THE RISING TIDE:
NEVER STOOD A CHANCE
Supreme Chief George Patton, baton resting under his left arms, stood with the use of leg braces as he watched the plane carrying the Chief Executive skitter down the runway. The massive plane, a bomber originally, had been decked out with all the armor plating it could handle without becoming completely unwieldy. Instead of an ornate, decorative paint job like the one that adorned his own private plane, Steele's "Atheling 1" was olive drab, almost featureless in style. A simple logo of the Presidency adorned the enormous wings and white stars were on the tail fin. On the nose of the cockpit, instead of vibrant mascot or cartoon art usually found on military standard planes, there was a wolf, perfect in its simplicity and dreadfulness. It was the symbol of the Wolfpack, Steele's personal cadre of thugs and bodyguards. One Wolfpack escort fighter plane had already touched down a minute earlier, making sure the runway was safe and in good condition for the supreme leader to arrive. After Atheling 1 taxied in, several more fighters and gunships also landed. Wolfpack members in plain olive drab fatigues rushed to meet a cadre of ORRA officers pushing a rolling staircase. One Wolfpack goon busied himself leaping onto and off the steps and up and down the entire thing, all while they pushed it the fifty yards or so to the still-closed cabin door of Atheling 1. Steele's motto of trust no one was something he clearly very much lived by.
"ATTENTION ALL PERSONNEL, ATHELING 1 HAS ARRIVED. ATHELING 1 HAS ARRIVED. ALL HAIL," boomed a monotone voice over the base loudspeakers. Several hundred ORRA troopers were lined up, dark blue helmets and shiny leather boots glistening in the midday sun. In front of every twenty or so troopers stood officers carrying gilded batons and sabers. Choirs of retired veterans and their families sang a seemingly never-ending version of "When the Roll is Called up Yonder" as drummer boys kept the beat. Since the creation of the ORRA state in 1938, Steele had only visited once, and that was for the "Statehood Ceremony" in Falcon Point, where he officially designated the lower half of Magnum as Miskatonic, named after Patton's boyhood estate. The local cultures that had lived in the area had long since been wiped out, leaving a cultural wasteland perfect for ORRA to shape in its own image. The borders were entirely shut down, in a bid for weapons testing secrecy and occult security. The only way to get into or out of Miskatonic was to fly, enter one of four military-only Destiny Roads, or to steam in through Heaven's Gate and Bridger along the Bridger River that poured into what was formerly known as the Gulf of California (now known as the Bridger Gulf). It was perfect. It was exactly what Patton had always dreamed of creating.
Patton could thank Warren Harding for coming out of retirement. The former Sky Marshal was an expert of defensive fortifications. Harding claimed he could "stop Man, Beast, or Devil" with his techniques, and while the ORRA headquarters at Falcon Point were far from complete, what was finished so far was breathtaking. The phallic Castle Patton stood proudly erect in the desert wasteland, the sunshine glinting off its armored turrets. AA grinders were nestled in every corner, their barrels facing the cloudless blue sky. There were command centers, rooms filled with what would later be known as television sets hooked up to a crude video surveillance system. Grainy black and white screens showcased countless checkpoints and security stations and roadblocks. Dozens of officers sat in leather swivel chairs, their eyes constantly scanning for any treachery or spy activity.
Harding wasn't joking when he said that he could stop "Man, Beast, and Devil." An expert on the occult after Patton's own heart, Harding created many "Spiritual Laboratories," which were cavernous domed structures with astrological observatories incorporated into the roofs, warded with sigils and angelic symbols carved and painted onto the walls. They were inspired by the Tobias Institute in Pennsylvania, the beating heart of American occultism. The entire thing was essentially a member-measuring contest with the Institute, and Patton was going big or going home. This was all built in just the past few years. Given more time, Patton and Harding would sculpt a true temple of the occult unrivaled by even the Pyramids of Giza, another inspiration. It was here that Patton practiced the dark arts in a desperate bid for power, testicles, and functioning legs. It was here that Patton had been performing abominable acts as the Congo Dam began to flood central Africa, killing tens of thousands of people. For days, the crippled maniac had been hard at work, reciting incantations from the Vermis Mysteriis too blasphemous and disgusting to even describe.
He felt, he thought, true power blossoming within him. As the waters of the Atlantic swept away countless eons of history and innumerable lives, his legs twitched, his penis found itself erect for the first time in over a year. The Worm was within him, surely. Even now, as his ritualistic power increased, he had ordered his agents inside Mittelafrika to eliminate Charles Dexter Armitage, making Patton the Grandmaster of the Worm cult and its supreme acolyte. While he had not yet received word on whether or not the cultist had been terminated, he felt through the "energy fields" that Armitage was no more. Patton had begun massing troops at Falcon Point and at several other locations across the country, preparing for when The Worm told him to act, when the dark power behind everything gave him his legs back and told him to destroy the bacon-chomping asshole of a President he had served for all too long. He still considered Steele to be a friend of some degree, but the truth was that Joe was simply not mentally whole, a deranged paranoia Patton thought absent in himself. Every hour that passed, the ORRA Supreme Chief thought himself more powerful, richer in dark energy and more attuned to the abominable intonations that emerged from the darkest pits of the Hollow Earth, wherein The Worm slumbered for eons (or so he believed).
The fact that Steele was making a surprise visit didn't especially bother Patton. It was natural for the President to eventually show up and inspect the ongoing construction, and Steele likely also wanted to discuss the ongoing man-made disaster in Africa. As Patton stood on the reception platform, he felt a little tingle run up his leg. Sensation. A twitch. Truly, The Worm was with him. This would be the last time he ever saw Joe Steele on friendly terms, he thought. This was the last time for the dynamic duo to meet face-to-face. The next time Patton saw Steele, he expected it to be a photo of the dictator's bullet-riddled corpse. He smiled a wry, knowing smile as the cabin door of Atheling 1 swung open. Two Wolfpack goons popped out and winched the rolling staircase to the side of the plane. Moments later, Ryan Harvey Hendrick stepped out. Patton's smile became a scowl. He detested, nay, loathed that man. The bootlicking son of Yankee Doodle Telegraph and Telephone's CEO, Bruno James Hendrick, and grandson of Ser. Horatio Hendrick, the former Under-Secretary of MDP Affairs (14th in line to the Presidency). Mercifully, Horatio had passed of the same flu that had taken Patton's legs. Bruno was a needle-nosed, blonde toothpick who embodied the soft underbelly of American Better Society that Patton could not stand. The man was bookish, gaunt, and a weakling, and probably a fairy, too, Patton thought. He had been trying to eliminate the Hendrick family for years, as he feared their influence and thought of Ryan as a potential replacement, but that was before the Oswald boy became target number one. He could have had the Hendricks killed, but Ryan was a pet of the President, and it surely would not go well. Patton's smile returned when he imagined Ryan's corpse stretched out before him. Oh, how he could feel The Worm's promises tickle his ear. Soon, that dreadful family would be wiped out to the man.
As Harvey descended the steps in his dress blues, he waved in a friendly manner to Patton and advanced to the reception platform. Casually saluting as he ascended the steps, the thin man then greeted Patton with a firm handshake. "Supreme Chief! All hail! I trust Miskatonic weather sees you well?"
Patton's ever-plastic face slipped into a look of affection and warmth. "All hail! Yes, indeed, the sun is shining and we are blessed to live on this sacred soil."
"The air is a might bit thinner than Kissimmee!" Hendrick said with a laugh.
"Oh, yes, quite the change for you, I imagine!" Patton said lightly.
Actors. This man was no true ORRA man. He had gone soft in the star-filled swamps and beaches of Florida. Patton had seen combat face-to-face, he had gutted men with a buck knife and seen the light drain from their eyes. And Hendrick was a paper-pushing movie critic. In the late 1920s, Patton was fine with sending Colonel Hendrick to live out a life as censor in Florida as part of Operation Tinseldown. Since then, motion pictures had absolutely exploded in popularity. With the advent of sound in the debut of Viehmann Bros. "Pinnacle Youth," Kissimmee had become the cultural touchstone of the last generation, a generation forged, in part, by the handiwork of Ryan Harvey Hendrick. Hendrick even had his own unique rank, that of ORRA Chief Cultural Officer, and his own ORRA banner and elite force of bodyguards and loyalists. The man was not to be trusted. He was well known for betraying and ridding himself of colleagues, a practice which Patton secretly envied his skill in. Oh, well. Hendrick would soon be wormfood, too.
"His Excellency is most excited to see the progress here," Hendrick said as he took his place next to Patton. "You really have done wonders to the place. Hard to believe there was nothing here five years ago. Tell me, are there still non-ORRA communities or citizens within the state?" Patton begrudgingly offered Hendrick a cigar, which the young man rejected with a polite, "No thanks, I never smoke. Not good for my fluids, I think."
"The citizens of Miskatonic were all afforded new living spaces in Pacifica and Magnum. This land is ours, comrade-patriot. The only remaining private communities outside of military barracks are the estates of retired ORRA officers and their families. This is a grand experiment, as our official mission statement expresses, to blast ahead full-steam toward the Pinnacle Future. We will breed super soldiers here, and it is here that they shall live out their twilight years, reaping their just rewards, Hendrick."
Next to slowly disembark the plane were several more bootlickers in Steele's wolf-themed entourage. Next, Chuck Oswald and his soon-to-be brother-in-law, Marcus Aurelius Arkham Custer-Steele, briskly jaunted down the steps, apparently in the middle of some light conversation. They threw stiff-arm salutes to Patton and Hendrick and a bevy of greetings and small-talk was exchanged. Chuck looked tanned, fit, and ready for anything in his white Navy dress uniform, peaked cap under his arm, the warm Miskatonic wind blowing his bushy head of hair. Marcus looked... like Marcus. He had never been anything incredible to look at, and he looked awkward in a suit, in combat fatigues, and in the olive drab, mandarin-collared dress tunic he currently sported. He was essentially the Prince of America, but no one seemed to care about him. Patton was glad that at least he had nothing to fear from that particular genetic deficient.
At long last, after nearly twenty minutes, President Steele himself exited the plane, waving and saluting to all the gathered troops. His thick black hair was plastered back in his typical style, and his mustache looked freshly-dyed. He was sporting his typical blue mandarin tunic with a light helping of gold trim. A red-and-white striped MDP band was wrapped around his left arm and he checked a gold pocket watch for a moment as he ascended to the platform. Finally, he saluted Patton and boomed, "My right hand! Bully to see you, George. I trust you've been well. You look like this desert weather is helping you!"
"Ah, yes, desert weather, for sure. And a lot of fervent prayers, by damn! It is an honor to see you, Mr. President, and it is our honor to have you visit Falcon Point. I trust your flight was fine?"
Steele smiled and slapped Patton on the shoulder. Joe seemed abnormally happy and outgoing. It had been years since he had seemed so youthful. "It was grand! Lovely skies all the way. It's always such a sight to behold the entirety of our empire from the air. To see all the land that Jev has given us. It seems like it never ends! And when we achieve the Final Victory in the southlands, we will have to take a flight together to see what we have been blessed with in its entirety."
"I look forward to the day," Patton lied, checking to see if his uniform now sported a grease stain thanks to Joe's porcine pocketry habit. What he really looked forward to was the Age of Helter Skelter, when The Worm would destroy this pathetic Christian empire and replace it with one of Pinnacle Chaos. "I have the men rallied, as per your orders, sir. Do you wish to address them or should we tour the base?"
Steele smiled again, his teeth slightly discolored from a lifetime of coffee consumption. "I will address them! I have been looking forward to this. Tell them to turn the microphone at the podium on."
Patton nodded and motioned for it to be done. Several ORRA officers hooked up some wires and gave a thumbs up and scurried away. Two Wolfpack goons checked the podium over and adjusted the microphone height to exactly the height which Steele always utilized. Steele's paranoia was clearly getting worse, Patton believed. Perhaps his jolly, almost youthful demeanor today was simply a mask for insanity. Patton mentally shrugged. He wouldn't have to put up with it much longer, at any rate. After a quick mike check, the President took to the podium. Instantly, the several hundred ORRA men gathered stretched out their arms in salute, their banners and sabers dipping in respect. Only the Star-Spangled Banner flew high, the whole scene looking like something from one of Hendrick's propaganda flicks.
"Men of the Office of Racial and Religious Affairs!" Steele cried out. "All hail!" He stretched out his arm in salute and clicked his heels. Then, he truly began to speak. "Thank you for the warm welcome. I know this is spur of the moment and a surprise visit, but I'm pleased I did not catch you off-guard. You look resplendent, as does Falcon Point! I wish to thank my friend, Supreme Chief George Patton, for arranging such a lovely inspection. An ORRA man is always looking sharp. Especially with a war on, it's important to maintain appearances and keep a stiff upper lip. We are the best this world has to offer. We are Jev's Chosen! We are the Face of American Exceptionalism! All hail!"
"ALL HAIL!" came the deafening cry of the blue throngs.
"Indeed," Steele continued, "We are forging ahead in Miskatonic, forging ahead toward the blinding bright future of the New Jerusalem. This state is one of the heartbeats of this country, and one of the most important strategic assets in its arsenal! It is vital to have such fine, upstanding gentlemen here to further our already overwhelming successes. War could not be won without bullets. It could not be won without guns and trucks and landships and planes. And it could not be won without ORRA. However, I am not here today to pat you on the back. I am not here to praise you. I am not here to celebrate you."
Patton's stony face dropped, just a bit. Sweat began to pool under his blue pot helmet. What the hell was this madman on about?
"I am here, in this veritable Garden of Gethsemane, for one purpose!" Steele cried out, raising his right pointer finger to the sky and leaning forward, his mustache grazing the microphone with a bristly, harsh crackle. "Like Christ in the Garden kissed the traitor Judas, I am here to unveil a sinister plot to undermine everything ORRA and America stands for! I am here to reveal to you that the forces of Satan are not only present within our ranks, but within the highest echelons of power. These blood-sucking goblins nest themselves into our society. They whisper dreadful things in the darkness. They seek to spread anarchy and chaos in our fair America! I have come to exorcise these demons! Behold, gentlemen! The Black Goat within our Godly pasture!"
His heart pumping nearly out of his chest, Patton felt himself almost ready to black out. As sweat began to sting his eyes, he felt hands go underneath his arms, grabbing him firmly. His baton slipped to the floor. Over his left shoulder was Hendrick, and to his right was Oswald. Absolute panic gripped every part of his soul for the first time since he woke up unable to walk so many years before. He gazed out in horror at the stunned faces of his ORRA troops, their eyes wide in shock and fear. They all seemed to be boring into Patton's soul, trying to figure out what their longtime leader had done that was so despicable. "I... I don't know what's going on here!" Patton screamed, unable to move thanks to his two vice-like captors.
"Oh! But I think you do!" said Steele, slamming the podium. "Gentlemen! We are faced with an insidious plot from within! The tendrils of an heretical, antichrist movement have infiltrated the highest levels of power. Chief among sinners is none other than my right-hand, Supreme Chief Patton! This shadowy cabal of sorcerers is, at this moment, plotting an overthrow of Western Civilization. They are not Beutelists! They are not Illuminists! They are not even Papists! They worship a being they call... The Worm."
Tears were rolling down Patton's cheeks along with the sweat. He was right on the cusp of total victory! Who could have possibly unearthed his schemes?
Steele took the microphone from the podium and walked over to Patton with it, a dark smile on his face. "Behold! The Judas Antichrist! The self-proclaimed Grandmaster of The Worm! You want to know how I found out, Patton? You want to know how the blue blazes I figured out your master plan?" Patton murmured something intelligible before Steele continued. "The truth is, the game was rigged from the start. Yes! You had everything, and you had nothing. Did you really think I wouldn't keep tabs on a small-scale operation in Africa, just because I am busy with South America? Your contacts in Mittelafrika? Mine. Standard Leader Jones sends his regards. I knew every single movement you made. I know when you take a shit, do you really think that any report you have doesn't pass through my hands? Jones was mine. Most of your 'Candyasses' were mine. Carver? Mine. Wolff Sauer? Mine. Your reports are all bullshit, you know. Sauer is alive! But that's too personal for now. We have to explain to the boys here just what your plan was!"
Steele paced back and forth like an evangelist, informing the troops gathered before him via screams and fits of rage, describing to them despicable acts of dark magic and the entire history of the cult. Fire burned in his eyes, his voice echoed across the silent base. Security officers in the television monitoring stations sat stunned, mouth agape, as President Steele warned them about a plot to utilize mass deaths as sacrifice to The Worm, this entity that apparently Patton was obsessed with. A member of the Wolfpack took over several points so that Hendrick's hands could be freed to read from copies of top secret letters and reports straight from Patton's safe. It reminded Patton of the Yankee Stadium Purge, when he himself had read from the scroll of the damned and announced which business executives were enemies of the state, reading their death sentences. Only instead of a stadium full of victims, it was just Patton.
"Comrade-Patriots!" Hendrick roared, "We have before us a sick, sick creature! This excuse for a man, this crippled Tamerlane, this genetically deficient Satanist, wished to overthrow the government of the Republican Union with the powers and demons of Hell itself! And he thought that you would go along with it! That you would help, even, in the sacking of our fair capital! What the fuck do we say to the Satanist?!"
"DEATH! DEATH! DEATH!" chanted the massed ORRA troops, pumping their fists in the air in unison, adrenaline surging through them as they were whipped into a frenzy.
"That's right!" shouted Hendrick. "My grandfather, Ser. Horatio Hendrick, once reminded me the wages of sin are death. Only through death can we purify our nation of this Luciferian infection! These international mongoloids will rape our women! Deflower our youth! Sacrifice our babies! They will set back the New Jerusalem eons, and they will bring about the reign of the Antichrist... or so they thought. They thought this could actually topple President Steele and Jehovah Himself! The disasters we have faced, in particular the Sootstorms, were not the work of addled scientific calculations or a freak of nature! The Wormfuckers planned for them, seeking to bring death and destruction in the name of their 'god' and to give themselves sick, supernatural power! The debauched insolence of this gut punch to our Union and Faith will not go unpunished. Death is the only cure for this ailment! Death to the apostates! Death to the bringers of the Sootstorms! Death to the heretics! Death!"
"DEATH! DEATH! DEATH!" the ORRA boys chanted again as if their lives very much depended on it.
Hendrick finished his spiel and then handed the microphone back to President Steele. Steele spat in Patton's face. "Chief among sinners! I have had nightmares about your sorcery for months, years. I have been warned by God this would happen. I knew betrayal was coming, a test of my faith and belief in Jehovah. I trusted in Him to reveal my enemies, and reveal them He did. Praise be." Steele turned the microphone off for a moment and bent down to face Patton, so close his spittle could be felt with every syllable. "George, you wanna know why I chose you?"
Patton murmured something incoherent again.
"It's because I knew no one would choose a fucking cripple over me. It's because your legs don't work, and neither does your cock. All those experiments and procedures were all greenlit by me to keep you busy. It was quite amusing, watching you scurry all over Creation in search of a cure for your pathetic problems. There is no cure. The doctors kept me abreast of your situations, and you never 'stood' a chance at walking again. While I chased treachery through our ranks and followed the strings of clues to their logical ends, it of course ended with you. I never trusted you. But I knew the people would always reject you. I knew I needed to keep an eye on you. I keep an eye on everything and everyone. I know all. I see all. Every time you wet your bed or soil yourself, I know about it. Hell, I might even have pictures. You were never going to be President, George. If I had passed in any circumstance, my Wolfpack had orders to terminate you. Steele's sweaty, bacon-smelling hand reached out stroked the side of Patton's face. Steele was so close their noses were touching. "Because I trust no one. Not even myself, George. And I sure as fuck never trusted you to be anything but an incompetent, stunted cripple. It's been a long time, George. It's been decades together. But, as they say in the picture shows, it's time to pay the piper, George. Say hello to the Devil for me. And tell him to fucking try harder next time."
As George Patton finally accepted that he was about to die, he noticed buzzards flying in the sky. He felt the warm breeze rush over his face. He felt the tears run dry. The Worm had failed him. There was no Helter Skelter. There was no glorious march on Philadelphia. There was only himself and a rendezvous with death. Was The Worm real? Perhaps this Christian Jehovah really was in charge? Or had The Worm failed him? Was he, as Steele said over and over now, a punchline? Was he just the toy of an uncaring, unfeeling deity? Or maybe there was nothing but the Void, ready to take his spirit into eternal nothingness. As Charles Oswald ripped the medals and decorations from the Supreme Chief's uniform, Steele picked up Patton's baton and raised it to the sky. With a flick of the switch, the microphone was back on. "Gentlemen of ORRA! Witness the death of a traitor!"
With that, he shoved the baton into Oswald's hands. Steele gave him an icy stare, and then a nod. It was time. Oswald firmly gripped the baton, gold with red-white-and blue designs and a golden bald eagle at the tip of its shaft, and Patton felt his building acceptance of fate flutter away like the vultures overhead. Surely he would be beaten to death by Oswald with his own baton. "For Christ's sakes, just fucking shoot me! Don't beat me to death like a fucking animal, Oswald!" Patton cried, sobbing anew.
Oswald laughed and showed an evil, toothy smile. "I'm not going to beat you to death, traitor. I am not getting blood on my dress whites. No, my future father-in-law wants me to make an example of you this country will never forget, Patton. Your death will go down as truly extraordinary and befitting a man of your rank."
What followed was shattered teeth, a broken jaw, and the baton of the Supreme Chief being shoved down Patton's mouth and throat. Some of the throngs of onlooking ORRA men had to turn away in horror at the sight. There was George Patton, the second most-powerful man in America, with a baton fatally shoved down his throat, his body unnaturally contorted because of his leg braces, the backs of his hands touching the soles of his boots like stiff death puppet. The bald eagle and the tip of the baton still were shining in the sunlight.
The first cheer broke the silence as Steele spoke again. "Death always to traitors!" The crowd of soldiers went nuts. They cheered "DEATH TO TRAITORS!" for the next ten minutes. Steele smiled when he imagined all the roundups currently happening across the country. Thousands of Patton loyalists were being cuffed, beaten, and shot at this very moment. It would make the Yankee Stadium affair look like child's play. They could explain the Sootstorms, finally even talk about them, as a menace brought on by a cabal of Satanic cultists. Virtually every setback in South America could be seen as a Worm cult attempt at maximizing deaths and sacrifice. In the face of such a demoralizing war, one that had not been going where the War Room had wanted it, Patton's treachery was a gift. Now, more than ever, the people would unite around the war effort. It was no longer a war of Pinnacle Men versus Inferior hordes. It was a war against all that was evil in the world. A true Armageddon, and one in which there could only be victory or death.
Oswald grabbed hold of the baton once more and drew the bloody rod out and held it aloft.
"Gentlemen!" shouted Steele. "The Antichrist is slain! I give you the new Supreme Chief! Charles Oswald! All hail!"
"OSWALD! OSWALD! OSWALD! OSWALD! OSWALD! OSWALD!"
The choir began again. Oswald smiled and waved the baton like a conductor's wand.
"When the trumpet of the Lord shall sound and Time shall be no more,
And the morning breaks Eternal bright and fair!
When the Pinnacle shall gather over on the other shore,
And the roll is called up yonder, I'll be there!
"When the roll is called up yonder!
When the roll is called up yonder!
When the roll is called up yonder!
When the roll is called up yonder, I'll be there!"
