Fire in the Ashes

ONE

“I demand an explanation for this!” Senator Carlise burst into the crowded Oval Office. He was waving a piece of copy from the AP. “This is the most blatant violation of…”

“Sit down and shut up,” Ben told him. “If you’d been in your office this morning you’d have known I’ve called for an emergency session of Congress this evening to deal with this crisis.”

“What crisis?” the senator from Colorado yelled.

“You’ll know this evening,” Cecil said, trying to calm the man. He knew, as well as Ben, that as soon as the plague news touched the men and women of Congress it would hit the streets fast.

But for now, all they were trying to do was buy a little time. Time. Time to get the troops in place. Time to set up roadblocks. Time to airship the medicine all over the nation. Time to let the drug companies roll 24 hours a day, mass-producing the life-saving drugs.

But they all knew they were quickly running out of time.

More cases of the plague were cropping up. The press was screaming for information. Worse, the press was speculating, and the people were getting jumpy because of it.

The airlines were shrieking to the heavens about the money they were losing—same with the bus companies. A few wildcat truck drivers decided to ignore the presidential order and roll their rigs anyway.

After two had been killed while attempting to roll through a Marine roadblock and the rest of them tossed in jail, the truckers wisely decided it would be in their best interest not to fuck around with Ben Raines.

Man meant exactly what he said. No give to him at all.

Ben looked at Cecil. “Handle it for a few minutes, Cec. I’ve got to make a call.”

Cecil nodded. He knew who Ben was calling.

“How’s it looking, Lamar?” Ben asked over the long lines.

“We’re clean, Ben,” Doctor Chase said. “I’m shooting everyone with enough chloramphenicol and streptomycin to cause ears to ring. A few cases of deafness, but I think it’s temporary—reaction to the drug. Have you been popped?”

“In both arms and the butt.” He told his friend what he was doing to combat the situation.

“It’ll save some, Ben. But I spoke with our man at the CDC and this stuff scares me.”

“Is there a vaccine for this, Lamar?”

“Yes, for the plague. Have to use it broadside, but it’s a puny weapon against this stuff. I would recommend staying with what we’re using. This isn’t ordinary plague, Ben. It’s moving much too fast for that. I believe it’s a… well, to keep it in language you’d understand, a wild mutant; probably undergone a forced genetic alteration from the bombings—taken this long to manifest. It’s incredibly fast. I think it gets into the body before our natural immune factors even know the body’s been penetrated. And it’s going to get much, much worse before it gets better. If it gets better.”

“I was afraid of that.”

“I’m leveling with you, Ben. No point in pulling any punches.”

“Jim Slater and Paul Green out there?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. You remember all that chlordane we had in storage?”

“Very well.”

“Have them gather up as many ag-pilots as they can and start spraying our borders and lay it on thick—use it all if you have to. Spray a strip a half-mile wide, all around the Tri-States. That will take care of any flea problem that might crop up.”

“As well as anything else that blunders into that area.”

“Can’t be helped, Lamar. You know as well as I our people will pull together and obey orders. I can’t speak for the rest of America.”

“I can,” the old doctor was firm. “Blind panic when the news breaks. You won’t have nearly enough troops to stem the tide of frightened humanity.

“You know, Ben, this will finish you in the White House? You won’t be given credit for the lives you’ve saved, only blamed for the deaths. You’ll have to declare martial law and you’ll be blamed for that. You’ll have to order troops to fire on civilians, and you’ll be blamed for that.”

“I know, Lamar. I’ve already made up my mind to see this thing through and then step down. I want to come home.”

“Good. I was wrong to push you into taking the job.”

“I don’t know. I wish I’d had more time.”

The doctor grunted in reply. “Jerre and Matt radioed in. They holed up in the high country. Matt got some pills and they’re both dosed as well as can be. I think they’ll make it.”

“I have a hunch I’ll be seeing you soon, Lamar.”

“Good. I’ll look forward to it. Take care.”

In the office, the news was no better.

“It broke, Ben,” Cecil said. “Some alert reporters put it all together and hit the air with it.”

“Goddamn it!” Ben slammed a hand on a desk top.

“And this, too,” Cecil said. “Two reporters, print and broadcast, entered an apartment this morning, here in Richmond. It was booby-trapped with a modified claymore. Blew their heads off.”

“What’s that got to do with me?”

“It was my apartment,” Rosita said.

Ben had not noticed the small woman sitting quietly in a chair.

“You want to explain? I thought you lived with Dawn?”

Rosita rose to face Ben. “I’ll make this as brief as possible, General. I am part of Gray’s Scouts. I was sent to Colonel Ramos’s command when it was learned he was moving to join you. Dan—Captain Gray—suspected a power play here in Richmond. He was right. General Altamont is working with Senator Carson to unseat you. They have quite a following, including some Secret Service men. They are the ones who have the atomic device; sent the note that General Altamont showed you. As to why those men broke into my apartment, I have no idea. Probably looking for a story; anything to hurt you. It’s all moot now, anyway, isn’t it, sir?”

“Yes,” Ben said.

“Goddamn!” Admiral Calland said. “This is 1988 all over again.”

General Rimel stood up. His face was very grim, the skin pulled tight, his anger just under control. “I will personally handle General Altamont.” He picked up a phone and jabbed at the buttons. He spoke briefly, then turned to Ben. “My men will pick him up, along with Senator Carson.” He looked at Rosita. “What about the White House agent?”

“He’s dead,” she replied softly. “And Altamont’s brother. I saw to that personally.”

“Do you know where the atomic device is located, Miss?” Rimel asked.

“No, sir.”

“I’ll find it,” the general said. He stalked from the room.

“Stick around,” Ben told Rosita.

“I intend to do just that, sir.”

Ben smiled at her. “Okay, gang. Let’s get back to the immediate problem.”

“Plague, Roanna?” Brighton asked, speaking from his offices in Chicago.

“Yes, sir. That’s definitely confirmed. And it’s bad.”

“And Raines knew it and was sitting on it? Keeping it from the public?”

“For the public’s good, Bob. You know that.”

“He’s ordered troops out?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Get on it. Bird-dog him and get the story.”

“Yes, sir.”

Senator William Carson was fleeing the city just as fast as he dared drive. The news of Representative Altamont’s death had stunned him, then shocked him into action. That crazy woman from Ben Raines’s troops had cold-bloodedly shot down two agents and Altamont. Just killed them without even blinking—so he had heard, and the old man didn’t doubt it for a minute.

No one knew about his little cabin on the James River. His little hideaway where all the plans had been worked out.

But they hadn’t worked out. Bad luck all the way around. And now this damnable plague business.

Carson skirted one roadblock, picked up a secondary blacktop road, then turned down a gravel road, finally pulling up in front of his cabin. In the background, the James rolled on. It was a comforting sound and the old man stood for a moment in the cold air, listening to the rush of water. He went inside and built a small fire in the fireplace and went back into the cold darkening air for his luggage.

Something bit him on the right ankle and he slapped at it, missing whatever it was. Late-blooming red bug, probably, he thought.

He heated a can of soup for his dinner and sat down in an overstuffed chair. Within minutes, he dozed off, his last thoughts before falling asleep was wondering what that slight odor was in the cabin.

Had he looked behind the wood box he would have found out. A dead rat. And now the fleas had found something live to bite in the bulk of Senator William Carson. Of Vermont. Soon to be the late Senator William Carson. The late Senator from Vermont.

Bert LaPoint and his cameraman sat in the NBC van and looked at the dead city of Memphis. Neither man had any inclination whatsoever to leave the safety of the van. Both men had seen the huge rats scampering over the carcass of a cow, and the ugly bastards had shown no signs of fear at the van’s approach.

They had not had a radio on all day. Knew nothing of the terrible situation about to grip the nation in a hot infected hand.

They knew only that neither of them was about to get out of the van with those big ugly rats swarming all around them.

Tim Lewisson shot his tape from behind closed and locked doors, shooting through the glass. He looked at Bert. “I’m through. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

But the van wouldn’t start.

“Oh, shit!” Bert said. He slapped at his ankles as something began biting his skin. He noticed Bert doing the same. They both had been scratching at their ankles for a couple of hours.

Ever since arriving on the outskirts of Memphis.

“Well, we got food and water with us,” Tim said. “We just wait it out.”

They sure would.

Forever.

Jane Moore sat in her motel room in the now-deserted motel complex and wondered what her next move should be? Her Indian guide had not shown up that afternoon so she had elected to take a short nap. The nap had stretched into several hours. When she awakened, the motel was deserted.

It was… kind of eerie, she concluded.

She turned on the TV set and froze as the scenes and sounds reached her ears and eyes.

Plague.

Black Death.

And I am up here in Michigan chasing hobgoblins, she thought.

She sat down and listened to the solemn-faced commentator roll his tones off his tongue. When she had heard enough to convince her it all was true, she picked up the phone to call into Richmond.

But the phone was dead.

“Wonderful,” she muttered.

Well, she thought. I’m probably safer up here in the boondocks than I would be in the city, and I can’t get anywhere if there are roadblocks. So I guess I’m stuck.

She went into the cafe, fixed herself some dinner, and took it back to the room. She ate, watched TV for a while, then went to bed.

During the night, the fleas feasted.

“The White House is secure, sir,” Bob Mitchell informed Ben. “We flushed out two more rogue agents. Your people took them somewhere. I don’t know what they plan to do with them.”

“They’ve already done it,” Ben told him.

Mitchell decided he really didn’t want to know all the details.

He looked at Rosita. She smiled at him. Bob thought it wasn’t a very nice smile. He returned his gaze to the president. The man looked tired. Hell, no earthly reason why he shouldn’t look beat. He’d been going since about five o’clock this morning.

Ben glanced at his watch. Nine o’clock. And it was snowing, the flakes big and fat and wet and sticky. He was tired—weary to the bone. The tossing and turning of the previous night was telling on him. Dawn sat beside Rosita; Ben could not remember when she had arrived. After the crush of people in and out of his office all day and part of the evening, Ben could not adjust to the relative quiet that now prevailed around him.

Mitchell excused himself from the Oval Office. Ben acknowledged that with a smile of thanks and a nod of his head.

“Are you hungry, Ben?” Dawn asked.

He shook his head. “I haven’t eaten since…” He couldn’t remember. “But, no, I’m not hungry.”

“You need something,” she said, standing. “I’ll get some sandwiches sent up.”

Ben nodded absently. From all reports—and the slips of paper filled his desk to overflowing—the nation was going to hell in a bucket, the citizens working themselves into a raging panic. New reports of the plague were popping up hourly, and the cities were especially hard hit.

An aide stuck his head inside the office. “Mr. President? The people in the cities are rioting. We have many reports of looting and burning—to mention just a few of the events occurring. Many are trying to rush the troop barricades; the troops are repelling them with tear gas. But they don’t know how long they can continue doing that. And Doctor Lane says the people must be contained; not allowed to leave and wander the countryside.”

“Exactly what are you trying to say, Sam?” Ben looked at the young man.

The young man paused, gulped, took a deep breath, and plunged onward. “The Joint Chiefs say the decision to use live ammunition must come from you, sir. And Doctor Lane says if we can keep the people contained, we have a chance of at least some of the population surviving.”

“The buck stops here,” Ben muttered.

“Beg pardon, sir?”

Ben glanced at the aide, thinking: The kid’s about thirty years old—what the hell would he know about Harry?

Ben suddenly felt his age hit him. He shook the feeling off and stood up.

“Tell the troops to maintain their use of gas to contain the civilians. I’ll… have a decision by morning as to the use of deadly force.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dawn placed a tray of sandwiches on Ben’s desk. He picked one up and nibbled on it. Then began taking huge bites as his hunger surfaced. He ate three sandwiches and drank two large glasses of milk before his hunger was appeased.

Another aide entered the office and quietly placed several notes on Ben’s desk. He left without saying a word.

Ben scanned the notes. More cases of Black Death reported. The civilians had overpowered one troop perimeter and several thousand had fled the city of Wichita, moving into the countryside. The same thing had happened in Sarasota.

He leaned back in his chair, knowing in his guts the battle was lost. It had been a puny, futile gesture from the outset: not enough troops to cover all the cities.

Hell, he couldn’t blame the people. They wanted to survive.

His phone buzzed. Doctor Lane.

“Chicago’s gone berserk,” the doctor said. “Civilians overpowering the troop lines. We didn’t get five percent of the city inoculated. The inner city has gone wild with looting and burning and God only knows what else.”

“Tell your people to stay with it,” Ben ordered. “Pop anyone who has the sense to come in. We…”

“I don’t have any people left in Chicago,” the doctor said, his voice husky from strain and exhaustion and frustration. “The stations we set up have been destroyed, the medics and nurses and doctors manning them killed. Same thing is happening in a dozen other cities.”

The end, Ben thought. After all this nation has endured, that pale creature with the hooded face and the scythe is going to do us in with the help of a fucking flea.

“Have all your people withdraw from their stations,” Ben ordered. “Take all their equipment with them. Withdraw to the countryside and set up there. Have them get sidearms and automatic weapons from the military. I’ll pass that order down the line. I don’t want any heroics out of this. Protect themselves; shoot to kill. Is that understood, Harrison?”

“Yes, sir. But I don’t know if my people can or will do that.”

“They’ll do it or die. That’s how simple it is, Doctor Lane. In the end, it all comes down to survival.”

“Yes, sir,” the doctor said, bitterness evident in his voice. He hung up.

Ben got the Joint Chiefs on the line. “Order your troops away from the cities,” he told the chairman. “Have them withdraw to the nearest bases and set up security around those bases. No one enters unless they have proof of inoculation. Shoot to kill.”

“It’s come to that?”

“Yes, Admiral, it has.”

“The end?”

“We are rapidly approaching the final chapter, Admiral. Whether there will be a sequel remains to be seen.”

“I used to enjoy the hell out of your books, Mr. President. I still have all of them; reread them from time to time.”

“I wish I was still writing them, Admiral.”

“Yes, sir. Good luck, sir.”

“The same to you men.”

Ben broke the connection.

Sam stuck his head into the office. “Sir. We have reports of a small atomic device just detonated in Central Iowa. General Rimel is dead. He went up with the device.”

Ben looked at Dawn and Rosita. “Death. Pestilence. Plague. I wonder when the locusts are coming?”

TWO

Richmond was burning.

Ben stood in the bedroom of his private quarters and watched the first flames lick at the white-dotted air. He was dressed in field clothes, his feet in jump boots. He wore a .45 belted at his side. His old Thompson lay on a nearby table, the canvas clip-pouch full of thirty-round clips.

He turned as James Riverson stepped into the room. Steve Mailer was with him; several other Rebels. All were dressed in battle clothes, armed with M-16s.

Ben had slept for several hours, his aides taking the ever-grimmer messages from the field. The situation had been worsening hourly: the nation was in a panic, people fleeing in a blind stampede of crushing humanity, rolling over anyone who stood in their way. Young, old, male, female—it made no difference.

And none of them realized they were racing straight into hell, away from the vaccines and medicines that could possibly save them. It was a grim replay of the events of 1988, just hours preceding the first wave of missiles.

“Fools,” Ben muttered. “Blind panicky fools.”

He turned to the men and women he had known and trusted for years.

“Anyone get hold of Hector?”

“He’s on his way to the Tri-States,” Rosita said. “We’re pulling all our people in, muy pronto. They will leave their vehicles at the border and walk across the sprayed zone into Tri-States.”

“How many of our people have we lost—that anyone knows of?”

“Bobby Hamilton and Jimmy Brady bought it,” Cecil said, stepping into Ben’s quarters. “Carla Allen made it out; she’s with the first contingent to leave our base camp. They’re rolling. Ike and Dan and all their people made it across the borders. Lynne Hoffman, Tina, and Judy Fowler left with the second convoy. The third convoy should be pulling out within the hour.”

Bob Mitchell stepped into the room. The first tint of ashen light was appearing in the east. “We’d better get out of here, Mr. President,” he said. “The rioters and looters are getting closer.”

“Got your wife and family, Bob?” Ben asked.

“Yes, sir. But I feel like a traitor pulling out while so many are stuck.”

“Don’t feel that way, Bob. I’ll tell you like I told Doctor Lane: it all comes down to survival. How about the other fellows?”

“A few are going with us. Most said they’d take their chances in the timber. I wished them good luck.”

“They’ll need it,” Ben said tersely. He looked at the small group. “Everybody been needle-popped and got their pockets stuffed with oral medication?”

All had.

Sam came running into the quarters. He paused for a moment to catch his breath. “Sir! Mobs just hit the airfield. Most of the planes have been destroyed or damaged. We won’t be flying out.”

If the news affected Ben, he did not show it. He picked up his Thompson and jacked a round into the chamber, putting the weapon on safety.

“No reason why we should expect our luck to change at this date,” he said. “I think our best bet will be trucks and buses. We’ll fill some tankers with gasoline and diesel; won’t have to risk pulling off the road. There is a truck-and-bus terminal just on the outskirts of the city.” He looked at Riverson. “James, you take some people and get out there. Pick the best ones of the lot. Make sure the floors and sides are in good shape. We’ll reinforce them with sheet metal if necessary.”

The big ex-truck driver from Missouri nodded his understanding and left.

Ben looked at Cecil. “How many of our people were staying, flying out with us?”

“One company, Ben. They’re downstairs.”

“Let’s roll it.”

On the morning the United States of America began to die, one hundred of the richest men and women in America were being bussed to various airports around the nation, all heading for one central location: a long-abandoned Air Force base in West Texas. There, four 747s were being made ready for flight.

Only the best of food and drink were carefully being loaded aboard the huge jets. Copies of the best movies spanning fifty years. Books of the best and most famous authors (although the latter does not necessarily symbolize the former), were lovingly and carefully packed away and stored in compartments.

Behind the big 747s, two dozen transports were being loaded with almost anything anyone could imagine for luxury living: portable generators, air conditioners, mink and sable coats, crates of bottled water (Perrier, of course), wines and liqueurs and whiskey. The sweating men loaded grand pianos, fine china and crystal, crates of gold and silver and cases of precious gems and boxes of paintings.

Then came the children of the rich; the special friends of the rich; the servants of the rich; the bodyguards of the rich; and finally, the rich.

They were jubilant. They had made it. These rich men and women (many of whom had not paid a dime’s worth of personal income tax in years, due to what is commonly known as the world’s most inequitable tax system ever devised, thank Congress for that) were going to live!

They were going to sparsely populated and untouched by germ or nuclear warfare areas of the world. There, with their wealth intact, they would live out their days.

And the manicured, pedicured, coiffured, diamond-hung ladies brought their poodles with them.

And the poodles brought fleas.

And had they been very quick of eye, the rich might have noticed the scurrying of creatures darting under the planes, leaping into open cargo doors. But they didn’t see them.

The doors were slammed shut and the planes roared off into the cold blue, leaving the workmen on the ground. Who needs ‘em?

So, amid the clinking of champagne glasses and the tinkling of lounge pianos (every court needs a jester), the rich roared away.

Carrying into areas, which might have been spared the plague, fifty-eight huge mutant rats and about ten thousand fleas.

And the plague, known in its pure form as the Black Death, spread.

Worldwide.

As thick, greasy smoke lifted up into the snowy skies over Richmond, Ben and his party stood in the deserted terminal and picked their vehicles. Fronting the column would be a pickup with a covered bed, twin-M-60s sticking out the front of the rear. The same type of vehicle would be at the rear of the column. In the center of the column, two new Greyhound buses the company had ordered and never picked up. Ben would be in a pickup truck directly behind the lead vehicle with Cecil in a vehicle at the rear of the column, the distance deliberately wide to prevent both of them from being killed in the same attack. If any.

Two tankers were spaced front and rear. Trucks with bottled water and food also widely separated. Communications people worked feverishly installing radios in all the vehicles.

A hard burst of gunfire spun the Rebels around, weapons at the ready. A mob was trying to break in and climb over the high chain-link fence surrounding the terminal. The first dozen to try now lay in bloody piles on the snowy blacktop.

Ben looked at the two women who had volunteered to look after the twins: the wife of Bob Mitchell and the wife of another agent. He smiled at them, silently calming the ladies.

“Get in the buses,” he told them. “All of you not needed out here, in the buses and trucks. Get ready to pull out.”

A bullet whined off the brick of the building, another one a half second behind the first.

“You coward!” a woman shrieked at Ben. “You’re deserting us when we need you. Filthy cowardly bastard.”

Ben had neither the time nor the inclination to tell the hysterical woman he was not deserting them; he would attempt to run things from within the borders of the Tri-States. If they could get there. And if there was a country to run if they did make it safely.

When Ben spoke, his words were delivered as coldly as the air whistling around the terminal. “Captain Seymour? The next person who fires a weapon at this terminal, open fire on that mob and don’t stop shooting until they are all down. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.” He barked an order and his personnel dropped down into a kneeling firing position, M-16s on full auto, pointed at the crowd of looters, many of whom were armed.

The mob wanted no part of these Rebels. They had all heard what type of fighters they were, and to a person knew they would not hesitate to shoot.

The mob slowly broke up, drifting into the early morning air, now murky from the burning city.

Ben looked at Cecil. “Where’s Doctor Lane? I told him to meet us here.”

“He went out in the field,” Cecil replied. “Said if he got lucky, he’d meet us in Tri-States.”

“Damn fool,” Ben replied his breath smoky in the coldness. “I don’t think he’s ever even fired a weapon. Okay. If that’s how he wants it. Let’s roll, Cec.”

He turned as a car crunched to a halt in the snow. A woman stepped out. She wore jeans and boots and a hiplength leather jacket. She carried a small leather suitcase.

Roanna Hickman.

“Got room for an unemployed reporter, Mr. President?” she called.

“Come on,” Ben returned the shout. When she drew closer, he asked, “Why are you unemployed?”

“The central offices in Chicago were firebombed last night,” she replied. “Brighton and all the others are dead. I don’t know where my staff got off to. Probably trying to survive. I figure if anybody is going to make it out of this in one piece, it’ll be you and your people.”

Ben nodded. “Have you been inoculated, Roanna?”

“Yes.”

“Your card, please.”

Her eyes were flint-hard as she handed him the slip of paper signed by a Navy corpsman, indicating she had received the proper dosage of medicines. Ben handed the paper back to her.

“What if I hadn’t been inoculated, Ben Raines?” she asked.

“You wouldn’t be allowed to accompany us.”

“Suppose I tried to force my way on one of the buses or trucks?”

“We’d shoot you,” he said without hesitation.

She handed her bag to a Rebel and he stowed it in the luggage compartment of a bus.

“Like I said,” Roanna spoke with a smile on her lips. “If anybody’s going to make it, it’s you people. You’re a real hard-ass, General-President Raines.”

“I’m a survivor, Ms. Hickman. Get on board.”

By noon of the first full day of looting, rioting, and general panic on the part of American citizens, there was not one city that had not been touched in some way by the swelling tide of panic-driven men and women. Fires, mainly unattended by skeleton crews of firemen, licked at the skies over the nation. A smoky haze hung over much of the land surrounding the cities.

Acts of appalling atrocities committed by humans against humans became commonplace as the only thought in the minds of millions was survival at all costs. And the opinion soon became widespread and firm that there is no God; He would not have permitted this. Not something this horrible. Not twice in little more than ten years. That was inconceivable. For wasn’t God supposed to be a compassionate God? That’s what everyone had been taught.

And as social anthropologists had predicted, their writings leaped from the pages of books and became reality. Many had written that if a nation suffered major catastrophes so horrible as to permanently scar the minds of the survivors, searing the minds numb, civilization would fall in a collapsing heap of myths and demagogic cults.

Back to the caves, in other words.

By dusk of the first day, robed pseudo-religious men and women were gathering frightened people around them, preaching that their way was the only way to be saved: follow me and I will light your way. Reject God, for just look at what His myth has wrought.

Panicked people were grasping at straws floating on dark waters; ready to believe anything or anyone with a ring of authority in their voices told them.

And many were speaking; many more were listening. Little cults were forming; most gone in two or three days, the leaders and followers dead of the plague.

A few survived.

By noon of the second day, the medicines ran out and time began running out for the nation, then the continent, finally the world as the death spread its pus-filled arms to encompass the granite planet called Earth.

THREE

Ben had elected to take the northern route toward the Tri-States. The day found the small convoy in southern Ohio. They had avoided the major highways and Interstates, staying with the secondary roads as much as possible.

“We’ve got to avoid the cities,” Ben told the driver of the lead truck. He pointed. “Look at that haze in the sky.”

Although they were sixty miles south of Dayton and about sixty miles east of Cincinnati, the sky was dark with smoke from the raging fires the looters and burners had set.

Ben found Captain Seymour. “Break out the gas masks,” he told him. “And tell the people to keep them handy. I have a hunch the stench is going to get rough from here on in.”

“Third day?” the captain said.

“Yes. People are going to be dropping like dead flies. Or fleas,” he amended that dryly.

They were parked in a huge deserted parking area of a shopping mall. All were grimy and becoming a bit odorous from lack of bathing.

“I really hate to bring this up, General,” Rosita said. Her head did not quite reach Ben’s shoulder. “But we are going to have to bathe, if not for the sake of our noses, for health reasons.”

“I know,” Ben said, grinning down at the feisty petite lady. He looked at Captain Seymour. “Captain, send some troopers over to that hardware store in the mall. Get all the sprayers and flea-killing chemicals your people can find.”

“Yes, sir.”

The men were back in half an hour, loaded down with pesticides and sprayers.

“I’m not going to order anyone to do this,” Ben said. “This is volunteer all the way. I’d like for a party of six to scout one day ahead of us. Find a small motel that is located away from any town area, and spray it down. Put a controlled burn on any vegetation surrounding the complex, then radio back to us when that’s done.”

A hundred men and women stepped forward.

Ben laughed. “Pick your people, Captain.”

“Radio message, sir,” a runner handed Ben a slip of paper, then stood by for a reply, if any.

“Plague has hit the military bases,” Ben told his people. “This is from General Pieston. His doctors believe the last few batches of medicines were somehow tainted, ineffective. He is the only one of the Joint Chiefs left alive, and this communiqué says he is very ill. The plague is now touching all continents around the world. He further states as his last act, he is dissolving the government of the United States and absolving me of any and all blame for the crisis.” Ben looked around him. “We no longer have a government.”

Now was the beginning of nothing for the people of what had once been the most powerful nation on the face of the earth. Now was what revolutionary anarchists dream of: no constituted forms and institutions of society and government, and no purpose of establishing any other system of order.

Chaos. Confusion. Violence. Death. Rape. Torture. Burning. Looting. Stealing.

Have a ball, folks, ‘cause this is all there is and when this is all used up, there ain’t no more.

And as happened back in ‘88, after the bombings that ravaged the world, the prisoners in jails and prisons died a horrible death. Left to die, forgotten men and women. The sick and the elderly, in hospitals and nursing homes called out for help—but their pleas fell on empty halls and echoed back to them in a mocking sneering voice. And the old and the sick died as they had been forced to live: alone.

But there has never been a total wipeout of all civilization (Noah had some folks around him). It seems that some survive no matter what disaster befalls others around them. Thugs and trash and street slime seem to band together in any crisis situation, pulled together like metal shavings to a magnet. Or like blow flies to a piece of dog shit. Whatever suits the readers’ fancy. Realists usually choose the latter.

So while semi and pseudo-religious men and women were gathering their dubious flocks around them, the thugs and punks and slime came together, roaming the countryside, preying on the weaker.

They weren’t afraid; they knew the government of the United States had, for years, either through the blathering of elected liberals or mumbling from the mouths of the high courts, legislated and legaled away the right of citizens to take a human life in defense of personal property and/or self/loved ones. The citizens of America had viewed the innocuous bullshit emanating from TV for years, burning its messages into the brains of the viewers.

“Take the keys from your car—always. Don’t let a good boy go bad.”

(Good boys don’t steal cars, folks. Punks and pricks and dickheads and street slime steal cars.)

“Guns are awful, terrible things. No one should be allowed to own a gun.”

In a recent survey (1982), the survey showed 1,900 deaths from accidental shootings as compared to almost 12,000 deaths from falling off ladders and slipping in bathtubs. Anybody for banning bathtubs?

(More people died from accidentally inhaling poisonous gas than from accidental shootings. As a matter of act, more people died from almost anything other than accidental shootings.)

All people are wonderful! There is no such thing as a bad person. When confronted by those fellows that society has rejected (it’s always society’s fault), even if they have slit your wife’s throat and are taking turns gang-banging your daughter on the den floor—never, never shoot first! That’s a no-no. One simply has to respect the constitutional rights of punks.

(Uh-huh. Sure.)

Criminals know all this. They know the American public is easy prey because of all the liberal and legalistic claptrap the law-abiding citizens have been bombarded with for two generations. The average citizen will not shoot first because he’s seen what happened to those who did.

They were sued and/or put in jail.

For protecting what was rightfully theirs.

It is easy to talk of protecting one’s self or loved ones. Fun to pop away at paper targets with a pistol or rifle.

Paper targets don’t shoot back.

Ninety percent of the American citizens have been so mentally conditioned as to the dire consequences that will befall them should they take a human life—even if their own life is threatened—they can’t do it.

Easy prey.

Of course, those folks that turned to a life of crime because:

—“The homecoming queen wouldn’t dance with them…”

—“They had pimples…”

—“They were poor…”

—“They were black…”

—“They were white…”

—“They didn’t make the football team…”

—“Nobody liked them…” (probably because there was nothing about them to like)

—“The teacher picked on them…”

—“The coach made fun of them…” (that might have more than a modicum of merit)

And all the other shopworn and clichéd excuses… hadn’t counted on running into Ben Raines and his well-trained and disciplined Rebels.

The key to survival and success in any personal endeavor is contained in the above sentence.

The convoy rolled slowly westward, and the stench, as Ben had predicted, worsened.

Ben’s scouts had found a motel just east of Richmond, Indiana, just before Interstate 70 and Highway 35 connected. The rooms had been sprayed, the area around the motel burned and sprayed. Towels and bed linens were washed and dried in high heat, the kitchen area cleaned and disinfected, cooking utensils and silverware boiled before use. Water heaters were turned on as high as they could be adjusted and the lines cleaned before anyone was allowed to bathe. Ben would not allow the drinking of the water until it had been purified and tested.

At noon of the fourth day, Ben told his people, “Okay, folks. We get to spend a few days sleeping in real beds and taking baths.”

The cheer that followed that would have put a major pep rally to shame.

Ben picked a small lower-floor room and allowed himself to luxuriate a few moments longer than was necessary under the hot spray, soaping himself several times, washing his short-cropped hair, sprinkled generously with gray among the dark brown.

He dressed in tiger-stripe and jump boots and walked to the restaurant, choosing a table set apart from the main dining area.

There, he enjoyed and lingered over a good cup of fresh-brewed coffee.

“Something to eat, General?”

“Not just yet, thank you. I’ll eat when the others do.”

The young man’s eyes flicked briefly to the old Thompson SMG leaning against a wall beside Ben’s table. Lots of talk about that old weapon, the young Rebel thought—and more about the man who carried it.

Most of the young people among the Rebel ranks viewed the man as somewhere between human and god. And the very young stood somewhere between awe and fear of the man. He had heard his own little brother, saying his prayers at bedtime, always mention God and General Raines in the same breath.

The young Rebel didn’t see a thing wrong with that.

He wondered if General Raines knew how most of his people felt about him. He decided the general did not. He wondered what the general’s reaction would be when he found out?

Back behind the serving line, the young man met the eyes of his girlfriend. “It’s funny, you know, Becky? I mean, it’s really—I get the strangest feeling being close to the general. You know what I mean?”

“He scares me,” Becky admitted. But what she would not admit, not to anybody, was the other feeling she experienced when thinking about General Raines.

For one thing, her boyfriend might never speak to her again if she told him the truth.

“Scares you? Why?”

“Well—you know how talk gets around,” she spoke in a whisper, as if afraid Ben would hear her and punish her in some manner. “You know he’s been shot fifty times, blown up three or four, and stabbed several times. He won’t die.”

“No!”

“It’s true,” a young man said from the serving line. “My brother was serving directly in his command the night General Raines’s own brother tried to kill him back in Tri-States. He said Carl Raines emptied an M-16 into the general. But it didn’t kill him. The general just walked away from it.”

“My God!” another young Rebel spoke.

“That’s what I think he is,” Becky spoke the words that made legends. “A god.”

How hated Ben’s system of government was did not come home to the people of Tri-States until late fall of the first year. Ben had stepped outside of his home for a breath of the cold, clean air of night. Juno, the big malamute, was with him, and together they walked from the house around to the front. When Juno growled, Ben went into a crouch, and that saved his life. Automatic-weapon fire spider-webbed the windshield of his pickup truck, the slugs hitting and ricocheting off the metal, sparking the night. Ben jerked open the door, punched open the glove box, and grabbed a pistol. He fired at a dark shape running across the yard, then at another. Both went down, screaming in pain.

A man stepped from the shadows of the house and opened fire just as Ben hit the ground. Lights were popping on all over the street, men with rifles in their hands appearing on the lawns.

Ben felt a slug slam into his hip, knocking him to one side, spinning him around, the lead traveling down his leg, exiting just above his knee. He pulled himself to one knee and leveled the 9mm, triggering off three rounds into the dark form by the side of his house. The man went down, the rifle dropping from his hands.

Ben pulled himself up, his leg and hip throbbing from the shock of the wounds. He leaned against the truck just as help reached him.

“Get the medics!” a man shouted. “Governor’s been shot.”

“Help me over to that man,” Ben said. “He looks familiar.”

Standing over the fallen would-be assassin, Ben saw where his shots had gone: two in the stomach, one in the chest. The man was splattered with blood and dying. He coughed and spat at Ben.

“Goddamned nigger-lovin’ scum,” he said. He closed his eyes, shivered in the convulsions of pain; then died.

Ben stood for a time, leaning against the side of the house. Salina came to him, putting her arms around him as the wailing of ambulances drew louder. “Do you know him, Ben?” she asked.

“I used to,” Ben’s reply was sad. “He was my brother.”

Rosita had no such fear of the man. She knew he was quite a man, but still a man. She marched up to his table and sat down after drawing a mug of coffee from the urn.

Ben smiled at her. Something about this tough-acting very pretty young woman appealed to him. Her green Irish eyes searched his face.

“Something on your mind, Rosita?”

"Quizas."

“My Spanish is nil, Rosita.”

“Maybe.”

“So speak.”

“Is that a command from on high?”

Ben laughed at her. “You remember a comedian named Rodney Dangerfield, Rosita?”

“No.”

“Then you won’t understand the joke. Come on, what’s on your mind?”

“Forget it. It’s none of my business.”

“Let’s have it, short-stuff.”

Her green eyes flashed. Danger or mischief was up to the receiver. “Dynamite comes in small packages, General.”

“I’m sure. But I don’t think that’s what you came over here to say.”

“The twins.”

“What about them?”

“We’ve been on the road for four days. You haven’t seen them one time.”

“You’re right, it’s none of your business. But… I don’t want to get too close to them. They will be going with their mother as soon as we reach home. She’s found herself a nice young man and that is how it should be. I don’t want to become attached and have to give them up.”

“Esta bien. That answers that. I don’t have to agree with it, but you’re right, it’s none of my business.” She wanted to tell him how many of his men and women felt about him—that she thought it a dangerous way of looking at the man. But she held her tongue about that. “Dawn cares for you,” she blurted.

“We’ve run our course. I think she knows that.” Ben signaled for more coffee and they were silent until the mugs were refilled.

With her eyes downcast, looking at the coffee mug, Rosita said, “The Spanish in me says no man should be without a woman.”

Ben said nothing, but she felt his eyes lingering on her.

“No big deal about it, General. No strings and no talk of forever—enamorado. And don’t get the idea I throw myself at every man that comes along.”

“I don’t feel that at all.”

“I… have high goals. Strutting peacocks and paper tigers do not impress me. But the nights are lonely.”

“I will agree with that. Rosita? I am damn near old enough to be your grandfather.”

Now her eyes did sparkle with mischief. “Afraid of me, General? Think I’m too much for you to handle?”

Ben opened his mouth to reply but was cut silent by a shout from the lobby.

“We got company, General. Looks like a bunch of thugs and hoods. I count half a dozen vans; ‘bout ten pickup trucks; half a dozen cars. They look to be all full.”

“Get troops in position, roof top and second floor,” Ben spoke calmly. He had not moved from his chair. “Ring the area—you all know the drill. Do it quickly.”

Rosita appraised him with cool green eyes. “Don’t you ever get excited, General?”

Ben picked up his Thompson and stood up. “Ask me that about nine o’clock tonight, short-stuff.”

She tossed her head. “I might do that.”

Ben chuckled and walked out of the dining room.

“Keep them outside the burn area,” Ben ordered his people. “If they try to cross it, shoot them.”

“Yes, sir,” Captain Seymour said.

“That’s Ben Raines,” the words drifted to Ben as he stood on the concrete parking area, facing the large crowd of dirty men and women. Several of them were scratching their legs and ankles.

But Ben knew any flea that attempted to cross the area that was first burned, then sprayed, would not make it. The area had been sprayed with a deadly flea-killer, laid down almost full-strength.

“So what?” a man said. He appeared to be the leader of the group.

The first man shrugged. “I just thought I’d tell you.”

“So you told me. Now shut up.” He looked at Ben, standing calmly across the charred area. “Mr. President without a country to preside over. How about us coming over and having some chow with you folks?”

“Not a chance,” Ben said.

“We might decide to come over anyways.”

“Your choice. We’ll give you a nice burial, that I can promise.”

“We ain’t made no hostile moves, Raines.”

“Nor have we. You and your people move on. Find another motel. You leave us alone, we leave you alone. That’s the best deal I’ll make.”

The man looked at the armed Rebels that stood with weapons at the ready. He swung his gaze back to Ben. “Looks like to me you got ‘bout as many cunts in your outfit as you have swingin’ dicks. I never seen a broad yet that knew anything about weapons. I think we got you outgunned.”

“Than that makes you a damn fool.”

“Nobody calls me that!”

“I just did,” Ben’s words were softly spoken, but with enough force to carry across the fifty feet of burned grass.

Several of the men shifted positions.

“The first man to raise a weapon,” Ben called. “Shoot him!”

“I don’t think you’ll do it,” the leader said.

“Then that makes you a damned fool twice.”

He grabbed for the pistol at his side.

Ben lifted the muzzle of the Thompson and blew the man backward, completely lifting him off his tennis shoe-clad feet and pushing him several feet backward.

A hundred M-16s, AK-47s, M-60 machine guns and sniper rifles opened fire. The men and women who made the mistake of trying Ben Raines and his Rebels died without firing a shot. They lay in crumpled heaps, the blood from their bodies staining the concrete, running off into the gutters and the ditches.

Ben ejected the clip from the Thompson and slapped a fresh one in its belly. “General Nathan Bedford Forrest put it as well as anyone, I imagine,” he said.

Rosita put a fresh clip in her M-16. “And what was that, General?”

Ben smiled at her. “’Git thar fustest with the mostest,’ is the way it’s usually repeated.”

“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

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 21^st-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.

There was no sense to any of it.

Ben said as much.

“Perhaps,” Rosita ventured, “those that did it do not possess sense as we know it?”

“What are you trying to say, Rosita?”

“I… don’t really know, Ben. And please don’t press me.”

“All right.”

Ben cut to the bridge and saw it was clear except for a few clumsily erected barricades. They looked as though they had been placed there by people without full use of their mental faculties.

Again, he said, as much aloud.

Rosita said nothing.

Ben radioed back to the main column. “Come on through to the bridge at Keokuk, Cec. But be careful.”

“I copy that. Ben? We just passed through a little town called Good Hope. It looked… what was it the kids used to call it? It looked like it had been trashed.”

“I know. Same with Hamilton. No sense to it.”

“We’ll be there as quickly as possible, Ben.”

“Ten-four.”

With guards on the bridge, east and west, Ben and the others cleared the bridge in a few minutes. Beneath them, the Mississippi River rolled and boiled and pounded its way south, the waters dark and angry-looking.

“They look like they hold secrets,” Rosita said, her eyes on the Big Muddy.

“I’m sure they do,” Ben put an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close.

They stood for a time, without speaking, content to be close and to look at the mighty flow of water.

“General?” one of his men called. “Look at this, sir, if you will.”

Ben and Rosita walked to where the man stood. Painted in white paint on the bridge floor, close to the railing, were these words:

It was unsigned.

“He was talking about the mutant rats,” Ben said. Rosita looked at him, eyes full of doubt. “I wonder what happened to the person who wrote this?” the man who discovered the message asked.

“He went over the side,” Rosita said.

“Probably,” Ben agreed.

No more was said of it until the column rolled onto the bridge. There, in the cold January winds, Ben told his people what had happened to the scouts.

Roanna stepped forward. “General? President? What the hell are you, now?”

Ben had to laugh at her reporter’s bluntness. “How about Ben?”

“I’ll keep it ‘General.’” She then told him of the AP messages and of her sending Jane to Michigan.

Ben was openly skeptical. “Mutant beings, Roanna? Are you serious?”

“Yes, I am. Same copy that told of mutant rats. Received the same night from AP.”

Ben shook his head in disbelief.

“It’s highly possible, Ben,” Cecil said, as the cold winds whipped around them. “I seem to recall hearing some doctor say after the initial wave of bombings that God alone would know what type of mutations the radiation would bring in animals and humans.”

When Ben finally spoke, his words were hard and firm. “Now I don’t want a lot of panic to come out of this. None of us know what happened to our scouts. They were killed. By what or whom, I don’t know. What I do know is this: we are going to make the Tri-States. Home, at least for a while. We’ve got rough country to travel, and we’ve been lucky so far. I expect some firefights before we get home. So all of us will stay alert.

“We’ll be traveling through some… wild country; country that has not been populated for more than a decade. It’s possible we’ll see some… things we aren’t… haven’t witnessed before. I hope not. But let’s be prepared for anything. When we do stop at motels, we’ll double the guards and stay alert. But I don’t want panic and talk of monsters. Let’s move out. We’ll stay on 196 all the way across northern Missouri.

“Let’s go, people.”

The column of survivors rolled into Missouri and continued westward.

Toward the Tri-States.

Home.

FIVE

The column rolled all the rest of that day and all that night, stopping only to fuel the vehicles. They angled south at Bethany and entered Kansas between St. Joseph and Kansas City. Kansas City had taken a small nuclear pop and would be “hot” for many centuries.

They wanted to avoid as much of Nebraska as possible, for that state had taken several strikes back in ‘88, and, like Kansas City, was hot.

They kept rolling, hitting heavier snow, and Ben kept pushing them westward.

They picked up Highway 36 and stayed with it until Ben finally called a halt in central Kansas. They had rolled almost five hundred miles and had not seen one living human being.

It was eerie.

The men and women were exhausted, for they had been forced to stop many times to push abandoned vehicles out of the road, to clear small bridges, and to backtrack when the road became impossible.

At a small motel complex, just large enough to accommodate them all—if they doubled and tripled up in the rooms—the tired band of survivors sprayed and boiled and washed and disinfected the area. They went to sleep without even eating.

When they awakened the next morning, after having slept a full twelve hours, they found themselves snowed in tight.

Ben was, as usual, the first one up and out of bed on the morning the silent snow locked them in. Blizzard or not, Ben knew a patrol had to be sent into town for kerosene to keep the heaters going.

Either that or freeze.

Before opening the motel door, to face the bitter cold and blowing snow and winds, Ben looked back at the sleeping beauty of Rosita.

Not much more than a child, he thought. A deadly child, he reminded himself, or Dan Gray would never have sent her out on her own, but still very young.

Bitter thoughts of his own age came to him. He shook them off. Thompson in hand, he stepped from the room, quietly closing the door behind him.

A sentry turned at the soft bootsteps in the snow. “Sir?”

“Get someone to put chains on my truck. I’m going into town.”

“Alone, sir!”

Ben looked at the young man for a moment. “Yes,” he said impetuously, suddenly weary of being constantly bird-dogged and watched and guarded.

Goddamn it, he had wandered this nation alone, traveling thousands of miles alone, back in ‘88 and ‘89. He didn’t need a nursemaid now.

Fifteen minutes later he was driving into the small town of Phillipsburg. He found a service station and pulled in. There, he found a half dozen 55-gallon drums of kerosene. He wondered how old they were. He pried the cap off one and stuck a rag into the liquid. Away from the drums, he lit the rag. The flame danced in the blowing snow.

He radioed back to the motel, telling the radioman where to find the kerosene and to send people in to get it. And to leave him alone.

He knew he was behaving foolishly; but Ben suddenly needed space—time alone. He drove slowly into the town, stopping on the main street and parking the truck. He got out and began walking.

The town was dead. Lifeless. Like all the others the convoy had rolled through. Dead dots on a once busy map.

He knew it had not always been so. For this was farming and ranching country, and he recalled back in ‘89 when he traveled through Kansas, telling people of President Hilton Logan’s plan to relocate the people. The people of this area, as well as most other farming areas, had simply refused to leave.

But now they had left.

At least their spirits had.

He pushed open the door of a drug store and stepped inside. He smiled as he noticed an old-fashioned soda fountain and counter. He sat down on a stool and looked at his reflection in the mirror. Memories came rushing back to him—forty-year-old memories. Cherry Cokes and Elvis Presley; peppermint lipstick and sock hops; young kisses, all full of passion and wanting-to-do-IT, but so afraid. Of drive-in movies and seeing entertainers performing on the tops of the concession stands. Narvel Felts and Joe Keene and Dale Hawkins…

and

that special girl.

What was her name?

My God! what an injustice—I can’t even remember her name.

Ben looked at his deeply tanned and lined face; the gray in his hair. Memories came in a rush, flooding and filling him.

“Let the Good Times Roll” sang Shirley & Lee.

But they will never roll again, Ben thought. Not for me.

I am growing old. But Rosita says I have fifty more years.

He shook his head.

I hope not.

Why? a silent voice asked. Why do you say that? Don’t you want to see this nation rebuilt and restore itself?

“It won’t,” Ben muttered. “No matter what I do—it will not happen.”

“What won’t?” a voice jarred him out of his reverie.

Ben almost ruptured himself spinning off the stool, the Thompson coming up, finger tightening on the trigger.

“Whoa!” the man shouted. “I’m harmless.”

The man looked to be in his mid to late sixties. A pleasant-appearing man.

“Who in the hell are you?” Ben asked, his heart slamming in his chest.

“My God!” the man whispered. “It’s President Raines.”

“No more,” Ben sat back on the stool. He continued holding the Thompson, the muzzle pointing at the floor. “The government has been dissolved.”

“So I heard,” the man replied. He smiled. “Relax, Mister Raines. I own this drug store. I’m a pharmacist. I don’t have the plague, I assure you. What drugs are you taking?”

Ben told him.

“Don’t overdo it; too much can kill as well as cure. The disease is tapering off now; but it will come back with a vengeance this spring or summer. Save what medications you have left until then.”

“I was hoping it had run its course.”

“It is a good way of describing the disease, Mister Raines. I have never heard of any disease moving quite as fast as this one did—or be so unresponsive to proper medication.”

“You’re the first living soul I’ve seen in seven hundred miles.”

The man smiled. “There are survivors, sir. Let me warn you of that. The thugs and hoodlums and filth are out and moving—doing what people of that particular ilk do. The decent folks are hiding, quietly getting together at night. You are alone—why?”

“I’m not alone,” Ben told him. “I’ve got a full company of troops staying at the motel. Are you the only survivor in this town?”

“No. There are about fifteen others.”

“You have plans?”

Again, that smile. “Of course. To live out our lives in peace and solitude and die quietly of old age.”

“Nothing more than that?”

The man shook his head. “Very little. Plant gardens in the spring, can the foods, and stay low, attracting no attention.”

“That’s what I was muttering. This nation will never climb out of the ashes—not wholly.”

“I’m afraid you’re right, sir. But,” he shrugged, “who knows. You did it once. Don’t you think you can do it again?”

“I don’t know. I intend to try.”

“Good luck.”

“Would you like to come with us?” Ben offered.

The man shook his head. “No. But I thank you for the offer.”

“Just give up, eh?” Ben needled the man.

“No, sir—that’s not it entirely. I… think I should like to live… well, free, I suppose is the right choice of words. I don’t have to lecture you as to the faults of big government.”

“But big government doesn’t necessarily have to be a bad government, uncaring and unfeeling.”

“This is true. But they almost always turn into that. Right?”

“That is true. But without some sort of organized society, a government, if you will, how can this nation ever become what it once was? Or even a semblance of what it once was?”

“It can’t, sir. But perhaps it’s time for that to occur. Have you given that any thought?”

“Quite a lot, I’m afraid.”

“And your conclusion?”

“I have to try.” Ben rose from the stool, turning toward the door just as several pickup trucks rattled to a tire-chained halt in front of the drug store.

The owner smiled.

“Why are you smiling?” Ben asked.

“Your people are fearful of you deserting them, Mister Raines.”

Ben walked out of the store without looking back. He faced a half dozen of his troops.

“Can’t I get off by myself every now and then?” Ben asked, his tone harsh.

“With all due respect, sir,” Captain Seymour said. “We’d rather you wouldn’t.”

“I don’t need a nanny, Captain.”

“No, sir,” the captain agreed. But neither he nor any of his people made any move to leave Ben alone.

“I see,” Ben said quietly, the words almost torn from his mouth by the cold winds that whipped down the littered main street.

Ben turned back to the storeowner, standing in the door of the drug store. “How’d you rid yourself of the rat problem?”

The man opened the door. “We didn’t. They just went away.”

“Where?”

The man shrugged his reply.

“Have you observed any other… well, things out of the ordinary?”

“I don’t follow you, sir.”

“Creatures,” Ben spoke the word.

The man shook his head. “Only those big rats. That’s creature enough for one lifetime, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes,” Ben said. “I wish you luck.”

“The same to you.”

The Rebels spent three days at the motel, waiting for a break in the weather. On the morning of the fourth day, the sun broke through the clouds and the temperature warmed, melting much of the snow and ice by mid-morning.

“Let’s roll it,” Ben said.

Three and a half hours later, the convoy rolled into Colorado and Ben halted them.

“I’m going to take a chance that 385 is clear up to Interstate 80 in the southwestern part of Nebraska. We’ll take that and roll it across Wyoming until we hit Highway 30. That’ll take us into Idaho. I don’t anticipate meeting any of our people until we get west of Pocatello. It’s five hundred miles to Rock Springs. That’s where we’ll take our next sleep break—providing all the roads are clear. You drive four hours, switch off with your partner. Let’s roll it, folks. We’re almost home and safe. Patrols out. Let’s go.”

Twenty-one long, tough hours later, the weary column pulled into a motel complex in Rock Springs.

Ike was waiting for them, with a grin on his face not much smaller than the western skies.

SIX

After six hours sleep, which was Ben’s normal time in bed, he showered, shaved, and walked down into the dining area for breakfast.

Ike’s people had prepared the motel for Ben and his column hours before the convoy arrived. Most of the weary survivors skipped food and went straight to bed.

Over bacon and eggs and a huge stack of flapjacks, Ben asked, “How’s it looking, Ike?”

“Fifty-eight hundred, Ben.”

Ben raised his eyes to those of his friend. “What the hell happened to the rest? We had more than ten thousand six months ago.”

“They just didn’t make it, partner. Word is still pretty sketchy, but from all reports, we lost a full battalion of people coming out of Georgia. We were in contact one day… next day, nothing. A couple of companies were ambushed up in Michigan. We lost a full platoon of people up in Wisconsin, and we don’t know what killed them.”

“What do you mean, Ike?”

“Just that, Ben. We don’t know what happened. The two people who survived died on the way here without ever regaining consciousness. They were… well… mangled all to hell and gone. I got the pictures if you got the stomach for it.”

Ben thought he knew what the pictures would reveal; that he had seen something very similar to it on a lonely windy highway in Illinois.

He said as much.

Ike toyed with his coffee cup. “And…?”

Ben slowly shook his head. “We deal with it if or when we see… whatever killed those people with our own eyes.”

Ike grunted softly. “Probably be best. Keep down horror stories, I reckon.”

The large dining room was quiet; only a few Rebels were up and about.

“Goin’ to be a pretty day,” Ike said. “Winds all died down. Jerre asked me to bring her babies to her soon as I could. I could have a chopper down here in an hour; take ‘em to her up in Twin Falls.”

“That’s a good idea, Ike. Why don’t you do that.”

“That’d give you time to look in on the babies and play with ‘em some.”

“I have no intention of doing that,” Ben spoke the words without emotion.

“I see,” his friend said after a few seconds had ticked past. “You’re a hard man, Ben. Knew that the first day I saw you, down in Florida. Sure you need to be this hard?”

“I’m sure.”

“All right.” Ike motioned for a uniformed young woman to come to the table. She rose from a table across the room and walked to where Ike and Ben sat.

“This is Lieutenant Mary Macklin, Ben.”

Ben looked into her eyes and nodded.

“Mary,” Ike said, “you get on the horn and call them ol’ boys up at whirly-bird country. Have one of ‘em bring Jerre down here—pick up her babies.”

“Yes, sir.” The young woman saluted and left.

Ben smiled. “Getting a little rigid on discipline, aren’t you, Ike?”

“That ain’t my idea,” the ex-SEAL replied glumly. “It’s hers. She was regular Army ‘til about six months ago. I can’t get that damned salutin’ out of her. Drives me up the wall.”

“Tell me how you have the people spread out, Ike.”

“I had them pulled in pretty tight at first, Ben. But even with that, we sprayed one hell of an area and burned even more. But the burn was all controlled and nothin’ got out of hand. Twins Falls down to the Nevada line, then across the top of Nevada and Utah to Interstate 15 then north to Pocatello. 15 and 80 is the northern line.” He grinned. “I kept folks right busy, wouldn’t you say?”

“You did all that since I called Lamar?”

Ike’s smile was tight. Controlled. “No. Doctor Chase suspected something was in the wind. Something about finding too many little furry critters dead. Half of it was done before I ever got here. Then when you called we really got jumpin.’”

Ben told him about his idea of shifting everyone to the southeastern U.S.

“Good plan. I was gonna bring that up to you; talked about it some to bunches of folk. They all agree it would be the best move.”

“I don’t want to stay here any longer than is absolutely necessary.”

“I know,” Ike’s reply was softly given. “Bad memories for me, too, friend.” He glanced at his watch. “Couple more hours, we’ll start rollin’ folks out of the sack and get this circus on the road. Sooner we get home the sooner y’all can get settled in for the winter. Then we can start makin’ some firm plans.”

Winter hit the high country with a mindless fury: high winds, blizzard conditions, and bitter cold. Most stayed in unless outside travel was imperative.

The first two weeks of February proved no better as far as the weather was concerned, and the Rebels began developing cabin fever. Ben organized dances and get-togethers and box suppers and card and bingo parties—anything to occupy the time.

Then the Chinooks began blowing in the third week of February, and the bitter cold and blizzard snows abated. It was not yet spring in the high country, but as Ike put it, “Damn sight better than the past six weeks, boy.”

Frayed nerves and high-strung tempers knitted and healed as plans for the massive move were formulated. Now people had something to do: rounding up and servicing hundreds of vehicles for the push south.

When Ben asked for volunteers to scout the area he had chosen as their new home, five thousand hands went up.

He sent three teams of them south. Stay in radio contact. Don’t take chances. For God’s sake, be careful.

“Southern part of Arkansas, north Louisiana, and central Mississippi,” Ben said, thumping the map. “That’s where we’ll call home.”

Ben turned to Doctor Chase. “Has the plague run its course?”

The man shook his white-maned head. “Typical layman’s question. How the hell do I know! I would say not. Fleas prefer rodents, but they’ll damn sure jump on a human. I would suggest sending teams to that area. Crop dusters, preferably, at first, to spray the outlined borders with insecticide and then put out aerial rat poison; and I mean really put it out all over the projected area. That’s what I’d do—you do what the hell you want to do.”

“Did anybody ever tell you that you’re a crotchety old bastard?” Ben said.

“Of course I am,” Doctor Chase replied. “If you don’t like it, go to another doctor.” He smiled sarcastically, plopped his hat on his head, and walked out.

“Navy doctors,” Ike said with a grin. “’Specially captains—strange bunch of people.” He looked at Ben. “Generals sometimes get that way, too—General.”

Jim Slater and Paul Green and a dozen other dusters headed for the new Tri-States. Transport planes had already flown in the chemicals to airports sprayed and burned by volunteers. The massive job was underway in both the northwest and the southwest parts of the ravaged nation.

“People in that area?” Ben asked the scouts.

“Damn few,” the voice crackled out of the speaker. “But I want to tell you sir, we have met some real squirrels coming down here—and here, as well.”

“Squirrels?”

“Cults popping up everywhere. You know, call themselves religions, but as far as I’m concerned, they are anything but that. Got one over in the Ouachita Mountains run by some nut name of Emil Hite. That’s the biggest one we’ve found. Jim Jones type of thing with a Manson mentality.”

“Any trouble with them?”

“Not since one of my people butt-stroked one of them and knocked out about a dozen teeth. After that, Hite decided to pull back into his hills and stayed there.”

“Rats?”

“A few, but the poison got most of them, I think. We found a lot of dead rats when we got here. Got a man joined up with us in Texas; used to be with the CDC. He says it appears to him the rats are dying of some inner infection of some sort. He’s set up a lab, of sorts, and is working out of that.”

“It’s going to take us a while to get there. Big problem of logistics.”

“We’ll be secure in two weeks here, General.”

“It’ll take us that long to get the first convoy there. I’ll see you in two weeks.”

“Roger, sir. Out.”

“Head ‘em up and move ‘em out time, Ben?” Ike asked. Ben’s eyes clouded, for a moment, he was flung back in time, back years, to just a few days after the bombings of 1988.

As the full impact of what had occurred came to rest with Ben, he drove the town and parish, looking for anyone left alive. On the second day, he found one—just one. Fran Piper.

She hated Ben and the feeling was certainly mutual. From the moment he got out of his truck after seeing her alone on the parish road, the conversation was less than cordial.

“Why, good morning, Mrs. Piper. What a surprise seeing you. Not a pleasure, but certainly a surprise.”

“Mr. Raines—you’re armed! I thought pistols had been outlawed for some time?”

“Yes, ma’am. Three years ago, I believe. Thanks to Hilton Logan and his bunch of misguided liberals. But be that as it may, ma’am, here I am, Ben Raines, at your service. That trashy Yankee writer of all those filthy fuck books, come to save your aristocratic ass from gettin’ pronged by all the slobbering rednecks that must surely be prowlin’ around the parish, just a-lustin’ for a crack at you, ma’am.”

“Raines,” she said, her eyes flashing hatred at him, “you just have to be the most despicable human being I have ever encountered, unfortunately. And if that was supposed to be Rhett Butler, you missed the boat.”

“Paddle-wheel, I’m sure.”

From that point on, the conversation was downhill all the way.

But Ben could not bring himself to leave the woman to fend for herself. She would not have survived alone.

“Well, you can come with me. No play on words intended.”

She rolled her eyes and off they went.

At one point in their wanderings about the parish, Fran had waved her hand, as if a scout with a wagon train.

“Head ‘em up and move ‘em out,” Ben had muttered.

She had stayed with Ben until Memphis. There, she had met Hilton Logan, a bachelor, and the two had hit it off. She eventually married the man and became the First Lady—although a lady she was most definitely not.

After the fall of Tri-States, Fran and one of her lovers had been shot to death by Ben’s Zero Squads.

Just at the moment of mutual climax.

The ultimate orgasm.

“Yes,” Ben brought himself back to the present. “Head ‘em up and move ‘em out.”

“Regrets, partner?”

“I don’t think we can afford regrets, Ike. I think we have to look forward, and not look back for a long time.”

“Well,” Ike stood up and slung his CAR-15. “Let’s get rollin.’ We sure got a ways to go.”

SEVEN

Wreckers and tow trucks and heavy-duty pickups with PTO winches on the front traveled a full day ahead of the main column, clearing the roads of stalled and abandoned vehicles.

The convoy, stretching for miles, left on Interstate 80, picked up Interstate 15, and took that down to south-central Utah. There, they intersected with Interstate 70 and pointed eastward, gently angling south when roads permitted.

It was slow going, the convoy lucky to maintain a 40 mph average—often less than that. Ben, almost always traveling alone, usually was miles ahead of the column. Oftentimes playing games with his guards, deliberately outdistancing them, losing them so he could have some time alone.

When Captain Seymour reported this to Ike and Cecil, both men could only shake their heads.

“Rosita’s not with him anymore?” Captain Gray asked.

“No,” Ike told him. “Ben says she’s too young. I’m worried about him, to speak frankly. He’s becoming more withdrawn.”

“Ben always has been somewhat of a loner,” Cecil said. “But the feeling the men and women have about him is disturbing to him—he told me that.”

“Leave him alone,” Jerre settled the discussion. “Ben is doing what Ben wants to do. He’s got a lot on his mind and this is his way of coping with it. Just leave him alone.” And that settled it.

Crossing over a mountain range, Ben pulled off the interstate and jammed his truck into four-wheel drive, climbing high above the interstate. On a crest, he parked, and squatted alone, watching the column crawling snakelike below.

If I had any sense, he thought, I would wait until the column is long past, get in my truck, and head west. But I would feel like Pilate if I did. Those little boys talking the other evening, when they thought no one could hear them (and God I wish I had not), talking of the general being a god. And those teenage boys and girls who joined them—they should have known better; should have corrected the younger ones immediately.

But they didn’t.

I am not a god. I am merely a man who is ten years past true middle age. Maybe I don’t feel it; some say I don’t look it, but it’s not good to attempt to alter the truth.

A god. Damn!

When did this start? Did it begin back in ‘88? If so, why didn’t I catch it then?

A god.

How to stop the talk? What to do? Anything? Yes—of course. Something must be done. But what? And how? Do I go to the parents and tell them what I heard? But according to other whispered conversations I have overheard and from the looks I have finally put together after being deaf, dumb, and blind for only the true God knows how long, many of the parents might share that foolish belief. If not to the extent of their kids, at least a bit.

Ben rose from his squat, very conscious he was not as young as he once was (the muscles in his calves were aching from the strain of the unfamiliar position), and walked slowly back to his truck. He had made up his mind: he would see the people located and settled, the society firmed up into a fair and productive existence for those who had placed their faith in him; and then he would, as the saying went, quietly fold his tents and slip away.

He hoped he would have the courage to do that when the time came.

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.

“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

“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.”

“I resent that,” Chase said. “But please continue, Ben. I’ll stand by to correct any misstatement you attribute to me.”

“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.”

Ben heard himself saying, “That’s a little strong, Lamar.” But he knew it wasn’t.

“Ben, I heard some little boys and girls talking the other day. They were talking about you being infallible. ‘You can’t die!’ they said. ‘You fought a monster and killed it.’ They talked about how many times you’ve been shot and hurt and blown up. And they have to get it from the parents.” He pointed to Ben’s old Thompson SMG. “And they constantly refer to you and that weapon as one and the same. Put it up, Ben. Retire that old Chicago Piano. Get yourself an AK or an M-10 or… anything. I mean it, Ben.”

This time around Ben could not believe it about his Thompson. His laugh was genuine. “Lamar, it’s just an object.”

Chase did not share in the humor. “So was, I believe,” he reminded Ben, “Baal.”

The killing of the mutant became a fading memory in the mind of Ben. It was something that had to be done, it was over, so don’t make a big deal of it.

And to him, it was not.

But to his followers, it remained vivid, much more so with each telling.

As summer drifted on, and much of the hard work was over, Ben became restless. He would find himself looking about, seeing nothing but images in his mind. Remembering his lonely but satisfying traveling and wandering of ‘88 and ‘89. And it filled him with longing.

Those whom he would allow close to him sensed this, but did not know what to do about it. Only the brash little Rosita had the courage to confront Ben.

“You walk around here looking like some stone-faced Mayan god, General. What’s the matter?”

He did his best to glare at her, but all she did was stick out her tongue at him and screw her face up into some awful-looking mask.

“That’s the way you look, Ben. You could make a living frightening little children.” She reached out and tickled him.

Ben laughed and playfully slapped her hands away. He looked around to see if anyone had observed this behavior—definitely out of character for him.

“Let’s take a trip, Rosita. Get the hell out of Dodge for a few days.”

“So where are we going, General?”

“Let’s see what Little Rock looks like.”

If Ben thought he and Rosita could slip off without company, he should have known better. He was reminding himself of that as the caravan pulled out early the next morning.

A full platoon of the Rebel army accompanied them. Guards to the rear, guards in front.

“No band?” Ben had sarcastically asked Ike.

“I always wanted to see Little Rock,” Ike sidestepped the question.

“Yeah, ol’ buddy,” Ben said. “I just bet.”

Little Rock was a dead city. Twelve years of neglect and looting had reduced it to blackened girders, stark against the backdrop of blue skies and burned-out buildings. Dead rats lay stinking in heaps on the streets.

Ben drove by a high school that looked somehow familiar to him. Then he remembered why. Troops had been sent to this high school back in the ‘50s, to integrate it.

He told Rosita as much.

She did not seem all that interested.

“Aren’t you interested in history, Rosita?” he asked.

She shrugged. “It don’t put pork chops on the table, Ben.”

“What?”

Her smile was sad. “Ben—I can’t read much.”

“Dear God,” Ben muttered. He glanced at her. “You must have been about eight when the bombs came. Right?”

“Nine.”

“How much schooling since then?”

“Plenty in the school of hard knocks.”

“Don’t be a smart-ass, short-stuff.”

“Not much, Ben. I read very slowly and skip over the big words.”

“You know anything at all about nouns, pronouns, adverbs—sentence construction?”

“No,” her reply was softly given.

“Then I will see that you learn how to read, Rosita,” Ben told her. “It’s imperative that everyone know how to read.”

“I’ve got by without it,” she replied defensively.

“What about your children?” Ben asked. “Damn it, short-stuff, this is what I’ve been trying to hammer into people’s heads. You people are make-or-break for civilization. I don’t know why you can’t see that.”

He stopped the truck in a part of the city that appeared to be relatively free of dead rodents. They got out and walked.

“So I and my niños can learn to make atomic bombs and again blow up the world, Ben? So we can read the formulas for making killing germs? I…”

“Heads up, General!” A Rebel called. “To your left.”

Ben and Rosita turned. Ben heard her sharp intake of breath.

"Dios mio!" she hissed.

The man approaching them, angling across the littered street was the man in her dreams. Bearded and robed and carrying a long staff.

He stopped in the middle of the street, and Ben looked into the wildest eyes he had ever witnessed.

And the thought came to him, the oldest.

“My God,” someone said. “It’s Moses.”

A small patrol started toward the man. He held up a warning hand. “Stay away, ye soldiers of a false god.”

“It is Moses,” a woman muttered.

Ben continued to stare at the man. And be stared at in return.

“I hope not,” Ben said, only half in jest. Something about the man was disturbing. “Are you all right?” he called to the robed man. “We have food we’ll share with you.”

“I want nothing from you.” The man stabbed a long staff against the broken concrete of the street. He swung his dark piercing eyes to the Rebels gathering around Ben. “Your worshipping of a false god is offensive.” He turned and walked away.

Rosita stood in mild shock.

“I tell y’all what,” a Rebel said. “This place is beginning to spook me. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

The sounds of gunfire spun them around. A radio mounted on a Jeep began crackling. “Echo One to Recon.”

“This is recon,” the driver said. “Go ahead.”

Explosions sent clouds of dust in the air, the blasts coming from a building several blocks away.

“…pocket of mutants,” the radio crackled. “We got them. Y’all better get hold of the general; he’ll want to see this.”

“A family of them?” Ben asked. “A unit?”

“Right in there, sir,” the Rebel pointed to the still-smoking basement area. “We didn’t start it, sir,” the young man said. “We spotted one of ‘em and saw where it ran. Then we pulled our vehicles across the street and called for ‘em to come out.” He held up a crudely made spear with a knife attached to the end of it. He showed Ben an arrow, with a piece of chipped stone as the point. “After we got these, we opened fire.”

Ben nodded. But his mind was racing. Is this what we have come to? he silently questioned. After walking on the moon and all our high-technology and life-saving medical advances… is this it? Are we really going back to the caves or is there still enough fire in the ashes to rekindle the flame of advancement?

He sighed. “All right. Let’s take a look.”

James Riverson stepped in front of Ben. “I’ll go first,” he said.

Ben looked at Rosita. Her face was pale and her hands were shaky.

From what? Ben wondered.

They made their approach cautiously; but their prudence was unnecessary. The gunfire and grenades had killed the basement apartment of mutants. All but one.

“It’s a baby,” a woman said. She looked closer. “At least I think it’s a baby.”

The deformed infant hissed and snapped at the humans.

“Watch those teeth,” Ben warned. “There is enough in that mouth for a piranha.”

When a Rebel reached down to take the infant, he jerked back his hand just a split second before the flashing teeth would have closed on his hand.

“What the hell do we do with it?” someone asked.

No one knew, and no one would suggest what was on everybody’s mind. No one except Ben.

“No,” he said. They all turned, looking at him. “It’s just a baby—I think. Doesn’t make any difference what kind of baby. Unless and until we see it presents some clear danger, it lives.”

The object—no one would venture a guess as to its age—was grotesquely ugly, hideously deformed. A huge head with jutting animal-like lower jaw, fanged teeth, hairy body, human hands and feet. Blond hair, blue eyes.

“It’s kinda cute,” Jane Dolbeau said. Another survivor from the assault against Tri-States, the Canadian had been quietly and passionately in love with Ben for years. Everybody knew it. Everyone except for Ben.

“So is a Tasmanian devil,” Ben said. “But I don’t want one for a pet. Get a medic to knock it out with drugs. We’ll take it back to Chase.”

“Here comes nutsy,” a Rebel said.

“Who?” Ben looked up.

“Moses,” James said. “Some nut with a robe and staff.”

“No jug of wine and loaf of bread?” Ike grinned.

They all groaned at that.

The robed man appeared at the shattered door. He pointed his staff at the mutant. “Look at it,” he spoke quietly. “See what happens when God’s word is abused and scorned.”

“Who the hell are you?” Ben asked. “And what the hell are you?”

“I am what you see before you. I am called The Prophet.”

“And I’m Johnny Carson,” a Rebel muttered.

The robed and bearded man pointed his staff at Ben. “Your life will be long and strife-filled. You will sire many children, and in the end, none of your dreams will become reality. I have spoken with God, and He has sent me to tell you these things. You are as He to your people, and soon—in your measurement of time—many more will come to believe it. But recall His words: No false gods before me.” The old man’s eyes seemed to burn into Ben’s head. “It will not be your fault, but it will lie on your head.”

He turned away, walking out into the street.

The Rebels stood in silence for a full moment; no one knew what to say.

A Rebel stuck his head inside the shattered door. “Sure is quiet in here,” he said.

“What did you make of nutsy?” he was asked.

“Who?”

“The old guy with the robes and staff and beard.”

“I didn’t see anyone like that.”

“Well, where the hell have you been?”

“I been sittin’ outside in that damn Jeep ever since you people came in here. There ain’t been no old man wearing robes come near here. What have you people been doin’, smokin’ some old left-handed cigarettes?”

“Knock it off,” Ben said. “You people call for the medic and sedate that kid. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

Sergeant Buck Osgood and his men finally pulled in, and Ben asked what in the hell had taken them so long?

“I went back to my home in Arizona, General.” He gestured to the other men. “All of us are from the same area. We went back to find our folks.” He shrugged. “We buried them. Some old guy came along and spoke the right words over the grave.”

“Old guy?” Ben felt his guts tie up in knots.

“Yeah,” Buck said, lighting a cigarette. “Weird old guy. I think he must of been about half-cracked. Called himself The Prophet. Wore long robes and carried a big stick; like a shepherd from out of biblical times.”

Ben toyed with a pencil. “When did you see him, Buck?”

“Ah… last week.”

“In Arizona?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What date, Buck?”

“Ah… the ninth, sir.”

“Time, approximately?”

“’Bout noon, I reckon.”

“That’s the same date and time I saw him.”

“You were in Arizona on the ninth, sir?”

Ben looked the man in the eyes. “No, Buck. I was in Little Rock.”

NINE

The news of the man who called himself The Prophet being in two places at the same time was finally disregarded by Ben and a few of the others.

But most believed it, although they did not share that belief with Ben. But soon, as with all phenomena that appear once and never again, it was, for the most part, forgotten as the survivors began the task of forming a new government in the area that was once known as Arkansas, Louisiana, and Mississippi.

Ben settled in south Arkansas, not wanting to return to Louisiana; too many memories there, both good and bad. He settled on a small farm about seventy-five miles south of the ruins of Little Rock, on an old farm, and began working the land. He was late doing it, but he read some books on farming and decided it wouldn’t hurt to break the land this year and clear away any trees and brush that had grown up in the twelve-year hiatus.

That late summer, there were marriages among the Rebels: Ike married a lady named Sally; she had one little girl, Brandy. Jerre and Matt were married. Cecil married a lady that had been a State Department employee in Richmond. Margaret. Hector Ramos married. As did Steve Mailer and Judith Sparkman. Rosita announced she was pregnant, and Ben knew without any doubt he was the father.

The robed, bearded man’s words returned to him. He brushed him back into his memory vault and slammed the door.

Every Rebel knew the type of law Ben advocated, and there was no hassle about it. People knew what they had to do, and did it without being ordered to do so.

Ben knew that eventually he would have to deal with Sam Hartline and his army of mercenaries. But as long as Hartline stayed north, Ben would not make the first move.

Emil Hite and his cult stayed in the mountains of west central Arkansas and caused no trouble.

Yet.

The plague seemed to have run its course.

Very few outsiders attempted to enter the new Tri-States.

But they would come; Ben knew it. And knew he would have to fight for what freedoms his Rebels held dear.

But Ben found he loved the land. Loved the smell of new plowed ground, and itched for the planting season to arrive.

But somehow he knew he would never be allowed to live a quiet, uneventful life.

“El Presidente,” Ike said one afternoon when he drove out and met with Ben, “I have it in my mind that you are contemplating being a farmer. You are going to raise your turnips and peas and cabbage and to hell with governing those who followed you here—right?”

“Ike, I’m tired. I’m not a young man. I want out.”

But Ike shook his head. “No way, General. You seem to forget: the people elected you for life. They follow no one but you. So why don’t you just go on into town and find you a nice office; set up shop? All this was your idea, buddy.”

Ben stared at him.

Ike said, “I took the liberty of ordering you a car and driver. Young feller name of Buck Osgood. He’d be right pleased to be your driver and bodyguard. Like most folks, I reckon he kind of idolizes you.”

“I don’t want to be anyone’s idol, Ike.”

“Ben, I reckon it’s past the point of what you want. It’s what is good for the people who follow you that matters. And I think you know that.”

Ben looked around him. He sighed; took a deep breath. The aroma of freshly turned earth came to him. His gaze touched a hawk as it wheeled and soared high above them, its sharp eyes seeking prey.

“I guess somebody has to do it,” Ben said, kicking at a clod of dirt.

“No, Ben,” Ike gripped him by the shoulders. “If a productive society is to be built; if civilization is to endure… you have to do it.”