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.<
br />
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.
“In some, the radiation and germ warheads caused only minor physical changes; in others the alteration was radical and grotesque. The radiation and germs have slowed growth in some areas of the body, primarily the brain, drastically speeded it up in other areas. I think, as more and more of these mutants are found, we shall see that all experienced changes in brain size, shape, and function.
“Probably beginning a year after the bombings of 1988, some women began birthing mutants, babies whose growth cycle was speeded up five to ten times the normal rate. Perhaps at two years of age, a child might be six feet tall and weigh two hundred pounds—and be retarded to some degree. If the child were a twin, the other might be perfectly normal in every way.
“Understand, this is all hypothesis on my part.
“Those who were born in the sparsely populated rural areas of the world were possibly sometimes killed by the attending doctor or midwife. Some were possibly raised out of fast puberty and ran off into the woods. Some might have been taken into the woods and left to die. Some died, others lived, to live as animals. Some might even have been raised by animals—it’s occurred before—to be as animals.
“Because there were so few humans left—as compared to the population before the bombings—the mutants were seldom seen by humans. That, coupled with the mutants’ seemingly inbred animal-like wariness and suspicion of normal human beings.
“Then they found each other and began copulating. I think it’s a good bet we’ll see more of them.”
“I hope you’re wrong,” Ike said.
“I’m not wrong,” Chase predicted. “You’ll see.”
“I can hardly wait,” Cecil said dryly.
EIGHT
DECISION…
“We are leaderless,” the voice spoke. “The world is tumbling about in chaos. The population is dying by the millions. God has spoken. Fall down on your knees and seek the Lord God in prayer. He…”
A shot ended the impromptu sermon.
A harsher voice took the mike. The station was not identified.
“Get off your knees, brothers!” the voice shouted. “Now is the time to rise up and kill the white devils!”
“Oh, good Lord!” Cecil said. He stood with a group of rebels, all gathered in and around the communications shack in south Arkansas. They listened to various stations pop back on the air, most at the hands of amateurs. Some preached love, some called for reason, some shouted hate. “Not this again.”
A stronger signal cut in, overriding the first signal. “Don’t nobody listen to that nigger,” a man’s voice spoke. “You coons bes’ stay in yore places if you know what’s good for you. All praise the invisible empire!”
“I had hoped that insanity was dead and gone,” someone said.
“Not as long as there are two humans left alive,” Ben said. “With just one cell of ignorance between them.”
“Praise God!” a woman’s voice implored.
“There ain’t no God!” a man’s voice overrode her.
Other stations popped on the air. Wild-screaming lay preachers; people who were seeking news of relatives; men and women preaching hate and love and brotherhood and violence; peace and profanity—racists on both sides of the color line.
“Proves one thing,” Jane Dolbeau said.
Heads turned to look at the woman.
She met their gaze. “We are not alone.”
* * *
No, the Rebels were far from being alone. In the northern part of the Midwest, Sam Hartline had gathered men and women around him and laid claim to the entire state of Wisconsin.
Cults were being formed all over the nation, and men and women who were weary of sickness and death, tired of tragedy and unrest, sick of troubles and heartbreak, were rushing to join any group that might promise them some peace and tenderness and a few moments of happiness.
Standard, accepted, organized religion was taking a beating all over the world as many survivors turned a blind face to the teachings of Jesus and the Commandments handed Moses from God.
Nothing He had promised came true. If He was a truly compassionate God, He would not have allowed anything like these troubles to befall a nation.
Would He?
The answer came back a silent No.
Then we must look elsewhere.
* * *
“Why, General,” Rosita propped her trim butt on one corner of Ben’s desk, “haven’t any mutants been born in any Rebel camp? Or,” her eyes searched his face, “have there been and no one is talking?”
“No,” Ben assured her. “We’ve had no such births. That’s what Doctor Chase and I were just discussing. Doctor Chase has a theory on it, but he has a theory on nearly everything.” Ben smiled. “Whether you want to hear it or not.”
“Proper diet,” Ben said. “Good medical facilities and prompt treatment. Hard work, adequate rest and play time, very little stress, lots of happiness and contentment. We had all those things in the Tri-States. I think they had something to do with it. Maybe not.”
Rosita looked at Chase. He smiled reassuringly. “He left out the most important word, dear: Luck.”
After Rosita left, Ben looked at the ceiling and muttered, “I just don’t understand it.”
“If you’re talking to yourself, Ben—watch it. When you start answering yourself, let me know, I’ll prescribe something.”
“I was thinking out loud, Lamar: two worldwide horrors in such a short time.” He shook his head. “I just don’t understand it.”
“You want an opinion from me?”
Ben smiled. “It doesn’t make any difference whether I want it or not, you’ll give it.”
Nothing daunted Chase; his skin was iron. “I don’t think we had much at all to do with it. Maybe,” the doctor pointed upward, “He grew weary of how the human race had so screwed up His world, He’s giving the people one more chance to correct it. I believe He is going to reduce this world—or regress its inhabitants might be better words—right back to the caves. Then He is going to say: All right, people, let’s start all over. And this time around, try to do a little better, huh?’”
Ben looked at the man for several heartbeats. “Do you really believe that, Lamar?”
“Yes, son, I do.” He bobbed his head affirmatively.
“Come on, Lamar, you’ve got something else on your mind—let’s have it.”
“You won’t like it, Ben.”
“I didn’t like shots of penicillin when I was sixteen, either; but I had the clap.”
Chase grimaced, then laughed. “You do turn such a delicate phrase, boy. All right. You’ve got approximately six thousand people in this area. We’re going to rebuild. But what are we going to rebuild, Ben? Ben… your people more than love you—they worship you. You’re like a god to many of them.”
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