Free Doomsday Warrior 06 - American Rebellion by Ryder Stacy Page B

your shoes. Yes, yes . . .” She let him grovel and slobber at her feet for a while while she tried to think of what to do next.
    Within hours Rona was unbound, bathed in milk and dressed in a golden robe, classical Greek style as Eva Braun wore in many of the idealized paintings of her. She was given silk slippers and two handmaidens and taken to a vast, white-draped room on the top floor of the cylindrical building that was Von Resling’s headquarters. From her barred window she surveyed the city of Goerringrad, only six months old but growing in leaps and bounds as money was poured in from Vassily in Moscow. Down and to her left she saw the slave market where she had been sold just hours before. Now she was here, in a palace, a living goddess, to be worshipped. Fate handed out strange surprises. If she could just somehow use her position to find Rockson, to kill these Nazi swine. But she felt suddenly achingly tired and lay her red tresses on the satin pillows of her bed. The two maids came and tucked her in, and then sat near her, watching as the goddess slept.
    But the news the next morning was sobering. Yes, she was Eva Braun, reincarnated goddess. They wouldn’t harm her. They would feed her, let her sleep, let her do anything, the gold-robed Nazi priest said, “anything except leave.” A living goddess was to be worshipped. She might spend the rest of her life comfortably, with perfumed servants, with ethereal gowns, untouched, a virgin. But she could never leave. Never.
    All that day, high Nazi officers came to see her and fall at her feet. Von Reisling too, came twice, begging her to let him once again kiss her bare feet. She kicked him in the face when he tried. But her physical and verbal abuse of the Nazi ruler seemed to only increase his affections for her. For he had found—in his mind—the one, the perfect woman. And he wished to be punished by her.
    The high priest came again that night, trying to get her to cooperate more with her new role as goddess incarnate, telling her what an honor it all was, and that she would come to realize how privileged she was, come to understand her obligations to the Reich. He gave her a picture of Hitler to sleep with—a three-dimensional picture of the short, mustached murderer with that constant stern look.
    When the priest left, she spat on it and threw it into the corner where it split into pieces. Suddenly her new vocation as Nazi goddess didn’t seem to hold too many possibilities—it was a prison. A prison from which she might never escape.

Nine
    C olonel Killov smirked as the nervous butler delivered him his vegetable juice laced with megavitamins. This butler was new—the old one, Georgi, had dropped a saucer on Killov’s lap the week before. Georgi did not survive the experimental intestinal transplant surgery performed on him that same night. This butler was truly Germanic looking. It would look good, when Von Reisling came, Killov thought, to show Aryan servants waiting upon me. To show the Nazi Commander that all men—even Nazi leaders—must bend to his will.
    And why not, the KGB leader mused as he dismissed the pale faced butler with a wave of his heavily veined skeletal hand. I am a superman too. Perhaps I’ve lost some weight due to the obligations of my high office of late. He looked in the mirror and then quickly away as what he saw didn’t quite fit his concept of an Aryan god. The many pills he took to keep himself going had escalated over the last year until he was an addict, using as many as 30 different pills a day—ups, downs, tranquilizers, euphorics—he had lost count. His body had shrunken down to just under 90 pounds and his face had grown gaunt as a skull, hence the name “The Skull” had been given to him, by those who served under him—never of course, spoken to his face.
    But if Killov was not the prettiest of those vying for power in the world of 2089 A.D. , he was the most ruthless and clever—a master of double-dealing