Smoke from the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  “I had my doubts for awhile, but he’s on the level. He’s with us all the way.”

  “But why?” Ike questioned.

  “That, old friend, is something we shall probably never know.”

  “Something is wrong,” Ashley radioed to Khamsin’s CP.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “It’s too damn quiet! Ben Raines is up to something. And no, I don’t know what it is. But I’ve known the man for twenty years, and I’m telling you, he’s up to something.”

  “The front?”

  “That’s just it, Khamsin. My spotters report that nothing is moving. Nothing!”

  “No signs of life? Nothing!” Khamsin felt his blood pressure soaring.

  “Nothing.”

  “Move your spotters in closer. I’ll do the same from the south.”

  Khamsin leaned back in his chair and let the forbidden obscenities fly, startling those in the room with him.

  Tomorrow is the big day, Emil,” Brother Matthew said. “What have you got up your sleeve?”

  Emil glared at him. “I’ll come up with something. Bet on it.”

  “I’ve already packed my gear. Just in case.”

  “Oh, ye of little faith!” Emil wailed. “I am being deserted in my time of need.”

  “Eighteen hours and counting, Emil,” Brother Matthew reminded him.

  “I wonder what that fuckin’ Ledbetter is doing?” Emil asked.

  “Havin’ a party on the riverbank. All the cute chickies have returned to his camp.”

  “I hope he gets eaten by a goddamn alligator!” Emil spat out the words.

  “Brother Emil’s gonna come up with something,” one of the faithful announced firmly. “The Great God Blomm will not desert us.”

  Emil sighed with great patience, wondering how in the hell he ever got mixed up with all these yo-yos!

  Jake had already figured it out. He put it together when one of his rednecks told him, “Sumthang queer goin’ on down there, Jake, and I ain’t talkin’ ’bout no wienie-chewin’, neither.”

  “Whut you talkin’ ’bout, boy?”

  “There ain’t no movement. Some washin’ on a line done been blown down more’un a hour, and ain’t nobody snatched it up. That ain’t rat.”

  “No movement? None a-tal?”

  “Nuttin’.”

  Jake stood up. “Git the boys together. And don’t say nuttin’ to nobody ’bout it. We gonna cut them fuckers off at the pass. I know whure they’s a-goin’.”

  Two hours and counting,” Ben muttered. “If we pull this off it’ll be a miracle.”

  “I’m surprised they haven’t discovered us missing hours ago,” Tina said.

  Ben put one arm around his daughter’s shoulders. “Just between us, kid, so am I.”

  Already, long purple shadows were creeping about the city, casting pockets of gloom amid the sunlight. Ben could feel Tina shudder under his hand.

  “Damn place spooks me, Dad.”

  “Steady, girl. We’ll be home free in a few hours.”

  Ben made no mention of Tina’s husband. And she had not brought up his name in a long time. He suspected they had split the sheets. But he had never interfered in her life, and wasn’t about to start now.

  Tina abruptly giggled, quite unlike her. “I think Buddy’s getting serious about Judy.”

  Good cue, Ben thought. “And, you, girl? How’s your love life?”

  She was silent for a moment. “Static. I am totally committed to the Rebel cause. He wanted a stay-at-home person.”

  “Sorry to hear it.”

  “You don’t see me weeping, do you, Dad?”

  “I seem to recall that you’re not the hysterical type.”

  “I learned that from Salina. Did you love her, Dad?”

  “I was . . . content,” Ben replied.

  “There is an old proverb that reads, ‘A woman should always marry a man she likes, and a man should always marry a women he loves.”

  “How interesting.” Ben’s words were dry. “But where is this leading?”

  “Just making chit-chat in the middle of ghosties and ghouldies and things that go bump in the night, Pop.”

  Ben laughed and shoved her away, slapping her on the butt. “Get outta here!”

  “Oh, by the way,” she called over her shoulder. “Colonel West said he’d like to prepare dinner for me some evening . . . when we’re free.”

  “You could do worse,” Ben told her. “And I sure can’t say a damned word about him robbing the cradle, now, can I?”

  Tina walked away laughing.

  The shadows deepened across the land.

  “Come on!” Jake screamed into his radio. “Push it, goddammit. We’ve still got sixty miles to go.”

  Khamsin intercepted the message. He was just west of Thomson, in a rage after discovering the Rebel camp was deserted, with straw soldiers and junk vehicles.

  He lifted his mike. “Khamsin to base. Order all units to converge on Atlanta. All units push hard. Raines is in Atlanta! Cut them off. Order all units around the city to seal it off. Now!”

  “They know we’re here, general!” came the shout that reached Ben.

  Ben ran to his Jeep and turned up the volume on his radio.

  “Coming under heavy attack, Ben.” West’s voice was calm.

  “Can you hold, colonel?”

  “Ten-four, general. But it’s going to take all of us to punch a hole clear through.”

  “Ten-four, colonel. On the way.” Ben stood up in the seat and shouted, “Bug out! Bug out! Roll!”

  Dropping back in his seat, he got Cecil on the horn. “Pull back, Cec. Block the streets as you go. Use the junked vehicles; they’re all over the place. And fall back to my position. That is not a request, Cec. That is an order. Do you acknowledge?”

  “Ten-four, Ben. Bugging out.” Cecil’s voice was calm and professional.

  “Buddy! Tina! Link your teams up with Dan. Fall back to the river and beef up Colonel West. Roll, kids!”

  He looked at Ike, standing by his side. “Join the others, Ike.”

  “Is that an order, Ben?”

  “That’s an order, Ike.”

  “See you at the river, Ben.”

  Ben motioned for Lieutenant Mackey to come to him.

  “Sir?”

  “You have any doubts at all about your Misfits, lieutenant?”

  “Not a one, sir.”

  “That’s good. Join up with my people and get ready to bug out.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  She saluted and ran over to where Billy Bob was waiting with the Misfits. “General Raines just made us a part of his outfit,” she announced. “But before you all start cheering, bear this in mind. General Raines’s troops usually lead the way.”

  “I’d damn shore rather lead than follow,” a man spoke from the ranks.

  “Everybody’s in,” Ben said, walking up to Cecil and shaking his hand. “You’re the last ones.”

  “They’re right behind me, Ben,” Cecil told him. “In the thousands.” He smiled. “With the warlord, Jake, leading the parade.”

  “You want him, Cec?”

  “That would be nice, I think.”

  “This time, kill the son of a bitch.”

  Cecil nodded his head and walked back to his Jeep, taking out and holding up a Weatherby 300 mag, with scope. “That answer your statement?”

  “’Deed it does.” Ben smiled and stuck the needle to his friend. “But you’re getting so damned old you probably won’t be able to hit him.”

  Cecil snorted. “I refuse to dignify that remark with a reply. “Hang around, sport.”

  “Oh, I shall. And judging from the sounds of all that traffic heading our way, we won’t have a long wait.”

  Jake’s column, if it could be called that, came roaring into view, Jake’s vehicle leading the way. The big ’neck was standing up, hollering and waving to his people.

  Cecil waved at Jake.

  “There the black
son of a bitch is!” Jake hollered. “Git ’em, boys!”

  Cecil lifted the 300 mag and sighted Jake in. He gently squeezed the trigger, allowing the rifle to fire itself. The slug struck Jake in the center of his chest, toppling the man over into the back seat.

  Cecil dropped to one knee and sighted in again. This time he took out the driver, the slug punching through the windshield and striking the man in the center of the face. Half the driver’s face was blown away. The vehicle slewed sideways, toppled over, and began howling down the concrete, sparks flying.

  The vehicle immediately behind the downed Jeep swerved to avoid it and rolled over, smashing into the sideways-moving Jeep. Both vehicles burst into flames as gasoline ignited. The other cars and trucks behind the flames managed to come to a halt — with about a half a dozen of them crashing into the one in front of them. The entire street was blocked.

  “Let’s go!” Ben yelled.

  Dark was only minutes away.

  Already, hooded shapes were moving, staying close to the darkness that was forming in the city.

  Jake’s outfit was now totally disorganized, milling about, not knowing what to do. Jake wasn’t there to tell them.

  Shore wasn’t.

  Rocks and stones and bottles and pieces of concrete block and bits of iron were being tossed down on the Rebels as they roared through the city. But only a few of the more daring of the Night People were risking the half light of that time between light and dark, and only a few of the thrown objects managed to inflict any damage, most of that dents in vehicles and not cuts on flesh.

  Those Jeeps and APCs with mounted .50 caliber machine guns soon cleared the rooftops of the Night People.

  With Denise driving, Ben sat in the passenger seat, burning powder and tossing lead from his Thompson.

  They were only halfway through the city when full dark fell on them.

  “I thought darkness creeped.” Denise shouted, fighting the wheel.

  “Crept,” Ben automatically corrected, the writer in him surfacing. “Not this time of the year. We’re going to be in for a hell of a time of it, baby!” he yelled.

  “Okay, baby!” Denise returned the shout.

  Ben laughed aloud and exchanged Thompsons. This one was fitted with a drum instead of a clip. A hooded, robed figure appeared, with a AK in his hands. Ben stitched him, working from ankles to waist, the slugs tossing the man, or woman — Ben wasn’t sure and didn’t particularly give a damn — off the sidewalk and into a store window.

  A half a dozen Night People began pushing an old car into the street, attempting to block the Rebels’ way. Ben got a firm grip on the Thompson, pulled the trigger back, and held it back.

  The powerful old SMG chugged in rapid fire, the .45 caliber slugs howling and splattering and sparking and richocheting off the street as the SMG worked up, from left to right. The lead cleared the street of Night People.

  The Rebels rolled under and over and through loops and expressways and interstates, finally hitting Gordon Road. They were about five miles from the Chattahoochee River bridge.

  And Khamsin’s troops of the IPA were just entering downtown Atlanta as full night fell.

  Ben began laughing.

  Denise looked at him. “What in the hell do you find so funny?”

  “Khamsin. The Night People won’t know or care that he’s chasing us. To them, he’ll be just another person to hate. The terrorist is about to get terrorized!”

  NINE

  “Pull back! Pull back!” Khamsin screamed into his mike. “It’s a trap. We don’t know the city and don’t have any idea what’s facing us. Pull back!”

  But for several companies of the IPA, it was too late. The Night People, during that time between Ben’s passing and the IPA’s approach, had blocked the streets, trapping those first few pursuing Ben.

  The guns of the IPA knocked down the first wave of Night People, then the mass of the robed and hooded swarmed the vehicles.

  The soldiers were dragged screaming from their trucks and Jeeps. They were stripped naked in the streets as the blades of sharp knives flashed silver in the glow of headlights, and then dripped with blood as the choice cuts of human flesh were carved away from the living, screaming, terrified, agonized men.

  No orders from anyone less than Allah could have forced the remaining IPA into the dark streets of the city, and Khamsin didn’t even try. He ordered his men back, back into the county, away from the city.

  “Do we swing around to help the outlaws and our people west of the city?” Hamid asked Khamsin.

  “No,” the terrorist replied. “By that time, it will be all over.”

  Knowing that Khamsin would be forced to break off his pursuit, Ben ordered mortars set up and began pounding the positions of the remaining IPA and the outlaws to the north, south, and west of the river.

  The ending was rather dull, as Dan put it. The Rebels knocked a hole through the thin lines of outlaws and warlords, and the IPA and rolled west. They were in Alabama several hours later.

  Ben halted the column. “Put out guards,” he ordered. “Everybody else get some rest. They wont be coming after us.”

  Two Rebels from Mark and Alvaro’s team walked up to Ben, a prisoner between them.

  “General, we got this man yesterday; he got too close to our position. He has something to tell you.”

  Ben looked at the prisoner. “What outfit are you from?”

  “Ashley. You don’t know who he really is, do you?”

  “And you do?”

  “Yes, sir. You turn me loose and I’ll tell you.”

  Ben was feeling generous that night. “All right. Speak.”

  “Would you untie me first?”

  Ben signaled for the guard to cut the man free.

  Rubbing his wrists, the man said, “You don’t ’member me, do you, Raines?”

  “No. Should I?”

  “I lived not too fur from you, outside of Morriston.”

  Ben stared at the man, then shook his head. “I don’t remember you. Sorry.”

  “Don’t make no difference. You always was thinkin’ yourself better than others. That damn fence around your house and all that.”

  Ben sighed. “The term is reserve; not believing I’m better than you. Say what you have to say.”

  “Ashley’s his middle name. His first name is Lance and his last name is Lantier.”

  Ben chuckled, for a moment lost in memory recall. “Well, I’ll be damned! Fran Lantier Piper’s big brother, Lance. My God. I whipped his ass more than twenty years ago.”

  “Yes, sir,” the prisoner said. “And he’s hated you ever since.”

  Ben nodded. “All right. You’ll stay here tonight with us. We’ll turn you loose when we pull out in the morning.”

  Ben walked away, into the night, wondering how a man could nurture such hate for such a long, long time.

  He also had a hunch he’d be seeing more of Lance Ashley Lantier in the very near future.

  He was still smiling as he lay down on the blankets and went to sleep.

  There hadn’t been much to Lance twenty years ago, and not much to him now.

  Except his hatred.

  TEN

  The sounds of bagpipes and tambourines and singing filled the hot air. Cute little white-robed chickies danced ahead of Francis Freneau, sprinkling petals from flowers before him.

  Emil stood alone and glared at the big con artist.

  Back in Kansas, the hands of the clock and the date on the calendar meshed. The concrete shields rolled back, and the missile fired.

  It soared up, turned, and nosed southeast.

  Francis moved close to Emil and whispered, “Your scam is all through, little buddy. In five minutes, you won’t have a single follower left.”

  “Give it your best shot, Stanley.”

  Francis stepped back and sang “Danny Boy,” bringing tears to the eyes of most present. Gave Emil a case of heartburn.

  Francis preached a short sermon, proclaimi
ng himself as the new spiritual leader of North Louisiana.

  “Blomm is going to give us all a sign, Francis!” Emil shouted. “He’ll . . . he’ll make the heavens thunder, showing his disapproval. Fire will spring from the sky!” I hope, Emil thought. Hell, just a little-bitty thunderstorm might do it.

  But there was not a cloud in the blue skies.

  Francis laughed at him. “Blomm! There is no Blomm. If the heavens thunder and fire springs forth, I will acknowledge that you, Emil Hite, are the spiritual leader of all the earth.”

  “And you’ll leave?” Emil asked, stalling for a little more time.

  “I shall exit and nevermore return.”

  Emil hiked his robes up around his bony knees, took a deep breath, and began speaking in tongues and dancing, his feet kicking up dust. He did the bebop, the rebop, the jitterbug, the twist, and even invented a few steps. Dance Party would have hired him on the spot.

  Almost ready to drop from exhaustion, Emil flung his arms wide and shouted, “Blomm! Give me a sign!”

  Big Louie’s rocket ran out its string and blew, directly over North Louisiana. The sky erupted in flames and violence. A great ball of fire glowed in the skies.

  Francis Freneau yelped once and then gathered his robes up off the ground and, quite ungodlike, hauled his ass out of there. The last anyone saw of Francis was of him loping westward, on Highway 80.

  “Holy friggin’ shit!” Emil breathed, awestruck. “There really is a Blomm!”

  Emil rose to his feet (he had hit the ground in fear when the rocket blew) and glared at the people around him.

  “Are there any doubters among you?” he screamed.

  The men and women shook their heads and bowed to the Great Emil.

  “Pulled it off again,” Brother Matthew whispered. “Okay, Emil. You’re the main man.”

  “Bet your ass, I am!” Emil turned, tripped over the hem of his robe, and fell flat on his face in the dust.

  ELEVEN

  “Hell of a bang,” Ike said in his radio message to Ben. “What the hell you reckon that was?”

  “I think that was Big Louie’s last surprise, Ike,” Ben radioed. “I’m just glad the damn thing blew a couple of miles up and not on the ground.”