Free Doomsday Warrior 06 - American Rebellion by Ryder Stacy

voices—very dim and moving off. What the hell were they? Why could he hear them and no one else? Nothing made sense to him. He was a stranger even in his own flesh.

Eight
    R ona had the hood removed from her eyes only after she was hustled into a car and taken to an immense building several miles away. The air conditioning inside hit her like a brick. It was hot and moist outside, but inside arcticly cool. Only high officers would have such costly temperature controls. She looked around. She was in a marble hall, the foyer to the cylindrical-shaped building above her. The walls were covered with swastikas and a huge banner with Hitler’s face.
    There were footsteps coming down a flight of stairs ahead—it was the man who had bought her, walking with another even higher-ranked German, an ugly scarred man with a black eyepatch over one eye, a strange covering that seemed to be made of multifaceted glass.
    “Ah yes, I see,” the eye-patched Nazi said to his second-in-command, “you have not lied, she is quite beautiful indeed.” He put his hand on her chin and turned her face this way and that. “Such fine classical features—like an ancient Aryan goddess. Yes, yes, we must check her.” He turned to the guard to his right. “Kurt, bring the templates up to my office.” The man clicked his heels and rushed off. The guards hustled Rona along behind the Nazi high commander, over to the elevator and then up to a plush office suite on the 9th floor. “There,” the eye-patched German told her to sit on a red velvet sofa. She glared at him, but was glad to rest and sat down.
    He seemed to be nervous as he sat several feet away and kept staring at her with a peculiar expression on his hard face. She looked about the room to avoid his steel gaze. There was of course, the picture of Hitler lit with its own track lighting. The Führer was dressed as a Teutonic knight in shiny armor, astride a strong Germanic-looking steed. Behind him cities burned and beneath the horse’s front hooves, someone with a long nose and money falling from a purse—was being crushed—a Jew, no doubt. The usual Nazi bullshit, she thought as she scanned the rest of the room.
    There were immense oil paintings depicting stars, galaxies, and a number of astrological symbols. Yes, she remembered that the Nazis were deeply into the movement of the stars, as Hitler had been. Deeply into the forces of destiny and the collective racial unconscious. Ideas like reincarnation, predestination, racial memory—all these were accepted by the Germans in some twisted sort of way. In the way that the Iron Cross was used by them—a symbol of Christ—but perverted, twisted. They knew nothing of real spirituality, the way of inwardness, the way of meditation. Instead they had chosen a pseudo-religious Nazi religion of purity that justified their genocide against the Jews, the gypsies, the Buddhists—anyone who didn’t fit the Nazi mold.
    She turned to the largest illuminated oil painting on the wall to her left and gasped. A tuxedoed Adolph was sitting in a Victorian chair, calm, in control, fatherly. And half-lying at his feet was Eva Braun. Not the mousey Eva Braun, Hitler’s mistress, that Rona had seen old file photos of in Century City’s archives, but a greatly idealized, perfect Eva Braun. She had reddish-blonde locks down to her bare very ample breasts—breasts with tiny pink nipples. Eva sat absolutely naked, long-leggedly stretched out looking up at her man, the Führer. Rona realized that Eva’s face reminded her not of the real Eva Braun but of someone else. Then she nearly gasped—it was her own face. And that full body, strong and big-boned, yet graceful, sexual like a cat—it was Rona’s!
    No wonder the Nazi officer was looking at her so strangely. He sat under the portrait every day, daydreaming, thinking of the glorious German past.
    “Please be comfortable,” the German suddenly spoke up. “What is your name?”
    “My real name is for