These mountain people, he concluded, were weird. He couldn’t get close enough to any of them to say a word. At a little town just south of Bryson City, a man made the mistake of taking a shot at Ben. Ben had reacted instinctively and spent the next few, long hours watching the man die from a stomach wound.
“Why did you shoot at me?” Ben asked. “I wasn’t doing a thing.”
“Outsider,” the man had gasped. “Got no business being here. We’ll get you.”
“Why? Why do you want to “get me”?”
But the man had lost consciousness and Ben never learned the answer to his question-at least not from the man he’d shot.
Sitting in the motel room, Ben was filled with doubts and questions. Where had all the people gone? The people of Atlanta? What was the use of spending years writing something … his
His head jerked up as Juno growled softly, rising to his feet, muzzle toward the door.
“We don’t mean you any harm, mister,” a boy’s voice said. “But if that big dog jumps at me, I’m gonna shoot it.”
Ben put a hand on Juno’s big head and told him to relax. He clicked on the recorder. “So come on in and sit,” he invited.
A boy and girl, in their mid-teens, appeared in the door. They looked to be brother and sister. Ben pointed to a couple of chairs.
The boy shook his head. “Well stand, thank you, though.”
“What can I do for you?” Ben asked.
“It ain’t what you can do for us,” the girl said. “It’s what we can do for you.”
“All right.”
“Git your kit together and git on outta here,” the boy said. “They’s comin’ to git you tonight.”
“Who is coming to get me-and why?”
“Our people,” the girl told him. She was a very pretty girl, but already the signs of ignorance and poverty were taking their toll, affecting her speech and features.
The poverty and ignorance of her parents, Ben thought.
Root cause-in the home, passed from generation to generation, parent to child.
When will we ever learn? But… is it too late now? He thought not.
“I’ve done nothing to your people,” Ben said.
“You kilt our uncle,” the boy said. “Ain’t that doin’ somethang?”
“Your uncle shot at me for no reason. All I was trying to do was catch some fish for my supper.”
“Our roads, our mountains, our fish,” the girl said.
“I see,” Ben’s reply was soft. “And you don’t want any outsiders here?”
“That’s it, mister.”
“If you feel that strongly, why are you warning me?”
The question seemed to confuse the pair. The boy shook his head.” ‘Cause we don’t want no more killin” around here. And if you’ll leave, there won’t be no more.”
“Do you agree with your people’s way of life?”
“It ain’t up to us to agree or disagree,” the boy said. “The word’s done been passed down from Corning. And if you stay here, mister, you gonna die.”
“Who or what is a Corning?”
“The leader.”
“Ah, yes.” Ben smiled, but was careful not to offend the young people, or rib their manner of speaking or thinking. “Let me guess: This Corning is the biggest and the strongest among you all. He is a religious man-or so he says-and he has a great, powerful voice and spouts the Bible a lot. Am I right?”
“Mister”-the girl’s voice was soft with awe-“how’d you know all that?”
Ben looked at her. She was pretty and shapely and ripe for picking. “And I’ll bet this Corning-I’ll bet he likes you a lot, right?”
She nodded her head. “He’s taken a shine to me, yeah.”
“No doubt.” Ben’s reply was dry. How quickly some of us revert, he thought. Tribal chieftain. He stood up and the kids quickly backed away, toward the open door. “Take it easy. I won’t hurt you. Are you going to get into trouble for coming here, warning me?”
The girl shook her head. “We come the back trails. We know where the lookouts is. “You leavin’?”
“Yes, I’ll be gone in half an hour.”
She stood gazing at him. “We’re not bad people, mister. We jist don’t want no more of your world, that’s all. Why cain’t ever’body just live the way they want to live, and then ever’body would git along?”
Why indeed? Ben thought, and once again, the Rebels entered his mind. He felt compelled to say something profound. Instead he said, “Because, dear, then we wouldn’t have a nation, would we?”
She blinked. “But we ain’t got one now, have we?”
Then they were gone.
“Wonder what happened to that cult?” Cecil asked.
“Died out, hopefully. Maybe someone bigger and stronger than Corning came along and killed him. That’s the way it usually happens, I guess.” He stood up and stretched. “Any word from Dan?”
Cecil grinned a warrior’ smile of satisfaction over hearing of an enemy’s defeat. “Not since yesterday. That is one randy Englishman. His bunch completely destroyed a full column of IPF troops. Wiped them out to a person.”
“For a fact, Cec, Dan does not like to be bothered with prisoners. Those SAS boys were randy as hell.” Ben grinned. “Besides wiping out an entire column, they demoralized the hell out of a bunch of other IPF troops.” Ben’s grin grew wider. “I can’t help but wonder what happened to that colonel who was commanding the unit.”
“Dan said he turned tail and ran.”
“Well, he got his tit in the wringer for that, I’m betting.”
Cecil gave Ben a mock grimace. “God, Ben! I’m
glad Gale isn’t here to hear that crack.” Ben laughed. “Me, too.”
General Striganov at first could not believe his ears. He stared at Colonel Fechnor for a full moment. “The entire battalion!” the general finally roared. He rose from his chair to face a still-badly-shaken Fechnor. “I can’t believe this. You lost an entire battalion?”
Colonel Fechnor’s driver stood by the colonel’s side. The young man was trembling from fear and exhaustion: fear at General Striganov’s rage, and exhaustion from the long and sometimes-harrowing drive north, all the while imagining all sorts of dire repercussions from the general. Much to his regret, what he envisioned was coming true.
Fechnor stood at full attention, no give in him at his general’s rage. “Yes, sir,” he replied. “First a bridge blew, then we were forced to wait and regroup. Then we were ambushed in Ottumwa. I-was
“I am not interested in excuses!” Striganov roared. His face was red with fury. “Excuses are a weak man’s forte. You are not a weak man, Fechnor. Fechnor-was he visibly calmed himself-“you are a trained, experienced combat veteran. You were decorated for your work in Afghanistan, for bravery as well as for common sense. We’ve been together since you were a mere lieutenant. What in the name of everything we hold sacred has happened to your courage?”
“There is nothing the matter with my courage, General,” Fechnor flared, forgetting to hold his tongue. “My scouts reported the town deserted. I am forced to accept their findings-as any field commander must.
We approached the city with all due caution. My people fought well. But in vain. As for me-was
“You ran.” Striganov stated the damning fact flatly, considerable heat in his voice. “You should have remained there, fighting and dying with your people.”
The colonel met the general’s stare, refusing to back down. “What you say may be true, General. If so, I am ready to accept and face whatever punishment you deem necessary, including, of course, the firing squad. I-was
Striganov waved him silent. He ordered the driver to leave the room. The young man almost fell over his feet in his haste to obey. Both men were forced to smile at the young man’s antics. They both remembered their own youth, and their fear and awe of superior officers. The eyes of the two senior officers of the IPF met and held, and understanding passed between them in si
lent messages.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Valeska,” Striganov said. “I have absolutely no intention of putting you against a wall. I spoke in haste; you should not have stayed and died. You are my most experienced and valuable field officer. I cannot afford to lose you; you know that. I apologize for losing my temper. Your scouts are to blame for not thoroughly checking the city. They should have-as you did-sensed an ambush.” Striganov returned to his chair and sat down heavily, sighing deeply. He remained thus for a time, brooding silently. Finally he looked up, catching Colonel Fechnor staring at him. The colonel was still standing at attention.
“Stand at ease, Colonel,” Striganov said. “No,” he amended that order. “Relax, make
yourself comfortable. Have some tea. I insist.”
Colonel Fechnor relaxed and walked to the tea service, pouring a cup of tea. He sugared and creamed the beverage and returned to sit in a chair facing General Striganov’s desk, carefully placing cup and saucer on the desk.
“Valeska,” the general said softly, “do you believe in any sort of supreme being?”
The question caught Fechnor off-guard. He thought for a few seconds, then said, “Why I…” He paused, not sure how to reply,
“Truthfully, now, old friend,” Striganov said with a very slight smile, as if sharing some secret with the man, a confidence only the two of them knew. “We have no one listening to report our conversation back to the Central Party Headquarters.”
Fechnor returned the slight smile. “Yes,” he said. “One does tend to forget the old ways no longer apply, da?”
“Old habits are difficult to break,” Striganov agreed.
“Yes,” Fechnor spoke after a time. “Yes… I do believe there is something … something-I don’t know what-after death. Good or bad,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders. “Yes-I simply cannot believe that all the world, with its trees and flowers and animals and … beings just evolved. I have felt that way for a long time. Since maturity.” Colonel Fechnor felt better for having said that.
“I see.” Georgi spoke the words so softly Valeska had to lean forward and strain to hear them. The colonel waited for his commander to drop the other shoe-if he had another shoe to drop. He did.
“Yes,” Striganov said. “I find that interesting, Valeska. For I, too, have felt for some time there just might be some truth to the belief in a higher power. Although I do not profess to know what type of higher power-I don’t believe anyone does. I …” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “But I do believe … I have this thought, this theory, that President-General Ben Raines stands-quite unknowingly, I think-very close to this… this higher being, there really is some sort of… supreme being.”
Col. Valeska Fechnor could but stare at his commander. He could not believe the words his ears had heard.
Striganov’s smile held more than a touch of amusement. “Oh yes, Valeska. Your ears have not deceived you. But I repeat: I do not believe Ben Raines knows of his … closeness. If my theory is correct, that is. However, I do not think Ben Raines is always viewed in a favorable light by-was he grimaced-“by whatever it is that we believe might exist as some higher power or order.”
Colonel Fechnor sat stunned in his chair, the excellent tea in front of him forgotten, cooling its fragrance. “Are … are you saying, Georgi, that we are locked in combat with-God?”
Georgi lifted his eyes to meet Fechnor’s amazed look. “In a manner of speaking, yes. If one believes in God. But if there exists such a person or thing or being-whatever-He is not known for direct interference or intervention. Lately I have studied the babblings of the Bible. I have studied them quite closely, over a period of months. Of course, it goes without saying I reject most of the writing as a figment
of someone’s imagination, but… parts of that book disturb me. The New Testament is quite bland and uninteresting-it’s the Old Testament that intrigues me, fascinates me. Since you used the word, let us maintain the usage: Why would God interfere so directly and openly in the Old Testament and not in the New? I find that contradictory. Very much so.” Suddenly his features hardened. “And the goddamned Jews just persist in surviving. No matter what happens to them, no matter five thousand years of attempting to wipe them out, the bastards manage to survive. Through thousands of years of persecution-they survive. And now Ben Raines shares his bed and blankets with a Jew bitch.” He shook his head. “I do not believe it was an accident.”
Fechnor waited for a moment, then said, “What is at the base of all this, General? I gather it centers around the Jewess. What about her?”
Striganov drummed his finger tips on his desk. “Kill her,” he said.
“The advance of the IPF has halted in southwestern Iowa,” Cecil reported to Ben, a puzzled look on his face. “And I don’t know why and neither do any of our intelligence people.”
“Striganov is up to something,” Ben replied without hesitation.
“That is our consensus,” Cecil said, sitting down. “Without solid proof, of course. Dan Gray’s LETTERRP’S report the eastern column stopped at Muscatine and Dan says his people have reported the center column halted at Oskaloosa. Everything has stopped dead in
its tracks.”
Ben looked around him at the roomful of men. “Anybody care to venture an opinion as to why?” he asked.
No one would venture an opinion. The Russian’s action was confusing to all of them.
Gale took that opportunity to stick her head into the motel room Ben was using as an office.
“Give your Jewess a great big kiss for me, da?” The words of the Russian popped into Ben’s consciousness. Maybe, he thought.
But what would Striganov hope to gain by harming her? Ben silently asked.
He could find no answer.
“Come on in, Gale,” Ben told her.
Gale smiled. “Am I intruding on this all-male gathering?”
“Honey.” Ike returned the smile. “As pretty as you are, your presence could never be considered any sort of intrusion.”
“Ike,” she said, looking at him, “you are so full of shit as to be unreal.”
“I do so love a plain-spoken woman,” Ike replied, taking no umbrage at her remark. Ike could take it as well as dish it out.
“Ben,” Gale said, turning to him, “I just spoke with some stragglers that wandered into town. They came from California. They told me about seeing and talking with some old fellow who called himself the Prophet.”
Ben nodded his head; he had not thought about the strange-appearing old man in some time. “A lot of people have seen that old guy, Gale. I’ve seen him—
Ike, a number of others. Why? What about him?”
“Who is he, Ben?”
As Ben began to talk, telling her what he knew of the old man, memories flooded him, taking him back to Little Rock, more than a year before.
Little Rock was a dead city. Twelve years of neglect and looting had reduced the once-thriving city into blackened girders, stark against the backdrop of blue skies and burned-out buildings. Dead rats lay in heaps, stinking under the sun, fouling the air of the dusty streets.
Ben drove by a high school that somehow looked familiar. Then he recalled that troops had been sent to this high school in the 1950’s to integrate it.
He told Rosita as much, but she did not seem impressed.
“Doesn’t history interest you, Rosita?” he asked.
She shrugged her indifference. “It don’t put pork chops on the table, Ben,” she replied with her usual air. She was one of the few who dared to speak to Ben in such a manner.
“What?”
Her smile was sad. “Ben-I can’t read much.”
“Dear God,” Ben muttered. He glanced at her. “You must have been about eight when the bombs came, right?”
“Pretty good guess, Ben. I was nine.”
“How much schooling since then?”
“Lots of lessons in the school of hard knocks,” she replied, going on the defensive.
“OK, Ben. I’ll play it straight. Not much schooling. I read very slowly and skip over all the big words.”
“You don’t understand them.”
“That’s right.”
“You know anything about nouns, pronouns, adverbs, sentence construction?”
“No.” Her reply was softly given.
“Then I will see to it that you learn how to read, Rosita. It’s imperative that everyone know how to read.”
“I got by without it.” She pouted.
“What about your children? Damn it, short stuff, this is what I’ve been trying to hammer into people’s heads. You people are make or break for civilization. I don’t understand why so many of you can’t-or won’t-see that.”
He stopped the truck in a part of the city that appeared to be relatively free of dead rats. They got out and walked.
“So I and my ninos can learn to make atomic bombs and again blow up the world, Ben? So we can read the formulas for making germs that kill? I-was
“Heads up, General!” a Rebel called.
Ben and Rosita turned. Ben heard her sharp intake of breath. “Dios mio!” she hissed.
A man was approaching them, angling across the street, stepping around the litter. It was the man in the dreams Rosita had been having. Bearded and robed and carrying a long staff.
The man stopped in the street and Ben looked into the wildest eyes he had ever seen.
And the oldest, the thought came to him.
“My God,” someone said. “It’s Moses.”
A small patrol started toward the man. He held up a warning hand. “Stay away, ye soldiers of a false god.”
“It is Moses,” a woman muttered, only half in jest.
Ben continued to stare at the man. And be stared at in return.
“I hope not,” Ben said, and his reply was given only half in jest. Something about the man was disturbing. “Are you all right?” Ben called to him. “We have food we’ll share with you.”
The robed man said, “I want nothing from you.” He stabbed his long staff against the broken concrete of the street. He swung his dark, piercing eyes to the Rebels gathering around Ben, weapons at the ready. “Your worshipping of a false god is offensive.” He turned and walked away.
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