Chaos in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  “We’re not here to bother you,” Ben tried to assure them. “We’re here to bring you up to date on your shots, to see if we can be of any assistance, and then we’ll move on.”

  “We don’t care for your form of government,” the spokesperson told him. “We want no part of it.”

  “We’re not here to force our philosophy on you,” Ben told him. “We’re here to offer medical treatment, help in fixing up your community, setting up a communications link to the outside—things of that nature.”

  But the townspeople weren’t buying that . . . at least not at first. They were suspicious and very wary of the Rebels. In their minds, the Rebels were just too well-fed and healthy, their equipment first-rate.

  After a few more moments of decidedly one-sided conversation, Ben came within a breath of telling the local to go get screwed. Then he got his temper under some degree of control and stared at the man for a moment.

  “Mister, let me tell you something. I really don’t want to be roaming all over America, trying to pull this country back together. That is something you people should be doing. You people don’t even like the Rebel form of government. But yet, here we are, trying to help, and all we’re getting from you is guff. Mister, in our society, people help people. Maybe you don’t feel that way—if that’s the case, I’m sorry for you—but helping each other is the Rebel way.”

  The local stared at Ben for a few seconds. Shook his head. When he spoke, his tone was softer. “It’s nice of you folks to come all the way up here to lend us a hand. I’ll get the people together, General. It’s been a long time since any of us had a real doctor look at us.”

  Had the Rebels stayed longer, the people might have really warmed up to them. But the Rebels didn’t have the time. They did what they could to help, then moved on, pushing further and further north.

  The Rebels strung telephone wire, got water and sewerage systems working. For the first time in a long time, they were more teacher than soldier, friend rather than warrior. They hit no resistance as they moved north. Ike reported that the dead city of Milwaukee had held few gangs and no creeps.

  “Hell, Ben,” Ike radioed. “It’s boring!”

  “Where have the punks and the gangs gone?” Ben asked Mike Richards one late afternoon.

  The chief of Rebel intelligence shook his head. “I don’t know, Ben. But you can bet they didn’t change their spots overnight.”

  “Is it possible they slipped across the river into Simon Border’s territory?”

  “I think some of them did, yes. We talked about this earlier. My personal opinion is that they’ve broken up into small groups and just faded into the landscape. They’ve finally gotten it through their heads they don’t have a chance meeting us head-on. Every time they try that, we crush them like bugs.”

  “All right, fine. I’ll accept that. But what about the rabble—for want of a better word, and there must be one—that we chased out of the SUSA? What the hell happened to them? There were thousands of them.”

  “You want a personal opinion, Ben? One that has no proof behind it?”

  “Might as well.”

  “I think the Rebels scared the living shit out of them. I think when they saw that we would shoot to kill, they finally saw the light, so to speak. I believe many of them have found a spot to roost and settled in.”

  After Mike had left, Ben sat for a long time, deep in thought. If what Mike said was true, and Ben had no reason to doubt it, the Rebels were, for the most part, through with their purge of the states east of the Mississippi—with the exception of the far northeast part of the country.

  It was a strange feeling.

  Corrie broke into his thoughts. “Boss, there is someone here to see you.”

  Ben looked up. “Who is it?”

  “Some man by the name of Paul Altman.”

  “Senator Paul Altman?”

  Corrie shrugged her shoulders. “I guess. Who is that?”

  “A moderate Democrat, if you can believe it. I thought he was dead.”

  Corrie smiled. “He looks alive to me.”

  “Show him in, Corrie.”

  It was Paul Altman. Older, grayer, but then, Ben thought, so were they all.

  Ben shook hands with the man and waved him to a chair. Beth brought in coffee and the senator from Michigan—or the ex-senator from what had once been Michigan—accepted it gratefully.

  “Real coffee,” Altman said. “It’s been a long time.”

  “I thought you were dead, Senator. You haven’t surfaced in years.”

  Paul took a sip of coffee and sighed contentedly. “When I saw the group that Homer was putting together a couple of years back, I decided to stay out of sight. That was the biggest pack of nitwits ever to assemble in one spot.”

  Ben smiled. “I will certainly agree with that without reservation.”

  Paul smiled and took another sip of coffee. “So now the Rebels are on the move, claiming everything in sight?”

  “Not a chance, Senator. No way.”

  Paul’s eyes widened in surprise. “Then . . . ?” He let that trail off.

  “The Rebels are going state to state, doing what needs to be done to prop up the people, and doing it as best we can with what we have. Simon Border has claimed nearly all the states west of the Mississippi River. The Rebels control the SUSA. The rest of the states are up for grabs. We don’t want them, Senator.”

  The senator cocked his head to one side and gave Ben a very curious look.

  “We don’t want them, Senator,” Ben repeated.

  “Then what happens to those states and the people in them?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re very cavalier about it, General.”

  “They aren’t my responsibility, Senator.” Ben smiled. “You want them, take them.”

  Paul laughed, being careful not to spill his coffee. “It isn’t quite that simple, General.”

  “Sure, it is, Senator. It’s a whole new world out there now. It’s real easy. The biggest kid on the block rules the block. You get you a following, arm them, and take over. You do it community by community, county by county, state by state. The more territory you claim, the larger your army will be. See how simple it is?”

  “If you don’t care what happens to the people in these other states, then why are you here?”

  Ben sighed. “Well . . . to tell you the truth, because it’s probably the right thing to do, Senator. Right . . . because unless we get a lot of people inoculated, a plague is likely to spread across the land. Right . . . because without somebody coming in and helping the people rid themselves of gangs, twenty states are likely to become a wasteland. Right for a number of reasons, Senator. Why don’t I want to lay claim to these states? Because the SUSA is just the right size to govern. Because the cry-babies of this nation need someplace of their own to piss and moan about the rights of baby-rapers and murderers and muggers and car thieves—” Ben held up a hand. “Remember, don’t let a good boy go bad, Senator, always take the keys out of your car.”

  Paul Altman burst out laughing. He wiped his eyes and said, “I always did like your sense of humor, General. Albeit on the dark side.”

  “I’m sure you were in the minority among your fellow party members,” Ben said, very drily.

  “Oh, come on, General! There were always many moderate Democrats and quite a few conservative Democrats. But domestic terrorism became such a threat in this country, we had to pass many restrictive laws.”

  “Horseshit! You’ll never convince me of that. But let’s save the arguments for a later date. You didn’t come out of hiding to debate political dogma with me.”

  “Frankly, I couldn’t believe you and your Rebels were in the area and had yet to fire a shot. I thought there must be some mistake.”

  Ben had to smile at the gently-spoken sarcasm, offered with a straight face. He stood up and refilled the senator’s coffee mug. “There were no criminals or creeps in the area, Senator,” Ben said, r
eturning to his chair.

  “There are very few criminals or Night People left anywhere, General.”

  “We are thorough, Senator.”

  The two men sat and stared at one another for a moment. Suddenly, Ben thought, Hell, why not? He’s a good man . . . for a Democrat. Ben put his elbows on the desk and smiled. “I have an idea, Senator. How would you like to go back to work?”

  “Doing what, General?”

  Ben’s smile widened.

  TWO

  “It’s the wildest thing I have ever heard of,” Homer Blanton said to Cecil, after listening to Ben on the short wave. Then he smiled. “But it might work. Paul Altman is certainly a good, decent man.” He shook his head. “But those states are filled with gangs and outlaws.”

  “They won’t be if Altman agrees to Ben’s plan,” Cecil said.

  “I wonder what Paul thinks about it?” Homer pondered.

  Hundreds of miles north of Base Camp One, the senator said to Ben, “You have just got to be kidding!”

  “Why?” Ben asked. “Don’t you think you’re up to the job?”

  “Don’t be insulting, General. That isn’t the point. The twenty-odd states we’re referring to are in chaos.”

  “They won’t be for long, if you agree to my plan.”

  “You will actually agree to the concept of civilian police?”

  “For you people, sure. Liberals have to be told what to do. You people don’t have the foggiest idea about how to live under a system where the individual actually controls his or her own destiny. The Rebel form of government wouldn’t work up here. And I don’t mean to be insulting or demeaning when I say that. So what is your reply, Mister-Almost-A-Candidate-For-President-of-the-Northern-United-States-of-America?”

  “How are we going to count the ballots?” Paul asked. “How will we get the ballots to the people and how will they return them to us?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Ben assured him. “You’ll win.”

  Paul stared at Ben. “Why does that statement fill me with such uneasiness?”

  “Just roll with the flow, Paul. Roll with the flow.”

  Rebel pilots began dumping campaign literature out over three states, Illinois, Wisconsin, and Indiana, and in parts of several other states which bordered the SUSA. The literature exhorted the virtues of Senator Paul Altman and asked everyone to vote for him as the new president of the Northern United States of America.

  “Who else is running?” Paul asked Ben.

  “No one,” Ben told him. “That’s why you’ll win.”

  “But . . . but . . . but . . .”

  Ben walked off, leaving the man stuttering.

  Special teams of Rebels either drove in or jumped in to help with the elections and to count the ballots.

  By the time the election was held, Ben and his 1 Batt had advanced into the north-central part of the state of Wisconsin. Ben’s CP was at the old Wausau airport.

  “Find a judge of some sort,” Ben told his Scouts. “We’re going to need one to swear in Paul.”

  “I thought a Supreme Court Justice was supposed to do that?” Ike questioned.

  “They’re all dead. Hell, any judge will do. If we can’t find a judge, I’ll swear him in.”

  A judge was found, a former federal judge. Knowing how Ben Raines felt about federal judges, the man was scared almost out of his wits and had to be forcibly taken to meet Ben.

  “Are you going to shoot me?” the man asked.

  Ben blinked in surprise. “Shoot you? Hell, no, I’m not going to shoot you. I want you to swear in the next president of the Northern United States of America.”

  “I can’t do that!”

  “Well, you’re going to. Beth, where is that oath of office?” Beth handed him the oath of office she had found in an old civics book and typed up. Ben gave it to the judge. “Hold on to this. Tomorrow, you’re going to have a new president.”

  “Is this election legal?” the judge questioned.

  “Of course, it is. Why wouldn’t it be? The people voted, didn’t they?”

  The judge only nodded his head. He wasn’t about to argue with Ben, but he did wonder about the constitutionality of the election. However, he kept his mouth shut, remembering that for years before the Great War, Ben Raines had been quite vocal about the government moving away from the original intent of the Constitution and the Bill of Rights.

  Naturally, Senator Paul Altman won the election. He was the only one on the ticket. And the number of people who took part in the election surprised everyone, including Ben.

  Cecil and Homer flew up from Base Camp One to witness the swearing-in of the new president of the NUSA.

  The judge beat a very hasty retreat immediately afterward.

  At a small reception after the swearing-in, Paul asked, “Where is the capital going to be located?”

  “Anywhere you want it to be,” Ben told him, drinking champagne out of a coffee cup.

  “I feel sort of guilty about this,” Paul said.

  “Guilty about what?” Ben asked.

  “Drinking champagne and eating all this nicely prepared food while millions of people are hungry.”

  “Oh, don’t start with that crap!” Ben said sharply. “Please spare me that. The people you speak of have had several years to get organized, plant crops and gardens, get factories and shops running again, and do all the things necessary to get a workable society going. Instead, many of them have sat on their asses waiting for somebody else to do it for them. Well, Mr. President, you are the government now. Good luck.”

  “Does the NUSA want to borrow some money from the SUSA?” Cecil asked innocently. “We can set up a line of credit for you right now.”

  “I’ve heard that your currency is very strong.”

  “The strongest in the world.”

  “Backed by . . . ?”

  “Gold,” Ben told him.

  “Gold? In the south?”

  “Trillions of dollars of it,” Cecil replied. “Also diamonds, other precious gems, and tons of pure silver.”

  “Where in the world did you get it?” Paul asked.

  “Oh, we stole it,” Ben said matter-of-factly, as he poured another cup of champagne. “From all over the world.”

  Paul almost choked on a finger sandwich.

  “Want to borrow a hundred billion?” Homer said, clearly enjoying himself.

  His wife gave him a somewhat dirty look. But not too dirty, since she was finally beginning to understand just what made the world go round and especially how the Rebel government worked.

  “As a matter of fact, I do,” Paul said quickly.

  “Fine,” Cecil said. “Have you given any thought to a cabinet?”

  “Well, ah, yes, actually.”

  “Good, good,” Homer said.

  Ben backed off a few yards and looked at Corrie. “Politics bores me, Corrie. Get the troops together. We’re outta here.”

  Ben and his 1 Batt were moving toward Michigan within the hour.

  The Rebels backtracked down past the still-smoking ruins of Chicago, turned east, and headed into Southern Michigan.

  “Boss,” Corrie said, “we’ve got four battalions that are bogged down in West Virginia. They’re meeting lots of resistance there.”

  “Tell them to pull out and bivouac in Western Maryland and stay the hell away from the D.C. area. We’ll make a sweep through Michigan and then turn east for the next push. Tell Ike to come up and join me here in Michigan. He is to take everything east of 127, but leave Detroit alone until we can tackle it together. I’ll take everything west of 127. Tell all other battalions to hold what they’ve got.”

  Michigan was a mess. The Rebels hit stiff resistance the day they entered the state. Ben sent Buddy and his 8 Batt over to work the highway along Lake Michigan while Ben and half of his 1 Batt headed up Highway 131; the other half of 1 Batt would work up Interstate 69 toward Lansing.

  They all encountered heavy fighting immediately upon entering th
e state.

  “I guess we know now where the gangs went,” Ike radioed to Ben on the afternoon of the second day in the state.

  “We damn sure do,” Ben said. “I hate to think what we’re going to find in Detroit. Or what’s left of it, that is.”

  “But why the hell did they come here?”

  Before Ben could reply to that, he heard mortar rounds fluttering in. “Gotta go, Ike. Incoming. See you.”

  Ben hit the floor just as a round hit the front of the house and blew that part of the structure all to hell. Another round dropped into the center of the roof and the whole damn thing came crashing in.

  Ben was shaken but unhurt as he crawled to his boots and stumbled through the debris to a window. Of late he’d been using a CAR, leaving his Thompson in the wagon. He grabbed his CAR and headed for a window—the door to the room he’d been using was completely blocked by the caved-in roof. The magazine pouches on his battle harness were all full, and he had several grenades and two canteens of fresh water. He jumped through the window just as several mortar rounds struck the old house and took it down. Ben rolled to his boots and started running for a ditch. He jumped for the ditch just as several mortar rounds exploded behind him and flipped him. He felt the sting of shrapnel on his legs as he was being propelled through the air. Luckily, the ditch was full of water so he had a reasonably soft landing, but the wind was knocked out of him, he had lost his helmet flying through the air, and he banged his head on something.

  “Shit!” Ben said, then faded into blackness.

  The gangs had counter-attacked, throwing everything they had, which was considerable, at the Rebels. The Rebels were forced to withdraw. When the counterattack came, Buddy and his 8 Batt were in Benton Harbor, and they were shoved back some ten miles. Ben and his 1 Batt were just south of Kalamazoo, and forced back just about ten miles. Ike and his 2 Batt were on the outskirts of Jackson and they were forced all the way back to the junction of Highways 12 and 127.

  As night spread darkness over the land, Ben lay unconscious in the ditch.