James Axler – Stoneface

“How many people did his family chill?” Ryan asked.

“God knows. There were a lot of unsolved murders they were suspected of, but Manson mainly targeted people he considered pigs.”

“Pigs?” J.B. echoed.

“Pigs. That was his word for the upper class. The wealthy, the famous, the people who had the power in predark days.” Mildred’s eyes narrowed. “I believe the term ‘creepy-crawl,’ which is used so much in Deathlands, was derived from a family practice.”

“Manson came along at the right time, or the wrong time, depending on your point of view. The period of history he walked through was a time of cultural experimentationfree love, spiritual liberation, drug use and a half-baked religiosity were all tenets of the so-called hippie movement.”

Doc cleared his throat. “I remember reading about it. The movement seemed exceptionally natural and idyllic, and along came Charles Manson and his family, living what appeared to be the typical hippie life out on a ranch near Los Angeles. It was a communal life-style, and Manson espoused his own cockamamy religion. His followers called him either God, Jesus or Man’s Son. They believed he was the new messiah, the modern reincarnation of Christ. He reached the point where he believed it himself.”

Mildred nodded. “There was more to it than that, of course. Manson specialized in creating zombie-minded followers. His family had degrees of initiation, indoctrination techniques using isolation, hypnosis, drugs and discipleship to create a web to ensnare innocents.”

“As I recall,” Doc said, “Manson believed that all people were part of one vast mystical whole, so there was really no such thing as death, and murder wasn’t really a sin.”

Ryan shrugged. “I’ve run across crazier beliefs than that.”

“Maybe,” Mildred said. “But one of Manson’s articles of faith was that a popular British musical group were prophets, and if you listened very carefully to their songs, particularly one called ‘Helter Skelter,’ you could hear exactly what was going to happen in the not too distant future.”

“Which was?” Krysty inquired.

“An apocalypse that would start when all black people rose up and killed all white people, except for Manson and his followers, who would emerge at the end of the battle to rule the world. As the story goes, after a few years, once the victorious blacks found they were unable to govern, they’d turn the reins of power over to him. The world he used to describe as coming to pass is very much like this one.”

“Sounds like Helter Skelter had something for everybody,” Krysty said with a wry smile. “Racist fantasies, violence-prone crazies, plunderers, rapists.”

“Yes,” Doc agreed dolefully. “Truly a dream world for ambulatory sociopaths. Every type of insanity could be indulged and encouraged in the land of Helter Skelter.”

“Helter Skelter,” Ryan repeated. “That was the name of Baron Zapp’s tower stronghold in Greenglades, down in Florida.”

“And don’t forget that coldheart killer, Traven,” J.B. reminded him. “Thinking about it, seems like he borrowed a lot from this Manson.” Turning to Mildred, he demanded, “Why didn’t you mention this stuff then?”

“Partly because the connection wasn’t as obvious as this one. Besides, a Helter Skelter is a kind of slide in English amusement parks, and since we were in an amusement park, I didn’t put the pieces together.”

“The apocalypse didn’t happen exactly the way Manson hoped it would,” Doc said, returning to the subject at hand.

“No,” Mildred replied. “So he tried to help it along by killing as many people as he could, or having his zombie family members do it. Manson would say, ‘Helter Skelter is coming down’ or ‘now is the time for Helter Skelter.’ When he made that proclamation, his family went out and butchered people. Some were strangled, hanged, disemboweled or shot. Or all three. They painted the words Helter Skelter on the walls in the victims’ own blood.”

Ryan shook his head in disgust. “Even if those chillings brought about the war he wanted, how did Manson figure that he wouldn’t be wiped out, too?”

Before Mildred could answer, a man wearing a sleeveless leather jacket sitting astride a chopped-down motorcycle roared in a dust-spurting circle around them, his toothless mouth grinning lasciviously at Krysty. Her hair stirred and snapped tight to her nape, and her right hand eased down to caress the butt of the .38-caliber Smith amp; Wesson 640 holstered at her hip.