“You did all that since I called Lamar?”
Ike’s smile was tight. Controlled. “No. Doctor Chase suspected something was in the wind. Something about finding too many little furry critters dead. Half of it was done before I ever got here. Then when you called we really got jumpin.’”
Ben told him about his idea of shifting everyone to the southeastern U.S.
“Good plan. I was gonna bring that up to you; talked about it some to bunches of folk. They all agree it would be the best move.”
“I don’t want to stay here any longer than is absolutely necessary.”
“I know,” Ike’s reply was softly given. “Bad memories for me, too, friend.” He glanced at his watch. “Couple more hours, we’ll start rollin’ folks out of the sack and get this circus on the road. Sooner we get home the sooner y’all can get settled in for the winter. Then we can start makin’ some firm plans.”
* * *
Winter hit the high country with a mindless fury: high winds, blizzard conditions, and bitter cold. Most stayed in unless outside travel was imperative.
The first two weeks of February proved no better as far as the weather was concerned, and the Rebels began developing cabin fever. Ben organized dances and get-togethers and box suppers and card and bingo parties—anything to occupy the time.
Then the Chinooks began blowing in the third week of February, and the bitter cold and blizzard snows abated. It was not yet spring in the high country, but as Ike put it, “Damn sight better than the past six weeks, boy.”
Frayed nerves and high-strung tempers knitted and healed as plans for the massive move were formulated. Now people had something to do: rounding up and servicing hundreds of vehicles for the push south.
When Ben asked for volunteers to scout the area he had chosen as their new home, five thousand hands went up.
He sent three teams of them south. Stay in radio contact. Don’t take chances. For God’s sake, be careful.
* * *
“Southern part of Arkansas, north Louisiana, and central Mississippi,” Ben said, thumping the map. “That’s where we’ll call home.”
* * *
April, 2000.
Ben turned to Doctor Chase. “Has the plague run its course?”
The man shook his white-maned head. “Typical layman’s question. How the hell do I know! I would say not. Fleas prefer rodents, but they’ll damn sure jump on a human. I would suggest sending teams to that area. Crop dusters, preferably, at first, to spray the outlined borders with insecticide and then put out aerial rat poison; and I mean really put it out all over the projected area. That’s what I’d do—you do what the hell you want to do.”
“Did anybody ever tell you that you’re a crotchety old bastard?” Ben said.
“Of course I am,” Doctor Chase replied. “If you don’t like it, go to another doctor.” He smiled sarcastically, plopped his hat on his head, and walked out.
“Navy doctors,” Ike said with a grin. “’Specially captains—strange bunch of people.” He looked at Ben. “Generals sometimes get that way, too—General.”
* * *
Jim Slater and Paul Green and a dozen other dusters headed for the new Tri-States. Transport planes had already flown in the chemicals to airports sprayed and burned by volunteers. The massive job was underway in both the northwest and the southwest parts of the ravaged nation.
* * *
“People in that area?” Ben asked the scouts.
“Damn few,” the voice crackled out of the speaker. “But I want to tell you sir, we have met some real squirrels coming down here—and here, as well.”
“Squirrels?”
“Cults popping up everywhere. You know, call themselves religions, but as far as I’m concerned, they are anything but that. Got one over in the Ouachita Mountains run by some nut name of Emil Hite. That’s the biggest one we’ve found. Jim Jones type of thing with a Manson mentality.”
“Any trouble with them?”
“Not since one of my people butt-stroked one of them and knocked out about a dozen teeth. After that, Hite decided to pull back into his hills and stayed there.”
“Rats?”
“A few, but the poison got most of them, I think. We found a lot of dead rats when we got here. Got a man joined up with us in Texas; used to be with the CDC. He says it appears to him the rats are dying of some inner infection of some sort. He’s set up a lab, of sorts, and is working out of that.”
“It’s going to take us a while to get there. Big problem of logistics.”
“We’ll be secure in two weeks here, General.”
“It’ll take us that long to get the first convoy there. I’ll see you in two weeks.”
“Roger, sir. Out.”
“Head ‘em up and move ‘em out time, Ben?” Ike asked. Ben’s eyes clouded, for a moment, he was flung back in time, back years, to just a few days after the bombings of 1988.
* * *
As the full impact of what had occurred came to rest with Ben, he drove the town and parish, looking for anyone left alive. On the second day, he found one—just one. Fran Piper.
She hated Ben and the feeling was certainly mutual. From the moment he got out of his truck after seeing her alone on the parish road, the conversation was less than cordial.
“Why, good morning, Mrs. Piper. What a surprise seeing you. Not a pleasure, but certainly a surprise.”
“Mr. Raines—you’re armed! I thought pistols had been outlawed for some time?”
“Yes, ma’am. Three years ago, I believe. Thanks to Hilton Logan and his bunch of misguided liberals. But be that as it may, ma’am, here I am, Ben Raines, at your service. That trashy Yankee writer of all those filthy fuck books, come to save your aristocratic ass from gettin’ pronged by all the slobbering rednecks that must surely be prowlin’ around the parish, just a-lustin’ for a crack at you, ma’am.”
“Raines,” she said, her eyes flashing hatred at him, “you just have to be the most despicable human being I have ever encountered, unfortunately. And if that was supposed to be Rhett Butler, you missed the boat.”
“Paddle-wheel, I’m sure.”
From that point on, the conversation was downhill all the way.
But Ben could not bring himself to leave the woman to fend for herself. She would not have survived alone.
“Well, you can come with me. No play on words intended.”
She rolled her eyes and off they went.
At one point in their wanderings about the parish, Fran had waved her hand, as if a scout with a wagon train.
“Head ‘em up and move ‘em out,” Ben had muttered.
She had stayed with Ben until Memphis. There, she had met Hilton Logan, a bachelor, and the two had hit it off. She eventually married the man and became the First Lady—although a lady she was most definitely not.
After the fall of Tri-States, Fran and one of her lovers had been shot to death by Ben’s Zero Squads.
Just at the moment of mutual climax.
The ultimate orgasm.
* * *
“Yes,” Ben brought himself back to the present. “Head ‘em up and move ‘em out.”
“Regrets, partner?”
“I don’t think we can afford regrets, Ike. I think we have to look forward, and not look back for a long time.”
“Well,” Ike stood up and slung his CAR-15. “Let’s get rollin.’ We sure got a ways to go.”
SEVEN
IN SEARCH OF A DREAM…
Wreckers and tow trucks and heavy-duty pickups with PTO winches on the front traveled a full day ahead of the main column, clearing the roads of stalled and abandoned vehicles.
The convoy, stretching for miles, left on Interstate 80, picked up Interstate 15, and took that down to south-central Utah. There, they intersected with Interstate 70 and pointed eastward, gently angling south when roads permitted.
It was slow going, the convoy lucky to maintain a 40 mph average—often less than that. Ben, almost
always traveling alone, usually was miles ahead of the column. Oftentimes playing games with his guards, deliberately outdistancing them, losing them so he could have some time alone.
When Captain Seymour reported this to Ike and Cecil, both men could only shake their heads.
“Rosita’s not with him anymore?” Captain Gray asked.
“No,” Ike told him. “Ben says she’s too young. I’m worried about him, to speak frankly. He’s becoming more withdrawn.”
“Ben always has been somewhat of a loner,” Cecil said. “But the feeling the men and women have about him is disturbing to him—he told me that.”
“Leave him alone,” Jerre settled the discussion. “Ben is doing what Ben wants to do. He’s got a lot on his mind and this is his way of coping with it. Just leave him alone.” And that settled it.
* * *
Crossing over a mountain range, Ben pulled off the interstate and jammed his truck into four-wheel drive, climbing high above the interstate. On a crest, he parked, and squatted alone, watching the column crawling snakelike below.
If I had any sense, he thought, I would wait until the column is long past, get in my truck, and head west. But I would feel like Pilate if I did. Those little boys talking the other evening, when they thought no one could hear them (and God I wish I had not), talking of the general being a god. And those teenage boys and girls who joined them—they should have known better; should have corrected the younger ones immediately.
But they didn’t.
I am not a god. I am merely a man who is ten years past true middle age. Maybe I don’t feel it; some say I don’t look it, but it’s not good to attempt to alter the truth.
A god. Damn!
When did this start? Did it begin back in ‘88? If so, why didn’t I catch it then?
A god.
How to stop the talk? What to do? Anything? Yes—of course. Something must be done. But what? And how? Do I go to the parents and tell them what I heard? But according to other whispered conversations I have overheard and from the looks I have finally put together after being deaf, dumb, and blind for only the true God knows how long, many of the parents might share that foolish belief. If not to the extent of their kids, at least a bit.
Ben rose from his squat, very conscious he was not as young as he once was (the muscles in his calves were aching from the strain of the unfamiliar position), and walked slowly back to his truck. He had made up his mind: he would see the people located and settled, the society firmed up into a fair and productive existence for those who had placed their faith in him; and then he would, as the saying went, quietly fold his tents and slip away.
He hoped he would have the courage to do that when the time came.
* * *
Ben stayed by himself after that, driving alone, sleeping alone, taking his meals alone, being alone. He knew his actions would bring talk, and that proved correct, but he felt it could not be helped. The people had to learn to get along without him. This was the first step in that process.
As the days of spring warmed and slipped by, the column angled into the Oklahoma Panhandle and stayed on secondary roads and state highways until they were south of Oklahoma City, then the lead scouts turned straight east. Seventeen days after leaving Idaho, the first trucks began rolling into Arkansas.
But the legend of Ben Raines did not diminish by his actions of late. It grew. More of his followers began viewing him as something more than just flesh and blood. Many began seeing him and the weapon he carried as though he possessed a power that was somehow of a higher plane than mere mortals.
And a few days after the column reached Arkansas, almost everyone in his command turned their faces toward Ben, looking for direction.
And he did not want the job.
* * *
“General,” a young radio operator said. Ben and Ike and Cecil turned at the voice. “I was spinning the dials on one of our radios, you know, like we do all the time, hoping to receive something. Well,” he paused, “we got a tape recording. Maybe, sir, you’d better hear this with your own ears, sir.”
“Lead on, son,” Ben said with a smile.
The young man returned the smile. He liked to be around the general. Ben Raines was always so… so unflappable, so sure of himself. He never seemed to get excited or upset. Maybe it was true what a lot of folks said about him. The young man didn’t know for sure, but…
The radio was on when Ben and the others reached the temporary communications shack. The voice coming from the speakers was weak. “…am recording this on a continuous loop. Sick. Don’t know how much longer I can hold on. Medicines ran out. Thought the plague problem would be gone this spring. Wrong. Rats came back. Fleas—God, the fleas. Everywhere.
“This is Armed Forces Radio from Fort Tonopah, Nevada…. think I’m the last one alive on the base. Big rats hit us in a… bunch few days ago. Wiped us out in 72 hours. Don’t think there is any help for me. Experiment broadcasting here; sun provides… power. Should keep transmitting long after… I’m gone. New-type plague the medics… said. Chills, fever, vomiting. Tongues swelled up and turned black. Died… rats been chewing on this building for couple days. Never seen such big rats. I…”
The tape hissed in its cart for a few minutes. Then the same message was repeated.
The radio operator said, “We have one more tape, sir.” He changed frequencies.
“This is a recording from Calgary. I have put this on a continuous loop. Plugged the generator into a bulk tank, so it should broadcast for weeks, maybe months. Twice a day; automatic shutdown and on. I will be dead in a few hours, but someone must know what is happening. A scientist from Montreal was with me for several days; explained what he thought had happened. He killed himself last night… that would be…. I don’t even know what month it is anymore.
“The rats are mutant—he said that should have been expected and no one should have been surprised. All the radiation and God only knows what type of germs in the air from the bombings of ’88.
“He said the rats were, for years, content. They had plenty of food to eat in the ravaged cities and towns of the world. But a rat is very prolific. One pair can be responsible for thousands. Thousands turn into millions, then billions. But as they overproduced, they had to leave the dead cities in search of food. They carried disease in and on them. We could deal with the mutants; we could even feel sorry for those poor grotesque creatures. But we could not deal with millions upon millions of rats. When we saw we were to be overrun by them, we worked feverishly in setting up this station. The mutants are hideous things to witness; but who do we blame for them? Ourselves, of course. Gerard, the scientist, said he believes the rats will soon die out—they are infected from within. He says. For me, it is too late. They have found a way in. I am putting a bullet in my brain. Better than facing them crawling all over me, gnawing at my flesh. Good-bye.”
After a few seconds, the tape began repeating.
“Record both those tapes,” Ben told the operator. “Make copies of them and save them. The world will want to know—hundreds of years from now.” I hope, he silently added.
“Mutants, General?” someone asked from the crowd in or outside the small communications shack.
“That’s what the man said,” Ben told them. “And, like he said, it should come as no surprise. Most of you people forty or older were raised on horror movies. Most of us have read the scientists’ opinions about what could happen to the human race after a global nuclear war; add to that the germ warheads that bombarded the countries of the world. All right, now we’ve got it to face and whip it, so we can go on living and producing and rebuilding a modern society.
“We are not alone—we’ve seen that, many of us. More pockets of survivors will surface as the weeks and months pass and the plague fades and finally dies. And we are going to rebuild. Bet on it.”
He pushed his way out of the building and faced the crowd.
“Get busy,” he ordered them. “We haven’t got
time for lollygagging about. There are gardens to be planted; fields to be plowed and planted; electricity to be restored; homes to be sprayed and repaired. There is a lot to be done, so let’s do it. We’ll deal with boogymen if and when we are confronted by them. And I hope I have made myself clear on the subject.”
* * *
May drifted lazily into June and the fifty-eight hundred men, women, and children that now called this part of the country home, began to drift into the areas they had picked to occupy.
Much of this country had not been lived in—by humans—for twelve years, and it does not take nature long to reclaim what is naturally hers. Vegetation now covered many county and parish roads, and vine-like creepers enveloped many nice homes.
Huge truck patches were started, for home-canning later on. Fields were broken, plowed, and cotton and corn and wheat planted.
And life took on some degree of normalcy.
And as before, Ben watched and guided and oversaw each operation. He told Steve Mailer and Judith Sparkman to get the schools open and get the kids in classrooms. He wanted schools to be ready to go by September, and don’t give him any excuses why it couldn’t be done. Just do it. Beginning with this school year, 2000/2001, a high school education would be the minimum allowed. Read. And make it enjoyable for the kids.
Classrooms would not be filled to overflowing; the children would be given all the attention they needed. Books would be in every home. Every home. And they will be used. This upcoming generation will be the make-or-break generation for the future of this nation. Do it right. Teach values and ethics and honesty.
And teach the kids to love reading.
That can be done if you use patience and go slowly. And we are in no hurry. Remember this: do it right the first time, and you’ll never need to do it over.
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