Fire in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  “No,” she whispered.

  Hartline touched the cattle prod to Victor's bare arm and activated it. The young man jerked in the chair and yelled in pain.

  “Don't do it, sis! I can stand it."

  Hartline laughed and touched the prod to Victor's penis. The young man screamed in agony, his jerking toppling over the chair.

  “All right,” Rebecca said. “Don't hurt him anymore. I'll do what you say."

  “That's a dear girl,” the mercenary smiled.

  As Rebecca disrobed, the mercenary walked in circles around her, commenting on her figure: the slender shapeliness of her legs as she peeled off her jeans; the firmness of her breasts; the jutting nipples; and finally the mat of pubic hair.

  Hartline smiled as some of the men whistled. “You see, boys. There are other benefits to be reaped from all this. Or should I say raped?"

  The roomful of men laughed.

  Hartline ran his hands over the girl's flesh, lingering between her legs. He looked over at Victor, now righted in his chair. “The name of your cell leader, young man, for I assure you, game time is all over."

  “Don't tell him, Victor!” Rebecca called. “Our lives mean nothing. We can stand it; we're not worth anything to this beast dead. He won't kill us."

  Hartline smiled. “How astute of you, my dear. Quite right. But sometimes death is preferable to living?"

  She smiled at him.

  “You doubt it? Oh, my dear—how naive you are. I have seen human beings reduced to madmen, every inch of skin stripped from them—and still they lived, praying to die. I have seen ... ah ... I do so hate to be crude ... various objects forced into a man's anus; have you ever seen what happens to a man when a thin, hollow piece of glass is inserted into the penis and then the penis is tapped lightly with a club? The pain is excruciating—so I'm told. But we don't need to go into all that sordid type of truth-seeking, do we, dear?"

  She spat in his face.

  “Oh, my dear,” Hartline said, wiping the spittle from his cheeks. “Now you've made me angry.” He looked at Victor. “One more time, Vic-baby: the name of your cell leader."

  Victor shook his head.

  Hartline looked back at the young woman.

  “I'll never tell you,” she said.

  Hartline leaned his head down and kissed one nipple, running his tongue around the nipple, thoroughly wetting it. He straightened up and placed the cattle prod on Rebecca's breast. “One of you will,” he said.

  * * * *

  “What are we to do?” Senator Carson asked President Addison. “This nation cannot endure a civil war."

  “I don't know, Bill,” Aston said, drumming his fingertips on his desk. “It's a personal thing between Cody and Raines. Cody's brother was killed in Tri-States. How much support do I really have, Bill?"

  The old senator sighed. He had been in the Senate longer than any man still alive: since 1960, sliding in on Jack Kennedy's bandwagon. He had seen much, this old aging liberal. Back during the bombings, and immediately thereafter, he had been presumed dead. But he had been vacationing in the mountains of North Carolina when the rumors of war had first surfaced. He had elected not to return to Washington when he learned of the military's taking control of the nation just hours before the nuclear and germ warfare blew the world apart.

  “Damn little,” Carson finally replied. “I have never, in all my years serving the people, seen such a drastic shift in the feelings of my colleagues. I ... can't get through to them that we cannot—must not — allow this to erupt into a civil war. They just won't listen."

  “I'll give you odds Weston Lowry has something to do with it."

  “No takers, Aston. I see his fine devious hand all over this. I warned you, Aston; I urged you not to pick that bastard."

  Aston shrugged. “I had to do something to placate the law-and-order boys,” he explained. “Hell, Bill, you know that.” He met the older man's level gaze. “They really have the votes—in both houses?"

  “Yes."

  “It's going to be bloody and awful."

  “Yes."

  “Who is Sam Hartline?"

  * * * *

  “Sam Hartline is a goddamned psychopath,” Cecil Jefferys told Ike and Ben. “And one hardline nigger-hater. He was with Jeb Fargo outside Chicago back in ‘88 and ‘89."

  * * * *

  The day before Ben first met Cecil and Salina, he had visited his brother in a suburb of Chicago. What he had seen shocked and appalled him. Ben could not believe the change in his older brother.

  He had been stopped at a roadblock, refused entrance into the suburbs. “You gotta stay and fight with us,” a man told him.

  “What?” Ben asked.

  “We're gonna wipe those damned niggers out,” the man told him. “Once and for all. Then we can rebuild a decent society."

  Ben didn't believe what he was hearing. Ben Raines was anything but a screaming liberal, but he knew there was good and bad among all races. He let the man rave on until he was finally allowed to see his brother. He could not believe the change in Carl Raines. He had argued with Carl, trying to reason with him, to get him to leave—get his family and come with Ben.

  “No way,” Carl told him. “I'm stayin’ here and protectin’ my home."

  “Your home!” Ben had yelled. “Hell, Carl, there are millions of homes standing empty across the nation. Take your choice. Live in the governor's mansion if you like."

  “Be niggers in there, eatin’ fried chicken and doin’ the funky-humpy in the governor's office."

  Ben had argued on, attempting to change his brother's mind, until a voice from behind him ended it.

  “Why don't you just carry your Jew-lovin', nigger-lovin’ ass on away from here?"

  He wore the uniform of a Nazi storm-trooper. A swastika on his sleeve. Jeb Fargo.

  The crowd gathering was hostile.

  Ben and his brother did not shake hands before Ben left, pushing his way through the crowd.

  * * * *

  “Sam came after my time in Africa,” Ben said. “But I kept up with events over there; guys writing me every now and then. I've heard of him. He's an expert at torture. I can't believe Addison is going along with this."

  “He isn't,” Cecil said. “Word we're getting is a power play in Richmond. Lowry wants the White House all to himself."

  “Where does the military stand?” Ben asked.

  * * * *

  “My troops are split,” General Rimel of the Air Force spoke to his counterparts of the other services. “But it isn't an equal balance. I think ... perhaps a third of my men would actively wage war against Raines and his Rebels."

  “It galls my balls to say it,” General Franklin of the Marine Corps said, “but that's about the percentage of my men, too."

  “Same here,” General Preston of the Army said.

  “Yeah,” Admiral Calland of the Navy agreed.

  “So are we out of it?” Rimel asked.

  “Except for selected units, yes, I would say so,” Franklin said. “But about a hundred of Cody's men are meeting with Sam Hartline down in a deserted town on the Tennessee border right now."

  “Hartline?” Preston said. “The mercenary?"

  “One and the same."

  “How many men does Hartline have?"

  “Several thousand, and they're all experienced fighters."

  Calland was thoughtful for a moment. “How many personnel in Raines's command?"

  “The Rebels probably can field no more than three or four thousand fighters at any given time,” Preston told him. “Our intelligence reports just over a battalion in each of the four sections of the nation. He's got General Krigel in the east; Major Conger in the mid-north; Colonel Ramos in the south-west; General Bill Hazen in the mid-west. But he's got small units all over the goddamned place. And if Cody and Hartline move directly against the people, Raines will declare a full-scale civil war."

  “And he'll use guerrilla tactics, too,” Franklin spoke.
<
br />   “Damn right, he will. Raines was a Hell Hound, trained by Adams and Dean."

  “And he's still got Ike McGowen with him. Medal of Honor-winner. ex-SEAL,” Admiral Calland said respectfully.

  “Well, gentlemen,” General Rimel said, “you all know where I stood on invading Tri-States. I was opposed to it. Now, I—none of us—can directly come out and disobey a Presidential order, or an order from the Congress of the United States. If we do that, we're taking sides.” He spread his hands in a gesture of “what next, boys?"

  “I suggest we speak—very quietly—with our field commanders,” Preston said. “Base CGs and admirals. All conversations private and scrambled; nose to nose if at all possible. I also would suggest, after we've done that, that we get word to Raines telling him how many of us are out of this thing."

  “Damn!” General Franklin said. “I hate even the idea of that."

  “Well,” Preston smiled, needling the Marine, “we never promised you a rose garden."

  “Oh, goddamn, Jerry!” Franklin groaned.

  * * * *

  Victor watched as the fifth man mounted his sister as if she were a dog. He tried to push her screaming from his head. He could not. “All right,” the young man said weakly. “Get away from her. I'll tell you what you want to know."

  The man pulled himself from the young woman and wiped his penis. “Gettin’ kinda sloppy anyway,” he said. “She's bleedin’ from the ass."

  “Get a doctor to see her,” Hartline ordered one of his men. “Immediately. I want the people to know if they cooperate with me, I will be fair with them."

  Rebecca was carried from the room.

  Hartline knelt by Victor's chair. “Now, young man, give me a name."

  Late that night, a man's front door was kicked in and the man dragged from his bed. He was taken to an old National Guard Camp in Central Virginia, temporary billeting for Sam Hartline's mercenaries.

  The man was taken to an office and tossed on the floor. When he looked up, Sam Hartline was standing over him. The mercenary was smiling.

  “Mr. Samuelson,” Hartline said. “You have a lot of knowledge I wish you to share with me."

  “No way,” Samuelson said.

  The mercenary's smile widened. “Why, Mr. Samuelson, surely you don't mean that."

  “I mean it."

  “Before you make such rash statements, sir,” Hartline said, “perhaps you should speak with your daughter, Ruth. You see, sir, she is ... ah ... shall we say, busy entertaining some of my men just down the hall."

  “I don't believe you,” Samuelson said.

  Samuelson was jerked to his feet and pulled and dragged down the hall. Hartline stood smiling before a closed door.

  “Believe, Mr. Samuelson,” he said. “Believe.” He pushed open the door.

  Three

  Spring drifted slowly and softly into early summer. A strange peace lay over the country; but both sides knew it was a prelude before violence. A quiet before the nation erupted into civil war.

  One eastern-based cell had been destroyed. Samuelson and his daughter Ruth were being held under tight security at the base Hartline used for training purposes. Samuelson had been wrung dry of all useful information. The man was only a shadow of his former self. He had been broken both physically and mentally. His daughter, Ruth, had been sexually abused with such frequency she had broken mentally and was past any point of saving. She sat in her cell and sang children's songs. She had pulled all the hair from her head.

  On June 1, 1999, a semi-military court, made up of military men and women loyal to Cody and Lowry, Hartline mercenaries, and two extremely frightened citizens from a local town, sentenced Samuelson and his daughter to hanging for high treason against the government of the United States.

  The trial lasted twenty minutes. Father and daughter were hanged the following morning, at dawn.

  In Washington, President Addison sat in his private quarters with Senator Carson. The old senator from Vermont, usually quite eloquent, was decidedly coarse when he finally spoke.

  “The shit is about to hit the fan, Aston."

  “And there isn't a goddamned thing any of us can do about it."

  “True."

  “I'm really just a figurehead, aren't I, Bill?"

  “That's about what it comes down to, yes."

  “I have given serious thought to resigning."

  “Don't. I have this hope that after a few weeks or months, when my colleagues see how bloody and awful and needless this war is they'll come to their senses and turn against Cody and Lowry. If that happens, we'll need you in the White House."

  The president shook his head. “It won't happen, Billy. You're dreaming. I see things much clearer now. Logan was grooming Lowry all along; but kept him in the background deliberately. I'm remembering things now that I considered minor and unimportant when they occurred."

  “Oh?"

  “Yes. I'm remembering all the times Hilton met with Lowry. I know Dallas Valentine was having an affair with Logan's wife, Fran, but now that I look back, I believe Lowry was, too."

  “The lady certainly stayed busy, didn't she?” Carson said dryly.

  “Quite. I'm recalling some inner-office about Lowry being the man in the shadows, so to speak; about him actually being the brains behind Hilton Logan all the time. Sure. Jeb Fargo was run out of Mississippi and settled in Georgia—just outside of Atlanta.” Aston smiled. “Where is Lowry from, Bill?"

  The old man stirred in his chair. “Georgia. Smyrna, I believe. You're putting it all together, Aston."

  “Finally. And far too late."

  “Maybe not. This may be all I need to convince enough people in both houses of a power play."

  “Providing they are not involved in it."

  “Unfortunately, I have thought of that, also."

  “And your conclusion?"

  “I think some are involved. How many ...?” He shrugged his shoulders.

  “That father and daughter who were hanged this morning. Samuelson. Gruesome business. I wonder what Raines's thinking is on the matter?"

  * * * *

  Ben was once more a hundred percent physically. And at that moment, he was one hundred percent angry. Not a hot raging anger, but a cold deadly one. He stopped his restless pacing and turned to Ike. The ex-SEAL was sitting patiently in the squad tent, a CAR-15 across his lap.

  “We've got to start all over again, ol’ buddy,” Ben said.

  “True.” Ike waited. When Ben didn't immediately speak, Ike said, “You're not blaming Samuelson and his kid?"

  “Oh, hell, no, Ike! There isn't a man or woman in this world that wouldn't break under the right kind of torture. No, I'm not blaming them. I'm just sick that it happened."

  “Twelve cells smashed. More than two hundred people taken,” Cecil said. “It makes me physically ill to imagine what is happening to those people at this time."

  “I try not to think about it,” Doctor Chase said. He glanced at Ben. “Are you going to retaliate, Ben?"

  Ben was slow in replying. Chase was about to repeat the question when Ben said, “Yes ... I am. But not in the manner that is expected of us."

  “Arm the people?” Cecil said.

  “Yes, but there again, we're going to move slowly. I spent a sleepless night last night. I've thought it out carefully, and my mind is made up."

  The men waited for Ben to give the order to start the killing.

  “Cody and Hartline are going to be very disappointed in the Rebel movement for the next six months to a year, I'm thinking.” Ben smiled at the startled and puzzled looks on the faces of the men. “We are going to rebuild—from the ground up. We are going to reopen old training bases in the mountains and the deserts; we are going to stockpile and train and we are going to keep our heads down low; so low if we got any lower our buttons would be in the way."

  Ben began his restless pacing. It was his habit when deep in excited thought. “One year from this date, gentlemen, we are going to strike
. We are going to hit so hard, and in so many places, with such force, we are going to knock the pins right out from under Cody, Hartline, and the members of Congress who support them. On June 2, 2000, we are going to take this government and give it back to the people.” He smiled. “At least take the first step, that is.

  “Ike, get on the horn and get our field commanders ready to receive. I want the message coded and scrambled. Tell them there will not be one incidence of revenge or retaliation for the hanging of Samuelson and his daughter or for the breaking up of the cells. Not until I give the word. Any Rebel who disobeys this order will be subject to court-martial, and I will personally shoot that person.

  “One year, gentlemen. One year. When civilization takes its first struggling steps into the year 2000, that is when we strike."

  The meeting was over.

  Outside the tent, out of earshot, Cecil said, “I thought Tri-States’ undertaking was a mammoth operation. But Ben's about to start taking some giant steps, Ike."

  Before Ike could reply, Doctor Chase said, “Well, boys, I'll say this for the crazy goddamn gun soldier: if anyone can do it, he can."

  * * * *

  By mid-summer of 1999, the survivors of the bombings of 1988 came full-face with hard reality: America was in the grip of a police state.

  All police were federalized; they could cross city limits, lines, county lines, state lines. The Federal Bureau of Investigation seemed to change overnight, turning into an organization of frightening proportions. Some citizens compared the new FBI to Nazi Germany's Gestapo of years past.

  One word against the government in Richmond would bring the police or the FBI thundering to a person's door. No warrant needed; no knock required.

  The Big Eye and the Big Ear seemed to be everywhere. No one knew whom to trust. The government would pay handsomely for information of citizens disloyal to the government. An informant would get extra rations of meat and sugar and gas and clothing.

  Shortly after the worldwide bombings of 1988, when Hilton Logan was installed as president of the United States, the government began its program of collecting all handguns and high-powered rifles and the relocating of citizens. Logan settled as much of the east coast as could be, avoiding the “hot areas,” filled with deadly radiation. As a result, many states, especially those states not a part of the bread-basket region, were practically void of human life.