Doomsday Warrior 04 - Bloody America by Ryder Stacy Read Free Book Online

little one,” the supreme president said, squeezing her young flesh. “Come to me.” He grabbed the sub-teen who tried to feign sleep and pulled her atop his aroused, obese body.
    In Moscow, Premier Vassily, the “Grandfather,” ruler of all the world—from the tip of South Africa to the Siberian Steppes, from Argentina to Canada—sat in his wheelchair on the intricate marble terrace overlooking Red Square. Below him, crowds filed past, petty functionaries heading home from their bureaucratic positions, their long days of stamping and denying requests from around the Soviet Empire. They trudged through the snowy streets several feet deep from the early fall snows as more flakes licked down from the turgid sky, thick with undulating Arctic clouds ready to deposit yet another load of their frozen moisture onto the Red capitol below.
    The premier turned to the last page of The Phemonology of Mind, by Hegel, the philosopher who had created the ideas from which Karl Marx had written Das Kapital and The Communist Manifesto among others. The books that had shaken the world. Were still shaking the world. It was hard to believe sometimes the power of words, of writing. Two books had caused such explosive reverberations. From Marx, Lenin, and Trotsky, then Stalin, all the way up to the present—Vassily, an unbroken line of leaders who had carried out The Communist Manifesto with a vengeance. Vassily was highly aware of his place in history. He hadn’t asked to become ruler of the world. But once he had begun rising in the Red hierarchy, had seen that his intellect and ambitions were of greater power than those around him, the outcome had been inevitable. There are those who are born to rule—must rule. It was beyond the desires of a man. He, Vassily, had been trapped by the forces of history to run things. To run everything. And so he did, and so he would until the day he died.
    But there were problems—many. His grip on the world was slipping. Vassily, ever the pragmatist, could see it all clearly. The reports he received via satellite from the far-flung legions, much like Romans, he thought, remembering his history—with their isolated fortresses trying to hold back the barbarian hordes—told him that things were heating up. Every day brought more disquieting reports of rebellion, crop failures, sabotage, attacks on his forces. Years before they had all just been skirmishes, guerilla attacks—a Russian soldier stabbed in the throat in a godforsaken back alley—in Morocco, in Afghanistan, in Brazil. But now the subject peoples were growing more dissatisfied with their lot—and bolder. They had been promised more for years. More food, more autonomy—under the stern gaze of their Red rulers. But nothing had come to pass. The Soviet Empire needed more and more of the raw materials and the few goods that these subjugated countries could produce. The Soviet machine was like some starving creature that ate all that it received and instead of being satisfied just grew hungrier and hungrier. The Soviet peoples in Mother Russia had gotten used to having everything delivered to them. Their own agricultural system had deteriorated to the point where it only supplied about a third of Russia’s needs. Everything had to be “imported,” a euphemism for taking whatever was needed, and leaving the natives to eke out whatever meager survival they could.
    Even the Russian factory system had fallen apart. Little was being produced anymore—other than military equipment and ammunition. The world was slowly falling back into a primitive mode of existence. Industrial technology had been forgotten in the empire over the last century. Each decade the ability to build new machinery, tools, cars, computers, electronic components had fallen farther behind. The Reds had let their high technology at the time of the Great War go fallow, using the vast armaments they had already stockpiled with which to rule. A huge class of “servicers,” as