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    10 A.C. God Wills It!
    10 A.C. God Wills It!
    10 A.C. God Wills It!
    Ebook338 pages4 hours

    10 A.C. God Wills It!

    By W.Wm. Mee

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    About this ebook

    Welcome, Gentle Reader to life in the ‘Old South’. Ten years have come and gone since the man-made ‘Death Clouds’ swept the globe clean of most of the human race. For the small number of humans that survived ‘The Change’, (or ‘God’s Cleansing’ as some are now calling it), it has been a decade of great turmoil, strife and sadly, almost constant warfare.
    During the first few years A.C. people killed for food, weapons and a semi-safe place to lay their head. Later they killed out of fear, greed, ignorance or self-preservation. Finally, when most people were no longer always hungry or always cold or always frightened, they killed, (as they always have and always will do) in the name of religion.
    In 10 A.C., the crack of the whip, the clink of the chains and the cries of the enslaved drift over the dusty roads like a dark cloud staining the countryside. And not just this road, but all the highways and byways that criss-crossed the once great and glorious ‘Old South’.
    They used to say that ‘All roads lead to Rome’. Now , ten years after ‘God’s Holy Cleansing’, it seemed, all roads led to Black Oaks, the ‘presidential plantation’ occupied by His Holiness, the somewhat less than ‘honourable Reverend Langhorne Calhoun.
    A one-time preacher, part-time potentate and most recently, potential pedophile, the ‘Good Reverend’, now seems much more interested in selling slaves than saving souls.
    To be fair, however, in the beginning the man ‘seemed’ to be ‘Heaven sent’ --- or at least the right man for a rather dirty job --- killing the crazies that claimed to follow some ‘fanatic’ that went by the laughable name of the ‘Dark Stranger’.
    After three long years of terrible hardship and war, the Reverend and his ‘Army of God’s Warriors’ finally defeated this ‘Dark Stranger’, exterminated most of his Crazies’ and brought, if not ‘peace’, at least a time of respite to a people still recovering from a world-wide plague.
    For a brief, shining moment there was a time when having a child in a bed and a crop in the field was more important than a gun in a hand or killing a stranger.
    To achieve this ‘divine utopia’ however, the Good Reverend and his followers (the so called ‘Purists’ or ‘Pures’) were more than willing to beat the living shit out of anyone who even ‘looked’ like they might oppose the Reverend’s ‘divine will’. This new, holy society rose up on the bent backs and sweating brows of the ‘lesser folk’, condescendingly called the ‘Normals’ or ‘Norms’
    ‘All roads lead to Rome’, they say. They also say that ‘absolute power corrupts absolutely.’ In the year 10 A.C., the Good Reverend proved that quaint old saying to be absolutely true.
    God wills it! --- Alaha akbar! --- His Will be done!

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherW.Wm. Mee
    Release dateJun 1, 2011
    ISBN9781458174727
    10 A.C. God Wills It!
    Author

    W.Wm. Mee

    Wayne William Mee is a retired English teacher who enjoys hiking, sailing and walking his Beagle hound. He is also a 'living historian' or 'reenactor'. You can see Wayne's historical group on Facebook's 'McCaw's Privateers' 18th Century Naval Camp' page. Building & sailing wooden sailboats also takes up a chunk of Wayne's time, but along with his wife Maggie,son Jason and granddaughter Zoe, writing is his true love, the one he returns to let his imagination soar.Wayne would like you to 'look him up' on FACEBOOK and click the 'Friend' button or even zap him an e-mail.If you enjoyed any of his books, kindly leave a REVIEW here at Smashwords and/or say so on Facebook, Twitter, Tweeter or whatever other 'social network' you use.Thanks for stopping by ---and keep reading!!Drop him a line either there or at waynewmee@videotron.caHe'll be glad to hear from you!'Rest ye gentle --- sleep ye sound'

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      10 A.C. God Wills It! - W.Wm. Mee

      Chapter 1: In The Beginning

      The crack of the whip, the clink of the chains and the cries of the enslaved drifted over the dusty road like a dark cloud staining the countryside. And not just this road, but all the highways and byways that criss-crossed the once great state of Alabama.

      They used to say that ‘All roads lead to Rome’. Now , ten years after ‘God’s Holy Cleansing’, it seemed, all roads led to Black Oaks, the ‘presidential plantation’ occupied by His Holiness, the somewhat less than ‘honourable Reverend Langhorne Calhoun.

      A one-time preacher, part-time potentate and most recently, potential pedophile, the ‘Good Reverend’, now seemed much more interested in selling slaves than saving souls.

      To be fair, however, in the beginning the man ‘seemed’ to be ‘Heaven sent’ --- or at least the right man for a rather dirty job --- killing the crazies that claimed to follow some ‘fanatic’ that went by the laughable name of the ‘Dark Stranger’. Laughable or not, beating the bastard proved o be a very tough job indeed!

      After three long years of terrible hardship and war, the Reverend and his ‘Army of God’s Warriors’ finally defeated ‘The Dark Stranger’, exterminated most of ‘The Crazies’ and brought, if not ‘peace’, at least a time of respite to a people still recovering from a world-wide plague.

      For a brief, shining moment there was a time when having a child in a bed and a crop in the field was more important than a gun in a hand or killing a stranger.

      To achieve this ‘divine utopia’ however, the Good Reverend and his followers (the so called ‘Purists’ or ‘Pures’) were more than willing to beat the living shit out of anyone who even ‘looked’ like they might oppose the Reverend’s ‘divine will’.

      With the defeat of the Dark Stranger’s army and the following ‘elimination’ of the ‘Crazies’, manpower to do the actual physical work of building the Reverend’s ‘brave new world’ was woefully short. Labourers were needed to toil in the factories and fields. Servants were needed to see to the pampered ‘Pures’. This new, holy society rose up on the bent backs and sweating brows of the ‘lesser folk’, condescendingly called the ‘Normals’ or ‘Norms’

      ‘All roads lead to Rome’, they say. They also say that ‘absolute power corrupts absolutely.’ In the year 10 A.C., the Good Reverend proved that quaint old saying to be absolutely true.

      ***

      Chapter 2: ‘A Wolf of a Different Colour’

      Outside Neverland Penitentiary

      (The Old South) Alabama

      Summer, Year 10 AC

      It was a lucky shot, the hollow point bullet having passed through the truck’s windshield like a knife through hot butter, then continued on its merry way to smack the driver squarely in his chest. Dead at the wheel, the driver’s heavy boot was still on the accelerator, causing the large truck to smash into Neverland’s massive gates. Rusting iron and crumbling mortar gave way, allowing one side of the heavy gate to break free and hang drunkenly on the sagging shoulder of its twin.

      Before The Change of ten years ago, such an event would have caused lights to go on, sirens to scream and a squad of armed guards to come running. Now, ten long, hard years later, there are no lights, no sirens and the only guard was an unarmed Norm trustee, passed out drunk on the far side of the gate.

      The four other trucks following close behind had stopped on the decaying, weed-strewn road. The lead one of the four, it’s poorly running motor spewing out dirty, black fumes from the non-existent muffler, honked its horn. The passenger door opened and a man, clearly a Pure by both his clothes and his manner, wearing mirror sunglasses, a Smokey the Bear type hat and carrying a shotgun, climbed out swearing at the top of his lungs.

      "Jesus-Fucking-Christ! Smokey cursed. If that goddamned driver has been drinking again I’ll have his goddamned balls on a plate!" Still swearing, the man started towards the scene of the crash.

      Up by the ruined gates a blood spattered guard jumped out the passenger side of the first truck screaming something about the driver having been shot!

      What the fuck? Smokey demanded, pumping a shell into his shotgun’s chamber. It was then that the arrow hit him, sprouting from his chest like one of those tacky plastic flowers sweet old grandmothers used to decorate their homes with.

      Smokey, his shotgun now in the dust, gently touched the plastic ‘feathers’ on the shaft, then, his knees suddenly gone very weak, collapsed to lay beside his much cherished shotgun. The dying rays of the setting sun reflected back in his mirror glasses.

      ***

      The man they called ‘The Vic’, seeing Smoky of the Mirrored Glasses go down with an arrow in his chest, suddenly stood up and blew a long, shrill note on a whistle. From both sides of the road ‘his men’ converged on the four trucks. They had been waiting just outside the gates for the guards to bring the work detail back into Neverland for the night. The plan was to free not only the prisoners in the trucks, but those inside as well.

      The Vic worked the bolt on the badly battered deer rifle he carried, painfully aware that he only had three bullets. Very few of his people actually had a gun of any sort. Most carried blades of one kind or another. A few had hunting bows, some even held pitchforks or clubs.

      "Hey, Vic! Let’s go!" Little more than a boy, Blair grinned at him through a dirt covered face. He held a baseball bat in his grimy hands.

      The Vic, thirty-three years old, heaved himself up out of the ditch and moved towards the middle truck. His people were already at the last two, the few with pistols still on horseback. Others had surrounded the front truck and the one up by the mashed gate. That left himself, Blair with his bat and a stern faced woman named Sandra to handle the third truck. Sandra carried a broomhandle with a knife taped to one end.

      "Vic! Blair yelled again, sprinting for the third truck. He’s getting away!" The driver was trying to back around the rear two trucks in an effort to break free.

      Vic and a frowning, silent Sandra moved, to the front of the vehicle as it scrapped by the rear one, scattering several of Vic’s group in the process. The rear bumper shunted one truck off into the ditch. All the time Blair was pounding away at the driver’s door with his baseball bat.

      Suddenly a hand came out the open window and pointed a pistol at Blair’s flushed face.

      Bang!

      Both the boy and the bat dropped from sight.

      Shit! Vic swore, seeing the boy fall. Bringing his rifle up, he aimed through the front windshield. The driver was still half turned around, trying to back the truck free. The man beside him, pistol still in hand, met Vic’s eyes.

      POW!

      The heavy rifle went off, shattering both the windshield and the passenger’s head. Vic worked the bolt on his rifle --- only two bullets left!

      Then he saw Sandra, silent as a shadow, sprint up to the driver’s open window and thrust in with her broomhandle --- several times. As the truck jerked to a stop, she jumped up on the runningboard and thrust one last time. When she looked up Vic saw that she was smiling.

      ***

      The rest was over very quickly. There had been a brief, vicious fight inside the prison, with several deaths on both sides, including the warden, who had shot himself in the head rather than be taken prisoner. Twice as many were wounded and needed medical attention. The remaining guards had been locked in cells, the weapons and ammo collected and the prisoners set free, all forty-three of them. The rebel’s horses had been brought from behind the hill and joined the eight other horses released from the guards’ trailers. Those that could ride did so while the rest piled back into the trucks and within minutes everyone was heading back down the road. The bodies of the three fallen rebels were brought as well, young Blair being one of them.

      That was one of the few hard and fast rules Master Sergeant Robert Sampson, a.k.a. ‘The Vic’, had lived by--- no-one gets left behind. One way or another everyone goes home.

      ***

      In the ten years since The Change, people had slowly been forced to give up the use of automobiles. With hardly anyone left with the knowledge to repair them, most vehicles soon were discarded in favour of the horse. After a decade of total neglect, most roads, especially in the hot, wet ‘Old South’, were little more than cracked, pot-hole covered game trails. The trucks the guards had used to transport their workers were ancient and wheezing creatures themselves. All this meant the rebels were forced to go slow, making it easy for the horses to keep up.

      Vic, sitting in the passenger seat of the lead truck, the seat sticky with blood and splattered brains, took a deep breath and tried to ease the tension in his neck. The deer rifle, now fully loaded, was propped up between his knees. In the prison armoury someone had found several boxes of bullets for his old .303. A full box of the near priceless shells now weighed down his coat pocket. Two more were in his packsack. As he bounced along the rough road, he thought of young Blair and the others that he now led.

      All of them, prisoner and rebel alike, were dirty, hungry and ecstatic! Victory, coupled with freedom, was a heady brew indeed and best quaffed slowly, but both the liberated and their liberators downed it with gusto!

      Most of the Vicar’s Rebs were young, hungry and cursed with ‘old eyes’. Being ‘on the run’ has always been a young man’s game. Sleeping outside, constantly wet, tired and moving from place to place, riding for hours through rough country all took its toll, even on hardened, young ex-soldiers like most of these were.

      The older ones who found the lifestyle too demanding often settled in small groups on abandoned farms and plantations --- safe havens where the young Reb army could find food, shelter and lick their wounds, if only for a day or two. It was to one of these ‘safe havens’ they were going to now.

      Donny, the driver, looked over at Vic and grinned. There was a cut over the youth’s right eye that had sheeted his unlined face in blood, so that his white teeth seamed to shine forth from a red mask.

      "We did it, Vic! Just like you said we would! We bloody well did it!"

      Ya, he replied, seeing again young Blair’s head explode from the pistol shot and Sandra’s repeated thrusts with her makeshift spear and her happy smile. Ya, we did.

      As the trucks rolled away, flanked by riders on both sides, Vic glanced over his shoulder at the hulking brick structure behind him. Silhouetted in the setting sun, the sprawling structure looked like an ugly growth on the land. He had spent over two years in Neverland, worked from morning to night like a beast of burden, each day the same drudgery of digging, lifting, hauling and any other form of back breaking labour the cruel, laughing guards could find for them. Each night he had collapsed onto his thin, mouldy mattress and hardly heard the turn of the key that had locked him in for another night.

      Just a little under a year ago he, his best friend Ken Catesby and two others had made their escape. Running, hiding in ditches, stealing what food they could from farms, they had eventually joined a small band of rebels or ‘Rebs’ fighting against the oppression of the Reverend and his Pures’. Most of the rebels were ‘Norms’ or normal people who had either been slaves and escaped or were trying desperately hard not to become one.

      For in the year 10 AC, if you were in the ‘Old South’ and you were not a ‘Pure’, meaning a member of the Reverend Langhorne Calhoun’s ‘chosen congregation’, then you were fair game for the slave traders. Only ‘Pures’ were exempt. All others could be caught, taken and sold into slavery.

      All those that fought against this were called ‘Rebs’ or rebels --- and could be shot on sight. Life ten years After Change was anything but a picnic --- unless of course, if you were one of the Good Reverend’s ‘Pures’.

      ***

      Chapter 3: ‘The Good Reverend’

      ‘Black Oaks’ Plantation

      The ‘Old South’ (Alabama)

      Summer, Year 10 AC

      The Reverend Langhorne Calhoun sat in his favourite rocker on the large veranda and looked out over a small part of his vast domain. He beheld fields of golden wheat and ripening corn; pastures filled with both beef cows and those for milking; fenced corals for the herd of prancing, spirited horses. There were barns stuffed with hay, sheds for chickens and pens for goats and pigs. From the smithy came metallic ringing from the burly blacksmith’s anvil strike. Fragrant gray-white clouds billowed up from the row of smoke houses, in which hung curing hams, sides of beef and link upon link of slowly browning sausages.

      A row of outdoor ovens, looking like giant, blackened beehives, their fires stoked by soot covered boys, were tended by flour covered women with long wooden paddles. Hewers of wood and drawers of water scuttled to and fro while several gardeners toiled in the summer sun to water the Reverend’s many, sprawling rose gardens.

      All this and more was nurtured and cared for by a multitude of slaves. Men, women and children that he owned; his to do with as he saw fit.

      ‘This must be what Jehovah Himself felt like on the seventh day when He finally rested from His great labours!’ the Reverend thought, all the while casually stroking the long blonde hair of one of his female ‘house slaves’. The girl, no more than twelve or thirteen, sat like a dog at his feet, the slave collar around her neck and the scant loincloth around her slim waist her only garment.

      ‘And the Lord God looked upon His works and found them good,’ he quoted to himself, reaching for the budding breast beneath the golden hair.

      Just then a large, beefy man with a red face rode up to the front steps and tipped his hat to The Reverend, ignoring the two fatigue wearing bodyguards standing quiet but alert in the shadows. One cradled a long rifle with a powerful scope, the other a pump shotgun.

      The rider was the Reverend’s Overseer, Buford Dodge. A former guard at Neverland Penitentiary, Buford had been doubly fortunate low these long, ten years passed. Firstly in that he had somehow survived the passing of the Death Clouds when Jehovah sent The Cleansing upon a wicked world --- and secondly that he had ‘Seen the Light’ and had gladly and faithfully followed The Reverend Langhorne Calhoun when he called.

      Still absently fondling the child at his feet, the Good Reverend smiled at Dodge, one of his most trusted and well rewarded followers. What is it, Buford?

      The red faced man steadied his skittish mount and snatched off his hat. "The Punishment Detail is ready, Sir. You want ‘em in the usual place?"

      Of course, Buford, the Reverend beamed. "There is a certain beauty in order and tradition. Besides, the Slaves need to be reminded from time to time of there place in Jehovah’s Great Scheme. He bent down and pinched a tender nipple. Is that not right, My Dear?"

      The child, her eyes wide with fright, nodded agreement, knowing from past experience that she must stay silent.

      Buford, kindly bring the guilty parties before me so I may pass on the Lord’s judgement.

      Tearing his eyes off the naked child, Buford shoved his hat back on his head and gathered his horse’s reigns. Right away, Sir! He then struck his chest with a closed fist. "Thy Will Be Done!"

      ***

      The Reverend Langhorne Calhoun was insane.

      He didn’t look it. Most times he didn’t even act it --- but he was.

      Mad as a fucking ‘hatter’!

      Whatever part of his brain that might have once been ‘normal’ before The Change had been burnt away by these last ten years of pain, struggle and almost constant warfare.

      Secretly, in a tiny corner of his mind that even he himself feared to go, he knew it.

      Insane!

      Just like his father and his father before him!

      A long, unbroken line of religious lunatics, stretching all the way back to Ebenezer Calhoun, the very first of his line to step ashore in an earlier version of a ‘brave new world’ with all those other religious zealots, fanatics and raving lunatics back at Plymouth Rock.

      It had begun with ‘The Voices’.

      Even as a child, being dragged by his insane father from one backwoods southern town to the next, it had been ‘the Voices’ that had sustained him as the old fool had preached his revivalist bullshit. It had been ‘the Voices’ that had given him the strength to endure the old man’s beatings, and it had been ‘The Voices’ that had given him the fortitude to watch silently as his sainted mother had endured similar beatings. When he finally ‘escaped’ from that ‘traveling asylum’, the ‘Voices’ had abated somewhat. After The Cleansing however, they had once again made themselves heard --- but it was over these last few years that they had returned with a vengeance.

      Yet in that black corner of his brain, in that permanent patch of midnight where the light of reason has never shown, he feared an even ‘darker’ secret was hiding, lurking in the shadows like a hungry beast, just waiting to pounce and devour him from within.

      For the awful, soul searing truth was that the ‘most reverend’ Reverend feared that ‘the Voices’, that had been with him all his life, may have come not from Jehovah as he once so fervently believed, not from the Living God in Whose Image We are Made --- but from the Prince of Lies, the Great Deceiver, He Whose Name Is Legion! And that the beast that waited impatiently within, with baited breath and bared claws, was none other than the dreaded ‘Dark Stranger’ Himself!

      ***

      (Que the bongos.

      Mr. Nasty enters from the Dark Side of the brain.).

      Who Who Who? --- Who Who Who?

      ‘Pleased to meet you, Reverend. Hope you guess my name.

      Who Who Who? --- Who Who Who?

      I see what’s puzzling you, is the --- ‘nature’ of my game!’

      ***

      In short, Gentle Reader, the Reverend Langhorne Calhoun, the exalted ‘seventh son of a seventh son’, Conquering Hero of The Strange Wars, ‘Jehovah’s Chosen One’, feared deep in his spotted soul that he was slowly becoming a ‘Strange’!

      ‘Why else this constant, never ending need to punish the wicked?’ he asked himself as his eyes, seemingly moving on their own, went to the child’s naked body kneeling at his feet.

      ‘Why of late all these ‘new diversions’ --- This hunger for young, unblemished flesh?’

      His gaze then moved to the towering oak at the far end of the yard and its crop of rotting bodies twisting in the wind.

      ‘Why this seemingly unquenchable thirst for the taking of human life!?’

      He mentally shoved such blasphemous thoughts back into that monster-filled room in his mind, locked and barred the door, then forced himself to focus on the two slaves that had just been brought before him.

      They were Norms of course.

      The man was white, muscular and surly; the woman younger, proud, and a delicious chocolate colour.

      ‘Was that nails grating on the inside of that locked door?’

      The man had the obligatory haircut for all male slaves, a shaved head with a few inches of forelock remaining, which they were to tug as a type of ‘salute’ whenever a Pure crossed their path.

      ‘Don’t look! Don’t listen! The locks will hold!

      Turn away --- let the Beast sleep --- for now!’

      Women slaves however, in an effort to make them more desirable breeding partners for their masters, were ordered to grow their hair long. Once past the breeding age, however, they were shaved like the men. Both offenders were dressed in the rough, white homespun that all slaves wore.

      With a sigh The Reverend stood up from his rocker. The near naked child at his feet clung to his right leg. He patted her golden head and pointed to the top step. She immediately scuttled over like a frightened animal and sat hunched over and small.

      Have the guilty ones step forward, he said softly.

      Two of Buford’s assistants, using long, hardwood staffs, pushed the shackled couple up to the bottom step of the porch. The woman held her head high, her eyes fixed on a distant life she would never know. The man glared back defiantly, his eyes showing only hatred.

      The Reverend smiled and turned to his Overseer. Buford, what is their history?

      The red faced man was handed some papers by an assistant. "Ah, the female, sir, is named Tanya, # H 374. She’s approximately 18 or 19 years old. Parents both dead. No ‘special’ skills --- other than the obvious breeding potential. She’s already whelped one brat, sir, but….. there’s a note here that says it died of the ‘coughing sickness’ just this spring."

      The Reverend was watching the young woman, noting how she stood tall and straight, her gaze aloof and far off. His own gaze moved down to her swelling breasts, only half concealed by the torn slave rags.

      He felt himself becoming aroused, growing firm --- as the chained beast in his mind slammed itself against that locked and bared door.

      ‘Not now!’ he inwardly screamed. ‘Later, when we are alone!’

      The banging on the door subsided, though a hungry rumble

      still leaked through the barred entrance.

      And the male? he managed to ask.

      More shuffled papers, then: "Ah, looks like he’s a bad one, sir. Number D 795. He’s around 25 years old. Several notations here for fighting other slaves. He’s felt the whip twice already, sir. First time twenty lashes. Last time fifty. That one nearly did him in, sir, but as you can plainly see, the bugger bounced back right enough! Probably put a bun in her oven, sir, while they were running. The Overseer’s pig-like eyes fastened on the dark skinned beauty and he spoke without thinking. I sure as hell would have!"

      Silence, while Jehovah’s representative on earth reprimanded the Overseer’s mild blasphemy with a frown, then went on to decide the two slaves’ fate.

      It took but a moment.

      Send the woman to the guard’s camp as ‘entertainment’. If she survives that, put her back in the fields.

      "And the man, sir?" the Overseer asked, already planning to have her first before passing her on to the guards.

      "Ah well, of him I intend to make an example."

      The beast locked away within his mind rumbled deep in its throat,

      as it’s claws raked and tore at the much scared mental door.

      All eyes turned to the large, dark oak tree standing majestically alone in front of the mansion. Well over two hundred years old, its massive canopy cast a shadow over half the lawn. From its many limbs hung the rotting remains of other slaves that the Good Reverend had ‘made an example of’.

      The male slave, #D 795, attempted to speak but

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