Free Doomsday Warrior 02 - Red America by Ryder Stacy Page B

premier or we shall soon be dead.”
    “Do you know what I think?” said Sverdlov, the youngest, stroking his cherubic red cheeks, his face eerily cast in the overhead shaded light that hung just above them, twisting ever so slightly in the breeze that leaked in under the doors and windows from the freezing Moscow night. “I think the black man is a wizard—that he’s part of a world conspiracy of niggers to take over when the premier dies.” The others laughed for a moment. Then all the breath seemed to go out of their laughter as they stared at the youngest’s milky eyes.
    “Seriously?” asked Menzies. “You believe that?”
    “I do. Even as a scientifically trained physician I do believe in magic—witchcraft. These blacks, they should have all been killed right after the war. Why we let the darker, inferior races survive is beyond me. The world should have been totally cleaned when we had the chance. The dark races have the power to steal a white man’s soul. My grandfather told me many tales of—”
    “Enough! Enough tales of terror in the night,” Menzies snapped. “I’m returning to Moscow. We must all insist we treat the premier personally. Put every bit of pressure we can on his senior staff. Perhaps even tell them we think the nigger is poisoning the premier’s mind. When we gain access to the Grandfather—a triple dose. Do it right once and for all.”
    “But what of an autopsy?” Minkin asked, his voice trembling.
    “Bah! Once the premier is dead, Killov will take power and we will be protected. And then we will be rewarded handsomely for our risks.”
    They agreed to use every connection they had in the Kremlin to directly administer the poison. They set up a meeting for the following week and walked out to their separate limos parked outside. The drivers were roaring the engines to keep warm as snowflakes began falling. It was minus twenty degrees and dropping fast. They’d have to get back to Moscow quickly or the roads might well become impassable. That was all they needed now. To be stuck in some twenty foot high snowdrift and not be found until the following spring.

Six
    M orning began peacefully enough in Fort Nijinski. Or as peacefully as it ever did for the American slave laborers of the Russians. Every Red military fortress was built next to a large concentration of factories where American workers were forced to labor six days a week in return for half rotten food, drab clothing, and what were called “worker’s housing units” which the Russians had put up when they first came in with their occupying armies nearly a century before. Shantytowns in fact was what they were. Pitiful hovels made of rusted tin, disintegrating cardboard—whatever the Americans could get their hands on to create some sort of shelter. The original two-story concrete housing units had long ago crumbled into dust, and the Russians had henceforth not paid much attention to their American worker’s needs. That was their problem.
    The world of the American workers of Fort Nijinski was dog eat dog at best. There were nearly ninety thousand of them crowded into a twenty block area of ruins, hovels, subterranean lairs. Dirty, disease ridden, the American workers were expected to put in twelve hours a day in the Red factories working at grueling labor: making clothes, operating canning machines which packed agricultural produce into cans by the ton, simple machine manufacturing, and the dyeing of animal hides. Virtually all the goods would never be used by those that made them—Americans, that it. The production was destined for Russia—the all consuming, mother empire. The center of the world that sucked in goods from its slave states around the globe, leaving little behind for those who produced them. Nearly five hundred million people working to feed the Russian bureaucracy of seventy-five million which ruled the earth. What little that remained after the shipments back to Russia and after the Red