Doomsday Warrior 06 - American Rebellion by Ryder Stacy

with water and then mopped out two drainage holes on the floor, using pieces of cardboard, turned on their edge.
    After the third washing Rock had them stop. He glanced inside. The place looked beautiful. Dilapidated, windowless, but it was clean. Little pools of clear water sparkling from the moon’s light stood every feet feet around the wide floor. The smell of shit was gone.
    “Now,” Rockson said, clapping his fist into his palm. “It’s bath time. Whoever wants to sleep inside there tonight is going to take a bath under those pumps. You understand?”
    “I ain’t taking no damned bath,” one particularly dirty piece of humanity said, shuffling from one foot to another. Without a word Rockson walked over to him and slammed the man in the chin with his fist. He crumpled to the ground like a wet leaf.
    “Everyone takes a bath,” the Doomsday Warrior said, holding his fist up. “One way or another.”
    He had them line up again, the men in front pushing the water pump for the next. Stripped naked of their clothes, one after another, they went under the cold water and for long minutes were forced to turn and scrub themselves with some stiff brushes Rockson dug up, until there wasn’t a trace of slime on them. Then they lined up again on the other side of the doorway holding their still wet clothes and bedding that had been drenched by the wash crew.
    It was nearly four in the morning before Rockson allowed them to once again enter the barracks. They quickly found their previously owned territory, creating their own little squares out of coats, cardboard, pieces of woodland then they all lay back, sopping in their wet clothes. Rockson made his way over to his corner where he made a small bed for himself from his field jacket.
    “These are the new rules,” Rockson said, addressing them in the dark. He could see the hundreds of eyes, peering back, shining in the moonlight like little silver daggers, every one of whom he knew wanted to kill him.
    “We don’t shit or spit in here anymore. That’s all done in pits at least 50 feet upwind of here. We’ll dig holes tomorrow. We’ll have a thorough cleaning of the place, the inhabitants and their clothing, once a week. All bugs and rodents are to be killed the moment they are spotted. Once again, you are welcome to try and kill me. If you do—the rules, I would imagine, will no longer apply. Until then, they do apply.” Rockson let his head drop back and prepared to sleep.
    “This is all great,” a voice spoke up nervously from the far corner of the room as the rest of the slaves sucked in their breath, anxious that the madman would get going again, just when they had been allowed back in their beds. “But, while you’re making us men, what the hell do we do with it? We’re all lost here. None of us will even be alive in a few months. Why? Why?”
    Rockson sat up. The man sounded more intelligent than the others. Almost civilized.
    “Who is that speaking?” the Doomsday Warrior asked through the moon slivered darkness, the rays dropping down in solid white shafts of light, like burning pins into a voodoo doll.
    “I am Tony 57,” the voice said nervously, then added with a stronger voice. “Real name is John Lyons.”
    “Well Mister Lyons,” Rockson said, lying back down into a comfortable position as he spoke, his tired eyes closed. “We do it because we are men. Because, whether we live or die, we must do it as men. When you let the invader take your mind and soul, then he has won. When he has only your body, he has a fire that may explode on him at any moment. Because I am a man, I know that inside of you, all of you, is a man also. Frightened, terrified, lost in pain and madness. Still, I know it’s there, and as a brother American I can’t stand by and let you live like this.”
    “We’ll all die,” another voice yelled out.
    “Better to not know we are men,” a second voice answered.
    “Only Ted Rockson could save us,” a man near the