Then came the children of the rich; the special friends of the rich; the servants of the rich; the bodyguards of the rich; and finally, the rich.
They were jubilant. They had made it. These rich men and women (many of whom had not paid a dime's worth of personal income tax in years, due to what is commonly known as the world's most inequitable tax system ever devised, thank Congress for that) were going to live!
They were going to sparsely populated and untouched by germ or nuclear warfare areas of the world. There, with their wealth intact, they would live out their days.
And the manicured, pedicured, coiffured, diamond-hung ladies brought their poodles with them.
And the poodles brought fleas.
And had they been very quick of eye, the rich might have noticed the scurrying of creatures darting under the planes, leaping into open cargo doors. But they didn't see them.
The doors were slammed shut and the planes roared off into the cold blue, leaving the workmen on the ground. Who needs ‘em?
So, amid the clinking of champagne glasses and the tinkling of lounge pianos (every court needs a jester), the rich roared away.
Carrying into areas, which might have been spared the plague, fifty-eight huge mutant rats and about ten thousand fleas.
And the plague, known in its pure form as the Black Death, spread.
Worldwide.
* * * *
As thick, greasy smoke lifted up into the snowy skies over Richmond, Ben and his party stood in the deserted terminal and picked their vehicles. Fronting the column would be a pickup with a covered bed, twin-M-60s sticking out the front of the rear. The same type of vehicle would be at the rear of the column. In the center of the column, two new Greyhound buses the company had ordered and never picked up. Ben would be in a pickup truck directly behind the lead vehicle with Cecil in a vehicle at the rear of the column, the distance deliberately wide to prevent both of them from being killed in the same attack. If any.
Two tankers were spaced front and rear. Trucks with bottled water and food also widely separated. Communications people worked feverishly installing radios in all the vehicles.
A hard burst of gunfire spun the Rebels around, weapons at the ready. A mob was trying to break in and climb over the high chain-link fence surrounding the terminal. The first dozen to try now lay in bloody piles on the snowy blacktop.
Ben looked at the two women who had volunteered to look after the twins: the wife of Bob Mitchell and the wife of another agent. He smiled at them, silently calming the ladies.
“Get in the buses,” he told them. “All of you not needed out here, in the buses and trucks. Get ready to pull out."
A bullet whined off the brick of the building, another one a half second behind the first.
“You coward!” a woman shrieked at Ben. “You're deserting us when we need you. Filthy cowardly bastard."
Ben had neither the time nor the inclination to tell the hysterical woman he was not deserting them; he would attempt to run things from within the borders of the Tri-States. If they could get there. And if there was a country to run if they did make it safely.
When Ben spoke, his words were delivered as coldly as the air whistling around the terminal. “Captain Seymour? The next person who fires a weapon at this terminal, open fire on that mob and don't stop shooting until they are all down. Understood?"
“Yes, sir.” He barked an order and his personnel dropped down into a kneeling firing position, M-16s on full auto, pointed at the crowd of looters, many of whom were armed.
The mob wanted no part of these Rebels. They had all heard what type of fighters they were, and to a person knew they would not hesitate to shoot.
The mob slowly broke up, drifting into the early morning air, now murky from the burning city.
Ben looked at Cecil. “Where's Doctor Lane? I told him to meet us here."
“He went out in the field,” Cecil replied. “Said if he got lucky, he'd meet us in Tri-States."
“Damn fool,” Ben replied his breath smoky in the coldness. “I don't think he's ever even fired a weapon. Okay. If that's how he wants it. Let's roll, Cec."
He turned as a car crunched to a halt in the snow. A woman stepped out. She wore jeans and boots and a hiplength leather jacket. She carried a small leather suitcase.
Roanna Hickman.
“Got room for an unemployed reporter, Mr. President?” she called.
“Come on,” Ben returned the shout. When she drew closer, he asked, “Why are you unemployed?"
“The central offices in Chicago were firebombed last night,” she replied. “Brighton and all the others are dead. I don't know where my staff got off to. Probably trying to survive. I figure if anybody is going to make it out of this in one piece, it'll be you and your people."
Ben nodded. “Have you been inoculated, Roanna?"
“Yes."
“Your card, please."
Her eyes were flint-hard as she handed him the slip of paper signed by a Navy corpsman, indicating she had received the proper dosage of medicines. Ben handed the paper back to her.
“What if I hadn't been inoculated, Ben Raines?” she asked.
“You wouldn't be allowed to accompany us."
“Suppose I tried to force my way on one of the buses or trucks?"
“We'd shoot you,” he said without hesitation.
She handed her bag to a Rebel and he stowed it in the luggage compartment of a bus.
“Like I said,” Roanna spoke with a smile on her lips. “If anybody's going to make it, it's you people. You're a real hard-ass, General-President Raines."
“I'm a survivor, Ms. Hickman. Get on board."
* * * *
By noon of the first full day of looting, rioting, and general panic on the part of American citizens, there was not one city that had not been touched in some way by the swelling tide of panic-driven men and women. Fires, mainly unattended by skeleton crews of firemen, licked at the skies over the nation. A smoky haze hung over much of the land surrounding the cities.
Acts of appalling atrocities committed by humans against humans became commonplace as the only thought in the minds of millions was survival at all costs. And the opinion soon became widespread and firm that there is no God; He would not have permitted this. Not something this horrible. Not twice in little more than ten years. That was inconceivable. For wasn't God supposed to be a compassionate God? That's what everyone had been taught.
And as social anthropologists had predicted, their writings leaped from the pages of books and became reality. Many had written that if a nation suffered major catastrophes so horrible as to permanently scar the minds of the survivors, searing the minds numb, civilization would fall in a collapsing heap of myths and demagogic cults.
Back to the caves, in other words.
By dusk of the first day, robed pseudo-religious men and women were gathering frightened people around them, preaching that their way was the only way to be saved: follow me and I will light your way. Reject God, for just look at what His myth has wrought.
Panicked people were grasping at straws floating on dark waters; ready to believe anything or anyone with a ring of authority in their voices told them.
And many were speaking; many more were listening. Little cults were forming; most gone in two or three days, the leaders and followers dead of the plague.
A few survived.
By noon of the second day, the medicines ran out and time began running out for the nation, then the continent, finally the world as the death spread its pus-filled arms to encompass the granite planet called Earth.
Three
BRUSHFIRES...
Ben had elected to take the northern route toward the Tri-States. The day found the small convoy in southern Ohio. They had avoided the major highways and Interstates, staying with the secondary roads as much as possible.
“We've got to avoid the cities,” Ben told the driver of the lead truck. He pointed. “Look at that haze in the sky."
Although they were sixty miles south of Dayton and about sixty miles east of Cincinnati, the sky was dark with smoke from the raging fires the looters and burners had set.
Ben found Captain Seymour. “Break out the gas masks,” he told him. “And tell the people to keep them handy. I have a hunch the stench is going to get rough from here on in."
“Third day?” the captain said.
“Yes. People are going to be dropping like dead flies. Or fleas,” he amended that dryly.
They were parked in a huge deserted parking area of a shopping mall. All were grimy and becoming a bit odorous from lack of bathing.
“I really hate to bring this up, General,” Rosita said. Her head did not quite reach Ben's shoulder. “But we are going to have to bathe, if not for the sake of our noses, for health reasons."
“I know,” Ben said, grinning down at the feisty petite lady. He looked at Captain Seymour. “Captain, send some troopers over to that hardware store in the mall. Get all the sprayers and flea-killing chemicals your people can find."
“Yes, sir."
The men were back in half an hour, loaded down with pesticides and sprayers.
“I'm not going to order anyone to do this,” Ben said. “This is volunteer all the way. I'd like for a party of six to scout one day ahead of us. Find a small motel that is located away from any town area, and spray it down. Put a controlled burn on any vegetation surrounding the complex, then radio back to us when that's done."
A hundred men and women stepped forward.
Ben laughed. “Pick your people, Captain."
“Radio message, sir,” a runner handed Ben a slip of paper, then stood by for a reply, if any.
“Plague has hit the military bases,” Ben told his people. “This is from General Pieston. His doctors believe the last few batches of medicines were somehow tainted, ineffective. He is the only one of the Joint Chiefs left alive, and this communiqué says he is very ill. The plague is now touching all continents around the world. He further states as his last act, he is dissolving the government of the United States and absolving me of any and all blame for the crisis.” Ben looked around him. “We no longer have a government."
* * * *
Now was the beginning of nothing for the people of what had once been the most powerful nation on the face of the earth. Now was what revolutionary anarchists dream of: no constituted forms and institutions of society and government, and no purpose of establishing any other system of order.
Chaos. Confusion. Violence. Death. Rape. Torture. Burning. Looting. Stealing.
Have a ball, folks, ‘cause this is all there is and when this is all used up, there ain't no more.
And as happened back in ‘88, after the bombings that ravaged the world, the prisoners in jails and prisons died a horrible death. Left to die, forgotten men and women. The sick and the elderly, in hospitals and nursing homes called out for help—but their pleas fell on empty halls and echoed back to them in a mocking sneering voice. And the old and the sick died as they had been forced to live: alone.
But there has never been a total wipeout of all civilization (Noah had some folks around him). It seems that some survive no matter what disaster befalls others around them. Thugs and trash and street slime seem to band together in any crisis situation, pulled together like metal shavings to a magnet. Or like blow flies to a piece of dog shit. Whatever suits the readers’ fancy. Realists usually choose the latter.
So while semi and pseudo-religious men and women were gathering their dubious flocks around them, the thugs and punks and slime came together, roaming the countryside, preying on the weaker.
They weren't afraid; they knew the government of the United States had, for years, either through the blathering of elected liberals or mumbling from the mouths of the high courts, legislated and legaled away the right of citizens to take a human life in defense of personal property and/or self/loved ones. The citizens of America had viewed the innocuous bullshit emanating from TV for years, burning its messages into the brains of the viewers.
“Take the keys from your car—always. Don't let a good boy go bad."
(Good boys don't steal cars, folks. Punks and pricks and dickheads and street slime steal cars.)
“Guns are awful, terrible things. No one should be allowed to own a gun."
In a recent survey (1982), the survey showed 1,900 deaths from accidental shootings as compared to almost 12,000 deaths from falling off ladders and slipping in bathtubs. Anybody for banning bathtubs?
(More people died from accidentally inhaling poisonous gas than from accidental shootings. As a matter of act, more people died from almost anything other than accidental shootings.)
All people are wonderful! There is no such thing as a bad person. When confronted by those fellows that society has rejected (it's always society's fault), even if they have slit your wife's throat and are taking turns gang-banging your daughter on the den floor—never, never shoot first! That's a no-no. One simply has to respect the constitutional rights of punks.
(Uh-huh. Sure.)
Criminals know all this. They know the American public is easy prey because of all the liberal and legalistic claptrap the law-abiding citizens have been bombarded with for two generations. The average citizen will not shoot first because he's seen what happened to those who did.
They were sued and/or put in jail.
For protecting what was rightfully theirs.
It is easy to talk of protecting one's self or loved ones. Fun to pop away at paper targets with a pistol or rifle.
Paper targets don't shoot back.
Ninety percent of the American citizens have been so mentally conditioned as to the dire consequences that will befall them should they take a human life—even if their own life is threatened—they can't do it.
Easy prey.
Of course, those folks that turned to a life of crime because:
—"The homecoming queen wouldn't dance with them..."
—"They had pimples..."
—"They were poor..."
—"They were black..."
—"They were white..."
—"They didn't make the football team..."
—"Nobody liked them...” (probably because there was nothing about them to like)
—"The teacher picked on them..."
—"The coach made fun of them...” (that might have more than a modicum of merit)
And all the other shopworn and clichéd excuses ... hadn't counted on running into Ben Raines and his well-trained and disciplined Rebels.
The key to survival and success in any personal endeavor is contained in the above sentence.
* * * *
The convoy rolled slowly westward, and the stench, as Ben had predicted, worsened.
Ben's scouts had found a motel just east of Richmond, Indiana, just before Interstate 70 and Highway 35 connected. The rooms had been sprayed, the area around the motel burned and sprayed. Towels and bed linens were washed and dried in high heat, the kitchen area cleaned and disinfected, cooking utensils and silverware boiled before use. Water heaters were turned on as high as they could be adjusted and the lines cleaned before anyone was allowed to bathe. Ben would not allow the drinking of the water until it had been purified and tested.
At noon of the fourth day, Ben told his people, “Okay, folks. We get to spend a few days sleeping in real beds and taking baths."
The cheer that followed that would have put a major pep rally to shame.
Ben picked a small lower-floor room and allowed himself to luxuriate a few moments longer than was necessary under the hot spray, soaping himself several times, washing his short-cropped hair, sprinkled generously with gray among the dark brown.
He dressed in tiger-stripe and jump boots and walked to the restaurant, choosing a table set apart from the main dining area.
There, he enjoyed and lingered over a good cup of fresh-brewed coffee.
“Something to eat, General?"
“
Not just yet, thank you. I'll eat when the others do."
The young man's eyes flicked briefly to the old Thompson SMG leaning against a wall beside Ben's table. Lots of talk about that old weapon, the young Rebel thought—and more about the man who carried it.
Most of the young people among the Rebel ranks viewed the man as somewhere between human and god. And the very young stood somewhere between awe and fear of the man. He had heard his own little brother, saying his prayers at bedtime, always mention God and General Raines in the same breath.
The young Rebel didn't see a thing wrong with that.
He wondered if General Raines knew how most of his people felt about him. He decided the general did not. He wondered what the general's reaction would be when he found out?
Back behind the serving line, the young man met the eyes of his girlfriend. “It's funny, you know, Becky? I mean, it's really—I get the strangest feeling being close to the general. You know what I mean?"
“He scares me,” Becky admitted. But what she would not admit, not to anybody, was the other feeling she experienced when thinking about General Raines.
For one thing, her boyfriend might never speak to her again if she told him the truth.
“Scares you? Why?"
“Well—you know how talk gets around,” she spoke in a whisper, as if afraid Ben would hear her and punish her in some manner. “You know he's been shot fifty times, blown up three or four, and stabbed several times. He won't die."
“No!"
“It's true,” a young man said from the serving line. “My brother was serving directly in his command the night General Raines's own brother tried to kill him back in Tri-States. He said Carl Raines emptied an M-16 into the general. But it didn't kill him. The general just walked away from it."
“My God!” another young Rebel spoke.
“That's what I think he is,” Becky spoke the words that made legends. “A god."
Fire in the Ashes Page 28
