Fire in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  “No. There are about fifteen others."

  “You have plans?"

  Again, that smile. “Of course. To live out our lives in peace and solitude and die quietly of old age."

  “Nothing more than that?"

  The man shook his head. “Very little. Plant gardens in the spring, can the foods, and stay low, attracting no attention."

  “That's what I was muttering. This nation will never climb out of the ashes—not wholly."

  “I'm afraid you're right, sir. But,” he shrugged, “who knows. You did it once. Don't you think you can do it again?"

  “I don't know. I intend to try."

  “Good luck."

  “Would you like to come with us?” Ben offered.

  The man shook his head. “No. But I thank you for the offer."

  “Just give up, eh?” Ben needled the man.

  “No, sir—that's not it entirely. I ... think I should like to live ... well, free, I suppose is the right choice of words. I don't have to lecture you as to the faults of big government."

  “But big government doesn't necessarily have to be a bad government, uncaring and unfeeling."

  “This is true. But they almost always turn into that. Right?"

  “That is true. But without some sort of organized society, a government, if you will, how can this nation ever become what it once was? Or even a semblance of what it once was?"

  “It can't, sir. But perhaps it's time for that to occur. Have you given that any thought?"

  “Quite a lot, I'm afraid."

  “And your conclusion?"

  “I have to try.” Ben rose from the stool, turning toward the door just as several pickup trucks rattled to a tire-chained halt in front of the drug store.

  The owner smiled.

  “Why are you smiling?” Ben asked.

  “Your people are fearful of you deserting them, Mister Raines."

  Ben walked out of the store without looking back. He faced a half dozen of his troops.

  “Can't I get off by myself every now and then?” Ben asked, his tone harsh.

  “With all due respect, sir,” Captain Seymour said. “We'd rather you wouldn't."

  “I don't need a nanny, Captain."

  “No, sir,” the captain agreed. But neither he nor any of his people made any move to leave Ben alone.

  “I see,” Ben said quietly, the words almost torn from his mouth by the cold winds that whipped down the littered main street.

  Ben turned back to the storeowner, standing in the door of the drug store. “How'd you rid yourself of the rat problem?"

  The man opened the door. “We didn't. They just went away."

  “Where?"

  The man shrugged his reply.

  “Have you observed any other ... well, things out of the ordinary?"

  “I don't follow you, sir."

  “Creatures,” Ben spoke the word.

  The man shook his head. “Only those big rats. That's creature enough for one lifetime, wouldn't you agree?"

  “Yes,” Ben said. “I wish you luck."

  “The same to you."

  * * * *

  The Rebels spent three days at the motel, waiting for a break in the weather. On the morning of the fourth day, the sun broke through the clouds and the temperature warmed, melting much of the snow and ice by mid-morning.

  “Let's roll it,” Ben said.

  Three and a half hours later, the convoy rolled into Colorado and Ben halted them.

  “I'm going to take a chance that 385 is clear up to Interstate 80 in the southwestern part of Nebraska. We'll take that and roll it across Wyoming until we hit Highway 30. That'll take us into Idaho. I don't anticipate meeting any of our people until we get west of Pocatello. It's five hundred miles to Rock Springs. That's where we'll take our next sleep break—providing all the roads are clear. You drive four hours, switch off with your partner. Let's roll it, folks. We're almost home and safe. Patrols out. Let's go."

  Twenty-one long, tough hours later, the weary column pulled into a motel complex in Rock Springs.

  Ike was waiting for them, with a grin on his face not much smaller than the western skies.

  Six

  HOME...

  After six hours sleep, which was Ben's normal time in bed, he showered, shaved, and walked down into the dining area for breakfast.

  Ike's people had prepared the motel for Ben and his column hours before the convoy arrived. Most of the weary survivors skipped food and went straight to bed.

  Over bacon and eggs and a huge stack of flapjacks, Ben asked, “How's it looking, Ike?"

  “Fifty-eight hundred, Ben."

  Ben raised his eyes to those of his friend. “What the hell happened to the rest? We had more than ten thousand six months ago."

  “They just didn't make it, partner. Word is still pretty sketchy, but from all reports, we lost a full battalion of people coming out of Georgia. We were in contact one day ... next day, nothing. A couple of companies were ambushed up in Michigan. We lost a full platoon of people up in Wisconsin, and we don't know what killed them."

  “What do you mean, Ike?"

  “Just that, Ben. We don't know what happened. The two people who survived died on the way here without ever regaining consciousness. They were ... well ... mangled all to hell and gone. I got the pictures if you got the stomach for it."

  Ben thought he knew what the pictures would reveal; that he had seen something very similar to it on a lonely windy highway in Illinois.

  He said as much.

  Ike toyed with his coffee cup. “And ...?"

  Ben slowly shook his head. “We deal with it if or when we see ... whatever killed those people with our own eyes."

  Ike grunted softly. “Probably be best. Keep down horror stories, I reckon."

  The large dining room was quiet; only a few Rebels were up and about.

  “Goin’ to be a pretty day,” Ike said. “Winds all died down. Jerre asked me to bring her babies to her soon as I could. I could have a chopper down here in an hour; take ‘em to her up in Twin Falls."

  “That's a good idea, Ike. Why don't you do that."

  “That'd give you time to look in on the babies and play with ‘em some."

  “I have no intention of doing that,” Ben spoke the words without emotion.

  “I see,” his friend said after a few seconds had ticked past. “You're a hard man, Ben. Knew that the first day I saw you, down in Florida. Sure you need to be this hard?"

  “I'm sure."

  “All right.” Ike motioned for a uniformed young woman to come to the table. She rose from a table across the room and walked to where Ike and Ben sat.

  “This is Lieutenant Mary Macklin, Ben."

  Ben looked into her eyes and nodded.

  “Mary,” Ike said, “you get on the horn and call them ol’ boys up at whirly-bird country. Have one of ‘em bring Jerre down here—pick up her babies."

  “Yes, sir.” The young woman saluted and left.

  Ben smiled. “Getting a little rigid on discipline, aren't you, Ike?"

  “That ain't my idea,” the ex-SEAL replied glumly. “It's hers. She was regular Army ‘til about six months ago. I can't get that damned salutin’ out of her. Drives me up the wall."

  “Tell me how you have the people spread out, Ike."

  “I had them pulled in pretty tight at first, Ben. But even with that, we sprayed one hell of an area and burned even more. But the burn was all controlled and nothin’ got out of hand. Twins Falls down to the Nevada line, then across the top of Nevada and Utah to Interstate 15 then north to Pocatello. 15 and 80 is the northern line.” He grinned. “I kept folks right busy, wouldn't you say?"

  “You did all that since I called Lamar?"

  Ike's smile was tight. Controlled. “No. Doctor Chase suspected something was in the wind. Something about finding too many little furry critters dead. Half of it was done before I ever got here. Then when you called we really got jumpin.’”


  Ben told him about his idea of shifting everyone to the southeastern U.S.

  “Good plan. I was gonna bring that up to you; talked about it some to bunches of folk. They all agree it would be the best move."

  “I don't want to stay here any longer than is absolutely necessary."

  “I know,” Ike's reply was softly given. “Bad memories for me, too, friend.” He glanced at his watch. “Couple more hours, we'll start rollin’ folks out of the sack and get this circus on the road. Sooner we get home the sooner y'all can get settled in for the winter. Then we can start makin’ some firm plans."

  * * * *

  Winter hit the high country with a mindless fury: high winds, blizzard conditions, and bitter cold. Most stayed in unless outside travel was imperative.

  The first two weeks of February proved no better as far as the weather was concerned, and the Rebels began developing cabin fever. Ben organized dances and get-togethers and box suppers and card and bingo parties—anything to occupy the time.

  Then the Chinooks began blowing in the third week of February, and the bitter cold and blizzard snows abated. It was not yet spring in the high country, but as Ike put it, “Damn sight better than the past six weeks, boy."

  Frayed nerves and high-strung tempers knitted and healed as plans for the massive move were formulated. Now people had something to do: rounding up and servicing hundreds of vehicles for the push south.

  When Ben asked for volunteers to scout the area he had chosen as their new home, five thousand hands went up.

  He sent three teams of them south. Stay in radio contact. Don't take chances. For God's sake, be careful.

  * * * *

  “Southern part of Arkansas, north Louisiana, and central Mississippi,” Ben said, thumping the map. “That's where we'll call home."

  * * * *

  April, 2000.

  Ben turned to Doctor Chase. “Has the plague run its course?"

  The man shook his white-maned head. “Typical layman's question. How the hell do I know! I would say not. Fleas prefer rodents, but they'll damn sure jump on a human. I would suggest sending teams to that area. Crop dusters, preferably, at first, to spray the outlined borders with insecticide and then put out aerial rat poison; and I mean really put it out all over the projected area. That's what I'd do—you do what the hell you want to do."

  “Did anybody ever tell you that you're a crotchety old bastard?” Ben said.

  “Of course I am,” Doctor Chase replied. “If you don't like it, go to another doctor.” He smiled sarcastically, plopped his hat on his head, and walked out.

  “Navy doctors,” Ike said with a grin. “'Specially captains—strange bunch of people.” He looked at Ben. “Generals sometimes get that way, too—General."

  * * * *

  Jim Slater and Paul Green and a dozen other dusters headed for the new Tri-States. Transport planes had already flown in the chemicals to airports sprayed and burned by volunteers. The massive job was underway in both the northwest and the southwest parts of the ravaged nation.

  * * * *

  “People in that area?” Ben asked the scouts.

  “Damn few,” the voice crackled out of the speaker. “But I want to tell you sir, we have met some real squirrels coming down here—and here, as well."

  “Squirrels?"

  “Cults popping up everywhere. You know, call themselves religions, but as far as I'm concerned, they are anything but that. Got one over in the Ouachita Mountains run by some nut name of Emil Hite. That's the biggest one we've found. Jim Jones type of thing with a Manson mentality."

  “Any trouble with them?"

  “Not since one of my people butt-stroked one of them and knocked out about a dozen teeth. After that, Hite decided to pull back into his hills and stayed there."

  “Rats?"

  “A few, but the poison got most of them, I think. We found a lot of dead rats when we got here. Got a man joined up with us in Texas; used to be with the CDC. He says it appears to him the rats are dying of some inner infection of some sort. He's set up a lab, of sorts, and is working out of that."

  “It's going to take us a while to get there. Big problem of logistics."

  “We'll be secure in two weeks here, General."

  “It'll take us that long to get the first convoy there. I'll see you in two weeks."

  “Roger, sir. Out."

  “Head ‘em up and move ‘em out time, Ben?” Ike asked. Ben's eyes clouded, for a moment, he was flung back in time, back years, to just a few days after the bombings of 1988.

  * * * *

  As the full impact of what had occurred came to rest with Ben, he drove the town and parish, looking for anyone left alive. On the second day, he found one—just one. Fran Piper.

  She hated Ben and the feeling was certainly mutual. From the moment he got out of his truck after seeing her alone on the parish road, the conversation was less than cordial.

  “Why, good morning, Mrs. Piper. What a surprise seeing you. Not a pleasure, but certainly a surprise."

  “Mr. Raines—you're armed! I thought pistols had been outlawed for some time?"

  “Yes, ma'am. Three years ago, I believe. Thanks to Hilton Logan and his bunch of misguided liberals. But be that as it may, ma'am, here I am, Ben Raines, at your service. That trashy Yankee writer of all those filthy fuck books, come to save your aristocratic ass from gettin’ pronged by all the slobbering rednecks that must surely be prowlin’ around the parish, just a-lustin’ for a crack at you, ma'am."

  “Raines,” she said, her eyes flashing hatred at him, “you just have to be the most despicable human being I have ever encountered, unfortunately. And if that was supposed to be Rhett Butler, you missed the boat."

  “Paddle-wheel, I'm sure."

  From that point on, the conversation was downhill all the way.

  But Ben could not bring himself to leave the woman to fend for herself. She would not have survived alone.

  “Well, you can come with me. No play on words intended."

  She rolled her eyes and off they went.

  At one point in their wanderings about the parish, Fran had waved her hand, as if a scout with a wagon train.

  “Head ‘em up and move ‘em out,” Ben had muttered.

  She had stayed with Ben until Memphis. There, she had met Hilton Logan, a bachelor, and the two had hit it off. She eventually married the man and became the First Lady—although a lady she was most definitely not.

  After the fall of Tri-States, Fran and one of her lovers had been shot to death by Ben's Zero Squads.

  Just at the moment of mutual climax.

  The ultimate orgasm.

  * * * *

  “Yes,” Ben brought himself back to the present. “Head ‘em up and move ‘em out."

  “Regrets, partner?"

  “I don't think we can afford regrets, Ike. I think we have to look forward, and not look back for a long time."

  “Well,” Ike stood up and slung his CAR-15. “Let's get rollin.’ We sure got a ways to go."

  Seven

  IN SEARCH OF A DREAM...

  Wreckers and tow trucks and heavy-duty pickups with PTO winches on the front traveled a full day ahead of the main column, clearing the roads of stalled and abandoned vehicles.

  The convoy, stretching for miles, left on Interstate 80, picked up Interstate 15, and took that down to south-central Utah. There, they intersected with Interstate 70 and pointed eastward, gently angling south when roads permitted.

  It was slow going, the convoy lucky to maintain a 40 mph average—often less than that. Ben, almost always traveling alone, usually was miles ahead of the column. Oftentimes playing games with his guards, deliberately outdistancing them, losing them so he could have some time alone.

  When Captain Seymour reported this to Ike and Cecil, both men could only shake their heads.

  “Rosita's not with him anymore?” Captain Gray asked.

  “No,” Ike told him. “Ben says she's too young. I'm wor
ried about him, to speak frankly. He's becoming more withdrawn."

  “Ben always has been somewhat of a loner,” Cecil said. “But the feeling the men and women have about him is disturbing to him—he told me that."

  “Leave him alone,” Jerre settled the discussion. “Ben is doing what Ben wants to do. He's got a lot on his mind and this is his way of coping with it. Just leave him alone.” And that settled it.

  * * * *

  Crossing over a mountain range, Ben pulled off the interstate and jammed his truck into four-wheel drive, climbing high above the interstate. On a crest, he parked, and squatted alone, watching the column crawling snakelike below.

  If I had any sense, he thought, I would wait until the column is long past, get in my truck, and head west. But I would feel like Pilate if I did. Those little boys talking the other evening, when they thought no one could hear them (and God I wish I had not), talking of the general being a god. And those teenage boys and girls who joined them—they should have known better; should have corrected the younger ones immediately.

  But they didn't.

  I am not a god. I am merely a man who is ten years past true middle age. Maybe I don't feel it; some say I don't look it, but it's not good to attempt to alter the truth.

  A god. Damn!

  When did this start? Did it begin back in ‘88? If so, why didn't I catch it then?

  A god.

  How to stop the talk? What to do? Anything? Yes—of course. Something must be done. But what? And how? Do I go to the parents and tell them what I heard? But according to other whispered conversations I have overheard and from the looks I have finally put together after being deaf, dumb, and blind for only the true God knows how long, many of the parents might share that foolish belief. If not to the extent of their kids, at least a bit.

  Ben rose from his squat, very conscious he was not as young as he once was (the muscles in his calves were aching from the strain of the unfamiliar position), and walked slowly back to his truck. He had made up his mind: he would see the people located and settled, the society firmed up into a fair and productive existence for those who had placed their faith in him; and then he would, as the saying went, quietly fold his tents and slip away.

  He hoped he would have the courage to do that when the time came.