The Devil_s Workshop

THE REVOLUTION
Chapter 33

They had been sided at Shreveport, Louisiana, to let a "hotshot" intermodal train go by. The muggy air clung to them like foul cologne. Luther "Ill Gotten" Gains and the Texas Madman sat with Randall Rader and Dexter DeMille, watching Reverend Kincaid. The empty wood-slat boxcar was buried in the middle of the parked unit train, which contained a hundred grainers filled with Kansas wheat. They had been sided for almost an hour. "Milk is transported all across this nation on the rails," Fannon reasoned as he paced. "Moves in big refrigerated tankers ever day. So we're gonna send retribution to the Niggers and Jews in the milk they buy at the store."

"It's not gonna be that easy," Dexter answered, his voice strained and weak in the still air of the boxcar. "I'm trying to tell you that the Prion in this form is basically harmless-it hasn't been genetically tuned. This is simply a baseline protein. In order to turn what we have into a genetic binary weapon you'd need to change all the pH factors. The process is called acidosis. It's… it's very complicated and specific work."

Now Fannon kneeled beside Dexter and studied him like a crushed bug on the sidewalk. Dexter knew in that instant that he was nothing to Fannon Kincaid; that exactly like Admiral Zoll, Kincaid would kill him as soon as he got what he wanted. He needed to call on all of his survival instincts to buy time.

"Mr. DeMille, we are going to deliver this victory for Yahweh," Fannon said. "We are going to purge two cities of the counterfeit races. This will start the Revolution. People who know the truth, but have been afraid to act, will see this victory and take heart. Many will join the cause. You think this great victory can be delayed by some pissant piece of shit like you?" When Dexter didn't respond, Fannon screamed, "Answer me, you godless motherfucker!"

"No, sir. No…" Dexter flinched. He was now pressed hard against the side of the boxcar, straining to get away from Kincaid.

Luther Gains watched his discomfort with sadistic interest. Gains was rail-thin, snake-mean, and had a personality as twisted and coarse as hemp rope. After breaking out of a federal prison in Fayetteville, where he had been incarcerated for murder, Luther had started hiding out with the Choir.

The Texas Madman was an absolute contrast to Luther. Heavy-set and soft, the Texas Madman spoke in a high-pitched whisper, never raising his voice above a breathy squeak. He was out of shape and overweight, a grotesque collection of bulges and curves. He had earned his moniker by brutally killing six sleeping hobos in one blood-soaked year, and he gloried in these fatal assaults. His eyes lost reason and focus as he hacked his victims to death with the short-handled ax he kept in his backpack. After "converting" to the Choir, he had become Fannon's chief executioner.

" 'Complicated and specific work.' You must really think I'm one gullible, outta-touch motherfucker," Fannon hissed, showing tobacco-stained teeth.

"It… I…" Then Dexter fell silent.

Fannon turned to the Texas Madman. "Kill this godless motherfucker." Then Fannon got up, went to the ladder, and started to climb to the roof, where he would "car surf" to the grainer behind and join the others.

The Texas Madman picked up his backpack and retrieved the ax, then he moved over to Dexter. Fannon opened the hatch and started to climb out to the top of the boxcar.

"No… no… please," Dexter said, looking into the soft face and soulless eyes of the Texas Madman.

"Talk t'me, brother," Fannon said from the top step of the ladder.

"I need a lab. I need pH meters, and the right acids and bases. I need pure blood samples from the target groups, African-Americans and Jews, so I can do the DNA stranding."

"If I get what you need, how long will it take to make this shit right?"

"Coupla hours, maybe less."

Fannon slid down the metal ladder, his combat boots hitting the wood floor, cracking the silence like a leather bullwhip. He moved back to Dexter and looked down at him. "We can find a blood bank, steal whatever we need."

"Blood banks don't keep those kinds of records. Government regulations prevent separating blood along ethnic or racial lines."

"This fuckin' society. Whatta buncha bullshit. So, how do we do it?"

"There's only one lab that has everything I need, but it won't be easy."

"It wasn't easy for Moses to get the stone tablets down from Mount Sinai, or to part the Red Sea. God's work ain't supposed t'be easy. God's will is dangerous to pursue. Where the hell's this lab?"

"At the Devil's Workshop in Fort Detrick, Maryland."