotism demanded by the acolytes of Shrub the Lesser, and Smart the Self Proclaimed."

"In Huckleberry's America, loyalty oaths, not to the Constitution, but to the supreme leader, were normalized and codified. The Most Reverend President Leader became just another in a long line of self-adulating autocrats. But he was far more dangerous than his predecessors. His power was absolute, as absolute as the inerrant God who bestowed it upon him. The House of Representatives, Senate, and the courts were nothing but rubber stamps for his edicts and peculiar tastes. The people were nothing but expendable riff raff, gum stuck to the sole of his shoe, a drain on his time and his treasury, good for soldiering and not much else. Religious freedom was a rationale, ordained by Gawd, to exclude, persecute, judge, and murder."

"Sorry. Sorry...time out...Harry Coldcutte here...the author of this rant. I cannot help but notice that my words grow harsher and more violent the longer I speak. I was not aware of this growing anger until now. I find that sharing my experiences, fills me with a profound sadness, aching regret, fear, and anger. I feel all of it, even though it no longer matters. I feel worse than one experiencing the paralyzing helplessness of coming face to face with the Great White...all teeth and menace and no mercy."

"Should I get carried away again, be assured that I will recover. If you fear for your safety, stop reading. My recognizing that it is quite presumptuous of me to think anyone would have found my story interesting enough to have read as far as this page, would be but a waste of time. So, I won't do it."

*

Everyone sat quietly, nervously. Huckleberry assumed that the attendees' silence meant unanimous agreement on his proposal to move his Freedom Center. That was all he really wanted...to demonstrate his ability to make people bend and cow, even to the most ridiculous of suggestions. He scoffed at the assemblage of boot lickers and then reversed course.

"On reflection, I will not begin construction on a new Freedom Center Judah. Despite all the positives and the brilliance of my suggestion, I've come to consider the benefits of the move marginal at best," Huckleberry smiled. "And I, like you, tire of waiting for the Tribulation." He ignored the confused looks of his audience and returned to the Pastor General. "Now, Mike, tell me...er...us, how goes the war?"

Mike came to attention. Every face turned toward him for news from the fronts. Mike took a moment to survey the assembled faces. A few had experienced the horrors of war. Their faces were reserved and serious. The wounds of war were clear for all to see. Those who had only enough courage to send others to die for their big ideas were betrayed by their voyeuristic excitement and showy pride. They were the ones who always seemed to have "other priorities" (like keeping their own skins intact) or physical deferments (such as, imaginary bone spurs) which "prevented" them from serving in battle. Yet, they were never shy about throwing out their chests and shouting from the mountain tops that victory over tyranny was due in large measure to their important sacrifices and world-wise cleverness--a cleverness considered too precious to ever risk by putting it in harm's way. "Such people should never be allowed to lead," Mike thought to himself. He swallowed the disgust welling in his throat and began to speak.

Huck leaned forward.

"The war for the conquest of the Middle East, the destruction of its people and culture and the capture of its vast oil reserves goes better than planned." (Applause.) "We have, of course, gained control of the Iraqi and Kuwaiti oil reserves, and we are very close to our objective of securing the Iranian reserves," (more applause). "We are capping and sealing the oil wells as we go--ensuring that the rich oil reserves will remain intact for our future use," (nods and grunts of approval from the audience). Mike walked from his seat towards the huge map as he spoke.

"The Saudis and the United Arab Emirates are attempting to negotiate a neutrality treaty with us and, we suspect, they are hedging their bet by simultaneously negotiating mutual assistance pacts with Egypt, Syria, Jordan, Lebanon, Afghanistan, Turkmenistan, China, India and Pakistan...most of the World's Allies," Mike indicated each country in its turn with his laser pointer. "Obviously, they desire to sign onto mutual assistance pacts hoping that others will come to their rescue should they be attacked by us. We are, of course, taking every opportunity to placate and ease their concerns," (laughter).

"You do plan on eliminating them, do you not...per our strategic plan, that is?" Huckleberry asked suspiciously, once again betraying his lack of confidence in the general's loyalty.

Keen to Huckleberry's misgivings, Mike snapped the heels of his spit-shined boots and gave a curt nod of his head, as a display of his obedience. "Yes, of course, Most Reverend President Leader. Our placation is a sham intended to weaken their resolve. None of these governments can fight against us without mutual assistance. They have seen our power. Yet, they cannot be certain if allying with the rest of the world would ensure our defeat. They worry that we would still kick their ass," (laughter). "When we reassure these countries that we have no designs on their territory, they very much want to believe us. But, lingering uncertainty regarding our true motives impedes any talks of neutrality treaties or abandoning other alliances. Of course, some see through our feint, but not enough to hold sway in their respective governments...not yet anyway," Mike cautioned.

"What of Israel?" Huckleberry asked.

The Pastor Minister of Middle Eastern affairs came to his feet, "Israel and Turkey are uncertain of our intent, but continue to respect our request that they remain neutral. Israeli intelligence reports that Russia barely tolerates us as an ally and is circumspect regarding our pledge to support them in their conquest of Europe, which is progressing nicely. Both Israel and Turkey are alarmed by China's military excursions into Southern Russia..."

"Aren't we all?" Huckleberry interrupted.

"Er...yes, sir..." The Pastor Minister agreed and stood nervously, uncertain if he was expected to proceed.

"Go on," an annoyed Huckleberry ordered.

The startled Pastor Minister cleared his throat. "Th-they fear that without our assurances they will be next and question our sincerity in protecting them. (titters) Ah, additionally, they distrust our assurance that we will cut them in on thirty percent of the Middle East's captured oil reserves. They are demanding a signed treaty to that effect. I fear that if they enter into a mutual aid pact against...us...the struggle will be prolonged for years! Supreme Pastor General Mike, may he be blessed, is correct. Dominionist Intelligence reports that both Turkey and Israel are considering abandoning our mutual assistance treaties and are considering negotiations with the evil demon hell-whore Madam Chang. And, they have confirmed that all the Middle Eastern powers are secretly seeking mutual assistance pacts with China and the sub-continent, India, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Malaysi..."

"Now there's an unholy alliance if ever I heard of one!" Huckleberry exclaimed. The gathering joined him in a hearty laugh.

"Er...yes, sir...certainly," the cautious Pastor Minister agreed. "But, if successful, we'll find the going even more difficult. We are stretched thin as it is. Our technology, Praise Jesus, can and is doing much, but our success will be limited against such huge armies. We are now facing China and her one-billion-man army and India's four-hundred-fifty-million." The Pastor Minister turned to Mike and bowed his head slightly in recognition of the General's expertise on such matters. Mike returned the recognition with a slight tip of his head.

Huckleberry's face took on the look of real concern. "You don't actually intend on giving the Israelis one third of the oil reserves, do you?"

"Er, excuse me, sir?" The Minister was clearly derailed by Huckleberry's question. "Uh...no, we have no intention of sharing any oil with anyone, sir. And, even if we did, it-it-it wouldn't matter in the end. Now, would it?" (laughter).

"No, I suppose you're right. What of China?"

The Ambassador to the Far East came to his feet. "China laughs at everything we say and refuses to consider any of our suggestions. Madam Chang refers to us as the...er...as the...ah, Devil!"

Angry shouts and threats against Madam Chang erupted from the congregation. Fists were forcibly banged on the tables. The organ added an angry, pounding, rolling musical bombardment.

"Silence!" Huckleberry shouted.

"She demands we withdraw from the Middle East," the Ambassador continued, "end our alliance with Russia, and remove our armies to within our original borders. She will not hold audience...her term, not mine...until she's received a positive response to her demands. It is clear Madam Chang is not afraid to continue the conventional war and sees no need to even consider a nuclear strike. She believes that her never-ending supply of soldiers and the threat of an ever-expanding world alliance will eventually bring us to our knees and halt our global exploitation...er...expansion."

"Bring us to our knees?!" Huckleberry stamped his feet upon the polished hardwood floor of his pulpit. Holding nothing back, he let fly his vitriol, "...the greedy, murdering, yellow heathen pig from Hell!" He threw himself into his pillows and chewed his lip. "An ultimatum...that's what it is, a fucking ultimatum! Does this, this, this Devil's whore really think she can frighten me with threats? That murdering, heathen, pagan whore, pig-slut!"

"Sir," the ambassador nervously interjected, "at last report she and her allies have a combined military force of nearly two-billion soldiers, sailors, and airmen, not counting reserves. Fighting-age men are enlisting in huge numbers to fight against us! And, we do not have accurate figures on the World Allies' nuclear stockpile...which we estimate could be over twice the size of ours. The World's Allies are not a trifle. She knows that it is dangerous for us to ignore her."

"Jesus be praised," Huckleberry said absentmindedly, "it is a good thing that we do not really intend to share any of the oil reserves. If we did, we'd have to come up with two-hundred-twenty percent to keep the greedy bastards appeased." He rolled his eyes in mock alarm.

Looks of confusion and concern filled the room. The attendees were shocked to silence. Many thought that perhaps they had lost their minds. Others thought that it was far more likely an explanation that the Reverend Leader had missed some piece of the conversation. Everyone remained silent and waited.

"Of course," Huckleberry continued, "treaties and pacts are a waste of time for our infidel 'friends,'" (air quotes). "Treaties won't do them any more good than ultimatums." Huckleberry pursed his lips and winked at the assembled dignitaries. He then mimed a very large explosion. Everyone, except Supreme Pastor General Mike, Rosie Heart, and a few other military officers, joined him in a rousing laugh...of relief. BMO Harold laughed loudest of all.

"Our heathen friends could have an army of five-hundred Billion," Huckleberry scoffed, "what do we care? And, if they have five times as many nukes...sooo what? It doesn't matter a tinker's fart who destroys the world the most, it only matters that it is destroyed!" Chairs flew backwards as the congregation leapt to their feet for a rousing standing ovation. The organ burst into a rousing rendition of Onward Christian Soldiers, ever louder, ever more shrill.

Mike waited for the wild celebration to subside and then he pushed a button on the control panel. A larger-scale Middle Eastern map appeared on the LCD wall. Mike stepped away from the map to get his bearings and then resumed his report. "Organized resistance has been crushed in these areas here and here," the Pastor General said. He indicated the Iranian cities of Hamadan and Mashhad. He then turned to the Pastor Minister of Defense, snapped his boot heels together, and gave a sharp nod of his head, "Our brave Tribulation Warriors express their heart-felt gratitude to you for pushing through the Rumsfeld Main Battle Tank project...our TW's affectionately refer to it as the Rummy." The assembled dignitaries chuckled politely and congratulated themselves.

The Pastor Minister nodded in return and said, "You and our brave warriors deserve the best. You need not thank us. It is we who should thank you."

"Here, here," the gathering shouted in rapturous agreement.

Mike politely received the kudos and then turned back to the map, "Our combined Middle Eastern force holds an east-west line about 50 miles south of Tehran. We are pushing steadily northward. We will have the country completely reduced within the week."

"Oh my, my, my, I hope the little brown pagans can swim," BMO Harold offered with his ever- present easy laugh and smiling eyes.

Some of the distinguished gathering, not understanding the BMO's reference, looked questioningly at him.

Harold quickly noticed their stares. "The Caspian Sea, the Caspian Sea," Harold chuckled and thrust a frankfurter-like finger at the map. He clearly was amused with himself. "May Jesus forgive me, my, my, my," Harold chortled. "I'm just going to have to pray extra, extra hard come bedtime, ha, ha, ha."

The assembled now realized that BMO Harold was pointing out that the Iranians would be driven into the sea...literally, and that they would be drowned...all of them. The assembled membership of the Church of the Family of Jesus' Eternal Love joined Harold in a hearty chuckle. The thought of all those little brown heathen bastards, served up as fish food, was very amusing. But they also knew that it was wise to laugh along with the short, round, and jolly BMO. This was not too difficult a feat when one considered that his observations were oftentimes humorous, anyway. Besides, laughing was much easier and less painful than begging for mercy.

"Yes, well, we are killing the Iranians by the millions, so I don't think there will be many left by the time we reach the sea," Mike added regarding Harold with a cold stare and injecting some gravitas into the proceedings.

The gathering quieted.

"The Holocaust Part Two...except we aren't going to need to construct any ovens," Huckleberry joked. (More laughter), "Speaking of which... how many Iraqis remain?" His toothy grin was just this side of a laugh. He clearly found the topic of genocide humorous, and quite pleasing to imagine... sensuous, even.

"Not many," Mike shot back. He barely could find the strength to hide his disgust for the Reverend President Leader. This subterfuge was growing increasingly difficult for him. His words had come out a bit too sharp edged. He knew that if he did not get back to the Middle East soon, he would have to move up the coup, or risk his head decorating the end of a pike. Yes, the dead and dying were pagans and infidels, and pitiful examples of humanity--if they were even that--and they certainly deserved to die, but with far less glee than that displayed by Huckleberry and the others, who never got their hands bloody, or put their precious lives at risk.

The Dominionist Family faithful believed that Jesus, himself, would gladly and enthusiastically cast all sinners into the fires of damnation, despite the fact that there was nothing in scripture to support the contention that he found happiness and joy in cold-blooded damnation. To ease what little conscience they possessed, they bestowed upon Jesus a flaw of character exclusively human and, specifically, Dominionist...joyful self-righteous revenge. Consequently, the Dominionists, who believed themselves to be near equals to Jesus, saw nothing terrible in sharing a laugh with their Blessed Savior over the death of billions and billions of organisms masquerading as human beings.

Mike cleared his throat and resumed a bit too sarcastically, "Fortunately, our bulldozers find it easy to gouge large graves in the desert sand. Our engineers toil around the clock covering the carnage and the maggoty stench. Men, women, and children bulldozed into pits...alive or dead, hardly matters at all..."

"Yes, well holocausts are not usually pleasant," Huckleberry interrupted smacking his lips and rolling his eyes disapprovingly, as one now bored by the conversation. "I suppose that's why we call them holocausts and not festivals.(laughter) Even Iraqi and Iranian holocausts," he continued, "have a certain degree of tragedy about them...uh, I suppose...if we care to look really, really, really hard. I suppose we could consider it unfortunate, but we are chosen by God and we are doing His work and that makes _whatever_ we do righteous in His eyes! Praise Cheesus-ah!"

"Praise Jesus!" the room reverberated.

Huckleberry dismissed Mike's observations with a wave of his hand and turned to the larger gathering. "And, now, gladly changing the subject, (chuckling) how go our allies efforts with the Europeans?"

There was a long, slow screech of a chair as the elderly Pastor Ambassador to the greatly diminished European Union pushed away from the conference table. Finally, clear enough to stand, he placed both palms upon the mahogany table and shakily pushed himself to standing. He steadied himself with fingertips pressed firmly against the tabletop. His ancient, hoary, palsied head trembled noticeably upon his frail neck.

The ambassador's watery, faded blue eyes slowly surveyed the faces of the council's distinguished members. He nodded in recognition to those whom he knew and added a weak smile for those whom he both knew and liked. Then, the Pastor Ambassador addressed the crowd.

"Your Excellency, the Most Reverend President Leader Huckleberry," he risked a shallow bow, "fellow ambassadors, distinguished ministers, pastors, brave and noble military commanders, and especially, Supreme Pastor General Mike, whose military expertise has brought honor to our humble republic," (enthusiastic applause of recognition), "I offer my most humble salutations." The ambassador's voice trembled as was common in the very elderly. "It is an honor, Reverend Leader, to be asked to address such an august body--my fellow Dominionist Family in Christ," (enthusiastic applause from the assembly, in recognition of themselves).

With tremulous hands, the Pastor Ambassador adjusted his purple robes with powder-blue edging along the cuffs and lapels. A small wooden cross, the symbol of soulful service and humility, suspended on a tarnished silver chain, swung from the high, starched collar of his very white silken undergarment. A square, white four-corner cap with a golden cross embroidered on the very top completely covered his wig, which was a very silver, shiny, and well-coifed pompadour concealing a rapidly thinning pate. Only the rather long and ridiculous-looking silver sideburns were visible against his pale and liver spotted skin. The cap and cross served to remind him that he always worked for, and under the authority of, a watchful and vengeful God.

"The pleasure is ours, Pastor Ambassador," Huckleberry murmured, sniffing and stifling a yawn with the back of his hand. "So...what have you to report?"

Huckleberry hated the elderly. He couldn't explain why...perhaps he thought they smelled, or that they were weak, or that they were so damned needy. He hated needy people. Or, perhaps he loathed the constant reminder of the eventual decay of all living things...especially, his decay...which he found most tragic, unfair and very frightening. His body, growing less resilient and vital by the year, was the one constant reminder that he was not the deity he thought himself to be. Inevitable decay and death, and their ever present and constant assault, were the source of his unspeakable resentment for a God that would allow him to grow old, diminish, suffer, and die.

Huckleberry was glad to see the elderly arrested and interned in the death camps. He wished he could arrest the ancient dumb son-of-a-bitch who was, at this very moment, wasting the time of the council. But, unfortunately, the Pastor Ambassador held sway with the Russian clowns, who, in their greed, had become Huckleberry's useful idiots. For now, it was enough of an excuse to delay shooting the ambassador in the back of the head. "Someday, someday...," Huckleberry amused himself imagining different execution scenarios.

"Thank-you Reverend Leader," the ambassador said, giving no indication that he had even noticed Huckleberry's rudeness. He surveyed the crowd with pursed lips and a sense of gravity. "It's a much trickier business convincing the apostate Russian Politburo of our good intentions, than it is destroying the Middle Eastern heathens," (polite laughter). He smiled and nodded to Pastor General Mike. "But it is not impossible." The ambassador flashed a broad yellow toothed smile at the Most Reverend President Leader. He had one very noticeable gold-capped canine which annoyed and sickened Huckleberry.

Huckleberry suppressed a shiver of revulsion, "So, the news is good?" He asked flatly.

"Well, perhaps, maybe...yes."

Huckleberry straightened. "Perhaps, maybe, yes? What is that supposed to mean? If you think yourself humorous, I am not amused."

"Yes, your Reverence...clearly...but, I am not attempting humor. Perhaps context would be helpful."

"By all means, provide us...context," Huckleberry grunted, sporting a sardonic smile. He slumped on his cushions and grabbed the arms of the pulpit's chaise longue with all the excitement of one anticipating the extraction of a molar.

"Thank you, your Excellency. Yes, well, obviously the Russian's are upset with our military (clears throat)...adventures...understandably so, (understanding grunts and nods from the assembly). They are concerned with our prohibition on inspections by their agents of the captured oil fields. They are outraged by our 'stubborn resistance' (the ambassador used one hand to indicate air quotes) to what they consider to be their 'realistic humanitarian requests for cooperation and accountability' (air quotes and quiet laughter from the room). Of course, ignoring their requests has put them over a barrel. Obviously, they can either accept the conditions set by us, or abandon the mutual assistance treaty and declare war upon us (questioning and alarmed looks around the room). They are loath to do the former and understandably reluctant to do the latter."

The ambassador took a sip of water from a cut crystal glass and continued, "Frankly, they realize that by declaring war upon us, they would risk the destruction of their barbaric, cutthroat culture (applause). With two World Wars under their belt, they understandably hesitate. Who knows better than they the carnage and devastation of mechanized war? And besides, and herein is perhaps our greatest strength, they are concerned that to deny our alliance will put them at the mercy of Madam Chang and her World Allies, who will not, it appears, under any circumstances, treat as an equal with the Russians. This leaves the UDSA as the only country willing to treat with them...as equals (laughter). The Russians hate needing us as an ally, and know that they do not stand a chance without our assistance. Although they suspect we will eventually abandon them, (more laughter) they continue to cling to the hope that we have for so long been, and, therefore, will continue to be, trusted allies of their corrupt civilization. They simply must trust us even though their eyes and ears tell them not to. Frankly, I am overjoyed that we are thus permitted to swindle them with impunity while suffering no serious repercussions."

"Ha, ha, ha, ha," Huckleberry heartily chuckled and smiled broadly, "now, that's the very same willful ignorance which allowed us to dismantle the USA's heretical Humanist democracy right from under the noses of those half-dead and stupid pagan Liberal scum bags, and all the enemies of Christ and Christmas. Separation of church and state...Ha! They thought it more important to be perceived as proper, polite, understanding, and accommodating, rather than vigorously defend their disgusting Constitution and risk a vigorous policy fight. God forbid that they hurt someone's feelings or appear less than fair. They avoided fighting for their principles, and it cost them their precious Hellish democracy. Those church-hating simpering simpletons, self-righteous faggot lovers. By the time they thought to look for their balls, they forgot where they were!"

Laughter, Praise Jesus' and hallelujahs erupted from the gathering. The organist played a riotous tune.

BMO Harold's loud interjection quieted the brief demonstration. "Yeah, gotta love those ball-less Democrats!" (uproarious laughter). Harold, once again, was good for a laugh.

"Oh, my, my, my," Harold continued through tears of glee, "there we were rubbing their noses in their filthy self-righteousness do-goodery, and all they could do was squeak and clamor on about the importance of cooperation and bi-partisanship. Oh, what a bunch of simpletons and whiny little bitches. They even went along with that National Prayer Breakfast scam...didn't want to hurt anyone's feelings... duh..." Harold ho-ho-ho'd while cradling his rather prodigious belly in his puffy, deeply-creased stubby-fingered hands.

Huckleberry ceased laughing long before the others and waited impatiently for Harold to come up for a breath.

"Yes, yes, those were the good old days," Huckleberry stated, quickly and very loudly, "but a tale for another time. Please, let's allow the good ambassador to continue." Huckleberry recognized the ambassador from under half closed eyelids. "Let's get this over with," the Reverend Leader mumbled, while adjusting himself on his cushions.

"Thank you, your Excellency. Yes, now...where was I...um, um, oh yes, the Russians understand, all too well, negotiations aside, that there is little they can do without the risk of bringing themselves headlong into a conflict with Madam Chang or the UDSA, which, obviously, they would prefer to avoid." (applause) The ambassador raised an arm to quiet the room. "Yet, they do have limits and, I am afraid, that limit is rapidly approaching. Word has reached me that Goryuknakov, their foreign minister, has approached Madam Chang...for what purpose, I do not know. But I can think of no reason other than to explore the possibility of alliance against us...as impossible as that sounds. And, let's recall that the alliance of Hitler and Stalin was just as shocking." Few in the room knew what the ambassador was referencing.

Huckleberry tilted his head back and looked down the length of his spear-like nose at the ambassador. "You indicated that the demon Chang would never treat with President Roshenko. Did you not?"

"Not as equals...that is correct your Excellency. Clearly, Roshenko is desperate and he is risking either an embarrassing rebuff, attempting to bluff us or, heaven help us, believes he has a chance at an alliance. In any case, we have put a lot of energy into reassuring him that our only mission in the Middle East and our chief concern is ridding the world of international terrorism, once and for all and, of course, liberating the oil for those who truly deserve it...us. (laughter) Up until now, the Russians have believed that we meant to include them in the bounty, per the Chelyabinsk Summit Treaty. But, if we continue to deny them the right of inspection, then, as I see it, they can make no other conclusion than we did not negotiate in good faith, and that we are taking advantage of them."

The attendees erupted into expressions of mock concern and sympathy. The organ erupted into The Dance of the Cuckoos, a comical tune from a long ago, forgotten time, yet somehow still appropriate.

" _We_ didn't negotiate in good faith and we _are_ taking advantage of them," Huckleberry replied to the amusement of the gathering. "So, I can only conclude that you have failed to convince the Russians that we are sacrificing ourselves for their benefit?" Huckleberry challenged.

"No, I have done my best, but our actions are clearly not matching our words. It is apparent to them..."

"Save it. I cannot tolerate people not accepting responsibility for their failures." Huckleberry inspected the fingernails of his right hand and appeared to be very interested in his manicure. He had the smelly old fart and he was not going to let go.

The ambassador, unsettled by the Reverend Leader's dismissive comment, could not conceal his agitation and fear. "Y-y-your Excellency," the ambassador stammered, "these are very emotional times. Everyone is on edge..."

"Some more than others, no doubt." Huckleberry smirked from beneath his snowy white and tastefully trimmed eyebrows.

"Yes, sir...I am certain that is true. But if you will indulge me a full account of our attempts to appease and reassure the Russ..."

"Yes, yes, yes...thank-you for sharing," Huckleberry interrupted, adding a sardonic smile to the dismissive wave of his hand. "I could have this dolt shot. What's to stop me..." the Reverend Leader mused, privately. He relaxed onto his well-padded cushions and considered the hall's vast ceiling, which disappeared into the blackness far above his throne.

"Yes, your Excellency, but I believe that enough Russians remain who want to believe in our selfless altruism, and who want to avoid bloodshed, that we have nothing to worry about from them...for now."

"I suppose you think that good news? I suppose you think Roshenko gives a damn about what his constituency wants?" Huckleberry leaned forward and glared. He reached for a grape from the huge bowl of fresh fruit placed at his elbow. "Security," he yelled, "remove the ambassador from my sight!"

Two very large black-uniformed Secret Service BMO foot soldiers stepped from behind the powder-blue curtains. They marched in step toward the wide-eyed ambassador, who had fallen back into his chair. Each soldier grabbed an arm and hoisted the frail man clear of his chair, and the floor. He was last seen helplessly kicking his legs as the curtains closed behind him.

The auditorium fell silent. No one stirred. Not a paper was rustled, or a cup raised. Nearly everyone was stunned...and frightened...by the vision of unimaginable terror that awaited anyone of them for misspeaking or making the wrong facial expression at this moment. Everyone seated at the conference table, and in the cheap seats, stared expressionless into the space before them...all, save one...

"I just don't get it. Why should we care so much about some stupid threat from some apostate Russian Orthodox, so-called Christian thingies? What concern is it of ours if they threaten us? Just whose side are they on, anyway? We can sweep them away as easily as Smart the Self Proclaimed swept away the doe-eyed Liberals."

The room gave an audible gasp. All eyes turned to the newly positioned Pastor Counselor, seated in the nave, who had jumped from his seat to make his emotional outcry. His face was beat red with indignation.

Pastor Counselor Evan Jonas Cletus stood at his chair offstage, fists clenched, as if waiting for an answer. Some leaned back in their seats to get as far away from the target as possible. Cletus, like all the Pastor Counselors of the MEEC, was young, inexperienced, and passionate for Jesus. The MEEC, counselors to his Excellency the Most Reverend President Leader, were counselors in name only; window dressing for those who mistakenly believed that representative democracy was still a thing. Obviously, it was laughable to presume that anyone enjoying the direct appointment by Jesus to leadership would require counseling. Cletus, whose real job was to keep his mouth shut and, when asked, to praise his betters, was nothing but a decoration, a glorified messenger boy, a rubber stamp, and, when necessary, a scapegoat. Infrequently, a counselor would make the oftentimes fatal mistake of thinking he actually had a job to perform.

Huckleberry's baby blues zeroed in on the Pastor Counselor. He slowly considered the newly appointed junior counselor with all the empathy and understanding of a king cobra. He shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose in an attempt to stave off the headache which lurked behind his eyes. He took a deep breath and let out a long slow sigh. The Dominionist hierarchical structure was rigid and the rules of protocol were sacrosanct. Cletus had made several mistakes, not the least of which were talking without having been asked a question, demanding a response from his superiors, and addressing the Reverend Leader without permission. It was paramount that Huckleberry set an example. He would not call upon Jesus' love to do this.

Pastor Counselor Cletus recognized, too late, that he had crossed the line with his Most Reverend Leader. His Jesus fervor had overwhelmed his common sense, as it so often did. He quickly gathered himself and hastily retook his seat. Sheepishly, he looked around the room for support. Everyone, to a man, avoided making eye contact. He was on his own.

Huckleberry stared at Cletus for what seemed to Cletus to be at least an hour, but, which in fact, was only a handful of seconds. Huckleberry cleared his throat to be certain that his words would ring clear. And, then he spoke in measured beats, "Let us not make the same mistake the Russians are making, ah...what is your name my son?"

"Er...Cletus, sir."

Huckleberry offered a thin smile. "Well Er...Cletus," he snipped, cutting off Cletus' name as if it were some offending appendage.

"It's, ah, Cletus, sir...there is no 'er'..."

Huckleberry slammed a tightly clenched fist onto the arm of his throne and yelled, "Shut up, Er...Cletus!" A large vessel throbbed visibly along Huckleberry's forehead. Understandably, large beads of sweat were clearly visible on the foreheads of many attendees.

Huck spoke in a stage whisper, a loud breathy hiss. "We are not the Russian's allies, any more than they are ours. They are every bit as corrupt and sinful and foul as the filthy, greasy, brown, Middle Eastern and African demons that we are killing by the millions. The Russians' concern about oil inspections tells us that they are no more concerned about decency and the love of Jesus than the Liberal vermin that infest God's earthly paradise."

"Then why don't we declare war on the Russians?" Cletus blurted out, as if he had lost control of his own mouth. He clasped his hands over his mouth and slumped further into his chair.

Another audible gasp filled the room. Some thought, secretly, that perhaps he was suicidal.

Huckleberry caught his breath. He wondered if Cletus was a courageous fool or just an idiot. He settled on "foolish idiot." "In good time, in good time, my dear Er... Cletus," Huckleberry responded through set teeth. His anger was palpable. "But, don't you think it would be a good idea to squeeze the Russians for all the help they can give us in securing all the oil reserves before broadening our front and getting ourselves entangled in, what would surely become, an even greater and very much riskier world war?" Huckleberry asked rhetorically.

"Oh yeah, I forgot about making certain all the oil was safe and not making things harder than we have to."

"Oh yeah, you forgot about making certain all the oil was safe and not making things harder than we have to," Huckleberry mocked. "Yes, an understandable and easy mistake, for some." The sarcasm in Huckleberry's tone was not lost on the gathering. "May we continue with our discussion, Mr. Er... Cletus? Have your questions been answered satisfactorily? Are your fears put adequately to rest?"

"Er...yes, thank-you Most Reverend President Leader. Er...sorry everyone," Pastor Counselor Cletus stammered and looked at the floor beyond his feet.

"Oh no, thank you," Huckleberry played. "Well, then, let's have more refreshments...all around," he ordered. The Secular slaves, resplendent in their powder-blue frocks, hurried to refresh the desired non-alcoholic beverage of each participant. Some preferred coffee and cream, while others had chosen iced tea, a few had selected carbonated sugary sodas, but most thought a chilled glass of water most appropriate. The slaves moved around the room with quiet efficiency before they disappeared into the dark corners of the hall.

"No, not his glass," Huckleberry said pointing at the slave who was about to refill Er...Cletus' juice glass. "Counselor Er...Cletus will have no need for refreshing."

"Sir?" Cletus squeaked, his face turning quite pale.

"Security," Huckleberry boomed, "escort citizen Er...Cletus to more...uhmm...uncomfortable quarters!"

Once again, two very large black-uniformed BMO's marched out from behind the powder-blue curtains. Their spit-shined black boots clomped loudly against the hardwood stage. They marched directly to Cletus' side, pulled him from his chair, and rudely lifted him off his feet by his armpits. Cletus was carried from the hall, his feet kicking frantically in the air, searching for traction. His sputtered "buts" and "please forgive me's" and "I'm sorry's" were lost forever as the heavy wooden double doors, far off stage, somewhere beyond the curtains, closed with the solid thump of finality.

Huckleberry surveyed the crowd and measured the response to his actions. He saw fear, nods of approval, and respectful obedience. He was satisfied that there would be no more breeches of protocol. The Most Reverend President Leader was confident that he had sent a clear message to everyone present. He was in charge and feeling quite pissy.

Huck, needing a laugh and some good news, turned his attention to BMO Harold, "So tell me Pastor Harold, how goes the Jesusification of our military? Have we become an army in Christ?" Huckleberry forced his biggest toothiest smile.

All eyes turned to Harold. Few had ever met the man and fewer still, wanted to meet the man. All knew his reputation as the incorruptible and sadistic leader of the Biblical Morale Officer Corp. Harold, and his hand-picked cadre of tormentors, or rather, inquisitors, were feared by everyone, except Huckleberry. Every BMO swore an oath of allegiance and self-sacrificing service, not to the UDSA, but to Huckleberry. The BMO's were Huckleberry's secret police and his personal body guard--his Christian SS, as it were.

Harold lifted his stumpy round self from his chair at the upper end of the U-shaped conference table where he had sat, somewhat apart from the others, quietly observing the participants and making mental notes on their behavior and levels of enthusiasm. Standing, he seemed no taller than when sitting. He smiled his kindest, most inviting smile for everyone present, and took a moment to smooth his black, monk-like robes. A wise person was not easily misled by Harold's sweet demeanor and self-deprecating manner. A wise person did everything they were told to do, and did nothing that would arouse Harold's interest in them.

Clasping his ever-present and badly worn Bible against his prodigious round belly, he began to speak, "Most Reverend President Leader...it is an honor, an absolute honor. I cannot thank you enough for inviting me to this historic event, but to call upon me directly is more honor than I deserve. I am humbled." Harold bowed as deep as his gut would allow, which resulted in a slight kink at his middle. Huckleberry smiled broadly and nodded his head approvingly.

"My, my, my, what an honor it is to be with all of you today," Harold continued, turning his attention to the larger assembly. "My, my, my, my, my, I'm...I'm nearly speechless." Polite chuckles were heard in the gathering. Some looked nervously, one to another, for assurance that a polite chuckle was acceptable.

Harold continued, "What a pleasure...no, what a blessing...yes, a blessing...that our glorious Savior has delivered unto us...has led us to certain victory over His enemies. My, my, my, what a glorious day...indeed." His angelic, round face beamed. He shared his most friendly and disarming smile with the participants. "Reverend Leader," Harold continued, "our army in Christ is strong and is growing stronger by the day!"

The dignitaries welcomed Harold's report with a standing ovation and shouts of "Praise, Jesus." The organ added a few appropriate-sounding whoops and do's.

Harold raised his thick arms to quiet the crowd. His countenance was the picture of humility and service, yet, privately, he did enjoy the ovation. Harold had never been terribly popular as a youth. He had always been portly and not particularly attractive. He did not excel at sports, was clearly not a lady's man, and was only average academically. He had had one close friend all through high school who was as socially inept as he. Harold graduated from high school near the bottom of his class and took the only job he could find, a lowly supermarket grocery bagger. Understandably, he resented his life and people in general, all of whom, it seemed to him, had been given some inside information on living the successful life; information which, cruelly, had been denied him. Socially inert and resentful, Harold continued to languish on the sidelines, until one day, not long after he had started work, he was befriended by a cashier. She was a shy, quiet girl, who would have been considered pretty enough by most, if it were not for her social awkwardness. She, too, had been relegated to life's sidelines, which made Harold's and her friendship all the more natural and compelling. It was she who introduced Harold to the Dominionist Family.

Harold had never considered religion important and, therefore, had never considered religious belief as a possible solution to his terrible isolation. Yet, alone and clueless, he was willing to do just about anything to win and keep a friend. On her insistence, Harold began attending church services with his new "girlfriend," where, to Harold's surprise, he found immediate acceptance and even encouragement. Actually, when one considers that the Dominionists Family movement had always relied on losers and bullies to fill its membership, it wasn't all that surprising.

Harold was so socially backward and starved for recognition that he would not permit himself to even consider as odd or false the sudden, positive attention from people he had just met. The attention felt wonderful to him. In short order, Harold easily accepted that everyone's interest in everything he had to say was natural and believable. Over time, an unfamiliar self-confidence grew within Harold. He discovered an enthusiasm for life that he had never experienced before. Understandably, it didn't take long before there was nowhere he preferred to be but in church with his new "friends."

Fearing that the love might stop, should he ever fail to measure up, Harold threw himself into the one thing his new friends seemed to love the most, Bible study. It wasn't long before he was demonstrating proficiency with Bible verse and, along with his proficiency, a zeal for holding others accountable to Jesus' word. His reputation as a "take no prisoners" advocate of the Gospel soon attracted the attention of the local Dominionist leadership. Impressed by his acumen, Harold was promoted to Sunday school teacher. Excited by the positive attention of the church fathers, Harold threw himself into the project. He excelled, of course, and in short order, he was given administrative responsibilities of all the Sunday schools in his district, and then, the state. His ability to root out mediocrity within the Dominionists' ranks, and his "Jesus-like" approach to upbraiding backsliders, earned him an eventual promotion to the newly-created Biblical Morale Officer Corp.

With every promotion came more important responsibilities, an increased resolve to excel, and a sublimation of his anger and resentment into an entirely false, but incredibly convincing, humble and self-deprecating presentation. Some thought it sincere...even Harold. Harold could literally kill with kindness, and the Dominionists saw no inconsistency in this. As a matter of fact, they loved him for this rare and highly prized ability. After all, it was with kindness and a smile that Jesus himself judged and executed his enemies, was it not? Harold's promotion to Pastor Grand Inquisitor of the BMO was as predictable and natural as the Apocalypse.

"Reverend President Leader," Harold continued, "we are rooting out those enemies of Christ who, in their vain attempts to avoid arrest and internment, have cowardly hidden themselves within the ranks of our blessed armed services." Harold donned his best stern face before continuing. "To avoid Jesus' glorious gift of judgment (a few "Praise Jesus'" were shouted) they hide, oh yes, yes, yes, they hide, they hide! But they cannot hide for long. (applause) Every true soldier in Christ has become a spy for the Dominionist Family. Every true soldier in Christ has become a happy informant for blessed Jesus." (rapturous applause)

"We find the criminals, oh yes, yes, yes, we find them...the filthy homosexuals, with their depraved desires, (grunts of disgust) longing to corrupt the purity of our warriors in Jesus; the slovenly malingerers who take the food from our blessed warrior's tummies; (boos and hisses) saboteurs who plot and deceive and try to destroy our good works; (angry shouts) the unclean servants of Satan...those lying and deceitful atheists..."

"Burn them!" several participants spat as they came to their feet, shouting. (In the Dominionist hierarchy of depravity, atheism was the most depraved of all. It topped even homosexuality and abortion...well, maybe not abortion. The debate rages on.)

"Oh, we do, we do, we do, my brothers. We burn the cowards by the hundreds...by the thousands! It is a mighty task, but God has given us the tools and the inspiration and the power and the leadership!" Harold acknowledged Huckleberry with another abbreviated bow.

Shouts of "Yes", "Praise Jesus", and "Halleluiah" filled the church.

"We also find many who, victims of their own lack of conviction and belief in the glory of Christ, cannot tolerate the consequences of their agnosticism. They come, ragged and whining, to the military recruiting offices, claiming a desire to become members of the Dominionist Family in Christ. But we know their game. The infidels lie just so they can get a bite to eat and a warm, dry place to sleep." Looks of disgust and contempt were shared between many of the participants.

"Well, my brothers, they get recruited alright. Yes, yes, yes, they get recruited alright. They get recruited right into the Blessed Workers in Christ (BWC), the slave labor brigades, where some hard work, building the Freedom Centers for our blessed Savior, just might firm up their belief in His glory, (laughter) ...or maybe not." (more laughter)

Harold, who was enjoying his reception by the crowd, became suddenly aware that perhaps he'd had gotten carried away by his sudden popularity. It felt good to him to be the center of positive attention, but the unnaturalness of the condition, and his secret discomfort, often made him overcompensate with shamelessness and haughtiness. Harold quickly changed his tone. Suddenly, as if a switch had been thrown, he presented as sheepish and shameful. "Forgive me," he apologized. "My jesting at the expense of these unfortunates, who have been misguided by that ol' fat snake Satan, is harsh and intemperate. I fear I've been unnecessarily cruel...yes, cruel, cruel, cruel...can you ever forgive me?" Harold lowered his head, as a naughty schoolboy might, who'd been caught spying on the girl's locker room.

"There's nothing to forgive, my friend," an amused Huckleberry chuckled. "We gave them every opportunity to join with us. But they laughed in our faces, and chased us away, as if we were lepers. They are reaping only that which they have so carelessly sowed." Huckleberry reveled in the opportunity to display compassion and empathy toward his compatriot, especially under the watchful gaze of the assembled dignitaries. He welcomed the distraction as an opportunity to add depth and balance to his persona, in light of the earlier confrontations with the European Ambassador and Pastor Er...Cletus. Huckleberry was a politician, after all, and kissing babies, no matter how distasteful, was part of the territory. The "kissing" broadcast to everyone that he was, indeed, a kind and understanding human, cast from the mold of his savior Jesus--even though his actions were, nearly always, quite the opposite of the ideal. He knew that it was very important to maintain the façade of being fair and just, and to reinforce the lie that he only condoned violence and punishment when he was offered no other option.

Huckleberry smiled his biggest toothy smile for the benefit of the gathering and made certain that he caught every eye in the room, before he continued. "You are doing God's work, brother, and that is to be praised. Praise to you, Harold, for your sacrifice, in His name."

A spontaneous "Praise Harold, Praise Harold," erupted from the congregants. Overall, the gathering seemed to relax, a bit. Some even sat back in their chairs. The organ celebrated with a lively, inspiring tune.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you, Most Reverend President Leader. You are so great, yet you so selflessly comfort me in my hour of weakness, thank you, thank you, thank you." Harold's face reddened with genuine embarrassment.

Shouts of "Praise Huckleberry, Praise Huckleberry," filled the cavernous room, as another spontaneous celebration erupted.

Huckleberry considered Harold a friend largely because Harold was so deliciously obsequious, unquestionably loyal, extremely willing to follow orders without question, and spectacularly efficient in delivering the Final Judgment to the enemies of the Dominionist movement.

CHORUS

"The Final Judgment, of course, was a turn of the phrase 'Final Solution', which had been employed by another and, some would argue, only slightly less lethal leader of a paranoid police state, a little over a century before. The term, 'Final Judgment,' was later replaced with the phrase 'Blessed Cleansing'. It is unclear why the change was made, but some believed that 'Final Judgment' rang as much too papist and harsh. Therefore, it was not considered entirely descriptive of the all-encompassing love revealed in Jesus' philosophy. While the term 'Blessed Cleansing,' on the other hand, seemed entirely fitting and much more in tune with the wholesomeness and goodness of Christ...no more controversial than washing behind your ears on a Saturday night. The end result, however, death of the most horrible kind, remained unchanged."

"The pursuit of 'purity', no matter the type--racial, spiritual, economic--seems to have spelled disaster for many an innocent bystander throughout history; innocent bystanders, whom in the process of just trying to get by and maybe raise a family, suddenly and inexplicably, found themselves unworthy of life, and too ignorant to know the why of it. The Nazi's goal of racial purity was not unlike the Dominionist goal, but it lacked the element of spiritual purity, which would have made it truly glorious in Jesus' blue eyes. This, in part, explained the Nazi's ultimate, devastating, and unfortunate failure-- according to the Dominionists. With Jesus leading the struggle, however, the Dominionists not only had philosophy and biology on their side, but the full weight of a blessed deity, the ultimate unimpeachable authority of Jesus Christ. Only the purist could pursue absolute purity. No one was going to argue against Jesus, for Christ's sake."

*

Huckleberry raised his arms and quickly brought the crowd, and the organ, to silence. "Please continue your report, Harold," he encouraged.

"Yes, yes, yes, oh my, yes and thank-you Reverend Leader," Harold said adding another truncated bow. "Of course, the Military Chaplaincy Corp has been completely converted to the infinitely more righteous and correct, Dominionist Family Doctrine in Christ (DFDIC). And, all priests, rabbis, and chaplains of other spiritual...er...'persuasions' (laughter) were discharged and returned to civilian life years ago. As you know, most have been arrested and Cleansed, because they dared to challenge your authority by inciting open rebellion within the ranks."

"Serves them right," uttered by one of the attendees, was answered by a host of similar, supporting, spontaneous utterances.

"So, the military is now completely mine..., er, ours, er, Jesus'?" Huckleberry asked.

"Yes, yes, yes, my goodness, yes...any meaningful opposition to us was eliminated long ago and a clear message has been sent to any who would ever think to challenge us. Death will be their only reward for resisting Christ's Doctrine. (hallelujah's and Praise Jesus') Of course, we remain alert for any warrior who carries the seed of Satan, and when discovered, he is Cleansed straight away!"

"Excellent, excellent, Pastor Grand Inquisitor Harold. And, what of the riots and civilian unrest?" Huckleberry turned to his Pastor Director for Public Safety, the Reverend Wally Milner. Huckleberry, of course, did not care what damage was done to the country's infrastructure, or social systems, or civilian population. These were all doomed anyway, and no real concern of his. However, time was very important to him. He could only launch the final devastation after his Freedom Centers were built, his one-hundred forty-four-thousand chosen souls safely tucked away inside, and their infrastructure operating smoothly. Therefore, it was in his best interest to draw out the civil unrest, conflict, and the killings, for as long as necessary. He was not concerned about any real threats to his power. He just had to keep the people off balance and their focus elsewhere.

"Your, Excellency," Pastor Director Milner responded as he rose from his chair and gave a deep bow, "distinguished guests (of which there were none) and most esteemed colleagues..."

Finally losing his patience with all the formalities, Huckleberry boomed, "Oh, get on with it, man, or the Rapture will be over and done before we leave this room!"

"Yes, your, Excellency," the startled Pastor Director responded, adding an awkward, hasty bow. His hands trembling, he pushed a button on the map control panel. The major urban centers of the East and West coasts lit up in red, along with several larger urban centers of the Midwest. A quiet, yet audible grumble was heard from the far opposite end of the table, near to the Pastor Secretary for Prayer and Medicine.

Pastor Director Milner glanced furtively at the grumbler and cleared his throat, "Here, indicated in red, are the areas of greatest conflict. Rioting and resistance has become more severe in the face of growing food, medical and shelter shortages. Responses to the police and our Prayer Warriors (a sort of unofficial Huckleberrian National Guard with a license to beat, torture and kill) have been desperate and extremely violent. Interdiction, by necessity, has been forceful and deadly. The rioters are adequately armed and, the more time that passes, the more vicious and brutal they seem to become. They organized and launched a somewhat successful pre-dawn raid on food and weapon storage warehouses in San Francisco, just yesterday. The Satanist Takers lost nearly one hundred killed, with many wounded, but they took the warehouses and carried away a lot of stores before our counterattack stopped them. We took twenty-five prisoners."

"Our casualties?" Huckleberry inquired.

"Er...we lost twenty-three police and Tribulation Warriors wounded, seven seriously, and ten killed..."

"This is all the fault of your ineptitude!" the Pastor Secretary for Prayer and Medicine yelled, coming to his feet and pointing an accusing finger at the Pastor Director of Public Safety. "Areas of resistance should be saturation bombed and their neighborhoods burned to the ground. You can't blame me for your failure to protect our warriors..."

"My esteemed colleague is correct..." the Pastor Secretary for Food and Spiritual Enrichment chimed in, indicating the Secretary for Prayer and Medicine. "We can't be held accountable for every mess Milner gets himself into."

"That is not the case," the Associate Pastor for Public Safety defended, launching from his seat all red faced and trembling. "Pastor Director Milner has spent many a sleepless night interpreting the intelligence reports, organizing armed responses and planning pre-emptive strikes on the Humanist Takers. It is you and your colleagues' failure to support his efforts that has led to casualties and the death of our warriors!"

"Planning, planning, planning...planning responses is not good enough, we need actionable intelligence, directive pre-emptive action, not pre-emptive planning," the Pastor Secretary of Food and Spiritual Enrichment scoffed. "We need to disarm and neuter the Satanist Takers before they strike! Take away their weapons and render them impotent! Then, our Warriors will have free reign to slaughter the Satanist scum. Where are our spies?" This last eruption left his mouth before he could catch it. The off-hand remark would very likely be (and was) misconstrued as a criticism of Pastor Inquisitor Harold. The Pastor Secretary for Food and Spiritual Enrichment quickly sat down. His well-scrubbed pink face lost all its remaining color.

Across the table Pastor Inquisitor Harold did not bother to stand and defend himself. He made no errors and needed no defense. He smiled broadly at the Secretary for Food and Spiritual Enrichment.

The Public Safety Pastor stood numbed by the vicious attacks. He took a sip of water and cleared his throat, "We are doing our best to protect our Warriors. Certainly, our prolonged campaign to disarm the people using the excuse of mounting terrorism was helpful but, honestly, the campaign enjoyed only limited success. Not everyone believed us when we said that we were only concerned about their safety... that we were making an effort to keep their guns out of the hands of terrorists. They thought we were tricking them..."

"We were," Huckleberry interrupted, to the amusement of the gathering.

"That is no excuse," the Pastor Secretary of Prayer and Medicine jeered, angrily regarding the Public Safety Pastor. "We have always known that the public was well-armed. Heck, we encouraged it. And, all the good people, those that we wanted armed, bought weapons in record numbers. But, all the people we didn't, and thought wouldn't arm, the Liberals, bought weapons, as well. And, when we tried to disarm the people, it was those smarty pants Liberals who smelled a rat and kept their weapons. This is not news and should be taken into account whenever you engage them! And, need I mention that it was you and your office that dropped the ball and didn't get all the weapons?"

"Let's not forget the so-called 'good people', as you call them, who changed sides and joined with the Satanists and kept their weapons too," the Associate Director of Public Safety defended lamely. "You can at least take responsibility for that fiasco." He sat down and folded his arms in victory.

"Is that so?" the Pastor Secretary of Food and Spiritual Enrichment yelled, shaking his finger at the Public Safety Director. "You'll not get away with blaming me for your ineptitude! We've intercepted reports that the Takers are spreading their filth, and areas, which were peaceful, are now erupting in riots...which can only grow larger and more deadly for our Warriors. Do you deny it?! Do you deny it?!"

"Er...no, I don't deny it. But..."

"There you have it..." the Secretary of Food and Spiritual Enrichment gloated. He took his seat and folded his arms.

Huckleberry observed the sparring between his underlings with a delighted smirk. No one thought to accuse him of questionable leadership, or to hold him accountable for the disruption of civil authority and Tribulation Warrior casualties. How delightful it was to have everyone so terrified of him that they would not dare to accuse anyone but themselves, and each other, for inefficiencies and catastrophes. "And, what of the poor old Pastor Secretary of Food and Spiritual Enrichment?" the Reverend President mused. "Didn't he go out on a limb and put his neck in a noose with BMO Harold?" Huckleberry's chuckle rose to a loud laugh that reverberated through his chin mike and out the hundreds of speakers. The proceedings came to an immediate halt.

Everyone became still. All eyes rose and fell upon the Most Reverend President Leader. What Huck found so amusing was the question no one dared to ask. And, no one dared laugh with him...not at least until they understood what he found so funny.

"It is so very tragic that patriotism, freedom, liberty, and the rights of man have completely lost their meaning," Huckleberry laughed.

The gathering, believing that they now knew what made the Reverend Leader laugh, felt free to join him.

Everyone was having a good time until Huckleberry ordered them to silence.

"Does the Pastor Secretary of Intelligence and Biblical Literalism have anything to add to the discussion?" Huckleberry asked.

"Sir?" the Pastor Secretary asked, coming to his feet. His voice broke as he spoke, and his "sir" sounded more like a rodent's squeak, than the voice of an adult human. He cleared his throat and swallowed some of his nervousness. "Umm...the Satanists are well-armed...we can all agree, and there are soldiers among them who know how to fight, but most are just hungry and desperate civilians-- driven by need. They are a rabble, disorganized and easy to kill. Any of our Warriors killed and wounded are just unlucky. If the Satanists fire enough bullets, they are bound to hit something."

"Should I...we, be worried?"

"No, your Excellency, they just want food and medical supplies. They are too distracted by need to ever plan and carry out a project as large as removing us from power, or even weakening our power. They are neutered." (applause)

"Lost those damned balls again, didn't they?" Huckleberry laughed.

The hall erupted in laughter.

The blue curtains parted unexpectedly, and a black-frocked messenger took three steps into the room. He bowed to the throne and came to attention.

Huckleberry gazed down his nose at the interloper. "Oh, for Pete's sake. Yes, what is it?"

"Sir, Most Reverend President Leader, I have news for your ears only," the anxious messenger replied, nearly shouting.

"Glory be, I'm just all a quiver. You...," Huckleberry shouted, indicating Pastor Dick, "...bring me the message!"

"Sir, yes sir," Dick replied.

Pastor Dick took the locked briefcase from the messenger. He then approached Huckleberry's perch, climbed the permitted six of the twelve pulpit steps, being ever mindful to keep his head lower than the Most Reverend's. He offered the briefcase with both arms extended above his bowed head.

"What the peach do you expect me to do with that?" Huckleberry glared at Dick, who stared blankly in return. Huckleberry gritted his teeth. "Get the key, unlock the case, fish out the message and hand it to me, you...you..."

Dick quickly withdrew the case and snapped at the messenger, "Am I to gnaw the lock open?" Embarrassed and visibly unnerved, the messenger presented the key to the Pastor. Dick fumbled with the key and managed to unlock the case on the third try. He presented the document to a very annoyed Reverend Leader.

Huckleberry, never removing his murderous glare from Pastor Dick, unfolded the document. Huck inhaled deeply in an effort to calm his agitated heart and read the communiqué. It had been issued from the Office of Pastoral Intelligence and Biblical Literalism and contained four, typed lines. The message read: 'The demonic, traitorous, Russian scum have rejected our solemn and righteous promise of future inspections of the Iraqi oil fields, as...too little, too late. The coward demons from Hell have allied with the harlot whore-demon Madam Chang and, under her direction have launched a cowardly sneak attack into Turkey. Our blessed forces in Northern Iraq, may they be blessed a thousand times, are under assault by the Russian criminals. What are your orders?' The document was signed by Pastor Lieutenant General Mark Fishfinder, Deputy Pastor Commander of Operation Indefinite Occupation, Middle Eastern Command. The Reverend Leader read the report again. He sat motionless for a long while and worried his lower lip. He seemed uncharacteristically puzzled or uncertain. The troubled gathering was left to wonder, and silently speculate.

His Excellency looked about the room, from face to face, hoping to glean from the many vapid expressions, some idea as to what the message meant for him and his power. Of course, no one knew, or would even dare to think, that his Excellency would need clarification and assistance with this or any issue. So, the gathering sat in silent concern. No one dared speak until the Reverend Leader gave an order or asked a question. Everyone guessed that the news was bad. Few had ever experienced Huckleberry being at a loss for words, for so long a period. No one had ever seen Huckleberry faced with the certainty of all-out war between the UDSA and the entire world, either.

Finally, Huckleberry spoke, "BMO Harold, Spiritual Leader Patboy, and Pastor Dick may remain. All the rest of you clear this church...now!" Huckleberry boomed into his chin mike.

There was a mad scramble to be the first out of the darkened, cavernous auditorium. The result was five minutes of fumbling with papers, bumping into other participants, knocking over of drinking glasses, tripping over chairs, all while listening to Huckleberry's constant threats of unspeakable tortures for anyone who dawdled. By anyone's estimation the room was cleared in record time.

Supreme Pastor General Mike and Pastor Colonel Rosie Hart stood at their chairs and regarded each other with justified concern and apprehension. Neither knew the communique's content, but they knew Huckleberry was up to no good. They exited the room quietly and with dignity.

At last, the room cleared and silent, Huckleberry quietly considered his three remaining confidants. He pursed his lips and read the message aloud for the three, who received the news stoically. All feared, yet expected, this response from Russia...eventually. It had only been a matter of not knowing when the Most Supreme Direcktor (sic), Boris Roshenko, would lose patience and sell his soul to the Chinese whore.

"Did you hear what I said?" Huckleberry asked, seemingly astonished with the small group's unresponsiveness.

Harold's stoic expression gave way to a broad, tiny toothed, tightly drawn smile. Patboy and Huckleberry soon joined with Harold's elation. Dick sat confused and bewildered. As usual, no one had told him about the joke.

Huckleberry sighed in reply, as each regarded the others unspoken understanding.

The World's Allies were now in a position to draw out the war indefinitely. They would have no need to resort to nuclear weapons. The task of initiating the End Times would fall to Huckleberry and his murderous Family. Clearly, it was not an ideal situation for Huckleberry, because he had prayed for the Allies to make the first nuclear strike. One wouldn't think it, but Huckleberry was concerned about appearances. He had hoped to avoid the stigma associated with the starting of a nuclear holocaust. Now, he had no choice. The times had forced a decision upon him.

"Yes, sir, we heard you," Patboy replied after some time. "I think it is safe to say that it is time to call forth our two volunteers."

"Yes, I couldn't agree more," Huckleberry replied. "I believe it is time to fetch PFC's Theodore and Martin."

"Oh, my yes, yes, yes, yes your Excellency. It is time...time, time, time." Harold chuckled and rubbed his hands together with glee. He exited through the blue drapery and returned a few minutes later. Tribulation Warriors Martin and Theodore marched a respectful distance behind him.

The trio stopped in front of Huckleberry's throne. The two TW's executed a perfectly choreographed, synchronized right face under Harold's proud gaze. Harold took two steps back. The two TW's remained standing at attention, side by side, twenty paces in front of the throne and facing their Most Reverend President Leader. They were tall, just over six feet, clean-shaven with closely shaved scalps. They were both scrubbed pink in the tradition of cleanliness next to Godliness. They were both Privates First Class, as signified by the single stripe pinned to the lapels of their immaculately pressed and starched fatigue blouses. Neither bore any insignia indicating service in battle, valor, or enemy-inflicted injury. They were as near brothers as any two unrelated males could be. They were as innocent as a soldier could be, full of partly-line politics and sectarian beliefs, untried and untested, with no blood on their hands...yet.

Huckleberry regarded his volunteers. "Excellent specimens," Huckleberry observed. "Have they been fully briefed?" he asked Harold.

"Yes, sir...fully briefed and trained," Harold replied.

"Excellent," Huckleberry replied. He continued regarding his two conscripts. "What is their understanding regarding the mission?"

"Your Excellency," Harold reported, "they know that Satan has launched all his demons from Hell, that he threatens to smother all the hopes and dreams of the Christian world and establish Hell's dominion over the world. They realize that everything we hold sacred is in jeopardy." Harold allowed his head to droop in despair. "They realize that all could be lost to evil and sadistic perversion if drastic action is not taken soon, very soon, very, very, very soon. They realize that the prophecy of the Holy Scripture lies in their hands, and that only they, chosen by Jesus, can save us."

Huckleberry's icy blue eyes glared at his TW's, "Have you any doubts or reservations?"

PFC's Theodore and Martin strained to stand at attention even more than they had ever stood before. "No, sir!" they enthused, in absolute unison.

Huckleberry sighted the two TW's along the bridge of his nose. He pursed his lips. What he saw were two very young men who had never enjoyed an original thought or considered an opposing view. Yet, they were hardened, absolutely certain, devout, and stupid brave. They were patriots in its most derogatory aspect; automatons, forced-fed all the approved answers, the bigotry, intolerance, and fear needed to fuel intense anger and self-righteous vengeance. These lab rats were ready to sell their lives cheap for his big ideas. Of course, all war depended on young people willing to die cheap for other's big ideas.

"Yes, perfect...these will do", Huckleberry thought. These two will do nicely. He nodded approval to Harold.

Patboy nodded his approval, as well, while Dick appeared awed by the mystery of it all.

Huckleberry rose elegantly and effortlessly from his cushions, smoothed his robes, and raised his arms and eyes to heaven. Most oddly, he seemed to ignore the TW's and spoke as if he were talking to himself about himself. He intoned, "Of course, you know that every Christian, from this day forth, will learn of your sacrifice and will hold you and your family in the highest regard. Special prayers will be written in your name and be required recitation by all school children. Statues of you will be erected everywhere in your honor. And, most importantly, you will sit at Jesus' right hand for all eternity. I cannot thank or bless you enough." Huck's eyes welled. He stood motionless for an uncomfortable while. Then, as if remembering the TW's, he seemed to slowly return to the room.

From his perch Huck regarded the TW's, tiny and insignificant, forty feet from the end of his sharpened beak. "Oh, glorious Cheesus-ah," he suddenly intoned, "b-b-bless these warriors of grace with your deee-vine love-ah. Guide them mightily, oh ga-lor-ious Saaavee-yor, and reveal to them the path of your dee-vine justice. Protect them with your sacred love and b-bless-ed saword of Gawdly vengeance. Receive them, oh ga-lor-eee-ous Saaavee-yor, to your beee-less-ed bosom and beee-stow upon them all...I say, all...all the rich-ches of Heaven-ah, ah-men!"

"Amen!" everyone replied. It was all the TW's could do to resist dancing in circles.

Huck lightly blotted a tear from his cheek.

If it were possible, the TW's would have burst with pride. They had just been prayed over by the Most Reverend President Leader of the United Dominionist States of America! In all the universe, only in God's America could the truly righteous rise so blessedly to such well-deserved greatness. Theodore and Martin could not have been more Jesus-inflated if they had found themselves Raptured. Incredibly, they stood even straighter. Their faces glowed red with embarrassment and pride, having been addressed directly by the most serene figure of God's Grace and Blessing, their Most Reverend President Leader. He was the greatest man to have ever lived! So close to God, he was almost God himself! Martin and Theodore, and many millions more, were eternally and immutably Huck's, to do with as he pleased.

Huckleberry remained motionless arms raised for several minutes. His lips moved silently as he spoke to his Master. Then he quickly lowered his arms, turned slowly to the right, and picked at something in his teeth. He was bored and absolutely exhausted by the day's never-ending crises. He slouched into his cushions and regarded his three companions. "Have you anything to add?" he addressed the three with a yawn.

"If you are finished, your Excellency, may I suggest that PFC's Martin and Theodore repair to the airfield and begin the mission?" Harold offered.

"You may," Huckleberry sighed.

"You are dismissed to complete your mission," Harold ordered.

Martin and Theodore, in the manner of military protocol, presented their arms, turned their palms towards heaven and, thereby, rendered the Dominionist salute to their Most Reverend President Leader. Huckleberry rested his nose on the knuckles of his right hand and, unseen by all, smirked at the military buffoonery. The TW's then faced BMO Harold and Patboy, clicked the heels of their patent leather parade boots and saluted. They held their salutes until Harold and Patboy returned the gesture. A left face and short march later, they exited the mega-church. Within the hour, Martin and Theodore boarded the BMO private jet that would carry them east to Columbus, Ohio. In Columbus they would transfer directly to the BMO offices for last-minute training and mission clarification. On the morning of the third day, following a hearty last breakfast and an especially reverent and ecstatic church service, each would man his respective nuclear bomb-laden panel truck, and proceed to the designated points of detonation. No one would stop or impede them along the way...the BMO insignia adorning the vans would make certain of that.

Alone once again, the three men and Pastor Dick regarded each other.

"Do they know that there are sixty megaton nuclear devices in the holds of their trucks?" Huckleberry asked.

Harold smiled. "Yes."

"And, they are sacrificing themselves willingly?"

"Yes."

"They are going to push their buttons and vaporize themselves, and they are glad to do it?" Patboy smiled.

"Key, Your Excellency."

"Key?"

"Yes, sir. The devices are triggered by a key, turned in a switch," Harold clarified, humbly.

"Is that important...key or button?" Huck snapped.

"No, Most Reverend, I apologize." Harold bowed in deference to his Reverend President. "Their bravery is the product of an unwavering faith in Jesus, the Scripture, and...in you, our Most Reverend President Leader."

"Unbelievable, unbelievable," Huckleberry laughed. He smiled ear to ear. "Well," he said, "they won't feel a thing." (laughter)

Harold saw no humor in the selfless sacrifice of the two TW's. To Harold they seemed saint-like. The BMO withheld his opinion, however. "They should arrive in Columbus in a few hours," Harold offered. "They are scheduled to detonate their payloads on the third morning following their arrival as the city fills with workers and commuters..."

"We will then express our shock and anger to the nation. Our news agencies will report that the Russians have joined with Satan and his whore, Madam Chang, and have initiated a nuclear strike on us. And we, of course, in a show of powerful, divine retribution will retaliate with every nuclear missile we have," Patboy rejoiced.

"Yes, that is correct, your Excellency," Harold confirmed.

"And, the world will retaliate with every missile they have. Now, of course," Huckleberry questioned, "all of our missiles have been retargeted to miss the Chinese, Indian, European, Korean, Pakistani, and Russian launch sites?"

'Yes, sir," BMO Harold confirmed. "Our BMO officers have acted without the knowledge of the nuclear site commanders...including all our submarines. No enemy nuclear missile will be impeded in any way. Obliteration of the world population centers will be complete, and the radioactive fallout, along with disease and starvation, should kill any survivors...in a very short time," Harold regaled. "It will be Glorious! Glorious! Glorious!" His eyes sparkled with a divine light.

"Do you think any of the one-forty-four (Patboy used the short-hand to refer to the one-hundred forty-four thousand chosen by God to survive the devastation) will suspect?"

"Pastor General Mike, of course, is always suspicious of plots. But I doubt that even he has figured us out...and, even if he has, who'd believe him?" Harold replied.

"Hmmm," Huckleberry thought aloud, "yes, you're probably right. What could he do about it, anyway? Yet, let's keep an eye on him all the same. The people seem to respect him, the military adores him...what whores!" Huck was growing angry.

"Sir?"

"They sell their loyalty so cheaply. He gives them some victories and they throw themselves at him like he is some kind of god! What about me? I'm the one who makes the plans and gives the orders. Don't I get some credit?!" Huck's voice seemed to climb three octaves as he vented his resentment of Mike.

"Yes, sir. Of course. You deserve all the credit," Dick comforted, getting as close to a "there, there, there" moment, as he dared. Huckleberry's mood was often labile...and violent. Dick was always prepared to take cover, at less than a moment's notice.

"...and, he can be very persuasive. He could be a danger to us... if he gets wise," a marginally calmer Huck added.

"Yes, sir. We are keeping very close tabs on Pastor General Mike," Harold assured. "He'll be arrested the first wrong move he makes. The BMO always keeps an eye on those whom we suspect could cause us difficulties. Oh, my yes, yes, yes...we keep an eye," Harold repeated while looking off into a distant corner of the room.

Huckleberry did not hide his annoyance. Harold could make anyone feel just a little bit...uncomfortable.

"We've got the whole world right where we want them," Patboy mused.

"It's what we have wanted all along: the excuse to clean the slate of evil and begin again...to be born again in His righteousness! Born again, yes, again, again, again," Harold bowed his head in respect and deference for his Reverend Leader...and Jesus...and God.
CHAPTER 9:

CHORUS

"Does anyone believe absolute good is born of evil acts?"

"The Dominionists were extremely proud to call themselves Biblical Evangelical Fundamentalists Values Voters (BEFVV's). That is, they believed and loudly proclaimed that the Bible was true, word for word, inerrant, God-inspired, and to be understood as the literal truth. Except, of course, when they found a particular passage upsetting or they found a passage, or phrase, or chapter inconveniently contradictory to their preferred belief and practice. In these, admittedly not rare and always embarrassing cases, the Dominionists had an answer, of course. And, that answer was that the passage in question was simply a mistranslation from the original. Simply stated, the Bible and, themselves, were inerrant, but translators were not."

"Interestingly, and not the least bit confusing, was the fact that the Dominionists never once considered that a divinely inspired book, one dictated by a god, could be understood at all, let alone translated by mere humans. One may wonder, what possibly could have possessed a deity to think, even for a moment, that humans would be able to understand His mind; the mind of God? It does seem an avoidable oversight, for even the lesser of deities. For the Dominionists, however, there was never any question that the self-proclaimed God-like could understand the mind of God. After all, we need only consider that these BEFVV's had descended from glorious God, not ascended from lower, unclean stupid animals. They were God's extra very special creation of self-flattery. Of course, they could interpret the mind of God, you big silly! End of that discussion."

"Now, let's consider the following two Biblical quotes and then consider the office of the Most Reverend President Leader: (1) 'I am made all things to all men, that I might by all means save some. (1 Corinthians 9: 22.)'; and (2) 'For sin shall not have dominion over you: for ye are not under the law, but under grace. (Romans 6: 14.)'"

"Smart the Self-Proclaimed, Huck's aforementioned predecessor, was elected president after a hotly contested campaign which had lasted nearly two years. His presidential campaign was plagued with sexual scandals, illegal payoffs, criminal accusations, well-documented examples of election tampering by foreign governments (in Smart's favor), hastily engineered bogus scandals about his opposition candidate, personal tax irregularities, last-minute Revelation of serious moral and ethical misconduct, name-calling, finger-pointing, muckraking, vote-tampering, voter suppression, unsubstantiated accusations of shady conspiracies including those of a 'Shadow State' (a conspiratorial boogeyman which had been created over a century before as the 'Deep State'), fake news, etc...; the usual campaign content, but with an intensity closer to the official state supported propaganda of say...a Goebbels, or a Trotsky, or Al Capone, for example."

"Shockingly, Smart was elected against all odds, predictions, and common sense. During the campaign, he had been caught in a number of lies. He verbally abused and bullied people of color, women, the less fortunate, the powerless, and all of our marginalized citizens. He made friends with dangerous foreign powers who had sworn to destroy the United States, ignoring FBI and CIA warnings. He embraced advisors, who were known white supremacists. He violated the Constitutional mandate of a Separation of Church and State numerous times, without apology, or apparent awareness. There were suspicions that, if not by his direct order, his party had tampered with the vote counts in many states-- interestingly, claiming on the one hand, that his party enjoyed overwhelming widespread support, yet feeling the need to cheat, on the other. But many believed that, despite the wide-spread cheating, his vice-president, Duane Othello Anthony Huckleberry, the darling of the Evangelical right, pulled Smart over the top."

"Smart's administration was rife with scandal from the very beginning. One investigation after another, all of which, potentially, carried very serious consequences, crippled Smart's 'presidency'. But, curiously, the Dominionist Family (the actual 'deep state', which secretly held many powerful government positions of influence, including the US House of Representatives, the US Senate, the US Supreme Court, the US military, the majority of state's houses, and governorships) were unmoved and unconcerned by the ongoing investigations, breaking news reports, special oversight hearings, resignations of Smart appointees, firings, leaks by his toadies, indictments and guilty pleas of Smart's associates, etc..."

"This lack of Dominionist concern made sense when it became evident that, with Smart the Self-Proclaimed, distracting the nation with his imbecilic mob-boss-like behavior, the Dominionist Family was free to assault and disregard America's Constitution, Supreme Court precedents, and international treaty obligations, while advancing their agenda of complete world domination...all for the Glory of Jesus, of course. When the Family had accomplished enough to assure their solidification of power, they decided that Smart served no great purpose. It was time for him to go, and there was no need to push for Smart's resignation or suffer an impeachment. Because they stood in grace before the Lord, the Dominionists did not care by what means Smart was 'retired'. It was time for Huckleberry to assume the mantle of greatness."

"Few, in the know, were shocked when Smart was killed by a sniper's bullet during one of his frequent political rallies. Even Smart's supporters did not appear too upset by his sudden departure. Everyone of Smart's peculiar political stripe was happy that the crazy, unpredictable news cycle and constant crises were finally over, and that Huckleberry was now President of the United States. At last, competence, integrity and majesty would return to the office of president many thought...hoped...assumed...doubted."

"Of course, Smart's assassin was quickly arrested. The arrested man was not the BMO black ops who actually pulled the trigger. But, in a bit of ironic tragedy, the actual 'assassin' arrested was a Black Liberal Gay Atheist, who would have happily shot Smart if he had had access to a firearm. The 'assassin' was charged with racial impurity, sodomy, Liberalism, heathenism, God hating and murder. His trial lasted two days, consisting mostly of the judge berating the defendant and moralizing for the jury. Many witnesses for the prosecution were called. The defendant, represented by a court appointed Pastor Public Defender, served as his only witness. Jury deliberation was held over a lunch break and by the end of the second day the poor fellow was sentenced to a Blessed Cleansing (public burning at the stake)."

"At sunset on the third day, the villain was marched to the Washington, DC mall and chained to one of the many smoke-and-flame scarred metal stakes, populating its length and breadth. Spectators, young and old, some delighted, some terrified, some conscripted, packed the Mall from end to end. They sat on blankets, folding chairs, little blow-up cushions, and specially constructed bleachers. Predictably, a carnival atmosphere soon gripped the throng. Hundreds of hot dogs were sold, along with cans of ice-cold soda, and sticks laden with cotton candy. Spontaneous contests, to determine the most accurate 'pelter', were tremendously popular. The Liberal demon's head made for a beautiful target, of course. Soon, the air was full of colorful soda cans, crumpled hot dog wrappings--all gooey with mustard and chunks of onion--and large rocks, sold by the five-pound-bag to the event's participants at State Licensed Retail Kiosks."

"Following a seemingly never-ending prayer service (engineered more for the self-edification of the Pastors, than the instruction and comforting of the congregants, or the convicted evil demon), and the mandatory gospel group sing-along's, the bruised, battered, bleeding, and condiment covered sodomite was set ablaze. His screams did not disappoint. The tone was set for the evening's festivities."

"Huckleberry served out the last days of Smart's term and then, 'won' the presidency in the following election--losing the popular vote by a large margin but winning the Electoral College. Unknown to most, except those closely associated with Huckleberry, was that he had a completely radical idea of what the United States should be. He was a Dominionist first, sworn to uphold the teachings of Christ and select passages from the Old Testament and Revelation, far above any consideration of the Bill of Rights and the US Constitution. He was sworn to 'Jesus plus Nothing'. He had no use for manmade laws or any of the legal and traditional trappings of the old USA, which had been founded on man's law--inherently evil by nature and intent. For Huckleberry, the people did not make the United States; Jesus made the United States, and the Bible was his...its constitution. If the Bible was good enough for Jesus, then it was good enough for Huckleberry and everyone else...with or without the consent of the governed. Unencumbered by man's law and common decency, Huckleberry took the unilateral action of declaring himself the Most Reverend President Leader of the UDSA 'for Life'."

"Huckleberry, at least for a while, continued with the façade of holding free elections; elections, it should go without saying, held only to pacify the public and deceive them into believing that they still had a say in their own governance. In reality, however, the public had not participated in a free and honest election for over a century. The average American citizen, ignorantly and blindly, had been living in a kleptocratic oligarchy controlled by powerful billionaire industrialists, the media, pharmaceutical companies, mega-banks, military contractors, and the mega-churches. Money and God decided who would run for office and who would win and, more ominously, what would happen to any politician who did not toe the money (Dominionist Family) line. (Of course, there was some controversy in the ranks about who or what wielded real power in the UDSA; money or Jesus? If the story had turned out differently, we may have gotten an answer to that question: does God use money for power, or does money use God for power? Is it God or Money making the decisions? The debate rages on."

"As hard as they tried to fight back, the Liberals were defeated at every turn. Simply stated, they lacked the corrupted genetic material--and Bible passages--which would have allowed them to debase themselves as efficiently, effectively, and as shamelessly as Huckleberry and his minions."

"The Liberals did not have a god upon which they could hang the justification, rationalization, and blame for the immoral, unethical and criminal behavior required to 'win' an election--no matter the cost. The Liberals were handicapped by the belief that they, alone, were responsible for their actions. And, in accepting responsibility for their actions, they had no choice but to behave morally, ethically, and rationally. They could not, and most importantly, would never be able to excuse bad behavior by claiming that they were just following orders, or that they were above it all, or that some other-worldly higher purpose was so very, very desirable, that any action, no matter how heinous, was justified in its pursuit. They would never be able to falsify a vote count or, ultimately, accept murder and genocide as acceptable expressions of God's love! Ironically, the very Atheism the Family reviled and condemned resulted in the Liberal Humanists behaving righteously, while the Dominionist Family's blind faith/obedience to an inerrant God, reduced them to absolute madness and the most evil, barbaric, and pagan savagery!"

"Candidates for public office were pre-selected by a handful of Huckleberry's 'advisors' and his billionaire enablers. Candidates were placed on ballots, as before, but there was little real difference between the candidates. They all had accepted money from powerful industrial lobbies, and all were obeisant to their overlord, Huckleberry. For appearances, the public was treated to a show of noisy and hotly contested debates and contentious campaigns, giving the appearance of vast political differences, while, actually, there was very little. All the while, clandestine operations were employed to discredit and eliminate any serious Humanist challengers."

"Unsubstantiated reporting by popular 'news' programs, falsely implicating Humanist candidates in all kinds of sexual scandals, business improprieties, foreign influence conspiracies, tax scandals, organized crime schemes, etc... saturated Huckleberry's controlled airwaves. Masses of the poorly educated listened and believed. The reporting of facts to the contrary by the long-established, but failing, mainstream media was useless. One Liberal candidate who, over the course of thirty years, was so hounded with lies, accusations, and investigations, that despite there never being any evidence warranting an indictment against her, was never able to win an election. Day by day, Huckleberry's Party machine ruined and excoriated qualified Liberal candidates until there were few viable Liberal candidates remaining...and fewer still, those who would vote for them."

"But Huckleberry did not stop at ruining reputations. He also ordered the tampering of the voting apparatus. So, it never would appear too obvious, electronic voting machines were programmed to shift every two-hundredth vote (after the first eleven hundred votes) away from the Liberals. Nearly five thousand votes out of every million were shifted to the Dominionists in the national elections. Granted it wasn't much, but a few tainted vote counts, here and there, added up."

"Huckleberry was nothing if not an expert at deception, misinformation, and confusion. Voter fraud scares were escalated and voting rights were infringed. Because, they were the wrong color and too poor to afford the proper documentation of citizenship or residency and, thus, could not adequately prove who they were, millions of voters, sympathetic to the Liberals and Humanists, were denied the right to vote. Gerrymandering of voting districts by state boards of elections controlled by Huckleberry's Dominionist Party threw unfair weight to Huckleberry's candidates. Dominionists, despite being a clear minority across the nation, won an unbelievable number of state and national house seats--far beyond any realistically predicted result. Yet, few of the effected citizenry, so dazed and divided by political buffoonery and overwhelmed by the media's emotional nonsense, commanded enough understanding of the issues to make any meaningful comment or protest. Besides, wasn't it silly to believe that candidates, 'inspired' by the word of God, were evil?"

"The utilization of a powerful propaganda machine, operated by Huckleberry's powerful media moguls and dressed up to appear respectable and fair, amplified Huck's lies and deceit. The 'news' was an effective tool for confusing and misdirecting the public. The Nazi propaganda minister, Goebbels, would have been proud of such efficiency and vileness."

"And, finally and not unimportantly, Huckleberry's ubiquitous BMO, his sanctified state secret police, whose uniformed and plain-clothes branches numbered in the hundreds of thousands, were very effective at persuading the wrong voters to not vote and the 'more traditional voters' to vote the 'right way'. The intimidation of voters was so effective, that many voters, confronted or not, stayed home and 'voluntarily' relinquished their right to vote."

"The Dominionists knew that they would never win a thing if they were truly fair and decent and Jesus-like. It never occurred to them, I suppose, that being fair and decent, when genuinely applied, in the likeness of their fair-haired hippie-like Savior, could be quite attractive. But the Dominionists, as it has been argued, were not about attraction. They were about self-promotion."

"And, let's take some time to consider the BMO's (Biblical Morale Officers): The Dominionist's BMO foot soldier was, often as not, a poorly educated, un/under-employed disgruntled lower class male, who had a chip on his shoulder for anything that smacked of smartassed intellectualism, elitism, pretention, and privilege. And, rather than attempt to understand, accept, or compete, he preferred to criticize and condemn; a condition often found in the lazy and ignorant. Within religion he discovered a system that made irrational anger and racial intolerance both noble and acceptable. Religion, in one stroke, equated murderous, vengeful behavior with divine purpose. And, religion, requiring no more effort than saying 'I believe', instantly transformed the BMO into a model citizen of unimpeachable credentials—the new pretentious elite!"

"BMO's, often as not, believed that they could have been great and successful had life dealt them a better hand and/or if the selfish, Liberal elite hadn't taken all the good stuff for themselves. These BMO's to be were resentful, disgruntled malcontents, as far from altruistic as one could possibly be. Mainly, they were guided by ignorance, a sense of entitlement, irrationality, and a revulsion for facts. Historically, men of their type have made the most excellent storm troopers."

"BMO's believed that they had achieved the pinnacle of success simply by displaying the despised and feared rank of BMO. They were guided by a passion for unthinking revenge and a cruelty that only years of irrational anger, menial work, adolescent resentment, sexual rejection, perceived disrespect, and a steady diet of lies could foment. A moral conscience, shaped in true Christian values, or civilized empathy, was quite foreign to them."

"At first, the cadre of BMO was passive, intimidating by their presence, rather than through any overt action. Over time, however, as the Dominionists gained more and more power, the BMO were ordered to take a more hands-on and direct action against 'dissidents.' Eventually, it became common for the BMO to publicly interrogate and threaten anyone at any time, without provocation or apparent cause. Public beatings for the crimes of racial inferiority, suspected Liberalism, non-christian religious beliefs, effeminate behavior (observed in males), or apparent witchcraft and whorishness (observed in women) were quite terrifying and common. Lucky victims got away with only public humiliation, or a beating and/or threats of future BMO action. The less fortunate were arrested, tortured and shot 'while attempting to escape'. The UDSA government excused the beatings and executions as unfortunate, but necessary to ensure the survival of the Righteous State threatened by Satanic Humanists and 'wrong-headed deviants.'

"Huckleberry, once questioned about this aspect of the Dominionist political history, was quoted as saying, 'Drastic times called for drastic measures. God wants what God wants, and who am I, and who are you, to deny God?'"

"To paraphrase 1 Corinthians and Romans: doing whatever it takes to install God's rule on earth is fine by Him. When one believes God's will and his will are one in the same, it becomes very easy then to believe that there is no difference between oneself and God; that one has become God; that one can abandon common decency with God's blessing. One need not harbor a conscience or values while persecuting with righteousness in his heart. A Dominionist may do as he sees fit as long as he can convince himself that he is doing God's will."

"So, is absolute good ever born of evil acts?"

"For years, Huckleberry had worked tirelessly on consolidating Dominionist power at the national and state levels. For years, unbridled power had resided in his hands. With most of the arrests, trials, and quiet retirements (executions) of his political opponents long completed, he wasted no time implementing the Dominionist Family's plan of complete world domination."

"The thousands of concentration camps, which had sprung up around the nation, were bursting with Liberal and Humanist political prisoners--sinners and Satanists of every sort. No one had an accurate number, but realistic estimates put the number of political prisoners in the tens of millions. The Freedom Centers (Dominionist survival centers for the Chosen and death/work camps for everyone else) were completed. The Dominionist's creation of Hell on earth would have been the envy of Himmler and Satan."

"Armed rioters and malcontents, fighting against Huckleberry's politics of cruelty, were being gunned down by the thousands across the nation. Most of the UDSA between the Rockies and the Appalachians had been relatively easy to crush. This was largely due to well-meaning patriotic civilians, who believing they were doing the country and themselves a great favor, joined the BMO as auxiliaries and willingly and enthusiastically sold out and executed their neighbors. But on the coasts, with their much larger Liberal contingent, the rioters were much harder to subdue, and the great civil war continued."

"Putting great energy into 'fulfilling' the Biblical prophecies of pestilence, plague, wars, civil strife, and great individual suffering, the Dominionists destroyed the public and university educational systems, unapologetically destroyed the nation's economic infrastructure, repealed protective regulations on banks and industry, abandoned ecological responsibility, systematically eliminated employment opportunities and government assistance, created a massive population of the poor and disadvantaged, turned a blind eye to hunger and homelessness, actively worked at sowing division within the population, completely denied health care for anyone unable to pay for it, made it especially easy for anyone to buy military weapons...I could go on, but what's the point? In a surprisingly short time, the Dominionists were successful in creating a cesspool of corruption, degeneracy, desperation, lawlessness, crime, hopelessness, and civil war. Adding to the chaos was the rise, in the east, of the 'Antichrist', Madam Chang of China, and the promised terror of 'slant-eyed pointy-toothed demons' preparing to destroy God's Kingdom."

"The Dominionists and their Russian allies were in control of one-half of Europe, two thirds of the Middle East, most of Canada, nearly all of Africa, and all of Mexico and Central America (where they had concentrated a disproportionate amount of their arsenal as a 'reserve'). But Madam Chang and her World Allies were holding and gaining momentum against the Dominionists on several fronts. Russia and the UDSA were formidable, but the size and ferocity of the World's Allies military response was beginning to cause some deep concern. With South America, Australia and all of Asia adding their weight to one cause, the overall world conflict was beginning to strain, nearly to breaking, the Dominionists military machine. Increasingly worried, the Dominionists began to suspect that they had not clearly understood God's will, due to some communication interference caused by undetected Satanist communication countermeasures."

"The Dominionists, as noted earlier, were an impatient lot. Consistently, God's time was very different from theirs. God never seemed to smite as quickly and mercilessly as they wanted...as He did in the good old days...as He did in the Testament of Old. Interestingly, for those claiming to be one with God's mind, they never seemed to ever get the hang of God's timeline. Understandably, this timing discrepancy was very frustrating, and ultimately, very embarrassing for them...and catastrophic for the rest of us."

"The glorious final judgment upon the Satanists by conventional means was taking much longer and proved more difficult than predicted. However, though frustrated, the Most Reverend President Leader and his minions did not assess their military efforts as a failure. Rather, they rationalized that God had planned for their conventional war to meet with frustration. After all, He had foretold that He would destroy the world by fire. Of course, a conventional war would never give that result. To succeed with an apocalyptic result, they would need an apocalyptic weapon...one of great fire."

"The Pastors turned to the great pages of the Dominionist religious texts. Within the texts, the Pastors discovered all the rationalization and justification and misinterpretation required to justify the substitution of Huckleberry for God. It had always been so horribly simple for Pastors to locate and twist Biblical passages to their need. Well, after all, they had been twisting scripture for millennia. So, anyway, after much study, they simply declared that a misreading of badly translated Biblical texts had erroneously placed the responsibility for initiating the End Time in the hands of God, when all along, He had intended for His faithful minions on earth, His Chosen, to do the work for Him. Their wills were one and the same, after all."

"'For what other purpose would Jesus have blessed us with this beautiful and righteous nuclear arsenal? And, for what other purpose would He have given us the Sword of Faith, but to deploy it for His righteousness' sake? What purpose does the nuclear arsenal serve, if it does not serve to be used for the deliverance of the righteous from Satan's sin and corruption?' Huckleberry asked. 'And, now, I declare the time has come. Armed with thousands of nuclear warheads, and justified by inerrant Biblical interpretation, I, the Most Reverend President Leader, Huckleberry, can only accept one answer: God's revenge will be realized. Make no mistake, we are not here to discuss the cleansing of six million, or eleven million, or of even one hundred million, but billions of sinful souls...soulless beings, damnable minions of Hell and far removed from anything human!'"

"And, so, Huckleberry had his Tribulation. The nuclear devices delivered by PFC's Theodore and Martin were detonated. The state-controlled television issued 'Urgent News Bulletins' while the state-controlled radio had its 'program interruptions for important news announcements'. The state-controlled newspapers published their banner headlines in bold black letters five inches high: 'War with Russia Imminent', 'Russian Atrocities Rampant', 'Tribulation Warriors Dangerously Outnumbered by Madam Chang's Slant-Eyed Demons', on and on... Calls for all able-bodied patriotic Americas to join the fight for Freedom and Liberty went out. Soon the airwaves were flooded with television ads depicting pretty girls cooing over their heroic boyfriends, and proud fathers, their chests puffed with pride, shaking the hands of their warrior sons, and equally proud mothers sewing stripes and patches on their sons' uniforms while envious school boys, not yet old enough to serve, looked on."

"Moving images of horrible atrocities, allegedly committed by the Russian and Chinese military, flooded the television; wounded children and murdered babies, burnt beyond recognition, were chief among the images. Horrendous stories of gang rape, especially of blonde, attractive teenage Christian females, were front page news. Photos of brutish Russian soldiers, unshaven and with stained, crooked, and missing teeth, laughing as they tore and tramped upon the Dominionist Flag, competed with stories of mass executions of brave Tribulation Warriors, whose only crime was that of being true believers in Christ."

"The Russian government, angered by the horrific and erroneous news reports, wasted their time registering protests through diplomatic channels. The United Dominionist States of America thought it silly to waste money on diplomacy, when their only goal was war and world domination. There was no functioning State Department or foreign diplomats to which one could protest; diplomats being diplomats in name only. Besides, anyone who believed that the world could be talked into submission was a fool and a child. And, then, one had to consider that there wouldn't be much time left for protesting, once PFC's Theodore and Martin reached Columbus."

"Patriotic, unthinking Mothers and fathers gave up their sons, as they always had, to the 'Glorious Fight for Redemption and Reconciliation', as this World War came to be known. Some families, being especially patriotic and sympathetic to the country's need, even refused the extra food, clothing, and medical care they so desperately needed. It was sustaining enough for them just to give up their sons to the cause. Their super patriotism, though praised publicly as an example of true American spirit, bought them no other consideration. They were not given the promised extra food or care, despite their misguided and tragic generosity."

"On the third day following the devastation of Columbus, Ohio, Huckleberry filled the airwaves with a rousing speech, citing God, Jesus, atrocities, freedom, liberty, outrage, love, tireless attempts at negotiations, founding fathers, weeping mothers, and on, and on, and on, and on.... And, then, in the spirit of Jesus and with God in his heart, he ordered the launch of every nuclear missile in the UDSA's arsenal."

"Within thirty minutes of the UDSA launch, the World's Allies responded in kind. In the space of a few days, nearly thirty-thousand fireballs, hotter than the sun, engulfed the earth."

"Being a cheeky bastard, I shall answer my original question: Good can _never_ be born of evil acts!"
CHAPTER 10:

Patboy Roberts, Spiritual Leader of Freedom Center Reuben, stood mopping rivulets of perspiration from his forehead with an oversized, fine white silk handkerchief. The armpits of his powder- blue suit were saturated with perspiration. After a while, he raised his fat arms to heaven and stood there mumbling incoherently, as if in a trance. What would have sounded like the delusional psychotic musings of a drunken derelict to most people was, to the gathered crowd of almost twelve- thousand worshipers, the inspired word of God himself. They strained to hear the revealed words of God as they left the sausage-lips of His earthbound disciple. Some members of the congregation, possessed of the Holy Spirit, began rolling in the mega-church's aisles, while others began dancing in circles, and still others just stood at their chairs with raised arms swaying to the organ music, which swelled to a deafening crescendo. The numerous gold chains around Patboy's triple chin, and the diamond-encrusted rings on his frankfurter fingers, glistened and sparkled in the stage lights. He was a sight to see.

"Praise Cheesus-ah for his many blessings!" Patboy shouted into his chin mike.

"Praise Jesus!" the crowd echoed.

"Praise Cheesus!" Patboy reiterated.

"Praise Jesus!" shouted his rapturous congregation.

Several more praises to Jesus were exchanged before Patboy shouted, "amen!" He then feigned physical exhaustion and collapsed from the glorious weight of the Divine Presence into the arms of two of his attending Divine Virgins, girls of thirteen and fourteen dressed all in white, who would have been crushed under the weight of him, if his collapse had been genuine.

And, with Patboy's dramatic collapse the Sunday morning sermon was brought to a close. Those rapturous parishioners, who could walk, filed from the church through the many exits into their day of rest. Many of those, who had collapsed, were lifted from the floor and propped up in chairs and fanned by dazzled and glory-filled Family members. Others were carried from the church. The remainder of the day, until the afternoon and evening services, would be spent in prayer, Bible study, and personal reflection. Everyone looked forward to the evening's Blessed Cleansings, just like children anticipating Christmas morning surprises. Rumors abounded that confessed witches and homosexuals would make up the bulk of this evenings blazing atonement. There was much chatter and supposition about which of the glorious Gospels would be the subject of the Blessed Cleansing service.

Patboy was born late in the last century in a place once known as Ohio. His father was a fire-and- brimstone evangelical pastor--one of the Chosen by God to rule and command the rabble. He was a man of God, prone to a violent, though justified, Godly Vengeance when faced with sin, as only the truly righteous can be. Patboy's mother was pious, quiet, and subservient. She was permitted no desires or dreams of her own. She lived, it seemed, to serve her husband first, Patboy second, and the Lord, third.

Patboy had been groomed for the pulpit from birth and gave his first sermon at four. Congregations loved him and he loved being the center of their attention. Most of all, just as his father before him, he loved the power and prestige that came with the pulpit. Possessing the power of God over all others gave him an air of confidence, which more closely resembled arrogance and haughtiness, than it did divine love and grace. Possessing power over men was one thing, but power over women made him predatory, conniving and cruel.

He was especially motivated by the attention of the adolescent girls. Frequently he took sexual advantage of young girls in the name of, and the furtherance of, the Lord's love (wink and nod). Females were the source of original sin and therefore nothing but chattel, as far as he was concerned. He could quote chapter and verse from the Bible to support his position, as he often did with "his" girls in private, late at night. Being one of God's Chosen placed him high on a pedestal, beyond the reach of the simple ethics and morality to which the rabble were commanded to adhere. The Chosen were above and beyond earthly rules. They had their own special rules of behavior governed by the "natural instincts". Rules were for others to follow without question. His kind were considered anarchists in the service of God or, more formally, as Antinomians.

Patboy believed in his own greatness and never thought of himself as anything other than special, a Chosen One, one of the 144. He was completely convinced that he was God's representative on earth. He even believed God spoke to him personally, as many of his kind did. Fundamentalists and their Evangelical brethren often mistook their inner dialogue for that of a deity, which, if you give it some thought, was not too much of a stretch for those deluded enough to believe themselves to be the very special representatives of deities and, in many cases, deities themselves. Faith healing, snake handling, and talking in tongues were natural 'fits' for the Dominionists (pun intended), because such things offered irrefutable proof of their special relationship to God. In reality, however, they were simply immature, paranoid, prejudiced, avaricious, selfish, arrogant, lying, deceiving, narcissistic, intolerant, lustful, dishonest, genocidal misfits, taking advantage of the weak and ignorant. The Dominionists horrific and vile behavior is easily understood, but impossible to forgive.

Patboy was all smoke and mirrors, a magic show put on to amaze, enthrall, and frighten his ignorant and dependent congregation into blind obedience. He did not believe half of the religious message he imparted to his parishioners. He had no use for Jesus' Sermon on the Mount, His "love thy neighbor", "turn the other cheek", and charity towards the poor and meek. Patboy and all his crony Dominionist co-conspirators took everything they needed, and praised God for it, while condemning the poor and helpless, because they, obviously, had displeased God. Religion for Patboy was a means to power. Power, not God, was what all Dominionists truly coveted and loved. They lusted after power. Power: the ability to force one's will upon another. One never seemed to lust after power as a means to force love upon others. That's just too silly to contemplate.

As an outstanding member of the Dominionist ruling class, Patboy wielded great power. He claimed that he spoke to God and that God, in turn, spoke to him. His congregation, which was steeped in blind faith, never thought to question him, or his sanity. They simply took him at his word and, without question, knew that his word was the word of God. Patboy abused his congregants' faith at every available occasion...with much appetite. He was a glutton, a liar, a coward, a rapist, a pedophile, a murderer, a thief, and an adulterer in the name of God.

Patboy rocketed through the Dominionist ranks. He was awarded the pastorate of Albuquerque's most famous megachurch, "The Holy Church of Jesus: the Utterly Uplifted, Sanctified, and Righteous" when he was only 18. Patboy was so well-liked that eventually he was invited to join the highest echelons of the Dominionist power elite. There, he cultivated a talent for propaganda and the disruption of the Secular social order. He led the committees that designed and implemented the great nuclear apocalypse. He did not give a second thought to the fact that the mega-church he once pastored, and nearly the entirety of its congregation, had been reduced to radioactive dust during the third nuclear exchange, eight long years ago.

Unfortunately though, the mega-churches were not the only victims. Freedom Centers themselves, like the Great Smokey Mountain Freedom Center, suffered direct hits from stray warheads. And, the one at Williston, North Dakota, was destroyed by nuclear fallout carried on the powerful and unpredictable winds created by the conflagration and explosive eruption of the Yellowstone super volcano. In the final tally, only seven of the twelve Freedom Centers survived intact at full strength and capacity; far short of the prophesied 144, but more than enough to repopulate the world in the adulterated image of Jesus Christ. And, millions of the Dominionist faithful, those considered less critical for survival, and thus not invited to live in the Freedom Centers, remained clueless to the very end. Left behind, they became part of the boiling, fiery dust clouds that were once the great cities and towns of America, or they became the masses of hopeless, sickened, and dying irradiated victims, just like everyone else.

Patboy was quite pleased with himself. He thought this morning's sermon one of his best. He had made the word of God real for his parishioners and he had drawn them even closer to him as the one true expression of God's will on this earth. Patboy luxuriated in his power.

"Leave us," Patboy said to the members of his Most Exalted Executive Council (MEEC) who awaited him in his private chambers behind the church stage.

"Yes, Spiritual Leader," the fourteen men and two girls replied.

"Not you. You stay with me, my blessed virgins. You give me such comfort in my hours of need," Patboy said, displaying his most reassuring smile to the two young girls, who could not contain their excitement.

A few of the council shared understanding glances, sly grins, and furtive winks. They bowed and backed out of the chamber closing the double doors behind them.

"Today let us talk about the importance of setting aside our fears, so that we may better answer the call of the Lord," Patboy said, as he sat on his red leather, overstuffed couch and motioned for the girls to sit, one on either side of him.

"This is Angel 3 to Salvation. Come in Salvation, over." The helicopter weapons control officer (WCO) was calling in his report. Patboy thought Salvation a clever and fitting name for his headquarters.

"This is Salvation. What is your report Angel 3, over?"

"All is clear to the west and south. We have strafed and rocketed the entire area. There is no sign of Satanist activity. I repeat: no sign of Satanists. The river pass is clear. There appears to have been a landslide. The river has been blocked and diverted to the north. The dam will need to be cleared. It looks like we'll need engineers, dozers, and explosives. What are your orders, over?"

"Bless you," replied the Salvation radio operator, "initiate aerial imaging and return to Salvation, over."

"Roger. We will initiate aerial imaging, reconnoiter the northern approaches and return to base, out." The brown and yellow helicopter gunships, with gold crosses emblazed on powder blue-fields adorning their flanks, turned to make one more pass west, through the river valley, and then they turned north. Their navigation lights were soon lost in the ruddy brown haze.

"Really, I don't know how you expect to rid the world of witches and demons," Patboy exclaimed, flailing his arms about and gesturing to the great beyond, "when you can't even get my supper on time!" Patboy was royally miffed. He was too easily miffed. Like a spoiled child, or any narcissist with absolute power, he wanted what he wanted, five minutes before he knew he wanted it, and he was prone to fiery tantrums if denied or delayed. His serving staff and advisors watched helplessly as he ranted and paced the room. "Are the bulldozers ready at least?"

"Yes, Spiritual leader," James, one of his advisors who stood near the door replied nervously. "One needed a track repaired, and that has been accomplished, Praise Jesus."

"Then, they will be ready to move before sunrise with the rest of the troops?" Patboy asked, leveling a stern and disapproving look at Pastor General Gregg, one of Patboy's lap generals.

"Yes, Spiritual Leader, sir, all is ready. We will depart two hours before daybreak. If Angel 3's report is accurate, and the good Lord is willing, we hope to reestablish the Rio Puerco water supply in a day...certainly, no more than two days, tops," Gregg said while fidgeting with the Cross of Honor hanging at his neck.

"Why should Angel 3's report not be accurate?" Patboy demanded. His stomach emitted a loud gurgling growl.

The general cleared his throat apprehensively. He was going out on a limb. "The Satanists are clever, Spiritual Leader. We have been fooled before."

"You mean that you have been fooled. I am never fooled!" Patboy corrected.

"Yes, Spiritual Leader...apologies," the general replied, adding an obeisant bow.

"You may take an additional gunship, if it will make you feel any better."

"Thank-you, Spiritual Leader."

James announced that Patboy's meal was now ready to be served.

"Praise Jesus," Patboy said sarcastically.

"Praise Jesus," everyone echoed simultaneously. No one wanted to be caught out on a Praise Jesus. An accusation of righteous under-enthusiasm could ruin one both politically and physically.

"With the help of our blessed Jesus all will go well...to dinner?!" Patboy enthused.

Eve and her army could not see, but could easily hear the 'whup, whup, whup' of the gunships rotors as they approached low in the eastern sky. Everyone took cover, some under their liberated stealth blankets and the remainder behind and under rocks and brush. There was nothing for the helicopter crews to see as they passed overhead. Eve, who had been listening to the gunship's communications on one of her army's two radios, looked out from her rock overhang. She observed one of the helicopters slow and then hover over her position. It probed the area with its Gatling-gun, firing here and there, and after a long minute, it nosed down and disappeared west into the brown and red haze. The others followed. The gunships, although not too far away, were soon lost to sight behind the heavy dust and tumbling cloud cover. They would reappear from time to time, silhouetted by the frequent flashes of lightning. They turned north, and a few minutes later, the sounds of their rotors, guns, and rockets were masked by the winds.

"All clear," someone cried, and the call could be heard moving down the line. Quickly, Eve's fighters crawled from their concealed positions and resumed their work. Tonight, she and her army of survivors would march through the desert to positions just west of Patboy's compound. Tomorrow evening would be either the end of herself or Patboy. Privately, she would be glad either way.

Robert, 20, a sharpshooter of fighting team 3, company C, of the second division, had the lead Cobra pilot in the cross hairs of his M-107A1 Barrett .50 caliber. An armor piercing round was chambered. Ten more rounds waited patiently in the rifles magazine.

"You pull that trigger and Eve will have your head," Brandy warned.

"Yeah," agreed George, all wide-eyed and worried.

Brandy, 28, earned a Bachelor of Science in education with a psychology minor. She was also fluent in Spanish. She lost her husband, Chris, and four-month old son, Justin, during a Dominionist roundup of Humanists, a little over eight years ago outside of Tucson. Brandy had been teaching Spanish at Tucson's Saint Ronald Keegun High School when the Dominionists took over the government. It took the Dominionists less than three months to restructure every school board in the state to reflect the ultra-religious, anti-scientific, theocratic curriculum consistent with the Dominionist point of view. Evolution was outlawed immediately and "pagan liberal" textbooks were burned in school yards across the nation. The Spanish language was declared un-American and outlawed, as were all other foreign languages. Brandy, along with a host of other "Secular" teachers, was dismissed. All state-certified teachers were replaced with a cadre of Bible-wielding Sunday school functionaries, rabidly loyal to the Dominionist catechism. Brandy and her husband Chris, who had been "fired" from his teaching position on charges of heresy, apostasy, and racial inferiority, because of his remote Jewish ancestry, were left with no means of support. With little choice remaining, hoping to avoid the increasingly violent Dominionist pogroms, they joined with a few other married couples who had decided to band together and move into the wilderness. The small group was making its way slowly to the Mexican border when they were discovered by a Dominionist patrol. Brandy and another woman were scrounging for food and water in the desert when the others were set upon by the police. She and her female companion escaped.

Heartbroken by the loss of her family, Brandy abandoned the quest for sanctuary in Mexico and set out to find Chris and her baby. She had no idea where they had been taken or what she would do if she ever found them, but she was determined. She and her companion wandered in the desert for days before they were discovered by a small armed band of Secular resistance fighters. Brandy, not content to play the role of the helpless female, was quick to learn the military arts from her rescuers. She was already a veteran of several successful assaults upon Relic patrols when her small army was discovered and absorbed by Eve's. Brandy's female companion had died in the desert from a rattlesnake bite just a few days before.

Brandy had never been very religious. She had pondered the existence, or non-existence, of a god many times, in private and in conversations with friends. The question was interesting, of course, but she had come to the same conclusion, as so many others, that without more information the discussions were a waste of time. She found the T.V. preachers more funny than convincing. It was clear that they would say and do just about anything to con money out of the gullible, lonely, and ignorant. She found no compelling proof for the existence of a god among their ranks. Brandy saw only vanity in those who found it necessary to parade and impose their piousness upon others. Faith, for Brandy, if there was a need, was going to be a private affair. She felt a connection to something larger than herself, and for her that was enough. In any event, for all she didn't know, she did know that the Dominionists were using so-called Holy Scripture to justify genocide in the name of God. She welcomed every opportunity to return the favor in the name of intelligence. Brandy carried an AR-15, a few hundred rounds, and radio repair parts. She was a lieutenant in Eve's army, and George and Robbie's platoon leader.

George, 32, was a beautician or a coiffeur, as he preferred to identify himself, and an accomplished seamstress. He had abandoned his salon one year before the first nuclear exchange blew his mother to dust. George loathed the Dominionists. They had done nothing but ridicule, deride, and discriminate against Gays from the very beginning of their stepping upon the political stage. And, even worse, they were responsible for the death of his mother. It had been clear to George from the outset that the Dominionists were only for the Dominionists. "Listen," George had said many times, "I don't particularly believe that Jesus fellow was a god, but it sounds as if he was a pretty nice guy. Well, at the very least, he seems to have meant to do well by everyone. But these Dominionists have turned the poor man on his head. He wanted peace. They want war. He wanted people to love one another. They want us to hate everyone, except them. He said be meek. They say be proud and arrogant. He said help the poor. They say to Hell with the poor, it's better to be rich! Listen, sweetheart, I've got nothing against being rich, but then I'm not trying to sell a religion either, if you know what I mean. Just who do these people think they are, really? Well, I'll tell you who they are, they are nothing but a bunch of god-damned fascists and I'm not taking it back!"

Many of George's friends had been arrested by the San Diego Freedom Police, tortured (more for sport than any desire to save them from their homosexuality), and murdered. But, not before many gave up the names of others. George witnessed more and more of his friends disappearing, mysteriously, every day. He knew that if he did not take some action, his days were numbered. He was smuggled out of San Diego on the Rainbow Railroad, and after many near-misses, he was eventually captured and imprisoned in the Maricopa County Prison. He was on his way to a Blessed Conversion, and eventual Cleansing, when Eve's army assaulted the prison. George, who was not a very violent man, carried a .38 Police Special to please Eve, one hundred rounds, extra packets of dried vegetables, and sewing supplies. He was very embarrassed and self-conscious of the large ugly "S" for sodomite burned into his forehead. "No amount of makeup is ever going to cover this, the bastards," he was heard to lament time and time again.

Brandy and George completed Robert's 3 person fighting team.

"Pow!" said Robert taking aim on the Cobra and faking a shot.

"You are such a child," George chastised.

"And you are such a pervert," Robert replied, turning from his target and flashing a broad grin at George.

Robert, or Robbie, as he preferred to be called, was 17 when he was rescued by Eve's army three years ago, during an attack on a Dominionist convoy. Robbie, along with two-hundred other damned souls, was being transferred to Freedom Center Reuben from the small holding prison near the devastated and highly radioactive debris field once known as Flagstaff, Arizona. Robbie had an ugly and misshapen "S" burned into his forehead, just like George. He had been denounced by his Dominionist parents as a homosexual and turned over to the Freedom Police after they caught him in an amorous embrace with another boy. Robbie's parents, in spite of their obvious dedication and the sacrifice of their son to the Dominionist cause, were not invited to live at the Freedom Center just west of Flagstaff. They were vaporized during the third nuclear exchange. If Robbie had known this, he wouldn't have cared.

Robbie, who had never fired a weapon in his life, was an undiscovered talent who quickly mastered the art of shooting. He was one of 23 sharpshooters in Eve's army. He and George were lovers.

Eve looked at the faces of the ambushers who sat waiting for her to speak. She recognized all of them and knew the names and stories of most. Her eyes stopped on Chiu Lee, a mathematics professor, who had been captured, along with his wife and two daughters, attempting to board a train to the west coast from Phoenix. They had hoped to avoid the religious pogroms by returning to China. But they had waited too long. Lee and his family were rescued by Eve's army. He was humiliated for allowing his family to be captured, but not so humiliated that he couldn't kill Relics. Lee commanded Bravo Company of Juanita's First Division. He carried an M-16, three-hundred rounds, and two claymore mines. Lee smiled and bowed deeply when their eyes met. Eve smiled and bowed in return.

Eve knew these people and the losses they had suffered. She knew that they would do their very best to avenge the deaths and torture of their loved ones, the loss of their country, and the loss of their freedom. She knew that each one of them now saw the face of religion as truly evil, and that each was dedicated to wiping the scourge of religion from the face of the earth. And, she knew that each one of them were good decent people who had fallen victim to ignorance, intolerance, bigotry, superstition and hate, as only fanatical religion can provide. She knew that in these people was created the very strength and individual vitality the Dominionists feared and had hoped to eradicate.

The newly dammed river in the shallow valley behind Eve broke over its low bank and traced a new course around the ridges to the north, forming a shallow lake in the valley beyond, as Charlie had predicted. Eve stood before her fighters, who were gathered around her, and watched the relentless flow of water filling the valley.

She turned and addressed her troops. "In the morning we can expect some earthmoving equipment and armed escort from Patboy. You will ambush them here tomorrow at dusk...which means you will have to lay concealed in your positions all day. Noise discipline will be in full effect!"

"Damn it," George said under his breath and rolled his eyes at Robbie, "I hate these fucking ambushes...hiding in the bushes like a bunch of friggin' squirrels..."

"...with sharp teeth," Robbie broke in.

"Shut it," Brandy commanded, scowling at the two from under her reddish, thinly populated eyebrows.

"It is imperative that you not give your positions away. You'll surely die if you do. Make yourselves comfortable. Make certain you have plenty of water and whatever else you feel will be needed. There will be absolute silence!"

"Hear that George," Robbie whispered, "no bitching."

George opened his mouth to reply, took one look at Brandy's scowl and decided to save comment for later.

"The ambush will begin when Charlie gives the order for the sharpshooters to take out the low fliers and radio operators. You must not permit them to warn Patboy of the ambush. If any radio communication gets through, once the ambush has begun, then our attack on the Center must be abandoned. Eugene Crowman will lead the ground assault. Charlie will monitor the Relic radio traffic. Do not target the vehicles and the radios, if you can help it. When everyone is dead...there will be no survivors...you will finish whatever work is necessary to open the river channel. They will have had all day to open the channel, so there shouldn't be much to do. Once the channel is restored, you will fit as many as you can into and onto the vehicles and proceed to the Center. When you arrive at our position, just west of the Center, anyone on top of or walking behind the vehicles will wait with the main body. The rest of you will drive up to Patboy's gate, wait for the gate to open and begin your attack. Your attack on the Center must create as much confusion as possible so they will take their eye off the desert approaches. Once the attack begins, we will run to support you. You will be on your own for the first five to ten minutes. You must keep the gate open, and you must take out Patboy's communications. These things you must do!" Eve surveyed the two-hundred-thirty-seven attentive and intense ambushers seated around her. "Are there any questions?"

"Ma'am, what do we do if they get a radio message off?" asked Robbie.

"A detachment will escape along with the non-combatants into the mountains. The rest of you will wait here and set up defensive positions. Eugene and Charlie know what to do. They will radio the bad news to me, and we will rejoin you here. Be prepared to move, because we will not stop here. Patboy will probably launch a counter strike at daybreak. By then we must be in the mountains or we are toast. Are there any other questions?"

"You hear that," George whispered to Robbie, "we could be toast."

"George, for the last time...shut up," Brandy warned.

"I didn't think you'd hear that," George offered sheepishly.

"Shut up!"

After it was apparent that there were no questions, Eve continued, "We have fought long and hard together. I have absolute confidence that each of you will accomplish your mission and give this fight your all. But this is not just an ambush. This is an assault on the second largest Freedom Center. It is a formidable, but not impossible objective. We are probably outnumbered four to one, some think as much as six to one." Eve glanced at Bill and offered a friendly smile. "We can't be certain...but we have the element of surprise, and surprise has carried us through seemingly impossible situations in the past. We would not attempt this battle if I thought we could not accomplish our goal. As you sit and wait for the upcoming fight, I want you to keep one thing in mind...there are probably six-thousand or more Patriots being maimed and tortured in Patboy's compound at this very moment, many whom you know personally. We fight not only to kill Snakes, but to free our families and friends."

The ambushers exchanged knowing looks. Each had had Dominionist encounters burned into their brains, most, almost literally. Each felt a growing focus, determination and resolve. This fight was not just for their personal benefit. It was to give selflessly of themselves for others who were in a hopeless situation. Eve could not have conveyed a more significant message. There was no need to say more. Silently, the ambushers filled with horrible images of deprivation and torture, dispersed and moved into their fighting positions. There they would dream of their loved ones and wait out the cold night...and the long day.

The dirty brown and yellow clouds in the west lost the ruddy glow that had tinged their edges as the sun set. A world of complete darkness, punctuated by the frequent eerie flashes of sheet lightning, descended upon them very quickly. Eve turned to Juanita and Bill who were standing behind her.

"You guys ready?" Eve asked. She held her hand to her mouth to stifle a cough.

"Hell of a speech," Bill observed.

"Yeah," Juanita added, "we can't get there quick enough as far as I'm concerned."

"Let's get moving then," Bill said.

The balance of the army was but ghostly shadows standing in the darkness. They were revealed, from time to time, by the lightning--for a moment appearing every bit as hundreds of eerie cardboard cutout monoliths, standing in a featureless bleak valley of dazzling silvery light. Eve's words had passed quickly to those beyond earshot. All stood proud and ready to sacrifice, so that others would be spared another day of torment. They all had died so many times, they no longer feared death. Some welcomed it.

Eve stepped into the ranks and touched the shoulder of each soldier as she passed by. After a brief review she stepped from the ranks, turned and faced her army.

"Are you ready?" She shouted and covered a cough.

"Yes ma'am!" they shouted as one.

"Scouts to the front," Juanita commanded. Rhonda and her three associates took their positions a couple-hundred yards ahead of the two columns. Eve stepped to the front of the army, and they all plunged into the black desert.

"There they go," Robbie said, choosing a rock to sit on. From his perch high on the southern cliff wall, he watched as the two columns of stroboscopic lighted ghosts bobbed and weaved their way past the rocks and dying flora. All too soon, they were lost to the night. Now and then they would reappear as faint, ghostly, dancing shadows illuminated by a sudden lightning flash. Eventually, however, not even the lightning could find them.

"Yes, there they go," George repeated glumly taking a seat next to Robbie. Shivering, he zippered his torn fatigue jacket and pulled an old army stealth blanket around his shoulders.

"You've been in a mood," Robbie said not taking his eyes off the blackness.

"No, I haven't," George protested.

"Yes, you have." Robbie stared knowingly in the direction of his partner, whom he sensed more than saw.

"Oh, OK, yes, I suppose you're right," the flustered George agreed.

"Well?"

"Well what?"

Robbie sighed, "Are you going to tell me what's going on or what?"

"I'm not sure," George said hugging his knees to his chin.

"You're not sure you're going to tell me, or you're not sure what's going on?"

George exhaled softly, "Oh, sorry...I...I guess I'm not certain what's going on...with me, I mean...I just feel...frightened...all the time."

"Well join the club," Robbie laughed. "Who isn't frightened...all the time?"

"Yes, I know...but I feel more frightened than usual. It's all this damned fighting, ambushes, killed or be killed shit...all this macho crap...all the time. It's getting on my nerves. I would just like to sleep in my old bed and not have to worry about whether or not I was going to be killed in the morning...or...have to worry about you being...killed." This last bit George spit out like bitter coffee and caught his breath as he squelched a tear.

"That's not going to happen...getting to sleep in your old bed...I mean."

"Yes...No, but what about the dying part? That very well could happen...shit, it does happen nearly every day... I'm just tired of it...worrying about it."

"Tired of worrying about whether you're going to die in the next battle?"

"Yes...or you...mostly you, damn it!"

Robbie put his arm around George and pulled him close. "George, we are both going to die. Maybe tomorrow, maybe next year, but we are going to die. Worrying about death is pointless. Worrying will not save us from the inevitable. It only keeps us from enjoying the now."

Silence...then, "I suppose that's your idea of cheering me up...we're all going to die B.S.? I suppose you don't worry?"

"Sure, I worry...but I also know it doesn't do any good. I just don't think about it...death, I mean. The way I see it, I can waste time worrying about stuff I can't change and just scare the shit out of myself, or I can think about what I have that gives me pleasure and joy...like thinking about you and being with you...for whatever time we have left together." Robbie gave George a gentle squeeze and kissed his cheek. The two sat silently on their rock.

"Feel better?" Robbie asked George, after a while.

"Nooo."

"Would you feel better if I worried more?"

"Yessss."

"Well in that case I'll just have to worry more."

George, unseen, smiled slightly.

"You two are so lucky," Brandy said from somewhere in the dark.

George startled. "Jesus! I forgot you where there."

"Yeah, like I've got somewhere else to be," Brandy replied with more sadness than sarcasm.

"What makes you think we're so lucky?" Robbie asked.

"You have someone you love to talk to and...worry with..."

"Haven't you heard," George shot into the night, "Robert doesn't worry?"

"Oh, you poor girl...I feel so bad for you," Robbie said with genuine sincerity, "not knowing what happened to your husband and baby. I am so sorry."

"Oh my, I feel so ashamed. I've got nothing to worry about compared to you," George added feeling foolish. "You must hate me for being so selfish."

"I don't hate you, George. I envy you."

"Envy me...an old queen?"

"George, isn't it enough that the Relics and the rednecks tie your friends to fences with barbed wire and set them on fire? Do you have to add to the humiliation by putting yourself and your brothers down?" Brandy challenged. "I see nothing but two human beings who have found the most elusive emotion there is...sincere and honest love for one another. I can only envy and respect that. I've known love. I know how beautiful and wonderful...and frightening...it can be...all at once. I know of no emotion that makes us more worthy of life and more humane. Without the capacity for love what would we be?"

"Relics!" Robbie shouted, and everyone within earshot burst into laughter.

"Shut up you guys and get some sleep," someone off to the trios' right grumbled from the dark.

"Sorry," Brandy said. "We'll keep it down." In a whisper she resumed, "You know, Robbie, you're probably more right than you know. Relics cannot understand love, because they are too selfish and full of fear and hate."

"Jesus Christ, here we go with the psychology crap again," Robbie sighed. "Fear...what the hell do they have to be afraid of...besides us, that is?" He asked, settling George a bit by pulling him just a little bit closer.

"Themselves...their insides...they have every sick desire any one of us has, but they can't face it," Brandy was speaking more to the darkness and herself, than to anyone else. She was grieving. "They live in constant fear of being discovered as the sick bastards they really are. They think that killing for a god excuses them. But they still get caught fucking their neighbors' wife, or sodomizing little boys, or giving blow jobs in airport men's rooms. They know they are not whom they pretend to be. The sicker they are the more self-righteous and dangerous they become..."

"And, the bigger the flag they stick on their pickup trucks," Robbie interjected.

"Brandy laid back and supported herself on her elbows. She looked skyward. "Shit, they can't accept their own humanity...how in the world could they ever accept yours...or my son's, or Chris...?" Brandy broke off.

"Oh, you poor dear," George sympathized. He moved to comfort Brandy.

"They hate us because we dare to be who we are? You want me to feel sorry for the poor bastards?" Robbie asked.

There was no response.

"Oh, bullshit," Robbie continued. "They hate everyone...even their own. They can't think of anyone but themselves. They are completely selfish. They don't deny themselves a thing. And, when they get caught giving blow jobs and sodomizing little boys...and stealing from their churches...and whatever else they fucking want to do, they blubber and cry and ask for forgiveness! They are so fucked up, they think they can hide in their church and do any sick thing they want, 'cause God loves them. But no one loves them as much as they love themselves! Hell, they've convinced themselves that they have been chosen by God and that that makes them immune to judgment! Un-fucking-believable! I don't know who is sicker, those Family freak-show assholes or the rubes who kiss their ass."

"Jesus is their get-out-of-jail-free card. He just takes away all their personal responsibility," George added emphatically, snapping his fingers.

"Hiding behind their god is an attempt to rise above being human," Brandy added.

"Hiding behind their god is just a way to excuse fucking kids and genocide," Robbie challenged. "Consider this...they follow a god that's as fucked up as they are, and then say that that is what makes him a god and themselves righteous. They created a god just like themselves, so they would never have to change themselves into something more human. Now that is fucking sick!"

"Fuck, they deny God by their very existence," someone off to Brandy's right threw in. "I mean, isn't He supposed to be omnipotent and omniscient? Then, what the fuck does He need these Relic bastards for? What can they do that He couldn't do better and faster, if He wanted? He didn't need help with Sodom and Gomorrah now, did He? Did He ask Huckleberry for help with the flood? The whole thing is completely sick."

"Thank you," Robbie shouted into the night. "None of this has anything to do with a god. It's all about just some sick backwards ignorant superstitious fucks, who can't handle the reality of themselves, throwing a tantrum and demanding that everyone live the way they say, because...they can't get comfortable with someone daring to think differently than them. A bunch of fucking two-year-olds with nuclear weapons and endless hate for stuff they can't...refuse to understand."

"Yeah, fuck your happiness. All that matters to those Relic fucks is that they are happy. And they can only be happy if you do exactly as they say..." the nameless voice chimed in. He was grieving, too.

"...and not as they do!" Robbie added, laughing.

CHORUS

"The Dominionists needed wedge issues to rile up the country, and they chose gays and blacks, and immigrants, and the poor, and scientists...and whatever or whomever else they thought would work, to spark hate, feed fear, confuse, and win sympathy for their cause. Hitler used the Jews, Gypsies, homosexuals, and the mentally ill in the exact same way. Hitler took advantage of the vague fear and hate many were feeling, and he gave that fear a name and a face. The Family did the very same thing. And, they adopted Jesus so they could look respectable while they were fucking everyone up. They thought this made them better than Hitler. Then, they set about destroying the educational system...making fun of the educated...so people wouldn't trust the knowledgeable and would have a very poor understanding of history and science. Then they created broad frightening stereotypes of outsiders (non-whites and immigrants), engineered a terrifying false history, laid the blame for all the country's difficulties at the feet of the scapegoats, and used that as a justification to take away the rights from the scary outsiders. Eventually, they declared that, because the evil ones were not worthy of the same rights as everyone else, then they must not be quite human. Yes, it is circular. Genocide cannot be far behind once a person or a class of people is reduced to vermin. Hell, the Nazis said that the Jews were no different than vermin. They even showed movies of Jewish people morphing into packs of swarming rats, for Christ's sake!"

*

"Shut the fuck up!" a male voice shouted out of the dark somewhere off to their left. "Some of us would like to get some sleep!"

"Sorry," George shouted back. "Try masturbating," he added as a helpful aside, "...it works for me."

"How about I try hitting you over the head with something very heavy," the man shouted back, "...that would work, too...wouldn't it?"

Unamused, George turned to his companions in a whisper, "How's come it is so easy to convince so-called good people to do completely bad things? Shit, even the Catholic Church turned a blind eye to the whole god-damned holocaust, didn't it?"

"You're assuming that the Catholics are good? What are you saying? Now, the Catholics are the bastion of goodness? Where the fuck do you think these Relics came from?" a dumbfounded Robbie asked. "The Dominionists are nothing more than a political move, motivated by greed, to seize power by taking advantage of peoples' fears and stereotypes, with God as the cover story. Germany had its 'Jewish problem', the American Southerner had his 'nigger and wetback problem' and, now, once again, it's the great big 'Atheist faggot problem' with all the other problems thrown in for good measure."

Exhausted, Robbie fell silent and listened to the others breathing. Brandy scratched some tartar from her teeth with a fingernail and rinsed her mouth with a swig from her canteen. George had quickly returned to Robbie, after Brandy rejected his comforting. Secretly, Brandy longed to be held, but she was George's lieutenant, and hugging was certainly an improper gesture. George huddled closer to Robbie for warmth.

"I suppose there are those Relics who know they've got some serious mental problems and seek out religion for relief or strength or something?" Brandy said suddenly out of the dark.

"Oh, shut up, will you?" a voice from the void shouted.

A lightning bolt struck the opposite rim of the river valley causing everyone to jump. The boom of thunder was simultaneous to the flash. It made the sound of a near-hit one-thousand-pound bomb. The river basin and the ambushers were brilliantly illuminated, for just an instant. The image of George's pale white skin and roughly cut white blond hair was burned into Robbie's vision for what seemed like hours afterwards. The thunder nearly exploded their ear drums. It echoed and rumbled down the valley.

"Son-of-a-bitch!" someone called out in the night.

"Are you O.K.?" Brandy inquired.

"Yeah, we're fine...just scared the crap out of us," came the reply.

"No shit," someone commiserated, to nervous laughter.

"You know I was there...in Chicago...that night when these Relic fucks machine-gunned thousands and left the survivors to die in the streets...and the dead to rot...unburied," a male, somewhere in the dark, said.

"The food riots?" Brandy asked.

"Yes...the food riots," the shadow replied.

"I never heard of any food riots," George responded.

"They controlled the news," the shadow said. "Do you think they'd put their mass murdering on the six o'clock news?"

"No, I suppose not," George responded sheepishly.

"I was there...what was it nine, maybe ten years ago," the man continued. "I know I was sixteen. I was with my parents. We'd been living on rotten potatoes and maggot-infested bags of beans thrown from the Relic food trucks...for months. We were starving. My mother was bad off. I was there when these fucks just machine-gunned the crowd at the food storage yards...no warning, no sympathy, no compassion, just bullets."

"I'm sorry," George offered.

"Don't be," the man snapped. "You want to know what makes these fuckers tick...huh? It's hate...they're a bunch of shallow, hating, rat fucking misfits who were never picked to play kickball on the playground. But, instead of getting their father's gun and shooting up their little playmates, they used their fucking Bibles to shoot up the world and everyone and everything in it. It's hate! Now, if you guys don't shut-up I'm going to toss a fucking grenade into your god-damned hole. Shut the fuck up!" the unseen man shouted from his foxhole.

"We're all glad you're gay, hell maybe we'll all become gay, if it means we can get some fucking sleep," another unseen Patriot shouted out of the dark.

"Fabulous! Let's par-tay!" a gleeful George shouted.

"Sorry," Brandy said to the protesters. "Shut up George. They're right. We need to get some sleep."

"Damn, I thought everyone was going to come out tonight," George said disappointedly.

"Give it a rest, George," Brandy ordered.

"Yeah, I'm pretty tired. Let's get some sleep, George. Goodnight, Brandy," Robbie said, adding his support.

"Yes, oh alright, goodnight, Brandy dear," George added. He and Robbie snuggled together under their blankets for warmth.

"Good night," Brandy said and slid deep into her sleeping bag. She positioned an extra pair of fatigue pants as a pillow for her head and lay there, staring up into empty blackness. There were no stars, just lightning and the mysterious ghostly shadows, everyone a potential Relic Snake.

For years, the moon had not been visible as more than a barely discernable smudge in the concealed firmament. At less than full, it was so faint one could mistake their imagination for the actual moon. Brandy tried to see her hand in front of her face and couldn't. She touched her nose with her finger, just to be certain her hand was really out there, in the dark. The blackness and the silence only emphasized the loneliness she felt. She closed her eyes and longed for sleep and the dreams that would bring her loved ones back to her.

Brandy nearly jumped out of her skin as the helicopter gunship flashed by her position. It had been so close she could have touched it. She had been awake for nearly an hour, scanning the valley for activity. But, just moments before, she had lost herself in a memory about her husband, baby, and a long past birthday party.

The gunship was followed closely by another. The helicopters flew up the valley to the west, kicking up large clouds of brown and yellow dust and rock as they passed low over the ridges firing their miniguns. They strafed the Patriot's positions...the entire middle length of the ridge. No one was hurt, this time, because Eve's fighters had learned, long ago, to avoid the middle length of any ridge. For some reason gunships usually targeted the broad middle of cliff faces and ridges on their strafing runs. After a mile or so, one turned north and the other south. They circled at a good distance, scouting the terrain for any Secular Humanist activity. The "brzzzzzzzzap-brzzzzzzzzzzap" of their Gatling guns could be heard echoing all along the boulder strewn valleys.

"Jesus Christ, girl, you nearly knocked me over!" an alarmed George exclaimed.

"Sorry. I was...daydreaming, I...I guess." Brandy replied, rubbing the tears and brown crust from her green eyes.

"Welcome back," Robbie said, removing the protective cap from his .50 cal's telescopic sight. He observed a spot about one mile downstream through its scope, "It looks like there are two dozers...ummm, two armored personnel carriers, and eight...no, nine deuce-and-a-half's fording the stream."

Brandy reached for her canteen and took a few sips. She was shaking and needed a few moments to collect herself. She caught her breath and began munching on some stale, dried peas and withered cactus meat. She avoided the Relic "beef" jerky because she wasn't certain of the species. She had been eating "meals" like this for years, and no longer thought to mind. After a moment of eating and watching the far off Relics creep closer, she stood and stretched her lean five-foot-nine-inch frame and shook the desert dust from her short-cropped dark red hair.

George watched as Brandy's large breasts strained against her fatigue jacket. "God, I bet you were popular with the boys in school," he said absentmindedly, thinking that somehow this would remind her of happier times and cause her to feel a bit better.

"George, for Christ's sake, let's not talk about my tits, O.K.?" Brandy, justifiably annoyed, fired back.

"Sorry," a startled George replied. "But they're beautiful. I'm just envious...that's all. I mean...look at me...just another old queen." Then noticing Robbie's curious and judgmental stare, George added, "Of, all that power. Tits are power. There were times I wish I had even a pinch of that power...over the boys."

"Power? They have been nothing but a pain in my ass...and back. Believe me, I could have done very well with something a lot smaller...and less powerful."

"You must be joking," George said incredulously. "Women everywhere would die for a set of boobs like yours," he quickly glanced at Robbie and quickly returned his gaze to Brandy, "...wouldn't they? I mean, I know I would...I mean, if I were a girl, that is."

"You are...you big pervert," Robbie quipped.

"Oh yeah, I forgot," George shot back and placed a hand over his mouth in a demure gesture of stifling a half-embarrassed giggle.

"Oh, you think because men like big boobs women like big boobs? Well, in general, they don't! Or, at least, I don't. If they're too big, it's hard to find clothes that fit. If I don't keep them tied down, I can't move my arms. I can't see my feet. My back hurts. And, men never look at my eyes. They are always starring at my tits or trying to look down my blouse. Then, I have to be careful, because there are some who are always trying to get close enough, so they can 'accidentally' bump into them."

"All that attention...sounds like heaven," George sighed.

"Oh brother..." She turned and resumed scanning the river approaches. "Looks like it's going to be a good fight," Brandy said, quickly changing the subject and struggling to regain something that passed as normalcy. The dream of her husband and son, and now George's ridiculousness, had clearly upset her.

"Yeah, but don't forget about those damned low fliers...and those personnel carriers have a dual fifty-cal each. Those fuckers brought some fire power," Robbie cautioned.

"Oh, Jesus, we're all going to be killed for sure," George worried and looked at Robbie for reassurance.

"Sounds like someone is getting nervous in the service," Robbie teased. "Don't worry about those low fliers. There's only two and we've got five sharpshooters for each. They don't stand a chance."

"Well, don't you fucking miss, OK?" George added quickly, "And, a little more worry from you would be appreciated."

"Sorry," Robbie apologized. "I'm worrying as I speak."

"Give it a rest you two," Brandy cautioned, "They're getting too close for you two to be carrying on. Shut up and stay down."

Brandy, George, and Robbie adjusted their covering screen of branches, and carefully peered out from their camouflaged position. They couldn't see any of their fellow ambushers, but they knew there were nearly three-hundred Patriot fighters concealed all along the cliff face and in the shallow valley below.

The Pastor Major Armstrong Long, leader of the Dominionist column, stopped his armored personnel carrier (APC) one hundred yards east of Brandy's position and raised himself to the overhead hatch. The column of engineers and troops, at combat interval, were lined up neatly behind him. Long threw open the hatch and scanned the low cliffs on either side of the valley with his binoculars. He saw nothing that gave a clue to the danger that lurked there. But he did notice a long, black sooty scar with thread-like fingers staining the rock face some two-hundred yards from his position on the opposite side of the river. The stain ran the entire height of the cliff face.

The Pastor Major ducked back into his APC. "Lightning," he announced to the crew, "it looks like lightning struck the rock face causing the wall to collapse." He received accepting nods from all his crew. Everyone had become very familiar with lightning and its cruel effects over the years. Also, what subordinate would ever question a Pastor Major?

"Angel 3 to Tribulation Warrior, over," the gunship commander radioed.

The driver handed Pastor Major Long the radio handset.

"This is Tribulation Warrior. Go ahead Angel 3, over."

"This is Angel 3...nothing to report to the south, over."

"This is Angel 5...nothing to report to the north, over."

"Bless you both," the Pastor Major responded, "It looks as if a lightning strike is responsible. There is clear evidence of the strike on the rock face. Maintain a close watch. You know how sneaky these devils can be, over."

"Roger. Angel 3, out."

"Roger. Angel 5, out."

CHORUS

"Only men served in the Dominionist army. Women were given rudimentary training in the combat arms, for their own defense, and to take their lives, and the lives of their children, if necessary. They knew they'd be forgiven by their gracious Lord, and that it would be far better to commit suicide than to be ravaged and subjected to unspeakable horrors at the hands of a demon Atheist Humanist. Some, now long dead or about to be, had maintained that the tales of Humanists inflicting horror upon Dominionists were more a matter of Dominionist projection, than reality."

"Women had few rights in the Dominionist Family. They could not vote. They could not own property. They could not hold office. They could teach, nurse, marry, rear children, and serve as secretaries, mistresses (informal, highly irregular, and common), nannies, and wet nurses. Disciplinary beatings by their husbands were acceptable and expected. Men could divorce their wives, but wives had no right to divorce. Women submitted sexually to their husbands on demand. There was no such thing as marital rape. They had no right to birth control. Men could marry as many women as they could support. Of course, the humiliations visited upon the Dominionist women by their male overlords were supported by Biblical text and considered just retribution for their sinful behavior in the Garden of Eden. A woman could lead a fairly simple and uneventful life if she did as she was told, submitted to her husband, attended to the children, and spoke only when spoken to."

"Every woman, who had joined with their men in the long fight for Christian hegemony, lost her civil rights once their men seized power. This inevitable betrayal was kept a very top secret from the Christian women, who had been reassured by their men that they were fighting for shared rights and privileges in the new God-commanded world government. The real leaders of the movement, the men, of course, did an excellent job of keeping their treachery concealed from their female counterparts, until it was long past the time for any meaningful protest from the girls."

"Many women quietly submitted, and in that submission, retarded the cause for women's equality and human rights by three-thousand years. Those who did protest were labeled Jezebels, harlots, DNO's (Dominionist in Name Only), Liberals, backsliders, and worse. They were arrested, imprisoned, beaten, and murdered, right along with all the other Satanists. What was perhaps the most shocking outcome of the "Great Betrayal", as it came to be known in Patriot circles, was the realization that most of the Dominionist women submitted without protest, and that they were glad to be concubines and slaves to their male overlords. Clearly a Dominionist woman was a very special kind of woman. Simply, the Dominionist Family movement was a men's only club, and the women who supported it were fools."

*

Major Long examined the surrounding area and the collapsed rock wall through his binoculars. It appeared, as reported, that a simple rockslide had dammed the river. Nothing he saw suggested sabotage. He moved the handset to his mouth.

"It looks like lightning caused a landslide," he radioed to the armored carrier bringing up the rear of the column, "we should be able to clear this mess and be home for evening prayers with the children. I want first platoon to reconnoiter the area, now... engineers and bull dozers prepare to move forward and on that rock pile once first platoon reports the area all clear. I'm moving forward three- or four-hundred yards along the flood plain. I will anchor the perimeter on the west. Captain Wilson, you anchor the eastern end with your APC. I want the trucks and soldiers spaced evenly between us. Let's move into position. Let's pray for success, gentlemen, over."

"Amen, roger, over," Captain Wilson replied.

The APC's and trucks rolled into position and stopped parallel to the southern cliff wall on the narrow flood plain. There were twenty or so soldiers per truck. They were armed with an assortment of small arms, light machine guns, and grenade launchers.

First platoon jumped from their truck, formed up, and moved into the shallow river valley. They knew the routine. They randomly checked around the boulders and rocks along the valley wall, randomly launched grenades into the many rock piles, looked for any sign of human activity, climbed around in the landslide and found no evidence of explosives, no blast marks, no wire or paper residue, no newly fractured rock. They carefully listened for any unusual noises and sniffed the air for any telltale smell--food, cordite, body odor. Nothing. They gave the all clear.

Half of the detachment followed Pastor Major Long's APC to the slide area. All but the Major disembarked and climbed the slide. Pastor Major Long, however, scaled the shallow rockslide with his APC. The slide was uneven and challenging but presented no great difficulty. Once clear of the slide, Long's detachment deployed about two-hundred yards along the valley wall. They took cover behind the rocks, boulders and brush that lay scattered around the flood plain. They, and their compatriots manning the eastern end of the slide, settled in. The engineers and their dozers went to work.

All was going well for the Patriot ambushers until the leader of one of the deuce-and-a-half's, who had parked just below Brandy's position, dispatched two soldiers to reconnoiter the rock face.

Brandy sat still as a stone and observed the Relic soldiers as they received orders from and then saluted their leader. Then, she observed them spend a few moments talking between themselves before approaching the rock face. Her heart was pounding. So were the TW's.

"Shit, they're coming this way," Brandy snarled through clenched teeth. "Of course, they're coming this way...we should've expected this."

George gave Brandy a worried look.

"Oh, don't worry, George, it'll work out...we've got it covered," Brandy attempted to reassure...herself.

"We d-do?" George stammered.

Robbie shrugged his shoulders and smiled, looking completely relaxed.

"You clearly are not worrying," George whispered.

"Well, Private Russell, you go straight up from here and I'll go East about...oh, less than one-hundred yards, and then we'll start our climb. If all is O.K. I'll raise my rifle once and you respond by raising your rifle twice, O.K.?" Corporal Tony suggested.

"Yeah, sounds O.K...but what if things aren't O.K.?" a visibly nervous Pvt. Russell asked.

"Then, there will be lots of shooting and...you'll know for sure if things aren't O.K.," Cpl. Tony replied, a bit flustered with Russell, who was just out of basic training and clearly uncertain of himself.

Tony and Russell bowed their heads and said a short prayer. They asked for God's protection, said some words about His will be done, and then they turned to the cliff face. The cliff sloped gently back and, at this position, was about one-hundred-fifty feet high and strewn with boulders and thickets of dead brush. A bush, ignited by one of the grenades, was burning off to the right of Russell and halfway up the cliff. A light snow had begun falling, capping the reddish brown and tan boulders with a sooty light gray powder. Neither Russell nor Tony could see anything that looked out of place, but they were nervous all the same. Cpl. Tony moved about one-hundred or so yards to the East while Pvt. Russell waited nervously for his signal. When Tony had walked about as far as he thought necessary, he turned and signaled for the climb to begin.

The ambushers hidden along the paths of ascent pulled themselves as far under the rocks and brush as they could. They never took their eyes off the climbers. Everyone held their breath.

TW Tony made it about seventy-five feet up the wall, passing within feet and sometimes inches of hidden adversaries, without seeing a thing. Tony looked off to his right and saw nothing but the puffs of steam from Russell's mouth, as his warm breath condensed on the cold morning air. He also noted that Russell was a little behind in the climb. He then looked left and saw nothing, climbed another thirty feet and looked to his right, again...just in time to see Russell slip on the snow and fall behind a large rock.

Tony stopped and stood erect, staring at the spot where he saw Russell fall. He waited for Russell to pick himself up. He grew uncomfortable when nearly a minute had passed with no Russell popping up. Finally, Tony decided he had better investigate. But, as he took his first step in Russell's direction, Russell jumped from behind the rock and back into view. Russell saw Tony looking at him and shrugged his shoulders in acknowledgment of his foolish mistake.

"Finally," Tony breathed relief. "Are you O.K.?" he shouted.

Russell stopped, looked at Tony, and cupped his ear with his hand.

Tony took that to mean that Russell couldn't hear him over the wind and heavy equipment. He made like he was going to shout again, saw that Russell had resumed the climb and that he seemed to be fine. Tony decided that it would be a waste of time to shout again, because, with the wind in his face, he could yell very loudly and still not be heard.

They climbed another sixty feet. Tony stopped and noticed Russell stopping, as well. Tony turned to Russell and raised his rifle once over his head. Russell raised his rifle once over his head in recognition. Tony looked at Russell, sighed, and shook his head at the stupid boy who had forgotten the agreed upon signal. TW Corporal Tony brushed away the gray snow on a boulder and took a seat. His ass was cold. Somehow the cold wormed its way through his winter coat, field jacket, pants, and long johns, almost instantly. He did his best to ignore his ass and, instead, looked down at the workers one-hundred-thirty feet below him. Russell appeared to be doing the same. Over the next several hours they would exchange head nods, from time to time, while they scanned the area about them for any signs of trouble.

"God damn it," George whispered," that was too fucking close!"

"Shut up," whispered Brandy withdrawing her knife from Private Russell's throat. A thick stream of Russell's blood forcibly shot about three feet and splattered upon a nearby rock. It was followed by two smaller spurts and then stopped. Russell, wide-eyed, gurgled and died.

They stripped the TW of his useful items, took his religious symbols (which would be destroyed), and stuffed the body under a boulder and pushed dirt against it. When it was completely concealed, they returned to their silent vigil. Robbie, closest of the three to Russell's size, quickly donned Russell's helmet and trench coat and jumped from his position onto a rock, and into plain sight. He glanced to his left and shrugged at the distant TW. The TW did not seem too concerned, but he was shaking his head. Next, he shouted, asking if "Russell" was OK. Robbie, of course, had no intention of answering, so he cupped his ear, indicating that he could not hear. Then, Robbie did the only thing he could; he ignored the other TW and resumed climbing the rock face. When he saw the TW sit, Robbie picked out a nice flat rock and sat down, too. Brandy and George watched Robbie as he sat grinning about fifty feet above their position. He was raising the late Russell's rifle in the air and looking as if he was thoroughly enjoying his role as a Tribulation Warrior.

"Sometimes that boy can be a complete goof," Brandy smiled, amused by Robbie's boyish courage.

"He's an ass...but a cute ass," George added admiringly.

The clearing of the river gorge had gone on all morning, accompanied by the rhythmic 'whup, whup, whup' of gunships passing to and fro, close overhead. The bulldozers worked until just after noon reinforcing the riverbanks southeast of the landslide, so the rush of the releasing water would stay in its proper course, when the rock dam was blown. About an hour after midday, the bulldozers, finished with the lower river, used the slide as a bridge, and moved to repair the north bank. Once the dam was successfully dynamited and the river channel restored, they would repair the damage to the upper channel.

As the day wore on without any incident, the Relics grew more and more relaxed. Eventually, they became convinced that there was no danger. The gunship pilots received permission to land and not waste any more fuel. The pilots and WCO's (weapons control officers) disembarked and stood chatting in a tight circle between the now silent low fliers. An occasional laugh could be heard as some kind of joke was shared. The soldiers began to form small groups of conversation while a few others maintained watch. The radio operators stepped from their trucks and stood on the desert floor, stretching while still listening for any radio traffic. The armored vehicle drivers and radio operators sat on top of their APC's watching the workers. A small prayer service was being held near the river, and it appeared that some were taking the time to be re-baptized. It seemed that a Snake could never be baptized enough.

Then, whistles were blown along with shouts, warning of the impending detonation. Finally, the area cleared of vehicles and personnel, the dam was blown with a terrific blast that smashed the sedimentary sandstone boulders into pebbles and dust, and sent the shrapnel flying high into the air. A yellow and red-brown cloud hung in the atmosphere, obscuring the blast site, as the area was pelted with debris. The explosion echoed up and down the valley. Then the rush of water could be heard. A loud "Praise Jesus!" was shouted by all the Relics in the valley below, which was echoed by the two sentinels sitting high up on the cliff face.

TW Corporal Tony was pulled off of his rock from behind, and his throat cut, before he knew what was happening. No one in the valley below noticed, because they were distracted by the excitement of the detonation. When, eventually, some returned their attention to the cliff face, they saw who they thought to be Tony and Russell standing on their boulders, their arms raised in the Dominionists salute, sharing in the celebration. Some on the ground, overjoyed with the success of the day, returned the salute, naturally.

The bull dozers were finishing the reconstruction of the upper riverbank when a 30-06 round struck one of the gunship pilots center mass. He dropped to the ground like his strings had been cut. Then a buzz saw of bullets ripped into the Relics. The other pilot and WCO's fell to the ground with wounds to their chests and heads. They hadn't had time to wonder what was going on. The radio operators of the trucks and armor vehicles were cut down as the ambushers sprung from their concealed positions. Two engineers and one dozer operator attempted to gain the other side of the river but managed only ten steps of freedom before they died on the riverbank. The Relics were so disorganized that the battle lasted less than a minute. Any Relic found alive on the field was shot once in the head. The Reverend Major Long, praising Jesus and damning all Humanists as whore-mongering demons, was the beneficiary of such a bullet.

"Tribulation Warrior, Tribulation Warrior, this is Salvation, over," the personnel carrier's radio crackled.

"This is Tribulation Warrior. Go ahead Salvation, over," Charlie said into the radio headset. Charlie had been sitting in the armored vehicle with his driver, Jimmy, waiting for this call while Eugene Crowman and the others cleaned up the mess outside.

"This is Salvation. Will you finish by nightfall, over?"

"We are finishing up now, Salvation. We should be home in time for evening prayers, over," Charlie said grinning at Jimmy and rolling his eyes.

"Praise Jesus! Over," Salvation cried into Charlie's headset.

"Praise Jesus! Over," Charlie replied.

"Praise Jesus! Over," Salvation repeated.

"Praise Jesus! Over," Charlie repeated, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Praise to Reverend Major Long. Over."

"Halleluiah! Over," Charlie added, his faux enthusiasm edging dangerously close to mocking.

"Is the Reverend Major near...can we praise him directly? Over."

"The Reverend Major is on the ground directing the bulldozers personally. There just was no way of stopping him. He had to be in the thick of it. A true man of the Lord, over."

"That's just like him...never one to shirk his duty or pass it on to others. Over."

"Never a single shirk. Over."

"You will share our praise with the Reverend Major when he returns? Over."

"I most certainly will. Jesus be praised! Over."

"Praise Jesus. Over."

"Praise Jesus. Over."

"You will return by nightfall? Over."

"Just after dark...is more likely. Over."

"Excellent. We will see you then. Salvation, Out."

Charlie relaxed back into his seat and looked at Jimmy, 19.

"Ya know, Jimmy, there was a time when nobody I knew believed that Jesus crap...never thought a thing about it. I knew some believed it, of course. But I'd say to myself, what does it hurt if these guys want to believe this thing or that thing? I mean, I couldn't care less...as long as they weren't tryin' to force their beliefs on me."

"They're assholes," Jimmy replied matter-of-factly, "always were, always will be. The whole God thing stinks of money and power, not righteousness and good will...never was, never will be."

Charlie looked at Jimmy, who kept his eyes glued to the periscope. "OK, you got this God guy hangin' 'round the universe with nothin' to do, I guess. It's completely black. There's nobody else around...and who knows how long He's been sittin' in the dark? So, I guess He gets bored and wants to read a book...and shit, there ain't no friggin' light. So, He creates some light. Next thing ya know, that ain't enough, so, poof, He creates us!

"He should have created a more interesting book, and saved all of us this trouble," a disinterested Jimmy interjected.

"Yeah, He's still bored, see," Charlie continued. "'What gives?' He says. 'Wait, I'm God. I can make this way more interest'n.'" So, he messes the whole thing up...He invents sins, sinners, Hell, saviors, religious nuts, wars, do-gooders, famine, diseases...you know, stuff to keep Him interested. We're all terrified, but He's happy as a pig in shit. That's all that counts."

"The people He creates don't like to listen to Him. It doesn't get any more interesting than that," Jimmy replied.

"Ya know? Now, you tell me, this God guy must be some kind of nut. I mean, if you were all powerful, would you create somethin' that pissed you off all the time? You can't say yes, or I'll think you're nuts. And, if you say no, then maybe He ain't as powerful as they make out. You know what I mean? And, what use is a god that don't have absolute power? The only kind of god that don't have absolute power is the non-existent kind. Understand? And, oh yeah, where's this God supposed to have come from, anyway? Didn't somebody have to create Him?"

"Sure, the assholes created him. So, He can't be anything, but all fucked up. Always has been, always will be," Jimmy answered.

"This is one fucked-up God were talkin' about here. Only the Relics could create somethin' so fucked up," Charlie said and paused to observe the valley clean up through his periscope. "Their God is nothin'," he continued. "He's a god-damned spoilt brat. The Relics are like god-damned spoilt children... god-damned dangerous fuckin' children. It seems to me that they just created a god in their own image to excuse their bad behavior. It's as plain as the nose on my face. They don't like somethin', they destroy it...they don't try to understand it...they don't try to work with it...they just destroy it. Just the same way that God of theirs, that they created, destroys stuff He doesn't like. They're like spoilt brats throwin' genocidal tantrums." Charlie readjusted his weight in the thinly padded APC seat. "When they don't get their own way, they take everyone with them. They take their marbles...and your marbles...and my marbles, and they go home. And this time the marbles they took were people...billions of fucking people blown to friggin' pieces, and a world destroyed." Charlie sucked a lung-filling breath through his broad, flattened nose and paused for a moment. "It takes the excuse of 'blind faith' to believe in a god like that...an earth destroying god like that."

"No argument here," Jimmy said.

Suddenly, someone was banging a rock on the side of the APC. Charlie stood on his seat and looked over the side. It was Eugene.

Eugene Crowman, aka "Gene", was a Lakota warrior from a place once known as South Dakota. His nation, like all the Indian nations, had been declared heathen and corrupt by the Dominionists. He had been arrested and sentenced to death for Satan Worship and plotting the overthrow of the Kingdom of God on Earth. And, like most of Eve's army, he had been rescued during a Patriot attack upon a Dominionist' column."

CHORUS

"Following several bloody confrontations and massacres, all easily resolved in the Dominionists favor, the Dominionists were successful in reducing the number of Native Americans and all their Nations by a significant amount. The remaining Native Americans were forcibly removed to one large internment reservation (concentration camp) in the most desolate area of the desert southwest, where the Dominionists honored the age-old Puritan tradition of genocide. Captured men, women, and children, after a suitable period of torture, were subjected to Blessed Cleansings."

"The Dominionists approached Native American affairs no differently than the Puritans, Calvinists, and all the various other demented WASP (White Anglo-Saxon Protestant) tribes which had plagued the Native Americans throughout history. Indians were considered to be nothing but the sub-human agents of Satan, an insult to Jesus' love, put in the way to stymie and corrupt progress."

"Basically, the Puritans chose to believe that the Americas, the New World, or 'the Wilderness' was governed by Satan and populated by his servants, the Native Americans, who, to the self-adoring white man, looked and smelled evil. For additional evidence, the Puritans only had to point to the huge challenge of surviving the New England winters. They found survival much more difficult than the Native Americans, despite the Indians being, in their opinion, far less intelligent. Employing the logic of the Dark Ages, the Puritans surmised, therefore, that the Native Americans were relying on the magic of Satan, while the Puritans, refusing to bow before Lucifer, were left to struggle. Clearly, the Puritans reasoned, the New World was evil and corrupted."

"Obviously, God had been aware of Satan and his demon Indians for a very long while, and, quite logically, He had sent his Christian soldiers to reclaim the Wilderness for the Kingdom of Heaven. Conveniently, ruling out conversion as a monumental waste of time, it was resolved that it would be far easier and more efficient to simply murder Satan's servants, with prejudice. Being chosen of God, the Puritan's became the logical choice to see the destruction through. They, and the endless Christian brotherhood which followed, much encouraged by the Bible, set about their genocide with great enthusiasm. In a relative short period of time, the vast majority of Native Americans were destroyed, and the decrepit, demoralized remainder, were imprisoned in bleak, unwholesome, and ill-equipped reservations, where the white man was confident that starvation, disease, and drunkenness would complete the Christian's mission."

"Arguably, the Dominionists were simply continuing that which the Puritans had left undone. And, like their Puritan progenitors, they too considered it a massive waste of their time to attempt conversions. It was far better and much easier to simply destroy the Indian and all his Nations: the Pequot, Cherokee, Comanche, Lakota, Iroquois, Miami, Seminole, Crow, Apache, Pima, Navajo, Choctaw, Chickasaw, and hundreds of other Nations and tribes. All the many Nations fell under God's sword, wielded by Christians, justified by the Bible, and celebrated as Christian Manifest Destiny. And, if the so-called Christians had been man enough to admit it, they could have filled countless volumes with a shameful and despicable history, instead of trying to justify and hide it."

*

Gene had a large "H" for "Heathen" burned into his forehead. He was a tall and powerfully built man. Not a frivolous man, he spoke when he thought it important...which was seldom. There was too much talk and not enough action, as far as he was concerned. Gene was fiercely loyal to his people and...fearless; the one man you wanted on your side in a fight. He fought, for now, with the whites, but with the possible exception of Charlie, he had little love for the race. Eugene had lost his wife and children to the Blessed Cleansing stakes."

"What do we do about the low fliers?" Gene asked.

Charlie scanned the area. The bulldozers were covering the last of the Relic bodies in a large pit and many of the Patriots were disguising themselves with Relic helmets and overcoats. From a distance the Dominionists would not be able to tell the Patriots from their own.

"Shit! I didn't think of that. What the fuck...who could have guessed those assholes would hand us two gunships? Shit." Charlie thought for a while. "Our pilots are with Eve. There's no doubt we have to get them back here to fly these birds. Man, this is one hell of an opportunity to hand those bastards their asses. I guess all we can do is just let the gunships sit here. We'll send runners to get our pilots."

"The Devils will expect their low fliers back." Gene observed.

"Yeah, we don't need to change nothin'. We can still do it as planned. I'll radio ahead about the engine trouble thing." He reached for the radio mike.

"Salvation this is Tribulation, over," Charlie said and waited for a reply.

"Salvation this is Tribulation, over," he repeated after a short wait.

"This is Salvation. Go ahead Tribulation Warrior."

"Salvation, Angel 5 reports a loss in fuel pressure. He can't make enough power for sustained flight. Fuel filters may be clogged with sand. Request permission...Angel 3 to assist and provide cover, over."

"Oh, my goodness, how long do you think it will take to repair, over?"

"Don't know. If just filters, not too long, over,"

"Oh, my goodness, well let's not allow this to ruin a glorious day of successes. I will check to see how command wishes to proceed. Praise Jesus, out."

"Praise Jesus," Charlie replied and set his hand mike down.

Nearly a half hour passed before Salvation re-established contact, "Tribulation Warrior, this is Salvation, over."

"This is Tribulation, over."

"Tribulation, to save time we are sending a mechanic with parts...fuel pumps, pressure regulators, injectors, etc...just in case. He'll be there in a few hours. Leave one truck and its soldiers there to maintain security. The rest of you can return to Salvation, over."

"God Bless you, Salvation, over."

"And God Bless you, Tribulation Warrior...ummh, Tribulation Warrior, I noticed it earlier, but, forgive me, I didn't mention it...you sound different...like a strange accent or something. Is there a problem, over?"

"Accent? Oh yeah? Umm, it must be...my cold...I'm gettin' a cold. Maybe that's it, over."

"Oh, what a pity. You are in our prayers. Well, take care of yourself, out."

"Bless you, Salvation, Tribulation, out." Charlie set his mike down, looked at Jimmy and shook his head. "The dumb asses are prayin' for me to get over a cold. I hope they remember to sacrifice a fuckin' goat."

Jimmy shot a spray of canteen water from his nose. "Sacrifice a goat," he choked, "Now, that's funny, ha, ha, ha."

"Where the hell you been? Didn't they teach you nothin' in school? That's what they used to do in the good ol' days, ya know. If you wanted a good outcome, you'd sacrifice a friggin' goat...or a virgin, or both, if you were really, really in the shit. Some of those backwards sick fucks would get all confused and sacrifice the virgin and fuck the goat!"

Jimmy joined with Charlie for a hearty laugh. Charlie clearly had cracked himself up.

"I'll remember that, sir," Jimmy said wiping the dripping canteen water from his chin with his fatigue jacket's sleeve.

Charlie stood on his seat and saw that the trucks were overloaded with Patriot fighters, who clung to the sides, stood on the running boards, and sat on top of the vehicle's cabs and fenders. All the vehicles were ready to move. Overhead the angry clouds were growing darker, and the flashes of sheet lightening were becoming more brilliant. The unseen sun was disappearing below the horizon somewhere in the west. It would be completely dark in minutes. Gene was hanging around waiting for orders.

"Eugene, what do ya think...let's place a couple a guards on the gunships and get on our way?"

"Yeah, sounds good."

"They're sendin' a mechanic, but my money is on his never makin' it," Charlie laughed. "We'll meet him somewhere along the road and burn him down." Charlie strained to see the formation of trucks, which were becoming faint in the fading light. Looks to me like everybody fit on the trucks?"

"Yes, in or on," Gene replied.

"Good. Well, we'll lead the column, then two trucks, the dozers, the rest of the trucks, and then the other APC coverin' the rear. That sound good to you?"

"Yeah...sure."

"O.K., get your ass up here and we'll get movin'." Eugene climbed up the front of the APC and, dropped into the gunner's hatch. Charlie lowered his head and shouted into the APC's red lit interior, "O.K. Jimmy, let's get this column movin'." The APC lurched forward and Charlie grabbed the edges of his hatch to keep from falling. "For fuck's sake, take it easy!" Charlie scowled.

Jimmy grinned.

The APC advanced to the front of the column. Charlie stopped momentarily to direct the other APC to take up the rear, and then the column began its crawl across the desert towards Patboy Roberts. It wasn't easy to find and then navigate the road in the dark, so Charlie did what no Relic commander would have done: he ordered the vehicles to turn on their headlights. There was no need to worry about an ambush. The shrouded headlights were only strong enough to illuminate twenty maybe twenty-five yards to the front of the slowly advancing vehicles. They gave off a dull yellow glow, which was enough to see, just barely better than stumbling around in the pitch black with a couple of flashlights.

Charlie signaled for Eugene to join him below and they both disappeared into the hull of the Kevlar and aluminum death trap. Armored personnel carriers, the APC's, were armored in name only. Their aluminum skin would stop a small arms round...barely. But, larger rounds, such as a.50 caliber, would easily pierce the skin and rattle around inside...for a while. The APC squeaked and rumbled along, its tread pads crunching on the frozen sand. It was snowing harder now.

"Jimmy, keep her on the road and keep an eye out for those helicopter mechanics. Let us know when you see them," Charlie said. "Don't run them over if you can help it. They've got spare parts and a vehicle we can use." He turned and took two unsteady steps to the rear. He was tossed into a seat next to Eugene as the APC swerved left to miss a substantial rock.

Jimmy grinned.

"Take it easy. For crying out loud!" a Patriot soldier barked from somewhere in the rear.

"Christ it feels good to sit down," Charlie said.

"Yep," Gene replied.

Feeling the need to talk, Charlie pressed his friend. "So, what do you think?"

"About what?"

"About all of this."

"Could you be a bit more specific?"

"About our attackin' Patboy."

"I think it would be foolish if there were other options," Gene said.

"Yeah, I hear you. This whole mess must be very strange for you."

"Hmmm?"

"Well, you are a Lakota serving in a white man's army led by a woman fightin' for a nation that has done nothin' but savage and humiliate your race."

"Yes, it is strange...as you say."

"Then why do it...fight alongside us?"

"That is a worthy question, and I will answer it. It is necessary that I fight this evil that seeks to savage and humiliate us all. In this great battle we are, as we have always been, of one race. Perhaps this struggle will instruct us more about our similarities as human beings, than the differences we have so artfully exaggerated to rationalize and excuse brutality."

Charlie looked a bit stunned. "That's as much as I've ever heard you say."

"If you are not of my race, then of what race are you?"

"Well, I'm not a Lakota...obviously," Charlie chuckled referring to his short, round stature, and light olive skin. "I'm of the Italian race."

"As I see it, Lakota and white...and Italian, are not separate races any more than African and oriental. We are all of the same mother. But we have forgotten this, and we have grown jealous and suspicious, one of the other, as if we were strangers. It is the leaders who make it so."

"Yeah, but we are very different."

"Yes...in appearance, culture, language, yes, but this is a very shallow difference, of no importance whatsoever, and an extremely poor reason to kill one another."

"Well, we certainly don't get along...er, that is, didn't get along, until this whole Dominionist mess happened."

"There is some goodness in this mess, as you say."

"Goodness?!"

"Yes, in our struggle against a common enemy, we have found the brotherhood and sisterhood, which seemed lost, but had always existed between us. It is instructive that a common enemy can make us forget our superficial differences. We have been gifted with the vision of one people. And, if we can coexist as brothers in time of great peril, then we can coexist in times of peace. It is the conflict that brings forth our common relation, our common needs, weaknesses, desires, loves...that which is essential to life and proves that we are of one race. We are of the same race. It is important that we remember this."

"No argument from me. So, then, why do you think we so easily forget that we are all in this thing together?" Charlie admired Gene's intelligence and wanted to keep him talking.

"I will answer your question," Gene sighed. If it had been any other white man, Gene would have ignored the question. "When there is no common threat, it is too easy to become lazy and selfish...to think only of ourselves. Some, who would call themselves leaders, easily identify and prey upon our selfishness and jealousies and fears. They shamelessly promote themselves as the only true benefactors and protectors of our innocence and argue that it only makes sense that we support their claim to leadership. And, because we are lazy, we are too easily convinced and seduced by their sweet words. And, ultimately, we choose them over much stronger and appropriate leaders, those who would challenge us to seek out and come to understand difference. Weak leaders see only profit in prejudice and division. Therefore, they promote these instincts above all others. It is in their best interest, not in our best interest, to cloud our vision and judgment and exploit and encourage the fear of difference."

"Lazy?"

"Yes, it is so."

"What the fuck does that mean?"

Gene turned toward Charlie and looked long into his face before answering. It was true. Charlie did not know these things.

"Mutual conflict challenges us to see a truth that requires too much effort to see when we are at ease. Without the encouragement of bold and wise leadership, we grow lazy and do not challenge ourselves to explore and understand differences. We stagnate in comfort and thus give space to cultivate our fears and jealousies. There is a self-induced ignorance, which seems appropriate at the time, but which ultimately breeds laziness and becomes deadly."

"That is not true of all tribes...some are not as lazy as others," Charlie observed. He noticed and was encouraged by Gene's approving smile.

"Your words are accurate. There are tribes that see themselves as integral elements of all the natural wonder that surrounds them. They strive to understand this integration, to discover how they fit within its matrix. This, of course, requires much work and great courage. And, then there are other tribes that see themselves as separate from, and in conflict with, all that surrounds them. They seek to address their fear through avoidance and domination, which can only give an illusion of control and which requires much more effort and resources. One tribe accepts coexistence as axiomatic, while the other hungers to dominate and exploit. Our chiefs determine the type of interaction we have with our surroundings. It is, therefore, very important that we wisely chose our leadership and not allow ourselves to be fooled and corrupted by smooth talking charlatans and self-serving carnival barkers, whose only desire is to cultivate and exploit our fear. Of course, when these different approaches come into close proximity, then there is conflict, the denial of brotherhood...the denial of life."

"It's not biological...it's philosophical."

Eugene regarded Charlie, "Good, then you are listening. We Lakota and most Native American peoples know that we were created by the Great Father and the Earth Mother alongside all the other living and non-living things of this earth. We human beings have no particular dominion. We are not a special case. We are equal to all existence and superior to nothing. This is right. Each thing has its special place and purpose, but no one thing has a more special place or more special purpose. This knowledge is humbling and to submit requires great courage of character. It is far more humbling and spiritual to think of one's self as ascending from nature than to think of oneself as so special that he descended from a god."

Charlie rolled Gene's words around in his mind. "I like that. I can live with that."

"Yes, Charlie, you are not a fearful man. Humility, therefore, comes easy to you...it does not frighten you. The Earth Mother provides for us the land upon which we walk and plant our crops. She feeds the animals that we hunt for food and clothing. She provides the trees which we use for shade, housing, and fuel, the clean water to quench our thirst. We are foolish not to care for her...to think ourselves superior. The Sky Father provides the sun for energy, the rain for growth, and the winds which refresh and renew. It is just as foolish not to care for him. The bear is strong but runs slower than the deer. The deer is faster but weaker than the bear. The same can be said of all living things. Each has its strength and weakness. And, none are superior to the Mother and Father. It is spiritual death to believe that you are above this principle."

"But our intelligence makes us stronger and faster than any animal."

"No, our intelligence only fools us into thinking that we are quite clever and, therefore, much more superior to all other living and non-living things. But our cleverness, left foolishly unchecked by wisdom, is really our doom...our fatal weakness. Look where our intelligence has brought us. Has any other animal thought to end the world? Would we say that animal is somehow more stupid than ourselves for not having thought to do this?"

"We're not all that bright, are we?"

"Our cleverness has blotted the sun from our vision and turned the blue sky the color of shit. Our drinking water is poisoned with radioactivity, and too many of our children are born dead or deformed. Our people suffer with radiation sickness, cancers, ulcerated sores, dysentery, typhus, and die horribly and prematurely. Yes, we have made ourselves stronger than the bear and faster than the deer, but in the end, we have shown ourselves to be far more foolish than either. What animal would be so stupid to knowingly destroy the world that gives it everything it must have to stay alive? Only one...the white man."

"The capitalist and the Christian white man," Charlie clarified. He thought it important to draw the distinction, to not condemn every pale face.

"Specifically, yes, but many whites believe themselves created by a god, in his image. Consider the colossal ego it takes to believe such a thing. A believer of such nonsense only seeks to flatter himself and raise himself above nature and salve his fear of that which he fails to understand. He believes his 'god-origin' puts him above all others and gives him the right to do anything he likes without asking permission, without concern of consequence and without cost to himself. As I see it, the white man believes the world was created solely for his amusement and for whatever purpose he sees fit. He is very arrogant and abhorrently shameless. He has no respect for the greatness that surrounds him and no appreciation for how very small and insignificant his existence. He perceives everything, not like himself, as an enemy. The very earth upon which he depends is something to be feared. The earth, herself, becomes expendable. Earth becomes nothing but a laboratory experiment used to assess his worthiness to enter his god's kingdom of heaven. It does not matter to him if the world is destroyed and you with it, because in the ultimate act of selfish insanity, he believes that, being truly worthy, only he is worth saving, only he cannot die. He is not brave, as a bully is not brave, and he is not wise, as a bully is not wise. He is clever. He is manipulative. He is vicious. Fear, not strength, makes him so."

"Manifest Destiny?"

"Manifest Insanity."

"I take it you are no more a fan of God than I am."

"No, I am not a fan of the white man's god... clearly a god of the white man's creation. The white man uses his created god much the same way that Narcissus used her mirror...for self-flattery."

"I feel very much ashamed for my race."

"This is right. This arrogance of which I speak is the proof that the white man created his god and not the other way around, as he would like us to believe."

"Oh?"

"Consider this, what god would create a creature that surpasses Himself in arrogance? That is how I see it. The Lakota are of this world and are one with it. We have found our place in nature and respect our strengths and honor our limitations. The Christian white man came here to throw around his weight and to assert his sham superiority. He must, by his very nature, deny his limitations and overcompensate for his weakness of character. To this end he creates a god...a god he uses as justification for his own creation. And, then, so justified, the white man destroys creation and, ultimately, himself, in the bargain."

"Fear and arrogance."

"He reeks of it. Fear fuels the bully, fear of inferiority and inadequacy. He trembles with the fear of being discovered for it. His insecurity squirms and writhes behind a façade of toughness, brutality, and an adolescent religion of self-flattery. It's all the same. He may be physically strong, do not misunderstand me, but he betrays his intellectual and emotional weakness by his avoidance and ridicule of those with real strength of character and his pathological need to exploit the weak. He does not know how to hold his fear, so he declares himself God's proxy. He can only demand respect yet knows he will never have it. He can never escape his fear. He can never trust anyone. He will always be alone. Such an insecure man, given enough power, is very, very dangerous. I only have to mention Hitler, Stalin, Phol Pot, Shrub the Lesser, Smart the Self-proclaimed, and Huckleberry the Mad, to illustrate my point."

Charlie sat silently and contemplated Gene's thoughts. Then Charlie asked, "What do you mean 'hold his fear'?"

"Yes, that is a worthy question. One can either deny and, be controlled by his fear. Or, one can recognize and accept his fear and thus control it. You either deal with it or it deals with you. There are no other possible solutions. The bully denies his fear, because he is emotionally weak, hypersensitive to other's opinions of him, and too frail and ignorant to accept the limitations of his humanity. He then overcompensates to conceal his inadequacies with lying, false bravado, self-righteousness, obscene wealth, his big cock...whatever. He comes to personify the disingenuous, delusional, corrupted, and sadistic. And, everything and everyone he touches is eventually corrupted and destroyed by his hate, resentment, hopelessness, insincerity, cruelty, selfishness, and adolescent inadequacy. Ultimately, by denying his fear, he destroys his humanity."

"I don't think I follow you."

"Who loves and seeks out the bully? Who dreams of spending a day with an overbearing, authoritative, domineering, condescending, insulting, abusive..."

"I follow," Charlie chuckled.

"Then, consider this--when we are speaking of a god and his works, 'faith' is belief _and_ acceptance of a thing, in the absence of tangible evidence. Is it not? If a god says that 'He' has a plan for the man, which will unfold in 'His' time and in 'His' way, and if the man does not question 'Him' or seek to change the plan, no matter how uncomfortable he may feel about what he sees and experiences, if he trusts and accepts that all is unfolding as his god desires, then we say that he is demonstrating faith, and perhaps, courage. But, if instead, the man grows uncomfortable and fearful, and attempts to plead with his god to alter 'His' plan, as many do with prayers and legislation and wars, then he is not demonstrating faith, but rather, he is responding to his fear. He betrays his distrust and discomfort with his god. He is, therefore, unfaithful...or, fearful"

Charlie pursed his lips and closed one eye in a display of contemplation. After a while of chewing on Gene's words, he said, "Let's see if I got this. If I swallow the notion that God has some kind of a plan, and I trust and don't question whatever unfolds...no matter how much I dislike it...then I am demonstratin' faith in that plan. But, if I say that I believe and then try to change or interfere with His plan, because I'm uncomfortable with it, then I am denying God's will and denying my faith. I am a slave to my fear?"

"Yes, basically faith is the absence of fear, or at the very least, the willingness to accept, tolerate, and hold one's fear in abeyance for the greater purpose of exercising faith."

"You mean I can't question God and, if I do, I don't have faith?"

"One can question all he likes, but in the end, if he truly has faith, then he must accept what God has seen fit to reveal. Acceptance and tolerance are expressions of true faith. In them one finds the fortitude to hold one's fear, rather than react irrationally to it."

"What about trust?"

Eugene smiled and looked upon Charlie with admiration. "Yes, trust, is required, as well. I apologize for the omission."

"You mentioned prayer. Is all prayer a lack of faith?"

"A man who prays for more understanding and acceptance of God's will...for strength to hold fast in the face of that which may be disturbing and confusing...to be less fearful, demonstrates his faith. However, one who prays for change, so that he can be made to feel more comfortable, is a man of fear. The Dominionists boast that they are good, God-fearing believers, possessing unquestioning faith in His judgment, yet they do not accept the life He has dealt them. Perhaps the greatest absurdity is the so- called pro-lifers, killing anyone who disagrees with them. God has put before them the greatest problem imaginable...to them...and the greatest test of their faith in 'His' judgment: abortion. And they fail the test. Abraham would have sacrificed his own son to demonstrate his love and acceptance of his god, a son, by the way, who would have gone to heaven anyway, even if he had been sacrificed...odd this religion of yours, sacrifices aren't really sacrifices...but I digress."

"Yeah, I know. If Abraham would have sacrificed Isaac, both would have ended up in heaven anyway and been reunited, so where's the sacrifice?"

"Exactly, but, to the point, the pro-lifers, of course, do not permit themselves to see abortion as a test of their faith in God's absolute wisdom and mysterious ways. Instead, they see it as somehow existing outside of God's dominion, in no way a part of His plan. They want to kill those whom they see as baby-killers, but they cannot be both killers and faithful unless they can somehow rationalize God's role in the mess. Abortion galls them, obviously, so they pray for Him to end abortion, and when it does not end, they do not reason that God must mean for it to be, and that they must therefore have faith in His wisdom. No, instead, they reason that something more powerful than God is controlling the debate, and that thing must be evil, and that they, being 'righteous', must destroy it... that they are being charged by their less powerful God to kill what 'He' cannot."

"So, what's more powerful than a god, then?"

"Apparently, at least in this one matter, the issue of abortion, they convinced themselves that the judicial system of the United States, or Satan, had more power than their god. If 'He' was not answering their prayers, then it was because the Devil's courts were getting in His way."

"That makes no sense. They believe that their god can do anything He wants. They demonstrate this belief time and again by praying that He do or not do this or that thing, depending on what is galling them at the moment. How can there be anything more powerful than a god and his will?"

"Their reasoning is not consistent or rational, and it is fruitless to attempt understanding them by applying logic. Apparently, it never occurred to the Dominionists that maybe God wanted abortion to exist. This, of course, would be absurd in their view, because what they condemn, their God must most certainly condemn. Recall, by the way, that we are speaking of a God who killed all the firstborn of Egypt, so Moses and his followers could go free. Apparently, He didn't have any problem killing all those babies. By this example alone, they demonstrate their hypocrisy...the rejection of their 'unerring God', who sets before them the terrible choice of proving their faith by accepting abortion as His will or denying their faith by rejecting His will in favor of their own. Their fear, lack of understanding, and denial of faith has ultimately resulted, as we can see, in much greater, meaner, horrifying death... and most certainly, countless abortions by nuclear bomb, than the very thing that they were so 'nobly' trying to rid the world of in the first place."

"If I understand you, they got it backwards. They think that their God should want what they want, not that they should want what He wants?"

"I think you understand my reasoning. It's come back to arrogance, hasn't it? The Evangelicals believe that they and their God are the same, or more accurately, that they know better than their God. What they don't like, He shouldn't like. This is not faith. It is fear. And, fear in the hands of people who create an 'all-powerful God' is very, very dangerous. It is the white man's specialty... creating gods to legitimize his prejudices."

"Sounds like we've gotten back to the start of our conversation."

"Yes."

"That is the most I have ever heard you say at one time."

"Yes, I believe that to be correct."

"You are a smart man."

"I am a thoughtful man."

"I am proud to call you friend."

"As I am you."

"So, do you think we can win this thing?"

"This thing...do you mean the upcoming battle?"

"No. I mean the whole enchilada...the war."

"I do not know. I think everything has gone far beyond winning and losing."

"There is no hope?"

"I think that that is correct. The evil ones, who wish to conquer their fear by dominating others, like all the evil ones who preceded them, will, in the end, destroy us all, including themselves. They will make the mistake of the fearful and, ultimately, fail."

"No one wins?"

"They never have and, certainly, not this time."
CHAPTER 11:

The trucks and dozers dutifully lumbered along, following at twenty-yard intervals. The truck drivers were doing their best to miss the many rocks and potholes that littered the road surface, but sometimes there were so many obstacles it became a choice of driving over a rock the size of a sleeping cow or sinking half a wheel in an axle-breaking pothole.

"Fuck me!" a particularly tall and skinny fellow named Ned cried out, as he and his fellow riders were lifted three feet off the deuce-and-a-half's hard wooden bench seats and then dropped, crushingly hard, back to rest, as it climbed over and then fell off a rock that must have been the size of a small house...by Ned's estimation. Ned raised himself off of his seat and rubbed his buttocks which were not blessed with a lot of padding.

"That's going to leave a mark you know," he shouted toward the front of the truck, in the general direction of the driver.

Angela, sitting across from Ned, smiled at his joke.

Ned caught the smile as the following truck climbed the unavoidable rock and its headlights scanned the faces of the soldiers in Ned's truck. Angela's once girlish face, now lined and older than her years, was illuminated for a few seconds, and Ned could see the blackened scar "BK" (baby killer) burned into the pale skin of her forehead. Ned's heart leapt. She was a very pretty, petite brunette with large eyes, brown he guessed...he hoped.

"What are you grinning at?" He shouted across the truck in the direction of the girlish face. He was frightened by his sudden attraction. Numerous failed encounters with women had taught that his attraction to them was never reciprocated. At an uncoordinated 6-feet-4 inches, sporting a rather large nose, and a prominent Adam's apple, women did not find him to be attractive, or even cute. He had been hurt many times by rude comments and derisive jokes. As a means of self-protection, Ned had developed a defensive façade of disinterest and even rudeness, especially if he felt a particularly strong attraction to a woman.

"You could use a little more padding," the soft sweet voice came out of the night.

Ned's poor heart jumped again. He immediately took offence. "Yeah, I guess armadillo jerky and liberated Relic dehydrated vegetables, all neat in their little pouches, just isn't the diet for me," he replied, sarcastically, into the darkness, while wishing he could get another look at her face.

"No, I mean, why don't you roll up your blanket and sit on that? It helps. It's what several of us have done."

"Oh...I thought..." Ned stammered, "yeah, that's a good idea." Ned regretted his sarcastic remark. He strained to see her face. He hated this woman for being so attractive. Ned removed the stealth blanket from his shoulders, where it was offering him some warmth, and placed it under his ass, just as the truck bounced out of a pothole. Not the best, but much better than a thinly- padded pelvis on an unpadded seat of wood.

"I think you missed one!" he shouted to the driver, who could easily hear Ned over the rumble of the truck.

The driver thrust the middle finger of her left hand out the truck's window and high into the air. Ned, straining for another glimpse of the girl, did not notice the finger.

Angela's smile was illuminated by a lightning flash.

"You laughing at me again?" Ned asked, not so angrily this time.

"I'm not laughing at you. I think you're funny."

"Funny ha, ha or you mean funny looking?"

"See, you say things that make me smile."

"You think I'm stupid."

"Sweetheart give it up. He just doesn't get it," said George, sitting next to Angela.

"How's your butt? Did the blanket help?" Angela asked Ned, ignoring George.

"Ah, yes...it helped...thanks."

Angela smiled in the dark.

The truck continued to bounce over rocks and sink into potholes, repeatedly tossing its passengers up into the air and then smacking them in the ass when they landed hard on its benches. Each newly padded landing reminded Ned of the beauty who sat silently across from him in the dark. He struggled, not only to keep his seat, but to ignore his desire. He welcomed the silence, yet he longed to hear her voice again...to hear her say something to him...something nice.

"I've never seen "B-B-BK" before," He stammered...and lied, "What does it mean?" Ned was referring to Angela's branded forehead. He blurted this out without thinking just how personal and stupid such a question would be.

Angela, shocked by the suddenness of the question, sat silently in the dark, frightened by the answer. She bit her lip as tears began to well in her brown eyes. "Ah...it...ah," she struggled.

"You are such an ass," George spat at Ned.

Angela squeezed George's arm. "It's O.K., he doesn't know. He doesn't mean any harm."

"You don't have to answer that if you don't want to, sweetheart," George reassured.

"It means...baby killer. I...ah...had an abortion."

Ned's face flushed with unseen embarrassment. "Oh," he replied. He was now completely certain that whatever snowball's chance in Hell he ever had of wooing this woman was forever gone. He fixed his gaze forward so he wouldn't have to risk the embarrassment of having to look at her.

"I was raped by my father when I was 14," Angela suddenly said, the sweetness now lost from her voice. "Ah...short story...ah, he went to jail and my mother arranged for me to have an abortion." The once sweet girl now sounded cold and detached. Ned's discomfort grew.

"I'm...I'm sorry...I shouldn't have asked..." Several bolts of lightning flashed overhead sending ghostly shadows dancing around the passengers.

"I didn't know what to do," Angela continued. She was now entering her secret world of horrors and did not hear Ned's apology. She had seldom told her story, but each time she seemed to float away during the telling. "I didn't really like the idea of it...an abortion, but I couldn't have my father's baby. I was only 14. He came to my room...many times...when it was very late, and he'd make me do things to him. One night he decided touching wasn't enough, so he started...fucking me."

Ned was jolted by the dissonance of the word "fucking" being uttered by such a pretty and vulnerable young woman. He was rattled.

"Of course, I got pregnant. It was very confusing and difficult for me...and my mother...well, she nearly lost her mind. That was ten years ago, I think. The whole thing was a mess...is a mess. Anyway, when the Snakes took over, they closed all the clinics and opened the sealed files...and all the other records. They found my mother's name. Next thing you know we were arrested. At first, they thought it was my mother who had had the abortion. She never told them different. I guess they mutilated her pretty bad before they stoned her to death." Tears rolled freely from Angela's unblinking eyes. "Somehow...eventually, they figured out it was me, though...or maybe they didn't. I don't know. But, somehow, I ended up confessing anyway. You know, you can't help but confess once they get hold of you. You'll confess to just about anything." She paused for an uncomfortably long silence. "They burned "BK" into my forehead, and I was on my way to the fires when Eve saved me. That was a year ago...I think...I don't really know how much time has passed." Angela's voice trailed off until it was barely audible and then she went silent, just staring into space with tears running down her cheeks.

"I know, sweetheart," George said, offering Angela his arm, which he placed around her for comfort. "You're OK dear and we all love you. Don't we?" This last bit was aimed directly at Ned.

"Yes...we do. I mean I do. I mean I don't really know you, but I love...I mean, I don't hate you for what you had to do...what was done to you..."

George leaned forward and loudly snapped, "You're a fucking idiot!"

George was present when Angela was freed from the Maricopa County Prison death camp. She was bound and lying fetal on one of the carts used to transport the condemned to the stakes. She was bloody and barely conscious. Her head had been shaved, brutally, and her back and naked chest bore ugly wounds and burns. George's heart broke at the sight of her. He adopted her on the spot and made it his mission to bring her back to life. He obviously succeeded, but there was one thing George could not do; he couldn't heal her deep emotional hurts. She was just so sensitive and caring that it was heartbreaking for George to see her put through this horror day after day. And, to witness Ned's bumbling adding to her anguish, just infuriated George.

"No, he's not. I think he's sweet," Angela defended, returning to the present. Her voice was weak, but sweet and soft again.

Ned's heart leapt. She wasn't serious? She couldn't possibly like him. Every instinct warned Ned not to be hopeful.

"Trade places with...what is your name?" Angela asked sweetly.

"Ah...N-N-Ned."

"George, trade places with Ned. We want to talk without having to shout."

"Oh, honey, are you certain?" George asked sympathetically.

"Yes, now go on."

Eve and her weary, bruised, and hungry army straggled into the low, rolling hills just west of Patboy's Freedom Center, just as the night sky began to lighten in the East. Quickly, and without need of orders, they began to dig in and conceal themselves on the western slopes of the shallow rises. The first gunships of the day passed low overhead, just as the Patriots finished their work. Very early the next morning, Eve guessed it was around four a.m., trucks and construction equipment rumbled westward toward the dammed river site. Her army rested and waited for the night.

"What the hell is this?" Bill said turning from his binoculars.

"What?" a weary Eve asked. The day was ending, and night would soon be upon them.

"It's two Relics in a jeep coming this way." Bill said handing the binoculars to Eve.

Eve rubbed the sleep from her eyes, took hold of the binoculars and studied the jeep.

"What do you think we should do?" Bill asked.

"Nothing...we can't do anything until we know what they're up to. Burt, get down to the road and make certain everyone is hidden. Pass the word that no one is to interfere with that jeep." Eve ordered.

Burt glared at Tommy who took off like a shot down the slope.

Bill and Eve sat quietly behind the boulder on top of the ridge outside Patboy's compound and watched the jeep draw closer. The driver was approaching steadily, but slowly, because of the potholes and rocks strewn across the road's surface. His companion was standing on the passenger side, holding onto the windshield for balance and pointing out obstacles in the roadway. The bouncing and weaving jeep passed about fifty feet below Eve's position and continued west.

"Rhonda, get a scout to tail that jeep and find out what they're up to." Eve ordered.

"Yes ma'am." Rhonda said and hustled down the slope to where her scouts were hidden.

Charlie and the advancing column of ambushers had been on the road about an hour and a half. They had been making good progress towards Eve's position, when they practically collided with a weaving and bouncing jeep headed in the direction of the river pass. The jeep swerved right and stopped in a shallow gully, just off the road, giving the armored personnel carrier the right of way.

Jimmy brought the APC to a stop. The APC rocked on its tracks. Charlie looked questioningly at Jimmy. "What's the matter?"

"We just about smashed a jeep. He's off in a gully to our left," Jimmy responded.

"A jeep?" Charlie questioned, "The gunship mechanics, no doubt," he said, to no one in particular. Charlie raised himself onto his seat and opened the hatch above his head. He patiently waited for the jeep driver and passenger to climb out of the jeep and hail the column. Of course, in the darkness they could not see Charlie's cunning grin.

"Praise Jesus!" the jeep driver said to the darkness. "Tribulation Warrior, it is an honor, sir," he addressed the barely discernable dark shadowy figure looking down on him from the armored personnel carriers' hatch.

"You must be the gunship mechanics." Charlie said blinding the two with his spotlight.

"Yes sir, we are," the driver said screening his eyes with one hand.

It had been dark about three-and-a-half hours before Eve heard the column of vehicles approaching from the west. She, Bill, and Juanita moved down the slope to the road where they waited to intercept the column. As the lead vehicle came alongside, Eve stepped up to the crawling vehicle and banged on its hull with a rock. The armored personnel carrier stopped and the column with it. The top hatch opened with a bang and a silhouette popped up.

"That you ma'am?" Charlie asked.

"That you Charlie?" Eve chuckled then coughed. "Get your ass down from there and give us your report."

Charlie lifted himself from the hatch and slid down the front of the carrier. He carefully picked his way to the small group huddled on the side of the road.

"Well, we got them all without them gettin' a word back to the Center. All the Relics are buried in a mass grave thanks to the dozers they provided us. And, the two helicopter mechanics are dead and buried. All the vehicles..."

"Helicopter mechanics?" Eve interrupted.

"Yes ma'am. That's the best part. The Relics made us a gift of two intact gunships."

"What!?" Eve asked in disbelief.

"I shit you not, ma'am. After a few hours of flyin' around and seeing nothin', they were given permission to land and save fuel. So, they landed, and by nightfall they were too dead to take off again. I would suggest we send our two pilots back to get those gunships. They could come in handy." Charlie snorted. He was justifiably proud that he was able to give Eve such a gift.

"This means we don't have to count on Patboy's gunships being armed, fueled, and ready to fly..." Bill thought aloud.

"...and we don't have to risk our pilots trying to take off in the midst of a firefight," Juanita added.

"This is better than I could have ever hoped. We've got two fueled, armed, ready-to-fly gunships... Burt, get Sparky and High Roller up here on the double!" Eve ordered.

Burt turned and scowled at Tommy, who completely understanding the scowl, turned and ran into the dark. Burt then turned to Eve and fixed her with a deathly glare.

"What...questioning my decision? I know...I know, he's a Christian, but what choices are there? We could really use those gunships!" she argued, aware of Burt's objection to giving High Roller access to a Cobra. Eve knew that Burt was outraged that Captain Edward J. Smoot, call sign: "High Roller" had been allowed to live at all.

Captain Edward J. Smoot was once a Dominionist gunship pilot. He had flown over two-hundred sorties during the Damascus Purge. He held the Distinguished Flying Cross, two Purple Hearts, and the Order of Apostolic Eagles. He had been a loyal Republican and outspoken Dominionist supporter. That was, until their policies killed his mother and drove his father to suicide. His father was once a highly- paid shift supervisor in a union shop working for an automotive assembly plant. When the Republicans outlawed the unions, his father's wages were cut drastically, and he lost all of his benefits-- the loss of his health insurance and retirement savings hurt the most. High Roller's father tried working various odd jobs to supplement his loss of income, but he could never make enough money to care for High Roller's mother, who died painfully and slowly of an operable breast tumor. His father, a loyal Republican to the last, died destitute and alone from a shotgun blast to the head. By the time High Roller learned of his parent's plight, it was too late. Enraged at the government who, in spite of his dedicated military service, had abandoned his family, High Roller deserted and formed a small band of guerillas. He was engaged in small-scale payback when he encountered Eve's army outside Tucson.

Outmanned and outgunned, he was forced to surrender to Eve's army. Under interrogation, he admitted to her that he was a Christian and that he would not abandon his beliefs to spare his life. He did agree, however, to keep his beliefs to himself and to not proselytize under pain of death. Noting Burt's fierce objections, Eve exercised her prerogative and permitted High Roller to join her band of fighters. She reasoned that he possessed skills which could prove useful someday. Now was the time for him to prove her decision right...or wrong.

Burt had made it very clear that he would never trust a Christian, no matter how sincere their promises, renunciations, or necessary their services may be. "They were notorious backstabbers," he signed, "who would violate any principle in the service to their delusion!" Burt further informed Eve that he would eliminate "Holy Roller", as Burt preferred to refer to High Roller, at the very first indication of any disloyalty. Eve could do nothing but agree.

"Yes, I agree, unreservedly," Eve replied. "But we need those gunships. There must be some way to...there's only High Roller and Sparky...there are no other qualified pilots!" Eve threw up her arms and began pacing. Finally, she turned to face Burt. "What do you suggest I do...besides killing him, that is?"

Burt indicated that he would have preferred it if Eve had killed Holy Roller in the first place.

Eve looked nonplussed. "Not an option!" she insisted. "Well, not now at any rate."

Burt thought a moment. "If you must do this," he signed, "then put an assassin in the Weapons Officer seat. If Smoot tries anything...even if he looks like he's about to fire on us or defect, then the assassin takes him out."

"That would be suicide for the assassin...The Cobra would crash!" Eve protested.

"I'll do it," Burt indicated.

Eve smirked. "No, you are a little bit too eager...and, besides, I still think you come in pretty handy being alive."

"So, you agree to the possibility of defection and to the need for an assassin?" Burt clarified.

"Yes...but who?"

"Volunteers?"

"Find a volunteer...ah, subject to my approval, of course," Eve cautioned.

Burt rolled his eyes and indicated that he'd be right back. He returned with 1st Lieutenant Carrol P. Biggs, qualified helicopter pilot.

1st Lieutenant Carrol P. Biggs, aka "Sparky", had been an Army helicopter flight instructor, eventually assigned to pilot a med-evac helicopter during the third assault on Baghdad during the commencement of the Iranian Holocaust. At first, she thought she was making the world a safer place for all, but as the battle raged on, and the death toll mounted, it became clear to her that this was not a battle for freedom, it was genocide! The Dominionists were using war as a means of eliminating an entire culture...an entire people, young and old, soldier and civilian, mother and child. The purported love of Jesus, divine understanding, and goodwill toward all men found no expression in Baghdad, or the entire Middle East, for that matter. She was quick to realize that the Snakes talked about divine love, but in practice, their actions spoke hate, intolerance, bigotry, and greed. The Dominionists were using the words of their so-called Good Book to excuse the amassing, consolidation, and maintenance of wealth and power; they were anesthetizing the masses with words of Godliness, and joyously slaughtering any and all that resisted their will. They wanted only oil, power, and a free hand to do as they saw fit. They killed...murdered...anyone who got in their way, like a well-oiled organized crime family whose godfather happened to be God, Himself! The amount of senseless, uncontrolled, wanton killing made Carrol physically ill. Intense feelings of guilt and shame left her little choice.

Carrol resigned her commission and returned home disgusted, disillusioned, angry, and scornful of religion, the religious, and all that they stood for. She had seen enough of religious-inspired war to question the legitimacy of any deity, or practitioner of any religion, that could derive any sort of satisfaction or pleasure from such large-scale and wanton carnage. Sparky was home only a short while before she was faced with the decision to either become active in the Dominionist Church or submit to arrest for Backsliding. With an almost certain arrest and Blessed Cleansing awaiting her, she fled to the desert. Eventually, she joined with Eve. Sparky considered the killing of Dominionists nothing more than radical surgery on the world's most virulent strain of cancer. Her surgical instrument of choice would have been the gunship but all she had had available to her, until now, was a tactical twelve-gauge shotgun and a few hundred rounds.

After a brief discussion, during which Eve learned that Sparky was in complete agreement with Burt, it was resolved that Sparky would fly wing to High Roller. Wing would limit Carrol's independent participation but put her in a position to shoot the Major out of the sky, if he gave even the tiniest hint of traitorous behavior. As a precaution and indication of the elevated level of her concern, Eve also assigned Robbie and two other sharpshooters to track High Roller and to take him out, with prejudice, if he turned traitorous.

"The helicopter mechanics...they weren't two guys in a jeep, were they?" Bill asked Charlie.

"Yes sir, they were. When the battle was over, we radioed Salvation and told them one of their gunships had lost fuel pressure, so they were kind enough to supply us with two mechanics, parts, and a jeep. The jeep's still in good shape...just there next to the APC. The mechanics didn't make it," Charlie said, adding a broad grin to his round face.

"We can't stand around here talking. Patboy will be expecting this column right about now. Where's Eugene Crowman?" Eve asked.

"Hey, Gene, Eve wants your ass on the ground" Charlie shouted at the silent figure standing in the APC gunner's turret.

Crowman pulled himself over the lip of the turret and slid down the front of the APC. He stood silently, and respectfully observed the conversation.

Eve considered the Lakota that stood before her. He was over six feet tall, with a finely chiseled and strong face. She guessed that he was all muscle, and if his serious expression was any indication, he was not a fearful man. He was dressed as the others, but for one small exception. He wore, tied to his uncut hair, just over his right shoulder, one white eagle feather, the feather that had been given to him as a young man, which symbolized his confirmation as a Lakota warrior. His was proud but not vain. Gene was usually quiet, but this was not because he was stupid; he had, after all, graduated from Yale Law. He was silent, because he was not so insecure as to show off to others, or arrogant enough to believe that only his thoughts had merit. Being a creature of nature, Crowman had been taught as a youth that survival depended on one being sensitive to the noises and smells of one's environment. He was also taught that listening to others, not only demonstrated respect for them and their opinions, but that it also demonstrated an open mind, a mind not filled with the noise of one's own thoughts. Listening for Gene was a serious and artful exercise. He had learned to empty his mind as another spoke, so that he could really hear the meaning of their words. He did not, as so many were found of doing, anxiously await his turn to speak and formulate retorts in his head while others were still making their point. Such people, he had discovered, were only interested in winning, and were not interested in understanding. For them, anyone who disagreed became an adversary and not a fellow human. They were interested only in being understood, and they were not to be trusted.

"Are you well, Gene?" Eve asked.

"I am well, thank-you."

"Did we have any injuries?" Juanita asked.

"No ma'am. The Relics were caught completely unaware. There was no organized defense. The fight lasted a minute, if that. It took longer to bury them, than to kill them."

"Excellent...OK," Eve said, "everyone, listen up. Here's what we're going to do..."

Eve's battle plan was set, and everyone knew their assignments. Gene would take his APC, a bulldozer, and as many soldiers as four trucks would carry, down the perimeter wall to the left. He would set up a blocking action designed to prevent the Dominionists access to the Patriots rear. He would be supported by Bill's Second Division...when it arrived. Charlie would take his APC, bulldozer, and two trucks loaded with soldiers to the right. His mission would be to take and hold the air strip and the motor pool. He would be supported by Juanita's First Division. Chiu Lee would take an element of Bravo Company in two trucks down the middle. His mission would be to take out Patboy's communication center and then fill in the line between Gene on his left and Charlie on his right. The three would have to hold until Eve, Bill and Juanita arrived with the supporting elements of the army. There were no reserve elements. Eve's combined force would fight to the death to take Patboy's Freedom Center. Sparky and High Roller would take the jeep, retrieve the two gunships and support the assault.

As commanded, Gene, occupying the lead APC, motored past the lead bulldozer, which had pulled to the left side of the main gate. He stopped his APC just short of the gate with Charlie in the second APC on his right. The second dozer sat idling on Charlie's right. Eugene stood on the seat of his APC and stood tall in the hatch. His jungle hat was pulled low over his eyes. He kept looking slightly down and ahead. All must have appeared OK, because the Relic guards opened the gate straight away and a rush of one hundred or so celebrants, many reading Bible passages and yelling "Praise Jesus" and "Halleluiah", ran to great the conquering heroes. Several of the greeters scrabbled up the front of Eugene's APC and sat on top of the APC next to him.

"Praise the Lord. Bless you brother. All is well. Good job broth...," exuberated the celebrant closest to Gene. Then, he realized that Gene was not whom he thought. "Uh...who are you?" the Snake asked.

Gene offered up a rare grin and wasted no time putting a 9mm round through the man's head. He then shot the remaining Relics and ordered his APC left. He followed the lead dozer as it took out the rear support of the left gate tower. A few of the Relic celebrants still on the ground, who were not quick enough to gather what was happening, fell victim to the APC and Dozer's tracks. While all this was going on, Charlie wheeled his APC right and followed the second dozer as it took out the right tower and its share of confused celebrants. Both towers twisted, buckled, and fell into the compound, crushing many horrified Dominionists, burying them in a wall of concrete, dust and splintered boards. Then there was a cacophony of shouting and yelling, explosions, alarm claxons, and gunfire. Small arms fire erupted around the compound as the APC's broke through the confusion with their .50 cals chewing up anyone and anything in sight.

Crowman's assault continued down the west perimeter wall north of the gate, with the dozer driver taking out four bunkers before a Dominionist round found its mark. A 5.6 round ripped through the driver's right arm and into his chest. He slumped forward on the controls, but the dozer kept clanking along, taking its dead passenger, sandbags, barbed wire, and dying Dominionists with it. Eventually, it climbed the perimeter wall and disappeared into the desert night. It was found the next morning, blade down, in a gulley, the tracks still turning, its driver dead at the controls, and several Relics, mostly in bits, under its tracks.

The four trucks with one-hundred-thirty soldiers that followed Eugene and his APC positioned themselves to block the perimeter road about one-hundred yards north of the main gate. They had to hold the road and prevent any Dominionists from flanking the Patriot fighters, who were advancing on the communications center, motor pool, and helipad.

Charlie's team of two trucks, led by the dozer and his APC, took out five bunkers on the west perimeter wall, south of the gate, before the dozer driver was erased by a badly aimed anti-tank round. The driverless and crippled dozer wedged itself between a reinforced concrete wall and a mound of dirt. The dozer was trapped, but with its engine still running, it was slowly climbing free. Charlie, seizing on the opportunity, abandoned his APC, climbed the mound of dirt, and jumped onto the dozer. He grabbed the blood-slathered controls and took out another five bunkers before he passed out from loss of blood due to a leg wound. He was carried to the rear and replaced by a soldier who managed to take out two more bunkers before the dozer was stopped in its tracks by a well-aimed rocket. The APC and two trucks with seventy soldiers formed a hasty perimeter around the motor pool and helipad. There they waited for Juanita and her reinforcements. Both dozers had eliminated enough of the bunkers to allow the reinforcements an unchallenged run across the desert approach to the Center's main gate.

The two trucks and seventy soldiers led by Chiu Lee made a beeline to the communications center. Chiu's team, receiving light and intermittent gunfire, set charges and toppled the radio tower within minutes of arrival, but not before the radio operator got off a single message that the Freedom Center was under attack.

One of Chiu's trucks proceeded to the two-story powder-blue prison gate, where C4 explosives were used to blast the doors open. The twenty fighters made short work of the guards on the ground, who, armed only with cattle prods, truncheons, and tasers, offered a righteous, but ultimately feeble resistance. Under a largely ineffective fire from the guards who manned the top of the prison wall far overhead, the Patriots freed the prisoners from their dormitories. In short order, those prisoners with the strength to fight, gathered weapons from the dead and eagerly joined the melee. Some of them led an assault on the prison parapet and swept the rampart free of the Relic riflemen. The main observation platform and the guard were left riddled with far more bullets than would have been necessary to simply kill.

Within fifteen minutes, the Patriots had pushed beyond the airstrip, motor pool, the communications compound, the prison, and were advancing on the armory and the adjacent command center. The Patriot's first wave was holding back a spotty resistance which was growing more organized and intense as the minutes passed. They could see scattered groups of thirty, forty, and fifty Tribulation Warriors, illuminated by the yellow-hued compound lights, running in several directions and beginning to mass. They were organizing, yet clearly uncertain about the situation unfolding around them. The Relics had never considered defending against a large-scale surprise attack within their walls. Their well-fortified and armed perimeter bunkers were designed for a perimeter assault from the outside and were useless against an enemy fighting from within. There was yet no coordinated effort to resist by the Dominionists, but they would eventually organize, and their overwhelming numbers would easily destroy the advance elements of Eve's army. A ten-minute wait for Eve to gain the field was an eternity.

From her concealed position on the ridge west of Patboy's compound, Eve watched Charlie and Eugene Crowman execute the plan exactly as outlined. Eve witnessed Gene standing in his hatch and the gate opening. She saw about one-hundred Relics rushing about with their arms raised. Eve could hear faint cheering. Then she saw figures climbing Eugene's APC, sitting, and then falling out of sight, one by one, down its front. Immediately, the left dozer lurched forward and toppled the left gate tower and then disappeared into a cloud of dust and smoke with Gene's APC following closely. The right tower fell seconds later.

Eve jumped to her feet and yelled, "Let's go!"

Juanita and Bill rushed from their positions and brought their divisions with them. Down and out of the low hills and onto the flat leading to the main gate, the army of Patriots ran as never before. Everyone except Eve, whose damaged lungs only allowed her a quick walking pace. But she only managed a few yards before Burt seized her and carried her, kicking and bitching, all the way to the battle.

The perimeter road blocking action, commanded by Gene, was encountering an increasingly tough resistance. The Patriots were slow in placing fighters on the desert side of the western perimeter wall north of the gate, and some of the Dominionists were quick to exploit the error. Twenty or so TW's crawled undetected along the wall, and from its crest, unleashed a devastating fire along the Humanists' flank. Ten Patriot fighters ran for the top of the perimeter wall. Five fell dead, but the remainder made the safety of one of the destroyed bunkers and temporarily stopped the Relics' out-flanking maneuver. The TW's charged the five defenders and hand-to-hand fighting erupted. Shouts of "Halleluiah" and "Praise Jesus" mingled with "fuck you" and "go to Hell" were heard as the combatants struggled for control of the wall. The five Patriots were quickly reinforced by their fellows, and the western wall approaches were temporarily secured. Gene's position was holding against a steadily increasing number of Relic fighters, but it was quickly becoming all too apparent that he would need Bill's division, if there was going to be any hope of holding the perimeter road much longer.

"Fuck!" Bill shouted over the confusion, to no one in particular, as he and his nine-hundred fifty-three fighters arrived in support of Gene and the perimeter road defenders. "Where are those fucking gunships?" he shouted to Crowman, who was way too busy to deal with questions for which he obviously had no answer.

The fight to clear the perimeter road of Dominionists was now at its fiercest. Hundreds of TW's were gathering for an assault, which they were certain would bring an end to the Patriot's attack. Bill quickly and accurately surmised that the Patriot's situation was desperate. He hastily ordered two trucks, the only two still operable, rigged to run without drivers. The trucks were then loaded with any handy explosive, set ablaze and sent crashing into the hundreds of TW's gathering just beyond the Patriot's lines. The terrified Relics split like the Red Sea, as the burning trucks plowed into their positions. Bill and his fighters followed the blazing hulks into the breach, firing into and dispersing the Relic ranks. The blazing trucks continued rumbling out of control until they crashed, exploding, into the first line of barracks, just a few hundred yards from the perimeter road. The barracks quickly burst into flame, lighting the battlefield with an orange flickering light. The fire spread quickly from building to building until ten of the structures were fully engulfed. Relic women and children could be seen running from the buildings; some of them were on fire and flailing madly...until, overcome, they dropped dead in the dirt.

Bill's division advanced as far as the barracks where they set up a hasty defense using the flaming structures to anchor the left side of their line. He then sent runners to scavenge the Dominionist and Patriot dead for weapons and ammunition. From his new defensive position, Bill could see hundreds more of the Relics, lit by the blazing barracks, gathering for another assault. Bullets whizzed and smacked, guns cracked, peopled screamed, bombs exploded and gagging clouds of dust choked the air. It was not too difficult for him to deduce that there were thousands more Relics than Patriots on the field. "It's like trying to kill fucking cockroaches!" he shouted.

More than cleverness and mean spirit would be needed to win this fight. Bill did not doubt that his fighters would defend their positions to the last, which would come all too quickly if he didn't get some support, and soon. "Where are those fucking gunships?" he shouted into the din of gunfire and explosions. The sky remained pitch black in the East, and it would be hours before it would be light enough for him to see any distance. He looked into the night sky, anyway, straining to see if any gunships were approaching. He saw nothing.

Juanita's First Division of nine-hundred-fifty fighters arrived at the motor pool and helipad and found the Patriot's advanced forces dug-in and temporarily in charge of the field of battle. The Snakes were fighting fiercely for control of their aircraft and armored vehicles, with little effect. In the six minutes that had elapsed prior to Juanita's arrival, the Relics had broken several times on the Patriots' defensive line, which had been reinforced by the six armed-and-ready APC's found sitting, unattended, in the motor pool. Four of the APC's had dual .50 cals which were taking an astonishing toll on the Dominionists, but the real devastation was coming from the remaining two APC's which had Gatling guns mounted to their forward turrets.

The Relics, in desperation, and whipped to a frenzy by the word of Jesus, shouted to them over the din by their Pastor Officers, had resorted to Banzai-style attacks. Shouts of "Praise Jesus" and "His will be done" were heard, and then a-hundred-or-so Relics would pop up and run toward the Patriot positions. Most of the crazed religious fighters fired wildly as they ran towards the Patriots, but some, mostly women and some children, held Bibles to their chests believing that they were made bulletproof by doing so. The APC's had evened the score quickly, but Juanita realized that her force was facing nearly three-thousand unorganized fighters...or more. "If they ever organize..." she thought.

The Dominionists controlled the very important armory. The miniguns ate ammunition at an alarming rate. All too quickly, the Patriots would run out of ammunition and the advantage. The Dominionists would win the field if something drastic did not happen. Juanita decided that the time had come for a full assault to disperse the Dominionists and to keep them off balance.

She ordered three of her seven APC's down the line to her left to add support to Eve and Bill. She then anchored her right with two APC's and used the two remaining APC's, one with a Gatling gun, to roll up the Dominionist line on the right. She would attempt to force the Relics toward the center of the compound, disrupt their command, and restrict their movement by taking their real estate. And, in the process, she hoped to gain the armory.

Meanwhile, Bill's soldiers were struggling. The Dominionists had finally organized and were concentrating their attacks on Bill's right flank, while his center was being pinned in position by unyielding Relic heavy weapons fire. Bill could not move troops to his right without weakening his center and placing his entire position in severe danger. Clearly, the Snakes meant to prevent the Patriots from consolidating their offensive line. If the Relics could pierce the Patriot's line while it was still forming, then Bill's right flank would collapse, and his division would be rolled up and pushed over the perimeter wall and back into the desert. Then the remainder of Eve's army would be surrounded and eliminated, easily.

Through the smoke and confusion, Bill observed that Eugene's APC, on his far right, had been disabled, probably by a Relic rocket round. Gene's APC was key to anchoring the far right of the line. But now it was beginning to burn. Bill watched helplessly. There was nothing he could do to help the man. Bill could see Eugene silhouetted against the burning barracks. He was standing upright in the APC's forward turret, firing his 50 cal., ignoring the bullets that whizzed by his head and smacked against the APC's hull. Bill stood and waved his arms frantically at the man whom he knew would never abandon his position.

Eugene, of course, could not see his waving commander. It wouldn't have mattered to him if he had. He was ordered to hold the position and hold it he would.

Bill's chest swelled with pride, and a lump formed in his throat, as he witnessed the selfless man, who, risking being burned to death or blown to pieces, would not abandon his position. "Look, men!" he shouted to all who could hear, "Look at Eugene Crowman, and remember what you see. We are going to win this fight!" Bill knew that soldiers join armies out of patriotism or maybe some romantic notion, but when the killing begins, they fight and die for the love and respect of the man or woman fighting next to them, selling their lives selflessly to save others. His soldiers only had each other. They lived or died depending on how well they cared for one another. There was no other reward. They had no Heaven which would save them in the end...to "gladly" die for. His soldiers fought for the here and now, and each other, that was all. And, the person next to them was the only thing that gave their lives meaning. For this they would fight all the harder and, certainly, harder than the Snakes that opposed them.

The Dominionists launched an organized, massed attack against Bill's right flank and sent the Patriots reeling backwards. The fighting moved past and beyond Eugene's APC. Dust and smoke filled the air, and Bill could no longer see the Lakota warrior. Bill rushed what reinforcements he could from his center to support his flank. But it was not enough. The Patriot fighters were hit very hard, and the line broke. Yet, the Patriots did not break and run in a disorganized mass. They retreated in a remarkably organized and well-trained fashion. An element would move to the rear and set up covering fire for the next group, who would retreat a bit farther and set up covering fire for the first group, and so on. Eventually the displaced Patriot's consolidated a position made up of shell craters, burning vehicles, and ruined bunkers. The Relic advance was temporarily halted.

The Snakes had succeeded in creating a bulge in Eve's line which would more than likely break with the next Relic assault. Bill could not spare any more soldiers from his center. Eugene's APC was completely engulfed in flames.

Bill's radio jumped to life.

"This is High Roller. Where do you want us, over?"

Bill snatched the handset from his radio operator's hand. "Where in the hell have you been, over?" he shouted into the mike.

"Where do you want us, over?" High Roller repeated, ignoring Bill's apparent consternation. This was not the time for explanations.

"Fire on the red smoke! Fire on the red smoke!" Bill shouted into his handset. He then turned and shouted to the soldiers closest to him, "Pass it down the line, throw red smoke into the Relics, take cover...Air strike!"

"Roger that, fire on the red smoke," High Roller repeated.

Bill could hear the distant "whup-whup-whup" of the Cobra's rotors somewhere overhead. By the sound he could tell that the gunship was coming about hard. Then there was the "pop, pop, pop" of the smoke canisters delineating the Relics advanced positions.

The red smoke, illuminated by the fires, looked more red orange than red under the compound's yellow overhead lights. High Roller, followed by Sparky, lined up on the smoke. They unlimbered their miniguns and shredded the Dominionists' positions. Resistance fell to naught in seconds. The Dominionists' perimeter road assault collapsed.

"Holy fucking shit that was fucking beautiful!" Bill shouted into his mike. He shook clods of dirt and concrete dust from his fatigue jacket. "If you guys had been a minute later, we would have been history!"

"Our pleasure," High Roller laughed, "and, by the way, 'holy fucking crap' had little to do with it. If you must sing praises, sing then to Mr. R. J. Gatling."

"Eve and Juanita could probably use some of R.J.'s magic. They're fighting on our right, over."

"Roger," High Roller replied, and he and Sparky moved off to provide air support for the remainder of Eve's army.

Bill gave the order to roll up the Dominionists right, do a perimeter sweep, and clear all buildings. He was joined by over a thousand recently released prisoners, eager to please their savior. The Patriots fanned out along the line and began mopping up. By the time they had completed their two-mile arc, taking sniper fire and fighting intense building-to-building skirmishes, it was "daylight". Occasionally, they would hear a "pop-pop-pop" as a Dominionist mother murdered her children and herself.

His perimeter sweep completed, Bill linked up with Juanita and Eve for the final confrontation of Patboy's forces, which were quickly being pushed to the middle of the compound and encircled. After the devastating strafing of the gunships, Juanita's fighters only encountered a light and ineffective fire from some of the buildings, where some Relic women were making a disorganized and unprofessional effort at a defense. The women and older children, who decided against suicide, were quickly overwhelmed and killed without mercy. The youngest of the children, those who had not been killed by their Dominionist "guardians" and who were too young to have any political capital in this fight, were hustled to the rear. They would be raised as Patriots. Still, Eve was burdened by a small number of women and children, taken as prisoners. The assault had come so fast, they did not have time to murder themselves. Shame.

Eve's army converged on the Command Center compound where Patboy, his teenaged concubines, and a few hundred of his personal guard were entrenched in a hasty defensive position. They were encircled. The sky was much lighter now, indicating that the half-lit day was well past dawn. It also indicated the end of an especially disturbing night of carnage and human destruction. The brown and black smoke of a hundred fires rose from the Freedom Center and mixed with the low, yellow and brown overcast. The ever-present sheet lightening flashed, and distant thunder could be heard. It was never quiet. A black, sooty snow was beginning to fall. Bodies laid all about in positions of such impossible contortions, that it was hard to imagine what sort of collisions could have caused such results. Legs and arms were bent in anatomically impossible configurations. Some bodies were headless. Brains and intestines spilled from their casements. Empty unseeing eyes, growing gray, stared at nothingness. And, the ever-present vermin and cockroaches crawled in and out of open mouths and ears and bellies. Blood sat in coagulated rivers and lakes, mingling with and soaking into the sand. Gray snowflakes floated on the red pools and turned crimson, before melting into the carnage. All this death because of a twisted religious belief left Eve numb. She could think of no sane reason to worship and believe in any god, but especially one who expected and demanded such a result from his own creation...for his own aggrandizement. "Wouldn't...shouldn't a god be above such petty conceit?" she said to Burt who stood silently by her side.

A feint "pop-pop-pop" was heard far in the distance.

Burt smirked.

Eve turned her back to the frigid wind and pulled the fatigue jacket hood over her head. Her army was in position for the final assault on Patboy's command center. But she was not going to waste any more of her fighters on these fools. She ordered the APC's front. She made no demand for a parley or request for surrender. She was not interested in taking prisoners and knew of no surrender terms which would be acceptable to the religious zealots, anyway...or to her, for that matter. She ordered the APC's to open fire.

For thirty seconds the combined firepower of the armored vehicles tore and ripped into the compound fortifications. The concrete walls exploded into gray dust and concrete confetti. If there was any return fire from the compound it was inaudible over the noise of exploding ordinance, Gatling, and .50 caliber machinegun fire. And, on Eve's command, the guns silenced. Then, there was nothing but the rolling echo of the explosions reverberating off the surrounding buildings and hills. Nearly everyone let out a sigh of relief as the tension of the moment left them.

The Patriots raised their heads cautiously to view the destruction. A cloud of dust lifted slowly from the compound and was carried easterly, on the wind. Jagged edges of concrete and cinder block, with twisted fingers of rebar jutting skyward, was all that remained of the command center.

"Nobody move!" Eve shouted to her Patriot fighters. The order, "nobody move", was repeated down the Patriot line by the company commanders. Everyone remained motionless in their covered assault positions.

Eve surveyed the wreckage. She knew that Patboy and many of his Snakes were still alive and waiting for some Patriot to do something foolish. So, she ordered her troops to remain concealed, arms at the ready. She expected the Relics would resort to a suicide charge, which she had seen a number of times. Eve was not disappointed. The Relics, like the brave, but foolish Japanese soldiers of old, would engage in human wave attacks when faced with desperate circumstances. And, like the ancient Japanese, who would sometimes fortify their resolve with saki, the Dominionists would fortify their courage with an even more potent intoxicant, "God Frenzy", or the even more potent "Jesus Frenzy". They would get drunk on scripture, start dancing in circles and talking in tongues and then, wild-eyed and crazed, attack their enemy with no apparent eye for victory...just self-destruction.

"Praise Jesus!" someone shouted from behind the rubble, and then one-hundred or so Relics leaped from the wreckage yelling gibberish with guns blazing, their eyes wide with madness and homicidal intent. The Patriots began firing at once and the Relic assault was over, as quickly as it began. All the TW's lay dead or dying in the rubble. Silence filled in the hole left by the retreating echoes of gunfire. Then, Eve heard a lone voice coming from somewhere deep in the shattered compound.

"We must fight to the last! Get up, you cowards. Get up! Fight!" the frenzied voice shouted from the wreckage. Apparently, someone was admonishing the dead for their lack of motivation and religious zeal.

Eve had a good idea who was shouting. "It's Patboy," she whispered looking at Bill. Eve stood and surveyed the wreckage. She could see no one. Then she selected two of her fighters to retrieve Patboy from the rubble.

"Harley and Jess," she said to the two fighters nearest her, "get him out of there, but be careful...he's a Snake. Do not trust a word he says. And, he's probably armed."

"Yes ma'am," the two replied. They stood and approached the compound with their rifles at the ready.

Harley and Jess, a middle-aged married couple with upside-down crosses burned into their foreheads, were betrayed to the Dominionist Freedom Police by their son who suspected them of Satan worship. Their son, Duke, had been a fanatic member of the Dominionist youth movement, the White Shirts. It was his duty to report all violations of Biblical law, even if it meant family members would be arrested and subjected to Blessed Conversions and, of course, Cleansings. His only duty was to serve God and Biblical law, as was the duty of all White Shirts. He, as did all his brothers (girls and women were not permitted to join), had taken a personal loyalty oath to the Most Reverend President Leader Huckleberry. All other considerations...family loyalty, friendship, marriage vows, human rights, love, etc...were unimportant and dangerous distractions...dangerous to the survival of the Dominionist elite...dangerous to the survival of Huckleberry. Although the Snakes appreciated Duke's enthusiastic commitment to their movement, he was eventually declared an "Undesirable", because he shared blood with convicted Satanists. Therefore, he was not invited to live in a Freedom Center. Duke met his maker in the fireballs that were once Atlanta. Every one of Eve's fighters had a personal grudge to settle with the Dominionist family. Harley and Jess were no exception.

The day was gloomy and leaden as usual, but it was bright enough to see clearly into the command center. Harley and Jess, covered by their Patriot comrades, crouched as they slowly picked their way through the rubble. After a while, they found what they had been looking for, a fat lump of powder-blue cowering in a corner. Patboy slouched against a wall shivering in his tattered and dirty powder-blue suit. He was pressing a .38 pistol reluctantly against his temple. Two girls, barely teenagers, sprawled dead at his shoeless feet, with blood leaking from holes in the sides of their heads. Patboy had shot them just moments before. They would not survive, if he had to die.

"Don't come a step closer!" Patboy cried still holding the .38 against his temple, "or I'll shoot!" His hand was shaking so badly he probably would have missed.

"Go ahead," the taller of the two fighters, Jess, laughed, "we'll make sure you don't miss."

Eve pushed past her two soldiers and pressed an M-16 against Patboy's forehead. "Drop the god- damned pistol or I'll take the top off your fat face...you gutless pig!" she growled.

Patboy threw his pistol into the rubble and began to bawl and beg for his life.

"Take this piece of shit away," Eve commanded. "Do not harm him. I want this fuck alive...at least for a while."

Harley and Jess each grabbed a leg, and with the help of four other Patriots, unceremoniously dragged Patboy, screaming and squealing from the compound. He left behind a distinct smell of urine.
CHAPTER 12:

Eve sat her tired body on a block of concrete and rested her back on a tangle of rebar jutting vertically into the air, about ten feet. She took a sip of water and coughed up some red and dust. She watched Patboy being dragged, feet-first toward the prison complex, which was about one-hundred yards to her left. He was yelling epithets and pleading for his life. There was nothing bold or courageous about the man. Stripped of his army of bullies, he was spineless. Eve shook her head in disgust and closed her eyes for a moment. She wished she could close her ears.

The day was somewhere past noon now. From the rise upon which the command compound sat, in the approximate middle of the Freedom Center, Eve could see the encircling perimeter wall, one mile distant in all directions. The fires during last night's fight were burning, and smoke still rose and added its black muck to the already heavily silted, oppressive sky. Patriot work details were scattered, here and there around the Center, working to clean up the mess left by last evening's brawl. Some could be seen repairing the damaged antenna tower. Others were collecting weapons and ammunition from the dead. Some were clearing the roads of debris. Another detail could be seen separating the Relic dead from the Patriot dead. In the distance, outside of the Center's perimeter, two bulldozers were digging a huge trench. The trench would be used for the unceremonious burial of the Relic dead. There would be no marker. The Patriot dead, on the other hand, would be buried with honors and their names entered into the Book of Patriots. Eve could see her mechanics and technicians busying themselves in the motor pool and on the airstrip. She was overwhelmed with pride for her fighters, who were not only brave, but seemingly tireless...and self-sacrificing--the very character elements which had made the United States of America possible in the first place.

It was the common, thinking, hardworking person that made America possible. Everything and everyone else rode upon their backs. Eve resolved that if she had any say in the matter, and if there ever was a new Constitution of the United States of America, it would leave no question that the people were in charge; not big business, not big money, not pharmaceutical conglomerates, and certainly not religion. Just as there had once been a separation of church and state, there would be a separation of corporation and state, money and sate. And, this time, the language would leave no doubt of the intent of the great document.

In the west, Eve could see a building cloud of yellow dust indicating the approach of yet another sandstorm. She guessed that it would be upon them in two, maybe three hours. No one liked the storms, least of all she, but this storm could buy her army some time. She knew that Patboy's regular communications would be missed by Huckleberry, and that the Most Reverend President Leader would eventually send someone to find out what happened. The approaching storm would keep the low fliers grounded and give her at least a day and night, or maybe two days and a couple of nights, to calculate her next move. Low fliers had night vision, of course, but did not usually fly at night because of the constant threat of sandstorms and the dangerous high winds that fed them. Some pilots had survived the storms by landing immediately, but the damage to the equipment often left the pilots marooned and the aircraft in need of extensive repairs. Aircraft maintenance parts were a finite commodity in post-Tribulation times. Therefore, the Dominionists made every effort to avoid any unnecessary damage to their aircraft, whenever possible. It was a hard lesson learned from the loss of every one of their drones to sandstorms. Eve just might have enough time to create her ruse for the Most Reverend President Leader.

Off to her right, Eve saw Juanita and Bill converging from opposite directions along the command compound road.

Bill broke into a broad smile when he made eye contact with Eve. "Whooee, we pulled that one out of our ass! We kicked some Relic butt now, didn't we? How the hell you holdin' up?" He took a seat and smacked Eve on the knee. She winced. "Where the hell are Sparky and High Roller? I've got a great big kiss for both of them."

"Just peachy," Eve replied stifling a cough, "I can't wait to see you kiss High Roller."

"Yeah, me too," Juanita said with a broad grin. She selected a seat across from Eve.

"How are your fighters holding up?" Eve asked.

"As tired as they are, you could ask them to assault this god-damned Center, again, and they'd be ready to go. Even in the Rangers. I never commanded a more committed bunch of swinging dicks," Bill said proudly.

"Excuse me?" a deeply offended Juanita interjected. "Swinging _dicks_ , did you say? You're such a pig."

"Sorry," Bill apologized, "Swinging pussies, then?"

"Jesus, you've got a thankfully rare art of making anything sound gross...but, that is much better," Juanita said, offering a victorious grin.

"How many dead?" a very tired Eve asked, hoping to bring her celebrating commanders back to earth.

"Ummm...last count, I lost ninety-six fighters; twenty-six killed and seventy wounded...thirteen seriously," Bill said the smile leaving his face. "Those god-damned barracks were full of those fucks! They were like fucking cockroaches...we'd kill 10 and a hundred would run out of the woodwork!"

"I have twelve killed and twenty-two wounded...five are serious," Juanita said solemnly.

Eve shook her head and looked at the ground. "God damn it. That's too many...too many," she lamented.

"It was that god-damned perimeter road assault," Bill said coming to his feet. "I'm sorry. I did the best I could, but those god-damned Relics were fucking everywhere..."

"Relax, relax, no one is blaming you," Eve said reaching for Bill's arm and pulling him down to sit beside her. "Be glad there weren't more casualties. Shit, we overran an entire Center...and a big one at that...with maybe six-to-one odds against us." She winked at Bill and then found a smile for her two commanders, "You and Juanita did an excellent job." Eve took a breath and came to her feet. She surveyed the grounds, "Don't think any more of it. We've got too much to do, to waste time kicking ourselves in the ass."

"We lost Eugene Crowman," Bill said looking up at Eve.

Eve's tired eyes locked onto Bill's. She looked at the ground, at her feet. "God damn it," she spat.

"Shit," Juanita added.

"What Happened?" Eve asked.

Bill related the story of Gene's courageous one-man stand against a Relic human wave attack. "His APC was engulfed in flames. We could see him hanging onto his .50 cal, but it was obviously too late...he died killing Snakes. He took a lot of those fucks with him. I can say that."

"Does Charlie know?" Eve asked.

"No...I don't know! I don't think so," Bill said suddenly aware that Charlie was going to be very upset that he lost his best friend.

"Leave it to me...I'll tell Charlie," Eve said.

"Nope, thanks anyway, but I was there. I should tell Charlie," Bill offered.

"It's my job to do, and I'll do it! I'm close to Charlie...it'll be better if I tell him," Eve concluded the matter using a tone which communicated that the discussion was over. "It looks like Patboy's hospital is still intact. Is it serviceable?" Eve asked happy to change the subject.

"Yes, it's in pretty good shape," Juanita said. "I've given orders to transport the wounded there. Our medics are doing the best they can, but some of the wounded need doctoring. And, there's the matter of the few thousand we rescued from that shit prison...who are in pretty bad shape. None of the Relic doctors were willing to attend to our people, so that makes you the only doctor still alive enough to attend."

"Well, I better get off my ass and get over there, then." Eve stretched her tired bony frame. "We are going to stay here for the next few days. I want to make this place look like nothing much happened. Get it cleaned up and do something about all that smoke. I want it gone. I'll be at the hospital," Eve said over her shoulder, as she limped off to doctor the wounded. The wind speed was picking up. Far to the west, the rapidly approaching sandstorm was slamming into the dirty brown and yellow overcast, sending the clouds tumbling and rolling violently over one another. Frequent lightning and ever-louder thunder added to the ambiance.

"We're going to stay here the next few days?" Bill asked Juanita, who shrugged her shoulders in reply. She did not have a clue of what was on Eve's mind.

"It's going to take us a few days to clean up this mess. I guess she doesn't want to leave an untidy house for the next tenant," Juanita finally answered as she rose to her feet with a grunt. She offered Bill a hand up. He took it, his aching bones grateful for the help.

"Very funny... Hey, maybe we'll get to sleep under a roof tonight!" Bill said excitedly. He had not spent a night indoors in over six years. "I wonder if these inconsiderate fucks," he said, kicking a dead Relic hard in the ass, "left any hot running water for the rest of us?"

"Where's she going?" High Roller asked, indicating the limping Eve, as he and Sparky approached the two commanders.

"Son-of-a-bitch, man I've been waiting to shake your hands!" Bill yelped stamping his feet.

"I thought you said you were going to kiss him?" Juanita teased.

"What?" High Roller asked puzzled and a tiny bit alarmed.

"Never mind," Bill said glaring at Juanita, "Man, did you and Sparky ever pull our asses out of the fire. We were goners for sure without those gunships."

"Shucks, 'twern't nutin'," Sparky responded employing her best cowboy hero slang while giving Juanita a wink.

"Glad to be of service," High Roller said. "And it wasn't as easy as it looked. You really have to fly these aircraft. They are nothing like the computers we used to fly in the Middle East."

"To be honest, the aircraft we flew over there practically flew themselves. You only needed a pilot, so you'd have someone to pin medals on and parade around for recruitment purposes," Sparky added with a tiny laugh.

"That's pretty much it in a nutshell," High Roller agreed.

"Why is that...why don't the Relics use the best the army has to offer?" Bill asked.

"Best is relative," High Roller replied. "When there was an inexhaustible supply of parts, technicians, and warehouses to store all the parts, then flying the most complicated machine in the world was no problem. But when you have to maintain a fleet of aircraft with a finite supply source, a limited number of technicians, and use precious space to house all the parts and pieces, best is opting for a less sophisticated aircraft. Hell, they don't need sophisticated state-of-the-art aircraft to mop up a few hundred Satanists anyway, so why bother with all the hassle? These old stripped-down Cobras work just fine. They've got night vision and visor sighting. Today that's really all any gunship pilot needs. Looks like we best get indoors," High Roller added pointing to the west and the approaching dust storm.

"Let's head for the mess hall and see if we can't scare up some grub," Bill shouted over a loud rumble of thunder. "I've never ate Snake food, before...well, not cooked, anyway."

The hospital was a two-story cinderblock and brick building, with most of its front and upper story windows shot out. The front doors were splintered and broken from their hinges. Eve couldn't help but notice the blood, spent bandages, and drag marks, littering the entrance hall floor.

"The Relics must have put up one hell of a fight for this hospital." The wind was picking up speed. The familiar howl associated with the desert storms was just beginning. Eve had to shout to the medic who had greeted her at the entrance.

"Yes ma'am, they just didn't want to give her up," he shouted in return.

"Where am I needed?" Eve asked.

"The worst cases are back here," the medic said, leading Eve to what had been the emergency department. There were ten beds hastily arranged in the rooms, and another twenty beds filled the hallway. Patriot soldiers with chest, belly, head wounds and missing limbs lay bleeding into their bandages on the beds, while the remainder lay on mattresses thrown on the floor. A handful of medics rushed about inserting and checking IV's. Bags of plasma, blood, and saline, scavenged from the hospital's well-stocked medical supply rooms, were suspended next to the beds. Other bags, hanging from the wounded, collected urine and wound drainage. Medics were applying pressure dressings, administering morphine, and cleaning and suturing wounds.

Eve went to work, quickly triaging and attending to those who had the worst wounds and the best chance of survival. A surgical room was prepared for her, and she performed surgeries that she had seen and practiced only once, and a long time ago. She worked quickly and methodically. These were her soldiers, and she was going to give them every chance of survival in her power. Eve worked for twelve straight hours without a break. Her boots were practically stuck to the floor in the dried blood, which had pooled about her feet.

"This is the last of them, ma'am," the medic reported as he wheeled Charlie into the room.

Charlie was clearly badly wounded. Up until this very moment, she hadn't had time to even think of him. He always seemed invincible to her. Eve said nothing, but quickly changed into a clean surgical gown, scrubbed, and re-gloved. She examined Charlie, who was obtunded and intubated. His head was bandaged from a wound, apparently received when it hit the dozer's steel instrument panel. And, his left leg was wrapped in bloody bandages below the knee. "God damn it, Charlie, I ordered you not to get hurt," she said under her breath. "I need someone to cut these bandages off, please."

The bandages were removed, and she bent to inspect his wounds. An x-ray indicated that his skull had not been cracked, but he had a gaping head wound that would require suturing. He had a compound fracture of the left tibia and a lacerated artery to the lower extremity. Sponges had been packed into the wound site, and pressure bandages had been applied to slow the flow of blood. Peripheral circulation was intact. His vitals were compromised but strong enough to risk surgery. He was being administered blood. There was no way around it; if Charlie was going to have any chance of keeping his leg, she would have to operate.

After nearly three hours of surgery, which included scavenging a vein graft from Charlie's good leg, Eve stood upright, pulled the surgical mask from her face, and wiped her nose on the sleeve of her surgical gown. Charlie's lower leg was reconstructed, and the wound closed. His vitals were good. Now the only major risks would come from a blood clot or infection.

"See if the pharmacy has any heparin," she said to one of the assisting medics. "You know what to do?"

"Yes, ma'am," the medic replied.

"Good, I'll be over there," she pointed to an adjacent room, "when you're ready for me."

She removed her gloves, bent backwards in a vain attempt to remove the painful kink that had developed in her lower back, and limped out of the surgical room. She found a chair in an ante room and let her weight collapse into it. She put her head in her hands and sat motionless with her eyes closed. Tears and sweat dripped from the end of her nose. Outside, the sandstorm was blowing furiously. Every window in the place seemed on the verge of being ripped from its casements.

"W-we s-sure are l-lucky you know how to perform va-va-vascular surgery," the medic said as he offered her a glass of water.

"Yeah, there's never a vascular surgeon around when you need one," Eve said raising herself upright in her chair and taking the glass. "I saw a few when I was a resident. See one, do one, teach one was our mantra. I even did a few. And, over the last twelve hours I've added about, what, six or seven to my resume? Later, maybe I'll teach one...to you." She regarded the medic standing before her. He was thin, boyish, with a young man's patchy beard adorning the chin of his long youthful face. "Excellent job packing that wound, by the way. Was that your work?"

"Y-yes ma'am."

"He has a good chance of keeping his leg because of your work," Eve said reassuring the medic with a smile. She patted his arm. "You go by Eddie, don't you?"

"Y-yes ma'am," Eddie responded, both surprised and happy that his commander knew his name. Eddie, 28, who had been a student nurse practitioner, unfortunately, practiced the wrong religion. He had been fired from his job, as all papists were, by a newly installed Dominionist National Hospital Administration. His nursing license was revoked, and he was ordered to house arrest until further notice. Eddie had the wherewithal to ignore his arrest order. Hoping to rejoin his family in Flagstaff, he slipped from his home one evening and hopped a west-bound freight train. He spent several days avoiding capture by abandoning trains as they slowed to enter rail yards...yards which were heavily patrolled by the local Freedom Police and their dogs. Skirting the yards on foot, he would then hop another west-bound train as it pulled from the other side of the yard. Eddie only had a general sense of where each train was bound--westward, he hoped. Not knowing precisely where each train was headed proved fortuitous. His last train ride was interrupted outside of Phoenix by an explosion that derailed the train, and him with it. He was captured by a small detail of Eve's army which had been charged with derailing the train to scrounge for supplies. Eddie quickly joined the Patriot cause.

"Well, Eddie, you'll assist me in the future...if that's alright with you," she added. "Now where can I get some sleep?"

"Y-y-yes ma'am, th-that'll be fine!" Eddie was embarrassed but honored to be recognized by Eve. He led her to one of the rooms where an empty hospital bed awaited her. Eve quickly noticed that there was no bed for Burt who had been standing by her all through the surgeries.

"Where's Burt going to sleep?"

"S-sorry ma'am," Eddie apologized, "I w-w-wasn't thinking...w-we can p-pull a ma-ma-mattress from the hall and p-put it on the fl-fl-floor in the c-corner." He then stepped into the hall. Eddie and another medic pulled a mattress into the room.

Eve looked at Burt's mattress on the floor and her mattress on the bed. She then ordered that her mattress be placed on the floor, as well. Burt looked at her, smiled, and shook his head in bone-weary amusement.

"Don't start thinking you're something special," she said noticing Burt's smile. "I'm just not used to sleeping so high off the ground. I'd probably fall out of bed, break something, and then you'd have to carry me around all the time. I'm thinking of you for a change."

Burt smiled knowingly and waited for her to lie down, before he retired to his mattress.

"Ma'am...ma'am... wake up ma'am. The sun's up."

"Eve opened her eyes and looked up at the aide who was gently shaking her awake. She had been asleep for only three hours. She had left orders to be awakened at sunrise. She now regretted that order.

"Here's some coffee ma'am."

"Hmmm, coffee?" Eve asked, looking through eyes too exhausted to open completely. The aid helped her come slowly to a sitting position. He positioned her hands on the hot coffee cup.

"Yes ma'am, we found coffee and all kinds of things in Patboy's private storehouse."

Eve sniffed the cup of hot black liquid held beneath her nose. "Where's Eddie?"

"He's sleeping ma'am...you want me to get him?"

"No, let him sleep. Somebody has got to get some sleep around here," she croaked.

"You Skinner?" Eve regarded him through crusty eye lids.

"Yes ma'am, but they call me, Pump."

"Pump?" Eve asked, a bit shocked by the name. She sipped her coffee. Memories of times so long ago, she wasn't even certain that they were memories at all, filled her mind all at once. She tightly closed her eyes and hoped to god that when she opened them, Skinner would be gone and she would be at her kitchen table and, so far away.

Pump was a stocky auto mechanic whose love of "pumping iron" and job of "pumping gas" earned him the unusual nickname. He had lost his wife and three daughters to the Dominionist pogroms many years ago...it wasn't easy to remember anymore. Pump's wife, Sandy, chose to ignore his protests and had joined the Dominionist Church to gain access to food and health care for their children. Food and health care had become scarce commodities for non-believers in the few years before the Tribulation. Sandy thought it would be easy to convince the Dominionist faithful that she had become a true believer. Pump had argued that it would be safer to scratch out a living while hiding in the mountains, away from the Dominionist pogroms. But Sandy was set on doing things her way..."for the children". Then, the day came when Pump returned home from another unsuccessful day of looking for work to find that Sandy and the children were gone.

Desperate, he inquired of his neighbors and searched the few nearby shops, but no one had seen them, and no one had any information. Frightened beyond belief, Pump began checking the Dominionist Family Dailies, a daily paper published by the Dominionist Department of Holy Justice which listed the names of recently arrested traitors to the cause, their crimes, sentences, and dispositions (usually, executions). Two days later, he found the names of his wife and girls printed in the lists. The paper indicated that Sandy and the girls had been arrested and charged with heresy, apostasy, fraud, theft, and witchcraft...the catch-all charge for women. They were interned in the Maricopa County Prison. Devastated, he realized that they were lost, and that there was nothing he could do for them.

Hoping for a miracle, and yet knowing that there were no such things...especially now...he abandoned their apartments (he was bound to be arrested himself if he stayed there much longer) and moved to the enormous shanty town, which had enveloped much of the immediate area surrounding the Maricopa County Prison. Instantly, he was suspended in a smelly, noisy soup of tens-of- thousands of frightened, lost, anonymous, and hopeless seekers.

The shantytown had started with just a few displaced people wanting to be nearer to their interned loved ones. In too short a time, the shantytown had grown into a crawling slum of grieving families. The Dominionists did nothing about the shantytowns, which had sprung up around the many Prison Centers dotting the country, because, in their murderously efficient minds, the ghettoes provided them with a concentrated area of highly visible Satanists, who could easily be wiped out when the time was right. The Dominionists saw a divine purpose working to help them identify, corral, and eliminate the Devil's helpers.

Pump was just one among tens-of-thousands. Five days of terror passed. Five days of watching the oily black columns of smoke rise above the prison's walls, drift eastward and blow apart on the wind. Five days of hellish soot that fell as snow from above and collected on the shoulders...the hair of one's head. For five days, he feared that anyone of those smoky columns could be his wife and children. On the sixth day, his fears were confirmed; he found their names among the lists of the recently "Cleansed." Sandy and the girls had been burned at the stake for the crime of witchcraft. There had been no trial.

Helpless and completely alone, Pump wandered north and east into the mountains away from Dominionist persecution. He was eventually found by Eve and her army. Although Pump could not have possibly saved his family, this fact did not spare him the feelings of tremendous guilt and self-recrimination. As much as he hated Dominionists, he hated himself more, and believed that the privilege of killing Relics should be reserved for those with courage, a quality he was certain he lacked. As punishment for his cowardice, he denied himself the privilege of killing those who had killed his family. Eve, understanding very well the grief that fueled Pump's twisted logic, respected his wishes, and had him assigned to serve as litter carrier and aide to the medics.

"It's a bit of a story, ma'am."

"I see...well, er...Pump, there are too many tragic stories these days. It's been...I don't know how many years it's been since my last cup of coffee," she said her voice husky from coughing and lack of sleep. Eve regarded the steaming cup.

"How long has it been for you, Burt?" She asked the large man sitting against the wall about five feet away. Burt shrugged his shoulders. Eve handed the cup to Burt who refused it. She smiled. She knew he had refused the cup because he always put her needs ahead of his. Eve took another sip and the hot liquid seemed to lift the frost of six-plus years of sleeping on the cold ground, from her bones. She stole a moment for herself and then requested a cup of coffee be brought for Burt.

"How are the wounded?" Eve asked Pump after a few more sips of coffee.

"It's only been about three or four hours, ma'am, but everyone seems to be stable...no one's any worse off..."

"How's Charlie?"

"Well, he's got good cap refill and his vitals are stable."

"Good. Has he regained consciousness yet?"

"Well, when I last saw him, he was pretty heavily sedated, but coming out of it...so, yes and no."

"Give me a hand." Eve offered her arm to the aide, who helped her to her feet, "Take me to him."

"Yes ma'am."

Charlie was flat on his back in a hospital bed, staring at the ceiling with half-opened eyes. He slowly turned his head towards Eve as she entered the room. "Any chance I could get a shot of Wild Turkey?" his voice was weak and hoarse.

Eve smiled, "No...but I have some kick-ass water."

Charlie squinted and frowned, "Water? Hardly fittin' for a god-damn hero...but, if that's all ya got..."

Eve smiled and elevated the head of his bed, took a glass of water from the bedside table and held it to his mouth. "How are you feeling?"

Charlie took two long sips of water through the straw and nodded. Eve replaced the glass on the table. "Like shit," he replied, "and, how are you?"

"Pretty much the same," Eve said grinning and coughing a bit. She loved that Charlie did not stand on ceremony.

"Well you look pretty good to me. I guess we kicked their ass?" Charlie asked extending his powerful thick hand palm down for Eve to hold.

"Yup, we won...I think," Eve said taking Charlie's hand with both of her hands. She smiled at the kind round face which looked up at her.

"We kicked some Relic ass, then?"

"We kicked some ass."

"Serves those assholes right...where's Gene? How's come that s.o.b. hasn't come to visit me, yet?"

Eve gathered herself for the bad news, knew there was no way to make it easy, and gave it to Charlie straight. "Gene didn't make it."

Charlie said nothing at first, and just looked at Eve. It took a moment or two before the meaning of Eve's words sank in. "Oh," Charlie finally said turning his gaze towards the ceiling. He squeezed Eve's hand and released it.

"I'm sorry, but there was nothing we could do to save him." Eve pulled a chair next to the bed and sat down.

"If anybody could have saved him, it was you. What happened...how was he killed?"

"He was holding the line in his APC when the Relics swarmed his position. He held his position in the face of overwhelming odds...he just kept firing his 50 cal..."

"There's none braver than ol' Gene, ya know."

"Yeah, I know, Charlie...well, when we counterattacked, we found him dead in his APC. There must have been fifty dead relics laid out all around his position."

"That son-of-a-bitch was smart...and the best man I ever knew, but too damn stupid to know when to retreat and save his ass."

"He sacrificed his ass so his soldiers could retreat under covering fire."

"Yeah, that's Crowman, alright. We were a team ya know?" Tears ran down Charlie's cheeks and soaked into the pillowcase.

"Yes, I know. I'm very sorry. I would have done anything to save him, but there wasn't anything that we could do." Eve reached for Charlie's hand. He let her hold it.

"Those fuckin' Relic bastards...how many did we kill?" Charlie asked.

"We killed all but a few of them...we might be able to get some intel out of those we let live...for now. No one escaped that we know of."

"We got all of 'em? Serves the dirty bastards right," Charlie said and winced with pain. "God-damned leg."

"I think it's going to be over soon," Eve said attempting to refocus Charlie.

"What?" Charlie asked, a trifle alarmed, thinking that she was referring to amputation.

"This fucking war," Eve said.

"Oh, that...too late for Eugene, though."

"Yes, but I think this war is going to be over pretty soon, and Gene did a lot to make that happen."

"Yeah, he sure as hell did his part, no doubt, but how do you figure this fuckin' war is almost over?" Charlie asked turning his face towards Eve.

"We've taken the entire Center for ourselves. We've got armor, ammo, gunships...and, a couple thousand more fighters from the prison itching for payback."

"Gunships? So, they made it through O.K.?" Charlie asked sinking back into his pillows as the pain from his leg prevented him from raising himself.

"Yep, the gunships are O.K., and we have plenty of food, some cattle, fuel, the whole mess," Eve said flashing a broad smile. "We now control the second-largest Center. We freed nearly fifty-five-hundred prisoners and doubled our army. All the smaller Centers are now ours for the taking. We will grow our army five or six times by freeing the prisoners in those Centers. And then we can lay siege to Huckleberry." Eve was happy that she had some good news for Charlie.

"When do we start?" Charlie asked.

"First we have to deal with Huckleberry, who will no doubt send someone to check on Patboy's disappearance."

"Patboy's wasted then?"

"No, not dead...yet, but temporary inconvenienced. We've got the fat bastard locked up in his own prison."

"Good. What are my orders?" Charlie grimaced and squeezed Eve's hand so hard she grimaced.

"Your orders are to stay right where you are and rest. You are no good to me with a gimpy leg, and you'll lose that leg if you don't follow doctor's orders," Eve said extracting her hand from his iron grasp. She came to her feet and moved to the foot of the bed to inspect Charlie's leg. "I'll order more pain killer..."

"How's it look?"

"You've got good circulation and there's no sign of infection," Eve said.

"How long am I goin' to have to sit on my ass in this god-damn bed?"

"A couple of weeks of bed rest and then we'll get you off your ass and walking around."

"Fuckin' weeks!"

Pump entered the room with some soup and bread for Charlie. He placed the tray on Charlie's nightstand. Charlie gave Pump a disapproving look, "Could I at least get a prettier nurse?"

"Aren't I pretty enough for you?" Eve asked smiling.

"You know I think you're a doll, but you're already spoke for."

"I'll see what I can do. Now I've got to take command of the army. We've got a lot of work to do, made all the harder by you sitting on your cute little fanny." Eve covered Charlie's leg and turned to leave. "I'll be checking in on you regularly," she said over her shoulder as she slipped into the hallway.

"You'd better!" Charlie yelled after her and he gave Pump another disapproving look.

Eve had stopped to observe some of the reconstruction of the hospital's front doors when she noticed a commotion involving Brandy, just beyond the hospital compound entrance.

"What's going on?" Eve asked a nearby worker, nodding her head in Brandy's direction.

"They found a red-headed boy, about eight or nine years old, amongst the Relic children. They think it could be Brandy's son, ma'am," the worker said laying down her hammer and standing to address Eve.

"Not good," Eve replied appreciating the possible seriousness of the situation.

"No ma'am, not good," the worker agreed shaking her head.

"OK, get back to work. We want this hospital looking good for our visitors," Eve said stepping towards the exit.

"Visitors, ma'am?" the worker asked.

"Never mind," Eve said, "just do the best you can to get these doors fixed." Eve exited the hospital and approached Brandy and the guards who, continued shouting.

"Captain, what's going on?" Eve asked as she approached the ranking officer involved in the heated discussion.

Brandy and her four adversaries came to attention and said nothing.

"What's going on?" Eve repeated coming to a stop in front of the captain of the guards.

"Ma'am," Brandy said inserting herself between Eve and the captain, "they think they found Justin, my son, and they won't let me see him."

Eve looked up into Brandy's tear stained face and then at the captain, "Is this true?" Eve asked the senior guard.

"Yes, ma'am, we were housing the Relic children and women in the prison, when we noticed a boy, about eight...maybe nine, with bright red hair...like the lieutenant's. We immediately thought he could be the lieutenant's son and...well, ma'am, the guards were very unnerved. They didn't know what to do...he's of the age, ma'am."

"They want to kill my son!" Brandy bawled. "You can't let them do that!"

"Some in the guard felt that they had to do their duty and kill the boy, but others thought that...it possibly being the lieutenant's son...perhaps an exception could be made."

"Do you know for certain that its Brandy's son?" Eve asked the captain.

"No ma'am," the captain answered.

"If I could just see him, I would know if he was my son or not...just let me see him, please," Brandy pleaded.

Eve stood looking at Brandy whose distress was very apparent and understandable. Relic children older than toddlers were thought to be too risky to keep alive because they carried the taint of Relic belief and memory. Yet, here was a situation where the child was captured by Relics, obviously kept alive, and then indoctrinated into their radical system of belief. Realistically, there could be no difference between this captured child raised by Relics and a naturally born child of the Relics. There was nothing that would suggest that Brandy's child, if he was her child, would be more amenable to denouncing Relic teaching and accepting Patriot re-education. Yet, it could be Brandy's child, and that did make a very big difference in who should decide if the child lived or died. Eve quickly concluded that, tragically, no one but the child's mother could make the decision. Eve's conclusion was not a sentimental concession to one of her own; it was, rather, a realistic appraisal of a situation that could turn very troubling, if Brandy were denied an opportunity to meet with her child and make whatever decisions she thought appropriate. The last thing Eve needed was an armed renegade mother on the loose.

"Captain," Eve said turning to the ranking officer, "take Brandy to the child and be certain she has all the privacy she desires."

"Yes ma'am," the senior guard replied.

"Brandy," Eve said addressing her lieutenant, "no one but you will know if the child is your son, and no one but you can make the decision concerning whether he lives or dies. You will make that decision, and we will abide by your decision, but keep in mind that your decision, either way, will affect more than just you and your son. It very well could impact us all." Eve paused to look deeply and seriously into Brandy's eyes. Her look conveyed respect and concern for Brandy, as well as, a deep appreciation for Brandy's situation.

"Yes, ma'am, I understand," Brandy replied, "Thank you, thank you." Relieved, Brandy quickly wiped her tears on the bloody sleeve of her jacket. The seriousness of the situation was not lost on her. The lieutenant realized with horror that the child could indeed be Justin and that, quite possibly, he would be too far gone to save. She pushed the thought to the back of her mind.

"This way, lieutenant," the captain said as he turned to lead the way to the child's holding cell. "What's the boys' real name?" he asked.

"Real name?" Brandy asked confused by the use of the word "real."

"Yes, real name...he says his name is Junior...Patboy Junior," the captain clarified. "I know you didn't give him that name."

Brandy stopped in her tracks. Her stomach fell. "N...n...no, he was too young to remember his given name. We named him...Justin...after my father. Chris always hated the name Chris. He thought it was too feminine. Silly, really."

The captain turned and looked at Brandy who remained motionless. "Chris was your husband then?"

"Yes."

"You know the chances of this boy being your son...are...very slim," the captain of the guard said in a weak attempt to comfort Brandy.

"Yes, of course," Brandy responded, completely aware that red-headed boys, eight years of age, were not that common these days. She swallowed the terror welling in her throat and resumed her fast walk in the direction of the prison. She walked past the captain. The captain fell into step slightly behind her as she passed.

Together they passed through the prison's twisted gates and surrendered their weapons to the floor warden. Brandy then took five quick steps before she stopped and realized that she didn't know where to go. She looked to the captain.

"It's this way," he said pointing down the hall which led to the individual holding cells.

Brandy stood motionless her eyes wide with fear. She could not get her legs to obey her command to move.

The captain moved to her side and placed an arm around Brandy's shoulder to steady her. "You know...you don't have to do this."

Brandy stood still a moment longer and then turned her head slowly. She looked into the captain's tired eyes. "You don't have any children, do you?" Her voice cracked.

"No, I don't. Why?"

"If you did, then you'd know that I have no choice. I must do this."

"Yes, of course," the captain said, coming quickly to the understanding that a loving parent could do little else. "I apologize."

"Which cell is it?"

"Cell number 23."

Brandy removed the captain's arm from her shoulder and took a deep breath. She then started down the half-lit gray cinder-block hallway. The captain followed her at a respectful distance. She passed the numbered cells, each with its solid gray steel door shut and locked. Each cell held a Relic prisoner, thought by Eve important enough to be kept alive just long enough for interrogation. Door 23 came too quickly. Brandy stood before the heavy steel door. The guard undid the latch, which held the small observation window cover, and slid the cover to the side. Brandy peered into the cell.

One harsh, dull, yellowish, incandescent bulb, encased in a protective globe, hanging high overhead, illuminated the six-by-eight-foot cell. On the floor, facing the door, head bowed in prayer was a shoeless male child, dressed in a dirty t-shirt and torn powder-blue pants. He did not bother to look up at the sound of the opening observation portal. Brandy could not see the boy's face. She desperately needed to see the boy's face, but, just as desperately did not want to see his face. She cleared her throat, but the boy did not look up. She asked that the boy look at her, but he continued his prayers. The boy knew that his only salvation lay with his god, and that God was not speaking to him from beyond his cell door. Satanists and demons controlled the prison now, and he was not obligated to recognize any of the corruptors of righteousness.

Brandy stepped back and addressed the captain, "Unlock the door, please. He won't look at me. I have to get in there."

"You can have all the time you desire with the boy, but I will have to lock you in there with him...it can't be otherwise."

"I understand...I don't think I'll be in any danger." Brandy's red and swollen eyes smiled a half-smile at the thought of her little boy being a danger.

The captain returned a weak smile. He stepped forward and unlocked the door. He observed the boy as he slowly swung the door open to make certain that the boy would not attempt to rush from the cell. The boy remained motionless, except for his barely audible prayers. Brandy stepped into the cell, and the door closed with a solid clunk behind her. Still, the boy did not look up.

Brandy knelt in front of the boy and observed him for a while, resisting the urge to pull him near. He paid her no notice and continued praying. Brandy thought it remarkable that such a young child could display such discipline and an obvious lack of curiosity. She then reached forward and raised his head with her slender, trembling hand placed gently under his chin. The boy cried out and recoiled as if someone had just touched him with a red-hot poker. He lay sprawled in the corner of the small room, with his back against the wall, rubbing his chin with the back of his hand. He then "cleaned" his hand on his pants as if he were attempting to decontaminate it.

"I am righteous in the eyes of the Lord! Do not touch me, you unclean demon of hell!" the boy chastised Brandy, shouting in his little-boy voice.

Brandy startled at the sudden explosion, but quickly settled as she caught her first glimpse of the boy's face. The boy had the same delicate features, the same pale complexion, the same red hair, the same green eyes...as his mother. It was as if she were looking into a mirror. "Justin?!" she asked the boy, as much as herself.

The boy threw his hands over his ears to block the demon's words. He would not risk having a hellish spell cast upon him. He then noticed the demon's red hair, pale skin, and green eyes. His eyes widened in wonderment of the vision, but he quickly withdrew the hand he had begun to extend in its direction. He had never seen anyone who so closely resembled himself. And then, in an instant, he knew that the Devil was at work here.

The boy was awestruck by the Devil's power to create such a demon. He then realized that the Devil was laughing at him in a very obvious attempt to steal his soul. Mothers Sarah, Tiffany, and Rachael were right. They had warned him, time and again, that the Devil and his demons possessed great powers, and that they would use many cruel tricks to unseat the righteous and bring them to sin. They also told him that the greater the prize, the greater the deceit that would be used by Satan to claim it. It was all very clear to the boy that, to send such a clever demon, the Devil must consider little Patboy quite a prize. The demon was proof of the boy's superior righteousness in the eyes of God. Here was proof of his greatness, and that the heavens were his for certain. He truly was chosen by God to lead, just as his mothers and father, Patboy, had reassured him, time and time again. The trick now was to resist this demon and prove to God that He had made the right choice when He picked Patboy Junior to lead the righteous to salvation.

"Justin," the monster repeated. Once again, the boy clamped his hands tightly against his ears.

Brandy saw what she thought was terror in the boy's eyes and instinctively moved to comfort her frightened child. "I know you don't remember me," she said softly, "but I remember you. I am your mother and you are my son, Justin. Your name is Justin. You were taken from us a little over eight years ago by the Rel...er, Dominionists. Can't you see how very much alike we look? We have the same hair, the same eyes, the same skin." Brandy gambled on a mother's soothing voice relaxing and comforting the child.

The boy clamped his hands ever harder against his ears. The demon was lying. He had three mothers and this monster was not one of them.

Brandy reached for the boy and he recoiled along the cell wall to the opposite corner. It was very important to never let a demon touch you, because they could reach into your chest and steal your soul before you knew what was going on. The boy's eyes were wide with terror.

Brandy dropped her head into her hands and wept as she watched her son shrink from her in fear. "I mean you no harm. I want to take care of you. You are my little boy. I love you. Can't you see that I love you?" Brandy pleaded with the little boy, who resumed praying loudly while tightly closing his eyes, his hands clamped forcefully over his ears.

Desperate to hold her son, Brandy reached for the boy and clutched him tightly to her. It was as if she had clutched a feral cat to her chest. The boy erupted into a frantic struggle to escape, scratching, kicking, hitting, and finally, biting the demon on the cheek.

Brandy yelped and released the boy, who quickly scrabbled back to his corner. He resumed praying in a much more frantic manner, and in a language she could not understand. He was scribing large circles in the air before him as if he were attempting to create some kind of a force-field between himself and some invisible foe.

He had won the first battle with the demon, but he would need to call upon all the powers of Heaven for help, if it persisted. Brandy rocked back on her heals frightened and confused by the sight. Tears welled and poured from her eyes. The salty stream flowed down her face and stung the deep wound in her left cheek. She touched the wound and felt the sticky, dark red blood running from the gash and dripping from her jaw. She knew, too late, that she had been foolish to grab at the frightened boy.

The cell door opened. "Are you O.K.?" the captain of the guard asked. He took a step back when he saw the wound.

Brandy turned and looked at the guard.

"Shit, lieutenant, that's going to take some stitches to close." He kneeled next to Brandy and pulled a pressure bandage from the lieutenant's first aid pack. Gently holding Brandy's jaw by the fingers of his left hand and moving her head slowly left to right, he paused to take a closer look at the wound.

"Bites are the worst. That wound needs to be cleaned before it gets infected. Here," he said, "place this bandage over the wound. Hold it tightly against your cheek. We've got to get you to a medic right away."

"Leave us alone," Brandy snapped and glared at the captain.

"Lieutenant, you've got a bad wound and you need to have it looked after."

Brandy did not move.

"That's an order, lieutenant."

"I said leave us alone. Eve said I was to have all the privacy I needed to be with my son. Now leave us alone, god-damn it!" Brandy's face turned a bright crimson and the fingers of her right hand turned white, as she clenched and rose her fist in defiance of the captain's order.

The boy's frantic chanting grew even louder when he heard the demon take the Lord's name in vain. What more proof did he need? There was no doubt. She was evil, and she was sent to steal his soul.

The captain knew that Brandy would have to be dragged from the cell, and that she was capable of putting up quite a fight if she wasn't willing to leave under her own power. He, alone, would not be able to drag her from the cell without risking injury to himself. He was going to need help. "Very well," he said, and he left the cell, locking the door behind him.

Brandy removed the bandage from her cheek and looked at the blood-soaked gauze. She tossed the bandage onto the floor. She didn't care about her wound; she only cared about Justin, who sat across from her chanting in a strange language and drawing wide, wild circles in the air. "What have they done to you?" She wept and dropped her head into her hands.

Some minutes later, the sound of keys rattling in the cell door's lock snapped Brandy out of her daydream. She had been resting against the cell's cold wall, staring at her possessed son, and thinking of better times long, long ago. She had no idea how much time had passed. But it had only been about twenty minutes since the captain left her. He was now returning with Eve in tow.

The door opened and Eve entered the damp, musty-smelling cell. The captain shut and locked the door behind her.

"My son's possessed," Brandy whispered, raising a limp hand and gesturing toward her son who still sat in the corner, eyes closed and talking in tongues. "He's been doing that ever since the captain left to get you. He doesn't know who I am. I think he thinks I mean to hurt him somehow." Brandy looked up at Eve and tears rolled off her cheeks. "I don't know what to do. I don't know what to do." Brandy fell forward into Eve's lap.

Eve held Brandy and pulled her close. She embraced her lieutenant and let her weep until Brandy's sobbing subsided, and she lifted her head. Eve released her hold on the heartbroken mother, but kept an arm draped across her shoulders for support.

"Look at me," Eve said, holding Brandy's eyes with her own. "Your son's been brainwashed. He probably thinks you are a demon sent from Hell to steal his soul. We've seen it, time and time again in Relic children, and even in most of the adults. You know that. I'm sorry, but I don't think that there is very much you, or I, or anyone, will be able to do to convince him otherwise." Eve looked deep into Brandy's eyes, "He lives in an invisible word of ghosts and witches, and spirits and demons, and gods," she spoke clearly and slowly. "For him, illusion is real, and reality is illusion."

Brandy returned Eve's gaze. She heard Eve's words and knew Eve was right, but she refused to believe any of it. Perhaps there was some way her son, out of all the Relics, could be saved. Maybe there was something or someway to convert Relics that had been overlooked or untried.

Eve, who could see that Brandy was struggling for some rationale to keep her son alive, bent her head and whispered in the Lieutenant's ear, "As I said, we will hold by your decision." She then smiled a weak smile of reassurance and drew Brandy close in a hug.

Brandy knew what had to be done, she could feel it in her bones, but she was not yet ready to admit it to herself. Not yet. There must be something she could do.

"May I be alone with my son?" Brandy asked.

"If you promise to have your cheek cleaned and bandaged, I will leave you with your son for as long as you desire."

"OK, you can bandage me."

"Good," Eve stood and rapped on the cell door. The door opened and Eve stepped through the portal. A medic entered the cell. He cleaned, stitched and bandaged Brandy's cheek. With the medic gone, the door closed and locked. Brandy was alone with her son once more.

Brandy sat with her son for the next three days and nights. She never made another move to hold him. She continued to whisper comforting words to him, and he continued to pray and speak in tongues. She would stare at him for long hours, and he would continue to sit with his eyes tightly shut. Their meals arrived on time and simultaneously. She learned that if she touched his meals, he would not eat. For those three days and nights, communication was one-way, and ineffective. Brandy was utterly alone in a cell with a boy, her son, who was not there.

On the morning of day four, completely alone and completely drained of hope and tears, Brandy, in a last great struggle to love, grabbed her son and held him tightly to her breast. He struggled, and bit, and kicked, and the more he struggled the tighter Brandy held him. The battle lasted only a few minutes. When Justin's struggling ceased, Brandy released her suffocating clutch, and her arms became a soft cradle for her dead son. She rocked him gently and sang an inaudible lullaby. She then reached for the .38 pistol she kept taped under her left breast and put the barrel in her mouth.
CHAPTER 13:

Patboy's hands and feet were tied with thick leather straps, fastened to rusty steel rings, located at each corner of his concrete bunk. He was "resting" on a standard issue prison bunk, in what was once his prison. Suspicious stains, probably dried blood from previous occupants, darkened the area around the rusty rings. Other stains, of a more disgusting origin, fouled the bunk's otherwise featureless gray surface.

Terrified, Patboy repeatedly tried to pull his fat hands through the leather restraints. His wrists were bleeding. He tried yelling protests, but his throat was too dry, and all he could manage were squeaks and grunts. He was becoming nauseated by the inescapable reek of urine and feces, some of it his own. He began a dry wretch. Most of his breakfast, consumed hastily while the battle for his Freedom Center was raging, was lost during the trip to his prison cell.

Two guards heard the retching and casually entered his cell. They looked at each other and smiled. Reluctantly, they released the leather straps on his right side and rolled him onto his left side to prevent him from dying...prematurely. He would not be saved by a blessed aspiration of his stomach's contents.

"Oh no you don't...you miserable fat fuck. You're not getting out of your comeuppance that easy," Terry, the larger of the two guards, said. She had a huge ugly "F" for fornicator burned into her forehead. Terry was old beyond her forty-three years. Her face was badly scarred from adolescent acne. The skin of her hands was like parchment from years of alcohol and drug abuse. Her manner was gruff and hard, as one who had been sexually and physically abused as a child. She had run away from her alcoholic father when she was fourteen, and survived on the streets of Tucson, being passed from man to man. She hated men in general, and hated Dominionist men even more.

Two years ago, Terry had been marked for a Blessed Cleansing, and was on her way to the stakes when Eve's army interrupted the proceedings. Terry had served with distinction in the Patriot cause ever since, and for the first time in her life, she was treated with respect and felt like she was somebody.

Patboy was too miserable and terrified to respond. He continued retching.

Sam, Terry's partner, threw a bucket of brown, brackish water into Patboy's face.

Patboy sputtered and spit, but eventually his spasms quieted, and then, he got his self-righteous indignation up. Self-righteous indignation is what cowards use as a substitute for courage in times of great peril.

"How dare you filthy fornicators abuse me in such a manner." Patboy croaked. "I am, after all, the Spiritual Leader of this Center..."

"Spiritual Leader of this Center?" Sam, the smaller of the two guards, interrupted with a laugh. "Hell, boy, you ain't even Spiritual Leader of this god-damned cell! Hell, you ain't even in charge of your own god-damned bowels. You smell like shit." Sam laughed and pinched his nose shut.

Sam was a small, wiry man in his late thirties. He had grown up poor and white, in an area once known as northwest Georgia. When Sam was sixteen, he convinced his daddy to sign the papers which would allow him to enlist in the US Army. Sam was assigned to Fort Knox, Kentucky, where he was trained to be a driver of heavy armor. He served for three years as a tank driver during Operation Indefinite Occupation of the Middle East. He was wounded by a sniper during his armor division's assault on the Damascus Perimeter. A year of bad to mediocre treatment in a stateside Dominionist's veteran's hospital left him with a limp and chronic pain. The Dominionist's Family Veteran's Administration determined that his pain was largely psychosomatic and labeled him a malingerer. Sam was no malingerer. In reality, he was guilty of not possessing the kind of qualities and values the Dominionists desired. He was good enough to fight and die for their cause, but not good enough to coexist with them. The Dominionists did not waste their time or money on anyone who didn't rise to their standard or, for that matter, on anyone who had fallen from their grace. The Dominionists excused their callousness by insisting that Jesus would have done no different.

Sam was discharged without any disability compensation and no hope of ever landing a job. Not wanting to burden his destitute family, he wandered around the country, bitter and homeless, living off of handouts and out of dumpsters. Eventually, he settled in New Mexico where the desert-dry heat eased the pain in his leg. When the Dominionist pogroms began to focus on the homeless in his area, he moved north to the Tonto forest where he had heard a she-devil was organizing an army to fight the Dominionists.

"This whole place smells like shit and...death," Terry said through the bandana she had placed around her nose in a vain effort to keep out some of the stench.

"How many people you reckon you tortured to death in here? Sam asked.

"I never tortured anyone..." Patboy attempted to answer, but a kick to his gut by the smaller guard stopped him.

"Shut up, you miserable fuck," Sam said, "ya got nottin' to say that ain't a lie. No, you never tortured nobody, because fucks like you always get others to do their dirty work for 'em. Don't ya? Don't ya?" Sam made like he was going to kick Patboy again, but despite every desire to do so, he lowered his foot.

Patboy writhed, exaggerating the pain from the kick, and said nothing.

"Hell, I'll wager you never been in this place 'til today," Sam continued. "Smells purdy don't it? You think that kick were bad, ya big baby? Hell, son, we're just dancin'. This ain't nuttin' compared to the hoe down comin' later on." Sam laughed and bared a yellow, mostly toothy grin.

"Easy Sam...Eve isn't going to like it if we mess him up too much." Terry cautioned, worried that her companion would get too carried away with roughing up the prisoner.

Sam stared at Patboy who was weeping, writhing, and occasionally gagging.

Sam regarded Terry, whose opinion he respected, and then he turned his attention back to Patboy. "Eve and Terry are the only reason your balls are not in my pocket," Sam said fingering the bone handle of the Bowie knife he had strapped across his chest. Then Sam turned to Terry. "Well, I cain't say I'm sorry for abusin' the prisoner. He's a lyin', stealin', corruptin', selfish son-of-a-bitch, like all those sons-a-bitchin' preachers what's infested our country...acting like all the rest of us are furiners..." Sam turned back to Patboy who stared wide eyed in fear at his angry tormentor. "It's my country too, ya fat fucking asshole!...talkin' all high and mighty...butter won't melt in your fuck'n mouth, all the while takin' poor peoples' money and molestin' their little ones...like my little niece for instance..." Sam's face was glowing red and Terry could see another kick coming.

"Easy Sam...take it easy, gawd-damn it!" she interrupted. "This one is not getting away. Eve will see to it that justice is served. Easy." Terry laid her large hand on Sam's arm, hoping her grip would calm him down a bit.

"Not soon enough." Sam spat into Patboy's face. He then turned and limped from the cell and stood shaking with rage in the hall.

Terry turned to Patboy and stooped to get her eyes level with his. Sam's spit was stuck to Patboy's cheek and dripped from the end of his snout. She made no move to wipe it away.

"If I were you, I'd keep my fuck'n mouth shut...'specially around Sam. I've seen him cut the balls off fat fucks like you before...and they were very alive when he did it." Terry smiled as she spoke, and Patboy's eyes widened into terrified saucers. She continued with a menacingly faux-sweet voice, "You see Sam's niece, she was ten, I think, was repeatedly raped by one of your associates. She'd joined the church choir and thought the world of her preacher-man...just couldn't stop talking about how good and pure he was...a little girl's crush...I s'pose. Well, it turns out the preacher liked her too, and a lot of other little girls and a few little boys...if I heard the story right. An' he showed his love for her by repeatedly rapin' her...every chance he got. He even fucked her in the ass...a really sweet guy." Terry flashed Patboy a menacing evil smile. "Not too long afterwards, the little girl started to waste away, and nobody knew why. She got real sickly and stopped talkin'. And then, one day, I guess she'd had enough and stepped in front of a pickup truck out on some highway. They found a note. It said somethin' about how she was a sinner and could never be clean...and spoke about her secret meetings with the reverend in the rectory. Well, Sam went crazy, of course, and looked high and low for that preacher...Dick, I think his name was, but he could never find him. He'd skipped town. He was a Dominionist fuck, just like you, by the way. Anywho, so Sam made it his life's mission to collect as many Dominionist testicles as possible. Generally, you understand, I never do anything to stop him...actually...I kind of help," she smiled the smile of self-satisfied pride and added a chuckle of modesty, "...but you are kind of special. I know Sam would get into deep shit with Eve if he hurt you too bad...you see after he cuts off their nuts they generally bleed to death...I think he cuts too deep...Sam says not, but I don't know...anyway, you see, I like Sam too much to see him get into trouble over a fat worthless fuck like you." Terry paused and removed herself from Patboy's face. She looked down upon the stricken Snake. "Now don't think my stopping Sam makes us friends, though, 'cause if Eve gave the word, I'd hold you down while Sam neutered you with a teaspoon...if that's all he had. I just want to be clear, that's all."

"Ten hut," Sam called from the hall, and Terry stood bolt upright as Eve entered the cell. Burt stood behind her filling the doorway.

"At ease," Eve said. "Have you two gotten any sleep?" she asked Sam and Terry as she removed her gloves.

"Yes ma'am...a couple of hours yesterday," Terry said looking straight ahead.

"That much? You guys are getting soft. Jay and Elliot are here to relieve you. Go get some sleep." Eve ordered.

"Yes ma'am." Terry and Sam said in unison. They then turned and left.

Elliot, 42, decided to marry and start a family right out of high school. He worked hard and sacrificed so his five children could attend college. Elliot never paid much attention to politics. He preferred to believe that the government always acted with the best interest of its people foremost in its mind. He believed all was well with America, that is, until the factory in which he had worked for twenty-four years was suddenly declared redundant and closed by Dominionist fiat. In the years preceding the Tribulation, millions of his fellow workers, around the country, had been thrown onto the streets with no hope of employment, by similar fiats. Their jobs were given to Dominionist loyalists or shipped overseas.

Elliot and his wife, like so many others, were given the choice of joining the church and accepting Dominionist dictates, or of living as outcasts on the streets. Elliot argued that maybe it would be better to join the church and eat, than to live on the streets and starve, but his wife, Carol, refused to submit. She died of pneumonia in the backseat of their beat-up Dodge sedan, two years later. Elliot was eventually arrested by the Freedom Police in one of the many roundups of the Chicago homeless. He was sentenced to life at hard labor for vagrancy, in a nationally televised show-trial that included fifteen-hundred of his fellow "vagrants". Elliot and his undesirable comrades were sent west to help in the construction of Freedom Center Reuben. One evening, four years ago, he escaped from a work detail as it returned from a logging expedition in the mountains, northwest of the Center. Shortly after his escape, Eve found him wandering in the mountains. Elliot, grateful for his rescue, quickly swore allegiance to the Patriot cause and joined Eve and her army. Everyone in the Relic work detail, from which Elliot escaped, was found guilty of aiding Elliot's escape. They were summarily ordered burned at the stake.

Jay, 49 and skinny, looked like he was 70. He described himself as "a practicing alcoholic with nowhere to practice." Jay had not had a drink in years. The Dominionists had made recreational alcohol illegal and, unlike earlier efforts at prohibition, the Dominionists were far more successful in curtailing the manufacturing, import, and use of alcohol. The rapidly diminishing supplies of black-market alcohol dried up in a couple of years, and the abusers of alcohol disappeared just as quickly. Jay avoided arrest by employing "dumb luck" and hopping a freight train into the wilderness. Eve found Jay living in a desert shantytown with a number of his fellow hoboes. Some, Jay among them, threw their lot in with Eve. The others remained in their shantytown, preferring their freedom to roam, over any kind of regimentation. Jay had been with Eve for the last four years or so. Because his hand had a slight tremor, which in turn had a bad effect on his aim, Jay carried a sawed off twelve-gauge pump shotgun and "one whole hell-uv-a-lot of resentment for those tee-totaling Dominionist bastards."

Elliot and Jay, who was carrying a fire hose, stepped into the tiny cell and stood behind Eve. She looked disgustedly at Patboy.

"Don't you smell pretty?" Eve said. She didn't wait for an answer. "Hose him down," she ordered.

Elliot and Eve left the cell while Jay hosed the stink off of Patboy. His screams and protestations could be heard all around the prison. Patriot workers in the compound of the prison smiled at each other. They knew who was screaming, and they were glad.

After a short while Eve stepped into the cell, "OK Jay, that's enough. Untie him."

"Ma'am?"

"Untie him. It'll be O.K."

"As you order, ma'am." Jay released the remaining leather straps and stepped back as Patboy struggled to set upright. He sat on the concrete slab coughing and sputtering.

"You and Elliot stand guard in the hall," she said.

Eve stood just out of reach and looked down on the drenched Spiritual Leader. "Nice little four- star prison you got here," she said looking around at Patboy's new digs, "Real cozy. We released about fifty-five-hundred of your guests yesterday. Many were not in too good a shape. Some were near death. We found about one-hundred dead on the top floor. You starved them to death, didn't you?"

Patboy glared at Eve and said nothing.

"No one had anything good to say about you or their treatment here," Eve continued. "The good news is that we've practically doubled the size of our army. You know...nothing recruits soldiers to our cause faster than an encounter with one of you Relics, sorry...Dominionist assholes."

"You know, you won't get away with this. The Most Reverend President Leader Huckleberry will send Tribulation Warriors to rescue me. They're on their way now! He expects daily radio contact, and only a handful of us know the code. When he doesn't hear from me..." Patboy said all in a rush, his fear barely concealed by his contempt.

"Huckleberry? Now there's a laugh. He's all snug in his mountain hideaway concerned only for his own comfort and safety. Good old Huckleberry couldn't care less about you and your problems."

Patboy stared defiantly at Eve. He set his jaw and put on his best contemptuous face. It was a vain attempt at hiding his fear that the she-devil just might be right about the Most Reverend President Leader.

"So, that's interesting...you have a secret code, which only you know and won't share?" Eve asked rhetorically, her eyes wide with feigned surprise. "Interestingly", she said after a pause, "I couldn't help but to notice some extremely well-equipped rooms on my tour of the prison. It looked to me like they were rooms one would use to torture information from reluctant prison guests."

Patboy's eyes widened and his face lost the little color that remained.

"So, you know of these rooms?"

"T-those rooms are to be used for B-Blessed Conversions. It w-would be unwise, and...a sacrilege to use them for anything other than their intended..." Patboy stammered.

"Well, you know me, I'm all about sacrilege," Eve said with a smile. She turned her back on Patboy to give orders to Elliot and Jay standing in the hall.

Patboy, being both a coward and a fool, saw the opportunity he had been waiting for. Somehow ignoring the silent hulk that was Burt, standing against the cell wall just inches from Eve, Patboy lurched forward in an attempt to grab the Patriot leader from behind. Eve, of course, expecting this move from Patboy, heard him and stepped to one side. Patboy missed Eve, but he was saved from a fall by Burt, who grabbed him firmly around the neck...with one hand. Patboy clawed at Burt's arm trying to break the large man's hold on his neck. He was not successful. Burt squeezed and the choking Patboy lost all his fight. Burt then threw the limp Patboy hard against the cell wall. Patboy fell against his concrete bunk, sounding like two-hundred-ninety pounds of saturated tissue paper hitting the floor.

Eve turned and feigning concern crouched next to the wilted Patboy, "You OK there partner?"

Patboy squeaked a hoarse, "No!"

"Allow me to introduce you to Burt, my...uhmm... personal assistant. All requests for audience must go through him. He gets very, very upset when protocol is abused," Eve said to Patboy, who was rubbing his neck and gagging dramatically.

"Handcuff him and follow me," Eve said as she stood up.

"Where are you taking me?" Patboy choked.

"I think you are due for a Blessed Conversion...I think you call it, and I know just the place to do it." Eve replied.

"No! You wouldn't dare!" Patboy screamed as the two guards yanked him to his feet and handcuffed him. "You'll never get the secret code from me. Never! Huckleberry will make you pay...you'll..."

"Oh, shut up, you ass. Not only are you a coward and a fool, but you're stupid as well. We have been monitoring your radio communications for months. There is no code," Eve shouted over Patboy's screams. She turned and led the group down the dimly lit dark musty gray hall.

"Yes, there is...there is a code," Patboy insisted, his fear overriding whatever common sense he possessed. He refused to walk, so the guards were gently encouraging him along with one of the many cattle prods they had found lying around the prison. "Oww!" he squealed, as a prod was touched between the shoulders of his soaked powder-blue jacket, "do unto others...Oww!"

"Yeah, like you wouldn't electrocute us, or worse," Jay who wielded the prod said as he administered another shock. "Look on the bright side...you're finding out that that do-unto-others bullshit works both ways...don't it? Get moving you tee-totaling son-of-a-bitch." Jay lifted the prod once more, and Patboy lurched forward to avoid the blow. "That's much better...now march!"

"So, you want me to torture the secret code out of you, then?" Eve asked, playing like a cat with a mouse.

"No...Yes...N-n-no!" Patboy stammered as he stumbled forward into the hall.

"Well, I really don't believe there is any secret code, but I was going to torture you for the fun of it anyway. Soooo, while I'm at it, I suppose I can get some clarification on this secret code of yours," Eve said throwing a sly smile over her shoulder in Patboy's direction.

"T-t-torture doesn't w-work to get reliable information," Patboy pleaded and stammered. "I'm l-l-likely to say just about anything j-j-just to make the pain stop. You know that's true."

"Jay..." Eve said to the guard as she indicated that another shock was warranted.

"Owww!" Patboy screeched.

Patboy continued to scream and protest, as he was prodded along the hall and up the four flights of metal steps leading to the interrogation rooms. He even continued screaming and protesting as he was persuaded past the interrogation rooms, through the administrative offices, and up another two flights of powder-blue carpeted stairs and into the skybox he used to officiate and observe The Blessed Cleansing ritual.

Following a Blessed Conversion, whether successful or not, one was chained to a ten-foot-tall metal stake, subjected to a final religious service (intended to prepare the person for entrance into either Heaven or Hell, depending), and then set ablaze. Thousands of "concerned" Dominionists would look on from the viewing stands, which surrounded the arena on three sides and, whipped into a religious frenzy by Patboy's "Inspired Word", they would dance in circles, their arms raised skyward, talk in tongues, pray, and roll around in the aisles, while the "sinners" were slow-roasted...to death. Dominionists, unlike the Inquisitors and witch hunters before them, did not actually burn anyone at the stake; that being perhaps too merciful. They instead preferred to tie their victims above the faggots at a distance which insured that the flames just reached the soles of their feet and lapped about their ankles. In this manner, a victim would not really burn to death, but rather would die of slow roasting. The Dominionists considered this an improvement on the traditional inquisitorial process. The Dominionists contributed nothing to technology which didn't make other's lives more miserable, while making their own more entertaining.

There were thirteen metal stakes arranged in the shape of a cross, sitting in the center of a circle of thirty additional stakes. The Blessed Cleansing Arena was fifty feet below Patboy's skybox. Wood was scarce in the desert, so large ceramic logs, similar to those found in the hearths of the once common and now long-gone suburban fireplaces, were "stacked" around the platforms. The intended victims "stood" on these platforms. Arrays of natural gas burners, fed by the Freedom Center's two natural gas wells, were used to provide the flames.

The skybox was well-appointed, luxurious, and beyond tasteless, by any standard, other than that of the Dominionists. The Dominionists were very fond of overdoing their dress, their makeup, and their room decorations. The women often used too much eye shadow and lipstick. Men often wore powder on their faces, presumably to hide their age. And, they were fond of greasing their hair into pompadours, the height of which seemed somehow to correlate with their social position (Patboy's sparsely populated pate necessitated that he wear a wig of spectacular proportions).

Patboy subscribed, wholeheartedly, to the Appalachian Rococo decorative motif. His skybox, for example, was appointed with a thickly padded powder-blue carpet, sporting a room-sized yellow cross along its center axis. Red velvet draperies with gold tassels were set against cobalt blue walls, and large golden angels blowing trumpets, were embroidered, embossed, or applied to everything. A huge gold- plated crucifix dominated one wall. Powder-blue furniture with gold leaf appliqué angels and red velvet cushions, edged with gold tassels, lined the room. A gold-plated refrigerator and stove commanded the kitchen. Red velvet and powder-blue lounging pillows with gold tassels and angels were arranged around the foot of the gold fountain located just outside the door. Gold faucets sparkled in the red bathrooms outfitted with gold-framed mirrors and powder-blue tiling. Gold cutlery adorned the table setting. Powder-blue china with angels in gold leaf filigree competed for attention with the powder-blue table and its gold appliqué angels. A brilliant red linen tablecloth with gold embroidered crosses was the icing on the cake.

Nowhere was there a hint of humility or poverty. Nothing suggested any affiliation with their destitute Prince of Peace, the champion of the meek and needy. Instead, the presentation spoke only of arrogance and cosmetic superiority; the overreaction of the desperately insecure, trying to appear secure, and fooling only those most like themselves. The Dominionists were nothing if not desperate for attention. Tragically, it seems that the entire Tribulation could have been avoided if the Liberals could have taken a moment to flatter these zealots. Yes, it may have required some dishonesty, but having no god, the Liberals could have survived the guilt of a little lie. No?

Eve walked to the ceiling-to-floor-window, opening onto the arena. She pushed a button located on Patboy's overstuffed viewing chair and the window glided open with a hiss. Beyond the window was a balcony, bordered by a waist-high glass wall, from which Patboy would address the masses. She stepped onto the balcony and surveyed the arena. There, on three sides, were viewing stands rising at least one-hundred feet, and capable of seating ten-thousand faithful fanatics. She leaned on the balcony wall, sighed deeply, and shook her head. She gazed at the forty-three rusted stakes. It was extremely hard for her to contemplate the thousands of horrible deaths suffered in this arena by innocent men, women, and children for the benefit of religious zealots and misfits, who had no idea how to live in and contribute to a free society. Tears of anger, grief, and weariness welled in her eyes. She took a deep breath and coughed up a bit of red spittle. Eve wiped the residue on the sleeve of her fatigue jacket and turned to face the room. She focused on Patboy, who remained suspended by his armpits between Elliot and Jay, who were beginning to show signs of tiring.

"Release him and stand guard outside the door," Eve ordered the guards. They released Patboy, as ordered, and left the room. Patboy fell to the carpet with a muffled thud. Burt, as usual, did not respond to the order. He remained in the room with his steely gaze fixed on Patboy.

Eve walked over to the gaudy dinner table. She picked up a gold-handled steak knife and pushed its point into the pristine tabletop, "Tell me, do you eat before, during, or after the burnings? Which do you find best stimulates the appetite?"

Patboy resting on his hands and knees looked at Eve's feet, "What's going to happen to me?"

Eve grinned, "What do you think should happen to you?"

"I am a son of God...a humble messenger of Jesus' glorious word, and I should be permitted to spread the gospel in His name. I..." Patboy said his voice trembling.

"A humble messenger of Cheese-us-ah," Eve said, mocking the way Patboy pronounced Jesus, "...You...humble? You don't know the meaning of the word." She laughed. "I doubt you can spell it."

"I should be allowed to continue to spread the word of divine salvation and infinite love," Patboy said hurriedly finishing his little speech.

"You must be joking," Eve said, stooping to look into his eyes. "Look at me!" she shouted. Patboy startled at Eve's command. He raised his head slowly but did not look directly into her eyes. Eve's gaze bored into Patboy. "No, I don't think you are joking...and you are way beyond confused. I think you are genuinely deluded."

"To the eyes of Satan faith looks like delusion." Patboy said, sounding a bit more like his old self...preachy.

"Oh, so now I'm Satan and I'm the deluded one? Do you actually believe that murdering billions of innocent men, women, and children, that destroying entire ecosystems and rendering most of the earth uninhabitable for the next twenty-five-thousand years was an act of divine love?!" Eve asked incredulously. She stood and looked down at Patboy's smug, upturned porcine countenance.

"It is God's creation to destroy. He destroyed Noah's world in the great flood, and he destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah. He destroyed the firstborn of Pharaoh's Egypt. God creates out of love and asks only that we abide by his word. He destroys sinners, heretics, and blasphemers, and those who promote their causes, because he cannot bear to see his creation mocked and misused. He casts all who oppose Him into the hellfire and starts anew. It is His way. He loves only those who obey His word!" Patboy was losing himself to the moment and beginning to find his voice. His face had changed from a pale pink to an unsightly visage of crimson blotches, as the fires of righteousness were stoked deep within him.

"It's God's creation to destroy? Interesting, but He didn't destroy it...you did!" Never taking her eyes off of her captive, Eve moved across the room and leaned against Patboy's overstuffed viewing chair. "And you didn't destroy it because of love," she continued, "you destroyed it because of fear. It's been quite clear for a long, long while, that your kind fear everything you do not understand, hate everything you fear, and destroy everything you hate. And, while we are at it, it's also been clear that you pick and choose only those passages from the Bible which rationalize your prejudice, your bigotry, your intolerance, and ultimately, justify your murder of billions of human beings. It is you who mistakes blind obedience for love," Eve said, giving every "you" and "your" a little emphasis. "You are like a child...or a madman...who 'loves' only those who let him have his way. Blind obedience or faith, it makes no difference, is not about love...it's about fear. You love being feared. You believe that if people fear you, then they must respect and love you."

"Those who love God have nothing to fear," Patboy replied in a sly attempt to twist Eve's words and change the subject. The Dominionists' rise to power was made successful in large part by this ability to twist issues, important to the people, into emotionally charged arguments, which only distracted and confused the electorate. They repeatedly used this technique, quite effectively, to sway large masses of the unaware and clueless into voting for those candidates and issues that only served the Dominionists causes, while ignoring the larger needs of the American people.

"This is not about gods or about fearing gods," Eve said taking a seat in Patboy's powder-blue leather chair. "It is about you believing you are a god. Those who kiss your ass have nothing to fear from you, would be a more accurate statement."

"The Gospels to the ears of Satan are as pearls before swine. I am but God's hand on earth...His messenger. His will be done through me!" Patboy intoned, while once again displacing the subject and going for the emotional sound bite. Patboy had used this technique for so long that it was no longer a conscious decision to do so; it was as habitual and as natural as the sandstorms...and just as disorienting to the untrained. Patboy was not the least bit put off by Eve's failure to take the emotional hook. He knew that if he could keep her talking, that he would eventually bait her into an emotional outburst. When she finally lost her composure, he could move in for the victory. Patboy rolled onto his right hip and supported his bulk with an arm. He was obviously pleased with himself, but his pleasure was ill-conceived out of an under-appreciation of his adversary's skill and intelligence.

"So, now I'm a deluded Satan pig. Hmmm...How exactly do you figure calling me names is going to save your ass?" an amused Eve asked. Patboy's arrogance was giving Eve an itchy trigger finger.

"By accepting Jesus as my savior...by believing that He died for my sins... I have already been saved! Praise Jesus!" Patboy shouted finding his stride. He thrust his chin forward in defiance and risked a thin-lipped smile. He would not allow himself to be swayed into rational argument.

"Well, believing the invisible man living in the sky has saved you, in no way saves you from me. You are the only one in this room who believes you are a god. I, on the other hand, believe you are a murdering, misguided asshole, hiding your narcissistic, antisocial personality behind scripture," Eve said, tenacious in her insistence that at least a bit of reality would seep into the proceedings. She pushed a button on the chair's console to close the viewing window, which stopped the cold wind blowing into the room.

"I am but God's messenger. I am not God." Patboy pontificated.

"OK, I'll bite, how exactly do you figure you are God's messenger?" Eve asked with a laugh, making her amusement very obvious to her fat mouse.

"I am a dedicated student of the inspired word of God, and He has seen fit to raise me to my present station as a reward," Patboy said proudly, attempting a thin disguise of the hatred he had for this woman and her lack of respect for him.

"That's nice. Where did you apply? Did God actually interview you for the position of holy messenger? I mean, how do you know that you were chosen over all the other applicants? Did you receive an employment letter from His Holiness?" Eve asked this, knowing that her amusement was having the desired effect of hooking Patboy into an emotional outburst of her design.

"Do not argue the intentions of God with me, she-devil! Your kind do not have the mind for it!" Patboy said snippily raising his chin defiantly and looking down his nose at Eve.

"Well I certainly can't argue with that," Eve laughed heartily. She was beginning to enjoy herself. "So, I guess you are not going to answer my question."

"With the glorious Jesus on my side I have nothing to fear from you," Patboy said. He was quite pleased that in his mind, at least, he was in control of the conversation.

"Really, well isn't that wonderful," Eve said leaving her seat and walking over to the viewing window. She stood and looked down into the deep pit fifty feet below. "Nice stakes," she said.

The haughty arrogant expression flew from Patboy's face. His eyes widened and he lost all his color. "You wouldn't dare," he hissed. Incredibly, Patboy believed that he had regained control and could freely challenge his tormentor. It was inconceivable to him that anyone would even dare consider burning him at the stake.

"Oh, OK, maybe I wouldn't dare burn a bona-fide holy messenger from the gods, but I wouldn't hesitate to burn a fat pig such as you," Eve said. Her smile evaporated. "You wouldn't dare me so easily, if you knew me better." She coughed some red spittle into a powder-blue hand towel decorated with angels and crosses. All the laughing at Patboy was beginning to take its toll on Eve's lungs. Her temperature was rising, and beads of sweat were beginning to show on her brow. She was too tired to continue playing with Patboy. But, determined to make her point, Eve set aside her hurts and concentrated on Patboy's pallid countenance. "Having second thoughts about 'glorious Cheese-us-ah' being on your side? Not so excited about getting to Heaven?" Eve asked. "It may interest you to know that I have some beliefs too. And, one of my beliefs happens to be that the world would be better off with you, and your kind, anywhere else but alive and here on earth. And, in that vein, I will gladly send you to Heaven...or, most likely, Hell."

Patboy mistook Eve's physical distress as weakness. So, encouraged, he pressed on with his hopeless cause. "How would someone like you, an atheist damned to the everlasting fires of Hell, be able to tell a true messenger of God from a false messenger of God?" Patboy snorted.

"It's quite easy, really," Eve replied not missing a step. "False messengers are fond of telling anyone who will listen that they are true messengers. And, for your information," she continued, "I'm not an atheist. I am an anti-theist. There may or may not be a God. I doubt there is one but, ultimately, I think the question is a waste of time. The more important question concerns the here and now, and what should be done to the murdering pedophiles who claim to represent Him."

"You think you can justify condemning me to death because I do God's work? You are risking your very soul! You mock God by playing God and he will not be mocked!" Patboy pompously declared while wrestling his bloated form to its knees.

"Don't forget the part about how 'that which a man sows, so shall he reap'," Eve said throwing a glance at Burt who was standing ready for Patboy to do something desperate. "Do you think your God missed the part about you raping those little girls we found shot to death in your bunker? Do you think your God does not know who raped and murdered them? Is there a Biblical scripture that excuses pedophilia and murder? How is that God's work? Which one of us is mocking God? Which one of us is playing God?"

"You play God when you condemn me to death for doing God's work," Patboy snarled biting the emotional hook and ignoring the obvious charge. The she-devil had figured out too much. Patboy struggled to reinforce the rationalizations for his actions. He hadn't really raped the girls. He was only offering the little whores what they really wanted. He was exposing them to God's love. And, he hadn't really murdered them. He was selflessly sparing them from the ravaging hands of the Satanists. It's what God would have wanted him to do, surely. Patboy was Chosen, elite, pre-saved, and beyond the judgment of God!

"No. I condemn you to death out of self-defense," Eve countered, "You have openly conspired with others of your kind to end the world. You knowingly have threatened the very existence of the human race and, therefore, I am duty-bound to end you before you succeed in ending us all."

"And, God was duty-bound to end your kind in self-defense, because you threatened His very existence with your evil ways!" Patboy shouted, while using a chair as a support in an attempt to come to his feet. Patboy was terrified at being challenged by this unworthy female, who had somehow found him out. He now moved to better position himself. He would silence her mockery of him at the first opportunity.

Burt kicked the chair out from under Patboy, and he fell hard on his right shoulder.

"You son-of-a-bitch!" Patboy yelped.

"Thank-you, Burt," Eve said giving her silent companion a nod of approval. "Burt and I would prefer that you remain on the floor." Eve looked upon Patboy who was holding his shoulder and rolling from side to side in a vain attempt at eliciting pity. "My, you are a big baby, aren't you?"

"You are Satan's whore!" Patboy shouted as he continued to roll from one side to the other dramatizing his injury.

"And, for the record, I never had any intention of threatening God's existence. As a god, He should have known that. Don't misunderstand me, I have never quite swallowed the notion of invisible deities living in the sky and interacting in all we do. It smacks too much of a child's fairy tale, Mount Olympus, Zeus, fairy godmothers and all that. But I have never had a problem with others who wanted to believe in a god. As far as I was concerned that was their business." Eve paused and looked at the whimpering Patboy who was still rubbing his shoulder. She shook her head in disbelief and smiled at Burt.

Burt glared in return. He saw no benefit to prolonging Patboy's miserable life.

"I once lived in a free society," Eve continued, "where people had the right to believe as they wished and go unmolested. That is, until you Dominionists came along. Then everyone had to believe as you believed. If they didn't, or if they refused, you sentenced them to torture and death and passed the buck on to God. You know, I don't recall God ever coming down from the sky and saying that the United States Constitution and the Bill of Rights were threatening His very existence. If He did, I missed it. You think it would have been in all the papers. No, it was just you, and your kind, twisting scripture to your own purposes..."

"Shut-up you she-demon from Hell. It is you who twists and deceives..." Patboy interrupted between moans.

Burt gave Patboy a sharp kick to the side. Patboy yelped and then grabbed his side and moaned some more.

Eve left the chair, walked over to Patboy, and dropped to one knee. Her face was just inches from his. "It is now your turn to listen or, at the very least, lay there and moan while I speak. Your kind have dominated conversations and ideas for centuries, and have grown accustomed, no doubt, to receiving unquestioning respect...although, I must admit, that I am not at all certain what it was you ever did to earn that respect. Those days are over, my friend. You have commanded the conversation and destroyed the world. Now it is your turn to shut-up." Eve stood and returned to Patboy's chair. She sat down once again.

"Now, where was I? Oh yes...It was you, and your kind, twisting scripture to your own advantage that ultimately and, ironically, threatened God's existence. I had no problem with the notion of God until you came along peddling fear and hate, motivated by greed, and seeking ultimate power for your self-aggrandizement. And, now I have a problem with the concept of God, because now I see how blind belief in so-called holy texts and invisible deities can be taken advantage of by the mad and megalomaniacal...how it can be too easily employed to fool and change ordinary folk into murderous co-conspirators. Now, I have a problem with the notion of God, because the concept of God in the hands of greedy, power-hungry, ignorant and superstitious humans, who possess nuclear weapons, is a very, very, very dangerous and stupid thing. It has threatened our very existence. God belief has gone beyond a harmless pastime for the pleasure of some and the amusement of others. Arrogant, misguided humans such as you, who pretend to know the mind of a god, no less, who are charismatic and nefarious enough to hoodwink masses of people into believing and following you, have destroyed whatever goodness there was in God. You have destroyed God, not me!"

Eve paused and pushed a button on Patboy's chair, which caused it to swivel. She stopped the chair when it faced the window. She looked out and could not help but to gaze upon the metal stakes, which jutted out of the earth like giant, liver-colored skewers...hellish teeth.

She rested for a moment. Her breath rattled in her scarred lungs. She regarded Burt, who could clearly see the strain in Eve's drawn face. He took a step toward her, but she stopped him with a wave of her hand. She possessed the strength to continue. She turned her attention back to Patboy who, unrelenting, continued his moaning and rubbing.

"It seems to me that a god is a god," Eve said, "because He, or She, exists so far outside human experience and thought, that it would be impossible...laughable!...for any human to believe, even for a moment, that God's mind was comprehensible. Gods are special because humans are so very, very, very ordinary. Therefore, I believe, and I think Burt would support me on this, any human who would contend that he could understand the mind of a god is either a god himself, a con artist, or deluded. And, I think it is safe to say, that you and your ilk are not gods. Which leaves us with only two possibilities: you are either con men or deluded...and, I think it is more likely that you Dominionists are not just one or the other. Nope, I think you are deluded con artists...with murderous convictions."

Eve wiped her perspiring brow and coughed into her powder-blue towel. She wanted to rest badly, but she felt compelled to continue. She had been pondering these thoughts for a long while, and it was important to her that they now see the light of day. She felt as if she would explode if she did not at last speak her mind. She would have preferred Huckleberry to the criminal who now groveled before her. But, Patboy, one of the chief architects of the most deplorable act of inhumanity ever devised, would have to do...for now.

"You say your so-called Holy Book is the inspired word of your god; the word of a god put into a book and given to humans to interpret. I can think of no more disastrous a concept. What kind of arrogance would it take...to what heights would human arrogance have to rise for a mere human to convince itself that it could understand the meanings behind the words of a god?! And what kind of stupidity would have to be assigned to those who listened? And, while we are at it, what kind of a god, knowing that his human creation was imperfect, would give that creation a Holy Book full of god reasoning to misinterpret? Only an irresponsible god, at best, and a criminal one, at worst...and a nonexistent one, overall, would think to do such a thing! I would argue that it would make more sense for Satan to have given that Holy Book to men. Surely he would know how to exploit the arrogance and stupidity of men!"

Patboy, who was too busy moaning and rolling about and fearing another kick to the ribs, said nothing in reply. But his brain was squirming...looking for an opportunity to strike.

"It is up to us, the people, to ask ourselves how we could have ever allowed someone, as pathetic as you, to seize power and destroy everything that was the United States of America...to destroy everything that was the earth. We all suffer because of our blindness, our unwillingness to confront, and our...passivity...which, ultimately, permitted you faith-healers and snake charmers...and holy rollers to tear up the Bill of Rights and replace it with theocratic self-serving mumbo jumbo." Eve was now chastising herself, her countrymen, as well as, Patboy. "Well, I'm here to make amends and do my level best to see that it never happens again," she concluded pounding the arm of her chair.

Patboy startled when Eve pounded the chair. He was quite on edge and was terrified that his end would come at any moment at the hands of this irrational and Satan-possessed woman. "How will you ever eliminate God and belief?" Patboy squeaked and rolled into a ball to protect himself.

Eve raised her hand to stop Burt from delivering another kick.

"I didn't end God. You did. But, for now, we will do here what we have done with every captured Dominionist. We will eliminate you and every device, token, talisman, text, idol, altar, book and reference to you and your beliefs. By the end of this day, you and everything you stood for won't even be a rumor; you will have never existed."

"You'll never succeed," Patboy scoffed.

"Oh, probably not...but it makes me, and my fellow Patriots feel better knowing that we are at least trying to do the responsible thing to protect the future and our children," Eve replied. She called to the two guards in the hall, "Jay and Elliot, step in here please."

The guards stepped into the room. "Cuff him," Eve ordered.

Elliot stooped to cuff Patboy and was hit in the groin. He fell to the floor, and Patboy tried to gain his feet by using him as a support. He almost made it to his feet, but Burt's fist landed a fracturing blow to his jaw. Patboy dropped unconscious to the floor.

The first thing Patboy realized, when he regained consciousness, was that he had a pounding headache and that the entire left side of his face was on fire. When his eyes eventually gained focus, he saw that he was high off the ground and facing a concrete and block wall, about one-hundred feet away. The wall was at least sixty feet high and had a large window set in its center, directly above him. There was something oddly familiar about that wall, but he ignored it for the moment and tried to touch the left side of his face, which was throbbing and quite painful. It was then that Patboy realized that he was not floating, but rather, he was bound, hand and foot, to a cold metal object, and could not move. Suddenly, the realization of where he was, snapped him into complete consciousness. He was chained to one of his Blessed Cleansing stakes. His panic was instantaneous, his terror overwhelming. He twisted and writhed, and attempted to wiggle from his binding chains. He strained and wrenched at his bindings and gritted his teeth in his vain struggle. He tried to shout for help, but immediately passed out from a shocking pain, which shot along his jaw and directly into his brain. He soiled himself, again.

The bound figure slumped unconscious for nearly an hour before he began to come around. As he regained consciousness, his watering eyes fluttered open and attempted to focus on a blurry figure, standing on the ground nearly twenty feet below him. The figure seemed to be giving indecipherable directions, and other shadowy figures were hustling around it. He blinked several times to clear his vision and his mind.

Eve was directing the placement of Bibles, related holy texts, and various wooden and plastic religious idols and symbols around the base of Patboy's iron perch; crowding his feet on the narrow pedestal.

Eve turned her attention to Patboy and noticed that he was regaining consciousness. She snapped her fingers and shouted at the bound figure. "Wakey, wakey, Mr. Snakey. You've slept long enough! Oh, and I shouldn't attempt to speak, if I were you. Burt really walloped you. Your jaw is broken. Pity."

Patboy tried to open his mouth just a little and nearly passed out from the pain, again. A splotchy pink concoction of saliva and blood drained from the corners of his mouth and stained the torn lapels of his once pretty powder-blue suit jacket.

Eve shook her head and smiled in amusement. "One of the biggest problems you assholes...sorry...Dominionist assholes have is that you are so accustomed to shooting off your mouths, you have forgotten how to listen. _Je repete_ , once again...now, pay close attention...your jaw is broken. You will suffer a great deal of pain if you make any attempt to move it. That's the bad news. The good news is that soon you will experience a much greater pain which will take your mind off your jaw, but...and here's the really good part...overall, you will not be in pain for very much longer."

Patboy, overwhelmed with panic, resumed wrenching and tugging at his bindings. But his futile efforts had no effect of loosening the rusty chains and blood-crusted handcuffs that secured him to the rigid, cold metal stake running up his back.

Eve ignored Patboy's struggling and began to speak for the benefit of Patboy and the soldiers that were working around her. She did not bother to look at Patboy, while she spoke. Her tone was matter of fact and rather conversational.

"I hate you and your kind for putting me and my soldiers in this position," she began. "It is impossible for you to understand, but we get no satisfaction out of killing--quite the opposite reaction, really. Every time we kill one of you, a piece of our humanity dies; we get farther away from that which makes us human. It doesn't make any difference if we think the person being killed deserves to die or not; killing is not good. Sometimes it is necessary...but never good. It doesn't even matter if the state says it is OK to kill someone. When you, or I, or anyone kills someone, regardless of the reason, we kill a bit of ourselves. Kill enough, and eventually the self and its humanity dies." Eve paused and took a moment to direct the placement of religious texts and idols around a neighboring Dominionist, bound to a stake.

"In time," she continued, "you go insane, or you become a killer, and killing becomes easy...very easy...too easy. So easy in fact, that in time, you can easily justify killing almost anyone for any reason...or no reason at all." Eve stopped to stare at the concrete wall and ran the fingers of her right hand across her forehead to soothe her pounding headache. She wiped the sweat that collected on her fingers on the thigh of her laundered fatigue pants.

"We are not, well, most of us are not, natural born killers, you know," Eve resumed. "Take me, for instance. I'm a physician, or at least I was a physician. I was trained in the healing arts. I wanted to be of some use and to do some good. I wanted to experience the satisfaction that came from knowing I had helped to heal someone or made their passing a bit more comfortable. I was full of hope and possibilities. Now, after years of killing...I don't know who or what I am." She paused for a short while.

"I can find no satisfaction or hope in killing you Dominionists," Eve resumed, "no matter how much you deserve it, and no matter how much it is necessary. I have lost me...somewhere. I am a healer who kills. I don't know what that is. Just like you don't know what you are--self-proclaimed holy men...so-called purveyors of the Prince of Peace's words of love and peace and tolerance...who hate and kill in His name." Eve paused and gave a few more directions to her workers.

"You know what keeps me going?" she asked rhetorically. "It's knowing, or maybe just hoping, that we Patriots will be successful in wiping religious superstition off the face of the earth; that we will be successful in giving birth to a new world, grounded in reason and intelligence and human rights and knowledge." Eve paused to observe the workers.

"We tried religious freedom," Eve said after a while, "but your kind couldn't handle the responsibility and, ultimately, you took advantage of the good intentions of the people. If what we are doing today can rid the world of your religious excesses, excuses for bigotry and intolerance, then maybe some good can come out of all of this. Not for me, mind you. There is no good left for me...but maybe for the children."

"That's it, ma'am. That's all of it that will burn...that is," Sophie, the sergeant in charge of the workers, reported. Her voice was deep and gravely, made so by too many years of tobacco abuse.

Eve took a step back and took a look. The four stakes at each end of the cross were piled high with religious artifacts.

"OK, bring in the other prisoners," she ordered. Sophie relayed the order, and a large metal gate in the wall behind Patboy squealed and slid open on rusty rails. Patboy heard a tractor start. It moved across the arena in his direction and stopped in front of him. The tractor was pulling a hydraulic lift trailer, upon which sat three chained, gagged, and guarded Relic prisoners. He recognized them, of course. They were members of his MEEC.

"We found these cowards hiding in one of your perimeter bunkers...under some rubble...with the rats. Fitting, really. Apparently, they abandoned their posts during the fight and were attempting to escape into the desert. At first, they tried to pass themselves off as some of your 'run of the mill' blind followers. But after a surprisingly brief stay in one of your Blessed Conversion rooms, we discovered that they were members of your Most Exalted Executive Council. So, now you have some company," Eve said matter-of-factly, and turned to the driver of the tractor. "OK, Sophie, let's get them up on their stakes."

"Yes ma'am," Sophie said with a grin. She then drove off and stopped at each end of the giant cross where each prisoner was lifted into position, in his turn, and chained to a stake by the attending guards. Twenty minutes later, all four of the local Dominionist leadership stood, chained tightly to their respective stakes, and vainly struggling to free themselves. Each faced outwards and could not see the others. Each screeched epithets and Biblical passages, and damnations...to no effect.

"Take a look around...the best you can," Eve said speaking into a bullhorn to the four trussed prisoners. "You are now looking through the eyes of the thousands of people you have burned here. You are probably feeling many of the same emotions felt by them; panic, confusion, desperation, fear, madness, rage at the injustice of it all...terror. What you are feeling is common to people who have been declared subhuman and unworthy of continued existence...like the Patriots who occupied these stakes before you, like the Jews, Poles, Gypsies, disabled, and homosexuals of Hitler's Germany, like the Native Americans...like the countless of oppressed groups throughout history. You may think on that...for a little while, anyway."

"OK," Eve said to her workers, "that's it. You can report to your units."

As for you," Eve said addressing the prisoners again, "I leave you to your thoughts. You will be utterly alone as you burn. No one is going to watch or gloat or glorify your execution."

Eve then turned and walked the one-hundred feet to the elevator which led to Patboy's skybox. She took the elevator to the third floor. The elevator doors opened, and she stepped into the skybox which had been stripped of all its religious paraphernalia and now lay in disarray. She sat in Patboy's chair and opened the control panel door in the left arm. There she found buttons, arranged in a cross within a circle. Each button represented a corresponding stake in the arena below. She selected the top- most button and pressed it. Flames shot up from the base of the stake at the head of the cross in the arena below her. She adjusted the flame height by rotating the button right and then left. Feeling a bit more merciful than her Dominionist enemy, she adjusted the flame until it licked at the condemned prisoner's waist. She then moved on to the next stake, and then the next. She saved Patboy for last. She adjusted his flame as the screams of his companions filled his mind. Then she closed the viewing window and its curtain. She left the room. Ten minutes later, she walked out of the prison complex and found Bill and Juanita waiting for her. The three greeted one another and turned to watch the four black and gray columns of smoke rise out of the arena, mix and tumble with one another, and blow apart on the prevailing winds.

"It's been a long fucking few days," Bill said turning to Eve.

"Yeah," Eve said.

"Now what?" Juanita asked.

"Any food around this place?" Eve responded.

"Right this way," Bill said, putting his arm around Eve's shoulders. Eve was escorted to the church dining hall; a huge, open hall filled with long tables, hundreds of chairs, and hundreds of her soldiers enjoying their first hot meal in years.
CHAPTER 14:

Bill rolled onto his left side and looked at Eve, who was staring wide-eyed at the ceiling. They had taken a bed in one of the second-floor hospital rooms. They avoided Patboy's living quarters where, they suspected, he had raped and sexually abused children. The quiet of the hospital and the warm comfortable softness of their bed were very unfamiliar to them. They were made, curiously, restless.

"Whatcha' thinking?" Bill asked.

"Hmmm? Oh, I was thinking how nice it would be to stay here and turn this Freedom Center into a Patriot Center," Eve said, turning and watching Bill for his reaction.

"Well now, that is interesting." He paused. "Are you suggesting we abandon the Bedouin lifestyle, which we've fought so hard for? Give up the hard, cold ground and freezing nights for a warm bed and a ceiling? Eat real food at real tables? Take hot showers? Choose to become soft and fat?" He raised himself and rested his weight on an elbow. He regarded his lover for a moment. "Hmmm, nope--it wouldn't suit you. You'd get all soft and mushy and your cute little ass would get big and lumpy from sitting on it all day." He laughed, perhaps a bit too hard.

"No, I think I would really like to give it a try," a serious Eve sighed, her weariness apparent.

"It wouldn't work. In no time at all you'd be itching to blow something up or throttle a Dominionist. Nope, it wouldn't suit you," Bill insisted.

"That's probably true. But, wouldn't it be wonderful for the children and the elderly to have a home?" Eve asked.

"Well, if you're going to bring them into it...I suppose you got a point," Bill relented. "Hell, it would be nice if we all had a home."

"I'm serious," Eve said.

"Me too," Bill responded. Then, after a moment of consideration, he added, "I could set up housekeeping and have dinner ready for you after a day of cavorting around the countryside, blowing up shit and slaughtering Relics and whatever. I think I'd..."

"I'm serious," Eve insisted, sitting up and glaring at her jocose companion.

Bill stopped and regarded Eve. He could see that she was serious. He wisely adopted a more appropriate tone. "I think it would be a wonderful idea," he said. "We could dig in here, set up a base of operations, train the troops, and give the kids and elderly a place to call home. We could begin the new United States of America right here."

"Exactly," Eve smiled. Relieved, she relaxed onto her pillow.

"Tired of fighting?" Bill asked after a short while.

"Hell yes," Eve said. What an incredible question, she thought. "Who wouldn't be? Aren't you? Yes, I'm tired of fighting...of killing... tired of so many things..." Her voice trailed off.

"You're not tired of me, are you?"

"No, I'm not tired of you, you big dummy." Eve laid her head on Bills hairy chest and pressed her thin, naked body tightly against his. "But, as much as I would like to stop fighting right now, and right here, I know I can't." She rolled on to her back and placed her head on the pillow. Her tone became subdued and resigned. "You know I can't," she sighed, "I have to keep going. As long as there is a Relic Snake alive and spreading his bullshit, I have to keep fighting for what I know is right. Besides, it's just too much to hope that Huckleberry and his idiots would kill themselves and leave us in peace."

"I know. I wish it could all end here, too," Bill said, reaching for Eve and cradling her in his arms. She yielded willingly to his embrace. "You know, Huckleberry is going to wonder what happened to Patboy...he's going to send someone around to check things out."

"It occurred to me," Eve said.

"So, how are we going to handle that eventuality?" Bill asked.

"I've got some ideas, but I don't want to talk about them right now. Thinking about that asshole just ruins the moment. Let's enjoy the peace and quiet while we have it." Eve closed her eyes and allowed herself to enjoy the warmth of Bill's body.

"Yeah, sorry," Bill said.

They lay there quietly for a while enjoying each other's closeness without sleep finding them.

"Eve?"

"Yes."

"Have you ever read the Bible...I mean the Old Testament," Bill asked.

"Jesus, Bill, give it a rest," Eve whispered into his hairy chest.

"No, I'm serious. Hear me out...have you...read it?" Bill insisted.

"I've tried a couple of times, but it never held my interest. Too long, too boring, and too fucking farfetched," Eve sighed.

"But you know Eve's story?" Bill asked.

"Of course...and I was not named after her, so don't go anywhere near that idea," Eve said, raising herself to an elbow and looking down her nose at Bill.

"I wasn't even going to suggest it."

"You're smarter than you look," Eve returned to snuggling Bill's chest.

"May I continue?" Bill asked.

Eve sighed and reluctantly nodded her head.

"Well, Eve was made out to be the bad guy. She eats from the tree of knowledge of good and evil and gets Adam to eat from it too. God gets pissed off because they broke his rule, and he kicks them out of Eden. Then, forever after, humans have to suffer, original sin, and all that stuff, and the blame for all of it is laid at Eve's feet. If she wouldn't have been so curious, if she would have just followed directions, been obedient, not asked questions, we humans wouldn't have had all these problems..."

"I know the story, Bill," an impatient Eve interrupted, "all our problems, supposedly, come from knowledge and self-awareness. What's your point?" She longed for some peace and quiet.

"Well, when you think about it, Eve is the hero of the story and Adam is the dupe."

"I'm really not interested in..." Eve said.

"Hear me out," Bill insisted.

"OK," Eve sighed, "Go ahead." She closed her eyes and hoped that merciful sleep would take her.

"The way I see it, the church, the religious, superstitious types needed to get and keep the people under their control. They knew that the people were ignorant, superstitious, and easily scared...and that taking advantage of people's natural fears and ignorance would be an easy way to get and keep power. Maybe they believed that knowledge was evil, but only because if the people ever got their hands on information, then the church's whole system of superstitions would collapse. Free access to knowledge by the people would spell the doom of the churches. To keep power, they had to keep people ignorant," Bill said, concluding his argument.

"Ignoring your apparent need for medication and maybe missing the point by a mere mile...I assume there is a point to all of this?" Eve sighed.

"Therefore, the church made knowledge and curiosity, that's Eve, seem evil. And, Adam was just an ignorant victim," Bill continued. He completely ignored Eve's dismissive tone.

"OK, so let's do this thing," Eve sighed, resigned to her fate. "How does that make Eve a hero?"

"Well, it's simple really," Bill responded.

Eve smiled kindly at her man. "Of course, it is."

"Eve is the example for us all; the quest for knowledge, the questioning of authority, the guts to think independently, the insight to challenge superstitions, and the courage to take responsibility for our actions, all of it comes from Eve's courageous example. Shit, she challenged a god!" Bill exclaimed.

"And, she lost, if I recall the story correctly. She became self-aware and got her cute little fanny thrown out of paradise, correct?"

"Well yeah, but that's all part of scaring people and making them feel guilty, isn't it? People tend to forget, it's only a fucking story, meant to keep people afraid. Don't you see?" Bill asked excitedly, displacing Eve as he raised himself to his elbows. "The only paradise Eve was kicked out of was the false paradise of ignorance; the paradise of the uneducated and ah...ah, hoodwinked!"

"Hoodwinked?" Eve laughed out loud.

"What, hoodwinked ain't a word?"

"Yes, it's a word, you big dummy."

Bill looked hurt.

"I'm sorry," Eve apologized, "Please continue."

"Christ, can you believe it, making knowledge a sin...what a bunch of bastards!" Bill's voice was becoming louder, as his excitement grew. "The way I see it, the fucking church has always fought tooth- and-nail to keep people stupid, so it could control them with ignorance...and stay in power. It's kinda like the old federal bureaucracies...once created, they could not be dismantled even after they were no longer needed..."

"What?!" a thoroughly confused Eve asked. She sat up and looked into the face of her man to ascertain whether or not he'd gone completely around the bend. Bill's met her gaze, proud and triumphant.

"Do you ever take the time to listen to yourself?" Eve asked. "Bureaucracies...what in the hell do bureaucracies have to do with Eve?"

"Never mind," Bill said ignoring Eve's condescending tone. "It's just that the religious nut jobs use that wrath of god bullshit to justify keeping the people frightened and ignorant...they try to hold them in that condition so they can maintain their control over them. The believers are too damned intimidated or fucking lazy...or stupid, to challenge the church. They chose, by default, to live in a fantasy land of make-believe where all their decisions are made for them by holy men who have no one's interest at heart but their own." Bill's voice became higher and more shrill, as his excitement grew. His ended his thesis very nearly out of breath. He inhaled deeply and continued. "You don't think for a second that the church leaders live anything like the people they lord it over...do you? They wouldn't be caught dead living the humble, simple lives they expect their worshippers to live. Hell no. They live it up, I tell you. You didn't see any powder-blue carpet and gold-handled toilet flushers in the barracks, did you? No, by god you didn't! And, you never will. Well, Eve sets the example for anyone who wants to live free of the Snake's madness. She's a fucking hero in my book," Bill concluded.

"And, an enemy to the church?" Eve questioned.

"That's right...just like you," Bill said.

"Are you suggesting that I'm some kind of hero?" Eve withdrew a bit and tilted her head down, looking at Bill from under her eyebrows. She didn't feel like a hero and did not care to be compared to one.

"Fucking-a-skippy," Bill replied with a big grin, believing he had made his point. He flopped back onto the bed.

"Funny, I don't feel like much of a hero," Eve mumbled, turning away.

"Real heroes seldom do," Bill said, "because some asshole is always working to get their asses kicked out of paradise."

"Is 'fucking-a-skippy' a word?" Eve asked.

"Sure, it is. I used it, didn't I?"

"You know that whole Garden of Eden story is a myth, right?" Eve asked.

"Well, yeah. So?"

"Nice tent," Eve smiled and slipped her hand under the sheet. She knew how to shut him up.

Morning dawned, as most mornings did, with a light sooty snow covering the barren ground, while overhead, the brown and yellow overcast rolled and tumbled with frequent flashes of lightning jumping from cloud to cloud, and from cloud to ground. Flickering sheet lightning added an eerie beauty to the gloom. The Dominionist flags, which Eve had ordered left in place, snapped in the strong westerly wind. The crucifixes, with their gruesome and ghastly dangling dendriform limbs and human debris, turned leathery and brittle by exposure, still stood in long lines along the perimeter road.

Those fortunate enough to be downwind of the kitchen caught the smell of coffee brewing and bread baking. Many Patriot workers had been up for hours. They had eaten their breakfasts before the sky had lightened and were attending to the struggling crops and sickly pigs, cows, and chickens, amongst other things.

Eve and Bill met Juanita in the dining hall. Greetings were said all around and, then, the trio got down to business, over a breakfast of eggs and potatoes and hot coffee.

"So, what's our status?" Eve asked Juanita.

"All the fires have been extinguished and most of the wreckage is being buried. Our carpenters and masons are busy repairing the damage to the hospital and other buildings, except the communications center, which has been left untouched, as ordered. The front gate has been left damaged and the towers fallen. The "Blind Faith Makes Freedom" sign which hanged above the front gate has been resurrected, temporarily, I hope. I think the Center looks just like you wanted it," Juanita reported.

"How about those crucifixes...is it necessary to leave those poor souls strung up like that?" Bill asked. He knew it was.

"This place needs to look as if it survived a botched Patriot attack," Eve defended. "I don't like leaving those damned crosses up any more than anyone else...we'll bury the remains after we've finished killing whomever shows up to find out what happened to that pig, Patboy."

"How can you think this plan of yours is going to succeed?" Bill asked, through teeth full of potatoes and egg. Eve removed her gaze to her own plate, so she wouldn't feel ill. Her stomach was quite upset this morning.

"You know Huckleberry is going to send someone to find out what happened to Patboy. I want whoever that is, to believe that this Center is still in the control of the Dominionists," Eve elaborated. "To that end, this place needs to look like one hell of a fight took place and that the Snakes won the fight."

"OK, OK, then answer me this...how the hell are you going to do that with Patboy and his leadership dead?" Bill asked.

"Yeah," Juanita added, "I'd like to know the answer to that question."

"We just need to fool them for a little while...just long enough to put them off guard..." Eve explained.

"But how?" Bill burped.

"Jesus Bill...must you?" Eve reproved. She covered her nose with a napkin.

"We have enough people in our ranks with direct experience of how these Snakes talk and act. We dress some of them up and put on a convincing show for our hosts," Eve explained.

"Yeah? Sounds easy...but..." Bill started to say.

"Oh, Christ, Bill, what choice do we have?" an exasperated Eve interrupted. She pushed herself away from the breakfast, which was beginning to turn her stomach.

Bill knew Eve's plan was the best, given the shitty circumstances. "Sorry," he said. "So they bite...then what?"

"And then...we destroy them. I'm using the Center as bait to catch and destroy a piece of Huckleberry's army; _divide et impera_ ," Eve said.

"What?" Bill choked.

"Divide and conquer," Juanita explained.

"Ah, yeah, I knew that. I just wanted to see if you knew it." Bill was surprised and a little embarrassed that Juanita knew what Eve meant.

"Sure, you did," Juanita chuckled.

"And, then there's the question of the two-hundred forty-two Relic women and children who weren't killed and didn't commit suicide," Juanita added. She noted Eve's confused look and quickly added, "They were hidden...in the root cellars...by the grain silos."

"Oh? Where are we keeping them, now?" Eve asked.

"Right now, they are being housed in the prison," Juanita answered.

Eve sat back in her chair and considered Juanita's report. "Why can't these fuckers just die and leave us be?" she asked, rhetorically. "Now we have to kill...how many was it?

"Two-hundred forty-two," Juanita answered.

"Kill two-hundred forty-two women and children...outright? Oh, for Christ's sake! I can't ask anyone to do that." Eve closed her eyes and fought the nausea that threatened to overtake her.

"We could release them into the desert," Eve added, suddenly. "But, releasing them into the desert could spell future disaster," she sighed. "If they were discovered by a Relic patrol, then Huckleberry would know about Patboy's defeat and my plans for an ambush would backfire." Eve shook her head slowly and covered her eyes with her weathered hands.

"Yeah, and they might survive the desert and fight another day," Bill added.

"They would never survive the desert...we'd take them out a hundred miles in the opposite direction of Huckleberry...and drop them off," Juanita defended, feeling sympathy and pain for Eve. Gently, she placed a comforting hand on Eve's arm.

"It's very unlikely that they have any experience in foraging and wilderness survival," Eve agreed. "With no blankets, food or water, they'd be dead in days and we'd be rid of them."

"The Relics would never have considered training them for such circumstances, because their arrogance would never have allowed them to consider ever being defeated," Juanita said, supporting Eve, while attempting to assure Bill.

"Yeah, but they are cockroaches. Cockroaches can survive a nuclear blast," a skeptical Bill added.

"No, I'm thinking that turning them out into the desert is the better choice," Eve continued her thought. "It at least gives the illusion that they have a chance, even though it is reasonable to assume that they will die. I can plan the ambush keeping in mind that Huckleberry may have learned of Patboy's defeat. And, if these assholes live to fight another day, then we will kill them later, rather than sooner. We're going to release them into the desert," Eve said with finality, smacking her hand on the table.

Bill and Juanita sat back in their chairs and regarded their commander. They were all in agreement that it was best to save the Patriots the brutal task of summary executions on such a scale. But Bill was still somewhat conflicted. Letting Snakes live seemed reckless and stupid.

"We never release prisoners," Bill said after a short while.

"Yes, that's true, but we have never had this many at once, either," Eve defended.

"We may end up fighting them again some other place," Bill warned.

"Maybe...but I think the desert will probably kill them. Besides, I can't ask anyone to kill so many..."

Burt approached the trio and signed that he would be happy to kill them.

"...and I will not accept volunteers," a grateful, yet annoyed Eve, replied.

A nonplused Burt took a step back and glared, disapprovingly.

"I'm certainly not going to do it...I just don't have the emotional strength," Eve continued. "And, no, you two are not going to do it," she added quickly, anticipating her commanders likely reply. "I need you emotionally strong and fit. Someone is going to have to run this outfit when I'm gone," Eve added resolutely.

"Whoa there, cowgirl, where the hell do you think you're going?" Bill asked, looking first at Juanita and then, at Eve.

Eve caught herself. She was not one for pity. "You have noticed that I'm coughing up blood?" She said bluntly, "that little cough of mine is lung cancer...that means I'm dying. Sorry to break it to you." Curiously, Eve felt angry.

"Yeah, we know," Juanita said, "we just like to pretend it isn't happening. Is there nothing that can be done, for Christ's sake?"

"Like what, for instance? We don't have chemo and we have no surgeon...and, I'm too far along anyway." The last bit was not quite true.

Bill and Juanita looked at each other. Both were exasperated and powerless to do anything.

"So, all of a sudden you plan to die?" Bill asked.

"What, you don't?" an irritated Eve shot back. Then, seeing the hurt in the big man's eyes, she softened. "Look where the hell we are...I...to be perfectly honest...I'm just tired of fighting everything...the weather, the Snakes, the rats, the cold, cancer and...now, you two. Give it a rest." She regarded Bill, "It's amazing that more of us don't have cancers," she took Bill's hand in hers.

"I kinda like you," Bill replied lovingly, "and I guess I don't care about me so much."

"It is kinda hopeless, isn't it?" Juanita piped in.

"Oh, for Christ's sake, it's not hopeless! I'm hopeless and...well, Bill is hopeless, no doubt about that," Eve smiled and squeezed Bill's hand, "but you are far from hopeless, Juanita."

"Sorry, I just had a bout of utter futility, there," Juanita replied with a weak smile, "Wait, I think it's passing."

"Good, if you go to pieces, we've had it," Eve smiled.

"So, we're going to release them into the desert. Are we going to give them anything...to help them survive?" Juanita asked, instantly aware of the absurdity of such a question. Perhaps her futility wasn't passing as quickly as she thought.

"We will give them as much as they gave us when we were forced into the desert by them," Eve said, failing to stifle a cough. The cough came from deep in her chest, and then, finally, after several seconds, the coughing eased and stopped. Eve held her towel to her face with one hand and maintained a tight grip on the table with the other. She waited for her oxygen-starved brain to recover. She sat back in her chair. Her eyes were red and tearful. She wiped her mouth on the dish towel and took a deep raspy sounding breath. She looked over her towel at Bill and Juanita. They regarded her with compassion, as parents might an ill child.

"Just a tickle," Eve attempted reassurance. "You know, it comes and, it goes." She straightened her jacket and sat up in her chair. "They'll never make it," she continued in an unrelenting attempt at keeping the subject on anything, but herself. "They may find some water, but I doubt they will ever eat what we've had to eat. Hell, they probably won't know what is edible or not...the dumb bastards will probably poison themselves," Eve chuckled, ignoring her commander's concern. "No, we are not going to give them anything," she concluded, shoving the red-stained cloth deep into her jacket pocket.

"Very well," Juanita said, "I guess we release them into the desert."

"Yeah, I guess so," Bill added. "I don't like it...those fucks are cockroaches...if there is a way to survive, they'll stumble on it. But you've got us this far...I guess we can trust your decision on this."

"You guess? Good, then it's settled," Eve said, "If they make it, which I doubt very much, then, I'll kill them personally, when next we meet." She pushed her chair back from the table and stood. Bill and Juanita remained seated. "Aren't you two coming with me?"

"I'll be along shortly," Bill said. And then noticing Eve's quizzical look, he added, "I want to finish my coffee, that's all."

"This is only my second cup of coffee in a long, long time and I can't bring myself to waste it," Juanita joined in.

Eve looked at her commanders in disbelief. "My god, we aren't in civilization one whole day and already you're getting soft."

"Go ahead, we're right behind you," Juanita smiled.

"You'd better be...we've got a whole hell of a lot of work to do," Eve said over her shoulder as she limped toward the exit.

After the doors shut behind Eve, Bill looked at Juanita, "What do you think?"

"I don't know. What do you think?"

"You don't think she means to kill herself?" Bill asked.

Juanita looked shocked that Bill would make such a suggestion, "No, no way...maybe...I don't know, but it was a curious remark."

"Yeah, it was curious alright," Bill agreed.

"Do you think she knows something she's not telling us?"

"Of course...like what?"

"I don't know. Like, maybe the cancer's worse than she wants us to think? What about that cough...?" Juanita asked.

"Yeah, it's getting bad."

"I'll bet she's sicker than she's trying to let on...never a moment or concern for herself."

"And, she's sweating nearly all the time now. Fever's up, no doubt. Well, why don't we just ask her?" Bill wondered.

"We kind of just did, but she avoided telling us much of anything we didn't already know. Didn't you notice that she just changed the subject like everything was fine?"

"Sure, I noticed. I've dated other women, you know."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You never change the subject when you don't want to talk about something?" Bill scoffed.

"No different than you," Juanita countered.

A little over an hour had passed since breakfast, and after stopping to observe some of the clean-up and repair details, Eve walked toward the Center's main gate. Looking overhead, she noticed that, since she last had been outside, the boiling sky had turned from a muddy shit-brown into a reddish-brown gray, and that the cloud cover seemed lower than usual. A shiver ascended her spine. Another storm was approaching. She fought against her deepening depression, made all the worse by the growing gloom. Eve pulled the hood of her fatigue jacket tighter around her head and struggled against feet, which suddenly felt as if they were made of concrete. A controversial and unpopular decision had been made, and she hoped never to reach the main gate where that decision would be revealed.

Twelve Dominionist flags, rustling and snapping in the stiff westerly breeze, greeted Eve as she arrived at her destination. The flags were displayed high on poles which framed the Center's entrance. There were six on a side. The Dominionists loved the number twelve.

Eve stood for a moment in silence and surveyed the small crowd of shivering, terrified Relics standing before her. She then climbed on the remnants of a bunker wall to get a better look. The agitated snapping of the powder-blue and gold flags betrayed the arrival of the coming storm. She looked at the tumbling ruddy sky and westward, over the heads of the Relics. There she saw the growing cloud of dust, still miles away, but coming fast. Then, she looked down into the area between the two fallen towers. Two-hundred forty-two prisoners stood huddled as one, for warmth. Most of the captured women returned Eve's stare, defiant of the small, thin woman who stood on the bunker wall looking down at them. The Relics were heavily guarded. "These people were going to have a very bad day," Eve thought.

The crowd consisted of women and children. There was no child over the age of four. Children four and younger were kept by the Patriots and raised as freethinkers. There were no women older than thirty-three. Middle-aged and elderly women were not invited to live in the Freedom Centers, nor were the barren and unattractive or unhealthy. The primary role of these women, besides sexual pleasure, was to provide genetically acceptable babies for the repopulation of the world.

Eve looked over the small crowd. Some women were crying, others prayed, and some continued to defiantly challenge Eve's gaze. She could hear muted conversation from some in the crowd but could not make out what was being said. None of the prisoners had enough clothing to survive the desert cold, and she could see nothing which would help them survive; no food, no shelter material, no water. Eve was conflicted. Within her, both pity and contempt vied for consideration of the condemned people who stood before her. But, overall, it was anger that she felt for these people, who, by their obstinacy, deceit, and barbarism, had given her little choice other than to act like a barbarian in return.

What she was about to do tore at every human instinct within her. But there was no other way. The rules had been cast in stone by the very people who stood before her: kill or be killed. Eve's problem was that she had no God upon which to hang the responsibility. When Eve killed, she did the killing. When Relics killed, they justified and rationalized it in God's name. Having a God, upon which to hang responsibility, made it possible for the Relics to justify and excuse all kinds of inhumane and murderous conduct; having a God lessened their humanity.

"Guards," Eve commanded, "escort these Relics onto the trucks."

Moans, screams, and protests erupted from the crowd as the guards began pushing and shoving the prisoners into the trucks. Some of the prisoners began pushing back, and others lay down in the dirt refusing to move. Others clutched their crying children and begged to be spared. Eve watched the scene for about a minute before she raised her .38 and fired into the air. Stunned, everyone stopped and looked at her.

"Your choices are very limited. You can either walk onto the trucks, be dragged onto the trucks unconscious, if you wish it, or die where you stand," she shouted. There was no conciliation in her tone, only weariness.

"Where are our babies?" a woman shouted from the crowd. The remainder of the crowd took this as a cue and joined in with a chorus of "where are our babies?", "where are you taking us?", "spare us", "think of your soul," as well as various curses of "she-devil", "Satan's whore", "Jezebel", etc.

Eve aimed her .38 at the closest Relic women. She moved her index finger to the trigger, but once there, she froze. Her hand began to shake as she struggled to pull the trigger, but the force stopping her was unyielding. Unable to shoot into the crowd, she lowered the pistol and looked solemnly upon the protesters.

The Relics, observing Eve's hesitation, felt encouraged. They rallied and began to protest even louder. Their pleas became demands and threats. Shouts of "release us now", "lay down your arms", and "surrender to the will of your Lord" were added to an ever increasing list of demands. The situation was threatening to spin out of control. Some Relics were daring to make threatening moves toward the guard who, bewildered by Eve's hesitation, looked to her for orders to shoot. No orders were forthcoming. Eve just stood there atop her bunker, as if paralyzed.

Then, one shot from an AR-15, just behind Eve, brought the crowd to an abrupt silence. Eve startled, as did everyone, and, the loudest and most demanding prisoner, at the front of the crowd, lay face down in the dirt. Blood pumped from her chest and into the dirt.

"You fucking assholes," Bill shouted, "are in no position to make demands! Your only choice is to walk onto those trucks, be dragged unconscious, or die where you stand. Now, does anyone else have any fucking questions? Would anyone like to debate me?"

The crowd stared frozen with horror at Bill but did not move. He raised his AR-15 and took aim at the next woman in line.

The prisoners decided, as one, to run onto the trucks. Some were knocked off the ramps in the rush and wasted no time scrambling back up. In less than a minute, the truck's cattle carrier doors were shut and locked, without further incident. And there, peering out from the steel bars of the two cattle carriers, were the same people who had, not too long ago, peered in.

Without waiting for orders, the truck drivers started their rigs and, sandwiched between an escort of twenty guards in three-quarter-ton trucks, front and rear, drove off into the growing clouds of dust. Eve watched them disappear. Her paralysis resolved, she sighed deeply and sat on the bunker wall. She looked at Bill who took a seat next to her. "Thank-you," she said, "I was having a hard time finding the will to pull the trigger."

"I know," said Bill as he placed a comforting arm around her shoulder. "There's no shame in that."

"You'd think that Satan's whore wouldn't hesitate," Eve said with a thin smile.

"No, Satan's whore wouldn't, but you would," Bill comforted and returned the smile.

The two stole a few minutes for themselves. They sat and watched the growing cloud of dust in the west race towards them. It blurred everything between desert and sky, until all was a swirling, impenetrable wall of brown and yellow dust.

Eve thought that the cloud could be a metaphor of her life. Everything that she had ever been was lost to her. She would never see her way back. She was being swept forward, out of control, by a great whirlwind. She was powerless to stop or reverse any of it. All will to resist left her. She had no choice but to resign herself to her fate. And, now, her destiny, which at one time seemed so far off, seemed to be rapidly approaching.

Her thoughts drifted to a time, some seven years ago, when dirty, hungry, and exhausted, she stood draped in a tattered hospital blanket and stared at what remained of Phoenix, many miles in the distance. Black, oily clouds of smoke, stoked by tens-of-thousands of fires, rose into an ever-darkening sky. Fiery bits of the Arizona city rained from the sky and fell among the ruins, some of the debris as large as locomotives...some, actual locomotives, like the angrily tossed toys of a raging child. Tears stained her dirty and smudged cheeks as she stood, nearly paralyzed with...hopelessness? helplessness? incomprehension...?

Eve tried to make sense of the scene that lay before her. Far away Phoenix, its people, banks, hospitals, schools, children, mothers, grandparents, sick, homeless, disabled, dogs, cats, birds...everything and everyone, had been vaporized and turned into wreckage, in yet another series of nuclear exchanges. A fine dust, laden with black soot, fell all around in the valley below. It layered on the flora, the fauna, and the shoulders of the mountains. Involuntarily, Eve shook with cold, fear, and impotent rage, the worst sort of rage. At first, almost imperceptible, but growing ever louder, she heard someone screaming. It was she, screaming into the void.

Behind and around her stood nearly thirteen-hundred cold, sickly, dirty, weeping, frightened, hungry, and exhausted men, women, and children of all races, ages, beliefs, physical description, vocation, sexual orientation, and creeds. All had one thing in common: their status as refugees from the Dominionist pogroms. Some had escaped to the hills before the Dominionists had them arrested. Others had escaped from Dominionist work details. While a few lucky others, had been rescued by Eve and Bill's small band of foragers. Some held rags over their noses and mouths, fearful of breathing any radioactive dust, while others, like Eve, nearly overcome with the hopelessness of the situation, believed the gesture a waste of time. Everyone was looking at Eve and her companion, Bill.

Bill motioned to Eve, who turned to face the crowd, as a machine might turn, measured, precise, without awareness.

Eve looked over the heads of the crowd, to the darkening western sky, for a long while. A few of the gathering were coughing, some of the children were crying, others sat on rocks staring at the ground and shaking their heads, but most were looking for Eve to make some sense of all this. But Eve wasn't thinking of something great and memorable to say, something for all humanity to recall with pride and admiration. She was feeling. Her whole body was buzzing, tingling. She was stupefied, nonplused, benumbed, insensible. Finally, her voice barely above a whisper, she spoke, "Well, what do we do now?"

No one answered. The wind blew and far away an echo rumbled, to and fro, from mountain to mountain. She spoke some more, "The question has always been: What do we do now, hasn't it? Our homes and families and any hope of ever returning to them are gone...for good. Our country is gone for good. And, now it looks like our planet is going to be gone for good. We are the refuse, the homeless, country-less, planet-less, orphans of the universe. We are the victims of reckless self-righteousness, lethal superstitions, and destructive political correctness.

Then, curiously, she smiled. "Well, as I see it, we ain't got much else left to lose."

Some in the gathering laughed.

"So," she exhaled, "do we hide in the bushes like humble little mice and struggle to keep our pathetic selves out of the jaws of extinction, or do we express ourselves and blow something up...on our way to extinction? Do we go quietly into that dark night, or do we rage?"

No one responded. Somehow, it was better to sit quietly and listen.

"Nothing...really, no one has anything to say?"

No response. Bill looked to Eve and shrugged. The crowd, it appeared, was hers to command.

"Long ago, when I was in high school," she resumed, "and before that, even, my teachers made a point to teach that America was, foremost and without exception, one of the most unique countries in the world. That we were unique because of our Constitution, our system of laws, our freedoms, our democracy, and our constant struggle to accommodate and accept all people, regardless of their looks, beliefs, or origins. I was not one to be fooled into believing that we were perfect. We were far from perfect. But, among all the nations, I believed that we fought and struggled the hardest to live up to the ideals of the Age of Reason, rationalism, and humanism. And, I liked to think that for all the bullshit and hurt we caused people, on the whole, our movement always trended toward more, rather than less, humanism. Our fight to be free of oppression inspired other nations, like France, which, inflamed by the cries of _egalite_ , _fraternite_ , _liberte_ , toppled a heartless monarchy. Immigrants flocked to our shores hoping to experience the fairytale American dream. And, their experience wasn't perfect...far from it. But, they stayed, because America was still much better that the places from which they fled. They stayed because, here, they had hope. They stayed because, here, was a chance for them or their children to realize long-sought-for dreams. I liked...loved that about my country, about America. It was a place others longed to experience, and a goal to which many would aspire--risking their lives, their health, and their security...just to experience our storybook freedom. We were a light for all the world's oppressed and underprivileged. But, in the end, it all turned out to be bullshit. She lied to us...to all of us. She turned on me, on us...and we let her. And, regrettably, I didn't realize that the fairytale was over until it was too late to make any kind of a difference." The tears rolling down Eve's face were no different or less painful than the tears of a jilted lover. Her complete trust and unquestioning belief had been betrayed, and the hurt was deep.

"Ironically, it turns out, we were too free. We were too accepting, tolerant, too concerned with appearance and not enough with substance. We wanted everyone to be free, even those with no capacity to grasp the significance of such freedom. And, they used that freedom to destroy the very system that permitted them to exist. We naively believed that they'd be grateful. We allowed those who could not respect or handle freedom, the freedom to destroy the America that granted them the freedom to express their hatred and narrow-mindedness. We made the mistake of handing responsibility to those least likely to exercise it responsibly. And, we sat there and allowed it, as if they had a right to destroy our freedoms. All of us know the story of the scorpion and the frog."

"That's right," a very old fellow said, somewhere toward the back. He made an effort to stand, using the shoulder of a youth sitting next to him. "I remember my granddad telling me of the old Russia. They was so bad to their people that they built a wall to keep their people in. They would shoot people who tried to escape to the west! No one wanted to go there. These religious folks is no better. It was wrong what these religious folks was doing to America, telling people what to believe and how to act and who could come here and who should stay away...arresting people for all kinda nonsense that weren't hurting nobody. They was no different than those old Russians and they needed to be stopped. No one listened, though," he finished, and shaking his head, he returned to his rock.

"Thank you," Eve responded, "thank you, very much. All of my life, just like you, I have made every effort to be a peaceful and respectful person. I made every effort to be politically correct. I even went so far, in respect of free speech, as to respect and consider those who spoke ill of my country, its freedoms, and its laws. Many times, these offenders came in the costume of brotherly love or unconditional love, and they called themselves disciples of some god or another. They carried on about how only their word was truth, while all others were false...that God's law superseded man's law, and that man's law was the Devil's law. I listened politely, argued politely, or said nothing and did nothing. I was a good American who did not always agree with or understand them, but who supported their right to believe whatever they wished. Live and let live. It was a free country, after all, and people were free to say and believe just about anything they wished...no harm in that...or so I thought.

Well, now I look around me, and I see cities destroyed, I smell burning flesh, I hear the cries of pain and hunger, and I see a planet on its ass. These are the fruits of my...of our tolerance. This is what happens to those who are so naïve as to believe that tolerance of the intolerant should be protected under the law, and that the religious are just a bunch of harmless crackpots."

Eve grew ever more angry, focused, and determined, as the only course of action available to her began to form in her mind. "Protection of the intolerant," she said with a clear strong voice, "who take advantage of tolerance to foster and breed hate against the very system that protects them, has nothing to do with liberty and freedom, and, as we can see, such protection is way beyond foolish. Such tolerance is, itself, criminal. It is homicidal. It is genocidal. It is suicidal! Look at Phoenix and now, look at us. We need no other proof! We are, by our willingness to accommodate the mad rantings and ravings of God-deluded narcissistic, superstitious, genocidal maniacs, as much responsible for our current condition as are they. Well, the notion of tolerance, at least for me, ends today! You may say and do as you wish, but when you seek to destroy the very system that gives you and _me_ our freedoms, then it is time to destroy you."

"I, here and now, vow to destroy every Relic Snake I can lay my hands on. I vow to destroy every Relic text, icon, edifice, man, woman, and child, as long as my body takes a breath, as any doctor takes a vow to kill a cancer...without mercy. My energies from this day forth will be put into eradicating this evil from our country...from our planet...from our memory...our history! If I am successful, religion, in all its forms, won't even be a rumor. I will take on the responsibility I have been avoiding for so long. As I see it, the complete elimination of this religious scourge from the face of the earth is the only hope of survival left for me...for us...for this once-beautiful planet. Evil begets evil, so the Snakes are fond of preaching, and this time the Dominionists have begot me...us, if any will join with me." She paused to make room for the gathering to weigh the meaning of her words. Eve had little else to say.

Silence. And, then, one woman stood and asked if it wasn't too late to make a difference?

"Probably," Eve responded, "I think it highly unlikely that we will ever reverse the damage that has been done."

"Then why should we bother?" another asked.

"If that is how you feel, then you shouldn't bother. I don't believe a soul would criticize you, if you elected to scrabble about in this desert, struggling to survive for the reminder of your days. I wouldn't. But, as for me, the thought of those smug religious bastards sitting all snug in their Freedom Centers, enjoying their domination over rationality and humanism, is too much for me to bear. The patient may be dying, but I'm going to give the disease such a fucking hard time that they will wish they'd kept their bullshit religion to themselves. When I throw in the towel, it won't be a towel...it will be a bullet right between their eyes! I'm going to do my level best to give those fuckers the payback they more than deserve! Obviously, if I, we, had acted sooner, far less drastic measures could have been employed, but it is obvious that, that time has long passed. Drastic times call for drastic action."

Someone starting applauding and before long, everyone had come to their feet. All were applauding Eve, their leader, the new Liberal Crusader and future "Satan's whore".

CHORUS

"No law can be written which hopes to protect both individual freedom and those intolerant of that individual freedom. An individual's freedom ends the moment it is abused and misused as a means to interfere with the freedom of others; this is as true of the murderer as it is true of the religious fanatic. Historically, religion has been the one domain where respect for the rights of others could be suspended. Somehow, believing in the invisible, the fantastic, the unverifiable, and the fanatical, has excused one from respecting the rights of others. If the people declared that all humans were created equal under the law, then _all_ of us were expected to respect that declaration...except, the so-called religious, who, for reasons lost to me, were permitted to ignore the peoples' law and disrespect whomever they wished; their invisible, intolerant, jealous, petty, non-existent god's word taking precedent over our laws. And, tragically, we the people went along with this disparity, as if there was no harm in believing that the religious had some right, beyond our own, to cherry-pick our laws and our principles—to cherry-pick humanity."

*

When the applause ended, a slightly embarrassed Eve turned and shook her finger at the fires and columns of smoke rising from Phoenix, "There, is the result of giving religions the special consideration before the law which they claimed were theirs. There, is the result of blind faith in the invisible, made visible, for all to see. There, is the result of blindly following delusional madmen. There is no question in my mind that the Dominionists have violated the laws of freedom and human decency...the very basic laws of nature herself! Therefore, I declare their freedom to exist null and void. There will be no more tolerance of the intolerant. Understandably and rightfully, Germany outlawed the Nazi party after the debacle of World War II and we will outlaw religion, and its offspring, intolerance of free thought."

Eve looked over the stunned and weeping crowd who were hanging on her every word. Someone in the crowd expressed agreement by shouting, "Yeah! Fuck 'em!"

"Fuck 'em!" everyone shouted.

Eve laughed, "Well, then, let's make it the best fucking they ever got." (Laughter)

"I'll conclude by saying that it's not going to do anyone of us any good to feel sorry for ourselves or to chastise ourselves. It is only through resolve and action that we will find purpose. Tomorrow I will begin my war of eradication on the Dominionists. Any of you who wish to join with me are welcome. And, it will be completely understandable if you chose not to join with me. Let's be clear. Killing, no matter the cause and no matter how right you are...or think you are, is...self-destructive. Even if I, or you, survive a war physically, psychologically we will emerge greatly diminished. One cannot kill another without killing a piece of one's self. Kill enough and you will no longer be able to recognize yourself or even recall who you once were. But, if self-sacrifice can lead to a greater good, then I will gladly undertake it. I do not make the decision lightly...and neither should you. I will not ask anyone to sacrifice themselves for me, or any cause; for that they must volunteer." Eve looked solemnly at the many frightened faces before her and then she turned to Bill, "I need to be alone for a while."

Eve jumped down from the rock upon which she had been standing and walked silently through the crowd, which parted to let her pass. No one spoke. Some reached out to touch her as she passed by. Eve walked until she was completely alone and then she sat and wept.

"Ma'am?" Sophie said looking up at Eve on the bunker wall.

Eve did not move.

"Ma'am?" Sophie repeated.

Eve started and slowly became aware of her surroundings. The wind had picked up quite a bit and the flying sand was stinging her face. She pulled her bandana up to her eyes and squinted at the speaker. Eve saw Sophie standing at the base of the bunker wall looking up at her. "Yes," Eve said as if she were just waking up.

"Ma'am, sorry to disturb you'ns, but I've got some bad news," Sophie said and waited.

"Yes," Eve said, "what is it?" She needed this?

"Well, ma'am, you know, well...there's just no easy way to say this, so...I'm just going to say it." Sophie cleared her throat and blurted, "ah...Brandy and her son were found dead in their cell this morning, ma'am."

Eve sat motionless and stared at Sophie. She licked her lips and swallowed hard. Then suddenly, she went limp and threatened to fall off the bunker wall. Bill grabbed for Eve and held her steady. Eve placed an ungloved hand on Bill's steadying arm. The sand cut at her bare flesh, but she felt nothing.

Seeing that Eve was not going to respond, Sophie continued, "There's more."

"Jesus...just go ahead," Bill said. "What is it?"

"Well sir, we...ah...found a man...a red headed man in the prison...dead...on the top floor, you know. He's in bad shape...more a skeleton really, you know. But he has a tattoo on his arm that says 'Brandy and Chris, Love always'. Uhmm...we figured that, well...you know, he must be Brandy's Chris...her husband...you know? It would be a wild coincidence if he wasn't. So, we checked his number with the prison's files and...well...yeah...it is...her...he is Chris."

Eve continued staring at Sophie and said nothing.

"Yeah, that would be a wild coincidence," Bill sighed.

"Yeah, that's what we thought, you know."

"How did Brandy die?" Bill asked.

"Shot herself. And, Chris, her husband, well, you know, it looks like he...ah...was shot in the back during the riot...but he would've starved to death, anyhow, you know. The boy was probably smothered..."

"That's enough, Sophie!" Eve cried out.

"Where are the bodies?" Bill asked.

"We laid them side-by-side just outside the prison. Ya know, laid out like that you can't help but thinking they'd of made a nice family...if they lived, I mean, ya know."

"Yeah, I know," Bill replied curtly.

Eve shut her eyes. Tears soaked into her bandana.

"Excuse us Sophie. Go attend to your duties," Bill ordered, "We'll be along shortly to help with Brandy and Chris and the child."

"Justin," Eve's voice cracked.

Bill pulled Eve closer to him.

"Is ma'am OK?"

"Sophie...!" Bill didn't have to finish his sentence.

"Sorry, sir...you'ns take care," Sophie apologized and withdrew.

Brandy, Chris, and Justin were buried as a family in a grave along the approach to the Center. A simple wooden plaque was added to their marker. The plaque read, "Sacrificed on the altar of ignorance, superstition, and political correctness." Their names were entered into the Book of Patriots.

Sophie was an early-50's-something barmaid from a small town in what used to be Washington County, Pennsylvania. She grew up hard on the rough-and-tumble side of a largely out-of-work coal and steel town. All the men in her life had worked the mills and mines, before the unions were outlawed, and scab labor took their jobs for pennies on the dollar. All the women in her life had either raised children, "did hair", or worked in bars, or all three, simultaneously. She learned about smoking, alcohol, and sex at an earlier age than most, and barely graduated from high school. Married and divorced twice, she had been working on her third serious relationship with an unemployed steel worker named Earl, when the Dominionists seized and closed the "beer garden" (a regional colloquialism for bar or beer hall) where she worked. With no rent money, she was forced onto the streets. Sophie was arrested immediately, tried, and found guilty of heresy, depravity, vulgarity, and witchcraft, etc... With no possible appeal available to her under Biblical law, she was sentenced to life at hard labor and shipped west. Her prison truck convoy was attacked by Eve on its way to the Maricopa County Prison construction project.

Sophie's once lithe and girlish frame, with the help of "stick to your ribs" meals, plenty of beer, and an abhorrence of exercise, had grown, all too quickly, into a heavy and powerfully built structure by the time the Dominionists arrested her. Sophie's physical strength and emotional toughness made her an excellent fighter. Her skills were made all the better by having grown up in a household of hunters, hunting rifles, and the occasional drunken brawl. Not particularly religious, Sophie would share that she believed in God. But, beyond a child's understanding, she couldn't explain what belief meant. She, more or less, believed because "that's what you're supposed to do; it isn't nice not to believe in God." Most of her family and friends, out of the same sense of loyalty to God, whom they seldom publicly worshipped and privately gave little thought to, said that they believed, as well. Yet, without any apparent display of regret or contrition, they frequently broke the commandments. No one employed any kind of critical thinking on the subject. Everyone just went along thinking that no harm could come of believing a thing that no one understood. It turned out that blind faith had some dangerous side-effects.

Sophie, her community, and countless blue-collar communities like hers around the country, offered no resistance to the Dominionists as they wrestled for control of the American government. Sophie and her people thought that God-belief and being a good patriotic American was all the same thing. Of course, what Sophie and her friends did not understand was that there were many types of God-belief, some based on forgiveness, tolerance, and love (the kind of belief Sophie thought she had signed up for) and the kind that spoke of world domination and destruction (the kind that was once beyond Sophie's comprehension). It never occurred to Sophie and her colleagues that a believer could ever be considered evil and un-American. As far as they were concerned, no one was more American than a good Christian.

After the storm had passed, a large gathering, including Sophie, joined Eve and Bill at Brandy's family grave. Everyone had come to say good-bye. No one spoke a word, but, as a group standing in the light snow under the tumbling clouds, they felt a rekindling of their commitment to one another...a strengthening of the bond that made them one in the same family. If any had lost sight of why they were fighting and dying, their memory was quickly refreshed. A new resolve and determination filled each one of the mourners, and they saw the shared pride of their mission as they looked into one another's eyes.

Poor George, understandably, was inconsolable. Brandy was his platoon leader, but that fact never mattered much to George. He thought of himself more as Brandy's big sister. He loved Brandy very much, and he was devastated that, in the end, he had failed to protect her.

"Oh, that poor, poor girl," George wept while Robbie held and comforted him. "She didn't have a chance against those bastards. I should have been there...with her. Robbie, what are we going to do?"

"We're going to kill Relics."

"Those fucking Snakes. That poor girl," George sobbed.

"She was a woman, George...a wife and a mother."

"She was just a girl, you bastard...and they killed her!"

"She killed herself, George."

"They drove her to it...oh, you're impossible! Let go of me." George pretended to struggle in an effort to free himself from Robbie. Robbie just held him tighter.

"I'm going to miss her too, you know. We were a team...er...maybe more like a family."

George relaxed in Robbie's arms. "A family...yes, I like that. You do understand, don't you, my sweet big man?"

"Yeah, I'm going to miss her," Robbie said and, then, the grief caught up to him. He began to cry along with George.

"Oh, my dear, dear, boy, you do miss her, don't you? There, there, it's going to be O.K.," George said as the roles now suddenly reversed. "It's going to be alright. I'll take care of you."

"We're a mess," Robbie snorted.

"Well, you are at any rate, but I'll be strong for you...for both of us," George consoled.

"You're sweet."

"There, there..."

And, so it went well into the afternoon, George and Robbie, the loving couple, each taking his turn as mourner while the other comforted and supported. They were left to their grief by the others who knew exactly what the two were going through. No one thought to make fun of or ridicule the couple. The lesson was not lost-- intolerance of the different had gotten everyone into this mess. If the Patriots had learned anything, they learned that variety is the human condition, and there is no satisfactory alternative, but to accept and love it.

"I wouldn't have thought it possible, but I am somehow more angry and...committed to finishing this damn thing, now...more than I have ever been," Eve said to Bill as they walked from the grave.

"Yeah, I feel it too."

"It's more rage than I ever could have imagined. It must be answered."

"Yeah, I know."

"Sorry Eve," Juanita said as she approached the couple, "Maybe this isn't the right time, but we've found something you might be interested in."

"If it's good news, you couldn't have picked a more appropriate time. If it is more bad news...for the sake of your future...get the hell out of here!" Eve erupted.

What is it?" Bill asked.

"Oh, I don't want to spoil the surprise. Come with me," Juanita smiled.

"This better be good," Eve said coming to a stop. She was emotionally drained, exhausted, and not a little annoyed with Juanita's light mood.

"Come on," Juanita coaxed, "You're going to like it. I mean _really_ like it."

"Come on Eve, let's go or she'll never shut up," Bill gently coaxed Eve. Any possibility of lifting the mood was worth pursuing.

Eve looked at Bill and then at Juanita, "OK, OK, but this had better be as good as you say it is. We've got a lot of work to do around here...and I'm too tired for games."

"Oh, I've got a feeling you are really going to be pleased. Follow me," Juanita said turning and walking briskly in the direction of the motor pool. Silently, the three hiked the quarter mile.

"We noticed some conduit and fuel lines being routed through the main garage floor," Juanita said as she led the two to the back of the main motor pool shop and parking area. "And, after some snooping," she continued, "we discovered an entrance to an underground level." They found themselves in a large hanger-like structure. "It's back here," she indicated a flat black steel door. "We didn't see it until we moved the trucks that were parked in front of it." She led them through the door and down four flights of stairs and into a shop area that could have been used as an aircraft hanger, had it been at ground level. Bill estimated that half of Ohio State's Horseshoe Stadium would have little difficulty fitting into the space.

"Whoa, this place is fucking huge!" Bill exclaimed stopping in his tracks.

Eve stopped alongside Bill and swept the well-lit area with her eyes. And, then, she saw them, parked in the far corner; six large gray shapes. "Tanks? Those are tanks, right?" she asked incredulously, "Patboy had tanks?"

"Oh, not just any old tanks," Juanita said, leading the two across the hanger, "main battle tanks, MBT 99 Rumsfeld's...Rummy's, the big guns...think tactical nukes, high explosives, stealth technology, obscene accuracy." Juanita pushed her chest out in a show of excited pride.

"Rumsfeld's! Holy shit! What in the hell would Patboy do with Rummy's?" Bill exclaimed, as they approached the behemoths. "There are no big armies left. There's no need for armor like that. Talk about your basic overkill."

The three stopped in front of the six towering hulks painted in desert camouflage. They were overwhelming in their presence; solid, crushing, pulverizing, lethal, impenetrable, and commanding of one's attention.

"I got goose bumps," Juanita said. "You can't imagine what it must be like to be on the wrong side in a fight against these."

"I can't imagine anything that could make one feel more hopeless and helpless," Eve said staring at the giants.

"Or, invincible," Bill added, with as huge a smile as Eve had ever seen. Bill looked for a way to climb onto the nearest vehicle. The he stepped on a bogie wheel, grabbed a gear strap, and hauled himself onto the eighty-ton behemoth.

"Shit! look at that," he said pointing to the huge gun extending from the turret, "a one-hundred-forty-six-millimeter hyper-supersonic round of terminal scunion! Damn, now that would ruin your whole fucking day!"

"Scunion?" Juanita asked.

"It means bad ass...it's a Philly thing," Bill smiled.

"OK, well, anyway...we found high explosive, incendiary, shaped charge, armor piercing, nerve agent, and tactical nuke rounds; pretty much enough ammo to take on the World Allies...if they still existed," Juanita added.

"Nerve agent and tactical nukes," Bill asked with amazement, "what the hell would he need those for?"

"What the hell would Patboy need these tanks for?" Eve asked.

"The best we can figure," Juanita said, "these were his emergency escape vehicles and he had them configured for any eventuality. When it came time to abandon ship, he wasn't going to take any chances."

"...or prisoners," Eve added. She slapped the side of one of the tanks and stung her hand on the unyielding, depleted uranium hull.

Bill opened the main hatch and peered into the turret, "Man, I haven't seen one of these since the Iranian Holocaust. There was nothing those poor sons-of-bitches could do to stop one of these. Hell, most of the time the dumb sons-of-bitches didn't know we were there until it was too late. We ran through them like shit through a goose."

"Easy, Bill, don't come on the controls," Juanita said, feeling more than a bit annoyed with his blooming machismo. But she was most disturbed by his callousness and insensitivity. The battles, to which he referred, were instrumental in putting them into their present fix. "The Iranians were people too, you know, who got caught up in all this religious bullshit, just like the rest of us."

Bill paused. "Yeah, you're right, sorry. Those weren't such good times, were they," a humbled Bill admitted. "Sorry," he reiterated. Bill gathered himself up and jumped from the tank to the concrete floor.

"You're pleased then?" Juanita asked Eve with a big smile.

"Girlfriend, this is the best birthday present ever...hell yeah I'm pleased! How do we get them out of here?" Eve asked looking around for the exit.

Juanita pointed to two huge steel sliding doors opposite the tanks about one-hundred yards away, "Those doors open onto a tunnel, which, as best as we can figure, leads to somewhere outside of the perimeter."

"Well, let's find out for certain. We definitely can use these tanks. We will have them in position before Huckleberry's army gets here," Eve ordered.

"I'll get on it," Juanita said.

"Bill, you know how to operate one of these don't you?" Eve asked.

"Hell, we both do," Juanita said, feeling a bit insulted.

"Of...of course," an embarrassed Eve replied. "I wasn't thinking. You two get these tanks topside and I'll figure out how we're going to use them."
CHAPTER 15:

Huckleberry, sitting uneasily on his golden throne, shifted his weight on the over-stuffed powder-blue cushions and cleared his throat. He did not like what he was hearing.

"Most Reverend President Leader, the last message received was, and I quote, 'We are under attack.' Then silence. We have not heard a word from Spiritual Leader Patboy in over three days! Something is terribly wrong...terribly, terribly, terribly wrong...this is unprecedented...simply unheard of. He's supposed to be in daily contact. We must do something. But, what can we do? We need time. Time...time...time...," Pastor Dick was squeaking in his high-pitched voice as he paced the floor, while wringing his hands. His purple and red robes, the uniform of the Most Exalted Executive Council, glided easily over the polished black marble floor.

"Oh, sit down and shut-up, Dick!" Huckleberry boomed from his perch.

Pastor Dick stopped in mid squeak and meekly regarded his Reverend President Leader.

"A person cannot think with all your pacing, and handwringing, and carryings on," Huckleberry chastised.

"But we're cut off...without a friend in the wilderness. We hear from fewer and fewer of our Centers every day. In the last year alone we have lost contact with what, four, or is it five, of our outposts? Oh, I can't think straight! We are lost..." Dick whined.

"Sit down!" Huckleberry boomed again. His brilliant, bloodshot blue eyes glared in anger. "We are not lost, for the love of Jesus." With a ring encrusted tanned hand, he smoothed a lock of silvery white hair, which had fallen out of its position in his beautifully coifed Elvisian pompadour.

Reluctantly, Dick slumped into one of the golden chairs encircling the room. He stared at the floor past his extended legs. His face wore a pout not unlike that of a scolded four-year-old.

"There's no way around it. We will have to send a detachment of warriors to find out what's happened to Patboy. Maybe it's just a radio malfunction and a simple matter of needing parts," Huckleberry said hopefully, aloud and largely to himself. He studied the far wall of his chamber and ignored Pastor Dick.

"But what about the 'We are under attack'? What if Patboy has been wiped out by that heathen she-devil? What if..." Pastor Dick squawked as he jumped to his feet and threatened to lose himself in another rant.

"Will you shut up?! What if...What if... What if you keep your mouth shut, and let me think? Sit down!" Huckleberry snapped and clenched his teeth. His face was a brilliant red under the deep tan, which he maintained by frequent visits to his tanning salon. He shifted on his cushions, yet again, and leaned on the opposite arm of his throne. He paused long enough to allow his face to regain its natural brown luster. After a moment of consideration, Huckleberry resumed his thought. "First of all, there is no way that that she-devil has enough demons or firepower to overrun Patboy's Freedom Center..."

"She's done it before..." Dick started to say but stopped when he noticed Huckleberry's glare boring down on him.

"Yes, she has managed to overrun smaller...much smaller...outposts, er...prisons...er...facilities," Huckleberry conceded, "But Patboy's Center is four times larger than anything she has ever attempted. He has gunships and armored vehicles for heaven's sake! She has no firepower that even comes close. No, not even with the help of witchcraft and Satan himself could the she-devil ever hope to overrun Freedom Center Reuben."

Huckleberry nervously shifted his weight once again and pressed the folds of his robes with sweaty palms. Foolishly, he hadn't considered the she-devil conspiring with Satan to defeat Patboy. "Of course," he thought, "it was possible, but No! Not even she would dare such a thing...would she?" Pastor Dick had planted the seed of doubt in his mind. Huck was no longer so certain of himself.

Dick's eyes grew wide with the mention of Satan. He was, of course, fearful that Satan, himself, might hear what he was about to say. He moved his hand to cover his mouth and his words. "She wouldn't conjure up the Hell Fire...would she...could she?" Dick whispered just loud enough that Huckleberry, but not Satan, could hear.

Huckleberry, desperate that Pastor Dick not see him as weak and uncertain, sat upright, and with the most carefree expression, attempted to reassure Dick...and himself, "No, no, no...it's impossible to consider. Our blessed Savior would not permit it. The Last Judgment has been made. We were victorious. Satan's time on earth has ended. The she-devil is a minor demon...a leftover...an afterthought..."

"But, what about Patboy...what's happened to him? Where is he?" Dick whined, glancing furtively left and right as if he expected to see devilish conspirators materializing in the throne room. He bit his lower lip and twisted his fingers into knots.

"I assure you...nothing has happened to Patboy. We have lost radio communication, and that is all that has happened." Huckleberry struggled to appear nonchalant. He fussed with the hem of his right sleeve. He bit off a loose thread and spat it into the air. He was not at all certain about this Satan affair.

"Of course, being a fellow brother in Christ," the Most Reverend President Leader quickly added, "we must investigate Patboy's need and offer assistance. We'll send radio parts...and...and a technician. You never know...maybe their radio tech has become ill and can't fix their radios. Yes, that's probably it. The simplest explanation is often the best." He now considered the matter closed. Huckleberry forced a reassuring smile and looked down his nose at Pastor Dick, expecting his unquestioning approval.

Dick reluctantly nodded agreement and wisely offered no more argument.

CHORUS

"To survive in Dominionist society one needed to know when to quit arguing and be a 'Good Shrubby.' A 'Good Shrubby' was a phrase created in the last century, meaning to go with the flow and never question authority, no matter how absurd, ill-informed and/or dangerous--the needs of the cause and the ego of the leader always outweighed any other consideration, or anyone else's needs."

"The Dominionists reasoned that the people in authority were in authority because God put them there. Hence, all their decisions were _God_ decisions and, by definition, therefore, their decisions were always _good_ decisions. (The Dominionists had to presume, of course, that God was always on their side, inerrant, and well-meaning.) The Dominionist leadership, logically then, was, without question, infallible. A 'Good Shrubby' always assumed that the right decision was being made for him, even if the decision was harmful to the Shrubby making that assumption."

"Free inquiry and questioning were frowned upon and definitely never rewarded. Only unquestioning loyalty and fealty were rewarded. Underlings, who gave the Dominionist leadership too much of a hard time, often came up missing with no explanation offered as to their whereabouts. Most of the Dominionist leadership had deluded themselves into believing this line of reasoning. While others didn't care if it was true or not, as long as the Dominionist rank and file believed it and followed unquestioningly. Huckleberry was, more or less, of the former condition while Patboy was, more or less, of the latter condition."

*

"Send for Pastor General Mike!" the Most Reverend President Leader suddenly barked.

Both of the attendants-in-waiting, standing by the door, jumped. They looked at one another as if they were unclear which of them should respond and, consequently, neither of them moved.

"You heard the Most Reverend President Leader," Pastor Dick squeaked loudly. "Don't stand there...move! Fetch Pastor General Mike!"

Both attendants, nearly knocking each other over, turned and ran from the room.

"Not both of you!" Huckleberry thundered. But it was too late. The attendants were gone.

"Idiots," the Reverend Leader sighed and shook his head. He turned his attention to Pastor Dick and found him pouting in is chair. "Now what's the matter?" Huck asked.

"Oh, nothing," Dick whined. He continued staring at the floor.

Huckleberry mimicked, "Oh, nothing." He did not bother to hide his consternation.

"We shall see what the great Pastor General has to say about it all," Huckleberry scoffed. Pastor General Mike was Huckleberry's greatest general and was feared as a realistic and dangerous rival for the position of supreme power. Naturally, Huckleberry was both jealous and suspicious of him. Yet, the Pastor General's opinions were often well-considered and sound. His input into this matter could be most helpful.

"We will need to make preparations for departure no later than tomorrow morning," Huckleberry thought aloud, talking more to himself than to Pastor Dick. "We must put to rest any question regarding Patboy's situation."

Pastor Dick raised his head and cautiously appraised the mood of his fearless leader. He decided to risk comment. "Sir, may I point out," an appropriately meek and sheepish Pastor Dick began, "uhhh...that, as a matter of my duty to you as head of the MEEC, Patboy's Center is nearly three-hundred miles distant and, with that she-devil on the loose, it is easily some of the most treacherous terrain any of us would dare to cross." He grimaced, expecting a vociferous attack from the Most Reverend President Leader.

"You little worm! You are suggesting that the she-devil is someone we should fear?!" Huckleberry shot back. "That we shouldn't consider a move without first consulting with her? That we need to ask her permission to operate freely in our own country?!" The Most Reverend President Leader appeared quite agitated. He stood and glared down upon his cowering advisor, appearing very much as a raptor regarding a field mouse.

"Oh...uhhh...of...of course not, but...admittedly, sir, she has been a bit of a problem, sir." Pastor Dick's high-pitched voice edged closer to an inaudible squeak as his anxiety peaked. Unwisely, and curiously, Dick was counseling a very unpopular and dangerous point of view.

"A trifle and nothing more," the Reverend President said, dismissing Dick with a flap of his arms. Huck's generously bejeweled hands caught and reflected the room's bright LED lighting, creating a brilliant display. He liked the effect, very much.

Dick was now afraid that he had pushed the Reverend Leader too far. He slumped into his chair and wisely abandoned the argument.

"Yet," Huckleberry said suddenly, "we needn't be foolhardy with our preparations. Yes! I have decided that we will send sufficient numbers of Tribulation Warriors...and armor...and gunships to dissuade even the most determined she-devil...er...should she be foolish enough to challenge my...our divine superiority."

"Of course, your Most Reverend...you are most wise." Dick sat upright in his chair and beamed like a praised puppy. "The she-devil will pay dearly if she dares to challenge your armies." Huckleberry had, of course, taken full credit for the idea, but this didn't bother Dick...much. Huckleberry taking credit for another's idea was praise enough for any true Brother in Christ. A relieved Dick allowed himself the luxury of enjoying the moment.

The two floor-to-ceiling golden doors, carved with exacting intricate detail of Christ officiating in the Last Judgment, suddenly swung open. In stepped the two returning attendants. They stopped just over the threshold and came to attention. "Most Reverend President Leader, Pastor General Mike awaits without," the attendants said, almost in unison.

"Well, send him in you dolts!" Huckleberry shouted. "And, for future reference," he added much annoyed, "when I send for someone, only one of you is to go, not both, understood?"

"Yes, Most Reverend President Leader Huckleberry," the two responded, once again almost in unison. Then, after a short pause, each looked at the other. And then they asked, almost in unison, "Which one?"

Huckleberry's mouth fell open in disbelief...shock...wretched befuddlement. Exhausted, he slumped on his throne with his arms dangling limp over the chairs two arms. He glared from beneath his hoary eyebrows at the two attendants. His face was the most brilliant red. "Which one what?" he spat. The threat would have been quite clear, even to the most stupid and unaware.

"Uhhh...which one goes to get someone you send for, Most Reverend President Lea..."

"Whichever one I say!" Huckleberry boomed, so loudly, that his pompadour came apart and fell over his eyes. "Now shut-up and send in Pastor General Mike!" Huckleberry fell back into his seat and, with a swipe of his well-manicured slender hand, brushed his silvery locks into place. His hair, in the oddest manner, fell obediently into place.

The attendants, visibly shaken, stepped to either side of the great doors and deeply bowed to an amused Pastor General Mike.

The proud, fit, six-foot-one-inch man of fifty-something, marched, straight-backed into the room. Smartly, he stepped off the fifty or so paces to the front of the throne, which sat high on a pedestal of twelve steps. The fall of his well-healed leather soled patent leather boots snapped sharply against the polished black marble floor as he marched. When the Pastor General reached the foot of Huckleberry's throne, he stopped, executed a perfect left face, saluted, and gave a deep bow.

"Praise Jesus, Most Reverend President Leader," he said to the floor. He then stood at attention with his eyes fixed straight ahead, on a level with the sixth step of Huckleberry's platform.

The Pastor General wore the yellow and brown camouflaged fatigues of a warrior Pastor General, the highest ranked Tribulation Warrior. A powder-blue armband with a golden cross on a white circular field adorned the left bicep area of his starched and pressed fatigue jacket. The Congressional Medal of the Old Wooden Cross with two oak leaf clusters and "V" for valor was tied smartly around his neck, as usual, with a powder-blue ribbon edged in gold. He was scarred on both cheeks from a Patriot bullet that had passed through his mouth the instant he had opened it to bark some orders. The plastic prosthetic that covered his left cheek was in place. His rank was indicated by five silver crosses set in a pentagram which, in its turn, was set in a circle of gold. One insignia adorned each of the jacket's epaulets.

The Pastor General was known to be uncompromising, intelligent, and fiercely loyal to Jesus; a determined and a brilliant strategist. He possessed a presence that the insecure and petty often envied and detested. Mike had survived the Dominionist's political purges, not because he was a "Good Shrubby" and well-liked by the aristocracy, but because he was the best Pastor General there was, and his skills would best ensure the Dominionist elites' continued survival. He had made himself very useful. Many Patriots had forfeited their lives by underestimating Pastor General Mike's abilities. He was just the man needed for Huckleberry's mission of mercy.

"Praise Jesus," Huckleberry replied with a marginally congenial smile that betrayed the underlying contempt he felt for the general. "Pastor General Mike," Huckleberry began and then, spitefully, held the general at attention for an uncomfortable length of time, while he fussed with the lay of his robes upon his throne. At last, arranged to his satisfaction, Huck continued, "Relax. Pray, how does this day find you?"

"I am well, thank-you, Most Reverend President Leader," Mike replied. As ordered, he relaxed his posture by moving his feet shoulder-width apart and clasping his hands loosely at his belt buckle, in the TW fashion of "standing at ease". His focus, however, remained straight ahead.

"Mike," Huckleberry said, "We need your help. Perhaps you have heard that Spiritual Leader Patboy has not communicated with us for the last three days..."

"Over three days...," Pastor Dick corrected.

"Silence!" Huckleberry boomed.

Dick clasped his hands over his mouth as if to indicate that his mouth was not at all subject to his control. He slumped in his chair.

Huckleberry glared at Dick until he was satisfied that his counselor would not dare to interrupt again. "Pastor General Mike," Huck resumed, keeping his eyes fixed on Pastor Dick, "we are rightly concerned by the Spiritual leader's silence, and we are motivated to find out what has happened. To that end, we have decided to send an advance column of Tribulation Warriors to Freedom Center Reuben. We would be most interested in your thoughts on the matter."

"I am honored, Reverend Leader," Mike replied, using the more informal form of address.

"Excellent," Huckleberry declared. "Time is of the essence. Preparations need to be undertaken immediately. We expect a departure time of no later than tomorrow morning."

"That will be no problem, Reverend Leader," Mike said confidently.

"Mike, please sit," Huckleberry said. He indicated a large table and chairs to his left. Huck then stood, lifted his robes above his ankles to prevent tripping and gracefully descended from his throne, appearing as regal as his position demanded.

Pastor Dick and the Pastor General waited, respectfully, for Huckleberry to lead the procession to the long, powder-blue and gold conference table. A large topographical map, which included Freedom Center Judah and Freedom Center Reuben, was displayed upon the wall at the farthest end of the table. Mike selected and stood by his seat, but Pastor Dick stood behind Huckleberry's chair. Dick would seat the Most Reverend President Leader, as per accepted protocol.

With himself and Pastor Dick now seated, Huckleberry addressed Mike, "Pastor Dick and I were discussing numbers and composition of the advanced column when you arrived. What are your thoughts on these matters?"

Mike stood and walked to the map. He studied it for several minutes and then said, "Most Reverend President Leader, I believe that no fewer than six-thousand warriors, twelve armored vehicles, at least six gunships with fuel and mechanics, medical personnel, and two-week's worth of supplies would be required."

Huckleberry choked, "Six...six-thousand warriors?! That's...that's nearly my entire army, er... our army, and two-week's worth of supplies?! Freedom Center Reuben is only three-day's journey, at the most." Astonished, Huckleberry looked at Pastor Dick, for support.

"Pastor General Mike," Pastor Dick scoffed, "certainly you overestimate." He glanced at Huckleberry for assurance that this was indeed the right response. Huckleberry slowly nodded his head in approval.

"Most Reverend President Leader, may I speak freely?" Mike asked.

Huck cleared his throat and produced a crocodilian smile. "Why, of course general, you may speak freely...always."

"Thank you, sir," Mike said and added an abbreviated bow. "Let me begin by saying that there are nearly three-hundred miles of open and hostile terrain between us and Spiritual Leader Patboy, much of which is patrolled by the she-devil, as you no-doubt know. Historically, we have been ineffective in curtailing her attacks upon our prisons and other facilities, and thus, she has made a general mess of things. She has liberated thousands of heretics and thus, has grown her army. We have paid a significant price for continually underestimating her abilities and strengths. And, we have paid a greater price for our half-hearted intelligence gathering regarding her movements...her comings and goings. We never seem to know where she is. Nor do we seem to care very much. Therefore..."

"You have no authority to speak to the Most Reverend President Leader in such a manner or with such a tone!" Pastor Dick rebuked coming to his feet.

Pastor General Mike came to attention with his gaze fixed on the far wall.

"Pastor Dick! My, my, my, my, my, let's not be rude. Sit down. Let the general finish," Huckleberry playfully chastised through his toothy bleached-white smile, "We are not so unreasonable as to begrudge a man his opinions, are we? Clearly, the Pastor General has put some thought into his considerations. Let us at least hear them." Huckleberry's saccharine smile frightened Pastor Dick, who returned to his seat.

"Pray do continue, general." A noticeable threat was betrayed by Huck's tone and appearance. Huckleberry leaned forward, placed his elbows on the table, and rested his head in his hands, as an enthralled schoolboy might.

"We now estimate," Mike resumed, unimpressed by any real or imagined threat from so little a man as Huckleberry, "that she has been able to grow her army to nearly three-thousand, maybe more. She has repeatedly out mastered us on the battlefield. She strikes when and where we least expect it. Given the opportunity, she destroys or cripples every column we send into the wilderness. Simply, insulting her and referring to her as a she-devil is not enough to defeat her. Continuing to discount and underestimate her..." Mike was dangerously close to forgetting his place, once again. His report was sounding more and more like a speech criticizing Huckleberry's judgment.

Pastor Dick began to rise from his seat in protest, but Huckleberry stopped him by placing his smallish, tanned hand directly upon Dick's pigeon chest and pushing him back into his chair.

"Pray, do continue, Pastor General Mike."

Mike remained at attention and considered his position. He had tried to be a Good Shrubby, and of late, with several Dominionist facilities wrecked or destroyed, Shrubby-ness had cost him and the Dominionist cause dearly. In Mike's opinion, it was time to stop toying with the she-devil. Only a decisive, overwhelming military engagement could send her to hell where she so deservedly belonged. Now was the time to confront the Dominionist madness, which had denied him the ultimate victory over evil. Challenging Dominionist official policy might very well cost him his life, but his life was forfeit anyway, if the leadership continued to underestimate their adversary. The she-devil may be un-human, but that did not equate to being stupid, weak and easy. Mike was a courageous man, and it would take courage to challenge his Reverend Leader.

"Thank-you, Reverend Leader. I meant no disrespect," Mike apologized. "I want only for us to succeed in our mission of eliminating evil and creating a world celebrating and respecting God's glorious vision. But we shall never accomplish God's vision by ignoring the facts set before us. We only delay and prolong our struggle. The she-devil is formidable. Her demons are well trained in tactics, wilderness survival, concealment, and ambush. They are fierce fighters who give no quarter..."

"You make our cause seem hopeless. Do you suggest that the Devil is more powerful than God?" Dick asked, glancing furtively at Huckleberry.

"No sir, I do not. But as God's representatives on earth, I think we underestimate the Devil in a way God never would..." Mike said, going much farther than was prudent.

"Blasphemer!" Dick shouted, coming to his feet and shaking his girlish, manicured finger at Mike.

"Sit down, Dick. He does not blaspheme God, he just blasphemes God's representatives," a much too calm Huckleberry observed. Huckleberry did not doubt that Mike was loyal to the Dominionist cause and Jesus. He did doubt, however, Mike's loyalty to him.

"So, you are saying we have been inept in our dealings with the she-devil," Pastor Dick offered grudgingly, taking his seat once again.

"Not inept, Pastor Dick, but, perhaps, we have been a bit overconfident in our abilities, while, simultaneously, belittling and discounting her abilities. I believe it is time to reverse the trend. If we are going to venture into the wilderness, then let's do it with overwhelming strength and purpose. I believe that sitting behind these walls, while she runs amok, attacking our Freedom Centers, is a recipe for annihilation. Eventually, she'll grow large enough that she will be able to attack Freedom Center Judah. And she will attack us...it is just a matter of time," Mike leveled.

"You must be joking," Dick laughed, "the she-devil...attack Freedom Center Judah? Never in a million years would she dare."

"I must admit that seems a bit of a stretch," Huckleberry snorted giving a nod and a smile of approval to Pastor Dick.

Pastor Dick sat up straight and glowed.

"In any event," Huckleberry said returning his attention to Mike, "are you suggesting we actively hunt down this she-demon and destroy her?"

"Exactly," Mike said, "We believed that the desert, the cold, famine, radiation, and disease would kill off anyone who survived the thermonuclear exchanges; that armies would only be necessary to roundup and kill any survivors too stupid to die. But, clearly, that strategy has failed. Simply put, we were wrong. The she-demon is just not going away. We need to hunt her down, kill her, and obliterate her army. And, we will never accomplish that by belittling her significance and sending small units into the desert to be annihilated."

"So, you suggest we expose nearly the whole of our army to danger," Dick said sarcastically.

"That's what armies are for," Mike said, now lecturing Pastor Dick. "But, with an army of that size there would be little risk. The she-devil would find a force of six thousand heavily armed and well-trained TW's extremely difficult to confront, and impossible to destroy. And we, if we were successful in locating the witch, would have little difficulty containing and destroying her." Mike looked for enthusiastic agreement from Huckleberry and Dick who, instead, sat staring at him with stern expressions.

Undeterred, Mike continued, "I understand that we are to believe that Spiritual Leader Patboy was not overrun...and that the problem is that his radios do not work. That, I agree, is probably more likely than Center Reuben being overrun. But, consider this, what if we are wrong? What if, based on an incorrect assumption, we send an insufficiently armed detachment with radio parts and technicians to his rescue?"

Huckleberry and Dick looked at each other. How could Mike have guessed their thinking?

"They, like many other small detachments, would most likely disappear and never be heard from ever again," Mike concluded. "And, another small bit of our army would be gone. This has happened time and time again. Therefore, I would suggest that, however unlikely it is that Patboy was defeated by the she-devil, we behave as if he was overrun, and that we send an army of such a size that the she-devil would not dare attack it. And, if she was foolish enough to attack, we would be in a position to wipe her out, once and for all. Additionally, and I consider this most important of all, if she refused to engage us, we would have a large enough force to chase her down and defeat her in the field."

Huckleberry and Dick sat silently and listened uneasily. Mike's words made a great deal of sense, but Huckleberry could not get beyond the personal disloyalty he felt from Mike. He knew that if Mike were left in charge of an army, even one-third of an army, beyond Huckleberry's watchful eye, then his very presidency could, and most likely would, be challenged. Huckleberry feared a coup from within, more than an attack from without. And, he valued his own survival above and beyond any loyalty he might have felt for Patboy or even the Dominionist cause. Something would have to be done about Mike...before or after Patboy's rescue, was the only question.

"Well, General, it is clear that you have put a lot of consideration into your opinions. Of course, you could be correct; maybe we should err on the side of caution. There may be an instructive lesson in that sentiment for all of us," Huckleberry said and threw a glance at Pastor Dick. Huck's Chief Counselor thought he understood the meaning of the gesture.

"Six-thousand warriors, twelve armored vehicles, and six gunships...was it?" Huckleberry questioned.

"Yes, Reverend Leader," Mike confirmed.

"I can only spare two-thousand warriors, six armored vehicles, and two gunships. That is nearly one-third of our army. If the she-devil can defeat that, then we are in a great deal of trouble." Huckleberry emitted a slightly nervous laugh and dismissed the general with a wave of his hand. The matter was closed...for now.

Mike, who thought a minimum of three-thousand warriors would be needed for his mission, had asked for six thousand, knowing that Huckleberry would want to argue and equivocate. "But only two-thousand," he thought, "would that be enough...could he get the job done?"

"Thank you, Most Reverend President Leader," Mike said. He came to attention, saluted, and bowed. "I will give orders that the Third Division prepare for departure at first light tomorrow morning."

Huckleberry turned his back to Mike, walked over to his throne, and ascended the twelve polished steps of dark oak.

Mike raised both palms upward in the Dominionist salute. "Praise Jesus," he said, did a left face, and marched smartly from the room.

"Attendants!" Huckleberry barked to the two boys who were opening the chamber doors for the Pastor General, "You may follow the general out. You will wait in the hall for further instructions." After the doors had closed behind the Pastor General and the attendants, Huckleberry looked down upon Pastor Dick, who now stood at the conference table. "Very instructive," he said.

"Yes, Reverend Leader. He is arrogant and disrespectful, but still a very intelligent and capable general," Dick said this believing that he was agreeing with The Most Reverend President Leader.

"Fool! Didn't you hear? He believes that God is capable of making mistakes...that we are making mistakes...that I am a mistake," Huckleberry loudly admonished. He nervously tapped the index finger of his left hand on the arm of his golden throne. Upon his left index finger was the gaudy ring signifying Jesus' Love, set with diamonds and rubies, one of the hundreds of official symbols of the Office of the Most Reverend President Leader.

"I don't think he meant that we were all bad...did he?" Dick asked, uncertain.

"Excuse me?" Huckleberry cocked his head to the side. Was Dick agreeing with the general?

"I mean...he could have misspoke. These are trying times and..." Dick was spared any additional stumbling by Huck's interruption.

"No? He made it very clear that he thinks we are handling the she-devil improperly...that means that, as far as he is concerned, we are making mistakes. But we can't make mistakes, can we? We are God's chosen representatives, aren't we? We were chosen by God for our perfection. We not only follow God's instructions--we are his instructions! How can we be wrong, damn you?!" Huck slammed his fist onto the arm of his throne. "If we are wrong, then God is wrong, you idiot!" Huckleberry boomed, lifting himself off his perch. "To say that we are fallible is to say that God is fallible!" Huckleberry's polar-white pompadour was coming unraveled, once again. His torch-red face stood in stark relief to it. His eyes bored holes through Dick's skull.

To Dick, the Most Reverend President Leader appeared Devil-like. He shrank back into his chair to avoid the frightening vision. "Are we handling the she-devil properly?" he asked timidly. Dick pushed himself further into his chair. Sometimes, he just couldn't get small enough.

"Of course, we are handling the witch properly!" Huckleberry shouted and threw himself onto his cushions in a huff. He chewed his lower lip.

"But, sir, with all due respect, sir, shouldn't we just crush her and be rid of her?"

"Noooo, we shouldn't just crush her and be rid of her. We don't want to be rid of her. Why would we want to be rid of her?"

"Because...ah...she's dangerous, sir?" Dick's squeak was so high in pitch that he could barely be understood.

"Not to me. Is she dangerous to you?"

"Well, ah, no sir...ah...she isn't dangerous to me?"

"She isn't dangerous to me?" the Reverend Leader mocked. "With an army the size of mine...uh, ours, how could she be dangerous to me? We can travel anywhere, anytime we want," Huckleberry reassured his timid counselor...as much as himself. He threw himself into the powder-blue cushions. "Besides she is useful to us," he threw out casually.

"Useful, sir?" Dick squeaked, unable to avoid a very perplexed facial expression.

"Yes, useful. What do you think keeps my...er, our people in line, blindly following along, asking no questions, doing whatever we say?"

"Ah...the she-devil, sir?" Dick asked cautiously. He was completely clueless and hoping beyond hope that he was correct.

"Fear, you dolt, fear, fear, fear, fear!" Huckleberry exclaimed, hitting the arm of his throne with his fist to emphasize every spoken 'fear'. "Oh sure, they love Jesus and all of that...but they fear him more. Do you think it is their love, or their fear that keeps them in line?"

"Ah...I'm thinking their fear, sir?" Dick hazarded, pulling his head into his shoulders as a turtle might.

"Yes, exactly! Oh, they say they love us, but it is the fear that keeps them cowed...and ignorance that keeps them impotent. Don't you understand that we must always give our people something to fear? Fear is our ally. It keeps the people on edge, keeps them from organizing a thought. Fear focuses the rabble on the enemy and keeps their mind off of us...so, we can do what we want," an exasperated Huckleberry explained. "Fear and ignorance...our two greatest allies in the war against evil and Humanist corruption...and Secular revolution...and Satanic coups. Fear keeps us in power!" Huckleberry shouted.

"So, we need the she-devil to keep _our_ people from attacking... _us_?" Dick's eyebrows furrowed. He chewed on his tongue as panacea for his destabilizing confusion. He felt that it was very important for him to get this right.

"Yes, yes, yes, and she's perfect for the job! She can't really hurt us. But, the threat of her hurting us, keeps our people unified against her, and distracted from us. If we didn't have her, we'd have to invent her. For heaven's sake, Dick, look at how we live and look how the rabble live. You don't think they'd notice that we have it far better than they? What do you suppose would happen if we gave them a second to organize a thought?"

"They wouldn't like it, sir...that is, that we have it better than they do?"

"Would _you_?" Huckleberry asked incredulously, his sky-blue eyes saucer-like, "We only have to look to our heroes of centuries past, the greats, Shrubby the Lesser, and Smart the Self-Proclaimed, for masterful examples of this principle in action. They kept the entire United States in their thrall, well beyond any reasonable expectation. And, how did they do this? By keeping the people ignorant, by destroying education, by hijacking history, and by feeding the people a steady diet of fear and hate, fear and hate that would endure, and persist...even unto this day! They carefully prepared the soil and planted the seeds of fear and fertilized it with ignorance and hate. Fear took root, and fear grew strong. And, the people hated so gloriously...hated everyone, but us. Beautifully conceived and beautifully executed. Praise Jesus!"

"Praise Jesus!" Dick enthused.

The vessels in Huckleberry's high, tanned forehead began to stand proud as he grew more agitated and excited. He raised his clenched fists to heaven for emphasis, "Lesser's war on terror, Smart's fear of immigration, the frightening imagery of a vast left-wing conspiracy, and the spooky deep state, godless Socialism, threat levels, axis of evil, hatred of the Muslim, the Homosexual, the Liberal, brown people, Mexican rapists...all were brilliantly conceived, exaggerated, and sold to an ignorant people with maximum effect. Glorious and heaven-sent _Fear..._ unreasonable, unthinking, emotional, paranoid, uninformed, delicious...Oh, I could go on. Fear--all religion depends on it!" Huckleberry's eyes became dreamy and focused on far away things. He paused for reflection.

"And then, brilliantly," he said, suddenly breaking the trance and startling his demure Pastor Counselor, "after they had made everyone impotent and completely dependent upon them, while every ignorant dupe was distracted and helpless, Lesser and Smart were stealing oil dollars from the Middle East, feeding our banker friends trillions of dollars, passing ridiculous laws deregulating corporations, and awarding ridiculously generous bailouts...bailouts, what genius...gouging tax payers at the gas pumps _and_ ruining families with ridiculously expensive health care, outlawing the people's right to organize against self-serving and corrupt businesses, made spying on Americans legal, and the _coup de grace_ ...packed the Federal courts with Dominionist judges...pure genius! And, then, they started unprovoked wars in the Middle East, insured the rabble would remain ignorant with No Child Left Behind, defunded the public school systems, made higher education ridiculously expensive, replaced Congress' function of Checks and Balances on corrupt leadership to 'rubber stamp and kiss our ass'...just so many, many wonderful things." Huckleberry sighed with envy and admiration. He lounged and luxuriated on his cushions. No orgasm had ever felt as satisfying. He plucked a particularly plump purple grape from his fruit bowl and popped it into his mouth.

"Things that made all of this...everything we enjoy today, possible," Huckleberry sighed, as he relaxed with the self-satisfied expression of one who had just consumed his Thanksgiving feast. "They were masters, as was Nicky the Tricky and Keegun the Clueless, of getting away with trashing that awful Secular Constitution and...getting away with murder...er, renditions, all by employing the genius of ignorance, fear and hate. Although," Huck added in hushed tones, "if we are going to be completely honest, all of this would not have been possible if not for the quiet administrations of the Dominionist Family, secretly working their magic, unseen, pulling the controlling strings of Nicky the Tricky, Keegun the Clueless, Shrubby the Lesser, and Smart the Self-Proclaimed...themselves dupes of Christ's unrelenting army of the perfect and Chosen. The Dominionist Family was the real source of all the big ideas. They had the guts to get things done." Huckleberry tapped his right temple with his slender index finger, indicating that he had the inside track on this little-known and special knowledge. "It's the old magician's trick of keeping the audience distracted on one hand while the other works its magic."

"I think I see now...masterful!" Dick declared.

"Yes, very masterful."

"So, why don't we let the people live the way we do?" Pastor Dick, in his innocence, asked without thinking.

Huckleberry stared slack-jawed at the boy and then, with no little effort, reconsidered admonishing him. "I will entertain answering your question because you are young and stupid," Huckleberry said feeling momentarily generous. "But, first allow me to ask you a couple of questions. Why do you think God has chosen us to lead...to represent Him on earth? What does God see that, which you, apparently, do not?"

Dick's impulse was to say that he and Huckleberry were just lucky, but then he quickly thought better of it. Dick decided to take the safer route, "God likes us more," he answered proudly.

Huckleberry looked exasperatedly at his counselor and wondered why he had chosen this boy for such an important position. Huckleberry sat back on his cushions and considered his counselor. Then he realized that he chose the naïve boy-man precisely because he was naïve, could be easily fooled, and that he would blindly follow orders. Most of Huckleberry's followers were cut from the same cloth as Pastor Counselor Dick. Huck could not, he realized in a moment of rare humanity and empathy, ridicule the boy-man for not knowing the answers to his big questions. Only Huckleberry and a few others, Pastor General Mike among them, as the chosen true leaders and representatives of Christ on earth, possessed all the answers.

"The answer, my dear Pastor Counselor, is insight, intelligence, and Godly compassion. An overabundance of these qualities elevate us far above the rabble. God saw in us the qualities that most imitated His own, and with His divine hand, He blessed us more than He blessed the others."

"We live better because we are better," Dick concluded.

"Precisely!" Huckleberry beamed, pleased and relieved that his counselor arrived at the correct conclusion. And, then Huckleberry suddenly added, "We no longer require his services." He threw himself back upon his cushions and peered down his nose at Dick.

"Ex-excuse me, sir?" Dick stammered clumsily trying to grasp Huck's meaning. "Whose services? Er, God's services? You don't mean God..."

"Of course not!" Huckleberry boomed. "Save me," he beseeched, looking to the heavens.

"Well, then...whose services don't we need?" a near death Dick asked.

"Pastor General Mike's! He's obviously a heretic and a blasphemer...and insubordinate, obstructive, contrary, argumentative, disrespectful...and several other things," Huckleberry said waving his hand dismissively in the air as if he were shooing a fly. "I want Mike and his staff officers arrested immediately." He began fooling absentmindedly with the left sleeve hem of his robes, indicating that he was bored and ready to move on to another subject.

"I don't understand, Most Reverend President Leader...er, sir...he is our Pastor General. Certainly, he was foolish to be so bold, and for that he should be chastised, but his ideas remain sound...er, don't they?" Dick asked.

"Damn you, this is not a democracy!" Huckleberry thundered. "I am the law here, and I say he is to be arrested! We fought and won the destruction of that heathen democracy and its damnable Constitution, so I would not have to have these inane conversations! Do you think I am foolish enough to place one-thousand soldiers under the command of a general who thinks I...and God, Himself, are inept fools? Why, I'm the one who'd end up chained to a stake."

"Two-thousand soldiers, sir," Dick corrected.

"What?"

"Two-thousand...er, you gave Mike two-thousand soldiers, sir."

"He'd be lucky if he got one," Huckleberry boomed.

"Yes sir, but you don't think Pastor General Mike would dare attack us... do you...he couldn't...he wouldn't...would he? The army is fiercely loyal to you...ah, isn't it?" Dick could not have been more terrified if he were climbing a sheer cliff face of crumbling shale.

"Oh, you think so?" Huckleberry chided. "Well, don't forget that my MEEC, which includes you, Chief Pastor Counselor, would join me on the stakes," Huckleberry hectored while leaning forward and out of his throne. His eyes opened wide and fixed on Dick for added emphasis.

Dick squeaked, covered his thin-lipped mouth with a hand, and lost what color remained in his face.

"What's the matter?" Huckleberry derided, "Not willing to find out to whom the army is most loyal?"

"We shouldn't take any chances," Pastor Dick croaked. His throat was suddenly very dry. He began pacing and wringing his hands.

"Well, we're only heeding Pastor General Mike's advice by erring on the side of caution," Huckleberry said breaking into a throaty guffaw and relaxing back into his seat.

"Yes," Dick agreed, laughing a bit more uneasily than his Reverend President Leader.

"Good, then the matter is settled." Huckleberry located a button under the throne's right arm and pushed it. A small section of red velvet draperies on the wall, to the left side of the throne parted, and a single door slid open. A prominently bald, short, round, impossibly pink, clean-shaven man, dressed all in black robes, tied at the waist with a red rope, entered the room. His plain, brown leather sandals made a muffled scrapping sound as they slid over the marble tiles. He had full rosy cheeks, full red lips, and a small, red round nose. His sparkling blue eyes were nearly closed by his broad, kind smile. Everything about the man spoke kindness and understanding. Chubby fingers were clasped around a well-worn Bible, held firmly at his ample waist, and he wore the red armband with black cross on a white field of a BMO: Biblical Morale Officer. He was, in fact, the Grand Inquisitor of the BMO Corp.

"Praise Jesus and good day to you, Most Reverend President Leader," the BMO beamed and bowed as low as his belly would allow, which was not very low at all. His voice was soothing and reassuring, almost a good-natured chuckle.

"Praise Jesus, BMO Harold. You, of course, know Pastor Dick, Chief Pastor Counselor of the MEEC," Huckleberry said indicating Pastor Dick.

"Oh yes, very well, very, very, very well, a fine, fine man," Harold said while turning his broad smile to Pastor Dick and exercising another shallow bow.

"And, Pastor Dick, you know of BMO Harold," Huckleberry said still looking down his nose at Dick.

"Yes, I have heard of him and have seen him around, but we have never met," Dick said with understandable apprehension. He was unnerved by Harold's reputation, and by his indicating that he knew Dick 'very, very, very well'. "Ah, the pleasure is all mine," Dick said returning the bow. He, of course, was being polite, but not at all honest.

"You have brought the recordings?" Huckleberry asked Harold.

"Oh, yes, yes, yes. I have brought the recordings," Harold replied shaking his head and dropping his thinning white-blonde eyebrows in an expression of deep concern, "Tragic...just tragic...such a fine man lost to Satan...just tragic, tragic, tragic." Harold reached into the large sleeve of his robe and produced five silvery quarter sized discs.

"Recordings?" Dick asked nervously.

"Yes. I've taken the liberty, as is my right, to have Pastor General Mike's apartments, ah...bugged," Huckleberry proudly said with a self-satisfied smile, as he stood and descended the twelve steps to the throne room floor. He then walked the thirty or so paces to the playback machine which would project the recorded material on the huge LCD screen hanging on the wall at the far end of the long conference table.

"Bugged?" Dick squeaked, failing to conceal the sudden concern he felt. He twisted his fingers and followed Huckleberry's movements with his eyes.

"Yes, bugged. You know...little cameras and microphones hidden behind picture frames and under couches and things," Huckleberry said condescendingly, once again annoyed with Dick's all too inexhaustible naiveté.

"Harold, hand the recordings to me and have Pastor General Mike and his staff officers arrested immediately," Huckleberry ordered.

"Oh, it is sad...just sad...sad, sad, sad...a sad, sad, sad day. Certainly, immediately, as you wish, Most Reverend President Leader," Harold replied with a bow. He laid the discs on the table, flashed a kindly smile at Pastor Dick, and exited through the little door. The door and the red velvet curtains quietly closed behind him.

Dick picked up the discs and carried them to Huckleberry.

"Shall we have a listen and...a look see?" Huckleberry asked rhetorically. He grinned and fingered the five quarter-sized silvery recording discs.

Dick stood staring at Huckleberry. He didn't know why, but he had never considered bugging. Had his apartments ever been bugged? Had he ever said anything in private that could be construed as disloyal? He couldn't recall. He swallowed hard against the panic that was crawling up his throat.

"You have never considered bugs, have you? And now you're wondering if your apartments have ever been bugged," Huckleberry said, savoring his amusement.

"No...I mean, yes, ah...no. Well, that is...," Dick stammered. His throat was very dry.

"Oh, sit down and shut up," Huckleberry ordered. "How has it come about that I'm surrounded by such weak-kneed idiots? Sweet Jesus, help us," Huck raised his eyes to the heavens and stretched out his arms with his palms upwards. Huckleberry then shook his head dismissively and slid one of the recording discs into the little powder-blue viewing machine. "I think you'll find these recordings both amusing and frightening."
CHAPTER 16:

Mike left the throne room and walked the fifty yards across the gold tiled reception hall. The two guards at the end of the hall came to attention, saluted, and opened the thirty-foot-tall golden floor-to-ceiling doors. Mike ignored their salute, as was his right, given his station. He descended the one-hundred powder-blue carpeted stairs to the formal receiving hall. He then turned left, and two guards opened another set of thirty-foot-tall golden doors. He exited the receiving hall, took the twenty steps to the gold elevator that would drop him thousands of feet, in two stages, to the valley below. He stood before the gleaming doors and ignored his brilliant reflection. The doors slid silently open. Two of Huckleberry's Imperial Guard of the Glorious Host, both over six foot and resplendent in their gold- buttoned, powder-blue uniforms, draped in polished silver braid and sporting brilliant red capes, stood at attention on either side of the door. They saluted and Mike ignored them. The Pastor General entered the elevator, walked to the back wall of the oversized space and casually turned to face forward. The guard turned to face one another across the opening of the doors which slid silently shut. He reached the valley floor in less than a minute.

Mike exited the elevator and stopped on the warm-gray marble paved piazza. He took a deep breath of the cold night air, exhaled, and stood staring at the huge marble fountain located in the center of the plaza. The Center's governing and administrative complex was built to recreate the regal glory of ancient Rome and Greece, but it possessed no more grandeur or stateliness than the cheap rip-off of classical architecture popularized in the sad, seedy gambling centers of the old USA.

"After decades of swindling trillions of dollars out of the United States government," Mike thought, "with no-bid contracts, half-finished bullshit projects, half-assed construction using inferior materials, tax dodges, and outright theft, this was the best we could do?" The excess of the place made him sick. This was not how he imagined the recreation of God's Eden on earth. Numerous mercury lights cast a sickly yellow light on the buildings, which walled in the piazza. And, as usual, sheet lightning illuminated the brown and yellow clouds swirling and boiling low overhead. He missed the feel of the sun on his face.

Mike realized that he had gone too far, and that he had argued too strongly with the Reverend Leader. He suspected that his life was most probably forfeit, and that he and his unquestioningly loyal cadre of staff officers would have to be especially cautious. Mike did not regret his confrontation with the Reverend Leader, however. He held firmly to the belief that a good Pastor General in Christ, in order to be effective, had to refute, from time to time, the self-serving ideas of the leadership; ideas which were most often concerned only with the consolidation of their wealth and power. A good Pastor General had to look beyond the petty concerns of the leadership to the overarching Dominionist cause. Sometimes, playing the Good Shrubby was a harmless enough pursuit, but, at other times, playing the Good Shrubby was a supreme act of disloyalty to God. Mike's loyalty was foremost to his God and all those who served him. He had no respect for, or felt any loyalty towards, anyone who used God only to advance themselves and dominate others. Mike did not believe that the President and his MEEC served God, as much as they used Him to excuse their fine palaces and legitimize their claims to power.

"By their actions ye shall know them," he said aloud. And, then, suddenly aware of where he was, he looked around to see if anyone had heard him. Satisfied that no one was within earshot he resumed his walk across the piazza. "Hypocrites," he thought, "they claim to build these palaces for the glory of God, but they waste no time moving into them."

Mike walked to his waiting staff car. His aid saluted and opened the car's door for Mike. The aid then delivered Mike to his apartments, where Pastor Colonel Richard "Rosie" Hart anxiously awaited Mike's report.

"So, what do we do next, Mike?" Rosie asked.

"I'm quite certain Huckleberry has marked me for a Blessed Cleansing," Mike responded. "He cannot doubt my loyalty to the Almighty, but he knows I think him and his MEEC, especially his lapdog, Pastor Dick, fools and hypocrites."

"You didn't say as much...did you?" a startled Rosie asked.

"No, but even Pastor Dick couldn't have misunderstood the meaning behind my words," Mike said.

"What did you say?" The Pastor Colonel inquired.

"Basically, that the leadership consistently underestimates the skill and determination of the she-devil and thus, risks our very existence. And, that they are making mistakes that God would never make," Mike shared. He sounded a bit regretful that he had allowed his anger to color his remarks to the Reverend Leader.

"You didn't say that," Rosie asked, hoping upon hope that Mike would say he was kidding. The Pastor Colonel regarded his Pastor General, whose serious expression said it all. Mike was not one to kid.

"I see. How long do you think we have?" Rosie asked.

"I don't know. But, I don't think Huckleberry would dare move against me until after we've finished our mission to rescue that pedophile, Patboy," Mike said turning to look out the large window which offered a panoramic view of the piazza four stories below, "I asked for and was granted one week's worth of supplies," He continued. "So, I guess that gives us one week. And, I plan on using all of it."

"Do you think Huckleberry knows what we have planned for him?" Rosie inquired.

"Yes, I think he might. The proof, I think, is that he only gave me command of two-thousand warriors, with minimal armor and only two gunships. He probably suspects that to give me more would be very dangerous to him. Even if I was not thinking of getting rid of him, he would suspect it. He always suspects. A man like Huckleberry survives because he is paranoid...the treacherous always suspect treachery."

"Well, you're not really paranoid if they are out to get you," Rosie offered with a smile.

"There will be time for jokes, later," Mike said brushing off Rosie's attempt at humor.

"Yes, of course. Two-thousand warriors aren't enough to seize power. We will have to wait, yes?" Rosie asked.

Three short knocks followed by a long were heard at Mike's door. "That will be the others," he said while crossing his living room. He peered through the peep hole in his front door.

He saw no one standing in the hall and immediately sensed danger. He turned and ran from the door grabbing Rosie by the arm. "Quick...out the back," he said, pulling his Pastor Colonel in the direction of the kitchen. They made it about four steps before the apartment door was blown off its hinges. Mike and Rosie were knocked off their feet, as splinters and dust filled the room.

Twelve blacked-cloaked men the size of NFL linebackers and wearing the red arm bands of the BMO, rushed into the room and seized Rosie and Mike before they could gain their feet. A brief but vain struggle ensued. Mike and Rosie were quickly overwhelmed. Within moments they were tightly cuffed and hauled to their feet. As the dust settled, they became aware of a short, round man dressed all in black, standing at the edge of the living room, surveying the scene. It was BMO Harold, of course, and he was wearing his concerned face. Mike and Rosie, covered in dust, stood with set jaws. Their eyes met Harold's and held his empathetic gaze, with contempt.

"Resistance is futile," Harold said and burst into a belly laugh. "Ho, ho, ho, oh dear, ho, ho, dear, dear me, ho, ha, ha, ha," he said, holding his jiggling belly and gasping for breath. "That was entirely uncalled for, ha, ha, ha...resistance is futile...ho, ho, ho, absolutely unprofessional. Will you ever be able to forgive me? Ahem, (giggle, snort) I just...I just...I've always wanted to say that. Oh my, that was precious...just precious, precious, precious." Harold wiped a tear of laughter from his twinkling eyes with a chubby sausage-like finger. He took stock of his prisoners. "Oh dear, dear, dear where are my manners?" he said struggling to arrest his chuckling, "You are no doubt wondering who I am."

"We know who you are you contemptuous snake," Mike snapped.

Harold met their derisive stares unflinchingly, with his kind smile...and another chuckle. "Oh my, my, my, my, Satan has sunk his teeth deep into thee. But, have no fear...we will soon shake that fat old snake loose. Oh, yes we will, we will, we will." Harold chuckled and shook a finger under Mike's nose. "We shall begin immediately. The sooner the better in matters like these, is what I always say. And, oh yes, I am so sorry, so very, very, very sorry, please forgive me, but you are under arrest for the crimes of Blasphemy, High Treason, Apostasy, Witchcraft...probably...and a bunch of other stuff. There is just no way around it, but we must take you to the Hall of Conversions. I am so very, very, very sorry. You simply must believe me."

The two captives glanced at each other disgustedly but said nothing.

Harold smoothed his robes and brushed some dust from his belly. He took note of Pastor General Mike's austere quarters. The furniture was simply constructed of unadorned wood, without any padding. There was no carpeting, and the only wall decoration was a tiny wooden cross.

"How absolutely Puritan," Harold chuckled, "I'm very, very curious of why you insist on living in such an austere setting, when the gifts of fine furnishings are so readily available to you?" Harold asked, returning his attention to Mike and studying him curiously, as a child might.

"It was the way of our Lord, and I do not deserve better than He," Mike answered curtly and without hesitation.

"You see...you see," Harold said shaking a finger under Mike's nose, "and you must believe me that I forgive you for this...but you elevate yourself above our most precious Reverend President Leader when you make such statements...yes, yes, yes. You forget that he has earned the right to live in supreme opulence, and that he glorifies God in doing so, while you feign superiority by electing to live in...squalor." Harold chuckled.

"Our precious Reverend President Leader only glorifies himself," Mike challenged.

"And, you have earned the same right, poor child," Harold continued, side stepping Mike's challenge. "My dear, dear, dear general, you confuse your choice, and I emphasize 'choice', to live in poverty with righteousness, and you go way, way, way too far in asserting that that choice makes you better than our glorious Reverend Leader, and by extension, better than God...heresy, heresy, heresy."

"What doth it profit, my brethren, though a man say he hath faith, and have not works? Can faith save him?" Mike insisted citing James 2:14.

"Oh dear, dear, dear me, you see, you see, you want to sound erudite and humble, but you can't quite manage it without implying your superiority. Can't you see?" Harold considered the Pastor General for a moment and then added, "You know...it's just the sort of problem that rascal Satan would have in a similar situation. Yes-siree-bob, I'm certain of it...just the sort of problem that ol' fat snake would have." A broad sympathetic smile of unconditional love and genuine concern filled Harold's round angelic face.

"But wilt thou know," Mike persisted, citing James 2:20, "O vain man, that faith without works is dead?"

"According as he hath chosen us in him before the foundation of the world, that we should be holy and without blame before him in love," Harold chuckled, citing Ephesians 1:4. His eyes closed into gleeful slits. He gave Pastor General Mike a chummy faux punch to the arm, to emphasize the point.

"Was not Abraham justified by works, when he had offered Isaac, his son, upon the alter? For as the body without the spirit is dead, so faith without works is dead also," Mike argued, citing James 2:21, 26.

"Works, what works?" Harold chided playfully, regarding the austere room surrounding him. "You call living in squalor 'works'? This is your claim to righteousness? Oh, dear, dear, dear me, you silly, silly, silly man," Harold chuckled. "But God, who is rich in mercy, for His great love wherewith he loved us, even when we were dead in sins, hath quickened us together in Christ, by _grace_ ye are saved; and has raised us up together, and made us sit together in heavenly places in Christ Jesus: That in the ages to come he might shew the exceeding _riches_ of his grace in his kindness toward us through Christ Jesus. For by _grace_ are ye saved through _faith_ ; and that _not_ of yourselves: it is the gift of God: _not of works_ lest any man should boast." Harold stood as tall as he could, which nearly brought him up to Mike's shoulders. He fixed Mike's eye with a playful haughtiness. "You see, I know a little of the Bible myself," he chortled. Harold delighted in the emphasizing of 'riches' and 'grace' and 'faith' and 'not of works' as he recited Ephesians 2:4-9, from memory, of course. Harold could think of few things he enjoyed more than Biblical sparring.

"All you believe in is loop-holes," Mike chided.

"Loop-holes...loop-holes," Harold chuckled, "here's a loop-hole for you, Proverbs 11:29, 'He that troubleth his own house shall inherit the wind: and the fool shall be servant to the wise of heart.' Now, I say, you ol' troubler, it doesn't look too good for you then...oh, no, no, no, it doesn't look good for you at all."

"Will you shut up and get on with it?" Mike growled through clenched teeth. He strained to wrench his hands free of their bindings. "You are the most annoying man I have ever had the displeasure to know."

"Oh, my yes, yes, yes, it must be very disconcerting for you, but I am sorry. Please forgive me. You must forgive me. It really is going to hurt me more...," Harold began to say.

"Let me loose and we shall see which gets hurt the more," Mike challenged.

"Oh no...we can't do that...no, no, no." Harold shook his finger as at a naughty child. "Once you've got Satan handcuffed, it is never a good idea to let him go. Oh no, no, no, as much as I would like this never to have happened, we simply can't let the fat old snake go. No, no, no...definitely a bad idea...bad idea. I'm so sorry, very, very, very sorry," Harold chuckled and apologized, seemingly quite sincerely.

"So, Pastor General Mike and his staff have been planning a coup for months," Dick said, astonished at what he had seen and heard on the recordings. "Jesus be praised that you had the presence of mind to have his apartments bugged."

"Presence of mind had little to do with it," Huckleberry said, as he pressed a call button under the lip of the conference table. Momentarily, the huge double doors opened, and the two attendants resumed their positions on either side of the stately portal.

"It was Jesus...who came to me in a dream," the Reverend President Leader revealed, "and spoke quite clearly about the dangers which surround me. And, it just so happened, that Pastor General Mike figured quite prominently in the warning." Huck punctuated his revelation with several exaggerated wide-eyed affirming nods.

"Glorious Jesus spoke to you...in a dream?" Pastor Dick whispered in awe, which sounded to Huckleberry, as if Dick were a bit amazed that Jesus would take the time.

"That's right," Huckleberry defended. He did not think a nocturnal visitation by the Son of God such an unusual occurrence for a Most Reverend President Leader and, he thought, neither should Pastor Dick.

"Praise Jesus, it must have been magnificent!" Pastor Dick's face was alight with wonderment and envy.

"Yes, and it was terrifying," Huckleberry hissed, "Pastor Mike came as a giant snake. He was dressed all in powder-blue scales with slitted eyes of red flame shooting bolts of hell-fire. The serpent chased me all around this very room. He had me cornered and was just about to strike when Jesus appeared with a golden shield and spear. He encased me in a protective cocoon of Heavenly light. And then, gave Mike a glorious piercing with a mighty spear of Heaven fire. Mike fell dead, writhing at my feet. And, then that snake vomited Bibles...Bibles all afire, which piled around my feet. I was terrified that I'd catch on fire. I tried to run but my feet were like blocks of iron. I could not move, and the flames were getting nearer and ever higher!" Sweat ran from Huckleberry's forehead and down his cheeks as he relived the fear. He clenched his fists and stared madly at the ceiling. He then fell silent.

Finally, unable to wait any longer for Huckleberry to continue his story, Dick squeaked, "Well, what happened?!"

Roused from his waking terror, Huckleberry slowly left the inferno that filled his mind and rejoined Dick in the throne room. "He had been devouring the holy word," Huckleberry whispered, his eyes wide with horror, "Just think of it! Devouring the holy word...it was horrible!"

"What happened next?" Dick was mesmerized by the tale, like a child at his uncle's knee.

"Well, I awoke all in a sweat and shaking and," Huckleberry bit his lower lip and a tear welled, but did not fall from his eye, "...Praise Jesus, there He stood right at the foot of my bed." Huckleberry's face glowed with an almost orgasmic delight.

"Who was there...Pastor Mike?" Dick breathed. His eyes were as round and as big as collection plates.

Huckleberry's shoulders slumped. He dropped his head and frowned at Dick. The orgasmic radiance evaporated. "No, you dolt," he sighed, "Jesus, glorious Jesus himself, stood there...glowing all in white, His blonde hair blowing gently in the soft sweet breeze of divine presence." Huckleberry's face turned skyward once again and regained its supernatural glow, his voice becoming dreamlike as he entered his trance once again.

"He was magnificent," Huckleberry continued, "well over six-feet-tall, with the blondest hair, and his eyes were as a flame of white fire, and skin...his skin was like milk in its purity. His voice was as the sound of many waters, deafening, powerful. I could feel the power, Dick. It was awesome, just...awesome!" Huckleberry bit the knuckles of his right hand."

"And, when He spoke, the power streamed from His lips like ice blue rivers of fire, cool to the touch, yet scorching in their impact. His face was as the sun shineth...in its strength. You just know that you'd catch fire if you dared to stand too close." Huckleberry's eyes were fixed on some distant, unseen glorious vision. He stretched his arm into the invisible air before him as if attempting to touch...or grasp some precious thing just out of his reach.

"What did He say? What did He say?" Dick could barely resist jumping up and down like some excited puppy.

Huckleberry slowly lowered his head and leveled his crazed expression at Pastor Dick. He held Dick's vision a moment for dramatic effect. After a lengthy dramatic pause, which had Dick near to bursting with anticipation, Huck stood and opened his mouth. "Jesus saves," he said, quietly and reverently. Huck raised both arms, palms upward, toward the sky and stood as straight as a yardstick.

Dick took a step back and raised his hands to his lips. "Jesus saves?" he squeaked. He was, admittedly, a bit terrified of the Most Reverend Leader's expression.

"Yes, sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet Jesus said...Jesus saves. Jesus saves!" Huckleberry threw his arms skywards and boomed the last 'Jesus saves' into the gilded domed ceiling high overhead.

Pastor Dick nearly jumped out of his skin.

"Jesus saves! Praise Jesus!" Huckleberry boomed again, but this time even louder.

Pastor Dick offered up a timid, "Praise Jesus," in reply.

"Praise Jesus!" Huckleberry boomed again.

"Praise Jesus," Pastor Dick offered, a little louder than before.

"Praise Jesus!" Huckleberry boomed, again.

"Praise Jesus!" Dick shouted, as he swallowed his uncertainty and allowed himself to feel the full glory of his savior.

A few more rounds of "Praise Jesus" and the two Relic leaders had whipped themselves into a divine frenzy. They jumped and twirled and spun in the air shouting "Praise Jesus" and "amen" and "Jesus saves" over, and over, and over again. It wasn't long before they both stood exhausted, transfixed, swaying and mumbling incoherently in tongues as they communed with the divine presence. Huckleberry's pristine coif stuck out like hundreds of angry, silvery-white snakes confused as to direction. Minutes passed with no intelligible word or gesture passing between the two. Each was locked in his own world of divine imagination, speaking in tongues.

Several increasingly louder raps on Huckleberry's throne room doors eventually broke their trance. Slowly regaining awareness, the Reverend Leader lowered his head and arms. Another rap at the door jarred him into the moment. He cleared his head with a shake and looked at the two attendants standing guard by the huge double doors. Huck nodded his head to get their attention, but they couldn't see him. They were both locked in divine trances, arms raised, staring at the gilded ceiling high overhead and talking in tongues.

"Open the doors, you dolts!" Huckleberry boomed.

The attendants jumped out of their skins and nearly fell over. They stumbled around, ran into each other and, finally, got their bearings. Each turned quickly and fumbled with the giant latches on the chamber's doors. Huckleberry's annoyance was palpable. Eventually, the attendants gathered up enough coordination to actually open the doors.

A bewildered and visibly annoyed messenger walked ten paces into the room and stood at attention. He shouted, "Praise Jesus, Most Reverend President Leader," and rendered the customary Dominionist salute, "Pastor Major Gregory has arrived as ordered. He awaits in the antechamber."

"Show him in," Huckleberry snapped, a bit shaken by having his commune with the Supreme Being unceremoniously interrupted.

Over the next hour, the entire situation, excluding Mike's arrest, was explained to Pastor Major Gregory. The major was given command of the fourth battalion, four APC's, two medium tanks, and three gunships with an assortment of trucks, one ambulance, and all necessary supplies. And, Gregory, being a Good Shrubby, did not complain, because he never saw a reason to complain. He listened politely, asked a few questions, and accepted his orders without concern or reservation. He was just the sort of commander Huckleberry desired: obedient, humble, incurious, and obsequious. He was so full of 'Jesus' love' that he would never consider questioning Huckleberry's decisions.

"There is, most certainly, a promotion in store for Pastor Major Gregory," Huckleberry said to Pastor Dick, after Gregory had left the room. "He's just the kind of man we can rely on."

"Yes sir," Pastor Dick replied enthusiastically. "A Pastor Generalship, perhaps?"

"That is our mission," Pastor Major Gregory said as he concluded the briefing of his assembled officers of the fourth battalion. "Are there any questions?"

The mission seemed clear enough to everyone present: determine if Patboy was still alive and in control of Freedom Center Reuben, rescue him if necessary, or fix his communications if needed, and engage the she-devil, if necessary, but avoid her if possible.

"What will be our formation?" Captain Lester, commander of Bravo Company, asked.

"Foremost, we want to avoid the she-demon, if possible," Gregory replied, "therefore, we shall deploy flanking scouts, up to one mile from our formation all along our line of march, and we will deploy point scouts up to two miles ahead of our column. They will be supported by our three gunships commanded by Pastor Major John Rawlins, Flight Leader, call sign, Gabriel Nine," Gregory indicated the Pastor Major who stood for recognition. "Pastor Major John will be accompanied by Captain Ned Timmons, call sign Gabriel Seven and Lieutenant Johnny Pea, call sign Gabriel Five." The Pastor Major gestured for each pilot to stand as they were introduced. (The additional title of "Pastor" was reserved for field grade officers of major rank and above.)

"We will follow the old interstate system, as much as we can, but we will not restrict ourselves to a simple column formation. We will present a broad front, a somewhat modified assault formation, which should make it much more difficult for the she-demon to attack us." Gregory used his laser pointer to indicate the order-of-march, by company and specialty, which was being projected on the large viewing screen.

"Our Humvees will move along our perimeter with the APC's and medium tanks providing a screen. Our Warriors, deployed on trucks, will support the tanks and APC's. The fuel supplies, medical units, drinking water, rations, etc. will be tucked safely in the center. Study your orders-of-march and find your exact location. We will be formed and ready to move at sunrise tomorrow. Are there any other questions?"

Gregory studied the room. There were no questions. "Well then," Gregory concluded, "I have faith that each and every one of you will perform above and beyond your duty. God bless all of you. Praise Jesus! Let us pray."

Everyone present, stood and bowed their head for prayer. Gregory thought Matthew 6:9-13 appropriate.

"'Our father which art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil: for thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever, amen.'"

"Amen," the officers echoed in unison.

Gregory nodded to Sergeant Major Tripper, who snapped to attention and shouted, "Ten Hut!" The four company commanders, their lieutenants, and flight officers snapped to attention as one man. Gregory tucked his rolled maps and field-officer baton under his left arm and marched from the room. The Sergeant Major followed him and took a position on his left shoulder.

"Do you think she'll try anything?" Tripper asked, referring to the she-devil.

"For our sake, I pray not," Pastor Major Gregory replied.

"Amen to that."
CHAPTER 17:

"I can't believe they abandoned us, Sister Mary," Sarah, 16, the younger of the two mothers, said. She sounded slightly panicked. "Where did they go? They didn't even unlock the doors. What are we going to do? What about the children?"

Sister Mary's growing agitation was apparent. Mary covered Sarah's mouth with shaking hands to stop her words. "Shut-up sister, please," Mary, an elder mother of 27, shouted over the wind and the cacophony of complaining. "I'm trying to think! Does anyone have anything, anything at all, that we can use to break or pick the locks on these doors?"

"I'm cold," one of the children cried.

"Me too," another child added. All the children were crying.

"No one has anything...nothing at all?" Mary asked, looking desperately at her filthy, ragged companions.

There was no reply. Blank stares were her answer.

"How about the floorboards...are there any loose floorboards? Let's try to pry one loose?" Mary pushed aside two child-mothers in an effort to make some room. She dropped to her knees and, using her fingernails, began picking at the edges of the cattle carrier's floorboards.

"With what do we pry?" Rachel, a child-mother of fourteen, asked.

"With your fingernails, if necessary," Mary shouted.

Sarah stooped and began picking around the edges of one of the floorboards. Some of the other women and girl-women were trying to loosen boards, as well. Finding no loose boards, Mary began banging on the cage's lock with her shoe. After fifteen minutes of banging and picking at it with her fingers, it became quite clear to her that, without divine intervention, escape would be impossible.

Swallowing her terror, Sister Mary stood and stared into the bleak wilderness, which surrounded her. The Satanists had abandoned their trucks and run to the rocks far off to her right. There was no one else...no one to help her and her fellow 240 caged Dominionists. Mary prepared herself for the Biblical task set before her. Being the eldest, she would have to be strong for her flock.

"I'm hungry," one of the children cried.

"Me, too," said another.

"What are we going to do, Mary?" Sarah cried as she held one of the children to her naked breast.

"Pray," Mary said, "it's all we have left...all we need."

"Yes," replied Sister Sue, the eldest mother in the adjacent trailer. "We all must pray for deliverance!"

Everyone grew silent, except the younger children who continued to cry, while waiting their turn at a breast.

One, who truly understood and believed in the power of prayer, knew that there could be no room for complaining, if one were truly faithful. Prayer was not only about faith in the divine presence, but it was also a whole-hearted belief that a prayer, righteously offered, would be answered. However, communication with Jesus was a very serious business. One had to be very careful of what one asked. One should never be selfish or self-serving in prayer. A prayer offered for others was always the best form.

"Let us pray," Mary said extending her arms through the carrier's bars with her palms turned skyward. She raised her pale, prematurely lined face to heaven. Others bowed their heads and closed their eyes. While, still others, turned their smudged and dirty faces skyward and, mimicking Sister Mary, raised their arms palms upward. Some began rocking to and fro while Mary stood still as a post. As they prayed, the hunger, cold and stinging sand was lost to them...for the time being.

"Oh, sweet Jesus," the shivering Mary began, "please forgive me my boldness. But there are no fathers here, and the prayer, I'm afraid, has fallen to me, a sinful and undeserving woman. I am so sorry, but my flock is in great need. I know that you are with them here, today, as every day. They need your help in understanding the divine purpose which has placed them here today. Help them to see the love and lessons you work to impart this day. Help them to see the good in all that you do. Help them to find strength in you to overcome their hunger, cold, and fears. We, the unworthy, ask nothing for ourselves, but, if it be your will, free the children from this hell. Show us the way, oh Heavenly Father, to serve those who cannot serve themselves. We remain your faithful servants and accepting of your will for us. Your will be done. Amen."

"Amen," the others repeated in unison.

Although, just a woman, who, like all Dominionist women, were forbidden to officiate over others in prayer or religious services of any kind, Mary had learned well and had said all the right things. She had sounded appropriately humble and accepting of God's will, asking nothing for herself, and indicating that she was petitioning solely on the behalf of another's need. What she expected from her Lord, however, was something else entirely. She also had learned that selflessness, sincere or feigned, was the key to getting what you wanted from Jesus. Selfless Mary, therefore, was convinced that, because she was righteous and a member of the chosen class of souls, Jesus could not deny her anything which was sincerely and humbly requested in prayer. She, of course, like so many other Dominionists, confused her will with that of Jesus', and, like so many of her brethren, was therefore, sometimes disappointed.

Mary opened her eyes and looked to the sky, expecting to see Jesus floating above the desert, and smiling down upon her and her flock. She was disappointed. There was no heavenly deliverer. Yet, steadfast, she remained confident that deliverance was just moments away. Then, carried on the wind, she heard it...a sound of motors...no...no...the sound of rotors, helicopters, far off. She listened harder and then, she was certain of it. There were helicopters coming her way. Her heart leapt. She knew that only the Dominionists had helicopters. They were saved!

"Can you hear it?! Do you hear them?!" she yelled excitedly to her fellow captives. "Can you hear them?!" she repeated.

"What?" some of the girl-women questioned.

"Helicopters...in the distance...coming this way...can you hear them?!" She repeated excitedly.

Everyone listened, and finally, they all heard the helicopters.

"There they are!" Mary shouted pointing to the western sky. "I see them!" she yelled.

"Yes, me too," cried Sarah, "I see them, too."

Soon everyone saw them, and cheers and shouts of "Praise Jesus" erupted from the cages. The prisoners closest to the bars thrust their arms through the bars and signaled the helicopters with torn pieces of clothing and the Dominionist salute.

"Let us thank God and blessed Jesus for our deliverance," Mary said through streaming tears of gratitude. The wind died as suddenly as it had begun, and the dust-covered captives joined her in a prayer of gratitude.

"This is Gabriel Nine to Earth's Eden, over," the gunship pilot said into his mike.

"This is Earth's Eden. Go ahead, Gabriel Nine, over," the advanced column's radio operator replied.

"Earth's Eden, we've completed our eastern sweep and found something a little strange about fifty clicks out," Gabriel Nine radioed back. "There are two abandoned Humanist carriers. Well, not exactly abandoned. There do not seem to be any drivers or escort, but the trailers are full of Humanists, over."

Pastor Major Gregory, leader of Earth's Eden, the call sign for the advanced column sent by Reverend Leader Huckleberry to investigate Patboy's disappearance, took the radio handset from the radio operator. "This is Pastor Major Gregory. Am I to understand that Satanists have been abandoned in their cages in the middle of the desert, over?"

"Yes, sir...it appears so, over," came the reply.

"What's so strange about that, over?" the Pastor Major asked.

"Sir," Gabriel Nine responded, "the trailers are still connected to their transports and there are no drivers or handlers anywhere to be seen, over."

"The tractors are still connected to the cages, over?" a perplexed Gregory asked.

"Sir, that is correct, sir, over," Gabriel Nine confirmed.

"Are you certain there are no drivers or escort somewhere close by, over?" Gregory asked.

"As certain as we can be from two-hundred feet, over," Gabriel Nine replied.

"Well, get closer, over," Gregory suggested.

"If there were drivers and escorts around, I think they'd be acknowledging our presence. Don't you agree, over?" Gabriel Nine responded. He worried, correctly, that getting closer would be imprudent.

"Yes, sorry, of course, you are right. So, what do you make of it, over?" Pastor Major Gregory inquired.

"Well, as I see it, there's no good way to look at it, sir. I think that maybe two of Spiritual Leader Patboy's carriers were ambushed, and...we must have surprised the Satanists before they had a chance to free their damnable friends, over," Gabriel Nine speculated.

"Can you see any sign of the attackers, over?" Gregory asked.

"No, sir. There are rocks and hills and ravines covering this entire area. The storm wiped away any tire tracks or any other marks in the sand. If the demons don't want to be seen from the air, they will not be seen, over," Gabriel Nine responded.

"Of course...of course...ah, how far away are you from our advanced column? We could check out the area. What are your thoughts, over?"

"You are about one hour...maybe one-and-one-half hours behind us. I would suggest that hovering around for an hour, waiting for you, would be an unwise use of fuel, sir, over," Gabriel Nine replied.

"Yes, of course, it would be hard to justify in our report. What would you suggest then, Gabriel Nine, over?" Gregory asked.

"Well, sir, as I see it, if we return to the column or continue our security sweep...if we leave this area...the humanists, who are no doubt hiding around here somewhere, will free the prisoners and, the next time we see them, they'll be shooting at us. Therefore, as I see it, there's only one choice...a Blessed Cleansing, here and now, over," Gabriel Nine suggested.

"Yes, of course, yes, yes, yes, yes, perfect. Jesus be praised that you are on our side. You have seen straight to the heart of the matter, as usual. Let's not waste any more time or fuel on this issue. Once the prisoners are cleansed, the Satanists will have no reason to stay. They will leave. Maybe you will be able to catch them in the open. This is good. Give me a moment, Gabriel Nine," and the Pastor Major broke off communications for a short while.

Pastor Major Gregory made contact after a few minutes, "Gabriel Nine this is Earth's Eden, over."

"This is Gabriel Nine. Go ahead Earth's Eden, over."

"It's been suggested that you destroy the two carriers, as well," Pastor Major Gregory said. "The drivers and handlers are probably dead. Jesus, bless and keep them, amen. Therefore, we think it best that we leave nothing useful for the Satanists. We can reconnoiter the area when we arrive, just to be certain that our TW's haven't survived and are hiding somewhere in the area, over."

"Roger, Earth's Eden. I understand I am to destroy the trucks and cleanse the prisoners, over?" Gabriel Nine confirmed.

"That is correct. Praise Jesus, out," Earth's Eden replied.

"Praise Jesus, out," Gabriel Nine replied.

Eagerly anticipating rescue, Mary and her fellow captives watched the three gunships hover in the west and then trace a slow arc around to the north. Then, they stopped and hovered, about two-hundred yards off to the east of the cattle carriers.

"What are they doing?" Sarah asked Mary. "Why don't they land and free us?"

"I don't know, Sarah," a nervous Mary replied, "Perhaps, they want to make certain there are no Satanists around." Mary regarded her flock, all of whom stood motionless and staring at the gunships. "Everyone, start saluting," Mary ordered, "so that they know it is safe to land...that we need their help."

Some of her companions saluted while others sank to their knees and resumed praying.

"What are those Humanists doing, over?" Gabriel Five asked.

"It looks as if they're using our salute, over," a dumbfounded Gabriel Nine responded.

"Why would Satanists use our salute, over?" Gabriel Five asked.

"They're mocking us," an indignant Gabriel Seven responded. "They are trapped, and they have little choice other than to mock us, over!"

"Hmm...Interesting...that's one possibility," an intrigued Gabriel Nine replied. "But what if they are trying to trick us into believing that they are Dominionists, over?"

"What good would that do them, over?" a bewildered Gabriel Five, wondered.

"Well, if we believed they were Dominionists, we'd land and release them...would we not, over?" Gabriel Nine theorized.

"I suppose so, over" Gabriel Five agreed.

"And, when are we at our most vulnerable? When we are on the ground, over," Gabriel Nine replied, answering his own question.

"You're suggesting that they are trying to get us to land so that they can ambush us, over?" Gabriel Seven clarified.

"Precisely, over," a confident Gabriel Nine replied.

"They must think we are really stupid, over," an even more indignant Gabriel Seven spat.

"That's why you are flight leader, Gabriel Nine," Gabriel Five said. "That's exactly what they are trying to do, over."

Gabriel Nine looked out his canopy at his two wingmen, Gabriel Seven and Gabriel Five, hovering to his right and left, respectively.

"There is no sense in all of us wasting ammunition on this," Gabriel Nine said, "I will perform the Blessed Cleansing. You two move back about one-hundred yards, over," Gabriel Nine ordered.

"Yes, sir, over," The two responded simultaneously and then repositioned their gunships one-hundred yards to the flight leader's rear.

"'Thus saith the lord God; As I live, surely they that are in the wastes shall fall by the sword, and him that is in the open field will I give to the beasts to be devoured, and they that be in the forts and in the caves shall die of the pestilence, amen.'" A fell Gabriel Nine recited Ezekiel 33:27, as he assumed a hovering position about one-hundred feet off the deck and about fifty yards out from the cattle carriers. His weapons officer reported that the Vulcan was armed, and the safeties switched off.

"What are they doing?" a frightened Sarah asked.

"Oh, sweet Jesus," Mary cried, as she suddenly became aware that they were not going to be saved.

"They think we're Satanists. They are going to Cleanse us," a horrified Mary whispered, to no one in particular and everyone, all at once.

The two cattle carriers, each in its turn, erupted into ragged bits of steel, bone, rubber, wood, flesh, and flame. Dust to dust.

"Son-of-a-fucking-bitch!" Terry exclaimed. "Did you see that? Did you see what they did to their own god-damned people? Fuck! None of us are coming out of this alive." Her mouth hung open in shock.

"Man, that was fucking close," Jay said looking at Elliot. "If you hadn't seen those little shits, we'd be toast...right along with those poor Relic bitches."

"Yeah, no doubt. I wonder what they are doing out this far?" Elliot pondered aloud. "Huckleberry's digs are hundreds of miles away."

"I don't know, but I'm happy we found this overhang. If it weren't for this fucking overhang, we'd be toast," Jay said, a noticeable tremor in his voice.

"Well, guess this means we won't be lett'n 'em out of their cages," Sam joked.

"Shut up, Sam. For Christ's sake," Jay reproved.

"You know, I'll bet anything that those gunships are being followed by a bunch of TW's coming to check out Patboy's Center...to see what happened to him," Elliot offered. Lieutenant Elliot was in charge of the detail.

"Oh, fucking great. You mean there's a bunch of TW's comin' this way?" Terry asked.

"Yep, I'll bet anything," Elliot responded.

"Man, we was almost toast," Jay repeated, ignoring the conversation. He looked at the two burning wrecks, in the distance. "Son-of-a-bitch...we came within a cat's whisker of being toast," he breathed.

"Jay, I mean this in the nicest way...shut the fuck up!" Elliot ordered.

"What'd we do now?" Sam asked. "We've got gunships ahead of us and TW's behind us. How'd we get back to the Center?"

"Good question," Elliot replied with a sigh.

"We could just sit here and wait for the TW's to pass on," Terry offered.

"No, I don't think they are going to just drive by without checking out the area," Elliot said. "And, when they stop to look around, they are going to find us, for certain." He smiled and then laughed.

"What do you find so damn funny?" an annoyed Terry asked. "Man, you can be so fuckin' annoying sometimes...always in a good mood, never complainin'...it ain't natural. You can't tell me you're not afraid."

"Of course...aren't you?" Elliot replied, still smiling.

"Sorry," Terry challenged, "well, you better tell your face...you don't look very afraid."

"It just reminds me of the Zen story of the priest who falls off a cliff and grabs a vine halfway down to stop his fall," Elliot said with a chuckle. "Hanging there he begins to look for a way to climb up, but then notices that a very hungry tiger is at the top of the cliff, waiting for him. Undeterred, he then starts looking for a way to climb down, but then notices that a very hungry tiger is at the bottom of the cliff, waiting for him."

"That funny?" Sam asked. "I'm thinkin' you're one sick fuck."

"No, it's not a funny story. But what's funny is that the priest, unperturbed by his situation, notices that a very large, sweet, red strawberry is growing on the vine, from which he is hanging."

"Oh, this will be damn good," Terry said sarcastically, poking her companion, Sam, in the ribs.

Jay, continuing to stare wide eyed, at the burning trucks, added, "So, he uses the strawberry to save himself, I s'pose."

"Nope, he just plucks the strawberry, eats it, and smiles, because it is every bit as sweet as he thought it would be."

Sam stared at Elliot for a long moment, impatiently waiting for the punch line. Then, he realized that there was no more to the story. "That it...that the end to the stupid story?" he asked. He was clearly unamused.

"Yep."

"You're fuckin' crazy, you know that?" Sam said.

"There's been speculation," Elliot replied and laughed.

"Those bitches are toast," Jay offered, his eyes fixed on the distant smoldering wreckage.

"We got these three-quarter-ton trucks with all these crosses and shit on 'em. What's stoppin' us from just drivin' the hell out of here?" Sam offered, "Them gunships'll think we're Patboy's TW's comin' back from some kind'a mission."

"If the gunships see these trucks, they are most likely going to land and ask some questions... especially, after what just happened, and then our goose is cooked," Elliot challenged.

"Oh, that's just fuckin' great, if they land, then we kill 'em. Problem solved," Sam replied matter-of-factly, patting his rifle.

"OK, suppose only one lands and the other two stay airborne?" Elliot asked.

"Well then, we'd be hosed," Sam replied.

"Yeah, we'd be toast," Jay repeated, continuing to stare at the burning wreckage.

"Jay, will you shut-up about fuckin' toast!" Sam shouted.

Jay jumped back into the present. "Sorry," he apologized. "We'd be hosed, then?"

"And besides, Sam," Elliot cautioned, "what's the advanced column going to think if we successfully destroy their gunships? Then, they'll know something is up. We could blow Eve's ambush."

"Oh, fer fuckin' Christ's sake...so, if we cain't stay here and we cain't move, what 'n the fuck are we s'posed to do?" Sam asked. "And, don't you dare say nothin' about fuckin' strawberries!"

"Good question. If only there was a big sweet strawberry in all of this," Elliot chuckled. He ducked Sam's swing.

"Well, it will be dark in less than two hours," Elliot thought aloud. "That'll take care of the gunships. And, we are two hours from the Center by truck. There's no sign of the TW's who, no doubt, are on their way. But I'd guess that they must be at least an hour or more away. They probably hoped to arrive at the Center by dark...but they won't make it. The gunships have moved on, but we can expect them to sweep the area between their columns and at least twenty miles out. So, they'll keep coming back this way until their TW's have passed us. If we attempt to drive to the Center we will be spotted. If we stay here the Relics will find us."

"Wow, that was really fuckin' helpful, Elliot," an irritated Sam shared.

"I don't like it, but it seems that we have little choice...we abandon the trucks and head off cross country towards the Center," Elliot said. "There's plenty of concealment and it will be easier for us to hear the gunships' approach."

"Oh great, we got to stumble 'cross the fuckin' desert in the dark," Terry complained.

"Won't the Relics find these trucks and wonder what the hell?" Jay asked, "There's no bodies, no blood...no sign of a fight."

"Fuck, Jay," Sam replied, "the dumb asses'll probably think their asshole soldiers were witch-crafted away."

"It doesn't matter what they think. Let it be a mystery," Elliot offered.

"So, it's goin' to take us, what...'bout five...six hours to get to that there Center by foot?" Sam guessed. "The Relics'll already be there by then. How're we s'posed to get by 'em and into that Center?"

"Hell, they'll probably be toast by the time we get there, right Jay?" Elliot said, grinning at the old alcoholic and smacking him on the back.

"Yeah, toast," Jay agreed. "Owww...that kinda hurt!" He rubbed his bony shoulder.

"We'll figure out what to do when we get to the Center," Elliot said. "O.K. everyone," he ordered, standing up and addressing his twenty fighters hidden in the rocks and brush nearby, "we are going to leave the trucks and set off cross country to the Center. Noise discipline is in effect. We've got TW's on our ass and three low fliers hanging around. As usual, keep your eyes and ears open and your mouths shut! Let's move out."

The platoon was ready to move in minutes. Single-file and as silent as ghosts, they plunged into the frozen, gloomy desert.

"Eve, come here, look at this," Juanita said.

Eve, who had been waiting for some sign of Huckleberry's arrival, had taken, as an observation post, one of the prison's blockhouses high on the prison wall, overlooking the Center's entrance. She set up her radio communications there. Bill, Juanita, Lt. Carol P. Biggs "Sparky", Capt. Edward J. Smoot "High Roller", Harley, Eve's radio operator, and, of course, Burt and Tommy were with her.

Eve approached the window and peered out. Hovering above the perimeter road, two-hundred feet above the desert, were three gunships. They were difficult to see in the growing darkness, but easy enough to hear.

"Ed, you're up," Eve said turning to High Roller who was dressed as the Spiritual Leader, "Are you ready?"

"Ma'am, I've been ready for this for a long, long time," Ed said with a smile.

"Freedom Center Reuben, this is Gabriel Nine, Flight Leader of Freedom Center Judah's Earth's Eden advanced column, Pastor Major Gregory commanding, Praise Jesus, over," crackled out of the Patriot's radio.

"Praise Jesus," Eve's radio operator, Harley, replied, "and welcome, Gabriel Nine. You are heaven-sent, over." Harley gave Eve a wink. The 'heaven-sent' bit was all Harley.

"Freedom Center Reuben, I request audience with Spiritual Leader Patboy Roberts. Is his Reverence available, over?" Gabriel Nine asked.

"I am very sorry and grieved to report that our Glorious Spiritual Leader, and his MEEC, were lost in a courageous battle with some of the she-devil's Satanist Humanist scum, just days ago. He died leading the charge that routed the demons and the she-devil. He now sits at Jesus' side. Praise Jesus," Harley replied, sounding subdued and genuinely grieved.

A brief silence preceded Gabriel Nine's reply. "I...I am shocked and grieved by this news," Gabriel Nine replied. He sounded, to all those in the room, like he was choking up, "H...he was my glorious inspiration. We shall blacken our rank for thirty days and thirty nights, in his honor and remembrance. May Jesus be praised, over."

"Praise Jesus, over," Harley replied.

"You have to wonder how these fuckers ever get anything done with all this praise Jesus crap," Bill, who was dressed as a MEEC council member, whispered to Juanita.

"Bill, you are a MEEC. MEEC's don't fucking swear. Maybe you should sit in the corner and practice sounding righteous," Juanita advised. Then, unable to conceal her amusement, she said, "Words cannot describe how ridiculous you look in that wig."

"Remember your place, woman," Bill said, offering his best Dominionist impression, intended to annoy and entice his adversary into verbal battle.

Annoyed, Eve was about to admonish the two to be silent, when the radio cracked to life again.

"Who then do I address as Spiritual Leader of Freedom Center Reuben, over?" Gabriel Nine inquired.

"We have sent for His Reverence, Pastor Ed, who should be joining us shortly, Gabriel Nine," Harley answered. "May I inquire as to the health of our glorious Most Reverend President Leader Huckleberry? May Jesus bless and keep him, over," Harley politely inquired.

"Brilliant touch," Eve whispered, praising Harley's complete absorption into the role.

"I am happy to report that The Most Reverend President Leader is in glorious health, but surely will be sorely grieved to hear the news of Spiritual Leader Patboy's passing, over" Gabriel Nine replied.

Ed cleared his throat and took the mike from Harley, "Gabriel Nine, this is Pastor Ed, interim and humbled Spiritual Leader of Freedom Center Reuben. You are most welcome. Praise Jesus. How may we be of service, over?" Ed sounded genuinely righteous, more haughty than humble. Ed was chosen by Eve as the new "Spiritual Leader," because he was well-schooled in the precise Dominionist protocol, which he was required to learn as a TW officer.

"Your Reverence, I am grieved by our most unfortunate loss. I am saddened that, had we come but a few days sooner, we may have been able to forestall that which (sniff)...is an irreplaceable loss to our Family. My heartfelt condolences," Gabriel Nine commiserated, showing, amongst other things, a proper deference to the interim Spiritual Leader. "We have come at the behest of The Most Reverend President Leader. After three days without radio contact, the Reverend Leader was filled with much concern. Many insisted that your silence was but a radio malfunction. But, our glorious Reverend Leader, Praise Jesus, saw through to the truth. He insisted that you had been attacked and were in desperate need of assistance. We have now seen, with our own eyes, the truth of his divine wisdom. He truly is one with the Holy Spirit, Praise Jesus. How may we assist you, over?"

"Oh Christ," Bill said, "what a bunch of horse shit. I'm gob-smacked that these simpering idiots had the wits to destroy the world."

"Wits are not a requirement for insanity," Juanita replied. "'Gob-smacked'...really?" She shook her head and nearly burst out laughing. "Where do you find these words?"

Ed put a finger to his mouth and shushed the two commanders to silence. He then spoke into the mike. "The Most Reverend President Leader is the most gracious, kind, and considerate of all God's creation. We are humbled that such a great man, one with the Christ, would keep us, the most undeserving, in his thoughts and prayers. What degenerates we would surely be to deny his kind and generous offer of assistance. We pray that he will forgive our inconsiderate lack of communication, but the she-devil's demonic horde destroyed our radio antennas and much of our communication equipment. We prayed to Jesus for assistance to provide us with parts and expertise to repair our communication systems. You are the answer to our prayers, Halleluiah and Praise Jesus, over!" Ed enthused.

Eve looked at Ed with a big smile. "You are better at this than I ever could have dreamed," she whispered. Ed smiled and winked in return.

"Praise Jesus! We are indeed, for we have brought the radio repair parts and technicians you require as ordered by the Most Reverend President Leader, who, inspired by the most holy of consultations with the Divine Spirit, divined your need. Praise Jesus. From Jesus' lips to The Most Reverend President's ear! May Jesus be praised a thousand-times-a-thousand-times. We are witnesses to a true miracle!" Gabriel Nine exuberated. "Will you permit us to land, your Reverence, over?"

"Oh, of course, of course, how foolish and inconsiderate of us to keep you hovering in the air all this while...your time and fuel are so precious. Permission to land is enthusiastically granted. We will receive you on the flight line, out." Ed, sporting an impish grin, turned to Eve, "Do you think he has swallowed it?"

"We'll soon find out. O.K., everyone," Eve said, "places, for your grand performance."

"Yeah, break a fucking leg," Bill said winking at Juanita. She delivered a hard wallop him on his right shoulder and scowled, playfully.

The three gunships climbed to three-hundred feet, limiting their prop-blast as they crossed over the compound, and descended vertically onto the flight line.

Ed and Bill exited the prison side-by-side and walked the short distance to the helipad. Ed wore powder-blue robes with white undergarments. An oversized gold cross swung from a gold chain around his neck. He wore red slippers with golden angels embroidered on the toes, and his fingers were graced with three rings: one honored the Cross, the other, the Lamb, and the third, the Sword. His face was clean-shaven and powdered, in the style, and on his head, he wore a jet-black hair piece which had been coiffed into a huge wave. A powder-blue four-cornered cap was perched precariously atop the whole mess. Ed's posture was erect, his manner genial, and his countenance, supercilious.

Bill, on Ed's right, was dressed as First Council of the MEEC. His robes were purple with red trim. He wore a purple, four-cornered cap atop his glossy black wig. Purple slippers, with red lambs embroidered on the toes, adorned his feet. Ed displayed one gold ring upon his hand which depicted the Cross. A wooden cross, much smaller than Ed's, was hanging from his neck on a silver chain. His face was clean-shaven and powered, as well.

"You know I can't help but feel a little like a clown, wearing this get-up," Bill said, frowning.

Carol, Ed's "wife", walked head bowed, ten paces behind and slightly to his left. She wore a powder-blue dress with full length sleeves, a loose bodice tied under her breasts, a neck-high collar, and loose skirts, which reached the ground. The dress was designed for modesty. Her bare feet were fitted with plain black sandals. She wore no jewelry, but her face was painted as if she were a cheap, dime store doll, with exaggerated black eyebrows drawn high on her forehead and brilliant red rouge circles painted on her cheeks. Her head was encased in an oversized blond wig, with so much hairspray, that no nuclear blast could have mussed it.

Eve, Bill's "wife", wore a dress of like style but in purple. Her sandals were black. She wore no jewelry, and her overly painted face was crowned with a large black wig. She walked, head bowed, ten paces behind and to Bill's left.

Robbie and several other sharpshooters, in concealed positions, armed with their .50 caliber rifles, had been following the gunships since their arrival. The sharpshooters were under orders to destroy Huckleberry's gunships, if they took any offensive action. They observed the gunships to hover, briefly, and then land, without incident.

Eve's small group arrived at the helipad and remained concealed until the gunships had landed and their crews disembarked. With the pilots and WCO's handing their helmets and flak vests to the ground crews, and the gunships now harmless, Eve's entourage left their concealed positions and presented themselves.

The pilots and WCO's, heads bowed, knelt before Ed and Bill as they approached. "Spiritual Leader," the Flight Leader said addressing Ed, "it is indeed an honor and a blessing, Praise Jesus."

"Praise Jesus...please, arise, arise, I'm am but an interim Spiritual Leader appointed by the people whose trust has been placed in me until his Divine Reverence, The Most Reverend President Leader, can make a more appropriate appointment," Ed chuckled graciously, while offering his rings to be kissed by the kneeling airmen.

Some statement of humility was expected of a Dominionist leader in such circumstances, but one risked their reputation, and even their life, if they dared to believe it. A statement of humility was an insincere nod to appearance, expectation and tradition. It was not, however, a true condition of the Dominionist Family heart.

The three pilots, followed by their WCO's, bowed and kissed Bill's ring as he presented it to them. "This is Pastor William," Ed said indicating Bill. "Pastor William, as you no doubt recognize from his robes, is First Council of the MEEC."

"First Council," the gunship's crews said simultaneously.

"The pleasure is mine," Bill said, of course, not really meaning it. He felt as though he could throw up with little effort.

"These are our wives," Ed said stepping aside and gesturing to their women.

"We are honored," the Flight Leader said, tipping his head slightly and avoiding eye contact.

The women, avoiding eye contact, did a shallow curtsy and said nothing, as they were not asked to speak.

CHORUS

"Dominionists were permitted to take as many wives as they could afford. As was often the case, the leadership had many wives, while the more common membership often had to do with just one or two. Many wives were not only seen as a blessing from God delivered upon the most worthy, but also a means by which God could ensure that the best genes of righteousness would have the greatest chance of survival. (Of course, the belief in genes was inconsistent with biblical teaching. But, these folks, who rejected evolution as Satanism, would turn science to their purpose when it proved beneficial to the cause.)"

"The Dominionists believed their system of marriage and reproduction was quite practical in a world that had to be re-populated with the right sort of belief, as quickly as possible. The best way to do it, of course, was to sire as many children as possible, with as many women as possible. The favorite wife (not necessarily the eldest wife) was given the title of 'First Mother', not because of age and/or position in the sequence of marriages, but by a demonstrated ability to produce many healthy children...and/or pleasure her husband...in the marital sense of the word. Competition between wives was, of course, frowned upon, but nevertheless could be quite intense."

"The Dominionists had used similar reasoning decades before. It stood to reason that turning women into baby machines would eventually pay off at the ballot box. Logically, hordes of Dominionist babies would become hordes of Dominionist adults, who would vote in favor of Dominionist issues. The more Dominionist babies the better. While the misguided liberals, too busy with vain professional pursuits and Ferrari ownership, were practicing 'responsible' reproduction, the Dominionists were fucking their way toward ballot box victory and nuclear Armageddon."

*

"I am Pastor Major John Rawlins, Flight Leader, call sign Gabriel Nine," Rawlins said bowing his head slightly. "This is Captain Ned Timmons, First Wingman, call sign Gabriel Seven, and this is Lieutenant Johnny Pea, Wingman, call sign Gabriel Five." Each man took one step forward, snapped to attention, and curtly bowed his head as he was introduced. Each WCO was introduced, as well, in descending order by rank.

"Call sign Gabriel is most appropriate, for you have indeed been God's glorious messenger this day...and every day, I am certain," Ed said smiling, not offering a bow in return. "Am I to understand that there will be others joining us later?" Ed asked, nonchalantly turning and gesturing that the assembled, excluding the WCO's, should follow him. The seven began to walk in the direction of the dining hall. The women brought up the rear. The WCO's were escorted to the flight line's ready rooms for "rest and refreshments."

"That is correct, Spiritual Leader...," Rawlins began, but was interrupted by Ed.

"Please, just call me, sir," Ed said, giving permission to be cautiously casual, while insisting on a title of deference. "I find formal titles in social conversation very tiring and time-consuming. Don't you?"

"Sir, I take whatever time is required of me by my betters. I wish only to show the proper deference to your rank, sir," Rawlins replied.

"Yes, of course, Flight Leader, as you should. Now, you were saying something about others...joining us?"

"The ground contingent of Earth's Eden's advanced column, under the expert leadership of Pastor Major Gregory, should arrive within an hour or two."

"Excellent, excellent," said Ed, enthusiastically. "I do not believe I have had the honor of ever having met Pastor Major Gregory. I shall look forward to it. And how many will there be for supper?"

"About one-thousand, sir," Rawlins said.

"That many...sent just to help me! Praise Jesus! We are indeed honored," Ed rejoiced. Ed, surreptitiously, displayed a frown to Eve. "Indeed, what a grand feast we shall have this evening! The glorious Most Reverend President Leader must command such a great host, that he can spare so many to assist such a humble and undeserving servant of our Lord."

"Indeed, sir, The Most Reverend President Leader commands an army of nearly twenty- thousand!" Rawlins said enthusiastically.

"Praise Jesus! How is it that The Most Reverend Leader can ever hope to feed and clothe so many? It is a glorious thing, the miracles Jesus commands," Ed said, concealing his concern behind a broad smile. He placed a hand, gently, on Rawlins' shoulder...not an insignificant gesture. Being touched by a Spiritual Leader was considered a great honor and would be sufficient enough to unnerve the most hardened character. Normally, Rawlins would have been thrown off the game by the touch. Ed's gesture was wasted, however, because the Relic pilot, forgetting himself and feeling prideful, relished the opportunity to brag a bit.

"His Reverence, The Most Reverend President Leader, has great resources of animals and fields for planting. He commands wind generators as far as the eye can see, and his electricity is abundant. His grow-lights illuminate the valleys for miles around," Rawlins enthused as a little boy might speak of his father and then, realizing his immodesty, he caught himself. "But then I begin to sound intemperate. Please forgive me my boast." He lowered his head to indicate his shame.

"Come now, Major Rawlins, surely it is not a boast if it be true," Ed comforted. "You may have committed the sin of pride, but then, how can one condemn another for sharing the pride that must come from serving the glorious Reverend Leader Huckleberry? No, I will not have you chastising yourself on such a glorious occasion."

"Thank-you, sir, I am most grateful for your kind words and undeserving forgiveness," a contrite Rawlins replied.

"Let's talk of it no more," Ed said as they reached the dining hall.

Ed paused before the dining hall doors and waited for the lowest in rank to open the door. Lieutenant Pea was a bit slow on the uptake, but he caught on quickly enough when the four men of greater rank stood staring at him. He then rushed to the front, nearly knocking Pastor Major Rawlins off balance, and pulled open one of the heavy glass doors. Ed entered followed by Bill and then Rawlins and then Capt. Timmons. The Lt. entered on the heels of Timmons, while giving the door a slight push open, in order that Carol and Eve would not have to pull it open from a fully closed position. This is all the consideration that was granted the two women. Eve and Carol allowed the door to close without entering. Women were not permitted to eat with the men, anyway. Women ate with the children.

Ed led the small group to his private, second floor dining room, which was accessed via a private elevator on the right wall of the cavernous dining hall. When the elevator came to a stop, the doors opened, and they entered Appalachian Rococo heaven.

The room did not disappoint with its tasteless decoration. It could easily sit two-hundred-fifty dignitaries and left one to wonder where in the world one would find two-hundred-fifty dignitaries who were still alive enough to accept a dinner invitation. There were three very long tables juxtaposed in such a manner as to create a large upside down "U", as one entered the room. In the precise center of the base of the "U" was an overly large golden chair with a crown of thorns carved into the headpiece and positioned so that anyone sitting in the chair would appear to have a golden crown of thorns hovering above his head. This, of course, was the Spiritual Leader's chair, or throne, to be more precise. The hall was decorated with the usual crosses, angels, swords, tassels, fringe, and draperies all presented in the usual powder-blue, yellow, and gold leaf. The floor was covered in the ubiquitous powder-blue carpet, with a huge yellow cross of carpet filling the bowl of the upside down "U". And, on the walls, welcoming everyone, were large gold-framed pictures of a smiling Jesus and a glaring Hitler.

Feigning awe (Huckleberry's digs, after all, were far superior to anything Rawlins had seen thus far), Major Rawlins caught his breath. "Spiritual Leader, sir," he said, "with your permission, this is...I cannot find the words...awe inspiring...magnificent! Truly, a monument to Holy Jesus, praise Him!"

"Why, thank-you, Pastor Major Rawlins," Ed said, adopting his best supercilious presentation. "You are clearly a man of impeccable taste. Yet, the room is but a trifle when compared to the gloriousness that is God and Huckleberry. We cannot hope to honor them with our meager preparations. It would, of course, be vanity and pride to assume that we could." Ed directed his guests to sit at a smaller serving table just inside the doors." We will sit here, drink coffees, and converse while we await the arrival of...Earth's Eden, is it?"

"Yes sir," Rawlins confirmed.

The two women shared looks of annoyance as the doors to the dining hall closed. Eve shook her head and asked Carol, "How could you stand to live with such pompous asshole idiots?"

"Women weren't forth-class citizens, behind children and dogs, when I served. The men still needed us to help them get into power so, consequently, they were nicer to us...then. But, it's the same old story. Men will be nice until they get what they want and then they turn into assholes. Except this time it wasn't just pussy they were after, it was world domination." Carol shook her head and caught her wig as it slid out of adjustment. "There was a definite men's club mentality in the service, but I never could have imagined it getting as bad as it did."

"Those who could imagine it weren't listened to anyway," Eve said, turning to walk toward the main gate. Carol walked at her side. "Do you prefer to be called Carol or Sparky?" Eve asked her taller companion.

"Well, I suppose Mother Carol will have to do as long as we are around these Relic idiots. But in any other situation I prefer my call name, "Sparky."

"I've always been curious about how you pilots get your call names...Sparky."

"Well, it's a different story for all of us. Some bring their nicknames from childhood, others get names from training incidents, or for some kind of special talent, or idiot mistake they made. Mostly though, the names are given to us by our trainers and indicate something about our personality."

"Why "Sparky" then?" Eve asked.

"I had this one flight instructor who really hated women in the military and, especially, flight training. He was a Relic, of course, and a chauvinist, who thought that all women should be barefoot, pregnant, or under some man trying to get her pregnant. I was a real thorn in his side...not only because I was female, but because I was a damn good pilot. Consequently, he was having a hard time coming up with justification for throwing me out of training. Well, one day we were on the gunnery range, and I was making all the men in my group look like fools..."

"Because you were such a good shot?" Eve asked.

"Exactly...well, it was more than Sergeant Wen _dell_ could stand," Sparky said, mimicking the way the sergeant accented the last syllable of his name. "So, he starts criticizing and belittling me over the radio. Of course, all the other pilots could hear his insults. For me it was the last straw. I landed my Cobra, stormed into the control tower, and decked him."

"You hit him?" Eve asked astonished.

"Yep, knocked him right on his ass with a haymaker planted squarely on his jaw. I nearly broke every bone in my hand," Sparky laughed.

"Weren't you court marshaled?"

"Oh, things were touch and go for a while, but lucky for me, a general was monitoring the training exercises that night. He heard the entire thing and defended my actions as understandable, if inappropriate. I was placed on disciplinary detail for six months, delayed promotion for one year, but kept my wings, surprisingly."

"You were lucky," Eve said.

"Yeah, I was lucky, and I flirted...just a little bit," Sparky laughed.

"You little slut," Eve teased.

"Girl, if you got it, put it on the street! Men can be so easy. Anyhow, I was more lucky than poor ol' Wen _dell_."

"How so?"

"He was removed from training and assigned to a frontline unit in Iraq. I guess they thought his fighting spirit would be put to better use on the front lines," Sparky laughed.

"So, who gave you the call sign?" Eve asked.

"Well, as it turns out, the general was referring to me as 'Sparky', off the record, all through the proceedings, and the name stuck. Now, if I were a man, I probably would have been given a name like 'animal' or 'monster' or something similar. But men like to give girls, even aggressive ones like myself, cute non-threatening names. So, now I'm 'Sparky' and I'm OK with it."

"Broke nearly every bone in your hand?"

"Yep, my hand was in a cast for a month."

"You are something else," Eve chuckled. They walked for a short distance in silence and then Eve asked, "Does one-thousand fighters seem a likely number to you?"

"Excuse me?"

"Rawlins said that Earth's Eden's contingent consists of a thousand TW's. What do you think of that number?" Eve asked. "I know I wouldn't venture into hostile territory with a she-devil on the loose with less than three-thousand. I mean if I were serious about dealing with her, that is."

"Honestly, one-thousand does seem a ridiculously small number to send across three-hundred miles of hostile desert," Sparky said.

"That's what I thought," Eve agreed. "You don't think he's playing us, do you?"

"Ma'am?"

"You don't think Earth's Eden could be two or three times larger and he's just not telling us?"

"Could be," Sparky mused. "But, why would he conceal the real number?"

"Because he's not certain we are who we say we are?" Eve suggested.

"Possible, but if he surrendered himself and his gunships to us thinking that we could possibly be Satanists, then he must be stupid and suicidal. I don't think he's suicidal...intentionally, I mean."

Eve laughed. "Then you think he's telling the truth?"

"Yeah, I think like any Good Shrubby, he blindly accepted Huckleberry's assessment of the situation and believed that a contingent of a thousand would be sufficient. He willingly led a small contingent across the open desert. You must remember that all decisions made by the Dominionist leadership are God-inspired and, therefore, the peons trust that every decision is made with their care and wellbeing foremost in consideration."

"That blind faith thing?"

"You got it...blind faith...in maniacs. And, also you must understand that to doubt Huckleberry, even in thought, would be tantamount to doubting God, and that _would_ be suicidal as far as the Relics are concerned," Sparky added.

"Well, I think you're probably right, but I'm going to err on the side of caution anyway," Eve concluded.

"That sounds very reasonable," Sparky concurred. "But, you know, it occurs to me that Huckleberry may have another reason for sending such a small force."

"Oh, what's that?"

"Putting a larger force in the field would require a General to lead it. And, if Huckleberry was worried about a possible coup...and Huckleberry is always worried about his neck...he wouldn't risk handing a general a big army. I mean, think about it...Rawlins said that Earth's Eden's commander was a Major...something or other..."

"Pastor Major Gregory, I think" Eve said.

"Yes...that's right, Gregory, a major. In a pinch, an experienced major can command one- thousand, though a light or full-bird colonel would be preferred. If, Huckleberry sent three thousand he would need his best officers, including Pastor General Mike. And, wiping us out would be a piece of cake. So too, would Huckleberry put himself at risk." Sparky thought for a moment. "I'll bet it doesn't have anything to do with fixing radios. I'd put my money on Huckleberry being worried about a coup and that he doesn't want to turn over one quarter of his army to Mike or to Patboy. And, oddly, it could be that for some reason, he doesn't want you destroyed."

Eve considered Sparky's words for a moment and then said, "First of all, it's crazy to think Huck wouldn't like to see me chained to one his stakes. But it is possible that there's dissension in the religious ranks."

"There's always dissension in the religious ranks. When hasn't there been? It's no different now than it has ever been. The only thing religious types seem to agree on is that their holy books are inspired by God. After that, no two of them ever seem capable of agreeing on what the books actually say. And, besides, I happen to know that Huckleberry and Pastor General Mike do not like, nor do they trust, one another."

"I wasn't aware of that."

"Yeah, supposedly Mike considers himself a true follower of Jesus...scourging, fasting, celibacy...all that. He rejects opulence and finery and chooses to live a very austere life. And, he hates Huckleberry, who considers himself the purest follower of Jesus. But, unlike Mike, Huck believes Jesus prefers the rich and cocky, in the style of Shrubby the Lesser and Smart. The two are like oil and water."

"Sounds more like they are matches and gasoline," Eve corrected.

"Yeah," Sparky chuckled.

"You know, you're pretty smart. I like the way you think. What you say definitely sounds reasonable and plausible. I think your talents have been wasted. How would you like a promotion?"

"Promotion...promotion to what?" Sparky asked, looking more cautious than expectant.

"Why wouldn't Huck want to destroy us?" Eve wondered aloud.

Capture of the Freedom Center had swelled Eve's ranks to nearly seven thousand. Roughly thirty-seven hundred were fit for battle, fifteen hundred were of an appropriate age and condition for soldiering, but lacking training, and a little less than two-thousand or so who, by either age or condition, were declared non-combatants.

Acting on her fears, Eve ordered the two-hundred-fifty fighters, concealed on the ridges just west of the main gate, doubled. These fighters would be used to close the trap and cut off the retreat of Gregory's forces. An additional five-hundred Patriots were concealed in the desert to the south of the entrance, and another five hundred were added to the fighters already concealed to the north. The remaining fifteen-hundred Patriot fighters were positioned to strike from the Center and would serve as the main assault on Pastor Major Gregory's Earth's Eden contingent. A large number of Eve's fighters were concealed behind the reconstructed powder blue gates of the prison. The remainder occupied the hastily repaired bunkers, commanding the Center's approaches. Eve was confident that her army, with surprise on her side, could easily defeat the Relic force.

One hour had passed since the sun had set, and Eve could see nothing of the desert that lay beyond the Center's gate, but she could hear the sound of heavy armor approaching. She stood and waited as the clanking, growling behemoths crawled through the darkness and grew ever nearer. Soon, even before the tanks came into view, the earth beneath her feet began to tremble and shake. Then three massive shapes rumbled out of the desert gloom and were illuminated by the Center's yellow mercury lights. The lead Rummy stopped at her feet and a cloud of dust rose into the air.

"Where do you want us?" Bill shouted from the driver's hatch. He was wearing a helmet and radio headset. He sported the broad grin of a child with a new toy. The din of the tank's engine made it difficult for Eve to hear.

"You're enjoying this far too much," Eve shouted. The dust cloud irritated her lungs. She coughed.

"What?" Bill shouted back to her.

"Follow me," Eve shouted. She turned and walked toward the prison gates, which were thrown wide open. "In there," she shouted, using hand gestures to support her instructions.

Bill indicated that he understood and drove into the huge, stadium-like prison yard. Juanita and Jimmy, who were following closely in the second and third tank, followed his lead. When the tanks were in position their engines were turned off. The silence was deafening.

"I had no idea these things would make all that racket," Eve said removing the fingers from her ears.

"It's all part of what makes them so intimidating," Bill said as he slid down the front of his tank. His landing raised a cloud of yellow dust that rose to his knees. Eve observed that the dust cloud extended all the way to the main gate. There the compound's yellow lights, high overhead, sported halos as the cloud climbed into the night air. The darkness beyond the gate concealed the cloud lingering in the desert approaches, but she could easily imagine a trail of dust leading across the desert, hanging in the air, waiting for the wind to take it.

The gates of the prison were closed on Eve's command. Outside the prison gates, Patriot workers quickly set about obliterating the tread marks left by the movement of the tanks over the desert sand.

The Patriot fighters waiting within the prison approached the tanks. Most had never seen a main battle tank, and all were awed by the presence of the behemoths.

"Beggin' your pardon ma'am," Ned said as, unthinking, he and his now constant companion, Angela, stepped out of the crowd of onlookers towards Eve.

Burt stepped between Eve and the two Patriot fighters, who were, by his estimation, too close for comfort to the Patriot leader.

Eve placed her hand on Burt's arm. "It's OK, Burt," she said, "let them approach." Burt frowned in disapproval, but, as she wished, he stepped to the side, just a little.

"Thank-you ma'am, I mean no disrespect, ma'am," Ned said, giving an uneasy yet respectful nod to Burt, in deference to the man's size...and seriousness. Burt's deathly glare made himself appear all the more fell.

"I've got some experience drivin' heavy equipment, ma'am," Ned continued, not removing his eyes from Burt. "...I mean, I was a driver in the Third Armored Division under General Graves...now, granted, that was quite a few years ago, ma'am, but you never forget, if you get my meanin', ma'am. I mean, if you need any help and all, beggin' your pardon, ma'am." Ned gave a cautious glance to Burt. Burt did not blink an eye and continued to glare at the tall thin man with the halting speech.

"Ned and Angela, isn't it?" Eve asked the two.

"Th-that's right, ma'am," Angela answered. She was surprised and flattered that Eve knew their names. "Ned and I are a fighting team," she added proudly. Angela felt very special to be recognized by Eve. She straightened her usually slumped posture to its full five-feet-four.

"Do you two ever get any sleep?" Eve asked looking into Angela's tired eyes.

The two looked at one another quizzically and then at Eve. "Yes, ma'am," the two said in unison.

"You know how to drive this?" Eve asked Ned, smacking the side of Bill's tank and stinging her hand, once again, on the unyielding armor. Eve was amazed with how completely, unbelievably solid and unmovable, were these instruments of death.

"Yes, ma'am...or at least I'm pretty sure. I drove mains in training, but I spent most my time drivin' mediums...medium tanks, that is, ma'am. But shoot, I can drive this thing, no sweat."

"Do you have any experience with heavy equipment, radios, big guns...mechanics?" Eve asked Angela.

"No ma'am, but I'm a...I'm a quick learner and Ned can teach me. He's a good teacher, ma'am," Angela said, glancing affectionately at her new boyfriend. Ned grinned affectionately in return.

Eve smiled warmly at the couple. She liked them for their simple honesty and openness. There was no trickery or hidden agenda with the two. "How many people crew one of these things?" Eve asked turning to Juanita.

"Five."

"O.K., Juanita, I want you and Bill to find as many people as you can who know how to operate one of these things, or anything similar, and start training them immediately. Quite possibly, and soon, we're going to have a fight on our hands. We don't have any time to waste." Eve looked at Ned and Angela who were waiting expectantly for her approval to train on the tanks, "and you can start training these two, right now."

Ned and Angela broke out in broad grins. "Thank-you ma'am, we won't disappoint you," Angela said.

"You better not. And, be quiet about it," Eve said turning to Bill and Juanita. "We can't afford our Relic guests hearing what's going on behind these gates."

"Excuse me...train quietly...on tanks?" Bill asked, bug eyed and incredulous.

Eve stared at Bill and said nothing. Her stare said everything.

"Right," Bill said, "commencing quiet training on tanks." He shrugged his shoulders and laughed, good naturedly.

"The advanced column of Relics should be arriving anytime now. I'm going outside to keep an eye on things. You two have fun." Eve grinned at her two commanders and exited the prison.
CHAPTER 18:

Pastor General Mike strained against his bindings, but it was no use. The more he struggled to free himself, the more it became clear to him that he was in a hopeless situation. Maybe three or four hours had passed since BMO Harold had had him trussed up on the rack. Mike had no reference for time. There were no clocks, and there were no windows. Everything was silent.

The room was forty feet on a side, and constructed of the same type of ubiquitous, dull gray concrete block used to construct foundations. It was well-lit, with two banks of glaring LED lights suspended down each side of the high ceiling. The unpainted walls were bare except for various kinds of knives, prods, pokers, clamps, pliers, whips--some with razor-like barbs accessorizing the end of each lash, thumb screws, and shackles, hanging here and there. There were other torture devices in the room, but Mike, though he twisted and strained to see, could not get a good look at them. A very prominent old wooden cross, affixed to the ceiling, with a smiling Christ nailed to it, stared down upon Mike. At first, Mike didn't take much notice of the Christ, crucified Christs being such a common decorative theme. But he had time on his hands and not much else upon which to look. After a while, he began to notice that if he turned his head slightly to the left, the Christ's smile took on the appearance of an evil mocking smirk. He confirmed the illusion by repeatedly turning his head left to right. With each repetition, the Christ's loving smile would morph into an evil smirk. Was this effect an accident of the sculptor's chisel, or was it purposeful? Or, understandably even more alarming, was the Christ actually changing his facial appearance? A shiver of terror traveled along Mike's aching spine.

Except for his underwear, he was naked. No one had answered his cries to relieve himself, so he had wet his briefs. The smell of his urine, mixed with the pungent smell of bodily excretions from countless other victims, was nauseating. At first, to limit the effect of the sickening odor, he tried shallow breathing, but this would always end with him having to take a very deep breath.

Mike's joints ached from lack of movement, to say nothing of the pain associated with being stretched. The room was unbearably hot. His eyes stung from the sweat, which ran from his forehead and pooled in the shallow pocket between his eyes and nose.

A sharp jab to the ribs from a truncheon awakened Mike. He had either fallen asleep or passed out. He wasn't certain of anything, except a pounding headache and burning muscles.

"So, who do we have here, then?" Harold asked, hovering over Mike's face and looking down into his watering bloodshot eyes, "Pastor General Mike or that fat ol' snake Satan?" Harold smiled sweetly.

Mike said nothing and met Harold's sparkling blue, saccharine eyes with a defiant glare.

One could only assume Harold truly believed himself to be kind. Yet, one could never be certain how the man was able to reconcile his "kindness" with his unmatched ability to inflict pain. Most perplexing was his ability to display the most joyful and friendly disposition, while practicing his cruel art with such skill and...passion. One could not help but to feel an overwhelming cognitive dissonance in his presence...especially if one were being tortured by his hand. Perhaps his presentation would best be described as "kindness gone insane". In any event, there could be no doubt that Harold believed that his work was for the glory of his God. And, for Harold, converting lost souls for his God's army was the greatest of insane kindnesses, no matter the means. Harold was simply incapable of seeing any inconsistency with the simultaneous expression of cruelty and kindness. As long as he was graced with God's blessing (a Chosen One), then employing cruelty for the greater good was expressing God's loving kindness. Absolute insanity.

"You know, Peter," Harold said, addressing his youngest assistant inquisitor, "it is a shame, but I think Satan has as firm a grip on the general as I have seen in a long time. This one is going to take some work." Then, surprisingly, Harold broke into song, singing an old ditty from a forgotten time, "ti-i-i-ime is on our side. Yes, it is..." He continued, singing horribly and dancing awkwardly on legs too fat to bend properly. When he had exceeded his aerobic capacity, Harold stopped his prancing and breathed deeply and heavily. His face, wet with perspiration, was the most alarming shade of burgundy. It took a while, two minutes at least, for him to regain his breath.

Finished with his off-key opera, Harold turned to Mike, and gave a brief account of some upcoming events, which the general could anticipate.

"I'm so very, very, very sorry," Harold said, "but we must find out who you are, and that, I'm afraid, is going to require that we engage in some...ah, painful...ah, activities. Yes, activities...activities, activities. I humbly beg that you find it in yourself to forgive us, but you simply must understand that we are only doing this for your own good."

Mike pulled at his bindings.

"Yes, yes, yes, we know that you are very uncomfortable, and we are very, very, very afraid that we will need to make you even more uncomfortable still. Yet, I can only hope, that in the end, you find it in your heart to forgive us." Harold smiled kindly at Mike in an altogether oddly convincing show of empathy and sympathy, made more horrible by the thinly veiled madness lurking just behind the rotund inquisitor's eyes. "Are you ready, then?" a perky, playful Harold asked.

Mike continued to glare at his tormentor. He considered the question rhetorical. He knew that it did not matter if he was ready. Mike, as well, knew that none of this was about him or his conversion. It never had been about anyone's conversion, for that matter. In the long history of Dominionist transgressions, since before the Puritans, conversion had never been about converting others. This was not about bringing him to Jesus or God, or goodness or love. It was about power for power's sake; punishment exacted for the crime of frightening the powerful, who wanted, above all else, to stay in control, and not be lost to a world full of troublemaking progressives, innovators, and wrongheaded do-gooders. Throughout history, the countless hangings, burnings, drownings, crushings, stretchings, and inquisitions, both large and little, had always been about fear. And, Mike, like all the Mikes and Michelles before him, was guilty of terrifying the powers of his time. His crime was the crime of judging those who thought of themselves as beyond judgment. He was a hindrance, an obstacle, a wrinkle, a contradicting, troublemaking, threatening voice; one who needed to be silenced, shown the error of his ways, used as an example and a warning to others, and then ceremoniously eradicated. Corrupt power will never tolerate a challenge to its absolute control.

"Now pay close attention, because this is very, very, very important, so listen very, very, very carefully. Are you ready?" Harold waited a polite moment for Mike to respond but, as expected, his reward was only silence and defiance. "O.K. then," Harold continued, his voice full of excitement and anticipation, "once again, who are you?"

Mike glared at Harold and, predictably, did not respond.

Patiently, Harold waited a reasonable length of time for a response, but there was none forthcoming. Ever hopeful, though, Harold bent nearer and looked deeply into Mike's flooded eyes. His face was so close to Mike's, that Mike could smell the cheap peppermint breath mints that Harold always sucked on. The mixture of sweat, urine, feces, and peppermint oil made Mike's stomach turn.

"Oh dear, dear, dear...are you certain you won't tell us who you are, you ol' rascal?" Harold played. "I so very much wish you would tell us who you are. You must understand that it's so very, very, very important." Harold waited. No reply. "No? O.K., maybe you didn't understand the question. It's possible you know," Harold said over his shoulder to his assistant, Peter, who indicated his complete agreement by nodding enthusiastically.

"So, then, let's try it one more time," Harold said, returning his attention to Mike, "Are we ready? O.K., who...are...you?" Harold asked the question slowly and clearly, emphasizing each word to ensure Mike's understanding.

Mike fixed his gaze on the overhead lights, ignored the question, and tried to breathe as shallow as possible in a vain effort to settle his stomach.

"Oh dear," Harold said, when no answer was forthcoming. "I am so very, very, very sorry. Do please forgive us." An expression of parental concern and pity displaced Harold's enthusiastic glow. He nodded his head once.

Peter, mirroring the BMO's expression, responded to Harold's nod by pushing, and quickly releasing, the green button on the rack's control panel. The button, unseen by Mike, operated an electric motor which, in turn, operated the ratcheting mechanism which, in its turn, rotated the sprockets and rollers which, in their turn, strained at the bindings which, unavoidably and painfully, stretched Mike just a tiny bit more. Mike groaned and winced under the strain, and Harold, eyes wide with sympathy, apologized for what, he could only imagine, was quite probably a very painful experience. Harold, of course, had never been racked, and lacking the direct experience, he did not wish to appear a know-it-all.

Harold waited politely for Mike's groaning to subside, a bit, and then he asked once more for Mike to identify himself. But Mike remained stubbornly silent.

Displaying disappointment, more with himself than with Mike, Harold gave another nod. Once again, the green button was pushed, and the rack pulled Mike a bit farther apart. The stretching resulted in his back being bent backward, painfully, over an old oak timber, which had been worn smooth from countless Blessed Conversions; Conversions which had not made the timber, in any way, more supple.

The procedure of Harold asking questions, and a stubbornly silent Mike being racked, was repeated over and over again, until Mike thought his shoulders and hips would separate from their sockets; which they very nearly did. His joints burned and ached with an indescribable pain...like nothing he had ever endured or imagined.

Mike balanced himself on the edge of unconsciousness. And, then, after one final turn of the rack, he broke. "Mike!" he yelled. "I am Pastor General Mike! For the love of God, leave me be."

Harold stood upright and clapped his hands together in delighted surprise. "Praise Jesus," he yelped to the ceiling, "the ol' fat snake speaks!" Harold risked a brief dance. Peter stood at a respectful distance and participated in the BMO's success, sporting a broad smile.

"Did you hear? Did you hear?" Harold said turning to Peter while dancing his comic little jig. "You see, you see...you must never, never, never, ever give up. Even when you suspect bad ol' Satan doesn't understand the question, you must persist, persist, persist, I tell you! Persistence is the key to redemption. Praise Jesus!"

Peter replied with an enthusiastic "Praise Jesus", and, in spite of his characteristic shyness, he jigged a little, too.

Harold allowed only a moment of enjoyment before, once again, bending close to Mike's face. He looked deep into the general's red and watery eyes. "No, no, no, it is not enough to just speak, is it, you fat ol' snake? No, no, no," Harold chuckled, "we must...you must speak the truth. Only the truth can set you free. Only truth can win you the gates of salvation! Truth, truth, truth! No, you see, you think yourself clever...no doubt. But I am more clever, still...you will see...you will see, oh yes, you...will...see."

Harold stood upright and wagged a shaming finger at Mike. "You are not being honest you old rascal. You cannot be Pastor General Mike, because our great general would never commit the sins of heresy, blasphemy and high treason. No, no, no, I simply won't accept it...will not accept it. You, therefore, must be somebody else, certain of it...certain of it."

Harold returned to Mike's face, "Now, listen carefully...very, very, very carefully. Are you listening? (No response) Good. Now...who are you...really?" Harold asked, salty empathy dripping from the end of his nose and into Mike's burning eyes.

"I...I am Pastor General Mike," Mike insisted, while moving his head side to side in a vain attempt to avoid Harold's dripping sweat.

"Oh dear, dear, dear," Harold said in exasperation. "You know, we are only trying to do God's work here. But you are making this so very, very, very difficult for us...so very, very, very difficult for yourself, indeed." Harold stood upright and began to wring his chubby little hands, while he paced back and forth along the side of the rack. If he would have laughed maniacally, the image could not have been more perfect.

At last, appearing to have come to some sort of a resolution, Harold stopped and pointed a breakfast sausage finger to heaven. "I am afraid, and I am so very, very, very sorry for this, but, if you don't tell us who you _really_ are, then we must continue this nasty, nasty, nasty business by introducing a much more intense level of inquiry." Harold quickly waddled over to Mike's side and bent over him with the most theatrical expression of drama upon his face.

"I hope you understand the gravity of my revelation. Believe me, all of this is about to get very unpleasant...very unpleasant, indeed...very, very, very unpleasant...so unpleasant, in fact, that you may not find it in your heart to forgive us, ever again." Harold held Mike's gaze for several moments to enhance the dramatic effect. "Last chance" he said, and then he whispered, "Who are you?"

"Are you mad? You know full well who I am...I am Pastor General Mike!" Mike shouted in abject desperation. He realized that, should this interrogation continue for much longer, his hold on sanity and consciousness could easily slip from his grasp.

Harold stood upright and nonchalantly shrugged his shoulders, "The ol' fat snake has left us no alternative," Harold said to his assistant. The BMO nodded his head and Peter reached for one of the white-hot pokers which were kept at the ready, in a charcoal pit set against the wall.

"You simply must understand that I am so truly very, very, very sorry about what you are about to do to yourself," Harold said, turning back to Mike and sounding every bit as remorseful as he thought himself to be. "Now, and I can't emphasize this enough, it is more important now than ever, that you tell me your real name and stop this self-destruction. All of this is so unbecoming for a man of your station."

Mike did not respond. He was struggling to keep his wits, and the overhead lights, in focus.

Harold took the poker from Peter and slowly brought it close to Mike's face. Mike recoiled from the intense heat. He clenched his teeth and inhaled a lung-full of green-and-brown-smelling air. There was no way to brace himself against what he knew was about to happen.

"I was praying that you wouldn't resort to disfigurement so early in the conversion," Harold declared, "but, then God works in mysterious ways, His miracles to display. Does He not? And, He does know what He is doing, doesn't He?" Harold stood at Mike's side looking down upon his victim, "Are you certain you won't tell me your name?"

Mike gathered as much hate and defiance as he could and channeled it into a glare, which could have curdled fresh milk at fifty yards.

Harold shook his head from side to side. "Oh, dear, dear, dear, please forgive me, but we are only doing that which you request." Harold sighed and handed the poker to his assistant. Harold gave one nod of his head and, straight away, Peter laid the poker on Mike's stomach. When the poker was removed, some of Mike's roasted flesh came with it. Mike screamed and reflexively jerked at his fetters. Smoke rose from the wound and the smell of his burning flesh reached his nostrils. Mike's eyes rolled back under their lids, and he lost consciousness.

"Oh my, my, my, this is unpleasant," Harold said raising a large powder-blue silk handkerchief to his nose to mask the smell. Harold never thought it curious that a grand inquisitor, such as himself, should find the odor of burning flesh so offensive. He reached for the smelling salts and revived the general.

Harold looked compassionately at his victim. "I know, I know it must be painful, and I can't imagine why you insist on treating yourself this way, but we must establish your identity, or we cannot know how to continue," Harold shook his head pitifully at Mike. "Don't you see? You must realize how very, very, very sorry we are that you are making such bad choices. You must believe us."

Mike's eyelids fluttered and drool escaped from the side of his mouth. He prayed for blissful unconsciousness. The shock of an icy cold bucket of water thrown over him snapped Mike back to painful awareness. When his eyes regained focus, he saw Harold's concerned gaze just inches from his face.

"Now, that's better," Harold said. "OK, are you ready to proceed?"

Mike said nothing. He scanned Harold's eyes, searching for some indication that there was someone in there with whom he could reason. But Mike saw no hint of sanity.

"...good, good, good," Harold smiled. He assumed Mike's silence was tantamount to granting him permission to proceed. "Now remembering that Jesus loves you, no matter _who_ you are, and that we couldn't love you more...tell us...what is your _real_ name?"

Mike inhaled in short shallow breaths, attempting to manage the pain. Tears, mixed with sweat, stung his eyes. He knew the name Harold was looking for, and he knew that giving Harold the name would not end his torment. Mike understood his predicament. He was damned either way; the torture would continue if he said he was Mike, and the torture would continue if he said he was Satan. All that remained for him was to hold to his principles for as long as possible. If his resistance demonstrated his faith to no one but God and himself, then it would be worth enduring all the torture Harold could inflict. He was Daniel in the lion's den. He would prevail through his faith in the Lord. He did not answer.

"Oh dear, dear, dear, Satan has a real prize here, and he is not going to give it up easily," Harold said twisting awkwardly to look over his shoulder at his assistant. He took a deep breath and exhaled. "Well, O.K. then. Let's try again." Harold, once again, bent close over Mike and looked into his eyes. "If only you knew how hard this is for me," he said, "yes, it is hard...very, very, very hard indeed." Harold nodded and the assistant laid the poker on Mike's stomach.

Mike bucked and kicked as much as the rack would allow, and the veins in his neck threatened to burst through his skin, but the searing pain did not stop. His shrill scream would have frozen the most calloused heart. The poker and more skin were removed. Mike's body went limp. He lost consciousness, again.

Revived with another bucket of cold water, Mike lay upon the rack with his eyes closed, panting. He continued to struggle for control of the pain, with no success. He tried to concentrate on the crucified Jesus, but all he got in return was an evil malicious smirk. Mike closed his eyes and attempted to imagine a more loving Jesus, but the stinging ache emanating from his abdomen would not permit it. If only he could find Him, Jesus would see him through this ordeal.

Harold leaned over Mike, once again. "Oh dear, I am so very, very, very sorry," he said, "Oh please, won't you cooperate...not even a teensy, weensy, eensy, little bit?"

Mike's mind was fixed on something beyond the room. Except for a low mournful groan, he made no sound.

"You are so inconsiderate," Harold pouted. He stamped his sandaled foot against the cold, unforgiving, concrete floor. Harold was growing more and more exasperated and impatient. He began to panic. The thought of Mike bettering him was more than he could bear. He stood erect and shook his head from side to side, "I just don't think you realize how hard this is for us. You are so very, very, very inconsiderate. But I must reassure you that we will not relent until you tell us what we need to know. Surely, telling us your name is not such a hard thing to do. Is it?" Harold was coming dangerously close to pleading.

Mike groaned.

Harold clearly heard Mike's groan but interpreted it to mean that Mike was in full agreement with his tormentor.

"No, I don't think it unreasonable, either." Harold said, sounding modestly relieved, "So, let's be reasonable and tell us; what is your name?" Harold smiled pleasantly, fully expecting the general to relent.

Through the tears which pooled in his eyes, Mike could see Harold's mouth moving, but he was unable to make out the words. An indescribable pain was pushing nearly everything else from his awareness. Mike could not have answered even if he wanted to. Clinging tightly to what awareness remained, he began to take deep breaths in a valiant struggle to regain the use of his faculties.

Mistaking Mike's incapacitation for defiance, Harold revealed his growing irritation, "You are going to make me cause you pain again, aren't you? I pray that you relent, because I can assure you that we shall not. We shall never give Satan a moment's rest. Now, speak!" Harold was displaying an uncharacteristic edge. He was all too aware of the erosion of his trademark piety and was becoming all the more irritable because of it.

Alert to some kind of weakness in his inquisitor, Mike gathered all his strength and spoke. "You're mad," he spat with some effort, "...you are mad, if you think anyone but you is causing my pain."

Harold was startled by Mike's verbal outburst, but he recovered quickly. He turned and bent closely over Mike. "Oh my, my, my, don't you see," he countered, "it is your refusal to cooperate that forces my hand, you poor, poor, poor tortured soul. You are responsible for your pain, not me, not me." Harold used his overlarge, white silk handkerchief to mop at the beads of sweat which popped and flowed unrelentingly from his short balding pate. The heated room was not being kind to Harold's corpulent physique. Huge, dark patches of perspiration soaked the robes beneath his fat arms, outlined the creases of his fat belly and prominent pectoral flab, and saturated the area of his lower back.

"Only your twisted idea of the Almighty forces your hand," Mike choked. Mike saw both an opening and possible salvation. Getting Harold involved in a religious argument, which would be child's play, could buy him some time.

"Twisted ideas of the Almighty...dear, dear, dear me," Harold scoffed, shaking his round head in amused disbelief. He turned to his assistant to share his amusement. "Satan wishes to debate the intentions of God...do you think we should indulge him?"

"Do, do, do you think it, it wise, sir?" Peter stuttered, wide eyed and uncertain.

Harold frowned at Peter's lack of playfulness and shrugged off his assistant's concerns as those of a frightened little boy. He then observed that Mike, who remained stretched painfully on the rack, was having difficulty breathing and thus, speaking. Harold turned to Peter, "Loosen him a turn or two."

Peter, ever obliging of the Grand Inquisitor, loosened Mike's bindings, two clicks. It wasn't much, but it was enough relief for Mike to breathe a bit easier...and to think a bit clearer.

"We, after all, want a fair fight, don't we," Harold chuckled, "So, you admit that there is a God?" Harold asked suddenly turning on Mike, as if to catch him with his guard down.

"Of course, I admit that there is a God, you ass," Mike struggled, "but a God of love and compassion...not your god of greed and exploitation!" Insults and accusations would set the hook in Harold, Mike calculated. The insecure were always self-conscious and ready to defend, if one knew where to cast his line.

"You, poor lost soul...you think God greedy?" Harold mocked, "Tsk, tsk, tsk, you play recklessly with your immortal soul, ol' deceived one. No, wait, silly me...the Devil has no soul...so sorry, so very, very, very sorry." Harold laughed derisively and winked at Peter, who was wringing his hands with uncertainty.

"Not God, you ass, you...you, Patboy, Huckleberry...and all his little puppets, are the greedy ones," Mike reproached, "...the ones who exploit others for power, by perverting the word of the Almighty. If anyone plays recklessly with their soul, it is you." Mike choked and winced involuntarily.

"Oh, dear me, but...I am one of God's chosen representatives...you poor misguided fool. I am a Chosen. Don't you realize that? I have been since birth. If you say I exploit, then you accuse God of choosing someone who exploits, as His representative on earth. If you accuse me, then you make the same implication of God. If you charge God with exploitation, then it is you who are mad, not me." Harold, thinking he had made an unassailable argument, displayed the haughty smirk of the vain conqueror. He regarded Mike through the self-satisfied, half-lidded eyes of an all-conquering Caesar.

"You are no more God's representative on earth than the antichrist, who twists scripture to his own evil purpose," Mike persisted.

"Antichrist? antichrist!...Me? Me! You, sir, accuse me, Harold, Pastor Grand Inquisitor of the BMO, of being the antichrist?! How dare you attempt to project your devilish motivations onto me, and my brothers in Christ. You are clearly condemning yourself to the hellfire!" Harold, now clearly rattled and angry, brought his heavy fist down hard onto the racking table with a thumping splat, a sound not unlike a side of raw bacon thrown onto a counter from some distance. Mike had hooked his fish.

Even Harold was shocked by his unexpected outburst. Clearly embarrassed, he made a hasty and awkward attempt at reestablishing himself as a good natured, pious inquisitor.

"Naughty, naughty, naughty," Harold laughed, nervously. He threw back his shoulders, as much as he was able, and strutted around the rack while shaking an accusatory finger at Mike. "See, I caught you at your game! You are out of your depths, if you try to debase me, you fat ol' snake."

Harold, in mid strut, cast a quick glance at his assistant, and instead of seeing admiration, Harold saw apprehension, concern, confusion and alarm. Peter had been taught that heathen prisoners were never permitted the luxury of debate, because there was always the risk that, if given the opportunity, a demon could cast a spell, or steal the soul of any righteous inquisitor. In Peter's mind, Harold was risking his very soul by arguing with the foul demon.

Harold, his back to the general, twisted his face, mocking his apprentice's concern. Clearly unmoved by his assistant's apprehension, Harold saw no danger in continuing the debate. In an apparent show that he was not the least bit bothered by the general's remarks, Harold pranced around the rack for a few minutes, before stopping and placing his face close to Mike's.

"Oh my, you are a poor, poor, poor dear," Harold chuckled, looking up and down along the length of Mike's rendt and wounded body. "But, let's not that stop us. Chin up! I'm ready to play some more. Ummmm, so, tell me, how have I...er, _we_ twisted scripture to our own evil purpose?" Harold dove in without checking for rocks.

Mike considered the mad man leaning over him. Mike knew that he could never hope to change Harold's mind. But, if he pushed, he would certainly be able to destroy it.

"You've twisted the whole Dominionist cause into an exploitation of God's grace, to conceal your vanity, false pride, greed and thirst for power. God, for you, is merely a tool to legitimize your corruption and conceal your madness; a means by which you gain the peoples' trust, disarm them and then exploit them."

"My, my, my, you are so very, very, very confused...a Pastor General admonishing us, because he thinks we are guilty of deception in the name of a thirst for power. And, what general is a general, because he did not thirst for power? Only Satan could speak such hypocrisy and think it unassailable," Harold hectored.

"It's more than just power...it's how you use God to corrupt and exploit and excuse your sinful behavior."

"Use God...us? But it is God who has given us our power and possessions. These are His gifts ...rewards, if you will, for the Chosen's unwavering faith in Him and our undying dedication to His righteous cause. He has seen the good we have wrought in His name and richly rewarded us in His way...as promised. I'm so very, very, very sorry if you feel you have been inadequately rewarded, yet the gifts were there for the taking. All you had to do was reach out and take them. But you fooled yourself into thinking that you were better than God and better than all the rest of us. You refused His most generous offer. Let's not blame God for what is your arrogant refusal of His blessings, for you believing that you are too good to receive His gifts," Harold said contemptuously.

"And is God so overjoyed that he gives us His blessing to sexually abuse children, to condemn millions to poverty while we accumulate immeasurable wealth, to starve others while we dine lavishly, to brutally silence other points of view or any who dare to argue..."

"Oh, stop it! You sound like some bleeding-heart Liberal demon pig thingy. It hurts my ears. My, my, my, your mind and heart have been corrupted, haven't they? You fail to understand that to argue and disagree with God's representatives is the same as arguing with God, Himself. Would you argue with God? Would you tolerate those who would question His authority?"

"You are not God! Damn you! You are madmen who use God as a means to exploit the frightened and vulnerable!"

"What would you know of God? You are nothing but Satan's agent." Harold countered coolly. "What credentials do you possess authorizing you to speak as an authority on God?" Harold's sparse, blonde brows, arched high over puffy lids, served as punctuation.

"I have studied the word of our Savior, as well as any, and I've read nothing justifying the exploitation of the poor and the accumulation...and the abuse...of wealth and power. He was a man of poverty, tolerance, and unconditional love who welcomed argument...loving all who believed in His word while chastising, with great prejudice, apostates and heretics."

"A man? A man? Do you hear yourself...a MAN? He is a God...a God, you ass of Satan!" Harold bellowed and, once again, he smacked the rack with his puff-pastry hand. "You betray your apostasy, arrogance and ignorance with every word. Don't you see that you believe as a demon, and like a demon, you rant and rave against the one righteous God...and like Satan, you hope to confuse and muddle the issue, and cause dissent?!" Harold's face glowed redder than ever as his joyous façade crumbled under the weight of his wrath.

"Why do you treat our women as whores and scum?"

"Our treatment of women is justified in the scriptures, which you clearly have not read!"

"How do you deserve opulence and palaces, while our flock, who work hard to maintain your lifestyle, warrant only shabby barracks?"

"The people are rewarded by God in accordance with their station," Harold snapped, "He has given some palaces and others barracks...it is His way. Are we wrong to accept His command as law?" Harold turned his back on Mike and dismissed the general with a wave of his hand.

"It is not His law...it is _your_ law. Are you saying _you_ are as a God?"

Harold wheeled around, his eyes shooting bolts of fire. "You are so very, very, very confused!" Harold spit, more than spoke, his words. Peter stood at the ready with a white-hot iron. Harold raised his hand to stay Peter...and the poker...a moment longer. "What a pity, such a supposedly brilliant man so easily lost to the corruption of Satan!"

"Why is the sexual abuse of children permitted? Where in the scripture is pedophilia encouraged and condoned?" Mike kept the pressure on knowing that Harold would soon be his.

"What is this obsession you have with the sexual habits of children? You are the sexual deviant, my confused and twisted worshipper of Satan! A Chosen one cannot be a pedophile...one chosen by God, by God's own command, cannot commit any evil."

"It is common knowledge that Patboy has a sexual appetite for little girls...and sometimes little boys."

"It becomes clearer by the minute that you have been blinded by Satan and cannot see God's truth. And, your persistence on this matter reveals that it is _you_ who desires little boys! Do you find the thought of sex with little boys titillating?"

"No more than you," Mike laughed deviously, turning the tables on the fat-friar, who, unlike the Pastor General, swallowed the hook.

"I don't have sex with children!" Harold bellowed.

Mike continued laughing, setting the hook even deeper. Harold hated being laughed at.

"We are the Chosen...we are without sin...God is incapable of error...stop your infernal laughing!" Harold shouted.

"God errs, if it is you whom He blesses," Mike laughed.

Peter, shocked by Mike's assertion that God was capable of error, lost his grip on the white- hot poker. The poker clanged as it hit the concrete floor, its tip exploding into a shower of white- hot sparks. Harold turned to his fellow inquisitor and fixed him with a menacing glare. Peter stood with his eyes wide and his mouth open...speechless.

"You are mad, my gluttonous fool," Mike heckled. "It is a waste of my time to argue with a madman. Therefore, simply put, the facts are these: God granted you nothing. You stole His good name and used the Good Book to justify your larceny, your lechery, and your gluttony." More laughter.

"God does not err!" Harold yelled as he stamped his fleshy feet. "Things are as they are because God, in his infinite love and wisdom, has willed it, you poor, poor, poor misunderstanding wretched...asshole!" Harold, until now, had never used profanity in public. He was truly going around the bend. "We are very sorry that He did not consult with you before proceeding, but then, there you have it...you are not in His confidence...and, for damn good reason!"

"Then it is God's love which has placed me on this rack?"

"No! It is Satan who has placed you on the rack."

"And, therefore, it is Satan who tortures me?"

The tattered remnants of Harold's sanity vanished. His face and neck flushed so brilliant a red that it clashed horribly with the short bright orange-blonde hair populating the area around his small mouse-like ears. Harold stood fixed, visibly trembling. He made no effort to regain his soft lilting voice. The words he bit off came from a much harsher and threatening place. "You believe God's love is torture, but it is not, dear, dear child," Harold seethed. "It is an undeserved kindness bestowed upon you in a vain attempt to save you from the fires of Hell, before it is too late...an undeserved kindness I will bestow upon you over and over again until you gain a firm grasp of my meaning." He sucked on his fat lower lip and rolled his eyes from side to side. Harold then bestowed the white-hot poker onto Mike's flesh...again...and again...and again.

Mike emitted a horrible screech and passed out, but Harold did not relent. He not only laid the poker on Mike's stomach, but he stabbed it into Mike's buttocks and sides, as well. The scourging continued for many minutes and, to ensure that optimum heat was delivered each time, used pokers were regularly exchanged for fresh ones.

A noxious smoke and the loathsome odor of charred flesh filled the room before Peter mustered the courage to stay Harold's hand.

Harold stood motionless, in a daze, eyes glazed as if in a trance. He slowly turned his head toward Peter and raised the poker as if he were about to strike his assistant. Peter calmly stopped Harold's arm in its slow arc and removed the steel rod from the BMO's hand. Harold swayed slightly and blinked his eyes several times as if trying to focus.

"Sir," Peter said softly, "the general has passed out."

"Oh?" Harold replied.

Peter recognized that Harold was in need of rest, so he led him by the arm to a straight-back wooden chair. Harold sat and continued staring. "Were we successful? Did he come to Jesus? Did he convert?" Harold asked weakly.

Confused, Peter wasn't certain how to answer. It had never appeared to him that the general did not accept Jesus. The problem seemed more one of Mike not accepting Harold. But Harold was chosen by God, so Harold was like God. So, if the general rejected Harold, was he then rejecting God? Peter was just a young assistant and admittedly, he confused easily. He considered the shaken BMO and decided that it would not be wise to introduce another controversy. "No, sir, the demon did not convert. He passed out."

"Oh," came Harold's weak reply.

Harold sat for some time drifting between a limited awareness and self-absorbed confusion. He had never encountered a conversion as difficult as this. He had never lost his cool. Harold was paralyzed by the realization that he might have to admit embarrassment for his poor performance. But, admitting to failure, if only to himself, was more than he could bear. It just wasn't done! There must be a way out. He was God's instrument after all, perfect in every way. What did he have to feel embarrassed about? If Mike had not converted, then it was God's way, and Harold could not be blamed. But Harold had lost his righteous demeanor. Was that's God's intention? Was it God's intention to embarrass Harold? But Harold was God...wasn't he? Being God's chosen representative and being God were nearly the same, were they not? Did Harold wish to embarrass himself? That was ridiculous.

And, so it went on for many minutes, with Harold continuing to struggle with his guilt and uncertainty; his face making all sorts of odd twists and grimaces, until an unavoidably loud rumble, emitted from his guts, warned that he was in a state of great hunger. He needed food, lots of it, now.

Unexpectedly, Harold abruptly stood and made for the door of the torture chamber. "Revive the demon," he shouted over his shoulder to Peter. The door slammed shut behind Harold, who did not wait for Peter's reply of, "yes, sir."

Peter approached the general and doused him with a bucket of ice-cold water. Mike's body recoiled violently and arched painfully over the racking table. His body remained suspended for a few seconds before slamming back onto the wet, bloody platform. Mike groaned and sputtered, reluctantly regaining consciousness. Sticky fluids oozed from his wounds, glazing the tabletop in a disgusting, foul-smelling filth. Peter struggled, but failed, to stifle his retching.

Peter felt sorry for the demon, but he didn't know to what lengths he should go to offer comfort. Was he permitted to comfort a demon at all, even a Pastor General demon? Should he bandage the wounds? Maybe offer a drink of water? Peter thought hard, but resolved, in the end, that it would be safer to do nothing more than what was ordered of him.

Mike's watering eyes would not permit him to focus on his surroundings. He was aware of a figure standing a few feet from his right side. "Too thin to be Harold," he thought. "It must be Peter," he reasoned. Mike was also painfully aware of the torment his body had suffered. He ached and stung and burned from head to foot. He could feel the pounding of his pulse in his head. Sickening smells overwhelmed his olfactories, smells made all the more offensive because he knew that they emanated from his ravaged body. There was nothing he could do. He was completely at the mercy of his tormentors. He realized that a quick death was his only way out. He lay there a very long while, groaning, dozing, oozing, starting awake, dozing, groaning...

"So!" Harold shouted. "Have we come to our senses? Wish to play with me some more? Think me a joke?"

Mike rolled his head to the right. There, standing, a few feet away, was his obese inquisitor, smiling triumphantly...defiantly...completely mad.

"Are we going to play some more?" Mike murmured. Could he push Harold into inflicting a quick death?

"If you wish it," Harold replied. His self-righteous playfulness was gone; replaced with a cool determined murderous intent.

"According to the gospel of Harold, I have no say in the matter. It has all been preordained by God...or you...that part is still unclear to me," Mike pushed weakly.

Harold's piggy eyes narrowed. He vowed to not be so easily provoked this time around. "There is no point in bringing you to an understanding. The relationship between the Chosen and God is clearly beyond your grasp. I will waste no more time on it. You are incapable of grasping my meaning."

"Don't you mean God's meaning?" Mike heckled. He winched as a sharp pain shot along his right side.

"I am God!" Harold yelled out, and then, realizing what he had just said, quickly added, "...God's representative. I am God's representative!"

Mike enjoyed the uncomfortable silence following Harold's outburst. Mike felt a bit ashamed of himself, Harold being such an easy target.

"And, what's it mean, if you can't get me to understand?" Mike asked. "Does it mean that God, or you, God's representative, have failed? God can fail?!" Mike chuckled.

"God does not fail, you idiot! He works in ways we cannot always understand, but He does not fail!" Harold snapped.

"Can you do any wrong? I mean as God, or His so-called representative, is it possible for you to err?"

"On no you don't, you sly, old fat snake," Harold shot back. He nodded to his assistant who handed him a fresh white-hot poker from the charcoal pit. "Your argument is old and well predicted." Harold blew on the poker tip, causing white sparks to fly from it. The poker had a strange, horrible effect upon Harold, as a sedative might calm a madman. "If I admit to erring once, then anything I do or say can be argued as error. I do God's work as God wills it. That is a fact. And, if there be any error in that, then God has either erred, and that is impossible, or He has intended the error and, thus no error has been committed or, what is more likely, you simply misunderstand what's going on."

"So, you can do pretty much anything you want, chalk it up to God's will or intention, and you're absolved of all responsibility."

"I am but God's humble hand on earth," Harold said flashing a frightening demonic-like smile.

"I see. You are both mad and clever...and absolved!" Mike laughed.

"Tell us who you are," Harold ordered. His coolness was much more frightening than his anger, because the coolness revealed the homicidal maniac within. "We must first acknowledge the problem before we can work at a cure," Harold smirked.

"You would do well to follow your own advice," Mike observed.

Harold laid the poker across Mike's naked right foot, the skin hissed and crackled. Smoke and the smell of burning flesh filled the room. Harold's face took on the most ecstatic appearance, as if he were reaching a sexual climax. And, the climax lasted far too long. The poker had burnt deep into the flesh, to the bone, before it was removed.

Mike drew a sharp hissing breath, arched his back in agony, screeched, and then passed out.

Once again, a bucket of icy water brought him back to consciousness. His mind swirled with a pain that pushed out all other thoughts. He struggled to think of something, anything upon which he could focus. And, slowly, he became aware that someone was repeating something over and over. Then Mike realized that the ethereal voice was repeating "Mike, Mike, Mike," and then, he too, took up the chant and began repeating his name, "Mike, Mike, Mike." Finally, fully aware, he shouted, "I am Pastor General Mike!"

Harold was startled, but the cathartic scourging of Mike had calmed him somewhat. He bent and peered into the Pastor General's bloodshot eyes. A most cruel smile adorned The BMO's face. "You poor, poor, poor wretch, who are you trying to convince that you are Pastor General Mike, me or you?" Harold chided.

Mike did not answer, but instead concentrated on taking deep breaths as he fought to control the sharp burning pain, splitting his head in two.

"You know, of course, that you cannot win, and it is a waste of effort even to try," Harold said menacingly, "When have you ever won in a battle against God?"

Mike continued to take deep breaths. He could not respond. The overhead lights began to fade into rippling pools of light as his eyes welled and overflowed with fluid.

"It is sad and heart-wrenching that you persist, just sad, sad, sad." Harold wrung his hands while he pretended to be genuinely concerned. "Abandon yourself to the ways of our God and tell us your name."

"I have...put...my faith...in Jesus," Mike stated haltingly, between gasps for breath, "and I will win...through Him."

"And, now you blaspheme again," Harold sighed, raising himself to look down upon his victim. "I may be wrong, but, yet, I am pretty certain that it would be a contradiction for you to put faith in anyone other than yourself. Isn't that true? Isn't that Satan's nature? Your nature?"

Mike said nothing and returned to staring at the shimmering light pools. He thought that perhaps the lights could represent the light of Jesus. He tried to smile.

Harold observed Mike's attempted smile and could only think that the Pastor General was mocking him, again. "Why do you persist in tormenting me, when all I have done is to love you?" he asked.

Mike was silent.

"But you cannot see my love, can you? You refuse to see that I represent the way of love and forgiveness. If you wished it, you could help me to ease your pain and torment. But you only wish to punish me. Tell me your name and this will be over, soon enough." Harold pressed his ample belly against the rack near Mike's head and strained to rest his elbows upon the rack. He clasped his hands in prayer. He closed his eyes tightly and his lips moved silently.

"I am Pastor General Mike," Mike said, spit and drool accompanying every syllable.

Harold's eyes snapped open. "I weep for you," he said flatly. "I am so very sorry. You must forgive us, because we fight so hard for your soul...harder than you, apparently. It cannot be our fault if you fail to understand this. You must forgive us." Harold then nodded to his assistant and Mike was stretched to unconsciousness.

And, so it went, long into the evening, until Mike was so completely overwhelmed with pain and mental exhaustion and confusion, that he was no longer capable of responding to his inquisitor.
CHAPTER 19:

When, hours later, Mike regained consciousness, the room was dark and icy cold. Not a sound could be heard. His wounds stung and ached as only third-degree burns and dislocated joints can. He shivered and listened to his stomach growl. He could not remember when he had last eaten. Apparently, his bowels had emptied sometime during the night, because the smell of feces was strong in the room. Mike tried to move his arms and legs, but the slightest movement sent spasms of pain through his joints and down his limbs. He was lying on his back on concrete. Surprisingly, the concrete was a comfort for him. Compared to the rack, it felt soft and inviting. He had been placed in a cell, and he had no idea how long he had been there. He lost consciousness, again.

He was awakened some time later by shouting and what sounded like gunfire. Then, there was an explosion followed by more shouting and automatic weapons fire. The commotion sounded as if it were coming closer. Was the Center under attack? Mike, although dazed, quickly ruled out that possibility. Surely, he was dreaming...or hallucinating. An attack was impossible. There was no combined force anywhere large enough to attack Freedom Center Judah.

Yet, he could clearly hear excited voices beyond the walls of his cell.

"No, he's not in here," said one voice, and "Try the next cell, hurry!" said another.

It sounded crazy to Mike, but was it possible someone was trying to rescue him? Or, had he finally snapped? He was nearly certain that he wasn't dreaming. Then, he heard keys in the lock to his cell door. The door flew open and light flooded into the room. Mike was blinded by the sudden brightness.

"Is that him?" somebody said.

"Oh, sweet Jesus, I...I think it is," another answered.

"Yes, it's the General...here he is! We've found him! We've found him!" someone yelled. The shout was followed by more gunfire and explosions.

Mike did not recognize the voice and was still too dazzled by the sudden illumination of his cell to make out any faces.

"Don't worry, sir, we are here to rescue you," someone said.

"Look at what those pretenders to grace have done to him," another declared.

Mike could make out a young man in a TW's corporal's uniform kneeling next to him.

"Help me carry him. Quickly, we don't have much time!" the corporal shouted. More gunfire and another explosion could be heard, somewhere close by.

A private kneeled at Mike's feet. "Blessed Jesus," he said, "have you seen what they did to his feet?"

"And hands...look at his hands," another bleated.

"Quickly," the corporal shouted as he grabbed Mike under the arms. "We have got to move, now!"

The private grabbed Mike's feet, and together they lifted him off of the concrete slab.

Mike screamed as pain shot along his limbs.

The alarmed TW's moved to lower him back to the concrete.

"Don't you dare put me down," Mike howled, "get me the hell out of here!"

"But we're hurting..." the corporal began to say.

"It is a glorious...pain, brother. Get me out of here," Mike groaned.

As carefully as they could, the TW's hustled the general from the room and carried him into the hall, which was filling with smoke and the acrid smell of cordite. The bodies of guards and some inquisitors littered the hallways. Mike strained to see if BMO Harold was among the dead.

"Did you see...the fat BMO?" Mike asked grimacing, as his dislocated joints competed for attention with his burns.

"You mean BMO Harold, sir?" the corporal clarified.

"Yes..." Mike started to say, and then he saw him. Harold was draped over a rack with a number of pokers sticking in his body. His fat round head was hanging over one edge. Blood from his mouth ran across his cheek and pooled into the empty socket of his right eye. Harold was quite obviously dead. "Did he...fight?"

"Who...him?" the corporal indicated Harold's limp body with a nod of his head.

"Yes..." Mike confirmed.

"He tried to defend himself with some red-hot pokers and Bible passages."

"A fitting end...to God's...representative," the general said, his voice no more than a whisper.

"Sir...?"

Mike said nothing.

He was carried from the Hall of Blessed Conversions and into the prison courtyard, where a full-scale battle was taking place. He was laid, gently, in the back of an APC, which would serve as his personal ambulance. Quickly, medics initiated IV fluids and morphine. A figure bent over him. It was Pastor Major Luke Norris.

"Sir," Major Norris said, "we await your orders."

"Oh, blessed Jesus, you'll never know...how glad I am...to see you," the incapacitated Pastor General croaked. "What's the...situation?" he asked with great effort.

"Sir, nearly two thirds of the army have risen in your defense," the Major said hurriedly, as several bullets impacted harmlessly on the side of the APC. "We have Leader Huckleberry's loyalists and his Imperial Guard engaged on a broad front." The major indicated the field of battle on a map taped crudely to the armored wall of the APC. "We control the main gate and about one-and-a-half miles of the outer perimeter defenses, here to here. We deployed one company of Warriors to breach the prison wall, locate you and your staff, and attempt a rescue. Unfortunately, as you can see, we created a prominent salient in the effort. But, Praise Jesus, we have freed you and your entire contingent of staff officers...except one, I am afraid. If we remain in our current position, we risk being cut off and separated from our main force."

"Which one?"

"Sir...?"

"All but one of my...officers...which one?" Mike asked, his voice thin and breathy.

Major Norris turned white and cleared his throat, "Sir...we found...we found all of them..."

The meaning of Norris' words was not lost on Mike. "Who?"

"Sir, we found Colonel Rosie Hart drowned in a water board tub...I'm very sorry, sir."

"Not Rosie..." Mike sighed. He did not bother to hide the grief filling his heart.

"There was nothing we could do..."

Mike said nothing. He slowly closed his eyes as the morphine began to take effect. Mike regarded the battle map through half-closed eyes. "I suggest...we join...with the main force... immediately," he murmured.

"Yes, sir," the Major agreed. "Corporal, get us out of here. We are withdrawing to the main body."

The rear hatch warning claxon sounded, and two large hydraulic pistons lifted the hatch until it closed and latched with a solid 'clunk' and 'hiss', as the cabin was pressurized against poisonous gas and deadly toxins. The APC's diesel motor revved, black smoke shot out of its exhausts, and the armored vehicle lurched forward. Bullets pinged, smacked and ricocheted off its sides. The authoritive hammering of twin .50 caliber machine guns, mounted in the APC's two turrets, front and rear, boomed and rattled through the thirty-five ton vehicle. The occupants could barely hear each other over the din.

Medics went to work cleaning and bandaging the general's wounds.

"Sir, we must reduce your shoulders," one of the medics said to the general.

"What? Reduce?" Mike asked, floating on the edge of consciousness.

"What we mean, sir, is that we are going to put your shoulders back into their rightful place...sorry. We don't know how much soft tissue damage there is, but if you are to have any chance of regaining use of your arms, we have no choice."

"Well...proceed," Mike smiled weakly.

"This is going to hurt, sir," the medic cautioned.

Mike offered up a brave, unburdened, easy smile.

Mike's separated shoulders were reduced with some difficulty and knee immobilizers were applied to stabilize his knees, which were badly broken and would require surgery to make right. Mike yelled heartily as the medics went about their unavoidably painful business. Fortunately, the racket of combat spared those farthest from him, his frequent and forceful cursing.

Mike's TW's encircled the APC as it moved toward the breach in the prison wall. They blanketed the prison wall ramparts with a gun fire so robust that Huckleberry's Imperial Guard's return fire was largely ineffective. Mike's team reached the prison wall intact, for the most part, with one dead and one badly wounded.

"Major Norris," Mike muttered, summoning the Major to his side, as the APC lurched over broken bits of wall and debris. "What...the hell's going on...who we shooting at?"

"Well, sir..." Norris hesitated. "It all started after the troops heard of your arrest. They didn't bother to keep their anger quiet. They were quite vocal. Short story...they wanted you released immediately. We officers knew that the situation was hopeless...that Huckleberry would never agree to their demands. Undoubtedly, there was going to be trouble, so we officers offered to negotiate for your release. The troops agreed to give negotiations a try. But, when negotiations failed...well, there was no stopping them. They formed ranks and set about protesting...peacefully, but noisily, at first...until Huckleberry stupidly ordered his Imperial Guard to fire on them. Then you can imagine...all hell broke loose. And, here we are."

The general considered Norris' report and then he asked, "...because of me?"

"All of this is _for_ you, not _because_ of you. You just can't quantify the intense respect these troops have for you."

"Lord, help me...if I ever...cross them," Mike chuckled, weakly.

"Lord, help us all," Norris concurred.

Mike was taken to the command and communications center, where a large map of the Freedom Center, showing the combatants' relative positions, was pinned to the wall. His hands were mangled, burned and bandaged beyond use. So, his general's baton, containing a laser pointer, was taped to his forearm. He would direct the troops from his cot.

Pastor General Mike's rescuers were soldiers who had served with him in combat. They had witnessed him leading from the front, risking enemy fire, and even suffering wounds. To them, he was more than a general...he was a blood brother. Their respect for him far exceeded any regard they may have had for Huckleberry, who would never have considered risking his life in service to others. Huckleberry, like so many "leaders" whose bravery only extended as far as sending others to fight and die, was a coward. Huckleberry had many excuses for avoiding military service, none of which impressed the soldiers. Simply put, the soldiers were loyal to the Dominionist States of America and fiercely loyal to Pastor General Mike. Huckleberry was just a Reverend Leader who had done nothing to earn their respect.

CHORUS

"Huckleberry, like all paranoid, arrogant, and conceited leaders, thought it wise to purge many of his field command officers; any whom he thought could possibly challenge him for loyalty and leadership. But, in his conceit and arrogance, he failed to correctly assess the potency of a soldier's loyalty to a great leader such as Pastor General Mike. Huck, of course, realized that the Pastor General was a good leader and responsible for many victories, but he failed to understand that victories are won by soldiers. And, so too, are coups. Huck made the mistake of thinking he had but to control just one man, the general. Therefore, Mike's simple foot soldiers caught Huckleberry and his Imperial Guard completely unaware and unprepared."

*

Huckleberry sat bolt upright on his throne. His brow furrowed in deep concern, as the muffled sounds of explosions and gunfire found their way into his cavernous throne room. He slowly turned his head left to right, listening closely to the bangs and thuds and thumps of far off...fighting?

"What is that...what is all that racket?" the Most Reverend President Leader asked. "Gunfire...is that gunfire?"

Pastor Dick stood at the foot of the throne, his fingers in his mouth, and a fearful expression on his face. "S...s...sounds like...gunfire...and b...b...bombs," he squeaked.

Not waiting to be announced, the Captain of the Imperial Guard followed closely by his adjutants, burst into the throne room and ran to the throne. "Excellency," he shouted. "We are under assault! Pastor General Mike has been freed and his divisions are attacking us!" The Captain, his field jacket torn and his faced smudged with what appeared to be blood, fought to catch his breath. He stood before Huckleberry, waiting for orders.

Uncharacteristically, the Reverend Leader stared at the Captain in disbelief and said nothing. Huckleberry was in shock. His was completely overwhelmed with the impossible; an assertion that an attack upon him was being perpetrated...by his own army! Precious moments passed before he was capable of responding.

The Captain of the Imperial Guard of the Heavenly Host stood impatiently, shifting his weight from foot to foot, waiting for the President Leader's orders. Frustrated, he looked to Pastor Dick and quickly realized that the Pastor Counselor was an empty suit, incapable of providing any meaningful feedback.

"Under attack...me? Impossible!" Huckleberry shouted. He slumped back into his cushions and looked away.

Startled, the Captain returned his attention to the President Leader. He stood there, impatiently anticipating more of a response, and soon realized that no more information would be forthcoming. So, he pressed his president. "Sir, the situation is dire. What are your orders, sir?"

" _My_ orders...you require _my_ orders?" a peevish and petulant Huckleberry scoffed. "You are Captain of the Imperial Guard, are you not? And you don't know what to do? You want _me_ to do your job for you! You don't think I have enough to do?"

The truth was that Huckleberry had never led troops in the field, had never served in the military, never indicated any interest in military matters beyond celebratory parades and military pomp, and was at a complete loss with how to proceed. And, it was also clear that he did not fully appreciate that now was not the time to irritate the one man who could come to his aid.

The livid Captain stood transfixed, immobilized with incredulity. "Sir," he replied sharply, "It is your right to release me at any time. I only serve with your blessing."

Huckleberry flushed red and spit flew from his mouth as he shouted, "Very well then, you are relieved of command! You're fired!" He shook an accusatory finger at the Captain.

The Captain took one step back and, shockingly, he said with a smile, "As you wish!" He then turned to his adjutants. "Lieutenant of the Imperial Guard arrest the Reverend Leader and...that useless piece of shit," the Captain said, pointing at Pastor Dick.

Dick emitted a shrill squeak of terror and fainted, while Huckleberry exploded off his cushions. "Lieutenant of the Guard, arrest the Captain...now!" Huckleberry bellowed, throwing his fist at his throne's armrest and missing. He lost his balance and fell sideways. And, for one embarrassing moment, it looked as if he would fall from his perch. But he saved himself and crumpled onto his pillows.

The Lieutenant did not hesitate. He came to attention, saluted his Captain, and ascended the twelve steps of Huckleberry's throne, accompanied by the Sergeant Major of the Imperial Guard.

Huckleberry's eyes widened with horror. "How dare you approach me...without my blessing..."

"Arrest him Lieutenant!" the Captain shouted, loud enough to override the Reverend Leader's protests.

Huckleberry raised his hand to strike the Lieutenant, but the officer blocked the blow and struck Huckleberry in the gut. His Excellency folded in two and was stopped from falling by the Sergeant Major. Together the Sergeant and Lieutenant, both over six-feet tall and nearly two-hundred pounds each, lifted Huckleberry to his feet and dragged him off his pedestal. They threw him at the feet of their Captain whose condescension for the ex-Most Reverend President Leader was most palpable.

"You think us too easily bought, your majesty," the Captain laughed sardonically. "We remain loyal to Jesus and the UDSA, but you are not the UDSA, and you are certainly no Jesus."

"You'll pay dearly for this you...you...heretic...traitorous scum, pagan...little shit..." Huckleberry stammered. He was not practiced at swearing, but his anger more than made up for any deficit in training.

"Oh, shut-up!" the Captain yelled. "Sergeant Major, have him taken to the cells. We have no time to waste. We must mount a reaction to the General."

"Yes, sir," the Sergeant replied. He appointed a small detail, and Huckleberry was dragged kicking and shouting from the cavernous throne room. Dick, who had yet to regain consciousness, was hoisted over the shoulder of a particularly large corporal and carried away.

None of this was shocking or surprising to the well-informed. As rumors and incidents of Huckleberry's callousness, greed, and unparalleled cruelty grew, Huckleberry's Imperial Guard, as well as many commands within the regular army, became more and more vexed. All that would be necessary was a misstep, and Huckleberry would fall. Arresting Pastor General Mike was just such a misstep.

With no MEEC to act as a check on the Most Reverend President Leader, the real source of checks and balances upon his Excellency fell to the Imperial Guard of the Heavenly Host. This fact was not lost on the officers of the Imperial Guard. They knew that Huckleberry's ability to hold power was dependent upon his ability to keep them happy and loyal. And, his empty praise and lavish gift-giving may have worked in another time with another army, but this was an army that considered itself warriors of the Lord, and many within it were not so easily bought by bribes and cheap flattery. In fact, many were simply insulted. Huckleberry would have done more to earn the loyalty of his Imperial Guard, had he been wise enough to restrain his greed, cruelty, and insincerity and behave more as a fitting representative of Jesus. But restraint is not often a characteristic of the Chosen.

CHORUS

"Initially, the Dominionist States of America (UDSA) was envisioned as a republic, but not exactly like the United States of America (USA), which it had replaced. Instead of a president, the UDSA elected a Most Reverend President Leader who, like a president, was responsible for setting policy within the limits of the law, but, unlike a president, was also responsible for setting the spiritual tone and modeling the spiritual soul of the nation. This later mission was a notable departure from the old secular USA, and the primary reason the UDSA was seen as necessary."

"The elected members of the House of Representatives and the Senate, and the appointed members of the Supreme Court, comprising the old heretical system, were replaced by the Most Exalted Executive Council (MEEC). The MEEC was responsible for enacting legislation, judging the legality of established laws against official Biblical cannon, and assuring that his Excellency, the Most Reverend President Leader, operated within the bounds of the theocratic code. The MEEC also ensured a smooth transition of power when it came time to select a successor to his Excellency, who, by Huckleberrian decree, served for life."

"The people (the National Congregation) had the right to vote and were required to do so. But their vote was largely meaningless, as they were rarely given any opposing issue or candidate upon which to decide. Election outcomes were decided by his Excellency and the MEEC, far in advance of any plebiscite. The first MEEC was comprised of a selection of Republican Senators, elected under the guidelines of the old heretical republic, possessing the appropriate righteousness and demonstrated zeal for Jesus. Sitting MEEC's appointed new members, as old members retired or died in office. Membership was for life, or until ouster by majority vote of the MEEC. There were fifty permanent members."

"Originally, the MEEC, in part, was charged with the creation, implementation, and supervision of the Biblical Law. It set limits on policy decisions, governed the appropriate use of military force, and participated in the negotiation of treaties. In large part, it served as a check and balance on the Reverend President. However, the MEEC, in a surprisingly short period of time, as all republics discover, through inattentiveness, cowardice, and laziness, lost its effectiveness and power. It became no more than a rubber stamp for an all-powerful Most Reverend President Leader."

"The army and the BMO's, as originally conceived, fell under the authority of the MEEC. They served, respectively, as a defensive force charged with protecting the UDSA from invasion and as a civilian police force with powers to surveil, arrest, adjudicate, and execute. The Reverend President was assigned a small security detail, called the Imperial Guard of the Heavenly Host, or simply, the Imperial Guard. The Imperial Guard was an elite force, pledged to uphold, protect and defend the Biblical Cannon of the UDSA, while protecting the Reverend President from injurious assaults upon his sanctified person. Over time, however, keeping a keen eye to enhancing and securing his power, Huckleberry grew his Imperial Guard into an elite division of special operations soldiers, loyal only to him."

"Under the original system, as intended, the Reverend President was free to lead the country, while his fitness for office, or 'righteousness before God', was continually monitored by the MEEC. The MEEC was entrusted with the country's security and continuing spiritual purification."

"Of course, once ensconced in office, Huckleberry wasted little time engineering the elimination of the restrictions limiting his absolute power. He was convinced, as are all narcissists who believe that they are chosen by God to lead, that absolute power rightfully resided solely within him. Of course, by definition, absolute power meant he could and should do anything he wished. Therefore, it was clearly evil, ignorant, and un-Christian to believe that God's Chosen of the Chosen should share power with a MEEC--a flawed vestigial contrivance of man's law--and the simpleton sheep of the National Congregation (NC). Any reasonable person could easily understand that true intelligence, fathomless insight and flawless righteousness, all unimpeachable qualities for Godly leadership, would only be found in God's Chosen of the Chosen. After all, did God share power?"

"Immediately following the demise of the pathetic heretical USA, the UDSA set about manipulating the events which would culminate in an apocalyptic nuclear world war; fulfilling the Biblical prophecy of the End Times and Last Judgment. The Dominionists had waited patiently for centuries, but God frustrated them at every turn when, year after year, no promised Rapture or Last Judgment materialized. Frustrated and maddened beyond expression, the Dominionists were forced to reassess their understanding of God's will. Eventually, it occurred to them, that when God selected some to do His bidding on earth, He expected them to do _ALL_ of His bidding. Of course, this would include executing the Apocalypse. They, therefore, realized that they had been waiting all this time for God to do what He had intended them to do, all along."

"It was embarrassing to many that they had been so stupid. It suddenly became obvious to all why, so many centuries before, God had gifted them with hydrogen bombs. The logic was inescapable: God promised to end the world with fire, therefore, He had provided hydrogen bombs, and He pre-selected a cadre of willing accomplices. What could be clearer? It was obvious, God was waiting for the Dominionists to end the world; gloriously, righteously, humbly. What better gesture could be conceived to demonstrate the boundless reaches of their faith in Him? And, Huckleberry was not going to share that glory with anyone."

"Predictably, as the launch clock ticked down to zero-hour, Huckleberry employed his rather prodigious political talents maneuvering himself into position as supreme leader. Basically, he 'humbly' peddled the idea that traditional decision making processes would be too slow and inefficient to effectively govern in a time of world immolation; after all, there would be a great deal of confusion and turmoil and...inconvenience. Understandably, many found it extremely difficult to argue against such sound and compelling logic."

"While appearing reasonable and considered in public, behind the scenes, Huckleberry threatened, blackmailed, marginalized, and engineered the disappearance of any who did not find his logic compelling. In the end, the MEEC was too easily bought and cowed. It agreed that it was completely reasonable that the Most Reverend President Leader, as God's special chosen earthly envoy, be granted Special Temporary Unilateral Decision-making Powers (STUDP). Their unanimous vote officially bestowed upon Huckleberry absolute power; absolute power which would forever belong to him, solely."

"Naturally, freed from all restrictions to his power, Huckleberry created long lists of the real, or imagined, threats to his reign. He declared hundreds, whom he thought dangerous to him, to be spies, malcontents, or undesirables. Evidence for their prosecution was either discovered or manufactured, and sham trials were convened. Within a few months, all suspects were found guilty and sentenced to either years of hard labor (effectively, death sentences) or execution by hanging, crucifixion, or burning at the Cleansing stakes. Good Shrubbies were identified and appointed to fill the vacated positions of governance. The Imperial Guard of the Heavenly Host, vital for his protection, was quickly grown to the size of a Division and, following the lesson of Ancient Rome, he bought their loyalty by lavishing upon them expensive gifts and the finest of housing. But, Huckleberry, for all his careful planning in attempting to consolidate lasting power, was sowing the seeds of resentment and rebellion; slow to grow, but lethal when reaped."

"Pastor General Mike's TW's were fighting for a policy of religious austerity and purity, while Huckleberry's Imperial Guard and BMO maintained that materialism and self-aggrandizement were righteous gifts, justly bestowed upon the Chosen, by the Almighty. And, in the fighting, the antagonists were establishing a new system of power transition reminiscent of old Rome, where the rampant corruption of the ancient republic eventually led to the Praetorian Guard deciding who would be the next Caesar. And, of course, as we all know, with its forces fractured and loyalties split, its system of government corrupted and weakened, Rome fell to the invading hordes."

*

Pastor General Mike studied the map set before him. He could see clearly that his were the only forces on the field with a centralized command and an uninterrupted chain of command. Huckleberry's forces, on the other hand, were scattered, and fighting as relatively isolated, smaller pockets of resistance. Of course, the situation was ideal for Mike, but he knew that it all would turn badly for him very quickly, if the various elements of Huckleberry's Imperial Guard united and were able to concentrate its forces.

"Sir," Captain P.J. Rourke said to Pastor Major Norris as he rushed into the command center bunker, "four of Huckleberry's companies are massing for an assault from the prison complex! If they split us here, we are afraid they will be in a position to roll up our center and divide our forces. What are your orders?"

"Captain when we left the prison, there were just a handful of Huckleberry's loyalists...get a hold of yourself," Pastor Major Norris barked.

"Come here son," a much stronger and alert Pastor General Mike said to the excited Captain, "sit."

The Captain approached the Pastor General and sat, at attention, in the chair indicated.

"Now show me, on the map, what you have observed," Mike said gesturing to the map.

"Well sir, as you can see, we hold the motor pool, communications center, and we are contesting the flight line...five gunships have been destroyed, while the remaining ten remain grounded. No one on either side can safely reach them. We form a continuous line of Warriors along the perimeter wall, from here to here," the Captain indicated the various landmarks on the planning map, "but we do not hold the prison and it, as you can see, sits just north of the center of our line..."

"I see," Mike said, "and you've seen Loyalists massing for an assault on the prison?"

"No, massing for an assault _from_ the prison."

"I stand corrected... _from_ the prison. And you're afraid that, if they mass, they will break our line?"

"Yes sir...they could mass behind the protection of the prison walls and launch assaults from its gates into our forces...it is central...sir."

"So, it is...so, it is. You have seen the Loyalists massing with your own eyes?"

"Yes sir."

"Major Norris," Mike motioned the Major to his side.

"Are the Loyalist positions indicated on this map accurate?"

The Major looked to his Captain who nodded his head, "The field is fluid sir, but the map is accurate enough."

"I see," the General said. "I want our TW's to hold their positions but disengage along this area here and...this area here," Mike indicated two positions on his map, "that should permit Huckleberry's Loyalists to mass in and around the prison."

"Sir," the major questioned, "you _want_ them to mass?"

"I want them to mass in and around the prison, yes."

"But, sir, are they not weakest when they are scattered into smaller fighting units?"

"Yes, they are weaker, yet, spread out, it requires a greater number of our Warriors and resources to fight them. If we can get a large number in one centralized area, we can destroy them as a group, with much fewer men and equipment...and in a much shorter period of time," the General broke into a broad smile with a twinkle in his eye.

"Operation Rapture?" the Major questioned, guessing Mike's plan.

The Captain looked from the Major to the General, "What is Operation Rapture?"

"Well," Mike asked the Major, while ignoring the Captain, "what do you think?"

"It is an act of pure desperation, the final solution, only to be employed in a hopeless situation...it will deplete most of our arms stores...I...I don't know. We are not in that desperate a situation...are we?" The Major was reasonably concerned. He wanted to please his general by agreeing whole-heartedly, yet the thought of so many fellow Christians being killed, all at once, was not to be taken lightly. It was risky, but he had to ask, "Would God want us to do such a thing?"

The General shared a concerned look with the Major and then, after a brief moment of consideration, answered, "Major, the warriors massing in the prison are the enemies of God. They have used His name to glorify themselves and abuse the power entrusted to them. They rejected an opportunity to join with us and have thus confirmed that they are in league with Satan. How could our wiping them off the face of the earth possibly displease God?" Mike regarded the Major, waiting for his response.

The Major silently nodded his head in resigned agreement.

Hoping to reassure the Major, Mike continued, "We could keep on fighting the blasphemers for the next few weeks or even months. And, you know the she-devil is somewhere out there just waiting for an opportunity to catch us unprepared or preoccupied. Yes, I agree the situation is not desperate...yet...but why take the chance? I say, let's end this now, while we still have the upper hand, and a sizeable army. We can always call upon the other Freedom Centers to replenish our armaments. Major, we have waited long enough. Let us honor the teaching of our Savior and show Him what stuff we are made of."

"What is Operation Rapture?" the Captain asked once again.

"Captain Rourke," Major Norris barked, not removing his eyes from the General. The Captain jumped from his seat and stood at rigid attention. "Instruct our troops along the motor pool and flight line to end their assault and assume a holding formation. Permit the Loyalists to disengage."

"Yes sir," the Captain said, a bit upset that no one seemed willing to educate him on Operation Rapture.

"And Captain," the General added, "once the Loyalists have broken free, and it is absolutely clear to you that they are massing on the prison, withdraw your forces to the perimeter wall and take cover."

"Sir?"

"Captain, were you instructed in your training to question every order?" the General snapped.

"No sir."

"Then I would thank you to do as you are told."

"Yes sir."

"But, before you rejoin your warriors, send me two men prepared to die for Jesus," Mike added.

The Captain resisted asking another question and simply responded, "Yes sir."

"And, Captain, when your men take cover, have them dig-in deep and tight...and, when they think they are deep and tight enough, have them dig even deeper..."

"Yes sir," the Captain responded. Concern was clearly etched upon his youthful face. He saluted, took one step back, did an about face, and withdrew.

"We need two men ready to die for the glory of God," Mike said to the Major while studying his map.

"Sir?"

"Someone needs to set charges...and they probably won't make it out alive." Mike reflected no emotion as he raised his head to look the Major squarely in the eye.

The shocking seriousness of the mission was not lost on the Major. "I'll do it...I'll set the charges," he volunteered. He was thinking that perhaps blowing himself to bits, along with his victims, might redeem him in the eyes of God.

"You'll do no such thing. You are too important to me and the cause to be sacrificed. No, we will find our volunteers in the two men I've asked the Captain to send."

"How can you be so certain they will volunteer to destroy the prison's ammunition stores and very possibly themselves? Maybe they won't be so keen."

"These are soldiers of God, like Privates Theodore and Martin before them. Praise Jesus. They will do as God directs them. If God orders them to blow themselves up, then they will gladly obey."

"I can't do that Mike...I can't ask men to blow themselves up."

"Major, we ask men to blow themselves up all the time. How is this any different?

"I can only respond that...I suppose it isn't...but yet...somehow it seems so. I find it hard to think of asking them to do it," Major Norris responded.

"Then, fortunately for you, neither God nor I are asking you to. It is a job I have been called upon to do. Only I can take the responsibility for asking someone to sacrifice themselves for the love of God. I would never delegate that authority to another," the General assured the Major.

"Sir," the General's orderly announced from the door, "the two men you asked for are awaiting your orders."

"Show them in...show them in," Mike said.
CHAPTER 20:

"What do you think it is?" Juanita asked Eve.

"I don't know," Eve replied lowering her field glasses and staring at the numerous columns of smoke rising far in the distance. "It's clearly many fires...of some kind."

"Yeah, a fucking big fire," Bill said, "maybe Freedom Center Judah is burning to the ground, praise gawd."

"Sure would save us a lot of trouble," Juanita said.

"Yeah, well, don't bet on it," a skeptical Eve replied.

"So, what do you make of it? What do you think we should do?" Bill asked Eve.

"We'll wait for Rhonda and the scouts to return. In the meanwhile, have your fighters find cover and get comfortable."

Eve sat down on the rock, upon which she had been standing, and continued staring in the direction of the rising smoke. She pulled a bag of some kind of dried meat from her pocket and tore off a chunk of the stringy, rubbery material with her teeth. She gnawed at it for a short while and then washed the lumpy paste down her throat, with a swallow of metallic-tasting water from her canteen. A handful of dried carrot slices, long past their 'sell by' date, followed. She leaned back on her elbows and stared at the overhanging, tumbling clouds while munching her carrots. The clouds were growing ever closer as Eve and her army ascended into the mountains, the tops of which were hidden in the dense cloud cover. It appeared to Eve that, with little effort, she could reach up and touch the clouds. But the yellow and brown swirling mass was not a thing of beauty and was not a thing to touch. They were as heavy and as poisonous as the sadness which descended upon her. She closed her eyes and coughed up more bloody mucous.

Eve had handily defeated Pastor Major Gregory and his one-thousand warriors, sent to rescue Patboy. They were buried in a somewhat smaller hole, scooped out of the earth, very near to the huge hole which entombed the original occupants of Freedom Center Reuben.

Following the defeat of Pastor Major Gregory's forces, Eve wasted no time mobilizing her army for an assault on Huckleberry's Freedom Center. Eve believed that once Huckleberry learned of the annihilation of his forces, one of two scenarios would unfold: either Huckleberry would send an army en masse to destroy her, or he would withdraw into the security of his Freedom Center and wait for her attack. Eve was not one to sit and wait for someone to attack her, so here she was, leading her army into the Rocky Mountains looking for a fight. If Huckleberry was sending an army to defeat her, something she now very much doubted, then she would pick the time and the place of battle. By her reckoning, the mountains would be a perfect place for an ambush of a superior force. And, if Huckleberry decided instead to hide in his Center, then she would occupy the surrounding mountain passes and lay siege to his stronghold. Eve's eyes closed.

Burt shook Eve awake. None of the scene before, around, or above her had changed. Her wish that all of this madness be just a bad dream had gone unanswered, again. Burt pointed to four figures, standing at the base of the rock. Rhonda had returned with her scouting party. Eve rubbed her forehead, covered a yawn, and rolled her head on her neck to loosen the stiff muscles. Without warning, she erupted into a hacking cough which cleared her lungs of some lumpy, bloody tissue and red dust. After the fit had passed, she slowly collected herself, stuffed her stained dinner napkin into her jacket pocket, and was helped down from her perch.

"I'm glad to see you all made it back safely," Eve croaked, her voice hoarse from coughing. She placed a gentle hand on Rhonda's arm. "What is your report?"

"Well ma'am, as best as we can tell," Rhonda said, "it appears that Huckleberry is engaged in some kind of civil war. The smoke you see in the distance is Freedom Center Judah on fire. Just about every structure is burning...as far as we can tell...and from our positions we could clearly hear gunfire and explosions."

Eve put her hand to her mouth and stared at Rhonda in disbelief. If true, this would be better than anything she could have permitted herself to imagine. Was Huckleberry destroying himself? Was the snake eating its tail at last? Or, worse, could it be that another unknown force was attacking him?

"Are you certain it is Huckleberry's TW's fighting each other and not some unknown force?" Eve asked.

"Yes ma'am, we are as certain as we can be. Huckleberry is in some kind of civil war," Rhonda assured her. "Every fighter we saw was wearing a Relic uniform and using Relic weapons...and that silly ass flag of theirs is being displayed on all sides. There is no evidence of any assault from the approaches...no reserves waiting in the valleys to support an assault. The entire battle seems contained within the Center."

Dumbfounded, Eve paused to think of some alternative explanation, but was unable to think of anything. She turned to Bill and Juanita, "What do you two guys think?"

"I would guess that probably there are other people around who hate Relics as much as we do...but I would doubt very much that there is an army, besides ours, large enough to attack a Freedom Center...that is, as far as I know," Juanita offered.

"Shit, if there was another army as large, or larger, than ours, running around and raiding Relic positions, we would've heard of it. Don't you think? You are the only 'she-devil' they ever talk about over the radio...or when we question captives," Bill offered. "I think Rhonda is correct. Huckleberry is engaged in some kind of sectarian in-fighting...thingy...probably has to do with some kind of disagreement about the color of Jesus' underwear," Bill quipped and cracked a broad grin.

"Or, whether or not he even wore underwear," Juanita added.

Burt snorted and laughed.

Eve frowned and regarded the three. Her annoyance was on full display. She considered what each had offered. After a moment she spoke, "As incredible as it is to believe...I guess...I agree. It must be a civil war and, if it is...Bill," she said turning to her division commander, "if I can borrow from your phraseology..."

"You may," Bill said looking pleased.

"We've got Huckleberry by the balls," Eve broke into the broadest smile anyone could ever remember seeing.

"Now, that's one disgusting image," Juanita said twisting her face to reflect her real disgust. "May I suggest that we abandon the sickening imagery and get this army moving, before Huckleberry shakes hands and decides to make nice with whomever he is fighting?"

"You may," Eve said.

"What's so disgusting about balls?" Bill asked.

Everyone ignored him.

"Ma'am, we saw no Relic activity between here and the Center. It appears that they have pulled in their scouts and have abandoned their defensive positions to participate in the fighting. There's an old, battered four-lane highway straight ahead. It runs past a smaller road that's in pretty good repair. It runs straight to the Center and will support armor. We can take it, if you like."

"We'd make way better time getting off these old busted-up trails," Bill said excitedly. He was itching for a fight and was concerned that the Relics would destroy each other before he had an opportunity to contribute to their demise.

"How far is the Center?" Eve asked.

"About ten miles," Rhonda answered.

"Alright," Eve said, "let's get this column back on the road. Rhonda, I want regular reports from the front. I don't want any surprises from those Snakes."

"Yes, ma'am," Rhonda replied. She ran to her jeep where her three assistant scouts were waiting. They wasted no time driving off down the country road. They were lost in the dust in the matter of a few hundred yards.

"High Roller and Sparky, it's light enough to fly?"

"Yes, ma'am," they replied in unison.

"Then get your gunships off their flatbeds. You are going airborne. I want you to stay close to the column front. Scout for and clear any Relic elements. We are not going to break radio silence until we know we are clear and have visual on the Center. Do not approach the Center until I give you the command, understand?"

"Yes ma'am," the pilots replied.

"Then get going," Eve commanded.

The two pilots turned and sprinted off.

Eve turned to Bill and Juanita, "So, what are you waiting for? Let's move!"

"Yahoo," Bill yelled. And, he and Juanita ran to take up positions in front of their respective divisions.

Eve scrambled up and into her Rummy main battle tank. Standing in her turret, she turned to the column, raised her arm, pointed an index finger skyward, and rotated her hand in a circle. The various trucks, APC's, tanks, and jeeps jumped to life as their motors were restarted. She then motioned the column forward. She led the army of sixty-five hundred down the old dilapidated country road and toward the old highway. When the column reached the highway, she turned left. When they reached the road that ran directly to the Center, they turned right, and carefully picked their way down what once had been an exit ramp. They crawled down the tattered road. A few miles and tight bends later, the road opened up, and a plateau with the burning Center in its midst, came clearly into view, about three miles distant.

Parked off the road on the right was Rhonda's jeep. The four scouts were seated on a rock watching the fires, when they heard Eve approach. The column with Eve's tank in the lead stopped in a line on the road next to the scouts. If anyone in the Center cared to use binoculars, and knew where to look, they could have seen her main battle tank, clearly, along with the first few vehicles in the line behind her. The two gunships turned lazy circles over her head, like huge, hungry prehistoric birds of prey.

Eve exchanged nods with her lead scout and reached for her field glasses. She studied the scene that lay before her. She saw many fires burning, both inside and outside the Center's perimeter. She could see many people running around, but there did not seem to be any clear formation to the combatants. It appeared to her like chaos. It was clear, though, that many small battles were taking place, each one apparently fought for control of some smaller objective. She saw a contingent of fighters moving along the outside of the tall perimeter wall, suddenly rushed by fighters, who spilled through a breach in the wall and into their midst. The fighting was fierce and brutal, as only two armies, each believing it to be the infallible and chosen messengers of God, can be. And while they fought, no one in the Center seemed to notice the sixty-five-hundred Humanists, six main battle tanks, and two gunships sitting on their doorstep.

"Are we just going to sit here and watch them kill each other?" Bill shouted over the engine noise. Juanita, whose tank followed directly behind Eve's, had abandoned her tank. She joined Bill and Eve for consultation.

"The thought occurs to me that the more they kill of each other, the fewer there will be to kill us," Eve yelled. "And, if we attack, there is every possibility that they will stop killing each other and join forces against us."

"Good point," Bill said and returned to observing the battle through his binoculars. "Holy hell, they are really tearing into one another. Heh, if they're all wearing the same uniform...how the hell can they tell who's who?"

"I guess one group fires at another group, and if they return fire, then they must be the enemy," Juanita joked and lowered her glasses to make a funny face at Bill.

"Good an answer as any, I suppose," Bill responded. "I have to admit that I am disappointed, though. I was hoping I would get to use my new tank."

"Don't worry, Bill," Juanita added, "we'll find something for you to shoot at before the day is over."

"Oh goodie," Bill yelled, and he raised his field glasses just in time to observe a large explosion within the Center. A heavy boom reached the trios' ears after a few seconds. "Son-of-a-bitch, I wonder what that used to be?" Bill asked. He watched as flames spread around the area of the explosion.

"Was that a tactical nuke?" Eve heard one of her soldiers ask.

"No," Juanita responded, "no way near."

"No," Bill added, "that twernt no nuke, but it was one hell of a bang."

"I think we are too exposed here. The longer we sit here, in the open, the more likely someone is going to take notice," Juanita said, turning to Eve, "and if they figure out who we are...wouldn't that have the same effect of uniting them against us?"

"Good point," Eve conceded.

"Hey, what makes you think they'd think we're Patriots?" Bill asked, "We don't look like Patriots. We look like Relics with all these tanks and gunships and shit."

"Still, it wouldn't be a bad idea to get out of sight," Juanita insisted. "Besides," she added, "just because they're ignorant superstitious idolaters, it doesn't mean we should also think they are stupid. If we were Relics, why would we just sit here watching one of our Centers being destroyed?"

"Yeah, I guess," Bill agreed.

"I concur," Eve said to Juanita, and turning to the vehicles behind her, she motioned with her hand that they should back up. Each vehicle driver in turn motioned to the one behind to back up. In no time at all, enough room was created for Eve to back her tank around the last bend and conceal it behind a mountain spur, forming the west wall of a steep valley. Eve pushed a button on her headset which put her into radio contact with her gunships. "High Roller and Sparky do not respond but find a place out of sight and land. Await orders." Immediately the two gunships turned and flew down the valley, skimming over the heads of the column. They found a suitable landing area off to one side and not too far behind the column's lead element. They set their ships down.

"What are we doing?" Juanita asked.

"We are going to wait and observe. I think it a good idea to let them fight it out. The more they kill of each other, the easier it will be for us to overwhelm their forces and rescue the poor bastards locked up in their prison."

"Hell, with all those fires, it's hard to believe that the prison was spared," Bill observed casually.

Eve looked at Bill with concern. It had not occurred to her that the prisoners may be in jeopardy or perhaps dead. She was well aware that the Relics would not have taken any precautions to spare the prison and the helpless non-combatants confined there. "Rhonda, get over here," Eve commanded.

Rhonda dropped her ration pack, climbed down from her rock, and climbed up the Rummy to Eve. "Yes ma'am," she said, "what are your orders?"

"Take a scout and get as close to the center as you can. Find out what the hell is going on and if the prison is still intact. Take a radio. Keep your report brief...don't spend any more time than is absolutely necessary on the radio. We need to know the condition of the prison...what's the chance that the prisoners are still alive? We need to know if," Eve caught her breath as an unexpected emotion caught her out, "...if we need bother with a rescue attempt."

Rhonda noticed, but ignored, the catch in Eve's voice. "Yes ma'am," she replied and sprinted off.

"And, be careful," Eve shouted after her.

Bill put his arm around Eve to comfort her and whispered, "It's getting to all of us."

"Well, it's already gotten to me." Eve squeezed Bill's hand and cleared her throat. "Elliot," Eve shouted to her lieutenant.

"Yes ma'am."

"Have everyone turn off their engines," Eve ordered. "Set guards and lookouts. Two-hour shifts. Have everyone else take a break...looks like we might be here a while."

Elliot passed the order to Sam and Terry, whom he volunteered as runners, to pass it down the line. And, then the army settled in and awaited Rhonda's report. Eve climbed down from her tank and found a slightly more comfortable rock upon which to sit. She watched the distant battle. Juanita, Bill, and, of course, Burt and Tommy, took seats close to her. It would be dark soon.

"Have you noticed that there are no low fliers participating in the battle?" Eve asked lowering her binoculars.

"Nope," Bill said scanning the valley's air space, "but you're right. I don't see a single aircraft. They must have all been shot down or destroyed on the flight line."

"Yeah, maybe," Eve mumbled.

They all fell silent and watched the battle. The sound of distant gunfire could be heard faint, and far off. The fiery flashes of explosions were followed seconds later by their accompanying booms. The orange-red glow of the fires illuminated the bottoms of the low-hanging clouds, which took on the appearance of hundreds of fiery undulating snakes struggling for a way out of their basket.

"You know," Bill said referring to the Relics, "those fuckers are absolutely insane. They are destroying themselves...'

"...and their Center," Juanita added.

"Yeah, how the fuck do they think any of them are going to survive if they destroy that?" Bill asked.

"They'll fucking eat themselves alive for their belief in the great invisible," Eve said waxing philosophical. She was becoming more anxious with the realization that every explosion likely meant the unarmed Humanist prisoners were being killed and maimed.

"I think you mean the non-existent," Bill said looking at Eve.

"What?" Eve asked absent mindedly, not taking her eyes off of the Center.

"Well, somebody long ago said that the invisible and the non-existent look exactly alike...and I think it makes them look even madder if, instead of 'invisible', we say they are killing themselves for the 'non-existent,'" Bill explained. "They'll fucking eat themselves alive for their belief in the non-existent'...that's all...like, killing themselves for nothing at all...no reason at all."

"We need to find something for you to blow up," Juanita quipped. She raised her binoculars to scan the plateau. "A mind is a terrible thing to waste. And, you are wasting mine."

Burt broke into a laugh and the three lowered their binoculars to look at him.

"You see, even Burt thinks you're a loony," Eve said forcing a smile and looking at Bill.

"I thought it was a good point," Bill responded feeling a bit hurt. "Besides, what the hell does he know?"

Burt ignored Bill and continued laughing. It felt good to laugh.

"Burt," Eve said," it lightens my heart to hear you laugh."

Burt used his sleeve to wipe the tears from his eyes and he gently laid his left paw on Eve's shoulder. She reached up and patted his muscular hand.

They fell silent again and returned to observing the battle.

Then, a thundering explosion erupted within the Center and ripped across the plateau. Flames, smoke, and debris shot hundreds of feet into the air, temporarily blasting aside the overcast. The ground beneath their backsides shook, and dust was thrown into their eyes.

"God damn, someone hit the whole fucking ammo-dump that time and no mistake! Son-of-a-bitch, look at that!" Bill shouted while struggling to gain his feet.

"Holy hell, if they keep that up, there isn't going to be anything left of the place," Juanita added using Bill's arm to pull herself to her feet.

"That's what worries me," Eve spoke as she clasped her legs tight to her chest and rocked back and forth.

"Cover!" Bill shouted to everyone within ear shot. No one hesitated. The passing shock wave was devastating. It was so powerful that the vehicles rocked on their suspensions, and some of their windows were shattered by flying debris. Later, there were reported cuts and impact injuries from debris, but none fatal.

A little over an hour had passed since Rhonda had departed to observe the Center. Eve's radio operator popped his head out of the tank's turret and announced that Rhonda had made contact. Eve slipped from the rock, dusted herself off, and plugged her headset into the radio port at the rear of the tank.

"Rhonda, this is Eve, go ahead," Eve said into her mike, dispensing with all radio protocol.

"It's, ah, gone ma'am...well, very nearly gone. There was an explosion a little while ago...I'm certain you must have seen and heard it. It nearly took us with it...it was the prison ma'am," Rhonda reported haltingly. She waited for a reply.

Eve's knees went weak. She leaned against her tank for support. "The prison...what the hell do you mean? What happened?" she asked.

"It looked and sounded as if an ammunition dump exploded... _under_ the prison." Rhonda waited for a response, but there was only a silence that grew uncomfortably long. "Ma'am, are you there...ma'am?"

"There's nothing left of it? Could anyone have survived?" Eve asked.

"Ma'am, we barely survived, and we are about a half mile away. There's debris...some pretty big shit...falling everywhere. What are your orders?"

There was another uncomfortable silence. Eve slumped to the ground and closed her eyes.

"Ma'am, what do you want us to do?"

Bill kneeled next to Eve and took the radio headset from her.

Rhonda repeated the situation to Bill. "I see...there's nothing more for you to do there, Rhonda. Get back here on the double," Bill ordered.

"Yes, sir, we're on our way."

Bill sat next to his commander and cradled her head on his chest while she wept. Eve's mind was broken. Unspeakable rage and overwhelming grief chased all reason from her. She began shaking. Any decency, remaining within her, was crushed by an overpowering hate for the Relics. Suddenly, Eve shouted into the mike, which she no longer possessed, "Get back here on the double...and I mean right now!"

Eve moved her hand to her head to remove her headset and noticed that she no longer had it. She then became aware that Bill was holding her. She pulled away, came unsteadily to her feet, and turned, as if she was searching for a place to mount her tank. Bill, Burt, and Juanita walked closely behind, their arms outstretched ready to catch her, if she stumbled.

"So, what happened?" Juanita asked Bill, while gently holding Eve's forearm in an attempt to stop and steady her.

"The big explosion...the magazine...it was the prison. Apparently, the fuckers had an ammunition dump under or near the prison. It's gone...and everybody with it," Bill said.

Eve fell to her knees in the dust.

"Son-of-a-bitch," Eve gasped as if a great weight had been placed on her chest, "those mother- fucking bastards. Why in the hell would they put a munitions dump under a prison?" She needed someone to make sense, and fast.

"Hostages," Juanita said, kneeling next to Eve.

"What...hostages?!"

"Well, yes...they store most of their munitions under the prisons where it will be the safest. The Snakes think that it makes for the perfect hard target...they can use the threat of blowing the prisoners sky-high as a means to bargain themselves out of a desperate situation."

Bill looked at Juanita with disbelief. "Now how in the hell would you know that? You're guessing...right?"

"No, it's a fact. We did the same thing during the Iranian and Iraqi Holocausts...well, not me personally, but our command took to storing munitions under and around the concentration camps. If the Iranians ever threatened to overrun our command center, then the center would use the threat of blowing the prisoners to hell and back," Juanita said. "But, it's kind of crazy, really...what Jihadist, of any religion, would care if he were blown sky high?"

"Son-of-a-bitch," Bill said astonished, "I never knew we did that."

"You were a frontline soldier...you'd have to have been rear echelon to see all the shit. Hell, we did all kinds of stuff I wasn't too proud of...torture, genocide...lots of stuff," Juanita said. "It wasn't our finest hour."

"All in the name of the non-existent," Eve said, more to herself than anyone.

"Yes, all in the name of the non-existent," Juanita replied.

"But when were the Iranians ever strong enough to threaten one of our commands...I don't recall that they ever got the upper hand in any battle I was engaged in?" Bill wondered.

"They never did...but we thought it was a terribly clever place to store ammo, anyway. The high command, not so secretly to some of us, longed for any reason to blow it all to smithereens anyway. All they would need was the slightest excuse. Didn't you notice that our Rummy's and most of the ammunition at Freedom Center Reuben was stored under and around the prison?"

"No...ah, yes...now that you mention it. I guess I got lost to direction once we got underground...and that hanger was so fucking huge..."

Eve raised her head from her hands. Little cakes of mud on her soiled cheeks outlined the path of her drying tears. She locked eyes with Juanita. "Juanita," she said, "you made Bill a promise and I will see to it that that promise is kept." Eve's mouth was drawn into a tight line, and her eyes were as cold and as hard as steel.

"Uh oh," Bill uttered, "I've seen that look before, and I'm not sure I like it. Ah, what promise was that?" Bill asked.

"She promised that you would get to shoot something before the day was out." Eve leveraged herself on Juanita's shoulder and regained her feet. She bent to dust the dirt from the knees of her fatigue pants and wiped the snot from her nose with a jacket sleeve.

"Yeah, O.K., so what do I get to shoot at?" Bill said, not at all clear with what Eve was getting at. "The god-damned Relics just about destroyed everything worth shooting at."

"We are going to give those bastards a taste of their own medicine," Eve said, her face set as hard as stone. "We are going to nuke them."

"What?!" Bill and Juanita shouted simultaneously.

"Bill, return to your tank and load a tactical nuke," Eve ordered. And then she walked to the rear of her tank and picked up her headset. "Jimmy," she said to her driver/gunner inside the turret, "load a tactical nuke."

"Ma'am?" came the reply, from inside the Rummy.

"Has everyone gone fucking deaf? I said, load a tactical nuke!" Eve shouted into her mike.

"Yes ma'am," Jimmy responded.

"You're serious?" Juanita asked, placing a hand on Eve's shoulder and turning her so they stood face to face.

"Damn right," Eve said, brushing Juanita's hand away. "I'm sick and tired of losing good people fighting these deluded Relic Snake, evil god-damned bastard fucks! Look at them," Eve shouted pointing toward the burning Center, "The deluded fucks think they're God's true messengers, and that it is their sacred fucking duty to obliterate everything. It's all for the love of God. Haven't you heard? Well, I'm going to show them some God's love...as soon as Bill gets his ass moving," she threw a look at Bill daring him to challenge her. "I'm going to give them three barrels of divine love...a thank-you from the bitch of paradise, for destroying the United States and blowing up the world." Eve's appearance bordered on maniacal.

Bill did not move a muscle but stood staring at Eve. He couldn't decide if she was serious, crazy, or both. The thought of using nuclear weapons, in light of all the devastation that had befallen the earth in the last eight years, just seemed crazy. "Eve, have you lost your mind? I mean, we could easily defeat what's left of the bastards...it's just a matter of mopping up."

Eve eyes flashed an anger never before seen, "And how many more dead Patriots would you consider an acceptable loss?"

Bill's face flushed. "Well, no more Patriot losses would be the preferable choice," Bill answered. He was stunned and struggling. He had seen Eve angry, plenty of times, but he had never seen her like this. She had gone far beyond reasoning.

"That's what I was thinking," Eve shot back. "Now, are you going to move your ass and load that nuke, or will I have to do it for you?"

Bill blew out a long breath and looked to Juanita for support...guidance...something.

Juanita shook her head side to side, indicating that she was at a loss as to how to proceed. She didn't entirely disagree with Eve.

Bill searched Eve's face for some chink in her resolve and found none. Clearly, Eve's mind was made up, and the discussion was now closed. He'd have to either hogtie her or follow orders, but there would be no reasoning. He regarded Burt and concluded that hogtying her was not a realistic option, so, he turned, walked toward his tank and climbed to the turret. He ordered his gunner to load a tactical nuclear round. He then ordered his driver to position the tank at the head of the valley, in plain sight of the burning Center.

"Won't you reconsider?" Juanita asked.

Eve turned her attention to Juanita and began to snap, but caught herself, "Have you considered that, if Patboy has tactical nukes, then in all likelihood, Huckleberry has them, as well? If we attack, can you assure me that he will not use them on us?"

"No, of course not," Juanita quickly acquiesced. "I hadn't thought of that..."

"Elliot," Eve shouted to her lieutenant, standing next to Juanita's Rummy, "get over here."

Elliot, who had only caught bits and pieces of his commander's argument, ran to Eve's side and stood at attention. He was apprised of the situation. Orders were given to have everyone take cover and shield their ears and eyes. Elliot, quite taken with the notion of vaporizing some Relics and smiling ear to ear, passed Eve's order to Robbie and George who stood nearby. The three looked at one another as if to say "of course, why hadn't we nuked the bastards sooner?" Then the three smiling patriots ran down the line passing the order from unit to unit.

Eve, followed closely by Burt, turned and began walking towards Bill, who had moved his Rummy about thirty yards forward. Juanita followed, three paces behind, trying to think of something to say which would change her commander's mind. Eve climbed to the turret of her tank and reached for her blast goggles. She looked down at Juanita who stood staring up at her. "There were nuclear, biological, and chemical rounds stored in the ammunition dump at Freedom Center Reuben, correct?"

"Yes," Juanita responded.

"Then it is safe to assume that the same ordinance was stored at Huckleberry's, and that the entire Center is now probably contaminated with all kinds of bullshit?"

"Probably," Juanita reluctantly agreed.

"Then, a little radiation isn't going to change matters much, is it?"

"No...no, ma'am," Juanita answered and smiled in a sign of complete resignation.

"Then, would you please get in your tank and load a nuke, so we can put an end to this madness, once and for all?"

Juanita held Eve's eyes a moment longer, recognized the weariness and sadness in them as her own, and turned to do her duty. She walked back to her tank, ordered a nuclear round loaded, placed blast goggles over her eyes, and lowered herself into the Rummy's turret. Juanita arranged herself at the firing controls, where she sighted in the target, and fed the target coordinates into the firing computer. The heavy turret of the monstrous tank rotated automatically and stopped when the barrel of the 146 mm gun was pointed down range at the Center. The gun's barrel then automatically elevated to the proper angle to ensure a precise trajectory. She set the target locks. Once locked on a target, the tank could be moved in any direction, up to maximum speed, and the gun's muzzle would remain fixed on that target. It was precisely accurate up to ten miles distance and accurate enough at fifteen, for a nuke. She then ordered her driver to position her tank next to Eve's.

Juanita increased the power on her sighting scope and looked downrange at the Center, while she awaited orders to fire. She could easily see people in the Center three miles away. Some were running, others shooting, and still others falling, presumably hit by gunfire. Most would be vaporized in a few moments, she realized. She did not feel sorry for them. The remainder, who survived the initial blasts, would die of radiation poisoning in the hours and days ahead. A few would survive, but would forever be scarred, both emotionally and physically, by the detonations. Every survivor's definition of what constituted a problem for them in their life would be dramatically changed in just a few short seconds.

Bill, as ordered, passed the order to load a nuke to his gunner. A cone-shaped round, painted fiery red with two glowing yellow stripes at its tip, used to avoid a disastrous mix-up during the confusion of a conventional battle, was loaded, and the gun sighted and locked. They then settled in, waited, and watched.

Soon, Elliot returned with the news that everyone was concealed and prepared for the upcoming detonations. Then Elliot, Sam, Terry, Robbie, and George took positions in the rocks behind Eve's tank. Eve looked at Burt, who smiled in return, and pressed her mike button, "Bill," she said, "we'll wait for Rhonda to return and then we will commence."

Bill radioed an affirmative.

Eve noticed a metallic tapping coming from the side of her tank. She looked down from the Rummy's turret, and there, on the ground stood Tommy. He had a look of deep concern and sadness. She knew what he was thinking, and what he would say, if she asked. "Not now, Tommy," she said and closed the hatch.

Thirty minutes later Rhonda appeared with her companion. They were covered in red, gray, and yellow dust. Eve ordered them to take cover with George and Robbie.

Bill and Juanita made eye contact, nodded, and descended into their respective hatches. They closed and locked the hatches over their heads, and the warning claxons were activated. They let the claxons blast for a couple of minutes. Eve continued to observe the Center from her periscope and could see that many of the Relics had stopped fighting, and that several were standing on the perimeter wall observing her. "Too late," she said under her breath and put her foot on the trigger. The tank rocked on its tread as its recoiling gun spit the nuke skyward with an ear-splitting high-velocity crack. Juanita's gun erupted a second later...then Bill's. There was a pause. It would take a few seconds for the rounds to travel the three miles to the Center and the one-half mile, to the optimal detonation altitude.

Moments later, a blinding light, hotter than the sun, filled the plateau and lingered for a few seconds. It was followed quickly by another...and then, another. These were the first suns seen on the plateau in over eight years. All combustible material, within one mile of the blasts, immediately burst into flame. Three hideously deformed, superheated mushroom clouds of yellow, orange and bronze flame ascended from the Center. The mushroom clouds boiled and rolled steadily upwards until their tops blew a hole in the heavily silted sky. They lifted the once great Center, most of its inhabitant's, their parts and pieces, all its icons, all its religiosity into the heavens, while a cloud of dust and debris, moving faster than the speed of sound, rolled outward from ground-zero, three-hundred and sixty degrees, smashing everything in its path. In the matter of a few seconds, the debris cloud blasted into the Patriot's positions and left a coating of dust on everything as it flew. A deafening roar soon followed, overfilling the plateau, and rumbling down the adjoining valleys, over and through the mountains. It ripped at ears, which would ring from its assault for months afterwards.

Eve waited an hour before leaving her tank. She then sat next to her friends on the nearby rocks and watched as everything momentarily became deathly silent. Even the wind seemed to take a holiday for this occasion. Patriots stood on vehicles and rocks and watched the aftermath of the devastation. No one spoke. No one celebrated.

Eventually, the mushrooms faded on the strengthening southwest wind and dissolved into one huge column of billowing smoke, rising skyward and mixing with the heaving, heavy overcast. The Center was a cauldron of fire. Eve could see no movement. It was over.

"Maybe that's the rapture they've been waiting for...the saved being lifted naked into the heavens," Eve said aloud and for no one's benefit, save her own. She was feeling an unfamiliar calm and relief; two emotions she had not experienced in a very long time.

"It's as close to it as they ever got," Juanita replied, her voice reserved and solemn, "not exactly glorious, though."

"Depends on your...ah...perspective. Whom the god's would destroy, they first make mad," Eve responded.

Juanita nodded her head in understanding.

"Are we going to look for survivors?" Bill asked Eve.

Eve looked at Bill quizzically. "Why? What makes you think anyone surviving three nuclear detonations, and biological and chemical contamination, all in one afternoon, would be worth the bother?"

"Someone always survives," Bill answered, "especially these religious fucks. They're like cockroaches. You mark my words someone will come wandering out of that dust." He stabbed a finger in the direction of the flattened Center.

"Probably," Eve responded, "but anyone who survived will save us the trouble of looking for them by wandering over here under their own power."

"What about those who can't wander?" Juanita asked.

"I guess they'll just die. That was the objective wasn't it, to kill everyone? We are talking about Relics here, aren't we?" Eve's unfamiliar calm was quickly replaced with the far more familiar annoyance and anger. "Don't go getting all sympathetic and...human, on me...not now, for Christ's sake!"

"I'm sorry," Bill said, "there's just something about those goddamned mushroom clouds that makes me feel sorry for the victims...even if they are Relics...I guess."

"Yeah, I know...me too," Eve reluctantly agreed. She placed her hand on Bill's arm. "But, they're still Dominionists, and we must keep in mind that they would have gladly cut out our beating hearts, if they had ever gotten the chance. Somehow, I don't think a nuclear blast changes any of that."

"No, it doesn't," Bill concurred. "Nothing ever seemed capable of changing them. They had the hardest fucking heads."

"And...the coldest hearts," Eve snapped. "That's what ignorance and blind faith in a god ultimately does...it blinds one to all the possibilities, kills curiosity, obliterates understanding, murders tolerance, condemns acceptance, and conditions love. Still, I would have lived peacefully with the bastards, if they would have minded their own god-damned business and left me to mind mine. But I'll wager that even now, after suffering complete devastation, any one of those bastards who wanders out of that dust cloud would still assert that he is superior and more worthy of life than anyone of us."

"They _are_ like cockroaches," Bill offered as if he had experienced a sudden epiphany. "The more we kill of the assholes the more belligerent and obnoxious they become. Hell, I'll even bet that they could somehow twist their complete devastation into proof that they are the chosen...and that they are winning. If they can do anything really good, it is that. They can twist and turn logic on its head."

Eve's soldiers stood all about on the rocks and the mountainsides, watching the Center burn, adding more filth to the corruption tumbling low overhead. Many, having held their breath and grief for years, cried from relief, others for their dead families, and still others from complete emotional exhaustion. Everyone hoped that the destruction of Freedom Center Judah meant the beginning of the end of the Dominionists and the beginning of another age of reason. Yet, few eagerly anticipated locating and mopping up the lesser Centers scattered around the Southwest, the mountains to the North and the hills of the East.

A powerful storm descended upon the plateau from the southwest. It, like all the dust storms, carried with it the stinging sand which obscured everything from sight for miles around. Everyone placed goggles over their eyes, covered all their bare skin, and pulled their stealth blankets tightly around themselves for warmth. They sat out the storm in place. The storm enveloped the plateau. The Center was lost to sight in the cloud of dust. The high winds lasted for nearly two hours before slowly tapering off. The storm was followed by a light snow, which fell silently and coated the bundled Patriots in icy gray soot. The snow was not enough to cool the Center's embers, however, which continued to glow, and would remain glowing for the next twenty-five-thousand years. The pitch-black night descended, and all but a few guards, turned to an uneasy sleep.

At first light, scanning the plateau before her, Eve could see a few survivors struggling toward her position, as Bill had predicted. There was nowhere else for them to go. But, if they had known that Patriots, and not Dominionists, waited for them, they may have tried another direction.

Eve counted roughly fifty forms struggling across the snow-covered plateau. Some were having a much more difficult time of it than others. She asked no one to help them in their journey, and no one volunteered. Finally, after nearly five hours, two men, one in tattered purple robes and the other in shredded white and powder-blue robes, stumbled and fell at the front of Eve's tank. Unbelievably, they were Pastor Dick and the Most Reverend President Leader Huckleberry, himself. Both of whom, having been arrested and held in holding cells, had been sheltered by the cell's thick concrete walls. Arrest had saved their lives, at least temporarily.

Eve stared with disbelief and humor at the figures lying in the snow before her tank. "Why is it that the Relic leaders always manage to crawl out of the shit without a scratch?" she said loud enough that all around her, including the prostrate Relics, could hear her clearly.

"I told you," Bill responded, "They are cockroaches...the epitome of evolutionary perfection...well, not perfection, but...oh, I don't know. They're just fucking hard to kill, that's all."

The two survivors were soon followed by another, and yet another, until about thirty-five Relic derelicts lay crumpled in the dirt, before the conquering Patriot army. The remainder did not make it that far. They lay where they fell, just so much jetsam among the smoldering and glowing embers of the plateau. No Seculars were counted in their numbers. All the Secular prisoners had been either executed during the Relic infighting or vaporized in the ammunition stores explosion. There would have been no one left for Eve to rescue, even if she had attacked the Center.

"Elliot," Eve called to her lieutenant, "get a detail together and scout the Center perimeter for survivors and stragglers. Take radiation monitors. You know to stay out of the really hot zones. Most of the debris was carried northeast on the wind, and that is probably the hottest area. Kill all that you find."

"Yes ma'am," Elliot replied.

"Robbie, you and George get about twenty volunteers and contain these survivors. Check them for radiation," Eve ordered while gesturing to the thirty-five Relics lying in the dirt. "Put the badly contaminated ones out of their misery and place the remainder under heavy guard by...those boulders over there," she pointed to an area off to her right. "I especially want those two in the robes left unmolested, if you can manage it."

Robbie and George shouted, "Yes ma'am," in unison and ran off to attend to their task.

"So...now what?" Bill asked.

Eve allowed some tears of happy relief to escape. They streamed freely down her cheeks. She felt deep relief, as if a monstrously heavy weight had been lifted from her chest.

"We kill every Relic Snake bastard we can find. We destroy every vestige of religion we lay our hands on. We pick up what pieces we can find and try to rebuild the United States of America...what's left of it. And," she looked to the sky, "we wait for the sun." She took a deep breath and coughed until she lost consciousness.

Cowering and shivering on the cold, hard ground before Eve were the Most Reverend President Leader Huckleberry and Pastor Counselor Dick. She regarded them passively, while Huckleberry murdered her with his glare, and Dick simply whimpered. Predictably, Huckleberry was the first to speak.

"You will rot in Hell, evil whore of Satan!" Huckleberry spat.

Eve laughed.

Outraged, Huckleberry made a move to stand, but rethought his impertinence when Burt insinuated his hulking personage before the despot. "You evil bitch!" a frustrated Huck shouted as he quickly retook his place on the frozen earth.

With a hand on his arm, Eve stayed Burt's next move, which she accurately interpreted would have been a smashing blow to Huck's face. She wanted Huck alive...for a while, at least. And, Burt's blow would have killed the Most Reverend. She was certain of it. So too, was Burt.

"Not yet, Burt...not yet, we have some matters that we must first clarify with the Most Reverend President Leader asshole thingy," Eve reassured. Burt, reluctantly, stepped aside.

Then, Eve did what she had not done in a very long time. She met Huckleberry's glare with a confident, full, joyous smile. "I'm going to enjoy this. And, I don't feel the least bit guilty...or sinful."

"And so she drove out the god; and she placed at the east of the Garden of Eden, Cherubims, and a flaming sword which turned every way, to keep the way of the tree of superstition," a remorseful Tommy said, somberly and quietly.

"What was that, Tommy," Eve asked?
THE FINAL CHORUS:

"Eve, Bill, Juanita, and the army returned to Center Reuben--which was quickly renamed Center Eve, much to Eve's chagrin. With the help of the Center's maps, the locations of important Dominionist installations were identified. In less than a month, Juanita and Bill set out to locate and destroy as many Freedom Centers and Relic facilities that they could find. Those of us remaining at Eve received weekly radio communication from Bill and Juanita, for the first few months. All was reported well, and then we heard nothing, until about one year later. A runner presented at Eve's gate with news that Bill had been killed somewhere in Kansas, and that Juanita was taking the fight East. We...I never heard another word."

"The entire Patriot contingent, except me, of course, too few and sick to self-sustain, died out over the next few decades. The combination of extremely low birth rates, sterility, infertility, impotence, radiation sickness, injuries, infections, exposure, starvation, malnutrition, devastating electrical storms, infrastructure failures, attacks from hostile vagabond clans, and suicide, meant we had no chance of making it. The vermin and cockroaches did very well, however. Thanks for asking."

"The End Times did not unfold as foretold by the Snakes. There was no Rapture, Jesus never returned, and there was no Last Judgment. The Dominionist's apocalypse was nothing but a tragic, entirely preventable disaster, engineered by deluded, fearful, ignorant, superstitious people, suffering from panic, monumental stupidity and a stubborn resistance to learning. However, it is very important to remember that the mass extinction event would not have been made possible without the misguided assistance of the well-intentioned, spineless Liberals, whose arrogance and political correctness blinded them to reality, and whose cowardice paralyzed them into inaction. Thank you...not! What an asteroid did to the dinosaurs, humans did to themselves...eight billion times over. Some legacy. Some epitaph."

"The Dominionists were confident that they knew more than the scientists, whom they despised, and executed with celebratory relish. Therefore, warnings that the nuclear winter could far exceed three years were ignored. The Relics, instead, consulted their Bibles, and sought out the most 'accurate' translations of those passages they thought relevant. Unsurprisingly and with little effort, they were able to convince themselves that the nuclear winter would end well within the forecasted three years. Predictably, as we have seen, they became victims of their hubris. Clearly, the Biblically inspired prognosticators did not truly appreciate the scale, scope, and collateral effects of a world-wide nuclear devastation."

"In conclusion, I will share some of my observations and lessons learned. _Tout ensemble_ : intelligence does not make for a superior or invulnerable race of beings; stupid beings are too stupid to appreciate just how stupid they truly are, and thus, they cannot be taught; belief in non-existent beings creating and controlling the lives of inferior beings may be a cute and harmless exercise for children, but deadly when believed by powerful, stupid people; if a civilization wishes to mature into responsible adulthood, then it must, of necessity, abandon childish beliefs; tolerance of the intolerant is foolish and suicidal; the universe is much more than a collection of inanimate material randomly flying and crashing around in a great void; the universe creates life and self-awareness; the creation of gods, as first actors, is unnecessary and only complicates and clouds that which is a truly remarkable phenomenon: the universe neither begins nor ends, nor does it remain constant."

"The universe creates, but it does not concern itself with what you do with that creation--you mess it up, it messes you up; you treat it nice, it still messes you up, but way, way slower...maybe. Enough said on that. Those who search for and cannot think of living without meaning, would do well to create some harmless meaning ...and leave the rest of us alone; the universe has no concern, awareness or need of meaning. Know this: it is pride, loneliness, and hubris, to believe that your meaning is more important than all other humanly contrived meanings. I reiterate--whatever meaning you design for yourself has no intrinsic importance or significance for anyone, but you."

"Living beings, sentient or no, are given but a short time to experience the beauty of the universe which brought them forth. You can either spend your time fighting and arguing about who's right and who's more deserving, or you can relax, and enjoy what little time you've been given."

"The universe is a marvelous place, capable of perpetually reinventing itself, creating life, and, most remarkably, creating self-awareness. But, and this is most significant for those who seem incapable of accepting their relative insignificance, _i.e._ the stupid people: the universe does not give one shit who or what you think you are; the universe is an equal-opportunity creator and destroyer, without ultimate design, purpose, reason, concern, or prejudice. To believe that our planet is the only planet with sentient beings, in an infinite universe of planets, is an expression of fearful adults. Any child knows better. 'Nuff said."

"Before her death, Eve took some time to outline some of her thoughts concerning governance and constitutions:

"First, she was clear that governments are established by the common people to provide for those needs, which the people cannot provide individually for themselves. The police, military, health care, fire departments, utilities, education, etc... exist solely to benefit the common people. They are never to be used to defend or protect the government, big business, or religion, from the people. For example: if there is a labor strike, then the police and military are used to protect the strikers from big business and its thugs, and not vice versa."

"Secondly, big business and religion, both self-serving by design and application, have no place in a government for, by, and of the people. Historically, big business and religion have been a burden on the people and therefore, they should be heavily taxed as homage to the common people. It is the common person who fights and dies and thus provides the safe space and freedom for business and religion to exist and practice. They have no right to make comment or participate in government beyond the roll, needs and concerns of the individual private citizens comprising their ranks. They forfeit all rights to ever serve in public office. Their reward shall be wealth and leisure. The people's reward shall be power and control."

"Thirdly: the New US Constitution, regarding the illegality of religion and the separation of business and state, shall not be subject to interpretation or argument. (Author's note: the following is recreated as Eve wrote it. The reader should be aware that Eve was not at her best, but I think it is perfectly clear what she was attempting to communicate. Some of the following may appear silly to some, but not to any who lived through the Tribulation. Out of respect for her, I made no effort to edit her remarks):"

'Article One: Religion, its practice in private or public, assembly of persons for the sake of religious practice in any form, all religious icons, texts, talismans, trinkets, toys, edifices, enclaves, sanctuaries, pulpits, shrines, symbols, dress, signs, language, music, games; any practice such as prayer, which predicates its observation on the belief in non-existent supernatural beings, such as gods, a god, a deity, deities, angels, witches, demons, saints and all other fantastic and imaginary personages, plants, minerals, molecule(s), compounds, persons (living or dead), persons (imagined or real), animal(s), planets, stars, weather, asteroids; or, to give supernatural powers to anything and then worship that thing as a deity, or to argue for the existence of such a belief or practice, whether in private or public or court of law, or to give sanctuary, conceal, support, aid, or encourage others who are in violation of this law, is unequivocally illegal and shall always remain so. This law is not subject to amendment. The spirit of this law shall be honored, and no loophole will be recognized. Any intention, attempt, or violation of this law, in part or in whole, shall mean the immediate banishment of the offender, or offenders, to the Great Radiation Zone of the East. There the offender shall live out the remainder of his or her existence without contact or aid. There can be no appeal.'

'Article Two: All private business concerns, no matter their size, shall remain forever separate from government. No business owner, past or present, shall ever hold public office. No business owner may ever lobby any representative of the public trust. No business owner will be permitted to contribute money, time, or advice, either personally, or through representatives, to any political campaign. No holder of stock in private corporations, domestic or foreign, shall ever hold public office, nor shall they contribute to any campaign for public office. No public official, hired upon retirement by any business, shall ever be permitted to return to public service. There shall be no exceptions.'

'Article Three: All business shall operate within the concern for the public trust. No business shall operate solely for its self-aggrandizement, greed, profit, or power. Any business determined by a court of law as not contributing significantly to the benefit of the public (to be determined by the common people and _not_ the business in question), shall be disbanded and its organizers, officers, and supporters banned from entrepreneurial enterprises for a period of five years, minimum, and _all_ their assets surrendered for the public good. A second offense will result in banishment to the radiation territories. It is hereby established that private business enterprises exist as guests of the people, and as such, will keep themselves ever mindful that they serve the people first, and themselves, second. They shall forever be mindful of the many who have sacrificed themselves on the altar of freedom and who, by their selfless actions, provided the safety necessary for business to practice in the first place. Business owners, operators, and their representatives shall always be mindful of this fact and will show proper deference and respect in all their actions with the common people. Failure to do so will be considered treason, punishable by fine, imprisonment, banishment, and even, death.'

'Article Four: law enforcement and the military, including their associates, representatives, facilitators, suppliers, regulators, _et al, exist solely_ to protect and serve the common people. They work to keep the people safe from all enemies, including their own government, business, and religion. They may never be used against the people.'

'Article Five: Education is to be comprised of the most advanced and current knowledge. Education will be FREE for all citizens--except the wealthy, who can pay for their own damn education.'

'Article Six: Healthcare will be free to all citizens—except the wealthy, who can expect to pay out the nose.'

"That, sadly, is all Eve was able to write before she died. I think she makes it very clear that, in her thinking, a true democracy is built around and for the benefit of the common people and not interest groups, or lobbyists, or the self-serving. I couldn't agree more."

"For your consideration, I offer the following observations: I suspect that the number of nuclear weapons employed was nearly ten times the expected number, and their collective yield was larger by a factor of at least one-thousand. The massive detonations set off a world-wide conflagration of structures, grasslands, forests, animals, and people which, collectively, created heat and smoke far, far greater than the global vulcanizations of the prehistoric past. The massive explosions shook the earth to such an extent that several long-dormant volcanoes, some of the super-volcano variety, erupted, adding their filth to the mess. Cloud cover and dangerously high levels of carbon dioxide, respectively, cut off the sunlight and heated the planet. Plants died, as did the animals that relied upon them for sustenance. Ice caps melted, ocean currents cooled, and temperatures plummeted. Snow and freezing temperatures replaced rain and more moderate temperatures. An unimaginable number of plants and animals succumbed."

"I predict that stripped of its plant life, the earth's oxygen levels will fall drastically. Depleted of oxygen and pelted with acid rain, the oceans will come very near to dying. The ensuing massive oceanic extinction will add more filth to an already diseased environment. Cyanic bacteria will once again assume the top rung of the oceanic food chain. The world, entire, will very nearly die. It will take millennia for oxygen levels to rise to a life-sustaining level. I predict that it will take many hundreds of thousands of years for the world to recover and regain a semblance of its past beauty."

"The world will continue, but humans will go the way of the dinosaur."

"Eve died of lung, kidney, and brain cancer less than a year following Huckleberry's celebrated demise. She was an inspiration for us all. She was a dedicated healer who plied her trade with great skill and compassion. Eve continued to fight against tyranny even after her illness had progressed way beyond the point where any reasonable person would have forgiven her for quitting the fight. Insisting that her illness had progressed beyond the point of intervention, she refused treatment--so others could benefit from the medicines, which she claimed would have been wasted on her. Eve was a kind and gentle soul, made hard, and sometimes cruel, by her times. No one who knew her ever blamed her. She can never be replaced. She will be missed. Burt was by her side when she died. He wept."

"Burt survived well into his seventies. But, rather than good luck or extraordinary good fortune, Burt considered it a curse; perhaps a painful penance for the sins of humanity. But there we go again. It had been a very lonely and depressing existence for him. He never saw the sun again. Although, he did report, that once he thought he caught a glimpse of blue sky. He hadn't, really. Burt killed High Roller and Tommy soon after Eve's death."

"After an intense interrogation by Sam, Pastor Dick confessed that he was the pastor who raped Sam's little sister. Sam showed no mercy. The castration took an unreasonable length of time. As predicted, Sam, once again, cut too deep.

"And finally, I wish to be very clear for all those who will misunderstand the point of this story, who will reach for their pitchforks and torches, and make their attempts at silencing the demon scum responsible for this tome, _i.e._ your addlepated author. Understand that I am NOT saying that God and Jesus are bad and terrible creations. Well, God can be a bit naughty and irascible, but, overall, the Biblical stories seem to indicate that He meant well. Jesus, on the other hand, seemed a righteous enough fellow—hopeful, tolerant, accepting, kind, and helpful to the poor and needy—a decent sort and someone I'd enjoy as a neighbor. What I AM saying is that humans can never hope to rise to the greatness of being that they think themselves capable, as expressed in the gods that they create. Humans create gods precisely because humans know, on some instinctual level, that they are tragically flawed and hopelessly self-destructive. Humans are the bad guys in my story; not the gods, which are created to mask and excuse we humans' despicable behavior."

END
APPENDIX:

"The following is my attempt at a fractured historical account of the events leading to the Tribulation. One very Important and key point must be kept in mind while reading the following discussion: the church does not wait to be invited to governance; they just rudely insinuate themselves, completely ignoring and disrespecting the _raison d'etre_ and intent of the US Constitution and the Humanist ideals inspired by the Age of Reason, which made it possible."

"In early America, the Establishment Clause of The United States Constitution was misinterpreted by the churches (and still is) as a limitation on the federal government's power to regulate churches and not intended as a limitation on the churches themselves. Ironically, the early churches welcomed the establishment clause. In their thinking, it freed them to work their will in the individual states without federal interference. Many colonies, and eventually the states, in the early years of the Republic, therefore, had established religions. For example, there was Anglican Virginia, Catholic Maryland, Congregationalist New England, the Baptists of Rhode Island, the Christian Protestants of South Carolina, and the Quakers of Pennsylvania."

"Naturally, it was common for the states to adopt religious tests for political office, meaning that only members of the established church could govern. Consequently, all non-members of that state's established church became second class citizens. Naturally, then, the established churches exercised unbridled influence in the making of laws; not the least of which was tax law. Understandably, tax laws were written to favor the established church. And, all its citizens, church members or not, were expected to contribute. This arrangement, of course, made for some problems. Didn't see that coming!"

"And, I should mention, as an aside, that for all the discussion, power, and attention the established churches seemed to command, this phenomenon could not be understood using any measure of public popularity. Contrary to the church's claim, then as now, the early republic could not be characterized as enjoying heavy church attendance or affiliation. Actually, only about 17 percent of Americans belonged to a church in the early Republic. Church leadership, however, then as now, being one of the most educated, organized, and noisy constituencies in the Republic, commanded an amount of attention way above any that they deserved and, thus, they appeared larger and more significant than they actually were."

"Churches padded their importance using many methods. One method employed the insinuation of themselves into every controversial subject—going so far as to twist the mundane into the controversial, if it served their purpose. What easily could have been understood as a Secular argument about Constitutional law, they would complicate and escalate into a Biblical matter. A simple matter of 'legal versus illegal' would become an apocalyptical issue of 'the righteous versus evil', which added an unnecessary, inflammatory emotional element to any rational discussion."

"And, incredibly, the churches were quite adept at taking any side of an issue. For example, they were both for and against slavery, while nearly universally rejecting the black race as inferior. They were both for integration and against it. Democracy was wonderful as long as the vote was favorable to their cause. And, while they were strongly in favor of the taxation of others, they rejected any taxation of themselves as ungodly--the ungodly could pay for roads and bridges and fire departments—the churches simply weren't going to contribute. Also, they were enthusiastic about freedom, as long as it meant that they were free to discriminate. They were pro-freedom-of-religion as long as it was their particular denomination or sect that was afforded that freedom. Naturally, they couldn't care less about others. Furthermore, it was acceptable to enlist the government to suppress protestors and rioters who demonstrated against the established church's undemocratic behavior, but quite unacceptable for the government to pass any law regulating the established church."

"Predictably, frustrated by the State's refusal to hear their complaints, the disestablished churches turned to the federal government for assistance in abolishing the aforementioned tax discrimination. Of course, the danger of the Federal government agreeing to hear these appeals would give the unwarranted impression that churches were equal partners in the Republic, with all the rights of petition afforded individual citizens; that as 'individuals', churches had a right to lobby the nation's attention. This, of course, would be a violation of the US Constitution's 'Establishment Clause', which prohibited the recognition of any one church over another."

"Initially, the Republic correctly resisted such appeals. Eventually, though, it succumbed to persistent pressure. The Federal Government decided to ignore the intent of the US Constitution and agreed to hear the disestablished church's complaints. And, thus, a dangerous precedent was established—churches could act as individuals and lobby the Federal Government. This 'right' would eventually find expression in large automobile manufacturers, pharmaceutical giants, and huge gas and oil conglomerates maintaining that they, too, were but simple individuals, rightfully pursuing their rights, under the Constitution, to 'lobby' (some would say, 'bribe') the Federal Government. (Of course, what government, or politician, could long resist the obscene amounts of cash offered—conditioned on the support of the bribing church or company's business-friendly candidate or issue? Exactly the same as any of the millions of other common individual's right to 'influence' with huge amounts of cash. No?)"

"Agitation over one church receiving favorite status, at the expense of others, put new energy into the notion of the practice of religious freedom. Eventually, all established state religions were abolished, and every church became equal under the law. United and equal, the churches became an even more powerful lobby. And, in no time at all, they managed to achieve tax exempt status. This, of course, bestowed upon them a favored status, one not even enjoyed by the common citizen."

"Overjoyed and encouraged by their favored status, the churches found many new and interesting ways to insinuate themselves into US governance. Slavery, for example, long a contentious issue for the US, was made all the more so by the churches. In this case, the interplay of religion and the secular state had some very tragic outcomes. The churches, now recognized by the Federal Government as bona fide lobbyists, argued that secular law could not simply regard the slavery issue as legal versus illegal. While the churches generally agreed that God, and not the US Constitution, was the true arbiter of the issue, not surprisingly, no two churches could agree on God's position regarding the issue. Some churches argued that slavery was sanctioned under God's law—providing Biblical verses supporting their claim, while other Churches argued that slavery, reprehensible in the eyes of Jesus, should be abolished. With each church steadfast in its moral and righteous superiority, soon reason surrendered to righteous indignation. Of course, becoming lost in the discussion was the fact that US Constitution and its system of laws had been established precisely to ensure the rights of all humans, free from arbitrary, specious, and subjective religious nonsense. Of course, concealed and obscured within all the religious nonsense was the real issue, as issues usually tend to be when humans have need of gods to justify their corruption. The profit motive, greed, and racism, hidden behind the righteous word of God, supported and championed by religion, drove the US to the bloody Civil War. The slaves were eventually freed, of course—no thanks to the churches."

"While many were encouraged by the emancipation of the slaves—that a new day of freedom had come for us all, some, predominately the Dominionists, saw a world gone mad. They were appalled that a government of human laws could defeat God's law. For the Dominionists the Civil War had just begun. They resolved to intervene on God's behalf, convinced that their all-powerful God needed their help. (Dominionists never take 'no' for an answer even though their God might.)"

"As a result of these two very different approaches to slavery and responses to the outcome of the Civil War, a great rift grew within the Christian community. And, the Dominionists, the strictest Fundamentalist Evangelical 'Jesus plus Nothing' sect, severed their relationship with mainstream Christians and took the matter of God's place on earth into their own hands. In time, what began as a more or less quiet war upon the great US republic, and its increasingly Secular society, became increasingly noisy and bloody. And, one day, after centuries of effort, the Dominionists succeeded in dismantling the Secular legal system and replacing it with judges, juries and executioners inflamed with the word of God."

"The end of slavery brought to a close nearly four-hundred years of Biblically sanctioned ownership and exploitation of their fellow human beings by Protestant white supremacists. Filled with abject bitterness and a fathomless sense of betrayal, the hostile Southern white Protestants, ignoring the spirit of the law, instituted a brutal system of segregation and persecution upon its newly freed African-American population. The United States government, weary of conflict, desiring a return to normalcy, and apparently not wishing to further provoke the Southern Protestants, turned a blind eye. And, for the next one-hundred years the Southern Christian Church and the Federal government co-existed 'peacefully' as 'separate but equal.'"

"Then the 1950's saw a resurgence of racial unrest, and the country, once again, was engulfed in a conflict with the southern Protestant white supremacists and their God. And, the United States Government, when forced to weigh Biblical radicalism, and so-called 'religious freedom', against the Constitution and human decency, sided, rightfully, with the rights of American people and the Constitution. In time, and with great sacrifice of life for the proponents of desegregation, the Southern Protestant white supremacists lost their war of discrimination, segregation, and exclusion against people of color. But the war was not over. The rift between the United States government and the Dominionist Church, along with their white supremacist contingent, became even more immense. And, over time, the government took steps to widen the gap even further."

"The United States Supreme Court, recognizing a glaring contradiction between the Constitutional code of equality for all, and responding to the growing educated Liberal movement within the United States, began to recognize and support the broad cultural diversity of the United States. Much to the chagrin of the Dominionists, the identification and protection of an individual's civil rights within a heterogeneous society became the dominant theme for The Supreme Court and the United States Legislature for the next several decades. Women were given the right to vote. 'Separate but equal' was declared unconstitutional, and the public educational system, and all other public venues, were integrated. Prayer, exclusively exercised as a petition to the Christian god, was removed from public schools in a nod to those who practiced other faiths, or no faith at all. And, the right to privacy was declared and upheld in the one decision that could have, and did, result in seismic repercussions for the church, the Federal Government, and freedom for all."

"Abortion was declared legal. The procedure, which had only been available to the wealthy (who easily could travel to countries where abortions were permitted) was decriminalized, declared a private matter, and extended to women of all classes. Without a doubt, integration outraged the Biblical literalists, but they found it impossible to persuade a reasonable citizenry that discrimination and segregation, based on such a silly characteristic as skin color, was just. They could never mobilize enough of the population to win the argument. But abortion was another matter entirely. Nothing could have inflamed and empowered and draw more sympathy for their cause than legalized abortion. Abortion became a fertile Petri dish upon which could be seeded a coalition of Fundamentalist and enraged unaffiliated Secular citizen, alike. This one, highly emotional cause was easily understandable. It contained within it all the popular moral self-righteous indignation that had evaded the church for so long. Finally, the Dominionists could be seen as backing a noble and righteous cause. Arguably, now their will, God's will, and the will of significant numbers of citizens, coincided. Finally, they had some social purchase."

"Ignoring the rights of others and brazenly defying the law no longer drew the popular ire fomented by racial discrimination. Abortion doctors could be murdered, clinics bombed, and workers threatened with comparatively little outrage. Useful and beneficial organizations, such as Planned Parenthood, which provided much needed services to the poor, could be marginalized and defunded without much fuss. But, more importantly, abortion gave the Dominionists legitimate access to the media and an excuse to insinuate themselves, once again, in a national conversation. While abortion afforded them the access, they wasted no time insinuating Homosexuality, Liberalism, Feminism, education, and the Bible into the conversation."

"Historically, The Church had had difficulty reconciling its teachings with that of scientific discovery. Therefore, science and religion often found themselves at odds with one another. And science, with its ability to demonstrate and duplicate its findings, often won the war of ideas."

"For example, the research supporting the notion of Evolution flew in the face of Biblical teaching and had as profound an impact on twentieth century theologians as Galileo's impact upon the Catholic Church in the sixteenth century. The Scopes' monkey trial made a mockery of Biblical literalists who, predictably, vowed revenge. (Unfortunately, it is impossible to educate those who believe they know everything.) And, unfortunately for the church, there was no Inquisition upon which to impale the evolutionary scientist."

"The church, always loath to concede a point, waged an initially unsuccessful campaign to introduce 'Biblical Science' and 'Intelligent Design' as an alternative to Evolution into public school curricula. After a hard fight, the church found itself aligned against public opinion and on the losing end of the battle to eliminate Darwin's Theory (LAW!) of Evolution from public schools. Instead of conceding the point (something they are incapable of), however, the Fundamentalists devised the eventual corruption and dismantling of public education. More on this matter, later."

"Providing additional impetus to the Dominionist movement, was a growing sensitivity within the general population to the plight of Homosexuals, who for so long had been discriminated against and treated very badly. A fight for an amendment to grant Gays equal rights gained popularity and enveloped the country. The Dominionists were horrified and angered by the relentless move of the government toward inclusion and legalization of 'sodomy'. Once again, predictably, they morphed an argument about individual rights and privacy into one about righteousness and sin."

"Outraged, the Family initiated a relentless campaign to make homosexuality illegal, or at the very least, reduce Homosexuals to third class status. Simultaneously, a campaign to marginalize and discredit the Liberal thinkers and politicians who had instigated the movement was begun. But Homosexuality did not command the emotional energy and widespread disgust that abortion seemed to command, and the Family, once again, found itself on the unpopular side of the debate. Equal rights, once again, were realized, much to their chagrin."

"Defeated on nearly every front, but never ones to ever except 'no' for an answer, the Fundamentalists strengthened their resolve and their assault upon Secular law, and they looked longingly for the day when God would answer their prayers."

"While many in the Christian Church were shocked by the broadening of rights within the society, they sought relief in prayer and meditation, while expressing their alarm in the press. But, the Dominionist Family, having freed themselves from the restrictions of the mainstream churches, and calling themselves 'the only true followers of Jesus', rebuffed all the other denomination's efforts as sinful appeasing and accommodation of the Devil. The Dominionists renewed and strengthened their holy war against the United States government through the use of propaganda, dirty politics and, eventually, violence--the purest expression of those who just know they are right."

"The Dominionists, of course, rejected the wisdom of their elders, who suggested they put their trust in God. Instead, they argued that fighting to seize political power would be the most effective way to rescue humanity from Satan's grasp. They argued that there could be no other reason God would have placed them in the most powerful country in the world, if it was not to seize that power and use the USA's great military might to conquer the world and enforce their gospel. (Saladin thought of it first, but all he had was a scimitar.) What better place from which to launch a worldwide evangelical mission? Furthermore, they rationalized that, as it was clearly God's intention that they rule the world, they would be justified in using every means of deceit, deception, character assassination, and even genocide to achieve that goal. And, blessed with the state of God's grace and fueled with self-righteous indignation, the fanatical Dominionist splinter group's quest for power was energized."

"The Dominionists believed that the Bible was the actual and literal word of God and, therefore, insisted upon its literal interpretation. They, of course, realized that this belief, historically, had been rejected, as it would most likely always be. Literal Biblical belief had become increasingly less popular as people became more knowledgeable--an overwhelming number of the population already thought the Dominionists to be zealots, kooks, and ignorant crackpots. Therefore, initially at least, the Dominionists wisely hid the fanatical content of their radical religious agenda and ran for political office disguised as average, altruistic, concerned values voters (wink and nod). They knew instinctively that the best subterfuge was that which came on slowly and transformed very gradually, so that no one would realize what was going on until intervention was too late; the boiled frog scenario. A multi-pronged attack requiring many decades to implement was, therefore, craftily devised and initiated. (You know, it becomes difficult to explain this subterfuge without sounding completely paranoid and off one's rocker. I don't deny it.  And, of course, the Family relies upon it.)"

"Thus disguised, and taking full advantage of the 'Christians are always good, decent people, above deceit, and who never lie' mantel, many Dominionists were elected to local, state, and Federal Government positions, which in time included powerful positions as judges, prosecutors, US Senators, Representatives, and eventually, the Presidency."

"Realizing that the average citizen of the United States was a poor historian, they attempted to re-write American history, eschewing its Age of Reason origins in favor of a more Christian inspiration. Exaggerating the threat of godless communism, Dominionist elements frightened the citizens and blackmailed the Congress into making seemingly small but important changes to America's cultural heritage. Bills were passed in Congress that would begin to establish a trail of evidence supporting the Dominionists' bogus claim that the United States was founded on Christian principles; i.e., in the mid- 1950's 'Under God' was added to the pledge of allegiance and 'In God We Trust', which had been added to the currency during the Civil War, was adopted as the United States' motto, displacing _E pluribus unum_. Facsimiles of the Ten Commandments were permitted to be installed in courthouses. Christian holidays were deemed Federal holidays. Christian Nativities and Crosses were erected on government property while the symbols and phrasings of other religions were suppressed and denied representation. Increasingly, 'freedom of religion' came to mean 'freedom of Christian religion'. And, in what was a surprisingly short period of time, the Dominionists succeeded in rewriting history. (Orwell was right! Could it be that 1984 was the only book, other than the Bible, that the Fundamentalists ever read? )"

"Dominionists disguised as public school educators chose history books which characterized explorers from Christian Europe as heroes and the indigenous American people as savages and minions of Satan. The histories of the western hemisphere's discovery and the evolution of the United States into a world power were, for the most part, sterilized; we were the 'good guys' and all others were the 'bad guys.' There was little to no mention of the atrocities and degradations visited upon the Native Americans by the European explorers and, later, by the United States government. And, when there was mention of the devastation, the Christian beliefs of the butchers were either suppressed or excused. The four-hundred-year period of barbarous slavery practiced in the United States was merely excused as an economic necessity and only mentioned because of the prominent role it played in the instigation of the Civil War. And, while most taught that the enslavement of another human was deplorable, the Christian beliefs of the slave owners and their twisting of Biblical scripture to justify the enslavement of an entire race of people were conveniently overlooked and went unmentioned. The citizens saw no harm in any of this because they did not know any better and, therefore, saw no reason to object. In time, with little to no objection forthcoming, the omissions, falsehoods and lies took on the appearance of truth. Fake it till you make it."

"Sadly, but predictably, those relatively few citizens who knew enough to object were quickly marginalized and labeled crackpots, Liberals, and Satanists. And, in just a few generations there was created a cadre of the most ill-informed, rabidly nationalistic, paranoid and murderous rank and file citizens who had ever existed. (Yes, I am aware of the Huns, Visigoths, Nazis, etc.)"

"Relying on the old maxim that constant repetition of a lie supplants the truth, the Dominionists continually challenged the Constitutional mandate of the separation of church and state. They declared that there never was a mandate and that the claim for separation was a falsehood based on a misreading of the Constitution. And, in time, the citizens who never bothered to read the Constitution for themselves and, who only had to look at the one dollar bill to see the words 'In God We Trust', began to believe that the church and state were one. Liberals (anyone who suggested otherwise) were 'liars', 'communists', 'fascists', 'evil doers', 'faggots', etc."

"Control of the media outlets was given to fewer and fewer powerful individuals whose only interest, besides making billions of dollars, that is, was broadcasting the official Dominionist party line. Soon the airwaves were filled with claims that the Liberals, Humanists, Scientists, Intelligentsia, illegal aliens, Homosexuals, in short, anyone distasteful to or opposing the Dominionist agenda, were to blame for all the country's woes. The media of television, talk radio, and cyber news became great propaganda machines spewing the official Family tripe. And the people, who no longer had the ability or time to read and form opinions for themselves, who could no longer be bothered to question authority, believed the propaganda and took it all to heart. And, in an alarmingly short period, the citizens of the United States became the unwitting dupes of the seditionists who called themselves Christians."

"The Dominionists exploited the violence of a few fanatical terrorists to terrify the American people into accepting the suspension of individual rights; rights which had been held sacrosanct for centuries. Some were heard to say, in private, that the terrorist's attacks couldn't have come at a more opportune time, and that few events could have provided a better service for the Dominionist cause. Instead of using the threat of world terrorism (which, interestingly, was also fueled by religious fascism) to spotlight and strengthen the tradition of individual freedoms, the Dominionists used it to create and maintain a culture of fear, so that the people would more readily surrender those freedoms!"

"The President and his co-conspirators maintained that the cowardly terrorists hid behind the rights of free speech, privacy, _habeas corpus_ , and illegal search and seizure, and recommended that the suspension of citizen's rights was the only way to root out the terrorists and protect the people. So, key provisions of The Constitution and The Bill of Rights were suspended by a Congress, which had been rendered useless by the influx of Dominionist conspirators, and lead by cowards who were more concerned with ensuring their re-election and avoiding the appearance of being pro-terrorist...or, worse, too Liberal. Evangelical control of the Congress, and the judicial and executive branches of government, effectively eliminated the system of 'checks and balances.' Consequently, laws were too easily passed which bestowed the dictatorial privilege of unilateral decision making upon the president. Thus, Illegal wiretaps of American citizens by the Chief Executive were declared, by fiat, to be legal. Telecommunication corporations who participated in the illegal wiretaps were declared harmless and innocent. Citizens who only cared about being seen as super patriots did not question the government's motives. And, those citizens who thought to protest risked being accused of treason, sedition, and of giving aid to the enemy."

"Enlisting the cooperation of the citizenry in the suspension of their human rights was not only diabolical, but embarrassingly easy. The American people happily surrendered their rights and thanked the Fundamentalist government for permitting them to do so. Unbelievable! Of course, suspending the human rights of accused terrorists naturally became the _fait accompli_ suspension of the rights of all American citizens. The people, who blindly trusted the government and who thought questioning authority was unpatriotic, did not suspect that their concessions, ultimately, would be used to enslave and eradicate them. (I would not now feel so very depressed, if any of this were a fiction.)"

"In an alarmingly short period of time, Presidents, 'elected' to office using questionable vote counts from heavily gerrymandered districts, which had been compiled using the voting machines manufactured by those who were clearly loyal to the Family, became dictators like the Caesars of old. And like ancient Rome, the Senators and Representatives were rendered an irrelevant and squabbling bunch of impotent old men and infertile old women. Without effective representation, the American people became a footnote. Kept ignorant and ill-informed, they became a source of cheap labor, and their sons and daughters were used as cannon fodder for wars of world domination and eventual nuclear holocaust."

"Religion was used as the justification for laws designed to suppress scientific discovery. They rejected science (unless it supported one of their viewpoints), because it so often stood in contradiction to the 'inspired word of God'. Scientific discoveries were no longer considered for their relative merit and potential benefit, but were, rather, considered as either sinful or blessed. As a result, promising, potentially lifesaving research into stem cell therapies was condemned as a sin, and millions died of diseases which could have been cured. Interestingly, no one seemed to notice that findings beneficial for the people were often considered sinful, while those beneficial to the 'government' were considered blessed. For example, experimenting with stem cells, looking for a possible pancreatic cancer cure, was sinful because it destroyed a 'sacred' life, but developing a new tactical thermonuclear explosive device which could advance the Dominionist cause by killing millions of 'undesirables', was blessed!"

"Predictably, the Dominionists, masters of the collection plate, quickly and correctly surmised that the accumulation of wealth, at the expense of others--more commonly known as greed and/or selfishness, or capitalism--was one of the most important ingredients of politics. If they would ever have a chance of winning control and power, the Dominionists would need money and lots of it. Money was power, money influenced election outcomes and politicians, and winning elections meant winning the power to establish the long anticipated theocracy."

"Of course, some of the wealthiest Americans had favored and supported the Family's cause from the very beginning. Yet, there remained a large untapped reserve of cash, controlled by many unaffiliated, wealthy industrialists. Naturally, the Family put monumental effort into exploiting and currying the favor of these industrialists. Simply, if the unaffiliated promised to support the Family with huge cash donations (made possible by the brazenly partisan and unconstitutional 'Citizens United' Supreme Court Decision), then the Family promised favorable business friendly legislation, huge reductions in taxes, artificially low interest rates, lucrative government contracts, the privatization of federal services (such as the creation of private prisons), the opening of natural parks for industrial development, the destruction of labor unions, and the passing of legislation favorable for international expansion and domination. The avaricious capitalists could barely sleep, their thoughts crowded with dreams of unimaginable wealth and power. Of course, the S.O.B.'s, rarely thinking of anyone but themselves, signed on to the Dominionist's project with little thought to the long-term consequences of such a Devil's bargain."

"While they seemingly did not have any objection to the Capitalist's greed, exploitation, and deception, the Fundamentalists did frown on their method of avoiding servile insurrection by allowing some trickle-down of cash to those made derelict. Always clever, the capitalists knew that by maintaining the illusion of equal access to opportunity and wealth, they could keep their assets out of the fire. Interestingly, however, as clever as the Capitalists may have been, the maintenance of civil peace and order were not Dominionist priorities. Very much the opposite was more fitting to their purpose. Certainly, cash was important, but not more important than civil unrest. And, the undermining of people's economic wellbeing would be a good way to achieve it. Crisis and panic would become important tools of distraction and would give the Evangelicals yet another social issue into which they could insinuate their God."

"Looking around, the Dominionists saw that many in the country were disgruntled by having been pushed out of the American Dream. Many of these disenfranchised were easily attracted to religious movements, where they thought they could find some emotional relief. Understandably, many of the poorly educated and disenfranchised were easily convinced that the Secular society with all its social programs for minorities, misspent tax money, 'immoral' laws, unfavorable tax policy, and disrespect for Jesus, was the enemy. The Dominionists reasoned, therefore, that they could easily increase their membership, and thus their political power and legitimacy, by increasing the number of disenfranchised people. And, that the best way to increase the number of disgruntled citizens was to appeal to the greed of those who lusted for money. After all, money, not God, was the real source of happiness and discontent in America."

"Employing their congressional control to great effect, the Dominionists passed laws which stripped away government regulation of big business, and thus ensured that bankers and corporate tycoons would make more income at less risk to themselves and more risk for consumers. No-bid Federal contracts, which were against the law, were awarded to corporations, who eagerly overpriced their services and underserved their customers. The increasingly business-friendly government of the United States encouraged corporations to send factory jobs overseas where workers labored for pennies on the dollar. The new government, more loyal to their capitalist friends than its citizens, offered the corporations tax incentives to relocate overseas, and then declared that there was nothing it could do to stop the outsourcing of American jobs. Highly paid American workers were thrown out of work by the millions. The Dominionist government attempted to appease (insult) the newly unemployed workers by offering them training that would qualify them for one of the millions of newly created low-paying service jobs (fast food). Political models were suggested that would marginalize trade unions, leaving workers powerless before the corporate giants. Labor unions, the only check left on corporate malfeasance, and long a thorn in the side of big business and their Dominionist allies, were busted up. Plans were laid to deregulate utilities so that costs would rise without control. Health insurance and pharmaceutical companies were left unregulated to raise costs as they saw fit. Many were left without health care by a government, which saw its role increasingly as one to idly sit by and watch the people suffer. The consumers, of course, did suffer as prices rose, services fell, and good paying jobs were lost."

"But, the Dominionists were nothing if not thorough in their assault upon the consumer. Banks were encouraged to loan money at ridiculously low rates with variable interest clauses to millions of people who, in more rational times, would not have qualified for those loans. And, the government turned a blind eye when millions were made homeless when the banks foreclosed on billions of dollars of property loans. Bankruptcy laws were rewritten so that these people would have no means to escape the debt they never could have repaid in the first place."

"Giant tax cuts were given to the top one percent of the richest people in America, which placed an increasing monetary burden on the poorest members of the society, who received the least benefit. With too little money in the treasury and too much debt owed to foreign lenders, the country's infrastructure fell into ruin, and regular citizens died undertaking the simplest task of driving over a derelict bridge on the way to work at a fast food restaurant."

"Oil companies and military contractors made deals with the federal government in support of wars in the oil-rich Middle East that would drive oil costs up and thus elevate gasoline from a necessity to a luxury, while their oil supplies increased tenfold. And, if that were not enough to drive gasoline prices out of reach of the average citizen, restrictions were relaxed on the gamblers in the oil futures market, who promptly saw to it that gasoline prices soared well over ten dollars per gallon."

"The list of degradations visited upon the people went on and on. And, the Dominionists left no stone unturned. The balance of the military chaplaincy corps was filled with Dominionist preachers and the process of turning the United States military into the Dominionist military was begun. The primary and secondary educational curriculum was rewritten, and scientific facts were replaced with Dominionist 'Biblical Science'. Using the threat of eliminating the filibuster, a parliamentary procedure initially designed to protect the minority, the Dominionists succeeded in intimidating the minority non-Dominionist Senators into replacing retiring jurists with judges more sympathetic to the Dominionist cause. Voting machine manufacturing contracts were given to companies openly friendly to Dominionist ideology, and vote counts became more and more suspect. As a result, people lost confidence in election results, which gave the Fundamentalists purchase to question those results when their preferred candidates lost. Courts, stuffed with Dominionist judges, upheld rulings which challenged and threw out millions of legal voter registrations filed by the secular opposition. Mercenaries were hired to escort Dominionist power brokers and to kill enemies of the state, real or imagined, foreign or domestic, which, in the former case, effectively relieved the military and secret service of its traditional role and, in the latter case, moved accountability beyond the scope of the people. For many, but not the majority, it became increasingly clear that the government was no longer their ally. The government had become the terrorist."

"The Dominionists created scapegoats upon whose head was placed all the blame for the hardships and injustices. This was an effective strategy practiced by authoritarian governments throughout history, who wished to distract their people and justify using the law as a means for seizing absolute power. The Nazis persecuted the Jews and the Dominionists the Seculars. Loyalty Oaths to the President Reverend Leader became mandatory for citizens. Loyalty Lists were created, in part, by using the recorded wiretapped phone, e-mail, 'friending' cyber cites, and twitter accounts of American citizens. Over a relatively short period of time, Liberals, Secularists, Humanists, Democrats, Scientists, Artists, Journalists, Homosexuals, Atheists, Agnostics, Episcopalians, Lutherans, Presbyterians, Catholics, Methodists, Jews, African Americans, Asians, Latinos, Native Americans, in short, anyone who was not a 'real' American and did not hold 'real' American beliefs, was scapegoated, marginalized, persecuted, and labeled a Taker, a Satanist, and an enemy of the state."

"The Dominionists counted on the fact that few had ever read the Bible or had any idea what it really said. The majority of believers were content to sit and listen to just about anyone calling himself a pastor and believe just about anything that issued from his mouth. Thus, the Dominionists were as free, as many so-called righteous utopians before them, to interpret and use the Bible as a tool for domination. As the Southern Christian slave owners of old had, when driven by greed and the lust for power, twisted scripture to explain and justify the enslavement of Africans. The Dominionists employed the same method, declaring themselves the righteous and justified enslavers of the Satanists and Takers. Biblical passages were plucked for emphasis which seemed to support the Dominionists' claims that an angry God had visited great hardships upon the American people because they had given safe harbor to the Satanists. Those Biblical passages which would have challenged the claims were conveniently ignored by the Dominionists. Who would ever know? And who would dare challenge them? The few who were brave, knowledgeable, and foolish enough to challenge the Dominionists' interpretations of the Bible were labeled crackpots and terrorists, and worse--Satanists and Takers. All were publicly humiliated, scourged, arrested, enslaved, and eventually, executed."

"Hundreds of thousands of unemployed emotionally devastated people, angry with their government and powerless to affect any change, committed suicide. Millions lived on the streets or in their cars. Some sought relief in clandestine organizations, but many, swayed by the need for food and shelter and, perhaps, the rapturous upturned faces of the recently 'saved' who seemed to be happy and well fed, turned to Dominionist churches for comfort. The fittest of the newly converted men were quickly drafted and used to swell the Dominionist military ranks. In the churches and the military, they found that a hot meal, a warm place to sleep, and acceptance could be bought by the simple willingness to abandon their former beliefs and principles. Those family men who 'enlisted' were assured that their loved ones would be cared for by a grateful state. (This was seldom the case.)"

"The Dominionists did not swell their ranks by attraction to a just cause, but rather, they recruited to their cause by employing a most horrible program that created a large base of ignorant paranoid people in extreme need. The Dominionists created legions of takers who in the final analysis would have no alternative than to eat the Dominionists' swill."

"Eventually, of course, all of this culminated in the Dominionists winning their victory and ending the era of an individual's right to free expression and privacy, the right to love whomever they wished, and the right to an unfettered education based on facts. Laws were passed outlawing evolution, science, and homosexuality, the latter mandating execution by stoning of anyone found guilty of same-sex love. Over the course of a few presidential administrations, the ranks of the Dominionists swelled until they controlled the majority opinion. In short order, the Constitution of the United States was replaced by Biblical Cannon. The great pluralistic democracy of the United States of America was supplanted by the theocratic dictatorship of the United Dominionist States of America. America the Great, born of the Age of Reason, was done in by an ignorant and fearful group of people who found it difficult to get their minds around the notion that the world was actually a globe and not flat! And, like a frog in a pot of cool water sitting on a lit stove, the American people were boiled before they realized they were in any danger."

Bon appetit.

SEBSIAN 36: LOG 57B 1253

COMMANDER: Seer Knower, Erno.

MISSION: Routine progress survey of Class 3 Proximal Galactic Civilizations.

PASSAGE: Routine/Uneventful.

TITLE: Survey of Transian System 24.

SPECIAL NOTATION: Find included an account discovered among the copious papers and journals found in a cave next to skeletal remains of one, we believe to have been the author, Harry Coldcutte. Identification made in the document's "PREFACE" along with one, G. Edward Farson: no remains found. Papers support Coldcutte authorship and Farson recorder. It is my assumption alone, that the remains are Coldcutte's. There is no identification on the remains to substantiate my claim. There are no other remains in the cave or nearby.

Credit for the discovery of the texts, per tradition, attributed to Seer Knower, Erno, commanding Sebsian 36, effected during routine exploration and survey of Transien Planetary System 24. Actual discovery made by Away Team 10: Finder Searcher, Starken, commanding, obeying Seer Knower, Erno's direct order. Noted and Accredited.

OBSERVATIONS: Third Planet recovering from nearly complete extinction event, including nuclear holocaust, massive conflagration, flooding, planet-wide icing events, widespread vulcanization with related predictable seismic repercussions, with planet-wide involvement. Planet-wide survey uncovered skeletal remains of many diverse species; many species, not represented on any other planet in any other system, are now universally extinct. Significant Loss to galactic biologic record! Catalogued and Recorded.

Recovered geologic evidence indicative of massive thermonuclear detonations, resultant triggering of volcanic/seismic/conflagration events, and planet wide glaciations: 99.9% certainty Coldcutteans responsible for initiation of extinction events. Higher-order beings, of Harry Coldcutte species type, believed extinct. No evidence of extra-planetary assault discovered.

CATALOGUED: Extensive physical survey and visual recordings; chemical/biological scales and test results; complete list of known extinct varieties of plant and animal life with concomitant ecological impact indicators/predictions; meteorological tests with forecast; various recovery scenarios including contrast/comparisons with observed phenomena: See File B thru R.

Estimate extinction event occurrence 1,500 Galactic Cycles past.

ADDITIONAL OBSERVATIONS: Glaciations receding. Predicted terminus: circa pre-extinction positions. Temperature fluctuation (at the extremes): -32 to +142 S. Climatic Type: varies widely from tropical to arctic. Oxygen/carbon balance: stabilization. Precipitation: anticipated range/type. Acidic levels: normalizing. Carbonation: effective/normal. Biologic recovery progression: uncertain/ unpredictable/hopeful. Measured and Recorded. See Appendix 23T.

ATTACHMENTS: Harry Coldcutte, Whom the Gods Would Destroy. Lengthy document of unknown historical accuracy remains only discovered account of extinction events, thus far. Upon reading, much in this report seems to accurately coincide with our findings, suppositions, and discoveries. What the document may lack in accuracy, it may make up for in its emotional, philosophical and psychological discussions. It is possibly relevant from that perspective. Interestingly, the document expresses many of the same experiences described by certain other galactic civilizations. Unfortunately, the Coldcutteans were unable to find a solution which would have allowed them to escape from their self-imposed ignorance, superstition, and fear. Coldcutte refers to this as "tragic". Perhaps.

This concludes Log Entry: 57B 1253: Seer Knower, Erno, commanding.

Seer Knower, Erno turns, surveys the bridge. Observes normal activity. Sebsian 36 crew engaged and busy. Erno appears pleased.

Second Seer Knower, Salsan speaks: "I find it most interesting that there are no remaining Coldcutteans. Sebsian 4 recorded a thriving developing riparian culture...what...about four-or-so-thousand galactic cycles ago and Sebsian 12 recorded thriving agrarian/primitive market economies three- thousand cycles past."

Barco Sum, Environmental Investigator First Class speaks: "Yes, and Sebsians 12, 20, and 28, you will recall, reported frequent brutal wars between Coldcuttean factions over supernatural belief differences. There should be no surprise that they have all disappeared!"

Seer Knower, Erno speaks: "They did not disappear. The residual radiation readings and archeological discoveries clearly indicate that they destroyed themselves. I agree that this is not surprising. It was foretold. They were a haughty, arrogant, self-righteous species, prone to all kinds of superstitious beliefs...and, they were intelligent. Talk about a bad salad."

Barco Sum speaks: "They blew themselves up. So what? We've witnessed it all before...remember the Altrisian Exclusion? Now that was messy."

Erno speaks: "Biologic self-emulation...quite messy. Yes, I remember. I commanded one of the cleanup crews. It took a long, long while for my olfactories to recover."

Barco Sum speaks: "Well, it's basically the same thing, too much brain and too little common sense."

Erno speaks: "And a penchant for superstitious belief in dangerous nonsense..."

Barco Sum interrupts: "Especially, gods and devils?"

All laugh.

Salsan speaks: "What morons."

Erno speaks: "I agree. But they never promised to be significant contributors to the galactic order, anyway. More a dangerous liability than an asset."

Barco Sum speaks: "I could not agree more. If they had not blown themselves to bits, we would have had to do it, and then we would have had to clean up the mess ourselves."

Salsan speaks: "No thank you!"

All laugh.

Barco Sum speaks: "Now what?"

Salsan speaks: "Ah...we go home?"

Erno speaks: "Sounds good to me, but this time we are stopping at R-sin 0 Ex 52. I'm not passing up the ginsy paste, yet again."

All speak: "That is some tasty stuff!"

Barco Sum speaks: "You are making me hungry. Do we have any of those little squeaky things remaining?"

Erno speaks: "Fritzit!"

Salsan speaks: "What?"

Erno speaks: "The Log recorder has been on all this time."

Barco Sum speaks: "You mean everything we have just said is now part of our official Log?"

Click.
