Blood in the Ashes (6 page)

“Long as you stay out of it, Ben.”

Ben ignored that. “You have any idea who ambushed Ike and his party, or the reason behind the ambush, Cec?”

“Yes. But it's getting complicated, Ben. Abe Lancer—he's the unofficial spokesman for the mountain people of this area—says he got word it was the Ninth Order who grabbed Ike. He says they were working hand in hand with some of Willette's people. Now try to make any sense out of that.'”

“I figured as much, Cec.” He told his second-in-command about the trucks of armed men they had seen and of the teams he had following them.

“Curious, Ben. Very curious. You think they're tied in with Willette?”

“It's a possibility we have to take under consideration. What about Abe Lancer and his people? How do they stand?”

“Abe is solidly with us. None of the mountain people trust Willette or any of his followers.”

“Cec? Keep in mind this coup attempt might get bloody. And that we may have to fire on some of our own people.”

“I try not to think about that, Ben.”

“I know the feeling. OK. I'm about to read the riot act to the Ninth Order. Tell me, what new intelligence do we have, if any, on this punk named Tony Silver?”

“Not much new. Runs a paramilitary organization out of north Florida. Rapidly moving into south Georgia. Strong-arm stuff, slavery, forced work camps, prostitution. The whole filthy bag.”

“We settle matters with Willette, we'll see about punching Mr. Silver's ticket, too. And it wouldn't surprise me in the least to find him mixed up with Willette and the Ninth Order.”

“You getting your dander up, Ben?”

“Damn well better believe it, buddy.”

“Got some survivors in Macon, General,” the radio operator told Ben. “Scouts report they're in bad shape.”

“Diseased?”

“No, sir. Susie didn't say that. Ragged, dirty, down on their luck. That type of bad shape.”

“Losers.”

“Yes, sir. I guess that's about it.”

“We going to meet any resistance?”

“Negative, sir. Silver's bunch was there, on a fishing expedition, but they left after taking some of the women.”

“Jesus Christ!” Ben said. “You mean the men just stood back and allowed Silver's bunch to kidnap women and girls?”

“That about it, sir. Silver's bunch took their pick and left.”

“Too bad,” Ben said with a grin. “I'm in the mood to kick some ass.”

The radio operator flashed Ben a smile. She said, “Me, too, General.”

Ben laughed. “That's the spirit. Christ, I wonder what happened to the men's guts?”

Gale stood by silently, listening. She had stopped trying to convince Ben that all men did not have his will to survive, did not possess his skills at fighting, did not have his knowledge of weapons, had not spent time in one of the roughest military units ever formed.

Ben would look at her and reply, “What stopped them from learning the same things I know? Lack of guts, maybe?”

She would throw up her hands and walk away, knowing that to argue further would be futile. Once Ben Raines' mind was set, it was next to impossible to change.

“Who is in charge of this team of Scouts?” Ben asked the radio operator.

“Susie.”

“Tell her to hole up. We're on our way.”

The convoy approached Macon on Highway 129. The once-thriving city was no more than a hollow shell of what it had once been. Out of an original population—circa 1987 roadmap—of more than one hundred thousand, the Scouts were reporting perhaps no more than six to eight hundred people were left.

“Oh, Ben!” Gale said, upon sighting the first survivors.

They were a pitiful bunch, ragged and dirty.

“I feel so sorry for them,” Gale said.

“Why?” Ben asked. “It's their own fucking fault. There is no excuse for them to walk around dressed in rags. I don't feel a damn bit sorry for the adults. It's the very young and the elderly who get my sympathy—and no one in between, who doesn't have some physical infirmity.”

Her eyes were hot on him. “That's a pretty damned selfish and arrogant attitude, Ben.”

“I don't think so,” Ben said, unruffled at her condemnation. “Gale, there were many of us over the years—before the bombings—who saw all this coming. We wrote about it; we yelled about it; we talked ourselves blue in the face advocating compulsory military training. Nothing came of it. I defy you, Gale—I
challenge
you to find one man in that bunch of losers who ever did time in a hard military unit. Odds of you finding one are very, very slim, my dear. And I challenge to find one, just one hard-line conservative in that pack of rags. I challenge you to find just one person, male or female, who practiced—before the wars—the art of survivalism. You won't find one, Gale.”

She sat silently. It was at moments like these she experienced pangs of dislike for Ben, overriding her true feelings for him. No one likes to be told they are wrong. And Gale was no exception. What made it so bitter-tasting was the fact that she knew Ben was right.

“Honey, people who shared my feelings—male and female—beat their heads against the wall, verbally speaking, against the creeping cancer of liberalism. We tried to tell people in positions of power not to bend to the misguided whims of those pressure groups who favored gun control—for criminals
wanted
gun control. All gun control did was work in favor of the lawless and against the law-abiding citizens. We
saw
it all coming. We were laughed at and ridiculed.

“So-called
comic
movies and TV shows were made, belittling and ridiculing those who even
slightly
practiced any type of survivalism. It was all great fun, Gale. See the funny people stockpiling food and weapons and other survival gear. Big joke. The nation's press showed us as ignorant buffoons and nuts. We expected that, since the national press was controlled and run by liberals. Print and broadcast. But we did try, Gale.”

Ben sighed. “And we were laughed at. Probably by some of those very people right over there.” He pointed. “Those sad, sorry, naive bitches and bastards called us right-wingers, fascists, war-mongers, to mention only a few of the titles that were hung on us. We were laughed at, insulted, belittled and humiliated. The press had a field day with us. And you want me to feel sorry for those sacks of shit over there, Gale? No way, dear. Just
no damned way!”

Totally liberated woman that she was, free-spirited and quick to speak her mind, Gale remained silent for this round, for she knew the ring of truth when she heard it. Like many reconstructed liberals, the truth had reached up and boxed her ears too many times for her to ignore it.

Ben pulled off the highway and drove up to a clump of unwashed citizens.

“Who is in charge here?” he asked.

“Nobody in charge,” a man said. “I don't take orders from no one. Who are you people?”

Ben bit back an impulse to tell the man they were Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. In drag. “If no one is in charge, how in the hell does anything ever get done?”

“What is there to get done?” the man challenged Ben. “We're getting by. Isn't that all that matters?”

“Beautiful,” Ben muttered. “What a bunch of losers.” He raised his voice to a normal speaking level. “All right, tell me this: How are you people living?”

“Still lots of canned food left. We scrap around. What business is it of yours?”

Ben's eyes found a small knot of ragged and dirty kids, most of them very young, standing in a weed-filled lot, staring at the uniformed Rebels. “Where are the parents of those kids?”

“Who the hell knows,” the man said with a shrug. “They're street kids. You see lots of them around. Damn nuisance is what they are.”

Gale stirred beside Ben. He cut his eyes at her. She was getting angry and reaching that state very quickly.

Ben got out of the pickup, Thompson in hand. He faced the man. “I can see why Silver's people had such an easy time with his only opposition being you tigers. But I cannot believe you represent the majority of survivors in Macon. Where are the other people?”

The man would not meet Ben's eyes. Keeping his eyes averted, he said, “There's some folks over yonder.” He pointed. “But we don't mess with them. They've got a lot of guns and they don't hesitate to use them.”

“Go on,” Ben prompted.

“What are you tryin' to get me to say, mister?”

“Those ... other people, they have a leader?”

“Yeah.”

“Everybody works in their society?”

“Yeah.”

“They have schools for the kids and they raise gardens and maintain some type of law and order, is that right?”

“Yeah. All those things. So what?”

“And what you and these—” Ben's gaze swept the ragged, dirty crowd of men and women—“other people want is to lay on your lazy asses and do nothing. Is that correct?”

“Our business,” the man's reply was sullen.

“Yeah,” Ben said, the one word filled with sarcasm. He turned his back to the man. “Sergeant Greene! Get those kids and clean them up. Have the medics check them out. We're taking them with us.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What about us?” the dirty man said, a whine to his voice that grated on Ben. “Ain't you gonna give us some food or something? Help us out just a little bit?”

Ben lifted the muzzle of the Thompson, placing it under the man's chin. Ben saw fleas hop around on the man's neck. “Don't tempt me,” Ben told him softly.

The man swallowed hard. “I get the message.”

“I thought you might.”

“Least you can tell me your name.”

“Ben Raines.”

The man's eyes glinted hard momentarily. His hatred overrode his fear of Ben. “Mr. President Raines, huh? That figures. Your time in office was cut kinda short, wasn't it? You was really gonna come down hard on some folks, wasn't you? Make everybody obey
your
law. Make everybody work, whether they wanted to or not. You weren't any better than a damned communist.”

“Don't worry about it, sad sack,” Ben told him. “You're not going to last much longer. Not unless you shape up. If thugs and punks don't kill you, disease will. You might last another year. Two if . you're lucky. And if
I'm
real lucky, I'll never have to look at you again.”

“You don't have any right to talk to me like that, mister.”

“You may rest assured you have my heartfelt apologies for bruising your sensitive ego.” Ben walked back to his truck and slid under the wheel. “Worthless son of a bitch!” he said.

“I could not agree with you more, Ben,” Gale concurred.

They waited in the truck while the kids were rounded up and herded into trucks. The convoy shifted locations and the kids were checked out, bathed and dressed in clean clothes. They had all heard of Mister Ben Raines, and Ben was amused at the way they shyly looked at him. He felt sorry for them, for many told of being abandoned by their parents, left to wander alone, fending for themselves. They told of many of their little friends who had died, from the cold, from hunger, brought down by the many roaming packs of dogs gone wild. They said that Silver's men had taken several of the girls—after they had raped them.

 

 

In another section of the city, the scene was quite different. The streets were free of litter, the houses neatly kept. Gardens grew in every back yard. Block after block had been cleared and planted with all types of vegetables.

Ben stopped his truck in the center of the street, got out, and held his empty hands in the air. A gesture that he meant no harm to anyone. All the Rebels had been very conscious of eyes on them as they traveled from conditions that would make a pigsty seem attractive, to this well-attended section of Macon, Georgia.

Ben shifted his eyes left and right as heavily armed men and women appeared out of houses, to stand on well-kept front lawns.

“I'm friendly,” Ben called. “We're just passing through, looking for survivors. To see how they're getting along. We mean no harm to anyone, believe me.”

“You look familiar,” a man called. “Who are you?”

“Ben Raines.”

The men and women relaxed, lowering their weapons. “I thought it might be you,” a well-dressed man said. “But none of us were certain. Have your people park their vehicles over there.” He pointed. “You're all welcome here.”

He did not know why the pain had suddenly stopped. But he was glad it had. His cuts had been cleaned and bandaged. He had been allowed to bathe and was given clean clothing.

Ike now sat alone in a small room. The door was locked from the outside. The room contained a cot, with blanket and pillow, a bucket of water, and a cane-bottomed chair. Nothing else.

He did not have any idea where he was.

But he sure as hell wished he was somewhere else.

He began making plans for escape.

Cecil knew Ben Raines as well as any man living, and Cecil felt certain Ben was going to pull out once Ike was found and the suspected coup attempt was put to rest. And Cecil really couldn't blame Ben. The man had never asked for the job. It had been pushed on him, beginning back in '88, in the old Tri-States. Ben had
never
wanted all the responsibility that had been piled on his shoulders. Big shoulders, to be sure, but lots of big problems, too. And Cecil knew Ben didn't want to break away on any permanent basis—he just wanted to take a rest, get away for a time.

Cecil knew the reins of government would be handed to him if Ben pulled out. And he wondered if he could handle all the problems that went with the territory.

He knew he had the respect of the Rebels. The Rebels were so racially mixed, that old issue never came up. People just did their jobs and nobody gave a damn what color they were. Ben wouldn't put up with blind race prejudice for five seconds.

But Cecil knew that while he had the loyalty and respect of the Rebels ... he wasn't Ben Raines.