Fire in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  “In some, the radiation and germ warheads caused only minor physical changes; in others the alteration was radical and grotesque. The radiation and germs have slowed growth in some areas of the body, primarily the brain, drastically speeded it up in other areas. I think, as more and more of these mutants are found, we shall see that all experienced changes in brain size, shape, and function.

  “Probably beginning a year after the bombings of 1988, some women began birthing mutants, babies whose growth cycle was speeded up five to ten times the normal rate. Perhaps at two years of age, a child might be six feet tall and weigh two hundred pounds—and be retarded to some degree. If the child were a twin, the other might be perfectly normal in every way.

  “Understand, this is all hypothesis on my part.

  “Those who were born in the sparsely populated rural areas of the world were possibly sometimes killed by the attending doctor or midwife. Some were possibly raised out of fast puberty and ran off into the woods. Some might have been taken into the woods and left to die. Some died, others lived, to live as animals. Some might even have been raised by animals—it's occurred before—to be as animals.

  “Because there were so few humans left—as compared to the population before the bombings—the mutants were seldom seen by humans. That, coupled with the mutants’ seemingly inbred animal-like wariness and suspicion of normal human beings.

  “Then they found each other and began copulating. I think it's a good bet we'll see more of them."

  “I hope you're wrong,” Ike said.

  “I'm not wrong,” Chase predicted. “You'll see."

  “I can hardly wait,” Cecil said dryly.

  Eight

  DECISION...

  “We are leaderless,” the voice spoke. “The world is tumbling about in chaos. The population is dying by the millions. God has spoken. Fall down on your knees and seek the Lord God in prayer. He..."

  A shot ended the impromptu sermon.

  A harsher voice took the mike. The station was not identified.

  “Get off your knees, brothers!” the voice shouted. “Now is the time to rise up and kill the white devils!"

  “Oh, good Lord!” Cecil said. He stood with a group of rebels, all gathered in and around the communications shack in south Arkansas. They listened to various stations pop back on the air, most at the hands of amateurs. Some preached love, some called for reason, some shouted hate. “Not this again."

  A stronger signal cut in, overriding the first signal. “Don't nobody listen to that nigger,” a man's voice spoke. “You coons bes’ stay in yore places if you know what's good for you. All praise the invisible empire!"

  “I had hoped that insanity was dead and gone,” someone said.

  “Not as long as there are two humans left alive,” Ben said. “With just one cell of ignorance between them."

  “Praise God!” a woman's voice implored.

  “There ain't no God!” a man's voice overrode her.

  Other stations popped on the air. Wild-screaming lay preachers; people who were seeking news of relatives; men and women preaching hate and love and brotherhood and violence; peace and profanity—racists on both sides of the color line.

  “Proves one thing,” Jane Dolbeau said.

  Heads turned to look at the woman.

  She met their gaze. “We are not alone."

  * * * *

  No, the Rebels were far from being alone. In the northern part of the Midwest, Sam Hartline had gathered men and women around him and laid claim to the entire state of Wisconsin.

  Cults were being formed all over the nation, and men and women who were weary of sickness and death, tired of tragedy and unrest, sick of troubles and heartbreak, were rushing to join any group that might promise them some peace and tenderness and a few moments of happiness.

  Standard, accepted, organized religion was taking a beating all over the world as many survivors turned a blind face to the teachings of Jesus and the Commandments handed Moses from God.

  Nothing He had promised came true. If He was a truly compassionate God, He would not have allowed anything like these troubles to befall a nation.

  Would He?

  The answer came back a silent No.

  Then we must look elsewhere.

  * * * *

  “Why, General,” Rosita propped her trim butt on one corner of Ben's desk, “haven't any mutants been born in any Rebel camp? Or,” her eyes searched his face, “have there been and no one is talking?"

  “No,” Ben assured her. “We've had no such births. That's what Doctor Chase and I were just discussing. Doctor Chase has a theory on it, but he has a theory on nearly everything.” Ben smiled. “Whether you want to hear it or not."

  “I resent that,” Chase said. “But please continue, Ben. I'll stand by to correct any misstatement you attribute to me."

  “Proper diet,” Ben said. “Good medical facilities and prompt treatment. Hard work, adequate rest and play time, very little stress, lots of happiness and contentment. We had all those things in the Tri-States. I think they had something to do with it. Maybe not."

  Rosita looked at Chase. He smiled reassuringly. “He left out the most important word, dear: Luck."

  After Rosita left, Ben looked at the ceiling and muttered, “I just don't understand it."

  “If you're talking to yourself, Ben—watch it. When you start answering yourself, let me know, I'll prescribe something."

  “I was thinking out loud, Lamar: two worldwide horrors in such a short time.” He shook his head. “I just don't understand it."

  “You want an opinion from me?"

  Ben smiled. “It doesn't make any difference whether I want it or not, you'll give it."

  Nothing daunted Chase; his skin was iron. “I don't think we had much at all to do with it. Maybe,” the doctor pointed upward, “He grew weary of how the human race had so screwed up His world, He's giving the people one more chance to correct it. I believe He is going to reduce this world—or regress its inhabitants might be better words—right back to the caves. Then He is going to say: All right, people, let's start all over. And this time around, try to do a little better, huh?’”

  Ben looked at the man for several heartbeats. “Do you really believe that, Lamar?"

  “Yes, son, I do.” He bobbed his head affirmatively.

  “Come on, Lamar, you've got something else on your mind—let's have it."

  “You won't like it, Ben."

  “I didn't like shots of penicillin when I was sixteen, either; but I had the clap."

  Chase grimaced, then laughed. “You do turn such a delicate phrase, boy. All right. You've got approximately six thousand people in this area. We're going to rebuild. But what are we going to rebuild, Ben? Ben ... your people more than love you—they worship you. You're like a god to many of them."

  Ben heard himself saying, “That's a little strong, Lamar.” But he knew it wasn't.

  “Ben, I heard some little boys and girls talking the other day. They were talking about you being infallible. ‘You can't die!’ they said. ‘You fought a monster and killed it.’ They talked about how many times you've been shot and hurt and blown up. And they have to get it from the parents.” He pointed to Ben's old Thompson SMG. “And they constantly refer to you and that weapon as one and the same. Put it up, Ben. Retire that old Chicago Piano. Get yourself an AK or an M-10 or ... anything. I mean it, Ben."

  This time around Ben could not believe it about his Thompson. His laugh was genuine. “Lamar, it's just an object."

  Chase did not share in the humor. “So was, I believe,” he reminded Ben, “Baal."

  * * * *

  The killing of the mutant became a fading memory in the mind of Ben. It was something that had to be done, it was over, so don't make a big deal of it.

  And to him, it was not.

  But to his followers, it remained vivid, much more so with each telling.

  As summer drifted on, and much of the hard work was over, Ben b
ecame restless. He would find himself looking about, seeing nothing but images in his mind. Remembering his lonely but satisfying traveling and wandering of ‘88 and ‘89. And it filled him with longing.

  Those whom he would allow close to him sensed this, but did not know what to do about it. Only the brash little Rosita had the courage to confront Ben.

  “You walk around here looking like some stone-faced Mayan god, General. What's the matter?"

  He did his best to glare at her, but all she did was stick out her tongue at him and screw her face up into some awful-looking mask.

  “That's the way you look, Ben. You could make a living frightening little children.” She reached out and tickled him.

  Ben laughed and playfully slapped her hands away. He looked around to see if anyone had observed this behavior—definitely out of character for him.

  “Let's take a trip, Rosita. Get the hell out of Dodge for a few days."

  “So where are we going, General?"

  “Let's see what Little Rock looks like."

  * * * *

  If Ben thought he and Rosita could slip off without company, he should have known better. He was reminding himself of that as the caravan pulled out early the next morning.

  A full platoon of the Rebel army accompanied them. Guards to the rear, guards in front.

  “No band?” Ben had sarcastically asked Ike.

  “I always wanted to see Little Rock,” Ike sidestepped the question.

  “Yeah, ol’ buddy,” Ben said. “I just bet."

  * * * *

  Little Rock was a dead city. Twelve years of neglect and looting had reduced it to blackened girders, stark against the backdrop of blue skies and burned-out buildings. Dead rats lay stinking in heaps on the streets.

  Ben drove by a high school that looked somehow familiar to him. Then he remembered why. Troops had been sent to this high school back in the ‘50s, to integrate it.

  He told Rosita as much.

  She did not seem all that interested.

  “Aren't you interested in history, Rosita?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “It don't put pork chops on the table, Ben."

  “What?"

  Her smile was sad. “Ben—I can't read much."

  “Dear God,” Ben muttered. He glanced at her. “You must have been about eight when the bombs came. Right?"

  “Nine."

  “How much schooling since then?"

  “Plenty in the school of hard knocks."

  “Don't be a smart-ass, short-stuff."

  “Not much, Ben. I read very slowly and skip over the big words."

  “You know anything at all about nouns, pronouns, adverbs—sentence construction?"

  “No,” her reply was softly given.

  “Then I will see that you learn how to read, Rosita,” Ben told her. “It's imperative that everyone know how to read."

  “I've got by without it,” she replied defensively.

  “What about your children?” Ben asked. “Damn it, short-stuff, this is what I've been trying to hammer into people's heads. You people are make-or-break for civilization. I don't know why you can't see that."

  He stopped the truck in a part of the city that appeared to be relatively free of dead rodents. They got out and walked.

  “So I and my niños can learn to make atomic bombs and again blow up the world, Ben? So we can read the formulas for making killing germs? I..."

  “Heads up, General!” A Rebel called. “To your left."

  Ben and Rosita turned. Ben heard her sharp intake of breath.

  "Dios mio!" she hissed.

  The man approaching them, angling across the littered street was the man in her dreams. Bearded and robed and carrying a long staff.

  He stopped in the middle of the street, and Ben looked into the wildest eyes he had ever witnessed.

  And the thought came to him, the oldest.

  “My God,” someone said. “It's Moses."

  A small patrol started toward the man. He held up a warning hand. “Stay away, ye soldiers of a false god."

  “It is Moses,” a woman muttered.

  Ben continued to stare at the man. And be stared at in return.

  “I hope not,” Ben said, only half in jest. Something about the man was disturbing. “Are you all right?” he called to the robed man. “We have food we'll share with you."

  “I want nothing from you.” The man stabbed a long staff against the broken concrete of the street. He swung his dark piercing eyes to the Rebels gathering around Ben. “Your worshipping of a false god is offensive.” He turned and walked away.

  Rosita stood in mild shock.

  “I tell y'all what,” a Rebel said. “This place is beginning to spook me. Let's get the hell out of here."

  The sounds of gunfire spun them around. A radio mounted on a Jeep began crackling. “Echo One to Recon."

  “This is recon,” the driver said. “Go ahead."

  Explosions sent clouds of dust in the air, the blasts coming from a building several blocks away.

  “...pocket of mutants,” the radio crackled. “We got them. Y'all better get hold of the general; he'll want to see this."

  * * * *

  “A family of them?” Ben asked. “A unit?"

  “Right in there, sir,” the Rebel pointed to the still-smoking basement area. “We didn't start it, sir,” the young man said. “We spotted one of ‘em and saw where it ran. Then we pulled our vehicles across the street and called for ‘em to come out.” He held up a crudely made spear with a knife attached to the end of it. He showed Ben an arrow, with a piece of chipped stone as the point. “After we got these, we opened fire."

  Ben nodded. But his mind was racing. Is this what we have come to? he silently questioned. After walking on the moon and all our high-technology and life-saving medical advances ... is this it? Are we really going back to the caves or is there still enough fire in the ashes to rekindle the flame of advancement?

  He sighed. “All right. Let's take a look."

  James Riverson stepped in front of Ben. “I'll go first,” he said.

  Ben looked at Rosita. Her face was pale and her hands were shaky.

  From what? Ben wondered.

  They made their approach cautiously; but their prudence was unnecessary. The gunfire and grenades had killed the basement apartment of mutants. All but one.

  “It's a baby,” a woman said. She looked closer. “At least I think it's a baby."

  The deformed infant hissed and snapped at the humans.

  “Watch those teeth,” Ben warned. “There is enough in that mouth for a piranha."

  When a Rebel reached down to take the infant, he jerked back his hand just a split second before the flashing teeth would have closed on his hand.

  “What the hell do we do with it?” someone asked.

  No one knew, and no one would suggest what was on everybody's mind. No one except Ben.

  “No,” he said. They all turned, looking at him. “It's just a baby—I think. Doesn't make any difference what kind of baby. Unless and until we see it presents some clear danger, it lives."

  The object—no one would venture a guess as to its age—was grotesquely ugly, hideously deformed. A huge head with jutting animal-like lower jaw, fanged teeth, hairy body, human hands and feet. Blond hair, blue eyes.

  “It's kinda cute,” Jane Dolbeau said. Another survivor from the assault against Tri-States, the Canadian had been quietly and passionately in love with Ben for years. Everybody knew it. Everyone except for Ben.

  “So is a Tasmanian devil,” Ben said. “But I don't want one for a pet. Get a medic to knock it out with drugs. We'll take it back to Chase."

  “Here comes nutsy,” a Rebel said.

  “Who?” Ben looked up.

  “Moses,” James said. “Some nut with a robe and staff."

  “No jug of wine and loaf of bread?” Ike grinned.

  They all groaned at that.

  The robed man appeared at the shattered d
oor. He pointed his staff at the mutant. “Look at it,” he spoke quietly. “See what happens when God's word is abused and scorned."

  “Who the hell are you?” Ben asked. “And what the hell are you?"

  “I am what you see before you. I am called The Prophet."

  “And I'm Johnny Carson,” a Rebel muttered.

  The robed and bearded man pointed his staff at Ben. “Your life will be long and strife-filled. You will sire many children, and in the end, none of your dreams will become reality. I have spoken with God, and He has sent me to tell you these things. You are as He to your people, and soon—in your measurement of time—many more will come to believe it. But recall His words: No false gods before me.” The old man's eyes seemed to burn into Ben's head. “It will not be your fault, but it will lie on your head."

  He turned away, walking out into the street.

  The Rebels stood in silence for a full moment; no one knew what to say.

  A Rebel stuck his head inside the shattered door. “Sure is quiet in here,” he said.

  “What did you make of nutsy?” he was asked.

  “Who?"

  “The old guy with the robes and staff and beard."

  “I didn't see anyone like that."

  “Well, where the hell have you been?"

  “I been sittin’ outside in that damn Jeep ever since you people came in here. There ain't been no old man wearing robes come near here. What have you people been doin', smokin’ some old left-handed cigarettes?"

  “Knock it off,” Ben said. “You people call for the medic and sedate that kid. Let's get the hell out of here."

  * * * *

  Sergeant Buck Osgood and his men finally pulled in, and Ben asked what in the hell had taken them so long?

  “I went back to my home in Arizona, General.” He gestured to the other men. “All of us are from the same area. We went back to find our folks.” He shrugged. “We buried them. Some old guy came along and spoke the right words over the grave."

  “Old guy?” Ben felt his guts tie up in knots.

  “Yeah,” Buck said, lighting a cigarette. “Weird old guy. I think he must of been about half-cracked. Called himself The Prophet. Wore long robes and carried a big stick; like a shepherd from out of biblical times."