Anarchy in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  For they all worshipped Ben Raines.

  They had first seen and then helped erect shrines to Ben Raines, wherever they happened to wander throughout the ravaged land.

  Like their counterparts to the west, the eastern-based young people also worshipped the legend called Ben Raines. None had ever seen the man in person, but most carried small pictures of him, carefully sealed and protected in plastic.

  And like their counterparts to the west, each young person had his own personal horror story of sexual abuse and perversion and torture and hunger and shame and loneliness.

  A young girl who at age eight had been raped repeatedly then tossed aside, left to die in a ditch by the side of the road, but had been found by other young people and cared for.

  A young boy of ten who had been used as a girl by older men.

  A young black who had been tortured and then left for dead . . . simply because of the color of his skin.

  An Indian boy who had been stripped naked and sexually abused, then beaten and left for dead.

  An Oriental who was found hanging naked by his ankles from a tree limb, almost dead from being whipped, nursed back to health by the caring young.

  The stories were almost the same in their horror.

  But now the young people – a modern-day Orphans’ Brigade, east and west – were organized, armed, and ready and willing and able to fight. They had all been bloodied, now they were ready to spill someone else’s blood . . . for the right to live free.

  They waited. Waited for the man-god they worshipped.

  Ben Raines.

  In the extreme northern regions of Michigan, in the deep timber, more than eight hundred men and women had gathered. They had done so quietly, attracting no attention to their congregation. The men and women were all over fifty, many of them in their seventies, some in their eighties.

  They had gathered together for protection, coming to this area when word spread through the grapevine of the coming together of the elderly.

  The men were all armed, and well-armed. Almost all were veterans of the early days of Vietnam. Some from the Korean War, a few from the Second World War. They were ex-marines, ex-Green Berets, ex-navy, ex-air force and ex-AF Commandoes. They were ex-SEALs, ex-Rangers, ex-LRRP, ex-grunt. All had killed, many with wire and knife and bare hands.

  “Has President Raines got a chance?” a man asked.

  “Slim to none,” was the reply. It came as no surprise to any of the men.

  “I don’t feel right sitting up here in safety while Raines and his people take it on the chin for us,” came another opinion.

  “Who said we were going to do anything like that?” Gen. Art Tanner (ret.) spoke from the fringe of the gathering. “Let’s gather at the lodge and talk this out.”

  The men gathered in the huge meeting room of the once-famous ski lodge. They waited in silence as Tanner mounted the stage and spoke through a bull-horn.

  “All right, boys,” Tanner said with a grin, the thought of once more seeing action making his blood race hotly through his veins. “You all know why we came here. Let’s get down to it and map out some hard reality and plan our strategy. Let’s take it from the top. We’re getting old, boys. Hell, we are old. We’re not young bucks anymore, all full of piss and vinegar and a constant hard-on. We’ve all got to face up to the fact that our legs and lungs aren’t what they used to be. Anyone here want to take off on a twenty-mile forced march with full pack and combat gear to prove me wrong?”

  No one did, but it galled the men to have to admit they weren’t the men they used to be. No one had to say a word; it was very evident on every face in the room.

  “ ’K,” General Tanner said. “Now we know where we stand physically. But on the plus side, we know things the young bucks don’t know. We know planning and we know patience. We know the weapons we carry and we are all well aware of our personal capabilities in the field – what we can and can’t do. That is something that comes only with age.

  “ ’K. There are four hundred and fifty of us old coots. We’ll divide up into three short companies of one hundred and twenty-five each. Support and HQ will number fifty. The other twenty-five will act as LRRPs, scouts and forward observers. Those will be the youngest of us.” He laughed and the meeting room shook with male laughter. “The youngest here being fifty-three, I believe. Mere child.”

  Again the room rocked with laughter.

  General Tanner waited for the laughter to subside and finally held up his hand. “ ’K. Now then, how many here have pacemakers?”

  A dozen hands went up, some of them reluctantly.

  “ ’K,” Tanner said. “You people will be part of HQ’s company. Now then, how many here have bad backs, arthritis severe enough to limit walking or running, or any other debilitating illness that would keep you out of the field?”

  Another dozen hands went up, some of them gnarled and twisted from arthritis.

  “You’ll join HQ’s company,” Tanner told them as his eyes swept the room. He found a man sitting quietly and unobtrusively, as if attempting to avoid notice. “Now, goddamn it, Larry!” Tanner shouted. General Tanner was stone deaf in one ear and hard of hearing in the other. His normal tone while speaking was that of a top sergeant addressing troops. In a hurricane. “You only have one leg. You got the other one shot off in Laos back in sixty-two. What the hell good do you think you’d be in the field?”

  “I’ll be as good as any other man,” the veteran said. “I can still do the bop.” He stepped out into the aisle and did just that, ending the dance with a little soft-shoe routine.

  The men in the room applauded.

  “All that is very commendable, Larry,” Tanner said. “But what if you break that wooden leg?”

  “I’ll use my dick!” Larry retorted. “It’s long enough.”

  The men exploded with laughter.

  “Yes, Larry,” General Tanner said dryly. “That would be one solution to the problem, providing a man your age could still get it up!”

  It was a full two minutes before the laughter died away.

  “You got me there, General,” Larry shouted, a grin on his red face. “I’ll join your HQ’s company and shut my mouth.”

  “Fine. Step over there with the others.” His eyes found another man. “Jesus Christ, General Walker!” he roared. “You were with Merrill’s Marauders in Burma during World War II. You’re eighty-five if you’re a day.”

  “You give me a Springfield, by God,” the old man stood up erect, white-maned head held proudly, “and I’ll show you kids I can still cut the mustard.”

  “Fine, General. That’s good. I’m sure you can, too. But I just don’t know where I could locate a Springfield.”

  “Well, why the hell not!” the old general roared. He was as hard of hearing as General Tanner.

  “Because the army quit using the goddamned things about sixty fucking years ago!” Tanner returned the verbal sound and fury.

  “Why the hell did they do that!” Walker roared. “Oh – yeah. I remember. No matter. That was still the best weapon the army ever had.”

  “General Walker,” General Tanner said patiently. “I would be proud and honored to have you join my HQ’s company. Your knowledge of tactics is unsurpassed, and your – ”

  “Boy,” Walker cut off the sixty-five-year-old retired general. “If you get any sweeter, you’re going to give the whole bunch of us diabetes.”

  Again the laughter.

  “Speaking of that,” Tanner said when the laughter had faded away.

  A half dozen men stood up and joined the group that was making up headquarters company.

  “ ’K,” Tanner said. “All right, boys. We’ve been scrounging and stealing and gathering up equipment all summer. Get on back to your billets and pack up your gear. Kiss your wives and girlfriends goodbye. We move out day after tomorrow. Scouts out at 0600 in the morning. Dismissed – and good luck.”

  “Ah, sir,” Emil Hite walked up to the wounded Rebel who seeme
d to be in charge of the loading of equipment. The Rebel had his left arm in a sling and the right side of his face was heavily bandaged. “May I be so presumptuous as to inquire why you have all these people racing willy-nilly about, creating all this confusion?”

  The Rebel officer looked at the cult leader. The contempt he felt for the man was ill-concealed in his eyes. “What business is it of yours, weirdo?”

  Emil ignored that slur upon his appearance. “Because if you people are leaving this area, I would like permission to move my poor band of followers in here.”

  The Rebel laughed at him. “Why, sure,” he said. “I don’t see why not. Maybe some of what we did here will rub off on you. Just as soon as we’re gone, just slide on in.”

  Emil looked around him. He took in the neat fields and gardens, the homes that had been repaired and painted and restored, the neatly trimmed lawns and carefully maintained sidewalks.

  “I thank you from the bottom of my heart, sir,” Emil said. “And on behalf of my people, they thank you for your consideration.” Emil’s mind was racing. He thought: Why, with an idyllic setting such as this, he could attract hundreds, perhaps even thousands more followers into his fold. Just think of all that new pussy! Emil hid his smile and resisted an impulse to rub his hands together in glee. Instead, with his left hand in one pocket of his robe, he scratched his crotch.

  “Ughum, bugum, bisco,” Emil said.

  The Rebel looked at him. “Flaky son of a bitch!” he muttered.

  The Rebel began yelling out orders, his grating voice causing Emil to flinch. The man reminded him in a very painful manner of his old drill sergeant. A most disagreeable fellow. Emil hoped one of the bombs that fell back in eighty-eight landed right on that bastard’s head.

  “Once again,” Emil. “I wish to thank you on behalf of my simple flock of worshippers.” Somehow, Emil thought, that never came out just right.

  The Rebel looked at him and laughed.

  “Juggy, muggy, be bop a lula,” Emil said.

  “Joe Cocker to you, too,” the Rebel said, then turned his back and walked away.

  “Fuck you,” Emil muttered. “And fuck the horse you rode in on, too.” But he was very careful not to say that too loudly. The Rebel was huge. And very mean-looking.

  Emil shuffled away, his robes dragging along the ground. He caught the toe of one sandal in the hem and almost tripped himself. He ignored the laughter coming from the wounded Rebels.

  “Bless you, my children,” Emil said to them.

  One of them gave him the finger.

  No matter, Emil thought, shuffling away, being more careful where he put his feet. After this, he would be even more revered by his people.

  For a very short time.

  EIGHT

  “The route has been cleared of all mines?” Ben asked Colonel Gray.

  “All clear, sir,” the Englishman replied.

  Ben turned to Ike. “How about the troops, Ike – they ready?”

  “Eager to go, Ben.”

  Ben looked at Cecil. “How about your people and the supplies, Cec?”

  “Ready to go, Ben. We have supplies for a three-month campaign.”

  “We’d better get it done a hell of a lot sooner than that,” Ben said grimly. He glanced at Doctor Chase. “Medical teams ready?”

  “Yes,” the doctor replied softly, for once not retorting with a smart crack.

  To Hector: “I wish you would reconsider, Hec. You were hit pretty hard and not that long ago.”

  “My command, Ben. Where they go, I go,” the Mexican replied. “Besides, you’re forgetting, I have a personal stake in all this.”

  Ben nodded. He glanced around him in the predawn darkness. A heady feeling of deja vu swept over him. He had done this before. God, how many times? The massive convoy was silent in the darkness. All motors off. Dew glistened wetly off the camouflaged metal of Jeeps, tanks, half-tracks, APCs, rolling artillery, mortar carriers, deuce-and-a-halves, tanker trucks and off the helmets of troops and the metal of their weapons.

  A messenger walked up to him, a flashlight in his hand. “Dispatches, sir. I found them to be ... well, rather unusual.”

  “Read them to me, son,” Ben said.

  “Yes, sir. This one is from the north, up in Michigan. It’s from General Tanner and General Walker.”

  “Iron-Legs Walker? Captain March or Die, from Merrill’s Marauders?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “My God. The man must be pushing ninety!”

  “Yes, sir, that’s the one. And General Tanner used to command the Eighty-second down at Bragg.”

  “Go on,” Ben whispered. He shook his head. “Jesus God.”

  “Mr. President,” the Rebel read the first dispatch under the narrow beam of a flashlight. “Have four hundred and fifty of us old soldiers moving out this a.m. in simultaneous advance with your troops. Do not fear for us. We have lived our lives and lived them well. We have seen the rise of America, and have witnessed her downfall, as well as predicted that downfall. Now it is up to you to put this nation together once more. We believe you are the only man capable of doing that monumental feat. But first we must rid ourselves of General Striganov and his IPF people. We will dig in at various spots along the Iowa line, just as soon as our scouts report the IPF crossing into Missouri. You will have young people on both your flanks. If we have any sort of luck, we will have the IPF in a closed box. I call the young people the Orphans’ Brigade, if you remember that from the Civil War. It fits them well. They’re all tough little monkeys and they’ll more than hold their own. Don’t spend too much time worrying about them. We will be shoving off at first light. Good luck and Godspeed, Mr. President.”

  “Dear God,” Ben said, with more than a touch of awe in his tone. “Most of those old boys must be in their sixties and seventies.”

  Ike had a large lump in his throat and was afraid to speak.

  Cecil looked as though he was fighting back tears.

  Chase cleared his throat several times.

  Hector was openly weeping.

  The messenger’s hands were shaking as he unfolded the second dispatch. “The next two messages are almost identical, sir,” he said. He read: “There are three hundred and twenty five of us to the west, Mr. Raines, and some four hundred to the east. We will be moving out at 0600. We will try to link up with your people on the lower west and east borders of the battleground, putting the IPF in a box when we do. We have no parents, no homes to return to. We are now part of your society, Mr. Ben Raines, and we will follow wherever you choose to lead us. Good luck, sir.”

  Ben fought back tears. His voice shook when he spoke. “Children, all children. What are their ages, Sergeant?”

  The sergeant cleared his throat. Had one hell of a lump building there. “I believe, sir, their ages range from eight to sixteen or so.”

  “Eight!” Ben’s reply was almost a shout. “Those are babies.”

  “Yes, sir,” the sergeant said.

  Ben shook his head in disbelief and walked away from the small group just as Juan and Mark walked up. They had stood in silence as the sergeant read the messages. They had heard it all.

  “Ninos,” Juan said. “Little children with guns. Brave little boys and girls.”

  “What kind of war is this to be?” Mark pondered aloud. “Little children facing grown men. It’s shameful.”

  Just before Chase walked away to join his medical teams, he said, “I used to hope I’d make it to the year 2000. Now I’m not so certain I’m entirely happy about it.”

  Ben found Gale in the lightening darkness and put his arms around her. “This time, lady, you don’t argue with me. You’re assigned to the field hospitals in the rear.”

  “I know, Ben,” she said softly. “I won’t argue about it.”

  “We might not see each other for days, Gale,” he reminded her.

  “I know that, too,” she said, pressing against him, taking comfort from the bulk of the man.

  �
�If conditions start going from bad to worse,” Ben said, “I’m sending you to Georgia, to Captain Rayle’s command. And I don’t want any static out of you about it.”

  “There won’t be, Ben.” She looked up into his face. “Ben, I want you to know I think you are a fine, good man. You could have walked away from all this, but you didn’t.”

  “Yeah.” He smiled down at her. “But then I would have had to listen to you bitch about it for the next fifty years.”

  “You got that right, buster.”

  He kissed her mouth and then, grinning, patted her on the butt. She slapped his hand away. “OK, babe – take off. I’ll see you whenever and wherever I can.”

  She returned the kiss and, grinning, patted him on the butt. She broke free of his arms and walked away into the dim light of early morning, the faint silver from the east picking up pockets of lights in her shortcut, dark hair. The mist hung about her in the Missouri morning.

  She looked so small and vulnerable.

  Ben walked back to the main column and gave the orders. “Crank them up,” he said.

  The morning was filled with the coughing of powerful engines fired into sudden life from the cold metal.

  “Colonel Gray?”

  “Sir?”

  “Scouts out?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Hector?”

  “Sir?”

  Ben held out his hand and the man shook it. “Luck to you, Hec.”

  Hector’s teeth flashed white against the olive of his face. “See you after we kick ass, Ben.”

  Ben nodded. Both men knew the odds of them kicking the ass of the IPF were hard against. He looked at Cecil, held out his hand.

  “Luck to you, Ben,” the black man said, gripping the hand.

  “Take care, old soldier.”

  Cecil walked away to join his command.

  Juan and Mark shook hands with Ben and the two of them left to link up with their respective commands.

  Ben looked at Ike. The ex-navy SEAL grinned boyishly. He said, “Here we go again, El Presidente. Seems like we just got through doing this.”

  “I know the feeling,” Ben replied. “Ike, we’ve got to make the first punch hard enough to knock them down. Then we’ve got to stomp them while they’re down. We’ve got to make this as dirty and vicious as we know how. And we’re going to take a lot of casualties doing it.”