Fire in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

“Very well."

  “Have them gather up as many ag-pilots as they can and start spraying our borders and lay it on thick—use it all if you have to. Spray a strip a half-mile wide, all around the Tri-States. That will take care of any flea problem that might crop up."

  “As well as anything else that blunders into that area."

  “Can't be helped, Lamar. You know as well as I our people will pull together and obey orders. I can't speak for the rest of America."

  “I can,” the old doctor was firm. “Blind panic when the news breaks. You won't have nearly enough troops to stem the tide of frightened humanity.

  “You know, Ben, this will finish you in the White House? You won't be given credit for the lives you've saved, only blamed for the deaths. You'll have to declare martial law and you'll be blamed for that. You'll have to order troops to fire on civilians, and you'll be blamed for that."

  “I know, Lamar. I've already made up my mind to see this thing through and then step down. I want to come home."

  “Good. I was wrong to push you into taking the job."

  “I don't know. I wish I'd had more time."

  The doctor grunted in reply. “Jerre and Matt radioed in. They holed up in the high country. Matt got some pills and they're both dosed as well as can be. I think they'll make it."

  “I have a hunch I'll be seeing you soon, Lamar."

  “Good. I'll look forward to it. Take care."

  In the office, the news was no better.

  “It broke, Ben,” Cecil said. “Some alert reporters put it all together and hit the air with it."

  “Goddamn it!” Ben slammed a hand on a desk top.

  “And this, too,” Cecil said. “Two reporters, print and broadcast, entered an apartment this morning, here in Richmond. It was booby-trapped with a modified claymore. Blew their heads off."

  “What's that got to do with me?"

  “It was my apartment,” Rosita said.

  Ben had not noticed the small woman sitting quietly in a chair.

  “You want to explain? I thought you lived with Dawn?"

  Rosita rose to face Ben. “I'll make this as brief as possible, General. I am part of Gray's Scouts. I was sent to Colonel Ramos's command when it was learned he was moving to join you. Dan—Captain Gray—suspected a power play here in Richmond. He was right. General Altamont is working with Senator Carson to unseat you. They have quite a following, including some Secret Service men. They are the ones who have the atomic device; sent the note that General Altamont showed you. As to why those men broke into my apartment, I have no idea. Probably looking for a story; anything to hurt you. It's all moot now, anyway, isn't it, sir?"

  “Yes,” Ben said.

  “Goddamn!” Admiral Calland said. “This is 1988 all over again."

  General Rimel stood up. His face was very grim, the skin pulled tight, his anger just under control. “I will personally handle General Altamont.” He picked up a phone and jabbed at the buttons. He spoke briefly, then turned to Ben. “My men will pick him up, along with Senator Carson.” He looked at Rosita. “What about the White House agent?"

  “He's dead,” she replied softly. “And Altamont's brother. I saw to that personally."

  “Do you know where the atomic device is located, Miss?” Rimel asked.

  “No, sir."

  “I'll find it,” the general said. He stalked from the room.

  “Stick around,” Ben told Rosita.

  “I intend to do just that, sir."

  Ben smiled at her. “Okay, gang. Let's get back to the immediate problem."

  * * * *

  “Plague, Roanna?” Brighton asked, speaking from his offices in Chicago.

  “Yes, sir. That's definitely confirmed. And it's bad."

  “And Raines knew it and was sitting on it? Keeping it from the public?"

  “For the public's good, Bob. You know that."

  “He's ordered troops out?"

  “Yes, sir."

  “Get on it. Bird-dog him and get the story."

  “Yes, sir."

  * * * *

  Senator William Carson was fleeing the city just as fast as he dared drive. The news of Representative Altamont's death had stunned him, then shocked him into action. That crazy woman from Ben Raines's troops had cold-bloodedly shot down two agents and Altamont. Just killed them without even blinking—so he had heard, and the old man didn't doubt it for a minute.

  No one knew about his little cabin on the James River. His little hideaway where all the plans had been worked out.

  But they hadn't worked out. Bad luck all the way around. And now this damnable plague business.

  Carson skirted one roadblock, picked up a secondary blacktop road, then turned down a gravel road, finally pulling up in front of his cabin. In the background, the James rolled on. It was a comforting sound and the old man stood for a moment in the cold air, listening to the rush of water. He went inside and built a small fire in the fireplace and went back into the cold darkening air for his luggage.

  Something bit him on the right ankle and he slapped at it, missing whatever it was. Late-blooming red bug, probably, he thought.

  He heated a can of soup for his dinner and sat down in an overstuffed chair. Within minutes, he dozed off, his last thoughts before falling asleep was wondering what that slight odor was in the cabin.

  Had he looked behind the wood box he would have found out. A dead rat. And now the fleas had found something live to bite in the bulk of Senator William Carson. Of Vermont. Soon to be the late Senator William Carson. The late Senator from Vermont.

  * * * *

  Bert LaPoint and his cameraman sat in the NBC van and looked at the dead city of Memphis. Neither man had any inclination whatsoever to leave the safety of the van. Both men had seen the huge rats scampering over the carcass of a cow, and the ugly bastards had shown no signs of fear at the van's approach.

  They had not had a radio on all day. Knew nothing of the terrible situation about to grip the nation in a hot infected hand.

  They knew only that neither of them was about to get out of the van with those big ugly rats swarming all around them.

  Tim Lewisson shot his tape from behind closed and locked doors, shooting through the glass. He looked at Bert. “I'm through. Let's get the hell out of here."

  But the van wouldn't start.

  “Oh, shit!” Bert said. He slapped at his ankles as something began biting his skin. He noticed Bert doing the same. They both had been scratching at their ankles for a couple of hours.

  Ever since arriving on the outskirts of Memphis.

  “Well, we got food and water with us,” Tim said. “We just wait it out."

  They sure would.

  Forever.

  * * * *

  Jane Moore sat in her motel room in the now-deserted motel complex and wondered what her next move should be? Her Indian guide had not shown up that afternoon so she had elected to take a short nap. The nap had stretched into several hours. When she awakened, the motel was deserted.

  It was ... kind of eerie, she concluded.

  She turned on the TV set and froze as the scenes and sounds reached her ears and eyes.

  Plague.

  Black Death.

  And I am up here in Michigan chasing hobgoblins, she thought.

  She sat down and listened to the solemn-faced commentator roll his tones off his tongue. When she had heard enough to convince her it all was true, she picked up the phone to call into Richmond.

  But the phone was dead.

  “Wonderful,” she muttered.

  Well, she thought. I'm probably safer up here in the boondocks than I would be in the city, and I can't get anywhere if there are roadblocks. So I guess I'm stuck.

  She went into the cafe, fixed herself some dinner, and took it back to the room. She ate, watched TV for a while, then went to bed.

  During the night, the fleas feasted.

  * * * *

  “The White House is secure, sir,” Bo
b Mitchell informed Ben. “We flushed out two more rogue agents. Your people took them somewhere. I don't know what they plan to do with them."

  “They've already done it,” Ben told him.

  Mitchell decided he really didn't want to know all the details.

  He looked at Rosita. She smiled at him. Bob thought it wasn't a very nice smile. He returned his gaze to the president. The man looked tired. Hell, no earthly reason why he shouldn't look beat. He'd been going since about five o'clock this morning.

  Ben glanced at his watch. Nine o'clock. And it was snowing, the flakes big and fat and wet and sticky. He was tired—weary to the bone. The tossing and turning of the previous night was telling on him. Dawn sat beside Rosita; Ben could not remember when she had arrived. After the crush of people in and out of his office all day and part of the evening, Ben could not adjust to the relative quiet that now prevailed around him.

  Mitchell excused himself from the Oval Office. Ben acknowledged that with a smile of thanks and a nod of his head.

  “Are you hungry, Ben?” Dawn asked.

  He shook his head. “I haven't eaten since...” He couldn't remember. “But, no, I'm not hungry."

  “You need something,” she said, standing. “I'll get some sandwiches sent up."

  Ben nodded absently. From all reports—and the slips of paper filled his desk to overflowing—the nation was going to hell in a bucket, the citizens working themselves into a raging panic. New reports of the plague were popping up hourly, and the cities were especially hard hit.

  An aide stuck his head inside the office. “Mr. President? The people in the cities are rioting. We have many reports of looting and burning—to mention just a few of the events occurring. Many are trying to rush the troop barricades; the troops are repelling them with tear gas. But they don't know how long they can continue doing that. And Doctor Lane says the people must be contained; not allowed to leave and wander the countryside."

  “Exactly what are you trying to say, Sam?” Ben looked at the young man.

  The young man paused, gulped, took a deep breath, and plunged onward. “The Joint Chiefs say the decision to use live ammunition must come from you, sir. And Doctor Lane says if we can keep the people contained, we have a chance of at least some of the population surviving."

  “The buck stops here,” Ben muttered.

  “Beg pardon, sir?"

  Ben glanced at the aide, thinking: The kid's about thirty years old—what the hell would he know about Harry?

  Ben suddenly felt his age hit him. He shook the feeling off and stood up.

  “Tell the troops to maintain their use of gas to contain the civilians. I'll ... have a decision by morning as to the use of deadly force."

  “Yes, sir."

  Dawn placed a tray of sandwiches on Ben's desk. He picked one up and nibbled on it. Then began taking huge bites as his hunger surfaced. He ate three sandwiches and drank two large glasses of milk before his hunger was appeased.

  Another aide entered the office and quietly placed several notes on Ben's desk. He left without saying a word.

  Ben scanned the notes. More cases of Black Death reported. The civilians had overpowered one troop perimeter and several thousand had fled the city of Wichita, moving into the countryside. The same thing had happened in Sarasota.

  He leaned back in his chair, knowing in his guts the battle was lost. It had been a puny, futile gesture from the outset: not enough troops to cover all the cities.

  Hell, he couldn't blame the people. They wanted to survive.

  His phone buzzed. Doctor Lane.

  “Chicago's gone berserk,” the doctor said. “Civilians overpowering the troop lines. We didn't get five percent of the city inoculated. The inner city has gone wild with looting and burning and God only knows what else."

  “Tell your people to stay with it,” Ben ordered. “Pop anyone who has the sense to come in. We..."

  “I don't have any people left in Chicago,” the doctor said, his voice husky from strain and exhaustion and frustration. “The stations we set up have been destroyed, the medics and nurses and doctors manning them killed. Same thing is happening in a dozen other cities."

  The end, Ben thought. After all this nation has endured, that pale creature with the hooded face and the scythe is going to do us in with the help of a fucking flea.

  “Have all your people withdraw from their stations,” Ben ordered. “Take all their equipment with them. Withdraw to the countryside and set up there. Have them get sidearms and automatic weapons from the military. I'll pass that order down the line. I don't want any heroics out of this. Protect themselves; shoot to kill. Is that understood, Harrison?"

  “Yes, sir. But I don't know if my people can or will do that."

  “They'll do it or die. That's how simple it is, Doctor Lane. In the end, it all comes down to survival."

  “Yes, sir,” the doctor said, bitterness evident in his voice. He hung up.

  Ben got the Joint Chiefs on the line. “Order your troops away from the cities,” he told the chairman. “Have them withdraw to the nearest bases and set up security around those bases. No one enters unless they have proof of inoculation. Shoot to kill."

  “It's come to that?"

  “Yes, Admiral, it has."

  “The end?"

  “We are rapidly approaching the final chapter, Admiral. Whether there will be a sequel remains to be seen."

  “I used to enjoy the hell out of your books, Mr. President. I still have all of them; reread them from time to time."

  “I wish I was still writing them, Admiral."

  “Yes, sir. Good luck, sir."

  “The same to you men."

  Ben broke the connection.

  Sam stuck his head into the office. “Sir. We have reports of a small atomic device just detonated in Central Iowa. General Rimel is dead. He went up with the device."

  Ben looked at Dawn and Rosita. “Death. Pestilence. Plague. I wonder when the locusts are coming?"

  Two

  LIVE COALS IN THE ASHES...

  Richmond was burning.

  Ben stood in the bedroom of his private quarters and watched the first flames lick at the white-dotted air. He was dressed in field clothes, his feet in jump boots. He wore a .45 belted at his side. His old Thompson lay on a nearby table, the canvas clip-pouch full of thirty-round clips.

  He turned as James Riverson stepped into the room. Steve Mailer was with him; several other Rebels. All were dressed in battle clothes, armed with M-16s.

  Ben had slept for several hours, his aides taking the ever-grimmer messages from the field. The situation had been worsening hourly: the nation was in a panic, people fleeing in a blind stampede of crushing humanity, rolling over anyone who stood in their way. Young, old, male, female—it made no difference.

  And none of them realized they were racing straight into hell, away from the vaccines and medicines that could possibly save them. It was a grim replay of the events of 1988, just hours preceding the first wave of missiles.

  “Fools,” Ben muttered. “Blind panicky fools."

  He turned to the men and women he had known and trusted for years.

  “Anyone get hold of Hector?"

  “He's on his way to the Tri-States,” Rosita said. “We're pulling all our people in, muy pronto. They will leave their vehicles at the border and walk across the sprayed zone into Tri-States."

  “How many of our people have we lost—that anyone knows of?"

  “Bobby Hamilton and Jimmy Brady bought it,” Cecil said, stepping into Ben's quarters. “Carla Allen made it out; she's with the first contingent to leave our base camp. They're rolling. Ike and Dan and all their people made it across the borders. Lynne Hoffman, Tina, and Judy Fowler left with the second convoy. The third convoy should be pulling out within the hour."

  Bob Mitchell stepped into the room. The first tint of ashen light was appearing in the east. “We'd better get out of here, Mr. President,” he said. “The rioters and loot
ers are getting closer."

  “Got your wife and family, Bob?” Ben asked.

  “Yes, sir. But I feel like a traitor pulling out while so many are stuck."

  “Don't feel that way, Bob. I'll tell you like I told Doctor Lane: it all comes down to survival. How about the other fellows?"

  “A few are going with us. Most said they'd take their chances in the timber. I wished them good luck."

  “They'll need it,” Ben said tersely. He looked at the small group. “Everybody been needle-popped and got their pockets stuffed with oral medication?"

  All had.

  Sam came running into the quarters. He paused for a moment to catch his breath. “Sir! Mobs just hit the airfield. Most of the planes have been destroyed or damaged. We won't be flying out."

  If the news affected Ben, he did not show it. He picked up his Thompson and jacked a round into the chamber, putting the weapon on safety.

  “No reason why we should expect our luck to change at this date,” he said. “I think our best bet will be trucks and buses. We'll fill some tankers with gasoline and diesel; won't have to risk pulling off the road. There is a truck-and-bus terminal just on the outskirts of the city.” He looked at Riverson. “James, you take some people and get out there. Pick the best ones of the lot. Make sure the floors and sides are in good shape. We'll reinforce them with sheet metal if necessary."

  The big ex-truck driver from Missouri nodded his understanding and left.

  Ben looked at Cecil. “How many of our people were staying, flying out with us?"

  “One company, Ben. They're downstairs."

  “Let's roll it."

  * * * *

  On the morning the United States of America began to die, one hundred of the richest men and women in America were being bussed to various airports around the nation, all heading for one central location: a long-abandoned Air Force base in West Texas. There, four 747s were being made ready for flight.

  Only the best of food and drink were carefully being loaded aboard the huge jets. Copies of the best movies spanning fifty years. Books of the best and most famous authors (although the latter does not necessarily symbolize the former), were lovingly and carefully packed away and stored in compartments.

  Behind the big 747s, two dozen transports were being loaded with almost anything anyone could imagine for luxury living: portable generators, air conditioners, mink and sable coats, crates of bottled water (Perrier, of course), wines and liqueurs and whiskey. The sweating men loaded grand pianos, fine china and crystal, crates of gold and silver and cases of precious gems and boxes of paintings.