Hatred in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  “Oh, God, I wish I could, Ben. I’ve got a solid wall of meetings scheduled for the remainder of this week, and for all next week.”

  “That’s right. I forgot. The governors and mayors and Home Guard commanders are coming in. Well, have fun, Cece. I’ll think about you.”

  “I’m sure you will, Ben. Every waking moment. Have fun. Now get out of here. I’ve got more meetings to referee.”

  “I’m gone, Cece.”

  Ben’s team—Jersey, Beth, Cooper, Corrie, and Anna—were waiting for him in the parking lot. Ben’s personal, special built, armored vehicle had not yet made it back by ship from Africa. Cooper was driving Ben and the team around in a van.

  “You people all geared up for our trip?” Ben asked.

  “Sittin’ on ready, Boss,” Jersey answered for the team. “Where is this place?”

  “On the border of West Texas and New Mexico, Jersey.” Ben paused and looked at his team. “All of you pack survival bags in case of trouble. Including a couple of full canteens.”

  “You mean in case of a plane crash, Boss?” Cooper asked.

  “In case we have to jump, Coop. That’s wild country out there.”

  Jersey grimaced and rolled her eyes at just the thought. Jumping was not on her list of favorite things to do. “Gangs operating out there, Boss? Hell, there’s nothing there!”

  She was right about there being nothing there. The area south of I-10 and west from Highway 385, all the way over and down to the Mexican border, was deserted.

  “Some of the punks we ran out of the cities settled in that area,” Ben replied. “They sometimes raid into Mexico, and otherwise live off of the cattle that are running wild in extreme southwest Texas now. So far, they haven’t given any of our military people very much trouble. They almost always hide when patrols come into the area.”

  “The towns out there, Daddy Ben?” Anna asked.

  “Almost completely deserted. What residents were left moved east a long time ago.”

  “What’s the number of punks out there, Boss?” Beth asked.

  “Several thousand, at least. That’s just a guess. We’ll clean it out one of these days . . . if this civil war we’re facing doesn’t destroy everything we’ve built over the years.”

  “And it might?” Anna asked.

  “It might, Baby. It just might. There might not be a USA or a SUSA when it’s over.”

  The plane, a twin-engine prop cargo plane, roared its way west. It was a bumpy ride and getting bumpier. Cooper was moaning about getting ready to die from being airsick, and Jersey was urging him to go ahead and croak; she was tired of listening to him complain.

  The pilot kept trying to find an altitude that wouldn’t rattle everyone’s teeth, and kept flying lower. Ben carefully made his way to the cockpit.

  “Sorry about this, General,” the pilot said, raising his voice to be heard over the violent hammering the plane was taking. “But we’re running into one hell of a storm. And it’s getting worse. Heading north is out of the question. I’m going to head southwest for about a hundred miles and then cut north, approach the base that way. I think it’ll be a smoother flight.”

  “You’re the boss. Just keep me informed.”

  “Will do, sir. Sir? Everybody’d better get in their ‘chutes. . . just in case.”

  Ben nodded his understanding and returned to his seat, ordering each team member into parachutes on his way. He buckled himself in, too. This was just about the roughest flight he could remember. They roared and slammed and hammered their way south.

  Jersey had stopped needling Cooper and was looking a little worse for wear herself.

  Ben heard the left engine falter and cough, then an explosion.

  “What the hell was that?” Cooper shouted, looking around, wide-eyed.

  “Left engine, Coop,” Jersey told him. She looked out the window and paled. “It’s on fire!”

  “Shit!” Ben muttered.

  The pilot worked frantically for a few seconds to extinguish the flames, but for some reason, which would probably never be known, he could not. He grabbed his mike and shouted, “Everybody out! We’re going down!”

  “Move!” Ben shouted to his team. “Grab your gear and get out of here!”

  Ben literally tossed Jersey out the door and physically shoved the others out. He made his way back to the cockpit and shouted to the crew, “Get your asses out of here, people, before that wing blows!”

  “After you, General,” the pilot said. “With all due respect, sir, will you please get the fuck out of here?”

  “I’m gone,” Ben said, and made his way to the door. He stepped out into nothing, remembering the old line from jump school: “That first step is a son of a bitch.” He did not have time to see if the crew made it out. The winds were tossing him all over the place. He got his chute opened, and the canopy filled with air. He could not see any of the others.

  There was a brilliant flash in the sky ahead and above him, and Ben knew the plane had exploded. He fought his chute; the winds were carrying him fast, first in one direction and then the other. Ben was afraid his shroud cords would get twisted and tangled, but he didn’t have much time to worry about that. The ground was coming up fast—what he could see of it. The storm was blowing dirt and sand all over the place, limiting vision.

  Ben hit the ground hard and was dragged for some distance, being bruised and bounced over rocks. He finally got to his feet and managed to get his chute collapsed; he was cut and bleeding in a dozen places, but he was alive.

  He couldn’t see more than fifty feet in any direction because of the blowing sand and dirt and debris. He staggered on until coming to an upthrusting of huge rocks. He slipped into nature’s circling of stone and squatted down, hoping he would not meet a rattlesnake. He didn’t, and the rocks afforded him some protection from the howling winds. He waited.

  Gradually, the storm blew itself out and the winds calmed. Ben cautiously stepped out of the rocks and looked around. Wild country. The sky was dark with ominous looking clouds, and Ben was unsure of the directions. He opened his equipment pack and checked his CAR and then his compass. He was facing west, and what appeared to be mountains loomed some distance away. There were several mountain ranges in this part of Texas, and he was not sure what range he was looking at.

  “Well,” he said, “I can’t just stand here waiting and hoping somebody will come along.”

  He took a sip of water from his canteen and started walking toward the mountains. The sky was beginning to clear from the west. He walked for about half an hour until he stumbled onto an old dirt road.

  “It’s got to lead somewhere,” he muttered, and began following the old road.

  The storm had produced very high winds but not much rain, and Ben’s boots kicked up pockets of dust as he walked along. He hoped the clouds would stick around, for it was summer and this was dry country . . . nothing like the Sahara Desert, but damn sure desert enough.

  Ben walked on, taking his time, for it was hot, and his BDUs were already damp from the sweat. After about an hour of walking, he reached a paved road that ran north and south. He tried to visualize a highway map of west Texas, but since there were no highway markers he really had no idea where he was or what was to his right or left.

  “Hell with it,” Ben said, and started walking toward the north. He thought he could see mountains far ahead of him, but again, because of the clouds and gloominess, he couldn’t be sure of that.

  One thing he could be sure of was that it was damn hot, and he knew he had to conserve his water.

  Another hour of walking and he came to a twisted and almost unreadable road sign. He could just make out the lettering: FORT DAVIS 10.

  He tried to recall what he knew, if anything, about Fort Davis, and quickly gave that up. He could not remember anything about the place except that it was some sort of historical site and that there was, or had been, some sort of huge observatory close by. He couldn’t recall the name of that, eith
er. Well, he thought, I’ll know in a few hours, I suppose.

  He walked on.

  An hour later he had put some distance behind him and had not seen any signs of human habitation; no smoke, nothing. But Ben knew that if any of the town was left there would more than likely be some gang members living there . . . existing there might be a better way of putting it. Knowing how punks operated, he figured they would probably be holding slaves, men and women and kids—more women and young girls than men—they had taken captive in some of their raids.

  Then Ben heard the very faint sounds of engines. He looked around him. There was no place to hide. He was out in the open, exposed.

  Then he realized the engine sounds did not appear to be getting any closer. He spotted the dust from the vehicles off to the east—more than one vehicle, traveling north to south at a pretty good clip. He rummaged around in his rucksack and found his compact but very powerful binoculars and scanned the terrain off to his right until he picked up the vehicles. Dune buggies, at least six of them. Looked like two men per vehicle. Ben stepped off the road and into the shallow ditch. He squatted down, out of the line of sight of the occupants of the dune buggies, and stayed there until the engine sounds had faded away.

  He stepped out of the ditch and away from the road. He would have to stay off the road and in the scrub brush from now on until he reached the town . . . what was left of it. He wasn’t sure what he could do if the town was full of punks. He had a full magazine in the belly of his CAR, and two extra magazines in his emergency pack. He had a full magazine in his sidearm and two extra magazines in a pouch on his web belt. And he had his knife.

  He had emergency rations for several days—if he was sparing with them—and two canteens of water, one of them about two-thirds full. He had a small container of water purification pills, a tiny first aid kit, and two extra pairs of socks . . . and that was about it.

  He knew he had jumped with a small walkie-talkie, but that had been lost somewhere along the way, probably when he was dangling several thousand feet in the air. Maybe it had been jarred out when his chute had opened. Hell, he didn’t know. He just knew it was gone, and there sure wasn’t any point in worrying about it now.

  He walked on.

  Ben had been in much worse spots and survived; he wasn’t particularly worried about his current situation . . . or really about the gang members in the area. He was much more concerned about the fate of his team . . . and Anna. He thought he had seen all their chutes open, but he couldn’t be sure. Where the winds had taken them was quite another matter. They could have landed several miles apart.

  Another hour of walking put Ben in sight of the tiny town of Fort Davis. He squatted down and rested while he studied the town through his binoculars.

  He could see no signs of life, and no signs of smoke from cook fires.

  Ben clicked his CAR off safety and rose from his squatting position.

  “Let’s do it,” he muttered, and headed for the tiny town.

  Five

  Ben slowly worked his way close to the seemingly deserted town, utilizing what sparse cover nature provided. That was a great deal more than first met the eye, for in the years since the Great War hardy scrub brush had flourished on both sides of the road.

  Ben made his way to the rear wall of a building on the edge of town and squatted down. He took a sip of water and caught his breath; the heat of West Texas could quickly drain a person not accustomed to it.

  The windows in the small building he was crouched behind had all been smashed years before, and Ben could tell by the utter silence that no one was inside the structure. Still, to stay on the cautious side he waited for a few moments before standing up and looking inside.

  The interior looked as though a bunch of hogs had taken up residence, the floor covered with trash. Ben slipped inside, kicking at the debris to check for rattlers. He looked out a window that faced the town . . . or rather, what was left of the town. Ben thought he had come through Fort Davis, some years back. He just couldn’t be sure. He had traveled through, passed by, or fought in hundreds of towns all over America, and in dozens of countries.

  Ben looked around the room, checking to see if there was anything he might be able to use. There was nothing but filth and trash, that he could see, and he was not about to grub around on the floor checking any further.

  He stood by the window for several moments, staring out at the town. No movement, no smoke, no sound except for the faint whispering of the wind.

  The town was deserted.

  Ben slipped out of the trashed interior and made his way up the street, keeping to the rear of the buildings. He inspected each building that had not been gutted by fire, entering through the back. The old hotel was only a burned-out shell. Indeed, most of the buildings in the small town had been destroyed.

  Ben prowled around for an hour, looking for anything he might be able to use. He found a one quart military-type canteen in a pile of rubble, and with a cord he found in the same pile he fashioned a sling and moved on. He thought he remembered a creek close by; he’d wash the canteen out there and refill his own, for one was nearly empty. In this heat, a person needed to drink lots of water.

  There were several dozen old cars and trucks in the deserted town, all of them stripped, rusted old hulks. Several of the vehicles had the motors missing . . . everything that could be used had been taken from them. Ben ceased his prowling and sat down in the shade of a wall. There was nothing useable left in the town. Ben rested for a few minutes, rolling a cigarette and smoking it while sitting in the shade. Since the Great War and the collapse, Ben had been rolling his own.

  Ben began thinking about food. He had enough emergency rations for a couple of days, but he would save those for harder times. There were cattle all over West Texas, descendants of the many herds that had flourished on ranches before the Great War, but the number had lessened as he had approached the town. He figured the punks had been living off the cattle, and the cattle had grown wiser over the years and now stayed away from the old town. The cattle were now wild, and very wary of humans. He would kill a cow later on, he decided, and have a steak for supper.

  Ben moved on until he located the creek and carefully washed out the canteen he’d found. Then he filled it and the canteen that was almost empty and dropped in a couple of purification tabs. He washed his face in the cold water and felt better.

  Ben visualized a map of Texas. Several towns were located to the south, each about thirty miles away. I-10 was to the north, about thirty or so miles. The area from Fort Stockton west to the Mexican border was wild country, inhabitated by gangs of punks and Mexican bandits . . . and Ben was right in the middle of it—alone.

  The crew had radioed their position a couple of minutes before Ben’s team had jumped. Ben had jumped about three minutes later. The plane had just begun a slow turn to the north when the engine blew. That would have put them between the Davis Mountains and Old Highway 90, Ben thought, but it was miles west of his present position. He figured his team would head east toward settled country once they got together. Knowing how efficient Beth was, she would be sure to have a map with her.

  Ben was in a jam, and knew it, but was not particularly worried about it. There were gangs of hard core criminals operating all over this area, and they had vehicles. Ben would ambush a punk and take his transportation when the opportunity presented itself.

  He had seen no signs of any recent visitation by humans in his present location, so where the hell were the gangs living? To the south of his position, probably, in the two towns about thirty miles away. But the dune buggies he had spotted earlier had been coming from the north . . . where had they been? There was no indication they had been here, so then where?

  “Prowling around, I guess,” Ben muttered. “Maybe looking for the plane that went down.”

  Ben checked his emergency pack. He had a lighter and a small box of all-weather matches. No worries there. He rose to his boots. He was getting hung
ry, and it was past mid-afternoon; time to look for supper and then a place to hole up for the night and cook his steak.

  Ben had started out in search of cattle when he heard the faint sounds of voices. He quickly moved away from the creek and into some scrub brush nearby. He waited, his CAR ready to bang. The voices drew closer, the words now distinguishable.

  “I know damn well I seen somebody.”

  “And I know damn well you didn’t,” a second voice contradicted in an irritable tone. “Who the hell could it be? Don’t nobody ever come up here no more. Man, this place has been picked over clean dozens of times. There ain’t nothing left to take that’s worth a shit for nothin’.”

  “I don’t give a damn ’bout that. I seen somebody, Billy. I know I did.”

  “We bes’ be worryin’ ’bout fixin’ our buggy and gettin’ the hell out of here. Man, we got a long ways to go.”

  “That buggy could be a problem fixin’. We might gonna have to walk outta here, man. Unless just bad gas is all it is.”

  “All the way back to Marfa? You’re crazy as a goddamn road lizard. Shit, that’s damn near thirty miles. Walk? Fuck you. I ain’t walkin’ no thirty miles.”

  “Well if we can’t fix the buggy, how’d you think we’re gonna get back—flap our arms and fly, you asshole?”

  Ben knelt in the brush and listened to the gang members argue back and forth. It was not a serious argument, probably something the two did often.

  Ben tried to pinpoint their location, but could not stand up for fear of being spotted. He could not see through the brush . . . all he could do was guess at the distance and location, and that was not good enough to chance a shot.

  “Billy, why don’t you just rear back and pucker up and kiss my ass?”

  “Sonny, you mark the spot, ’cause you look like all ass to me.”

  Both men started laughing and moved closer to Ben.

  “I sure hope that movement I seen was a woman,” Sonny said. “I could use me some pussy.”