Slaughter in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  West of the Mississippi River, Simon Border’s people had either purged the “undesirables” from their territory or had demoralized them to the point where any dissidents were no longer a problem.

  Only a few SUSA supporters were still active in the areas under solid control of Simon Border forces, with the exception of the Mormons. For a time it looked as if Simon would leave any Mormon-controlled area alone, but that soon proved to be false. The state of Utah was now completely surrounded by Border’s troops and nothing got in or out . . . so far.

  “The man is a bigger fool than I first thought,” Ben said. “Corrie, get some people in there and see what we can do to assist the Mormons. Let me rephrase that—see if the Mormons want our help. No strings attached.”

  “What’s that lunatic got against the Mormons?” Jersey asked.

  “Simon Border is against anyone who does not completely subscribe to his wacky ideas of religion and worship.”

  “I thought he was going to try to work with us?” Cooper asked.

  “Simon lies,” Ben told him. “He lies when the truth would serve him better.”

  Ben took a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. “We got this early this morning. Our people in Simon’s territory think something is up . . . involving us.”

  “But Simon has signed a non-aggression pact with us!” Buddy protested.

  Ben smiled. “That document isn’t worth the paper it’s printed on, son. We knew that all along. I told you that someday we’d have to fight Simon and his people.”

  A runner from communications came into the room and handed Ben a communiqué. Ben quickly read it, then grunted. “Simon’s been quietly recruiting people outside his territory. He’s managed to convince thousands of ultra-religious people—of the very fanatical, off-the-wall types—to come over and join him.”

  “And that means. . . ?” Buddy asked.

  “We wrap it up here as quickly as possible and start backtracking, taking the shortest routes.”

  “And run head-on into a religious war, Father?”

  “I don’t want one, son, that’s for sure. But I’ve warned Simon to keep his nutty people west of the Mississippi. He agreed and also agreed to leave Utah alone. He’s broken every promise he ever made to me.” Ben shrugged. “Which I expected him to do.”

  “President Altman has managed to put together something of an army,” Beth said. “The people we left behind as advisors say they’re looking pretty good. It’s a small force, but growing.”

  “It isn’t growing fast enough,” Ben replied. “The NUSA will never have much of an army because the goddamn liberals will never permit it to grow to any size. And whatever kind of police they finally do put in place will have their hands tied from the git-go.” He grimaced. “Probably won’t even allow them to carry guns.”

  Ben’s team, including the usually straight-faced Buddy, all had to struggle to hide their grins. To say that Ben Raines had absolutely no use for cry-baby liberals was the same as saying a mule was stubborn.

  “So we’ll have to go back and clean out the punks and crud again,” Jersey remarked. “So what else is new?”

  “Simon Border and his people, Jersey,” Ben replied. “I don’t want us to get bogged down in a religious war. That is the absolute last thing I want. But I don’t see any way to avoid it.”

  “Talk about history giving us a black mark,” Cooper said. “That will sure do it.”

  “I’m afraid you’re right, Coop,” Ben agreed. “Well . . . let’s get our humanitarian work done, and then we’ll deal with the Most Reverend Simon Border.”

  “The word I get is that he’ll screw anything that will stand still or lie down long enough,” Jersey said. “How the hell can people fall for anything that comes out of the mouth of someone like that?”

  Ben laughed. “Oh, Jersey, back before the Great War, there were any number of TV preachers just as bad as Simon Border. The airwaves were filled with them. There was one in particular I used to enjoy watching occasionally.”

  Buddy’s mouth dropped open. “You enjoyed watching him, Father?”

  “Oh, sure. Hell, he’d get the spirit and start speaking in strange tongues and doing the heebie-jeebie and the mashed potato and the twist and the slop-bop, jumping all over the stage. He was quite a sight to see.”

  “Whatever happened to him?” Beth asked.

  “Some husband caught him in bed with both his wife and his 13-year-old daughter and shot him five times in the ass. He survived the shooting, but I don’t know what happened to him after that.” Ben waited until the laughter had died down. “I did hear that it messed up his dancing somewhat.”

  Ben didn’t believe for a minute that all the criminal element had pulled out of the Northeast. What he did believe was that they were in hiding, lying low until the Rebels passed through. Then they would resurface.

  It’s not our problem, Ben thought. The citizens can deal with it. And if they don’t want to deal with it, then that’s their problem.

  The Rebels stopped and offered medical treatment to every community who wanted it. If the people were reluctant to accept it, the Rebels moved on without another word. Ben had ordered his people not to discuss politics unless the townspeople brought it up . . . and most didn’t.

  It was so boring and so uneventful that most of the reporters who had been following the various Rebel battalions went back home. While waiting at what was left of an airport for supplies in northern Massachusetts, Mike Richards once more rejoined the column. He had been gone for a month.

  “You were right, Ben,” the spook said. “Simon Border is preparing for war against us.”

  Ben sighed. “Why, Mike?”

  “Because you and the Rebels are godless, that’s why. According to Simon, the SUSA is nothing more than a huge den of sin. If the United States is ever to be whole and moral and God-fearing, the SUSA must be destroyed.”

  “I’m sure he’s telling his followers and faithful that God told him all that.”

  “Right. The man has visions where he actually talks with God.”

  “I seem to remember that another fellow, Jethro Jim Bob Musseldine, had similar visions.”

  “Jethro didn’t have 20 million or so followers, Ben, all ready to do battle with the Great Satan.”

  “The great satan being me?”

  “Exactly.”

  “And he’s found 20 million Americans who actually believe that crap?”

  “At least in part, Ben. Simon has provided them with hope. He’s done some good things; we have to admit that. He’s got some very smart people with him. They’ve rebuilt towns and communities and churches, got the sewer and water and lights working, raised crops, and gave the people a sense of worth.”

  “I’ll grant you that, and did a good job of it. But add that we didn’t interfere with him doing that.”

  “But we did aid the men and women in the hills and mountains who are fighting him, and Simon knows we did, and knows that we still are.”

  “He’s guessing.”

  Mike shook his head. “No, Ben. The man has a pretty good intelligence network. Not yet as good as ours, and never will have because of his lack of satellites, but they’re pretty damn good. I won’t sell them short.”

  Corrie came running into the room, waving a piece of paper. “Boss! This just in from Cecil. Dozens of kids, maybe hundreds, they don’t have an accurate count yet, were taken to area hospitals all over the SUSA. But mostly confined to Texas, Arkansas, and Louisiana. Someone laced the schools’ water supply with some sort of mind-altering drug. Similar to LSD, but with much more horrible results. A dozen or more teachers are down as well.”

  Ben’s face turned as hard as stone and his eyes became as flint. “Go on,” he muttered darkly.

  “Our people killed one man early this morning close to a school when he refused to stop at their command,” Corrie read from the communique. “They’re running both prints and DNA now.”

  Mike stood up. �
��I’m outta here. I’ll bump you from Base Camp One.”

  Ben nodded, not trusting his voice to speak.

  “Cecil says he’ll contact you as soon as they know more,” Corrie finished it.

  Ben cleared his throat. Stood up and walked around the room for a moment. His team had gathered near the door, standing silently. “Down through the years people have done just about everything in the book in an attempt to stop us,” Ben spoke, his words low and holding menace. “But to attack children is just about as vile as an enemy can get.”

  “Simon Border, boss?” Cooper asked.

  “I don’t know, Coop. But you can bet I’m going to find out.”

  “Might be Ray Brown, boss,” Jersey said. “We know he got out of the ruins of Manhattan. And we damn sure know he hates you.”

  “That was my first thought, Jersey. I believe I read in his dossier that Ray was in trouble for manufacturing drugs just before the Great War, right?”

  “Yes, sir. Among other things. I think he was still in the army when the drug thing came up.”

  “Pull in 7 and 10 Batts to relieve us here. Order all the rest of our people to stand by to pull out—”

  “This might interest you, Father,” Buddy said, walking into the room holding a newspaper.

  “Is that Simon Border’s publication?” Ben asked.

  “Yes, sir. A front page article. It claims we are brainwashing children in the SUSA and by the time they are six or seven years old, they are beyond rehabilitation. It further states that since nits grow into lice, people of all ages living within the borders of the SUSA should be considered the enemy. There is more, but you get the general idea.”

  “I sure do, son. I think we are going to find that Simon has elected to shake hands with the devil in order to try to defeat us—the devil being the punks that escaped from the East. Corrie, as soon as my suspicions are confirmed, order full-scale preparations for all-out war against Simon Border. Simon doesn’t realize it, but he just opened Pandora’s Box.”

  TWENTY

  Ben stayed with his 1 Batt and waited for further word about the events taking place in the SUSA. It was not long in coming.

  “Two of the teachers died, Ben,” Cecil told him. “Looks like the kids are going to make it, but the psychiatrists can only guess what’s going to happen further on down the road.”

  “Anything on the man killed by the school?”

  “He’s been positively ID’d as being part of Ray Brown’s gang. And everything is pointing toward Simon Border allowing the gangs to come in and operate in his claimed territory, just as long as they leave his people alone.”

  “That sorry son-of-a-bitch!”

  Cecil said nothing. He waited for Ben to finish venting his spleen. And that took awhile, for Ben cussed Simon Border loud and long.

  “Close the borders,” Ben finally calmed down enough to say. “Seal them tight. Double the patrols. Place your battalions on middle alert. I’m on my way. I’ll probably cut west through Arkansas and enter Simon’s territory that way.”

  “You’re sure this is what you want to do, Ben?”

  “I’m sure it’s the only thing that Simon will understand, Cec. Anybody who deliberately makes war on children is too low to live.”

  “Well, you’ll get no argument from me on that. All right, Ben. Give me a progress report from time to time.”

  “You know I will, Cec. Eagle out.” He turned to Corrie. “Mount ’em up, Corrie. We’re out of here.”

  When the initial battalions that were to cross over into Simon Border’s territory linked up a few days later, it was an awesome sight. There were five over-strength battalions: Ben’s 1 Batt, Dan’s 3 Batt, Buddy’s 8 Batt, Jackie Malone’s 12 Batt, and Jim Peters’s 14 Batt. The column seemed to stretch out endlessly. People heard the rumbling long before the trucks and Hummers and tanks and self-propelled and towed artillery came into view. They gathered alongside the old highways to watch them pass, waving at the Rebels.

  Ben kept to the old interstate system as much as possible, but even with that, the going was slow, for the highways were in terrible shape.

  The Rebels experienced no trouble on the way southwest. “This has to be the longest stretch of inaction in our history,” Ben said.

  “Boring,” Jersey replied.

  “It won’t be once we cross over into Simon’s territory,” Ben warned.

  “Suits me, boss.”

  Ben was under no illusions about the consequences of crossing over into Simon Border’s claimed territory. The man had built a powerful army that not only was well-equipped but highly motivated. And Ben had spent more than a few sleepless hours weighing his decision to invade Simon’s territory.

  Simon would deny any connection with the deaths of the teachers and the mind-crippling of the kids, and he would be very convincing about it. He would paint the Rebels as the aggressors and any American citizen who disliked the Tri-States philosophy would be more than ready and willing to believe him. Cecil didn’t have to bring that to Ben’s attention; Ben was already well aware of it.

  “Any word from Mike?” Ben asked Corrie, as the long column moved through the countryside.

  “Not a peep, boss. Not from Mike, nor from any of his people in the field.”

  “Nothing from any of the resistance fighters in the mountains?”

  “Nothing.”

  There were dozens of small groups scattered throughout Simon’s territory who were violently opposed to Simon’s off-the-wall ultra-religious rule. The Rebels supplied them as best they could, but since the guerrilla fighters were constantly on the move, it was hard to know exactly where they were from week to week. They managed to keep some of Simon’s forces busy, but it was more like a man swatting at a pesky mosquito.

  If the column made 200 miles a day, they considered that excellent time, for most of the time the roads were so bad, they were lucky to average 20 miles an hour. Equipment breakdowns occurred frequently.

  Mike Richards radioed in on the Rebels’ seventh day on the road. “The punks are in the Southwest, Ben. Running west from the Texas-New Mexico border over to the ruins of L.A., and then north up to the Utah-Colorado line. They’re pretty well all over Nevada and in the California deserts. Mainly located in the ruins of small deserted towns where there is water.”

  “They have drug factories going?”

  “Affirmative, Ben. All sorts of drugs. I captured one gang member. After a few minutes, he was more than willing to spill his guts . . .”

  Ben didn’t ask how Mike had accomplished that; he really didn’t want to know.

  “They’ve worked out some sort of deal with gangs from Mexico, Central America, and South America. They trade women for materials—among other items. Blondes seem to be the favorite this month.”

  “Slavers.” Ben spat the word. “Goddamn dopers dealing with goddamn slavers!”

  Mike said nothing. He knew how Ben despised both.

  “We can’t cover the whole border with troops,” Ben said, after catching his breath. “That’s several thousand miles.”

  “Wouldn’t do any good, Ben. They’re flying the junk in and flying the women out.”

  “But we can damn sure put our fighter pilots to work, though, can’t we?”

  “As long as they get them coming in and not going out,” Mike warned.

  “I’ll make sure they understand that. What else can you tell me, Mike?”

  “Simon is behind it all. I’ve got that nailed down tight and for a fact. He’s going to deny it until hell freezes over, but everything Ray Brown and the others are doing is with Simon’s approval. The women Ray and the others are swapping for the raw materials to make the drugs are not, according to Simon, ‘Christian women.’ They are, again in his words, ‘the devil’s harlots,’ and beyond redemption.”

  “That’s very Christian of the sanctimonious son-of-a-bitch,” Ben said, his words leaking acid.

  Mike burst out laughing at both Ben’s words and tone. “S
orry, Ben. But I needed that.”

  Ben smiled, some of his rage simmering down. “It looks like we’ll be wintering in the desert, Mike.”

  “Beats wintering in Maine, Ben. See ya.” Mike broke the connection.

  Ben spoke with Cecil, bringing him up to date. He then bumped Thermopolis down at Base Camp One and told him to get his 19 Batt up and equipped for the field . . . again. Therm, the aging hippie-turned-warrior, and his wife, Rosebud, ran the headquarters battalion, seeing to the resupplying of the entire Rebel Army, logistics, food, everything from panties to ammunition, and the thousand and one other details involved in keeping thousands of troops on the go and ready.

  “Emil Hite has attached himself to me, Ben,” Therm warned. “What do you want me to do about him?”

  “What does Rosebud have to say about it?” Ben asked, doing his best to keep from chuckling.

  “Well, let’s put it this way—the little con artist has promised to behave himself and Rosebud has agreed to give him one more chance.”

  “He is amusing to have around, Therm.”

  “You want him?”

  “I didn’t say that,” Ben was quick to add. “No . . . I think he’ll probably be an asset to your battalion. You keep him.”

  “That’s very big of you.”

  “I always try to look after the needs of my people, Therm. See you in a couple of weeks.”

  Therm mumbled something and broke the connection.

  Emil Hite had joined Ben’s Rebels a few years back, promising to renounce his days as a con artist—something no one believed. The little man was a great big pain in the ass, but when the chips were down, he and his band of followers had proved themselves in combat time after time.

  “Let’s head for the New Mexico state line, gang,” Ben told his team.