She looked over at where he slept. Certainly, she thought, it wasn’t something he heard that he was investigating. His AK-47 was lying right next to where he had lain. He would have taken that with him.
Then where was he?
She slipped on her denim pants and a long-sleeved cowboy shirt and put on the lace-up shoes—first checking inside the boots for snakes—without tying them and stood up. She pushed open the flap in the opening of the tent and went outside. It was cool outside, maybe fifty degrees, but not chilly, though there was that wind, most of it blocked by trees. The moon was up, full, so she could see fairly clearly, this helped by the always incredible number of stars.
So where was Jim? she thought, trying to quell a rising sense of panic.
She looked around, and then relief flooded her. She saw his silhouette. He was maybe fifty yards away, standing next to a large evergreen. She saw a brief glow of orange. He was having a smoke.
She took a couple of steps and he turned around—God, his hearing was unbelievable—and waved to her. She waved back. She walked toward him and as she did a simple but profound thought occurred to her. She knew absolutely that their relationship was much more than two people making physical love. She was falling in love with him. He was one of the long-distance runners, the kind of guy that women start looking for when they are little girls, the guy who will walk them down the aisle in a fairy-tale wedding. And then she had a thought that she held until she walked up to him and put her arms around him and kissed him tenderly on the mouth. He made her feel so wanted, so beautiful, so loved, so cared for. It was wonderful.
“I thought of something as I was walking toward you that really sums you up,” she said.
“What’s that?”
“You’re as pure as these mountains that you love so much. And just as strong.”
He kissed her again.
“Hey,” he said, “that’s high praise. I think of you that way too. I mean, not the mountains, but you’re one of the good people. People who care. I always thought that the strongest people in life are the ones that are capable of caring and loving.”
She looked up at him.
“Is there a difference?”
“Sure,” Jim said, “but what it is I don’t know right now. I do know one thing. They’re very close.”
Bev nodded.
“So what are you doing out here?”
“I was thinking about the future,” he said, “and what it might hold. I had a dream that woke me up. It was pretty chaotic; all kinds of creatures warring with each other, and in the end, nothing being resolved—except the loss of the lives of a lot of people who couldn’t defend themselves.”
“What do you think it means?”
“When I left Idaho,” Jim said, “it was just to get away. I was really lonely. Every person that mattered to me was gone. I had no real direction, just some vague idea to go east.”
He paused, dropped the butt of the cigarette on the ground, and crushed it out with his boot very carefully.
“Now,” he said, “I think about what’s going on in this country, not only in an intellectual way but an emotional one, and I’ve really come to realize that if the Rejects come to rule it, civilization as we know it in America will be gone. But if the Believers win the day, it will also be gone. I think the chaos in the dream represents those things.”
Jim paused, then continued. “I was also thinking about what would be best for us. And I realized that I’m really hoping that someone like Ben Raines comes along who can carve out something good and lasting from this mess. But I don’t know. How many Ben Raineses come along in our lifetime?”
“What about you?”
“Are you kidding?”
“No, I’m not. Ben Raines himself saw something in you that he liked. Maybe the potential to lead. He had to be a quick study when it came to reading personality. I think great leaders can always evaluate people quickly.”
“He actually gave me a note to introduce me to the Rebels. And he told me the locations of their supply depots for food, water, ammunition, and the like.”
“Really? There you go.”
Jim shook his head.
“Like I said, I’m not a warrior. This is a job for a soldier. And I don’t want to be part of any war. I’ll defend myself, and you and others, but I have no plan to fight for a new government, or be willing to neutralize the bad guys—unless they’re trying to neutralize me. Like I said, I was really burned by war with my father and brother dying. And there were others, too. My dream is that at one point people can sit down and talk it all out.
“I remember once,” Jim continued, “when a neighbor was in a dispute with another guy over grazing land, and the situation was getting hot and heavy, close to violence. And in Idaho that means guns, because everyone owns a gun. Anyway, somehow my grandfather got enlisted—he was a very wise man—to mediate it. And he succeeded in settling it.”
“How?”
“By having the people compromise, give up land and certain water rights. They shook hands and that was that, even though neither was very happy when they left the bargaining table. My point is that people have to give ground, actually or . . . what’s that word . . . ?”
“Figuratively?”
“Yes. They have to do that or you’re still in conflict. The best example I have of that is in World War I, when the Allies, after crushing Germany in the war, crushed them at the Treaty of Versailles. They left them with a big hole in their pocket and their national pride, so when they left the table they smiled but they were enraged. And one fine day, when Hitler came along, they expressed their anger through him.”
“That’s very true,” Bev said, “but I still think that sit-downs can be very unrealistic if the people you’re dealing with are psychotic, or won’t bargain in good faith. The only way things are going to get better in America against people like this is to fight them and win the fight.”
Jim thought a moment.
“You’re absolutely right,” he said.
Bev smiled, kissed him again.
“You know what I love about your mind?” she asked.
“I thought you only loved my body.”
“That too,” Bev said, “but you’re capable of being objective, to admit you were wrong or modify your position if someone makes a stronger case than you. I mean you have an emotional investment in something, but not so much that you hide what your brain is telling you.”
“I guess.”
“I don’t think any of us who want a good life is going to be able to avoid taking part in some sort of conflict. I mean, I’m the last one who wants war, or battles or anything like that. My life as a religious person has espoused the opposite of that. But like Ben Raines said in that SUSA manifesto, sometimes it’s the only way.”
Jim looked at her and kissed her on the mouth, but this time, though tender, there was some other urgency.
“Let’s go back to the tent,” he said. “I just can’t keep my hands off you.”
“You won’t see any hands-off sign on me.”
They both laughed, then started to walk arm in arm back to the tent when suddenly they heard a commotion back near the tent area. It was Rosen. He was screaming, and two people were assaulting him, or trying to get him under control.
Jim reached for his sidearm preparatory to advancing when, from the adjacent woods, someone barked a guttural command.
“Keep your hand off your gun and raise your hands high, stretch. You too, beautiful.”
Jim looked to his left. Someone—someone large—was partially obscured behind an oak tree, and he had some sort of guerilla-style weapon pointed at him. An AK-47. There was no way he could respond to that, and Bev, he had noticed, was unarmed. He raised his hands slowly and so did Bev, but as he did, his mind raced with tremendous speed though his face was calm. Who were these people? he wondered. It was logical to assume they were Rejects, but then again it wasn’t, based on one of the escape unit troops getting back to the
ir home compound, and assuming that they traveled by foot through the woods. The maps didn’t show any roads going from east to west into the area. Bottom line: they wouldn’t be here yet. They were forty miles away.
“Take two fingers of your hand and pick your gun up by the butt and place it on the ground,” the voice said.
Maybe, Jim thought, he could whirl and perhaps take out the person behind the tree. A single shot in the middle of the head wouldn’t be hard. That would drop him. Then what? If Jim got to squeeze that trigger, even as the man dropped he would let go a short burst and possibly get him and Bev both.
Then, of course, he would have to deal with the guys grabbing Rosen. They might kill him before they turned their attention—Jim assumed automatic weapons—toward Jim and Bev.
But whom were they up against? Jim could see, now, that two people had control of Rosen, but who knew how many were in the woods? No, he wasn’t going to do anything. Couldn’t do anything. Not yet. Not until he knew the terrain. To commit to some course of action without knowing what you were getting into was insane—and stupid.
He picked the gun from his waistband with two fingers and laid it on the ground.
“You and your ladyfriend move toward the tents,” the man in the woods said.
Jim did as he was told. He was well aware that he still had his knife—in a sheath on his right side—on him, but that would only be good in close quarters. If he threw it at someone, that would be only good enough to take out one person.
Then it struck him. He was not alone. Bev was with him, and he was sure that she would act with a ferocity that would be a big surprise. It didn’t get any tougher than those two Rejects back at the church. If she could, she would try to do something. Still, even if he could do something he might be in trouble because the plain fact was that he didn’t know how many more people he would be dealing with, and instinct told him that there were more people in the woods.
Very true, because just as he and Bev came into the tent area, three more people filtered out of the woods. None had Reject or Believer uniforms on. All were dressed differently but all carried automatic weapons, bandoleers of cartridges, and grenades hanging off their belts. They looked like real badasses. Jim had no idea who they were.
One of the men, thirtyish, with a shaved head and tattoos all over muscular forearms, looked first at Rosen.
“You own this HumVee?” he said to Rosen. He had, Jim thought, a distinct accent, perhaps Irish or British.
“No. I’m just sleeping in it,” Rosen said.
“How about you, stretch?” he said to Jim. “Yours?”
“Yes.”
“Where’d you get it?” he said. His eyes had narrowed.
Jim had not sensed any particular anger in the man. Now he did.
“It was given to me by a man named Ben Raines.”
“Who, the general?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Back in Nevada. He gave it to me before he died of the plague.”
“He died?” The voice was low, sad. Jim sensed, in fact, sadness settle over all of the men.
“Yes. Like I said, of the plague.”
“Why did he give it to you?”
“I met him by chance. And some people attacked us while he lay dying. I helped him defend against them. He said he liked the way I handled things, and wanted to give it to me, that he had no further use for it.”
“Did you leave before he died?” This came from one of the other men. He was as tall as Jim and looked like a full-blooded Indian in his mid-sixties.
“Hell no. I wouldn’t do that. I buried him and said a few prayers, and then I left.”
All of the men just stood there, each with his own thoughts. Ben Raines had meant something to them, though Jim did not know yet exactly what. Then a man who Jim would guess was the youngest of the group suddenly had tears running down his face.
“Christ,” said a tall, dark-haired, creepy-looking guy.
“What a way for the general to go,” he said. “He should have a holiday named after him but instead he dies of the fucking plague in some little place somewhere. He should have died a hundred times before that, and he didn’t.”
“He didn’t die,” Bev said.
Abruptly, there was total silence. All the men, including Jim, looked at her.
“What do you mean?” the British-sounding guy said.
“The lessons of his life for the world will never die.”
The truth of the statement hit like a silent bomb. And subtly, without an announcement, the situation had changed from Jim and Bev and Rosen being captured to a conversation. The guns had lowered.
“And by the way, who are you all?” Bev asked.
“We served under him,” the Indian said. We’re part of what’s left of the Rebel army.
“I’m Duke Kindhand,” he continued. “That man who drew down on you is Kevin Shaw, from across the pond, and the other guy here is Frank Langone.” He pointed to the tall, creepy-looking guy.
“And Jim Watson, and Slobodan Granic, or Bo as we call him.”
In turn, Jim shook hands with each of the men and introduced Bev and Morty Rosen.
“I also have a note from the general,” Jim said, “to introduce myself.”
“Where?” Kindhand said.
“Right here.”
Jim reached in his back pocket, took out a wallet, picked the note out of it, and handed it to Kindhand. He read it while the other Rebels read it over his shoulder.
“He also gave me all the locations of your supply depots.”
“You have something on that?”
“In my head. He told me to memorize and then tear up the paper. I did. You want ’em?”
“No,” Kindhand said. “I know where they are too.”
Jim nodded.
“Where are you headed now?” he asked.
“We’re on our way to meet up with more Rebels in a town on the Wyoming-Montana border named Billerica.”
“I know of it,” Jim said.
“How are you getting through to them?” Rosen asked.
“Cell phone,” Kindhand said, “and radio. But the connections are spotty at best.”
“Where are you headed?” Kindhand asked Jim.
“Right now just north. Ultimately east, maybe.”
“What’s there?”
“Nothing, but it isn’t here,” Jim said. “What are you guys meeting for?”
“You know about the SUSA?” Kindhand asked.
“Sure.”
“We’re going to try to establish a new one up here in the Northwest and go from there.”
“There are going to be folks in your way. You’re going to need a big army,” Jim said. “How many Rebels are left?”
“There are thousands. They’re scattered all over the country, but the phones and the radio communications are so spotty that Rebels are networking rather than all of them being directly communicated with. Whatever, we’re just trying to get a force together that’s big enough before the Rejects, who have vastly superior forces—and well-trained ones, I might add—take us out. Fortunately, we’re not a priority. They have the Believers to contend with.”
“I’ve dealt with both groups,” Jim said.
“Yeah,” Kevin Shaw chimed in. “They’re all cut from the same bolt of cloth, except the Rejects kill you.”
“But so will the Believers,” Jim said. “Or at least drive you out if you don’t believe in their philosophy.”
“Yes,” Kindhand said, “exclusionary thinking leads to that, the fanatical belief that what you’re doing is the way, the truth, and the light and that people who don’t think that way are nonbelievers and may someday be perceived as a dangerous enemy—with violent consequences.”
“I agree with that,” Jim said, “one hundred percent,” and Bev nodded.
“Now,” Jim said, “I have to tell you something that should affect your plans.”
“What’s that?” Kindhan
d asked.
“There’s an outside possibility an elite unit of the Rejects may be heading this way.”
“Why?” Kindhand asked.
“Why don’t you tell him, Morty?” Jim said.
Rosen laid out the story of his undercover work, his escape—and its implications.
“How big is this escape unit?” Kindhand asked.
“Twenty-five.”
“I don’t know what the other guys feel,” Kindhand said, “but I’d say our best bet is to wait a day and see if they show up, then give them a reception they don’t expect. We haven’t engaged any Reject forces yet, and at one point it’s inevitable we do. It might as well be now.”
The other men nodded. They did not seem upset by facing a force four times as large as theirs.
“You have only a half dozen men,” Rosen said, as if to remind Kindhand of something he didn’t know.
Surprisingly, Jim, instead of Kindhand or any of the others, responded.
“Surprise is worth everything,” he said. “In battles it’s a force unto itself. I mean history is just full of how surprise won battles against superior forces. Troy was probably the best example, but I think ordinary people know that if they’re in a fight with someone and throw the first punch the chances of winning the fight increase geometrically.”
“That’s right,” Kindhand said. “Ten or fifteen of these guys will be standing in front of God”—and he chuckled—“before they know it. They’ll be surprised to be dead—and surprised that there is a God!”
Everyone laughed.
“What kind of firepower you got?” Jim asked.
“I’ll show you,” Kindhand said.
For the next fifteen minutes, Kindhand showed Jim, Bev, and Rosen their firepower inventory, stored in two camouflage-painted HumVees parked a couple hundred yards from where Jim’s was. Among the items were a variety of machine guns, pistols, rifles, and shotguns, but also mortars and explosive devices, including Semtex and booby traps and a supply of ammonium nitrate fertilizer, diesel fuel, and dynamite.
Jim knew just how powerful ammonium nitrite was—he used it to fertilize fields and was very careful with it—but Bev didn’t.
The Last Rebel: Survivor Page 13