Doomsday Warrior 06 - American Rebellion Read Online Free Page A

the weak, but it was madness to let them all die, they had to at least be given water. Tomorrow those who still lived when they reached Goerringrad would be given huge meals, fattened up, before presentation to the S.S. Quartermaster. And then Yigmar would get the gold. Ah, what a satchel of rubles this crew would bring in.
    His guards went slowly down the rows of captured Freefighters doling out one cup of the precious fluid to each man. They drank it down in a second, many of them spilling half the contents in their mad desire for water, water to wet their parched throats. Then they fell into deep dark sleeps filled with nightmares.
    Rockson watched it all with a bitter taste in his mouth. He leaned back against a tree, his eyes like twin radar domes absorbing everything in sight. The men around him were already asleep, breathing in harsh raspy tones. But Rockson couldn’t sleep. His mind was awash with thoughts, half perceived images. It was as if the other part of him—the part that had somehow been put into the deep freeze—was trying to make contact with him. It was like hearing voices calling out from the far side of the moon, indistinct, like leaves whispering in the wind. Somehow the combined energies of not knowing who the hell he was plus being a prisoner of these Slavers and seeing the men dying all around him—all pushed him to the point of what felt like madness. He wanted to explode, to grab one of the guards and destroy him with a smash to the throat. He knew how to kill, just the thought of attacking brought up myriad ways to disable, punches, kicks, throws, that he hadn’t even known he knew. But then what? He would get one, two, three . . . and then they would start firing blindly and all these men around him would be dead. He would have to wait, bide his time. And somehow he would have to find out who he was before he exploded in a rage of volcanic fury.
    The next morning the slaves were awakened early just as the pale sun hobbled limply into the bruised purple sky, as if it had been fighting its own battles during the night. The Slavers rushed around the sleeping prisoners and kicked and cracked them with gunbutts and boots forcing them to rise to a standing position. Yigmar’s tent was being stowed in the second jeep. When he was ready the Death march started again. And this time the prisoners felt even more agony than yesterday. Their muscles were tight as steel cords from the endless walking. Their chests and necks felt as if they were filled with burning needles.
    But they knew that they would live or die by what happened today. And every man reached down into the center of his soul for the strength to get through it. They started along the dirt, single-lane road, heading north. Around them the terrain seemed to be getting richer, more bushes, thick green-leafed trees, lending from time to time their precious shade from the blistering sun. Occasionally a rabbit or absurdly groping groundhog would rush away from the road and into the surrounding dense vegetation as the prisoners came marching up. The men looked at the vanishing meat with wide eyes for not one of them had eaten now for nearly three days. They would have devoured the small mammals raw at that moment, ripping them apart, splattering their faces with hot blood. Their stomachs felt hollow as balloons while the acids of their own digestive systems were eating away at the lining, sending ripples of sharp pain through their guts.
    Suddenly it was all too much for one man. He rushed toward a disappearing cottontail, his hands outstretched in mindless hunger, his brain forgetting where he was. Six rifles barked out and six burning slugs ripped into his back, sending him flying forward, his dead face smashing into a rock sending his teeth flying out in a spray of white pebbles.
    The other Freefighters and Rockson, surged forward, but the rifles barked out again and two more Americans fell down in the dirt.
    “Stop, stop,” Yigmar screamed,