Smoke from the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  Ben shook his head. He felt like he should know this Ashley person, but could not put a face to the name. Perhaps it would come to him in time.

  He was conscious of the woman’s eyes on him. Ben met her gaze. “A question, Miss Vista?”

  “You don’t look like a god, general.”

  Ben laughed. “I’m no god, Miss Vista. I’m just a very mortal man, with more than my share of the normal human weaknesses.”

  “Not all gods take the same form, General Raines,” she said.

  “I know little about gods, Miss Vista. So I almost never argue the subject.”

  “I see,” she spoke softly, her voice just audible over the storm. “Well. Do you have any other questions for me, general?”

  “Not at this time.”

  “Where do I sleep?”

  “The corporal there will show you to quarters, miss. Someone will check you out with weapons and outfit you with uniforms tomorrow. Good night, Miss Vista.”

  “Good night, general.” She turned, stepping out into the rainy night, and was gone.

  “Very attractive woman, Ben,” Dr. Chase said, a twinkle in his eyes and a slight smile on his lips. Chase knew Ben well and could see the stirring signs of interest within the man.

  Ben turned, facing him. “Oh? Yes. I suppose so. I hadn’t really noticed.”

  Ike laughed, winking at Dan. “Ben, I sure am glad you fight a whole lot better than you lie.”

  The sounds of a slow-moving vehicle woke Buddy from a sound sleep. He slipped from his sleeping bag, pulled on his boots and laced them, then picked up his Thompson, easing it off safety. He crouched in the darkness of the carport, waiting.

  The headlights of the car appeared, dimly at first, cutting through the heavy rain. The car slowed, then pulled into the drive. Buddy waited behind the wooden boxes, silent and unseen. And deadly.

  Buddy watched through a small opening between the crates as two men got out of the car, both of them armed with M-16s. They stood for a moment, outlined against the glare of headlights.

  Not very professional of them, Buddy thought. How easy they would be to take.

  But he waited, sensing that these men were not a part of the Rebels. From all he had heard, the Rebels were the most professional and well-trained army operating anywhere in the world.

  “Long ways out,” one of the men said. “You reckon some of them goddamned Indians kidnapped them folks?”

  “I can’t see that, Jack. We got them Injuns beat down to nothing. They so whipped out they near-abouts ask permission to shit.”

  “Some of them squaws got some fine pussy, though,” his partner said.

  “Like a nigger; that’s all they good for.”

  Racists, Buddy thought. But who are they and what do they represent? Or who do they represent?

  “You got your flashlight?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You take the left side, I’ll take the right. Be careful; can’t see crap in all this rain.”

  Buddy laid his SMG aside and silently pulled out his long-bladed hunting knife. The knife was a full fourteen inches long; a battle knife. The blade was honed to deadly sharpness. He carefully slipped out the rear of the carport, between the house and the utility room. He waited by the corner of the house.

  The man who had taken the right side of the house appeared, ghostlike in the night storm, moving carefully, his weapon at combat ready.

  Buddy gripped the handle of his knife, holding the blade against his leg to prevent any glint of light off the heavy blade.

  The man stepped closer. Now he was muttering to himself, his words drifting out of the stormy air. “Fuckin’ Ben Raines and his Rebels. I hope they do try to pull some shit in here. I’ll cut that bastard’s head off and stick it up on a pole so’s people can see Raines ain’t so damn tough.”

  Buddy stepped out and swung the heavy blade. The man’s head plopped wetly to the soaked ground. Blood arched from the severed neck, mingling with the torrents. The eyes were still open on the head, staring at nothing, seeing only darkness.

  Buddy grabbed the body before it could hit the ground and possibly alert the other man. Quickly, Buddy laid the M-16 to one side and slipped next to the house. He raised the bloody knife, waiting.

  “Jack?” The voice came just a few feet from where Buddy was pressed against the house. “Jack? Can you hear me?”

  Jack could not answer, and the questioner would never utter another word.

  Buddy’s knife flashed in the rainy night. The blade struck the man on the back of his neck and came out just under the man’s chin. The head spun in the wet night and slopped to the ground, as blood squirted.

  Buddy quickly took the men’s weapons and all their ammunition. He cut off the motor and headlights of the car and searched the vehicle. He found several days’ rations of food and took that to add to his own supply. He stood for a moment in the rain, oblivious to it, and listened, all his senses working hard.

  He could not see, hear, nor sense anything that might alarm him.

  Buddy searched the yard and found two long poles, almost identical in length. He went back to the bodies and recovered the heads, sticking one on each pole, then sinking the poles deep into the wet earth, about five feet apart. The bug-eyes open, the faces grimacing in that last hot moment of pain, the heads stared sightlessly from their height.

  Returning to the car, Buddy found a pad and pen and wrote: Compliments of B.R.B. Now you have two of us to deal with. Have a nice day.

  Buddy had wrapped the weapons up in his piece of canvas and secured them to his motorcycle with rope. He rode through the night before braking at an old rusted and warped road sign. Hiawatha 9.

  Using the headlamp of his motorcycle, Buddy checked his maps. He was undecided as to which direction to take. He was very wary of this country he was in; something was very wrong around here. But he wasn’t sure about it. Was this an area controlled by some warlord or self-styled king? Possibly, he thought. That would explain the hate he had heard in that man’s voice; the hate directed toward Ben Raines. For all knew Ben Raines could not and would not tolerate warlords and their oppressive measures.

  Buddy smiled as the rain slicked his handsome face. He was sure that when those heads were found, probably around daylight, someone was going to want to do some headhunting of their own.

  Buddy decided that the next house he came to, one that looked occupied, he’d just find out what was going on.

  It was a man and a woman, both of them about Buddy’s age, he guessed. He squatted in the darkness of their bedroom and looked at the sleeping couple. He had silently, moving like a slight soundless breeze, inspected the house. It was empty except for the couple.

  The man looked rough and mean, the woman looked — cheap, the word came to him. He really was not sure what that meant, but he’d read it in one of Ben Raines’s books. What always bothered him about it was, what does a cheap woman do to get that way?

  Baffling. Perhaps he could ask Ben Raines about that someday.

  He placed the muzzle of a .45 against the man’s cheek. The man opened his eyes as Buddy jacked back the hammer.

  “Do you want your brains splattered all over your woman’s face?” Buddy asked, his voice low.

  “I don’t want my brains splattered nowheres,” the man whispered. “How the hell did you get in here?”

  “Your locks are silly. Awaken your woman and advise her if she wants to live, she will open her mouth only when I tell her to do so.”

  “I’m awake,” the woman whispered. “My God, Gene! What’s goin’ on?”

  “I reckon this fellow will tell us when he’s a mind to.”

  “This part of the country,” Buddy said. “Is it controlled by a warlord? And tell me the truth if you want to live.”

  “Big Louie runs it,” Gene said, his voice soft in the darkness of the bedroom. “I don’t know how in the hell you made it this far alive.”

  “Big Louie. Ah!” He had heard his mother speak o
f Big Louie. They shared a common interest: They both like to burn people alive. “My father is close by. When he hears of Big Louie, I should imagine he will take the appropriate action. It would not be wise for either of you to remain. Unless, of course, you have a death wish.”

  “Your father?” Gene said. “There ain’t nobody strong enough to come in here and push us out, boy.”

  Buddy grinned. “Wanna bet?”

  “Yore daddy mus’ think he’s a real war-hoss,” the woman whispered. “Who might he be?”

  “Ben Raines.”

  “Oh, Jesus God!” the woman gasped. “That can’t be. He’s ’way to hell and gone out West.”

  “Not anymore. He killed the mercenary, Sam Hartline, and defeated the Russian, Striganov. Do either of you know a man named Jack, who was on patrol tonight, a few miles east of here?”

  “Yeah. We both know him. He lives a few miles on up this road. How do you know him?”

  “I just killed him and his partner. I cut their heads off and stuck them up on poles.”

  The woman started squalling, jerking around on the bed. Gene grabbed her and shook her until she shut up.

  “Ben Raines is your . . . father?” Gene asked.

  “Yes. Now, the problem facing me is this: What to do with you two?”

  “Mister,” Gene said. “You come into this house, movin’ like a damn ghost. Afore that, you killed two of the best manhunters I ever knowed . . .”

  Buddy kept his expression bland. He had seen Gene carelessly drop his right hand off the bed and onto the floor. The man must think I am a fool! Buddy thought.

  “. . . and stuck their heads up on poles. You just give me and baby a chance, and we’ll clear this area faster than you can blink.”

  The muscles in Gene’s right arm bunched slightly. Probably, Buddy thought, as his hand closed around the butt of a weapon. Buddy had removed the muzzle of the .45 from the man’s cheek when the woman had begun hollering and jerking around. The muzzle was now only a few inches from Gene’s side. Buddy waited.

  “Yeah,” the woman said. “We be gone faster than you can kiss a duck.”

  “I have absolutely no intention of ever kissing a duck,” Buddy informed her.

  “Well, then, partner,” Gene said. “Kiss this!”

  Before Gene could lift the pistol off the carpet, Buddy’s .45 had barked three times, the booming loud in the quiet, night-filled house. The force of the heavy slugs turned the man slightly to one side, blowing a large hole in his side. Gene flopped on the bed as one bloody arm was flung across the woman’s bare stomach.

  With a scream of fear and rage, the woman lunged at Buddy. Buddy whapped her on the side of the head with the heavy .45. The woman dropped like a stone, not unconscious, but addled.

  Moving swiftly, Buddy rolled the woman up in a blanket and tied it cocoonlike around her, using strips of torn sheet.

  She was fully conscious now, looking at the young man. “Now what?” she asked.

  “Be silent. I am thinking.”

  “This is awful uncomfortable. You tied it too tight.”

  “We all have our little difficulties to bear throughout life.”

  The woman called him a number of very uncomplimentary names.

  Buddy waited until she paused for breath and said, “However, if you feel your present dilemma is too great a burden, I can fix it.”

  “How, you asshole!”

  Buddy lifted the .45 and smiled.

  She shut her mouth and silently stared at him.

  “Did your man hold a position in the warlord’s army?”

  She nodded her head.

  “What rank?”

  “Company commander.”

  “He was close to Big Louie?”

  “Nobody is close to Big Louie. Nobody exceptin’ Ashley.”

  “Where is this Ashley person?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine about that, handsome.”

  Buddy ignored the “handsome” bit. He knew what was on the woman’s mind: Survival. He made a quick but thorough search of the house, finding detailed plans on what unit was to go where in case of attack from the outside. He discovered a map showing all heavy gun positions.

  A slight noise turned him around.

  The woman had struggled out of her bonds and was standing in a doorway, pointing a pistol at him.

  “Ben Raines’s son, huh?” she said, a smirk on her lips. “I think Big Louie will look favorably on me for this.”

  “Providing you can get me to him.”

  “Oh, I’ll get you to him. Even if I have to shoot both legs out from under you.”

  Buddy hurled himself to one side just as the pistol in her hand started cracking.

  EIGHT

  Ben came awake with a start, his heart pounding, sweat bathing him. He looked around the big squad tent. It was empty.

  What had awakened him?

  He didn’t know.

  Ben lay on his camp bed, listening. He could hear nothing alien in the night. The rain had lessened somewhat. Where it had been pouring down in torrents, now it was only a quiet pattering on the canvas.

  Silently, he slipped from his bed and dressed, pulling on his boots and lacing them. He picked up his Thompson and moved to the flap opening, pushing it aside and stepping out.

  He stood for a moment, smelling the clean, fresh-washed earth as the light drizzle bathed his face, waking him fully.

  He felt better, but that feeling of alarm was still with him.

  Movement to his right turned his head. He watched as his daughter, Tina, walked toward him. “Couldn’t sleep, Dad?” she asked.

  “Something woke me. Something strange. I don’t know what it was, or is. You?”

  “Something woke me,” she admitted. “Like you, I don’t know what.”

  “Let’s walk to the communications truck,” Ben suggested. He looked at his watch. Four o’clock. Time to get up anyway. A natural dawning, at least. If anything good ever came out of a worldwide disaster such as the survivors had experienced, it was the return of God’s time; void of man’s fiddling with it, called daylight savings.

  The Rebel on duty looked up as Ben and Tina entered. “Just talked with Base Camp One, general. Storm’s gone and the stars are out. The birds will be flying today. They’ll bring all the equipment we asked for.”

  “Good! Have you found Big Louie’s radio frequency yet?”

  “Yes, sir. Just the usual radio chatter. Nothing much happening in there.”

  “Stay with it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Outside, Ben waited while Tina got them cups of hot tea, and then father and daughter sipped and talked in the pre-dawn darkness.

  “I never placed much credence in the supernatural, Dad. If supernatural is the right choice of words. But I awakened with the oddest feeling.”

  “What kind of feeling, Tina?”

  “Like, well, a part of me is . . . How do I say this? It was a feeling of danger, Dad. But the danger was not for me. Does that make any sense to you at all?”

  “Yes. Yes, that was the sensation I experienced at waking. What do you think it means?”

  “The report that your son is on his way out here, Dad. Is he your son, Dad?”

  Ben sighed. “Tina, I just don’t know. It’s certainly possible. I remember the woman. I remember the party and what happened afterward. It’s certainly feasible that the young man is my son. We’ll just have to wait and see.”

  She grinned up at him. “God, but I bet you were a randy bastard!”

  “Watch your mouth, girl,” Ben said with a smile. “You’re not too big to spank.”

  Laughing, Tina tossed him a mock salute and walked away into the darkness.

  Ben stood for a time, alone in the mist and the ink of that time just prior to the first silver fingers of dawning.

  Are you my son? Ben projected his thoughts through the dark. Are you out there? And are you in trouble?

  The woman screamed and pulled the trigger
again. Buddy felt a lance of pain rip his leg, followed by a warm rush of blood. Buddy rolled, banged against a wall, and came up with a .45 in his hand.

  The woman yelled at him and pulled the trigger. The slug struck the wall close to Buddy’s head. He leveled the .45 and triggered off two quick rounds. The woman grunted and dropped her pistol. Cocked, it discharged when it hit the floor, the slug striking the woman just under the chin, traveling upward, through her head, and exiting out the top of her skull.

  She fell to the floor, trembled for a few seconds, then was still.

  Buddy limped to a window and looked out. The rain had stopped, only a very light mist now falling. He waited for a full sixty count. No headlights appeared; no shouts of alarm cut the night. Turning away from the window, leaving the house dark, Buddy found the bathroom, closed the door, and switched on the lights. The explosion of light startled him. He was not accustomed to electric lights. They were so bright.

  He fumbled in the medicine cabinet and found iodine and bandages. Removing his trousers, Buddy inspected the wound. Not too bad. The slug had taken a chunk of flesh from his upper thigh, then traveled on. Buddy bathed the wound in water, then gritted his strong, even teeth as he poured iodine onto the wound. He blinked his eyes a couple of times and carefully bandaged the wound. He pulled his trousers back on and took the bottle of iodine and fresh bandages. He turned off the lights in the bathroom, stood for a moment in the darkness, allowing his eyes to adjust, then stepped out into the hall.

  The house reeked of blood and death.

  Buddy made another search of the house, looking for anything that might shed more light on Big Louie and his forces. He could find nothing to add to what he’d already found.

  He did find several hundred rounds of .45 caliber ammunition, in clear plastic bags. He took those. He had spotted a Jeep parked by the side of the house, and even though he hated to part with his motorcycle, the Jeep would afford him a bit more protection and, with its four-wheel capabilities, could take him through places where the bike might bog down.

  He looked at the woman, sitting on the hall floor, her legs spread obscenely wide, her nightgown hiked up to her waist, two bullet holes in her chest. Her eyes were open, staring wide in death.