Fire in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  * * * *

  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.

  His people followed his directions to the letter. But Ben sensed and saw something was gone from the spirit of the survivors. Not all of them, to be sure, but enough of them to worry him. It was not that they were openly rebellious to his wishes; none of them would even dream of doing that. It was much more subtle.

  A slight dragging of feet in some areas. Especially education and religion. The former worried him; the latter disturbed him.

  He decided he was perhaps pushing them too hard, and Ben eased off. He would let the people find their own way, set their own pace.

  But he knew in his guts what the outcome would be. And he made up his mind that when he witnessed it in any tangible form, he was leaving. He would take no part in the downfall of civilization.

  * * * *

  One by one the frequencies on the radios of the Rebels went dead. It appeared—although most knew it was not so—that they were the last humans on earth.


  Ben had stepped into the communications shack and was idly spinning the dial when a voice sprang from the speakers.

  “It appears to be over,” the male voice sprang somewhat muffled from the speakers on the wall. “At least in this area. Thank God. So far as I know, we are the only ones left alive at this base. Five of us. We barricaded ourselves in a concrete block building that was once used to house some type of radioactive materials, I guess. Anyway, the rats and those other things couldn't get at us. But we had to use the gas masks when we came out. The stench is horrible. There must be millions of dead rats rotting in the sun. I don't know what killed them.

  “I was afraid of fleas getting on us, so I had my men put on radiation suits. But the fleas are dead, too. Little bastards crunch under your feet. And the rats?—God! It's like they did what those ... what are the animals that get together and march to the sea every so often? Lemmings. Yeah, that's it. Seems like every rat in the state of Texas is right outside our door. But at least, by God, they're dead. I've tried contacting every base I know of. No luck. Anybody out there?"

  Ben and his people waited. Someone many thousands of miles away, or with very weak equipment responded. The words were not understandable.

  “Say again, buddy,” the Texas man asked. “I can't understand you."

  But there was no response.

  “Get him on the horn,” Ben told the radio operator.

  “President Raines?” the Texas man said, startled.

  “Ex-president,” Ben said. “What do you know about the situation in this nation worldwide?"

  “Sir? If this is General Raines, the Rebels, man, I'm on your side. Always have been. I drew thirty-days stockade time last year for refusing to divulge your frequency location when I stumbled on it one night. You were ... 38.7, I believe, coming out of Montana."

  Ben laughed. “Okay, soldier, I believe you. What's your name?"

  “Sergeant Buck Osgood, sir. Air Force."

  “You have any casualty reports, Buck?"

  “Sir, this base was untouched until ‘bout a month ago. We all had the proper medicines when it first broke last year, late. I don't know what happened; why the medicines stopped working. Maybe they wore off. I don't know. What I do know is there ain't anybody left. Nobody is responding to my calls. We been in this concrete block building for over a week, going from one frequency to another, tryin’ every base. Nothing. It's got to be bad, sir. My guys are gettin’ edgy."

  “All right, Buck. Here's what I want you boys to do..."

  After instructing Buck and his men where the Rebels were, and to come on, Ben walked out of the shack and toward a stand of very thick timber. He wanted to think; wanted to be alone for a time. More and more of late, since leaving Idaho, he had sought solitude.

  A young woman's screaming jerked his head up. Ben sprinted for the timber, toward the source of the frightened screaming.

  He reached the edge of the timber and came to a sliding stop, his mouth open in shock.

  It was a man. But like no man Ben had ever seen. It was huge, with mottled skin and huge clawed hands. The shoulders and arms were monstrously powerful-appearing. The eyes and nose were human, the jaw was animal. The ears were perfectly formed human. The teeth were fanged, the lips were human. The eyes were blue.

  Ben was behind the hysterical young woman—about fourteen years old—the child of a Rebel couple. She was between Ben and the ... whatever in the hell it was.

  The creature towered over the girl. Ben guessed it to be about seven feet tall.

  Ben clawed his .45 from leather just as the creature lunged for the girl. She was very quick, fear making her strong and agile. Ben got off one quick shot, the big slug hitting the mutant in the shoulder. It screamed in pain and spun around, facing Ben. Ben guessed the thing weighed around 300 pounds. All mad.

  Ben emptied his pistol into the manlike creature, staggering it, but not downing it. The girl, now frightened mindless, ran into its path. Ben picked up a rock and hurled it, hitting the beast (Ben didn't know what else to call it) in the head, again making it forget the girl. It spun and screamed at Ben. Its chest and belly were leaking blood. Blood poured from the wound in its shoulder.

  Ben sidestepped the clumsy charge and pulled his Bowie knife from its sheath. With the creature's back momentarily to him, Ben jumped up on a stump for leverage and brought the heavy blade down as hard as he could on the creature's head. The blade ripped through skull bone and brain, driving the beast to its knees, dying. Ben worked the blade out and, using both hands, brought the blade down on the back of the creature's head, decapitating it. The ugly, deformed head rolled on the grass, its eyes wide-open in shocked death.

  Ben wiped the Bowie clean on the grass and replaced it in leather. He walked to the young woman and put his arms around her.

  “It's all over now, honey,” he said, calming her, patting her on the shoulder. “It's all right, now. You go on and find your mother."

  A young boy stood a distance away, holding hands with his sister. Both of them were open-mouthed in awe. “Wow!” he said. “He is a god. He can't be killed."

  “He fought a giant and beat it,” his sister said. “Just wait ‘til I tell Cindy over in Dog Company about this."

  By now, many Rebels had gathered around. They stood in silence, looking at the beast with some fear in their eyes; looking at Ben with a mixture of awe and fear and respect and reverence.

  Ben looked at the silent gathering crowd. “You see,” he told them. “Your boogyman can be killed. Just be careful, travel in pairs, and go armed.” He smiled faintly. “Just like should have been ordered in New York's Central Park thirty years ago."

  A few of the older Rebels laughed dutifully. The younger ones did not have any idea what Ben was talking about.

  “Go on back to your duties,” Ben ordered.

  The crowd slowly broke up, the men and women and kids talking quietly—all of them speaking in low hushed tones about Ben.

  “...maybe it's true."

  “...heard my kids talking the other day. Now I tend to agree with them."

  “...mortal could not have done that, you know?"

  “ ... calm about it."

  “Gods don't get scared."

  Ben heard none of it.

  Ike stepped up to Ben, a funny look in his eyes. He had overheard some of the comments from the Rebels. “Are you all right, partner?"

  “I'm fine, Ike."

  Ike looked at him. His breathing was steady, his hands were calm. Ike looked at the still-quivering man-beast. “I wouldn't have fought that ugly son of a bitch with anything less than a fifty caliber."

  “It had to be done, Ike. Don't make anymore out of it than that."

  Ike's returning gaze was a curious mixture of humor and sadness. He wanted so badly to tell Ben the feelings about him were getting out of hand; something needed to be done about them.

  But he was afraid Ben would pull out and leave for good if he did that.

  Afraid? the word shocked Ike. Me? he thought. Afraid? Yes, he admitted. But it was not a physical fear—it was a fear of who would or could take Ben's place.

  Nobody, he admitted, his eyes searching Ben's face. We're all too tied to him.

  “Don't anybody touch that ugly bastard!” Doctor Chase elbowed and bulled and roared through the dissipating crowd. For a man seventy years of age, Chase was very spry on his feet. “You use that knife on that thing, Ben?” he pointed to Ben's Bowie.

  “Yes, I did. After shooting it seven times,” he added dryly.

  Ike grinned and pointed to Ben. “I thought you were talkin’ about him when you said ‘ugly bastard.’”

  Ben laughed, and the laughter felt good. He had not found much to laugh about lately.

  Chase shook his head. “Boil that blade, Ben. It could be highly infectious."

  “Yes, sir,” Ben said with a grin.

  Chase looked at Ike. “And you see that he does, you web-footed, aquatic redneck."

  �
��There you go again,” the Mississippi-born-and-reared ex-SEAL said. “Always puttin’ down my heritage."

  “Shut up and clear this area,” Chase said.

  Ike walked off, muttering very uncomplimentary remarks about ex-Navy captains. But he cleared the area.

  Ben and Ike remained, watching the doctor and his team of medics work on the mutant. “I want a look at that brain, too,” Chase said. “But God's sake, be careful handling it."

  The next day, Chase dropped the news in Ben's lap. “That human being—and it is more human than animal—is about six years old."

  Ben spilled his coffee all over his table. He rose to his feet. “You have got to be kidding!"

  Ike's eyes widened. He said nothing. Cecil sat and slowly shook his head.

  “No more than eight,” the doctor said. “And that is positive."

  “How ...?” Ben asked.

  “I don't know for sure,” Chase cut him off, anticipating the question. “But I was up most of the night conferring with my people—and I've got some good ones. Here is what we put together:

  “They have intelligence—how much, I do not know. But they are more human than animal. You probably didn't notice when you were fighting it, but the poor creature had covered its privates with a loincloth. That in itself signifies some degree of intelligence; not necessarily enlightenment.

  “Cell tissue, brain, blood, all are more human than animal. It's a mutant. It is not a monster. It is not The Creature from the Black Lagoon, or The Blob. It is a product of radiation.

  “And it was also pregnant."

  Ben and Ike and Cecil sat stunned. Ike finally blurted, “What the hell was it gonna whelp?"

  “What appeared to be a perfectly normal human baby.” He paused. “Until I examined its hands. They were clawed. Its feet were pure animal.

  “All right, gentlemen, as to why. After an all-night conference, we have agreed on this: The mutant beings, and that is what they are, have some degree of intelligence. I would venture to say that some probably have more than others, and they come in varying stages of mutation. Doctors have always predicted this would happen. We are the first generation to actually see it.