Vengeance in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  He walked for half an hour until coming to a gravel road. He knelt by the road and watched and listened. The old road ran north and south. North would take him back to the highway. He turned south, staying in the woods. He was covered with chiggers, and knew the little burrowing bastards would begin to give him fits in a few hours, but it couldn’t be helped. He bellied down at the sounds of a vehicle coming up the road fast, from the south. Three men and a woman in an old Cadillac roared up the road, kicking up clouds of dust.

  Had to be a house down this road. Ben walked on. Ten minutes later, a home came into view. Please, no dogs, Ben sent out a silent prayer. And no one at home.

  He got one out of two. Well, he thought, as the dog started barking, I’m batting five hundred. It was a black lab, and Ben softly called to it, holding out one hand from the edge of the timber. The dog looked at him suspiciously, then wagged its tail and came to Ben.

  “How you doing, feller?” Ben asked, petting the lab. The dog licked his hands and face and then went trotting off into the woods to play.

  Ben eased up to the rear of the house and paused, listening. He could hear no sound from inside. Taking a deep breath, he stepped up onto the back porch and opened the door. The house was silent. Quickly inspecting the rooms, Ben found a cache of survival food and in another room, an arsenal. He picked up one of half a dozen backpacks and two canteens. He found 9mm rounds and clips for an Uzi. He took a blanket and a ground sheet and a box of waterproof and windproof matches. He carefully selected survival packages of food and a small first aid kit from a box that contained dozens of them. He took fresh socks from a cardboard box and clean underwear still wrapped in plastic. Fruit of the Loom. He found soap and took a fresh bar.

  He prowled the house, being careful not to disturb anything. There were pamphlets about Hoffman’s NAL and white supremacy. Ben wasn’t that hard up for reading material.

  There were several loaves of fresh-baked bread on the table, covered with a clean white cloth, and the bread smelled so damn good Ben wanted desperately to take one, but he knew better. He did pause long enough to eat a bowl of stew from the pot on the stove, and carefully washed out the bowl and spoon, replacing them exactly where he had found them.

  He left the house, closing the back door, and headed for the creek. Now he would make it. Now he would get cleaned up, eat some more, clean out the cuts on his wrists and hands, and then he would go raise some hell with this Jackman person. He had found cases of grenades and hooked half a dozen onto a battle harness and put half a dozen more in his pack.

  He looked around for the dog, but the lab was off in the woods, having fun. “Luck to you, boy,” Ben muttered. He still had refused to think about his team back in Oklahoma. There would be time for that later.

  Ben returned to the creek and followed it for a couple of miles. He found a dandy spot for a camp and after carefully checking it out, took a quick bath and changed into fresh clothing, from the skin out. He had found sets of tiger-stripe and had taken one. He filled his canteens and dropped in water-purification tablets. Then he treated the cuts on his hands and wrists. He filled up the extra clips and took down his Uzi, cleaning it carefully. He checked the knife he’d taken from the dead redneck and found it to be honed to a razor edge. Only then did he eat and stretch out, unfolding a map of Arkansas he’d found in a pile back at the house in the country with a friendly lab guarding it.

  He would leave the creek south and west of Gassville and work north, crossing the highway and staying on the north side of it until he reached Mountain Home. There had been a Rebel outpost at Mountain Home. Obviously it had been overrun and now served as a base, or CP for this Jackman person.

  “You screwed up, Jackman, Hoffman, or whoever put the grab on me,” Ben muttereed. “You screwed up bad.”

  Ben was free, in a manner of speaking, but still in a hard bind, and knew it. Even if he could get to a radio powerful enough to transmit hundreds of miles, he couldn’t afford to call in to HQ, for Jackman’s men would be scanning all frequencies. Once he gave out his location, Jackman’s men would hunt him down like an animal.

  He heard the sound of a low-flying plane and slipped back under the overhang a few yards from the creek. He waited under the plane was gone before again stepping out. The search was on, but Jackman had a lot of territory to cover.

  Ben rolled up in his blanket and went to sleep.

  He was up long before dawn and restless, wanting to get moving, but knowing that stumbling around in the dark would be a stupid thing to do. He used a heat tab under his canteen cup to heat water for coffee and drank the hot bitter brew that had been packed for the U.S. Army years back. It tasted like shit smells. And the tablet-purified water didn’t help any. But it was hot and Ben supposed it still had caffeine in it after all the years.

  He was moving at first light, following the creek and staying in the brush or very close to it. He stopped often to listen and carefully check his surroundings. So far, Ben knew, he had been very, very lucky. But the closer he drew to the road, the more cautious he must become.

  The closer to any artery, the more people he would have to avoid. He came to an old blacktopped road and squatted in the brush beside it. Directly across from his position was a home made of native stone. The lawn was all grown up into weeds, and one porch support post had given way and collapsed. He stepped out of the brush, then ducked back quickly. He had almost made a fatal mistake.

  About five hundred yards north of his position he had spotted a roadblock. He headed south toward a long curve in the road, which would prevent those at the roadblock from seeing him, and checked it out. All clear both ways. He darted across the highway and into the brush. He followed the creek several more miles and then cut straight north.

  That night he camped in timber on the side of a hill overlooking a lovely meadow. He felt pretty good; smug even. He had crossed Highway 62 just after dark and had crossed the White River bridge in the back of a bob truck full of vegetables. He had ridden the truck for miles until the driver had slowed for a turn on Highway 126 north. Ben left the truck carrying a watermelon under each arm.

  He was about four miles from Mountain Home and full of watermelon.

  Ben was in his fifth day of not shaving, and was beginning to grow a respectable beard. He had discarded his tiger-stripe uniform for a pair of jeans and dark shirt he had stolen from a clothesline early that day. He had found a terrible-looking old hat with a wide floppy brim and, after giving it a good dunking in a creek, now wore that. At a distance, he looked like just a down-on-his-luck bum.

  He watched the lights come on in Mountain Home. The Rebels had gotten the electricity back on and now Jackman and his crud were using it.

  Ben chuckled darkly in the night. “Have fun, Jackman,” he whispered to the darkness. “Tomorrow I start pulling your plug.”

  TWO

  Ben had worked close to town and knew without any doubt that Jackman’s men had taken over the place. It was real easy to tell: the Nazi swastika could be seen everywhere one looked. There were a lot of black-shirts in evidence as well, and only those troops and the cammie-clad men of Jackman’s carried weapons.

  “Fair game,” Ben muttered. “Now I start having some fun.” He was crouched inside an old fast-food restaurant and peering out through a crack in the boarded-up windows. He smiled, a grim curving of his lips. Come the night, darkness was not the only thing that was going to fall.

  A walking patrol of two heavily armed men stopped in the shade of the building to smoke and talk. Ben listened.

  “I ain’t never seen Jackman so pissed. I thought he was gonna shoot them ol’ boys who was bringin’ Raines in.”

  “Me, too. At least I heard he was pissed. I’m glad I wasn’t around.”

  “You think Ben Raines is around this area?”

  “Hell, no. Man, he’s workin’ south toward his own people. He’s a hundred miles from here by now.”

  “That’s what I think, too. You going to the c
itizen-hangin’ tomorrow?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Folks got to learn if they collaborate with the enemy, they gonna get hung.”

  “Damn shame to hang that fine-lookin’ piece of ass. Jackman could have give her to us.”

  Laughing, the men moved on.

  “Ummm,” Ben said.

  For reasons that were still unknown to Ben, years back, when the plague had run its course and the final collapse of governments came about shortly afterward, many jails and prisons were destroyed. Most courthouses were blown up or burned. Perhaps it was to destroy public records and erase past crimes. Ben never had been able to figure that out. But on this night, it would prove to be a good thing, for the six people who were to be hanged the following morning were being held in an old motel on Highway 62. Ben had learned that by listening to people talk as they walked past his hiding place during the day. Two women and four men.

  By nine o’clock that night, Ben was lying in the tall grass about a hundred yards from the motel.

  It was easy to see which rooms were being used as cells. The big windows had been removed and bars were in their place. Directly in front of the holding rooms, about fifty yards out, was a sandbagged machine-gun nest, manned by two men. Three armed guards patrolled the walkway in front of the converted rooms.

  “I got to piss,” one of the machine gunners said. “Be right back.”

  “Take your time,” his buddy told him. “Bring us back some coffee and a doughnut, will you? After you wash your hands,” he added with a laugh.

  His buddy gave him the bird and walked off into the gloom.

  Ben slipped through the soft wet grass and wormed his way down the embankment and snaked his way to the rear of the sandbags. With one quick movement, he grabbed the man’s long hair, cut his throat, and gently let the chin go forward until it was resting on the man’s chest.

  The next part was going to be tricky.

  The second machine gunner came walking back, both hands full of coffee cups. Ben hoped he could salvage at least one of the cups. He needed a cup of coffee.

  The sandbags were about three feet high and Ben lay close to the rear bags. The guard came up and stood for a moment.

  “Jesus Christ, Denny. Jackman come by here and see you sleepin’ it’d be your ass in a sling. I told you to stop layin’ out with that damn woman. She’s sappin’ all your strength.” He sat the cups on the top of the bags and stepped into the square. “Go on and sleep. I’ll jab you if I need you.”

  Ten seconds later, all he needed was a good record with the Lord. Something Ben doubted he had.

  Ben lay behind the bags and ate the doughnut and drank both cups of coffee, even though one had cream in it and Ben liked his coffee black with one sugar.

  Working very carefully, glancing over at the walking guards every few seconds, Ben removed the pistol belts from each man, their battle harnesses, and took their M-16s.

  Now it was going to get dicey.

  He slipped back into the tall grass and worked his way to the end of the motel grounds. He stashed the gear and squatted in the darkness behind a car, wondering what in the hell he was going to do now.

  “I got to go shit,” one of the guards said. “That greasy crap that my wife fixed for supper is workin’ on me hard.”

  “Go crap over yonder behind my car. If Jackman comes up, we can say you was checkin’ out a noise.”

  Ben smiled. Come on, come on. He was pleased to see the man was about his height and had a dark stubble of beard. It might work. It just might work.

  The guard was moaning and holding his stomach as he approached the car. He fumbled with his battle harness and laid it aside, then tore open his belt and dropped his trousers. The only relief he got was the blade of a knife tearing into his back and ripping upward as a hard hand clamped over his mouth. Ben picked up the man’s fallen beret and plopped it on his own head. He waited a few minutes, then stood up, walking slowly toward the motel. Several cars drove past and the last one pulled in.

  As the car was pulling in, the driver called, “Hey, Fuller. Come over here. I got a message from Jackman.” He pulled the car past the corner of the building and out of sight.

  Go on, Fuller, Ben silently urged. Go on.

  Fuller went, leaving just the one guard.

  “’Bout time you got back,” the guard said as Ben walked up. The man’s eyes widened and he opened his mouth to yell.

  Ben’s knife, which he had been holding close to his right leg, flashed in the dim light and the guard went down, blood spurting from his torn throat. Ben tore the ring of keys from the man’s belt and fumbled with the keys for precious seconds until he found the right one. He pushed open the door and stood for a few more seconds looking at a very lovely woman. He blinked and tossed her the keys.

  “Get the others and get down to the end of the parking lot,” he told her. “Move. Quickly now. There are guns at the front of that old Mercury. Move!”

  “Who are you?” she breathed. Then her eyes widened. “My God. General Raines.”

  “Move, darling,” Ben said. He heard a car pulling out. “We’re all out of time. Move, goddammit!”

  He ran to the edge of the building and knocked Fuller sprawling to the concrete. A kick to the head put Fuller out of it for a long time. If his skull wasn’t fractured, he’d have one hell of a headache for a day or so.

  Ben ripped the battle harness from him and took off the web belt containing pistol and clips. He ran back to the holding rooms. The woman had unlocked the doors and the prisoners were standing outside, all of them looking dazed and scared and slightly confused.

  “Move!” Ben called in a hoarse whisper. “Let’s get the hell out of here.” He tossed the M-16, web belt, and ammo pouch to a man and pushed the others toward the far end of the parking lot.

  Then Lady Luck lifted her skirts and crapped all over everybody.

  A car pulled in, the headlights highlighting them all. “Hey!” a man yelled, and floorboarded the old Cadillac. Ben leveled the Uzi and gave the windshield half a clip. The car slewed to one side and went crashing into the lower level of the motel.

  “Go!” Ben yelled. “Into that field and keep going straight.”

  “No,” the woman said. “I know where to go.”

  “Lead the way, then. But for God’s sake, move!”

  They ran into the field just as sirens began splitting the night air and headlights of fast-moving cars and trucks were darting in all directions behind them.

  They ran until Ben thought his sides would bust open. When they reached a deserted and nearly burned out old subdivision, the woman stopped and they all bent over, gasping for breath.

  “I can’t do it, Ann,” a man about Ben’s age said, bending over and holding his sides. “I can’t go on.”

  “Come on, Larry,” the woman urged. “It’s not that much further.”

  “Let’s go,” Ben said. “So we all drop dead of a heart attack. Beats hanging any day. We’ll walk for a minute then run for a minute. Lead the way, Ann.”

  She led them through a maze of burned homes and rubble. They crossed a creek and rested for a moment.

  “Names,” Ben said.

  “I’m Ann,” the woman whose beauty had stopped Ben for a few seconds back at the motel. “That’s Larry, Paul, David, and Frank. This is Carol. We heard you were dead, General.”

  “Greatly exaggerated and very premature,” Ben said with a smile. “Did Hoffman find our weapons cache here?”

  “What weapons cache?” Frank asked.

  Ben chuckled. “Come on. Let’s find us a place to hole up for the night and then we’ll really start doing some damage. Lead the way, Ann.”

  They skirted another line of darkened houses and crossed an open meadow, all of them keeping low. They crossed another creek and then heard the baying of bloodhounds behind them.

  “Shit!” Ben said. “I might have known these ol’ boys would have those. We find us some transportation and throw them
off. Where’s the highway?”

  “Secondary road just up ahead,” David said. “But how will you get a vehicle?”

  “Is there a curfew on?”

  “You bet. No one but Jackman’s people are allowed out after dark.”

  “That makes it easy then,” Ben told the small group. “We just kill the driver.”

  At the road, Ben motioned the others down into a ditch and he squatted beside the road in brush. The first vehicle was a small car and he let that go past. Then a pickup truck came driving slowly toward them, traveling no more than five miles an hour, a spotlight on the passenger side searching the ditches. When the vehicle drew even with Ben, he put half a dozen slugs through the open window. The driver must have had his left foot on the brake pedal, for the truck stopped abruptly, then started moving forward slowly.

  Ben jumped out of the brush and jerked open the door, dragging the dead driver out and dumping him on the blacktop. He got behind the wheel and stopped the truck.

  “Get their weapons,” he told the group. “And get in.”

  Ann and Frank got in the cab with Ben, the others in the open bed of the truck. “Lay down,” Ben told those in the rear. “This could get wild before it gets better.”

  “You’re a cold one,” Ann told him, her hazel eyes on Ben.

  “I’m alive,” Ben replied, then dropped the transmission into drive and took off. “Which way?”

  “Stay on this road until I tell you to turn. We’ll head out into the hills. It’s a no-man’s-land out there. That’s where the resistance is located. Jackman’s people don’t venture out there.”

  “Does this take us out to the airport?”

  “Right past it. But the airport is no longer in use. Jackman uses another strip south of here.”

  “Good,” Ben said with a smile. “The airport is where the supplies are cached. They were modernizing it when the Great War hit. After the collapse of Tri-States, we hid supplies all over the nation.”

  “How come we weren’t told of that?” Frank asked.