Hatred in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  “I still don’t believe you seen anything. You seen a cow, was what you seen.”

  “Fuck you, Billy.”

  “If I was to let you, I can guar-un-damn-tee you’d never go back to girls!”

  “Horseshit!”

  Ben could now see the two men moving toward him as they laughed and talked about women. Both of them were carrying M-16’s. Ben smiled at that.

  “Harris said he heard on the shortwave that there was about to be another civil war in America.”

  “Between who?” Billy asked.

  “Ben Raines and his Rebels is about to face off with the federal government, so Harris said.”

  “I hope so. I hope somebody finally kills that damn Ben Raines and nails his stinkin’ body up on a wall and takes pictures of it so’s we can all see it. I’d like to use it for target practice. I purely hate that son of a bitch.”

  “I got my reasons to hate that bastard as much as you do.”

  Ben stood up, the CAR set on full auto. “Now what did I ever do to you boys?”

  “Shit!” Billy hollered. He lifted his M-16 and Ben shot him, the burst of 5.56 rounds taking him in the belly and chest and knocking him back. He landed on his side in the brush and jerked his legs as the pain enveloped him. It took only a few seconds for the agony of his wounds to intensify, and Billy howled in pain. “Oh, goddamn you, it hurts, it hurts!”

  Sonny dropped his weapon and lifted his hands into the air. “Don’t shoot!” he hollered. “I quit. Jesus Christ, man. Please don’t shoot me. I ain’t done you no harm.”

  “Help me, help me!” Billy screamed. “I don’t want to die. Help me.”

  “I’ve always heard that a little pain is good for the soul,” Ben said.

  “Fuck you!” Billy screamed.

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” Ben said with a frown. “You are definitely not my type.”

  “Good God!” Sonny squalled. “You’re Ben Raines!”

  “How very astute of you,” Ben said.

  “Haw?” Sonny asked.

  “You are correct. I am.”

  “What are you gonna do with me? I ain’t done you no harm, Ben Raines.”

  “I don’t know. Turn you loose, probably. That is, if you behave yourself.”

  “I can’t hardly do nothin’ else. You got the drop on me, for sure.”

  Ben smiled. “Yes, I do. Now then, you take off your ammo belt and toss it over to me. Carefully, now.”

  Sonny removed his makeshift battle harness and tossed it to Ben.

  “Very good,” Ben told him. “Now take off your friend’s ammo belt and toss it over here.”

  “It’s all bloody!”

  “Do it, damnit!”

  “Yessir, yessir. OK. Don’t get all pissed off.” Sonny gingerly removed Billy’s belt, which contained a half dozen magazine pouches, and tossed it over to Ben. Sonny wiped his bloody hands on his dirty jeans and stood looking at Ben.

  Billy had ceased his moaning and thrashing about. He was either dead or unconscious. Dead, Ben hoped. That would certainly simplify matters.

  “Where’s your vehicle, and what’s wrong with it?” Ben asked.

  “Parked right down yonder,” Sonny said, carefully pointing. “Behind that old grocery store. I don’t know what’s wrong with it. It just quit runnin’. Bad gas, I think. It got to sputterin’ and buckin’ and stallin’, and then just stopped cold. If you ain’t gonna kill me, why would you just turn me a-loose?”

  “You’re not going to be able to do me much damage. You’re a long way from your camp.”

  “Shore am. The headquarters is a good twenty miles south down to Mar . . .” Sonny realized that Ben had tricked him, and abruptly closed his mouth. He gave Ben a very dirty look.

  “Marfa, huh? Well, it’s a nice little town. I remember going through there a couple of times.”

  “Yeah? Well, it ain’t very nice no more. It’s all junked up real bad.”

  “How many men does this Harris person have, Sonny?”

  Sonny hesitated.

  “You want to live, Sonny?” Ben asked, raising the muzzle of his CAR.

  “Whoa! Shore, I want to live. I was just doin’ some head figurin’, that’s all it was. I ain’t real good at figurin’. The big war come when I was in grade school, and I ain’t got much in the way of schoolin’.”

  “What happened to your parents?”

  “The gas got ’um. I run all the way home and they was dead on the floor.”

  Ben was about to feel a bit sorry for the man. “You were on your own after that?”

  “Naw. My grandparents took me in. Damned old bastard and bitch.” Ben’s moment of sympathy began to wane. “They made me work in the garden and gather eggs from the henhouse, and all that other funky farm shit.”

  Sonny paused and Ben asked, “So? It was a hard time after the collapse . . . all over the world. Still is. People had to work. You got enough to eat, didn’t you?”

  “I reckon so.”

  “Your grandparents died?”

  “You could say that. I set the house on fire one night. They made me mad’s, why I done it. I didn’t know they was gonna burn up in it . . . but they did. Tough break for them. But hell, they was old. And real crotchety, too.”

  Ben lost all vestiges of sympathy for the dickhead standing in front of him. “I can tell you’re all broken up about it.”

  “Yeah? Well, she was a good cook, but still a bossy ole’ bitch. I couldn’t do nothin’ to please her.”

  “What a sad story. Poor, poor you. Almost brings a tear to my eye.”

  Sonny realized then that Ben was being sarcastic. “You go right straight to hell, Raines! I ain’t tellin’ you nothin’ else, you bastard!”

  “I really don’t need any more from you, Sonny. Now move out. Take me to where your buggy quit.”

  “What about Billy?”

  “He’s dead. Move.”

  Sonny glanced down at his friend. “Huh? He is, is he? Well, he wasn’t much, no way.”

  “Your grief is touching.”

  “Yeah? Well, what the hell do you want me to say? He’s dead, he’s gone, he won’t be back, not now, not ever no more. That’s it. Me and him was pals, sort of. But we sure as shit wasn’t butt-fuckin’ each other.”

  “I certainly hope not.” Ben’s reply was given very, very drily. “Pick up the ammo belts and move.”

  “I ain’t no queer, General. I like women.”

  “Fine, Sonny. Move.”

  Ben slung the two M-16’s, and they started out. As they walked toward the far end of town, Ben pondered the situation. He couldn’t understand how the two gang members had gotten into the town without his noticing them, or hearing the noisy dune buggy. “You boys sure must have your buggy mufflered down to a whisper.”

  “We do, General. It runs as quiet as a grave. When the damn thing does run, that is. Me and Billy didn’t like them loud straight pipes. Most of the others do, though.” They walked on for a few hundred more yards. Sonny pointed. “It’s right over yonder, see it?”

  Ben spotted the buggy parked behind a gutted old store. “Keys in it?”

  “Sure. We didn’t figure there was no one gonna steal it. Hell, it won’t run.”

  “Good point,” Ben muttered, walking over to the buggy, Sonny ahead of him. “Battery up?”

  “Sure is. That’s a good battery.”

  “Get it running and I’ll give you a canteen of water and some food, and you can hoof it back to your gang.”

  Sonny stared at him for a moment. “You really mean that, General?”

  “I said it, didn’t I?”

  “You got a deal. But I ain’t promisin’ nothin’. It’s bad gas, I’m sure.”

  Ben pointed to the three five gallon gas cans secured to the rear of the buggy. “What’s wrong with that gas?”

  “Nothing, I don’t reckon. But we got it all from the same storage tank.”

  Ben looked at the engine. It was old type, without all the co
mputer panels of the newer model engines. “Take the breather off and pour some gas into the carburetor. See if that will do the trick.”

  Sonny worked for over an hour, finally removing the fuel line and blowing it out. It was filled with trash. The line was reinstalled, and the engine cranked up and ran smoothly.

  Ben pointed toward the cargo space. “Take one of your canteens and a food packet and start walking, Sonny. And Sonny?”

  He looked at Ben. “Yes, sir?”

  “If I ever see you again and you’re running with a gang, I’ll kill you. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir. I sure do. What about Billy?”

  “You want to dig a hole for him?”

  “I reckon not.”

  “Then take off and don’t look back.”

  Sonny didn’t stick around for any further conversation after that. He took his newfound freedom and a canteen of water and a food packet and started hoofing it quickly away from Ben Raines, heading south, following the old road. Ben stood by the idling buggy and watched him until he was no more than a tiny dot in the distance. Then he began inspecting the cargo area of the dune buggy.

  Several full canteens of water. Ben would empty and wash out the canteens, then refill them with fresh water and purification tabs. Several packets of food, which Ben looked at dubiously. He would eat the contents only if he was very, very hungry . . . like starving.

  With the addition of Billy and Sonny’s weapons and ammo belts, and the scattered boxes of military ammo in the cargo area of the buggy, Ben was well supplied. Enough weapons and ammo to start his own private war . . . which was what he had in mind.

  What the punks didn’t know—no one knew it outside of the Rebels—was that there were hundreds of underground storage facilities all over what was once called the United States . . . some very small with only food and water, others huge with fuel tanks. They were always masterfully concealed in the most unlikely places.

  There was a well-stocked storage vault near Alpine, with fuel and food and water and clothing and weapons and medical supplies. That just might be where Ben’s team had headed. Ben would go there and stock up. He hoped that’s where Anna and the others had gone.

  Ben didn’t trust Sonny boy, not one little bit, so just in case Sonny had concealed himself along the highway, waiting to see what direction Ben took when he left, Ben headed north on Old Highway 17 when he pulled out. He drove for a few miles, then pulled over and waited for about fifteen minutes before heading back south. He found a road, of sorts, that led him to Highway 118, and he headed for Alpine, about thirty miles away.

  Ben smiled as he drove along. There was only one little hitch about the underground storage facility: Ben couldn’t remember exactly where it was.

  He knew approximately, but not exactly. Oh, well, he thought, I’ll find it. I hope.

  He hoped his team had reached the storage site and were waiting for him in the town, provided the town was not filled to overflowing with punks—which it probably was.

  Well, he’d deal with that problem when he came to it. He checked his watch. That would be in about fifteen minutes.

  Ben laid his 9mm on the seat beside him. He had no idea what he would be facing when he reached the town.

  But he would be as ready as he could when trouble came.

  Six

  Ben pulled off the highway about a half mile from town—off the short bypass—and tucked the buggy behind what was left of a frame home. The front porch had collapsed and most of the roof was missing. Part of one side of the barn was still standing; the rest of the structure had fallen in.

  Ben had decided he would wait until dark before checking out the town . . . what was left of it.

  He sat on the ground in the shade of the ruined home and ate out of a ration pack and sipped water. The hard landing and the bouncing and bruising from being dragged on the ground earlier that day was beginning to tell on him. He ached all over. Ben took a couple of aspirin from his tiny first aid kit, and then wished he had a cup of hot coffee. That luxury would have to wait for a while. He rolled a cigarette and smoked and waited for the sun to set.

  Ben heard no sounds of vehicles as he waited. A few birds were singing, and once he caught a glimpse of a lone coyote trotting across the field behind the barn. Other than that, he heard no sounds of life.

  As the physical pounding he’d taken finally caught up with him, Ben dozed for a time. He awakened just as the sun was beginning to set, and just to be on the safe side, he took the keys out of the dune buggy. He stood up and stretched several times, getting the kinks out of his joints and muscles. His cuts were minor, and he had put iodine on them—all he could do for the time being. He stood and sniffed the air. A light, hot breeze was blowing from the direction of the town, but he could detect no odor of wood smoke. Again he wondered if the town were deserted. All indications were that it was.

  “Well, time to find out one way or the other,” Ben muttered. He picked up his CAR and headed out just as dusk was wrapping a dark, silent, and very warm cloak over the land.

  Ben worked his way slowly toward the town. He did not encounter or hear any dogs as he walked, and he thought that very strange. Once he heard the deadly buzz of a rattlesnake off to his left and quickly changed his direction, giving the snake a wide berth.

  “It’s all yours, Mister Rattler,” Ben muttered into the gathering evening. “You’ll get no argument from me.”

  The town was dark when Ben reached the first street. Not a lamplight or candlelight was showing anywhere. And not a sound reached Ben’s ears. He looked up at the faint outline of the buildings of Sul Ross University and wondered how much of it was left. How much valuable knowledge had been destroyed by punk assholes?

  He walked on, first cautiously standing outside and listening and then carefully inspecting the interior of each home on the first block with the tiny beam from his small flashlight. He found nothing to indicate that anything human had inhabitated the buildings in a long time.

  “Why did the punks abandon this town?” he questioned softly. Then the answer came to him: Water. More to the point, the lack of it.

  Ben recalled doing some research years back, and remembered that this area drew water from very deep wells. It took powerful pumps to bring it up. When the pumps quit working, the punks hadn’t had enough know-how to maintain and fix them. So the town was abandoned.

  Ben prowled around for another few minutes, then returned to the house on the edge of the town. He would get a good night’s sleep and inspect the town more carefully and locate the cache of emergency supplies in the morning. Then he would make plans about what to do next.

  He knew he had to prowl around and find an old road map so he wouldn’t be blundering around and getting lost on the back roads. This county, he remembered, was the largest in Texas. It was bigger than the state of Connecticut.

  Ben walked right down the center of the highway back to his buggy. He took two more aspirin, a good slug of water, wrapped up in an old smelly blanket from the cargo area (he hoped it wasn’t filled with fleas and lice), sat down in the front seat, and promptly went to sleep.

  The sounds of engines brought him awake just after dawn. He was stiff from sleeping in the front seat, and sore from the battering his body had taken the day before, but he came wide awake instantly and was alert, reaching for his CAR.

  Ben guessed there were two dune buggies, maybe three, no more than that. The buggies did not stop at the old ramshackle home where Ben was parked in the rear. They cruised on slowly by and headed into town.

  Ben got stiffly out of the buggy and stretched a couple of times, then did a few deep knee bends and duck-walked around the buggy to warm up and loosen his muscles. When his morning toilet was done, he took up position inside the house—in the front room, facing the highway. He did not want any shooting . . . not now. He wanted to gear up from the emergency cache before facing any real trouble.

  His breakfast was a packet of crackers, a high-energy bar, and
a few sips of water. He waited and watched and listened. The minutes ticked past.

  He heard the sounds of the returning buggies and tensed, the CAR ready to bark. His worry was unnecessary. The three dune buggies, two men to a vehicle, rolled on past and picked up speed, finally roaring out of sight.

  Ben relaxed and exhaled, then got to his feet and walked out the rear of the house. He squatted down by his buggy and rolled a smoke, enjoying his first smoke of the day but wishing mightily he had a great big cup of hot coffee to go with it.

  He knew there was coffee cached with the other emergency gear nearby . . . if he could just find the damn bunker.

  Ben slowly relaxed and smoked his cigarette. He ate another high-energy bar and chased it down with sips of water. Ben waited a few more minutes, then cranked the dune buggy and headed into town. As he drove he wondered what had happened to all the dogs and cats. Without a supply of water they would leave, of course. He hoped they all made it to fresh water . . . then pushed the alternative out of his mind.

  Ben drove the town for a few minutes then headed out to the small airport and the cache of the much needed emergency supplies—if he could find them. He sure as hell planned to give that search his best shot.

  The local airport was a mess: junked cars and trucks littered the runway, and the few buildings had been looted and gutted many times by vandals.

  Ben knew the emergency cache was located at the airport. That was where the Rebels placed them whenever possible. Ben had briefly glanced at the list of emergency supply bunker locations in West Texas before pulling out, and had noted that the bunker in Alpine was located at the airport, just off the main hangar. The problem was . . . the hangar was gone.

  Ben started looking around for the concrete slab where the hangar used to be. It should be located off to one side, dug out inside a smaller building, and then carefully covered with timbers and plywood and earth, or with plywood and tile over the timbers.

  He hunted for several minutes before locating several slabs, all of them about the same size. “Oh, wonderful,” he said. “This is just great.”