Ben smiled. “By looting it, Carl? Isn’t that what the blacks are doing in the city?”
“Why don’t you just carry your Jew-lovin’, nigger-lovin’ ass on out of here?” The voice ripped at him from behind.
Ben turned, his eyes widening in disbelief. The small, wiry-looking man was dressed in a Nazi storm trooper’s uniform. A swastika on his sleeve.
Ben looked around him: a crowd had gathered, and their faces were hostile. This was solid middle-class America glaring at him. Ben turned his gaze at his brother.
“Aw… no, Carl—not this. You’re a vet. You fought against what this”—he waved his hand at the Nazi—“turd represents.”
“Maybe, baby brother,” Carl said, “we were wrong back in ‘44. George, there, he’s convinced me that back then our forces should have let Hitler go on and wipe out the Jews. Then we should have linked up with him and gone into Africa and cleaned up on the jungle-bunnies. I’m glad I was too young for the second world war, Ben. I think I’d have been ashamed to admit I was a part of it. Jews and niggers, Ben—they’re just alike. And we’re gonna do what should have been done a long time ago.”
Ben stood for only a few seconds, looking at his brother. “I don’t know you anymore, Carl.”
“Get out, Ben. Right now. ‘Fore some of my friends take it upon themselves to whip your nigger-lovin’ ass.”
“My pleasure to leave, Carl. I’m just glad Mamma and Dad don’t have to see this.”
The brothers did not shake hands. Ben brushed past him and the Nazi-lover, fighting back a very strong urge to knock the storm trooper on his butt.
SEVEN
Ben drove fast and he drove with anger eating at him. He just could not believe his brother had changed so, and he wondered just how many men and women this George commanded. Too many, he was certain. One would have been too many.
He drove first to the south, out of the suburbs, and then cut east, crossing over into Indiana. Just before dark, he pulled into a motel off Interstate 65. Thompson in hand, Ben prowled the motel. In one wing he found the rooms had been occupied and they held stinking, stiffening dead. But the entire east wing was clean and free of bodies. Ben chose a room, found the laundry room, and picked up sheets, pillowcases, and blankets. He was walking back to his room when he saw the dark shapes standing in the parking area.
About a half-dozen black men and women. No, he looked closer, one of the women was white—he thought.
Ben made no move to lift the SMG, but the click of his putting it off safety was very audible in the stillness.
“Deserting your friends in the suburbs?” a tall black man asked. Ben could detect no hostility in his voice.
“I might ask the same of you,” Ben said.
The man laughed. “A point well taken. So… it appears we have both chosen this motel to spend the night. But… we were here first—quite some time. We were watching you. So… which one of us leaves?”
“None of us,” Ben said. “If you don’t trust me, lock your doors.”
The man once again laughed. “My name is Cecil Jeffreys.”
“Ben Raines.”
“Ben Raines? Where have I heard that name? The writer?”
“Ah… what price fame?” Ben smiled. “Yes. Sorry, I didn’t mean to be flip.”
“I didn’t take it that way. We’re in the same wing, just above you. My wife is preparing dinner now—in the motel kitchen. Would you like to join us?”
“Yes, very much so. I’m tired of my own cooking.”
“Well, then… if you’ll sling that Thompson, I’ll help you with your linens.”
Ben did not hesitate, for he felt the request and the offer a test. He put the SMG on safety and slung it, then handed the man his pillows. “You’re familiar with the Thompson?”
“Oh, yes. Carried one in Vietnam. Green Beret. You?”
“Hell-Hound.”
“Ah! The real bad boys. Colonel Dean’s bunch. You fellows were headhunters.”
“We took a few ears.”
They walked shoulder to shoulder down the walkway, Cecil’s friends coming up in the rear. Ben resisted a very strong impulse to look behind him.
Cecil smiled. “If it will make you feel better, go ahead and look around.”
“You a mind reader?” Ben laughed.
“No, just knowledgeable of whites, that’s all.”
“As you see us,” Ben countered.
“Good point. We’ll have a good time debating; I see that.”
They came to Ben’s room.
“We’ll see you in the dining room, Ben Raines. I have to warn you though…”
Ben tensed; he was boxed in, no way to make a move.
“…The water is ice-cold. Bathe very quickly.”
Ben, like many, if not most, whites, had never socialized with blacks, never sat down at a table with a black person to have dinner—except for his time in the service, and there had been few blacks in his outfit. In truth, Ben did not really know or trust black people. He didn’t know why he didn’t trust them. He just didn’t.
Ben despised the KKK, the Nazi Party—groups of that ilk—and he would never, ever, hurt a black person, unless that person was trying to hurt him; but, he admitted, as he bathed—very quickly—in the cold water… I guess I really don’t like black people.
But why? he asked himself. Have you ever tried to know or like a black person?
No, he concluded.
Well, you’re about to do just that.
He walked to the dining room through a very light mist. The smell of death hung in the damp air, but it was an odor that Ben scarcely noticed anymore.
“Mr. Raines,” Cecil greeted him in the candlelit dining area. “How about a martini? No ice, of course, but I make a wicked martini.”
“That would be great.” A martini-drinking black? He had thought most blacks drank Ripple and Thunderbird.
Come on, Raines! You’re thinking like an ignorant bigot.
He sat down at the table. Moment of truth. He smiled a secret smile.
“Something funny, Mr. Raines?” a slender man seated to his right asked.
“Not really. Sad, more than anything else, I suppose.”
“Ever sat down and had dinner with blacks?” a woman inquired. Her tone was neither friendly nor hostile… just curious.
Hell, Ben thought—they’re as curious about me as I am about them. “Not really. Only in the service.”
“Well, I can promise you we won’t have ham hocks or grits,” she said with a smile.
“To tell the truth,”—Ben looked at her—“I like them both.”
A few laughed aloud; the rest smiled. An uncomfortable silence fell around them; it was punctuated by shifting of feet, clearing of throats, much looking at the table, the walls. It seemed that no one had anything to say, or, as was probably the case, knew how to say it.
“May I help anyone do anything?” Ben asked. “With dinner,” he added.
“We thought we’d serve it buffet-style,” Cecil said. “Easier that way. Pardon my curiosity, Mr. Raines—”
“Ben. Just call me Ben.”
“Ben. Good. I’m Cecil. But I believe I read somewhere that you lived in Louisiana.”
“That’s correct.”
“You’re a long way from home.”
“Burying my family: brothers, sisters, parents. Cairo, Mt. Vernon, Springfield, Normal, then into the suburbs of Chicago.”
The woman Ben had thought white—he still wasn’t sure what she was—asked, “They’re all dead?”
“All but the brother in Chicago.” He looked at her. She was very good-looking. No negroid features about her; but Ben sensed she was black, at least to some degree. “Your family?” he asked her.
“All dead. Cecil and his wife found me wandering… walking out of Chicago… getting out while I could. They took me in.”
Cecil’s wife entered the room and announced that dinner was ready. Ben was introduced to her. Lila. She was friend
ly and spoke as though she was highly educated. Cecil told him she had been a college professor. The news was not surprising.
The meal was deliciously prepared, and all ate slowly, enjoying the luxury of good food and good conversation. No one mentioned the slight odor that hung about them.
“Have any of you heard about radiation levels in and around the cities that took nuclear hits?” Ben asked.
“The upper east coast is the worst,” Cecil said. “Those cities took a concentration of bombs, most of them nuclear. San Francisco took a low-level hit. What is it called…? I don’t remember. Kills the people but leaves the buildings intact. The United States was lucky in that respect. I’ve heard Russia and China really are gone.”
“How about winds that carry the radiation?”
Cecil shrugged. “There again, nuclear warfare had progressed considerably… in our favor. I have heard there is no danger from that. But… who knows. I’m not a scientist.”
Ben began putting faces and names together. The woman who had asked about his family was Salina. Salina Franklin. There were Jake and Nora, a Clint and Jane Helms, and Anwar Ali Kasim.
Ben took an immediate dislike to Kasim, and felt equally bad vibes coming from him. Kasim confirmed his feelings when he spoke.
“How come you didn’t stay with your brother and his buddies and help kill all the niggers in the city?” Kasim asked, his eyes alive with hate.
Salina rolled her eyes and shook her head in disgust. Lila sighed and looked at her husband. Cecil said, “Kasim, you’re a jerk!”
“And he’s white!” Kasim spat his hate at Ben.
“Does that automatically make me bad?” Ben asked.
“As far as I’m concerned, yes,” Kasim said. “And I don’t trust you.”
“Maybe,” Salina said, her words quiet, “he’s just a man who sat down to have a quiet dinner. He hasn’t bothered a soul—brother.” She smiled at her humor.
Kasim didn’t share her humor. “I see,” he said, the words softly spoken but tinged with hate. “Well, now… Zebra got herself a yearning for some white cock?”
She slapped him hard, hitting him in the mouth with the back of her hand, bloodying his lips.
Kasim drew back his hand to hit her and found himself looking down the barrel of a .44 magnum. Cecil jacked back the hammer and calmly said, “I would hate to ruin this fine dinner, Kasim, since raw brains have never been a favorite of mine. But if you hit her, I’ll blow your fucking head off!”
Kasim looked at the man in disbelief. He nodded his head when he saw the look in Cecil’s eyes. “You’d kill me… for him?” He jerked his head toward Ben.
“You’re twisting words out of context, Kasim,” Cecil said, the muzzle of the .44 never wavering. “But you’re good at that.”
Kasim put both hands on the table, one on each side of his plate. “You know what those white bastards did to my sister.”
“I know. But Ben Raines didn’t do it.”
“He’s still white!”
Ben rose from the table. “I’d better leave, I suppose.”
“Yes.” Cecil surprised him. “I think it would be best. And I’m sorry for having to say that. I was looking forward to some intelligent conversation later on.”
“Perhaps we’ll meet again,” Ben suggested.
“You put your white ass in New Africa, motherfucker,” Kasim said, “and it’ll be buried there.”
“I will make every effort to avoid New Africa,” Ben promised. “Wherever that might be.”
“Mississippi, Alabama, and Louisiana,” Kasim said. “A black nation. All black.”
Ben smiled. “My home’s in Louisiana, Kasim, or whatever your goddamned name is. And I’ll give you a bit of advice. I’m going back to my room and go to sleep. I’ll pull out just after dawn tomorrow. There will be no trouble in this motel—that I start, that is. But if I ever see you again… I’ll kill you!”
“Words.” Kasim sneered at him. “Big words. How about trying it now? Just you and me?”
“Drag your ass out of the chair, hotshot.” Ben smiled.
“Cool it, Kasim,” Cecil warned him. “You’re outclassed with Ben. Let it lie.”
Kasim met Ben’s eyes for a long moment, then dropped his gaze. Ben walked away, toward the door. He paused, turned around. “It was a delicious meal, Mrs. Jeffreys. I thank you.”
She smiled and nodded.
Ben’s eyes touched Salina’s. She smiled at him.
He walked out into the rainy night, leaving, he hoped, the hate behind him.
He was loading his gear into the truck at dawn, tying down the tarp when he heard footsteps. He turned, right hand on the butt of the .45 belted at his waist.
Salina.
“We all feel very badly about last night, Mr. Raines. All except Willie Washington, that is.”
“Who?”
She smiled in the misty dawn. A beautiful woman. “Kasim. We grew up together… same block in Chicago. He’ll always be Willie to me.”
In the dim light he could see her skin was fawn-colored. “Does he really hate whites as much as it seems? All whites?”
“Does the KKK hate blacks?”
“They say they don’t.”
“Right. And pigs fly.” They shared a quiet laugh in the damp dawn. “Kasim’s sister was… used pretty badly, when he was young. Raped, buggered. He was beaten and forced to watch. The men were never caught. You know the story; it happens on both sides of the color line. He’s about half nuts, Ben.”
“I gathered that.”
“There are a lot of differences between the races, Ben. Cultural differences, emotional differences. The bridge is wide.”
“I do not agree with what my brother and his friends are doing, Salina. I want you to know that.”
“I knew that last night, Ben. I think… we need more men like you and Cecil; less of Jeb Fargo and your brother.”
“Who in the hell is Jeb Fargo?”
“His name is really George, but he likes to be called Jeb. He came up to Chicago about five years ago—from Georgia, I think. Head of the Nazi Party.”
“Yeah… I met him. I didn’t like him. I agree with you, Salina. I hope his… mentality doesn’t take root.”
“It will,” she predicted flatly. “What are your plans, Ben?”
He told her, standing in the cool mist of the morning. He told her all his plans, his schedule he had worked out in his mind while waiting for sleep to take him the night before. He told her of his home in Morriston, and how he had literally slept through the horror after being stung.
“That probably saved your life.”
“What are your plans, Salina?”
She lifted her slender shoulders. “I’m with Cecil and Lila. Where they go, I guess I go.”
“Last night, in the dining room, Kasim called you a zebra. What does that mean?”
She laughed, but it was a rueful laugh. “I’m half white, half black. My mother was a light-skinned woman, good-looking. My father was a handsome man. Yes, they were married.”
“I didn’t think you were—”
“Pure coon,” she cut in, but she was smiling.
“That was not my choice of words, Salina.”
She looked up at him, then abruptly put her hands on his shoulders and kissed him on the mouth. She turned and walked away.
Ben watched her leave; watched all of her leave, from her ankles up. She was very shapely. He touched his lips with his fingertips, then called after her, “Remember, my home is Morriston.”
Her reply was a wave; then she rounded the corner of the motel. Ben sensed eyes on him. He looked around him, then glanced up. The face of Kasim, pure animal hate in his eyes, was staring at him from the second floor of the motel. His mouth was swollen from Salina’s backhand slap.
“Goddamned, no good, honky motherfucker!” he hissed.
“I thought Muslims weren’t supposed to use bad language,” Ben said.
“I’ll kill you someday,”
Kasim promised.
“I doubt it,” Ben said. He got into his truck, cranked it, and drove away.
He could still feel the warmth of Salina’s lips on his and Kasim’s wild hatred.
It was disconcerting.
Ben headed south, driving until he came to highway 14, knowing it would take him through only a few towns, and eventually lead to Fort Wayne. He stopped at each small town, finding two or three alive in each. In almost every case, there was no direction to them, no leader; they were accomplishing nothing: not burying the dead, not cleaning the litter—nothing. Just waiting. For what, Ben didn’t know, so he asked.
“Help,” a man said.
“From whom?” Ben asked.
“The government, who else?”
“Man… there is no government. I doubt there is a stable government anywhere in the world. Don’t you understand what has happened?”
The man looked at him and walked away. He called over his shoulder, “The government’ll help us. You’re wrong, mister. If the government wasn’t gonna help us, they wouldn’t have made ever’body so dependent on them. You’re wrong.”
“And you’re a fool,” Ben muttered. He drove on.
He found a dozen people alive in Rochester, all in their mid-to-late thirties; a few kids. They seemed genuinely excited to see him, asking where he’d been, what he’d seen, what he was doing. And, where was government help? Here, the women outnumbered the men, two to one; one woman made it very plain she would go with Ben; he had only to ask.
He did not ask, although she was a good-looking woman and Ben was beginning to feel sexual urges rise in him. He told them to be careful, told them what was happening in Chicago; then, after asking a few questions as to why they thought they had survived when others hadn’t (none of them had any idea), he pulled out.
In one small town, he found three men alive. They were having a party. A long one. Drunk, and they had been that way for days. No, they weren’t from town; come up from Marion, just wandering. Had Ben seen any broads?
He sent them to Rochester.
Ben cut off 14 for a time, then took a county road east to US 24, approaching Fort Wayne from the southeast. On the edge of that city, a billboard brought him up short, brakes smoking.
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