Blood in the Ashes ta-4

by William W. Johnstone

  “You weren’t listening to a word I said the other day, were you, Ben?” He grinned at her.

  “Shit, Ben!” She stared out the window for a few seconds. “I wonder if Ike is all right?”

  Ben said nothing. He was wondering the same thing. He was worried about Ike, but not as much as Gale thought. Ben knew the ex-Navy SEAL’-IF he wasn’t dead, and Ben didn’t like to think about that-was busy planning and rejecting escape options. Given just a second’s carelessness on the part of his captors, Ike would strike faster than a cobra and be gone.

  After reviewing what he knew of the ambush in his

  mind, going over it many times, Ben was almost positive Ike was being held captive in either the Chattahoochee, the Nantahala, or the Cherokee National Forest. Hundreds of thousands of acres of wilderness. More wilderness now than ever before. And that would be in Ike’s favor, for he was survival-trained, and Ike knew where the hidden caches of guns and ammo and supplies were located, left behind by the Rebels a couple of years back. And God alone could help the Ninth Order if Ike escaped and found the caches. The ex-Seal would not leave a one of them alive.

  “Ike is all right,” Ben said.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Ike thought he had it figured. Each afternoon, precisely at five p.m., a robed and hooded figure came to the door and knocked once. Ike replied. He was then ordered to stand away from the door, his back to the far wall. The door would open, a tray of food would be shoved in, on the floor, and the door would close. Ike looked at the makeshift manlike figure he had constructed from pillow and blanket and wood from the chair. He had placed it in a shadowy corner of the large room. It would have to do. It might fool the guard for a few seconds. That was all the time Ike would need. He hoped.

  Although painful while occurring, his torture had left no serious physical problems. Had they continued, however, that would have been another story. Ike hefted the chair leg, quietly smacking the heavy end against his open palm. “Come on, you son of a bitch,” he muttered softly. “Just stick your hooded head inside that door.”

  He heard the sound of footsteps coming down the hall. One set of footsteps. They halted in front of his door. Ike smiled grimly. The smile of the hunter. “Disbeliever!” the voice called.

  That was Ike’s cue. “Yeah.”

  “Step away from the door.”

  “All right, all right. Hurry it up, partner, I’m hungry.”

  “Stand back.”

  “Done.”

  The key rattled in the lock. The doorknob turned. The door swung slowly open. A tray of food was placed on the floor. The hooded man looked at the dim outline of the makeshift bundle of blanket and pillow and sticks. He grunted and placed the tray of food on the floor. Just as he once more lifted his eyes, eyes that now held suspicion, Ike stepped from behind the door, the club raised over his head.

  “Overpass out just up ahead, General,” the lead scout radioed back to the main column. “Three miles from your location.” Late afternoon in Georgia, the fall air cooling.

  Ben pulled up behind the Jeep. The support columns had been blown under the east side of the bridge, collapsing it.

  “Now why would anyone want to do that?” Ben asked. He took a closer look. He could see weeds and brush growing amid the jumble of concrete and steel. “It wasn’t done recently.”

  “Doesn’t make any sense to me, General,” a Rebel replied. “Another patrol went north to see if the access road to Highway 80 is clear. She’ll be reporting back in a minute.”

  “Well,” Ben said, “this might have been an accident. We’ll see.”

  The radio crackled. “319/441 is blocked, Jerry. None of this is making any sense. “Fore the general makes any moves, send a patrol to backtrack and check out this old Highway 257 into Dublin. I got an edgy feeling about all this.”

  James pointed at two Rebels in a Jeep. “Go,” he told them. “Maintain radio contact and stay alert for trouble.”

  “Susie?” James spoke into the mic. “Stay loose and heads up.”

  “Ten-four, Sarge,” she responded. “Rolling.”

  The Rebels waited in the cooling wind that blew from the north. Winter was not far away. Five minutes passed. The last recon team sent out called in. “Sarge? Highway 257 is blocked just off the interstate.”

  Ben took the mic. “This is General Raines. Backtrack to the interstate and head west until you intersect with Highway 338. That’ll lead you into a small town named Dudley. Check it out and be careful doing it.”

  “Ten-four.”

  “Susie?”

  “Sir?”

  “You getting hinky about this?”

  “Yes, sir. All senses tell me something is bad wrong.”

  “Back off about a mile and sit it out. Keep your head up, now.”

  “Yes, sir. Rolling.”

  “James? Have a Jeep jump the median and cut across that field. Swing back to the interstate then cut north on Highway 19. See if it’s blocked. This downed overpass may have given someone a grim idea. All this is getting just a little weird to me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The minutes ticked slowly past. Ben tuned up the collar on his field jacket. He checked his weapons. The Scouts began calling in.

  “Dudley is a ghost town, sir. Highway 338 is blocked on the east side.”

  “Hold your positions and stay alert for trouble,” Ben ordered.

  “Highway 19 is blocked, sir. Just off the interstate.”

  “Come on back. Susie? Come back in.”

  Gale looked at Ben. “Let me guess, Ben. We’re going to visit Dublin, right?”

  “Right on the money, honey,” Ben replied with a grin.

  She walked back to the pickup, muttering as she walked. “Man just can’t mind his own business.”

  The Scouts who had jumped the interstate rolled back in. “Let’s move it,” Ben ordered. “Load those .50’s and stay alert. We’re probably heading into trouble up ahead. I hope not, but let’s be ready for anything.”

  “You hope not!” Gale said as Ben dropped the pickup into gear. “Ben, you thrive on trouble.”

  “And if you didn’t like it, you would have split a long time ago.” He grinned at her.

  “Just think,” she replied. “I used to belong to the Youth for Peace movement.”

  “Did you have a little banner you waved about?” Ben asked.

  “Very funny, Raines.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yes!”

  They backtracked the ten miles and cut north on 338. The small town was deserted and in ruin. It had been picked clean by looters. The Rebels rolled through what remained of the town and stopped several hundred yards from the barricade that stretched across Highway 80.

  Ben got out of the truck and looked at the barricade through binoculars. “It wasn’t put up to last any length of time,” he said. “All right, knock it down.”

  Explosives were set in place. Sixty seconds later, the barricade erupted in a smoky mass of wood and brick and concrete blocks.

  “Scouts take the point,” Ben ordered.

  Susie wheeled her Jeep through the smoking ruins, an armed Rebel riding shotgun, his M-16 ready. Another Rebel stood in the rear of the Jeep, ready with a mounted M-60 light machine gun.

  “Roll it slow,” Ben said.

  The column moved out, all weapons held at the ready.

  “What do you think is up ahead, Ben?” Gale asked. “And before you get smart-mouthed, I realize that is a stupid question.”

  “Several possibilities. One: a group of people-much like us-who have bunkered themselves in for personal safety. Two: a gang of thugs who have taken over the town for whatever reason. Three: the complete unknown.”

  “Mutants?”

  “I doubt it. No mutant I’ve seen has the intelligence to build a barricade that well. Tony

  Silver’s name keeps popping up in my mind. Sooner or later, we’re going to have to deal with Silver.”

  “So it’s the unk
nown thus far?” she said.

  “Right. We’ll know in about half a minute, I’m thinking.”

  “I can hardly wait.”

  “Your adventurous spirit is overwhelming, Ms. Roth.”

  “Just drive the damn truck, Raines.” She looked at the 1987 roadmap. “Sixteen thousand people in Dublin. Back before the bombs, that is.”

  “Maybe one-tenth survived that. I doubt it was that high. The plague? I don’t know. That may have finished the town. We’ll soon see.”

  Susie’s Jeep was stopped in the middle of the highway as Ben slowed and pulled up beside her, on the north side. The woman had an odd expression on her face.

  Ben got out of his truck. “What’s the matter, Susie?”

  She pointed to the side of an old service station. “Look over there, General.”

  Ben looked. “Jesus Christ!” he blurted.

  Bloated, naked bodies were hanging from a beam that stretched from building to building. Their hands were tied behind their backs, their faces were dark, tongues swollen and protruding.

  Before anyone could say anything else, a hard burst of machine gunfire knocked the Rebel still sitting in the front of the Jeep out of his seat, the heavy slugs tearing away part of his face. The Rebel in the rear swung his M-60 and pulled the trigger back, holding it, spraying the area where the fire had originated. He fought the rise of the weapon on full auto.

  Ben located the source of the firing and burned half a clip at the hidden machine gun emplacement by the side of an old house. Rebel rocket launchers cracked their explosive messages. The machine gun nest was blown into bloody bits.

  “Teams on both sides of the road!” Ben yelled. “Clear it, house to house. Medics, up front, now!”

  It was too late for the Rebel lying in his own blood in the front of the Jeep. The heavy .50-caliber machine gun slugs had torn the life from the young man.

  Ben glanced at Susie. The young woman had tears in her eyes. “You all right, Susie?”

  “I will be, sir,” she replied. “In a minute.” She turned her back to him and wiped her eyes. Facing him, she said, “General, Bert and I were engaged, sort of. We had talked of getting married.” She looked at the young man named Bert, now being wrapped in a tarp. “I wouldn’t want to leave here until his death had been avenged.”

  “We won’t, Susie,” Ben assured her. “I want to find out what in the hell is going on around this place.”

  Susie spat very unladylike on the ground. “Personally, I would rather burn the whole fucking town to the ground.”

  She walked back to her Jeep. She found a rag and began mopping up Bert’s blood from the seats.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Ike both felt and heard the man’s skull pop under the hickory club. He quickly dragged the robed and hooded man into the room and closed the door, after checking the lock. He damn sure didn’t want to get locked back in with a stiff.

  Ike stripped off the robe and put it on, grimacing as he did so. The robe stank of old sweat. Fanning the body, Ike discovered a .38-caliber pistol and a pocket full of cartridges. He found a package of cigarettes-Lord only knew how old they were-and a Zippo lighter. Even though Ike had been trying to quit smoking for years, he made up his mind he’d sure fire one up if he got out of this loony bin in one piece.

  He smiled. After he wasted a whole bunch of these kooks, that is.

  He slowly opened the door and looked up and down the dimly lit hall. Must be a gasoline generator producing the power, he thought. The hall was quiet and deserted, he slipped out into the hall, stood for a moment, trying to get his bearings, then walked in the opposite direction his guard’s footsteps had always sounded. He passed a room that smelled strongly of kerosene. An idea came to him. He smiled grimly and entered the

  room. He found two five-gallon cans of kerosene and a carton of rags. Ike saturated the room with raw kerosene and ran back to the room where he’d been held captive, leaving a trail of kerosene as he ran. He doused the dead man with kerosene, and threw the rest of that can of flammable liquid on the walls and floor. He lit a handful of rags and dropped them to the floor, backing out of the room.

  He backed right into a breathing body.

  “Brother Jake?” the man said. “Why … you’re not Brother-was

  That was as far as he got. Brother Whatever-in-the-hell-his-name-was felt his throat explode in pain as Ike ruptured his larynx with the knife edge of his hand. Brother Yo-yo hit the floor and began flopping around, slowly suffocating, gagging and making horrible choking sounds. Ike hastened death’s touch by kicking the man in the temple with the toe of his boot. The man croaked once and was still. Fanning the body, Ike found another .38 pistol, more cartridges, and a long-bladed hunting knife in a leather sheath.

  Ike took the seconds required to check both pistols. Fully loaded. He tossed Brother Yo-yo into the burning room, shut the door, and picked up the second can of kerosene. He ran down the hall, slopping kerosene on the walls and floor, the fire trailing behind him as he ran.

  Smoke was rapidly filling the corridored building as Ike came to a dead end. A dirty window faced him. He unlocked the window and climbed out, closing the window behind him.

  The outside air was clear and cold. Ike breathed

  deeply, gratefully. It felt good to be free. Even better to be armed. Now to get his bearings and find some heavier weapons. Then to do some damage, draw some real blood.

  He could hear the sounds of men and women yelling, some of the yelling pain-filled as the fire spread quickly through the old, wooden building. It had been some type of old warehouse, Ike guessed.

  A man ran around a corner of the building, carrying an M-16. He ran toward Ike, crouched in the darkness. When the robed man passed the kneeling Ike, Ike jammed one end of the hickory stick hard into the man’s gut. The air left him in a rush. Ike cracked the man’s skull with the club and hit him again for insurance. He grabbed up the M-16 and tore the full ammo pouch from the man. He checked the M-16. It was one of the older models, manufactured long before the M16A2 came to be. This old baby was full auto.

  Ike checked the clip. Full. The clips in the ammo pouch were all full, a mixed bag of twenty and thirty round clips.

  “Now for a little fun,” Ike muttered. “My kind of fun, kids.”

  Using the heavy brush around the burning building, Ike slipped into deep cover, edging into the prone firing position. He found a group of robed men and women standing about two hundred yards from the burning structure. He blew a full clip into them, knocking half of them sprawling, kicking and screaming on the ground.

  “Bastards!” Ike growled.

  The roaring of the fire completely covered the stutter and crack of the M-16. Ike jammed home a fresh clip and began picking his targets.

  He knocked the props out from under a half dozen more hooded and robed persons before deciding it was time for him to haul his ass out of that area.

  One man came close to Ike’s position and Ike shot him, one slug hitting the magazine of the M-16, the rounds exploding, mangling the man’s belly and chest. Ike tore the ammo pouch from the man and ripped a pair of field glasses from around the man’s neck. He ran into the woods.

  Stopping once to check the stars, Ike got his bearings and headed southeast. He found a stream and followed it until he spotted a bridge looming dark in the early fall evening in the mountains.

  Ike carefully reconnoitered the bridge and the grounds around it while remaining motionless in the brush. First chance he got, he was getting out of that stinking robe. It was insulting his nostrils. People of the Ninth Order must not believe much in bathing, he thought.

  Cautiously, he made his way to the bridge. He followed the highway south by staying close to the timberline. He came to a highway marker. He was on Highway 60.

  Ike searched his memory. The patrol he’d been leading had been ambushed just to the east of Highway 411, very close to the town of Chatsworth. So the members of the Ninth Order had carried him quite a d
istance to the east. He still couldn’t quite figure out exactly why the Ninth Order had grabbed him. He thought all that questioning about Ben had been to throw him off.

  Unless …

  Yeah, he reflected sourly, that had to be it. Willette and his bunch were probably playing footsie with that gang of kooks. Christ! Ike had hoped they were all through with people like that when they left Emil Hite and his band of fruitcakes back in Arkansas.*

  Ike had to softly chuckle at the memory of Emil Hite. Hite was more harmless hippie than anything else. The man had a scam working for him. But he wasn’t dangerous-at least not like the Ninth Order.

  The Ninth Order. Sister Voleta. What the hell did they want? Good Christ, there was surely enough land for everybody.

  Ike just couldn’t figure it.

  He walked for half an hour before spotting an old house set off the road, almost completely overgrown with thick brush. He circled the house once before stepping up to the porch. Carefully, he tried the doorknob. It turned with a grinding, unused sound. M-16 ready, on full auto, Ike pushed open the door. It protested on rusty hinges. Ike stepped into a musty-smelling living room.

  Something screamed an animal sound and came leaping at him in the darkness.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “We’re clean up to that point,” the Rebel said, pointing to an intersection about a half mile from the first barricade just outside Dublin, Georgia. “Beyond that point, General, is the unknown. You want me to send teams in there?”

  Ben nixed that quickly. “It’ll be full dark soon,” he said. “No point in risking more lives wandering around at night. They-whoever they might be-know the terrain. We don’t. Let’s backtrack a few miles for safety’s sake. We’ll hit the town in the morning.”

  “Whatever is in there,” Susie said, “they’re pretty good. I haven’t seen any movement since we knocked out that machine gun emplacement.”

  “Either pretty good or pretty scared,” Ben said. “Or pretty few.” He turned to another Rebel. “What did you learn from inspecting the bodies at the machine gun nest?”

  “Five white males,” Sergeant Greene said. “Dirty. Unwashed. Bad teeth. All different ages. I’d say from twenty to forty-five. All wearing battle dress. None of them wore any type of unit crest or any other type of insignia.”