* * * *
How hated Ben's system of government was did not come home to the people of Tri-States until late fall of the first year. Ben had stepped outside of his home for a breath of the cold, clean air of night. Juno, the big malamute, was with him, and together they walked from the house around to the front. When Juno growled, Ben went into a crouch, and that saved his life. Automatic-weapon fire spider-webbed the windshield of his pickup truck, the slugs hitting and ricocheting off the metal, sparking the night. Ben jerked open the door, punched open the glove box, and grabbed a pistol. He fired at a dark shape running across the yard, then at another. Both went down, screaming in pain.
A man stepped from the shadows of the house and opened fire just as Ben hit the ground. Lights were popping on all over the street, men with rifles in their hands appearing on the lawns.
Ben felt a slug slam into his hip, knocking him to one side, spinning him around, the lead traveling down his leg, exiting just above his knee. He pulled himself to one knee and leveled the 9mm, triggering off three rounds into the dark form by the side of his house. The man went down, the rifle dropping from his hands.
Ben pulled himself up, his leg and hip throbbing from the shock of the wounds. He leaned against the truck just as help reached him.
“Get the medics!” a man shouted. “Governor's been shot."
“Help me over to that man,” Ben said. “He looks familiar."
Standing over the fallen would-be assassin, Ben saw where his shots had gone: two in the stomach, one in the chest. The man was splattered with blood and dying. He coughed and spat at Ben.
“Goddamned nigger-lovin’ scum,” he said. He closed his eyes, shivered in the convulsions of pain; then died.
Ben stood for a time, leaning against the side of the house. Salina came to him, putting her arms around him as the wailing of ambulances drew louder. “Do you know him, Ben?” she asked.
“I used to,” Ben's reply was sad. “He was my brother."
* * * *
Rosita had no such fear of the man. She knew he was quite a man, but still a man. She marched up to his table and sat down after drawing a mug of coffee from the urn.
Ben smiled at her. Something about this tough-acting very pretty young woman appealed to him. Her green Irish eyes searched his face.
“Something on your mind, Rosita?"
"Quizas."
“My Spanish is nil, Rosita."
“Maybe."
“So speak."
“Is that a command from on high?"
Ben laughed at her. “You remember a comedian named Rodney Dangerfield, Rosita?"
“No."
“Then you won't understand the joke. Come on, what's on your mind?"
“Forget it. It's none of my business."
“Let's have it, short-stuff."
Her green eyes flashed. Danger or mischief was up to the receiver. “Dynamite comes in small packages, General."
“I'm sure. But I don't think that's what you came over here to say."
“The twins."
“What about them?"
“We've been on the road for four days. You haven't seen them one time."
“You're right, it's none of your business. But ... I don't want to get too close to them. They will be going with their mother as soon as we reach home. She's found herself a nice young man and that is how it should be. I don't want to become attached and have to give them up."
“Esta bien. That answers that. I don't have to agree with it, but you're right, it's none of my business.” She wanted to tell him how many of his men and women felt about him—that she thought it a dangerous way of looking at the man. But she held her tongue about that. “Dawn cares for you,” she blurted.
“We've run our course. I think she knows that.” Ben signaled for more coffee and they were silent until the mugs were refilled.
With her eyes downcast, looking at the coffee mug, Rosita said, “The Spanish in me says no man should be without a woman."
Ben said nothing, but she felt his eyes lingering on her.
“No big deal about it, General. No strings and no talk of forever—enamorado. And don't get the idea I throw myself at every man that comes along."
“I don't feel that at all."
“I ... have high goals. Strutting peacocks and paper tigers do not impress me. But the nights are lonely."
“I will agree with that. Rosita? I am damn near old enough to be your grandfather."
Now her eyes did sparkle with mischief. “Afraid of me, General? Think I'm too much for you to handle?"
Ben opened his mouth to reply but was cut silent by a shout from the lobby.
“We got company, General. Looks like a bunch of thugs and hoods. I count half a dozen vans; ‘bout ten pickup trucks; half a dozen cars. They look to be all full."
“Get troops in position, roof top and second floor,” Ben spoke calmly. He had not moved from his chair. “Ring the area—you all know the drill. Do it quickly."
Rosita appraised him with cool green eyes. “Don't you ever get excited, General?"
Ben picked up his Thompson and stood up. “Ask me that about nine o'clock tonight, short-stuff."
She tossed her head. “I might do that."
Ben chuckled and walked out of the dining room.
“Keep them outside the burn area,” Ben ordered his people. “If they try to cross it, shoot them."
“Yes, sir,” Captain Seymour said.
“That's Ben Raines,” the words drifted to Ben as he stood on the concrete parking area, facing the large crowd of dirty men and women. Several of them were scratching their legs and ankles.
But Ben knew any flea that attempted to cross the area that was first burned, then sprayed, would not make it. The area had been sprayed with a deadly flea-killer, laid down almost full-strength.
“So what?” a man said. He appeared to be the leader of the group.
The first man shrugged. “I just thought I'd tell you."
“So you told me. Now shut up.” He looked at Ben, standing calmly across the charred area. “Mr. President without a country to preside over. How about us coming over and having some chow with you folks?"
“Not a chance,” Ben said.
“We might decide to come over anyways."
“Your choice. We'll give you a nice burial, that I can promise."
“We ain't made no hostile moves, Raines."
“Nor have we. You and your people move on. Find another motel. You leave us alone, we leave you alone. That's the best deal I'll make."
The man looked at the armed Rebels that stood with weapons at the ready. He swung his gaze back to Ben. “Looks like to me you got ‘bout as many cunts in your outfit as you have swingin’ dicks. I never seen a broad yet that knew anything about weapons. I think we got you outgunned."
“Than that makes you a damn fool."
“Nobody calls me that!"
“I just did,” Ben's words were softly spoken, but with enough force to carry across the fifty feet of burned grass.
Several of the men shifted positions.
“The first man to raise a weapon,” Ben called. “Shoot him!"
“I don't think you'll do it,” the leader said.
“Then that makes you a damned fool twice."
He grabbed for the pistol at his side.
Ben lifted the muzzle of the Thompson and blew the man backward, completely lifting him off his tennis shoe-clad feet and pushing him several feet backward.
A hundred M-16s, AK-47s, M-60 machine guns and sniper rifles opened fire. The men and women who made the mistake of trying Ben Raines and his Rebels died without firing a shot. They lay in crumpled heaps, the blood from their bodies staining the concrete, running off into the gutters and the ditches.
Ben ejected the clip from the Thompson and slapped a fresh one in its belly. “General Nathan Bedford Forrest put it as well as anyone, I imagine,” he said.
Rosita put a fresh clip in her M-16. “
And what was that, General?"
Ben smiled at her. “'Git thar fustest with the mostest,’ is the way it's usually repeated."
“Well, we were here first and we damn sure had the mostest,” she grinned at him.
“We damn sure did, short-stuff.” Ben motioned Captain Seymour over. “Get some tractors with scoops on them to move the bodies. After you've had people spray the bodies and the area around them. Truck them to the city dump, and burn them. Have people re-spray this area; fleas will leave a dead body quickly. Get cracking, Captain."
“Yes, sir."
“Did you see the general?” a young boy asked his friend. “He didn't even flinch. Just stood right there in open daylight and faced them down."
“Yeah,” the ten-year-old son of a Rebel said, his voice hushed with awe. “And he was the closest one and no bullets hit him."
“Aw,” the other boy said. “They hit him all right. But no one can kill the general. My daddy says he'd follow Ben Raines right up to and through the gates of hell. So that must mean he's a god—right?"
“I ... guess so."
“What are you two whispering about?” the first boy's father asked.
“The General, sir,” his son replied. “Sir? Were you afraid just then? I mean, during the shooting?"
“Sure, son, weren't you?"
“Yes, sir. But General Raines sure acted like he wasn't."
“No, son. I don't believe he was afraid."
Other young men and women gathered, listening to the dialogue.
“Then that makes the general something special, doesn't it, dad?"
The father looked at his son for a long moment. Finally, he said, “Yes, son. I suppose it does."
“You see,” his young friend said with a grin. “I told you so."
Four
FIRESTORMS...
Ben lay with the warmth of Rosita pressed close to him, her skin smooth and soft against his own nakedness. His breathing had evened and his heart slowed. An old country song popped into his mind and he fought unsuccessfully to suppress a chuckle.
“What do you find so amusing, General?” she asked, her breath warm on his shoulder. “And it better not be me."
He laughed in the darkness of the motel room. “You ever heard of a singer name of Hank Snow?"
“I ... think so. Yes."
“One of his earlier songs was one called ‘Spanish Fireball.’”
“Very funny. Ha-ha. Yes."
“You asked me, remember?"
She spoke in very fast Spanish. Ben could but guess at the meaning. He did not follow it up.
“Ben Raines?"
“Uh-huh?"
“What are we going to do?"
“I don't understand the question."
She shifted and propped herself up on an elbow. “The government of the United States is no more, right? It is over."
“That is correct."
“There will not be a great many people left after the sickness has run its course, right?"
“Very few, I'm afraid."
“Worldwide?"
“Yes."
“So I repeat: what do we do?"
“We survive, Rosita. We make it to the Tri-States and begin the process of rebuilding."
“For what?” she asked flatly.
Her question did not surprise Ben. He was only surprised more of his people had not asked it. Something was gone from the spirit of the Rebels. Not much, Ben was certain of that—but a little special something.
How to regain it?
He sighed, looking at her pretty face, framed by hair the color of midnight. “For future generations, Rosita. We can't just give up and roll over like a whipped dog. We've got to get to our feet, snarling and biting and fighting. We've got to prove there is still fire in the ashes of all this destruction. And out of it, we rebuild. We have to."
“With you leading us.” It was not a question.
“Rosita, don't make me something I'm not. I am a man. Flesh and blood. I don't know how many years I have left me. I..."
“You have many years, Ben Raines. You have another fifty, at least."
He laughed at that. “You can't know that for sure."
She was deadly serious. “I know, Ben Raines. I was born with a caul over my face, and I know things others do not. Scoff at me if you like, but it is true. I know things you do not. I can sense that you were born—in this life—to do this thing: to lead. But you must be very careful not to let it get out of control. Your followers are ... viewing you in a light that is, well, usually reserved for saints, let us say."
Ben was silent for such a long time, she thought he had gone to sleep. He said, “So what I have been sensing is true to some degree, eh?"
“Yes."
“I thought—hoped—it was only my imagination."
“No."
“I suppose I could shoot my big toe off and have them watch me leap around, hollering bloody murder—I guess that would prove to them I'm only human. But I have no desire whatsoever to do that..."
She was laughing so hard Ben had to hold off any further conversation until she finished. She wiped her eyes with a corner of the sheet.
"Eso es una locura," she giggled. She tapped the side of her head. "Loco!"
“Damn right it's crazy! Rosita—it's times like these that superstition rears up. If people aren't very careful, it can grab them. I've got to combat this mood that I'm something other than human. But I don't know how."
She was unusually silent.
“I think you do know something others don't,” Ben prompted her.
Still she was silent. Her dreams of late had been disturbing. The same one, over and over. An old, bearded man, in robes and sandals, carrying a staff, facing Ben Raines, pointing the staff at him, shouting something at him.
But she didn't know what he was saying. It was in a language unfamiliar to her. But she knew—somehow—the words contained a warning.
“Rosita?” Ben said.
“I ... don't think I have the right to tell you what I think; what I feel; what I sense. I think ... it is out of human hands."
Ben shuddered beside her. “You do have the ability to spook hell out of me, short-stuff."
“Then we won't speak of it again.” She glanced at her watch on the nightstand. “Look, Ben!"
“What?"
“It's just past midnight."
“So?"
“Big ox! It's New Year's Day, 2000. Happy New Year, Ben Raines."
“Well, I'll be damned."
No, she thought—you won't be damned. But you will be bitterly disappointed in the years to come.
And I wish I didn't know that for a fact.
* * * *
On the morning they pulled out of the motel complex, on January the fourth, the year 2000, Dawn walked to Ben's side.
“Ben, I don't want you to get the wrong idea, ‘cause it's been fun. But..."
“You don't have to say it, Dawn. I never had the wrong idea about you."
“No, Ben, I want to say it. I don't know what you're searching for in a woman, but it isn't me. I don't have it. And ... to tell the truth, I'm glad I don't. You're not like any man I have ever met before. It ... it's like you're driven—a man possessed to pull something out of the ashes. You're a dreamer, a warrior, a gentle man, a Viking and a priest. I can't cope with all that, Ben. And I'm beginning to see what the others only whisper about: that almost visible aura about you.
“At times you are a lonely man—I can sense that. But you really don't need anyone, Ben. I'm a tough, street-wise professional woman, but I'm still a woman, and a woman likes to feel needed by her special person. I hope you find that special woman, Ben. I really do.” She stuck out her hand. “Friends?"
Ben grinned and shook the hand. He leaned close and whispered, “How come Penthouse removed that birthmark just a few inches below your navel? I think it's cute."
She laughed and said, “Ben Raines! You're impossible."
* * * *
/> The convoy rumbled on, trekking westward like a 21st-century wagon train.
And all did their best to keep their eyes away from the hideousness that lay in stinking piles and heaps all around them. The going was slow, for not only were the cities burning, but many small towns were ablaze. Why, was anybody's guess. Perhaps something had short-circuited; oily rags had ignited; rats and mice had chewed wiring, shorting something out.
The rats.
The men and women and children of the convoy did not see many of the huge mutant rats; but even sighting one was too many for some—and the revulsion was not confined to one gender.
But they saw other rats, of the more common variety. And none of them could accustom their eyes to the sight of bodies of humans covered with the rats—feasting on dead human flesh.
“Keep your eyes straight ahead,” the platoon leaders would tell the people. “Don't look at them."
But most were drawn to the sights, and after a time, after a fashion, stomachs did not rebel at the sights—but no one ever became accustomed to the awfulness.
Ben did not seem to be bothered by the dead or the rats. Of course, he was bothered by the sights; it was just his nature not to show any alarm; not to visually display his inner disgust.
And his reputation as something just a bit more than an ordinary human grew and was enhanced by his stony acceptance of the sights.
The convoy had angled northward out of Richmond, picking up Indiana Highway 35, finally linking up with Indiana 24 at Wabash, staying on that across the state and well into Illinois.
Ben thought about his long-dead sister in Normal, Illinois. He had buried her in her backyard—so many years ago. But not really; only twelve years. The convoy passed within twenty miles of the once-college town, but Ben kept his inner feelings locked up tight. There would be no point in visiting the grave. It would accomplish nothing. But as he drove, he recalled the day he had driven into his parents’ drive. A wave of unexpected emotions slapped him with all the fury of a storm-driven breaker smashing against a rocky beach.
* * * *
At a farmhouse just south of Marion, Illinois, Ben pulled into the drive and looked for a long time at the place of his birth and his growing up—the good years, including the lickings he had received and so richly deserved, every one of them. Ben really did not want to enter that old two-story home. But he felt he had to do it. He owed his parents that much. And maybe, the thought came to him, they would know.
Fire in the Ashes Page 29
