“Well, we were here first and we damn sure had the mostest,” she grinned at him.
“We damn sure did, short-stuff.” Ben motioned Captain Seymour over. “Get some tractors with scoops on them to move the bodies. After you’ve had people spray the bodies and the area around them. Truck them to the city dump, and burn them. Have people re-spray this area; fleas will leave a dead body quickly. Get cracking, Captain.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you see the general?” a young boy asked his friend. “He didn’t even flinch. Just stood right there in open daylight and faced them down.”
“Yeah,” the ten-year-old son of a Rebel said, his voice hushed with awe. “And he was the closest one and no bullets hit him.”
“Aw,” the other boy said. “They hit him all right. But no one can kill the general. My daddy says he’d follow Ben Raines right up to and through the gates of hell. So that must mean he’s a god—right?”
“I… guess so.”
“What are you two whispering about?” the first boy’s father asked.
“The General, sir,” his son replied. “Sir? Were you afraid just then? I mean, during the shooting?”
“Sure, son, weren’t you?”
“Yes, sir. But General Raines sure acted like he wasn’t.”
“No, son. I don’t believe he was afraid.”
Other young men and women gathered, listening to the dialogue.
“Then that makes the general something special, doesn’t it, dad?”
The father looked at his son for a long moment. Finally, he said, “Yes, son. I suppose it does.”
“You see,” his young friend said with a grin. “I told you so.”
FOUR
FIRESTORMS…
Ben lay with the warmth of Rosita pressed close to him, her skin smooth and soft against his own nakedness. His breathing had evened and his heart slowed. An old country song popped into his mind and he fought unsuccessfully to suppress a chuckle.
“What do you find so amusing, General?” she asked, her breath warm on his shoulder. “And it better not be me.”
He laughed in the darkness of the motel room. “You ever heard of a singer name of Hank Snow?”
“I… think so. Yes.”
“One of his earlier songs was one called ‘Spanish Fireball.’”
“Very funny. Ha-ha. Yes.”
“You asked me, remember?”
She spoke in very fast Spanish. Ben could but guess at the meaning. He did not follow it up.
“Ben Raines?”
“Uh-huh?”
“What are we going to do?”
“I don’t understand the question.”
She shifted and propped herself up on an elbow. “The government of the United States is no more, right? It is over.”
“That is correct.”
“There will not be a great many people left after the sickness has run its course, right?”
“Very few, I’m afraid.”
“Worldwide?”
“Yes.”
“So I repeat: what do we do?”
“We survive, Rosita. We make it to the Tri-States and begin the process of rebuilding.”
“For what?” she asked flatly.
Her question did not surprise Ben. He was only surprised more of his people had not asked it. Something was gone from the spirit of the Rebels. Not much, Ben was certain of that—but a little special something.
How to regain it?
He sighed, looking at her pretty face, framed by hair the color of midnight. “For future generations, Rosita. We can’t just give up and roll over like a whipped dog. We’ve got to get to our feet, snarling and biting and fighting. We’ve got to prove there is still fire in the ashes of all this destruction. And out of it, we rebuild. We have to.”
“With you leading us.” It was not a question.
“Rosita, don’t make me something I’m not. I am a man. Flesh and blood. I don’t know how many years I have left me. I…”
“You have many years, Ben Raines. You have another fifty, at least.”
He laughed at that. “You can’t know that for sure.”
She was deadly serious. “I know, Ben Raines. I was born with a caul over my face, and I know things others do not. Scoff at me if you like, but it is true. I know things you do not. I can sense that you were born—in this life—to do this thing: to lead. But you must be very careful not to let it get out of control. Your followers are… viewing you in a light that is, well, usually reserved for saints, let us say.”
Ben was silent for such a long time, she thought he had gone to sleep. He said, “So what I have been sensing is true to some degree, eh?”
“Yes.”
“I thought—hoped—it was only my imagination.”
“No.”
“I suppose I could shoot my big toe off and have them watch me leap around, hollering bloody murder—I guess that would prove to them I’m only human. But I have no desire whatsoever to do that…”
She was laughing so hard Ben had to hold off any further conversation until she finished. She wiped her eyes with a corner of the sheet.
"Eso es una locura," she giggled. She tapped the side of her head. "Loco!"
“Damn right it’s crazy! Rosita—it’s times like these that superstition rears up. If people aren’t very careful, it can grab them. I’ve got to combat this mood that I’m something other than human. But I don’t know how.”
She was unusually silent.
“I think you do know something others don’t,” Ben prompted her.
Still she was silent. Her dreams of late had been disturbing. The same one, over and over. An old, bearded man, in robes and sandals, carrying a staff, facing Ben Raines, pointing the staff at him, shouting something at him.
But she didn’t know what he was saying. It was in a language unfamiliar to her. But she knew—somehow—the words contained a warning.
“Rosita?” Ben said.
“I… don’t think I have the right to tell you what I think; what I feel; what I sense. I think… it is out of human hands.”
Ben shuddered beside her. “You do have the ability to spook hell out of me, short-stuff.”
“Then we won’t speak of it again.” She glanced at her watch on the nightstand. “Look, Ben!”
“What?”
“It’s just past midnight.”
“So?”
“Big ox! It’s New Year’s Day, 2000. Happy New Year, Ben Raines.”
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
No, she thought—you won’t be damned. But you will be bitterly disappointed in the years to come.
And I wish I didn’t know that for a fact.
* * *
On the morning they pulled out of the motel complex, on January the fourth, the year 2000, Dawn walked to Ben’s side.
“Ben, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea, ‘cause it’s been fun. But…”
“You don’t have to say it, Dawn. I never had the wrong idea about you.”
“No, Ben, I want to say it. I don’t know what you’re searching for in a woman, but it isn’t me. I don’t have it. And… to tell the truth, I’m glad I don’t. You’re not like any man I have ever met before. It… it’s like you’re driven—a man possessed to pull something out of the ashes. You’re a dreamer, a warrior, a gentle man, a Viking and a priest. I can’t cope with all that, Ben. And I’m beginning to see what the others only whisper about: that almost visible aura about you.
“At times you are a lonely man—I can sense that. But you really don’t need anyone, Ben. I’m a tough, street-wise professional woman, but I’m still a woman, and a woman likes to feel needed by her special person. I hope you find that special woman, Ben. I really do.” She stuck out her hand. “Friends?”
Ben grinned and shook the hand. He leaned close and whispered, “How come Penthouse removed that birthmark just a few inches below your navel? I think it’s cute.”
She laughed and said, “Ben
Raines! You’re impossible.”
* * *
The convoy rumbled on, trekking westward like a 21st-century wagon train.
And all did their best to keep their eyes away from the hideousness that lay in stinking piles and heaps all around them. The going was slow, for not only were the cities burning, but many small towns were ablaze. Why, was anybody’s guess. Perhaps something had short-circuited; oily rags had ignited; rats and mice had chewed wiring, shorting something out.
The rats.
The men and women and children of the convoy did not see many of the huge mutant rats; but even sighting one was too many for some—and the revulsion was not confined to one gender.
But they saw other rats, of the more common variety. And none of them could accustom their eyes to the sight of bodies of humans covered with the rats—feasting on dead human flesh.
“Keep your eyes straight ahead,” the platoon leaders would tell the people. “Don’t look at them.”
But most were drawn to the sights, and after a time, after a fashion, stomachs did not rebel at the sights—but no one ever became accustomed to the awfulness.
Ben did not seem to be bothered by the dead or the rats. Of course, he was bothered by the sights; it was just his nature not to show any alarm; not to visually display his inner disgust.
And his reputation as something just a bit more than an ordinary human grew and was enhanced by his stony acceptance of the sights.
The convoy had angled northward out of Richmond, picking up Indiana Highway 35, finally linking up with Indiana 24 at Wabash, staying on that across the state and well into Illinois.
Ben thought about his long-dead sister in Normal, Illinois. He had buried her in her backyard—so many years ago. But not really; only twelve years. The convoy passed within twenty miles of the once-college town, but Ben kept his inner feelings locked up tight. There would be no point in visiting the grave. It would accomplish nothing. But as he drove, he recalled the day he had driven into his parents’ drive. A wave of unexpected emotions slapped him with all the fury of a storm-driven breaker smashing against a rocky beach.
* * *
At a farmhouse just south of Marion, Illinois, Ben pulled into the drive and looked for a long time at the place of his birth and his growing up—the good years, including the lickings he had received and so richly deserved, every one of them. Ben really did not want to enter that old two-story home. But he felt he had to do it. He owed his parents that much. And maybe, the thought came to him, they would know.
Reluctantly, he drove up to the old home and got out of his pickup.
He stood for a time, looking around him, all the memories rushing back, clouding his mind and filling his eyes. He took in the land he had helped his father farm. Fighting back tears, he climbed the steps and opened the front door.
His parents were sitting on the couch, an open Bible on the coffee table in front of them. Ben’s dad had his arm around his wife of so many years, comforting her even in death.
They had been dead for some time. It was not a pleasant sight for Ben.
Ben walked through the house, touching a picture of the family taken years before, when life had been simpler. Suddenly, he whirled away from the scene and walked from the house, leaving his parents as he had found them. He carefully locked the front door and stood for a time, looking through the window at his parents. Through the dusty window, it appeared that his mother and father were sitting on the couch, discussing some point in the Bible.
Ben preferred that scene.
He walked from the porch, got into his truck, and drove away. He did not look back.
* * *
“And there is no point in looking back now,” he muttered. “None at all.”
Rosita glanced at him, but said nothing. It had not taken her long to recognize Ben’s moods. And he definitely was in one of them now.
“We must not forget the past,” Ben said aloud. “We must never do that. But we must learn from it. Now, we must look ahead—as far ahead as any of us dare. We must be visionaries; we have got to rebuild.”
“Out of the ashes?” Rosita said.
“Again,” Ben said, briefly cutting his eyes toward her. “But this time it’s going to be rough.”
She said nothing.
“You don’t think it will happen, do you, short-stuff?”
“If anyone can do it, you can, Ben.” She sidestepped the question.
“Nice safe answer.”
“It’s the only answer you’re going to get out of me,” she replied.
And Ben knew the petite Spanish-Irish lady could close up tighter than a clam when she wanted to. And she obviously wanted to. And did.
* * *
“Crossing into Iowa,” the scout vehicle radioed back to the main column. “Disregard that,” he said. “The bridge is blocked. Jammed solid with vehicles.”
“You heard, General?” the pickup in front of Ben radioed back.
“I heard.” They were on Highway 116, a few miles west of Roseville. “You scouts cut south to Keokuk; check out the bridge there. We’ll pull the convoy over here and sit it out until you radio back.”
“Ten-four, General.”
With their legs encased in heavy hip-length fisherman’s waders, volunteers sprayed the highway with pesticide and then fired the area around the highway, carefully controlling the burn around the tanker trucks. The drivers of the tankers were not too thrilled about the burning. But they figured they’d rather take their chances at that than be bitten by a flea and put in quarantine.
Ben got out and walked up and down the cold, windswept highway. Very little snow, he observed, and was curious about that. He wondered just how much the bombings of twelve years back had affected the weather? He concluded it must have disturbed the weather patterns to some degree. And he wondered how wise it was to plan any future in a cold climate with bitter winters such as the ones in Tri-States?
“A thought, Cec,” he said. “I’m thinking we probably need to shift into an area where we can double crop without too much trouble.”
“Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama?” Cecil asked.
“And maybe the southern part of Arkansas, too. We’ll hash it out with the people when we get to Tri-States. I think we’ll have to stay there several months, at least. Let the plague run its course.”
“The people will go wherever you tell them to go, Ben,” Cecil said quietly.
“I’m not anyone’s king, Cec. And have no intention of becoming so. We’ll vote on it.”
The radio in Cecil’s truck barked. “The bridge at Fort Madison is plugged up tight, General. We’re taking a secondary road down to Hamilton. Thirty-forty minutes at the most.”
“Ten-four,” Cecil acknowledged the message. “Standing by.”
Forty-five minutes stretched into a hour. The sky grew leaden and began spitting snow. Ben tried to reach the scouts. No reply. He waited for a half hour, then turned to Cecil.
“I’m taking a patrol,” Ben said. “I’ll call in every fifteen minutes. Anything happens, you’re it.”
“Ben…”
“No. It’s my show. Maybe the radio conked out. Could be a lot of things. I’ll be in touch.”
Back in his pickup Ben looked at Rosita. “Out,” he told her.
She stuck out her chin and refused to leave.
“Do I have to toss you out bodily?”
“That’s going to look funny,” she calmly replied.
Ben closed the door and put the truck in gear. He would lead the small patrol. “Your ass,” he told her.
She smiled and said something in Spanish that sounded suspiciously vulgar. He hid his smile and pulled away from the main column.
“Check your watch,” he told Rosita.
“Ten forty-five.”
“Call in every fifteen minutes. It’ll take us about forty-five minutes to an hour on these roads to get to Fort Madison. That was their last transmission point. Whatever happened happened between there
and Hamilton. You’ve got the maps. What highway do we take?”
“Take 96 out of Niota.”
At Nauvoo they found the pickup truck parked in the middle of the highway. One door had been ripped off its hinges and flung to one side of the road.
“What the hell…?” Ben muttered.
Rosita’s face was pale under her olive complexion. She said nothing.
Ben parked a safe distance behind the pickup and, Thompson in hand, on full auto, he walked up to the truck. Thick blood lay in puddles in the highway.
“Jesus Christ!” one of his men muttered, looking into a ditch. “General!”
Ben walked to the man’s side. The torn and mangled body of the driver lay sprawled in a ditch. One arm had been ripped from its socket. The belly had been torn open, entrails scattered about.
“Over here!” a Rebel called, pointing at an open field.
The second scout lay in a broken heap, on his stomach. He was headless. Puddles of blood spread all about him.
“Where’s his head?” a man asked.
“I don’t know,” Ben answered. “But we’d damn sure better keep ours. Heads up and alert. Combat positions. Weapons on full auto. Back to the trucks in twos. Center of the road and eyes searching. Move it.”
Back in the warm cab of the truck, Ben noticed Rosita looked very pale. He touched her hand. “Take it easy, little one,” he said. “We’ll make it.”
He called in to Cecil. “Cec? Backtrack to Roseville and take 67 down to Macomb. Turn west on 136. We’ll meet you between Carthage and Hamilton. Don’t stop for anything. Stay alert for trouble.”
“What kind of trouble, Ben?”
Ben hesitated for a few seconds. “Cec—I don’t know.”
“Ten-four.”
Ben honked his horn and pulled out, the other trucks following.
They saw nothing out of the ordinary as they drove down 96. But Hamilton looked as though it had been sacked by Tartars then followed up by hordes of Tasmanian devils.
“What the hell…?” Ben said, his eyes taking in the ruins of the town. Bits and scraps of clothing blew in the cold winds; torn pages of books and magazines flapped in the breeze. Not one glass storefront remained intact. They all looked as if they had been deliberately smashed by mobs of angry children.
Fire in the Ashes ta-2 Page 30