Out of the ashes, p.26
Out of the Ashes, page 26
Ben had told Salina all about Ike's career as a SEAL. She struggled against his bear hug, then gave up. “Turn me loose, you ... redneck aquatic freak!”
“Oh, I like her.” Ike grinned, turning her loose. Megan took her in tow and told her to pay her husband no mind. The salt water had corroded what little brain he had.
Ben and Salina spent two days with Ike and Megan, talking over plans to move west. Ike assured Ben he would do his part; his people had been busy securing trucks, gathering up everything to rebuild. They were ready to roll.
“Logan's people been back?” Ben asked.
“Be back next month, so my people say.”
“We'll be settling in by then.”
“You and Salina taking the point?”
“Leaving in the morning.”
“Radio back when you're ready for us.”
On the way west, Ben and Salina spent their first night at a lake on the border between Louisiana and Texas. Salina had never fished in her life, and Ben had a good time teaching her the rudiments. She caught a white perch, was finned trying to get it off the hook, and cussed—very unladylike.
She held out her hand to Ben. “Make it all better,” she said.
Ben poured iodine on the small cut. After she had finished her dance of pain, she shoved him in the lake and walked back up to the cabin, leaving him floundering and hollering.
Sitting on the dock, a blanket wrapped around him, Ben fished and cussed, caught a mess of perch, then cleaned them for supper.
It was peaceful on the lake as the sun was setting, bathing the water, creating hues that bounced off the shoreline. Salina sat a few feet from him, in a chaise longue. She wore a bikini that could have been stuffed into a cigarette package that still had room for a few smokes.
Leaning back in his own lounge, Ben studied her profile (and her curves, which were many and provocative) in the glow of fading sun. She was not a tall woman: five-four, she had told him. Her facial features were soft, delicate, her skin a gentle fawn color.
“Why are you staring at me?” she asked, turning her head, meeting his eyes.
“Because I like to look at you. You're a beautiful woman; surely you must be used to men staring at you?”
“What were you thinking as you looked? Be honest.”
Ben grinned.
“Sure,” she said dryly. “That. Of course.”
“Among other things,” he added, which was true.
“And whitey says all niggers think about is sex. You people better get your act together. You're hypocrites.”
“Well,"—Ben's grin broadened—"I've always heard that if a man just has to marry, marry a white woman. If he wants a good piece of ass, get him a black gal.” He waited for the fire storm.
She rose slowly from the lounge and came to him, pulling him to his feet. “Old man,"—she smiled—"you are going to pay for that remark.”
“I just repeated what ‘they’ say, that's all.” Ben pulled her to him and they stood for a moment, mouths silent now, but their lips speaking silent messages.
“Uh-huh,” she whispered.
They walked hand in hand into the cabin.
Juno sat looking up at the darkening sky. And if he had a thought that could be put into words, it would be: humans sure do act funny.
Waco appeared to have been hard hit. From what they could see, Ben calculated less than one percent of the population had survived. Baylor was almost deserted, only a handful of people on the campus.
“Why is it, Ben,” Salina asked, as they walked the quiet corridors of a science building, “that in some towns a great many people survived, in others almost no one?”
He shook his head, unable to answer her question. He still did not know why he had survived when others had not.
Back in the bright sunlight, she asked, “Why do you always go to universities and colleges, Ben?” “I'm looking for a ... friend.”
Salina picked up on the hesitation. “She?”
He told her about Jerre.
“Did you—do you—love her?” “A little bit, yes. But I worry about her a lot more.”
“Ummm,” she replied.
They headed west. Occasionally, Ben would feel Salina's eyes studying him as he drove and he knew she had questions she would like to ask, about Jerre. Ben wondered how he would answer them when the time came. He thought he knew.
Less than a year after the worldwide war, the United States Government was off and running, with Hilton Logan at the reins. The East Coast was being resettled, from the edge of the hot areas in the northeast, down to central Florida. Law and order was being reintroduced to the citizens. The regular military watched as Logan's army, under the command of Col. Kenny Parr, knocked heads, confiscated weapons, shuffled people about, and listened grimly to the rumors of large bands of so- called Rebels moving west, stripping entire cities as they went. But the lawful military was very small, now, and they did little except maintain a presence and wonder what Logan would do next.
Logan chose as his vice president a man the regular military approved of; a man of good sense, who weighed the issues at hand and then acted, not out of emotion, but out of what he felt would be the best for the country. Aston Addison. Maybe, the military thought, there might be hope for the nation yet.
Mid-June found Ben and Salina in the state of Idaho, just on the southernmost fringe of the Great Primitive Area, on the south side of the Fork. Ben had spoken with Ike, and those who supported a free state were moving, from all over the nation, toward Idaho.
Ben cranked up his radio and called in. “How many do we have, Ike?”
“'Bout five thousand, I figure, not countin’ the Rebs. How many folks alive where you are, Ben?” “Damned few. It's wild and beautiful, Ike.”
“Not too far from where you are, Ben, there's a platoon of Army Rangers from Fort Lewis ... or what's left of Lewis, that is. They've split with Logan. Down a way from them, there's what's left of the West Coast SEAL team. They don't like Logan either—but they like what you and I have planned and are ready to move to join us. Rebuild. I talked with some folks from up Canada way; they were hard hit. They'd like to pitch their hats in the ring, too.”
“O.K., Ike—let's get cracking.”
“I'll see you in about a month, partner. Excuse me—General.”
“What do you really know about Ben Raines?” President Logan asked his wife over dinner.
The question startled her, caught her off guard. She had not thought of Ben in months. Did not know if he was dead or alive. She pondered her husband's question for a moment.
“Well ... he's a rude man, very arrogant, sarcastic. But he's also a very tough man—not just physically but mentally. I don't think he's afraid of anything. He's smart, too. Why do you ask?”
“He was put in charge of Bull Dean's Rebels.” “Are you serious?”
“Yes. But I don't know if he accepted that charge. At first, word was he did not. Then the word was passed that he was dead. But he was spotted out west just a couple of weeks ago. Rumors persist that he is forming some sort of ... state ... nation out there. Didn't he write about that one time? Some sort of free state?”
“Yes. Rather a trashy novel. Where out west?”
Logan shook his head. “I don't know. The military won't really cooperate with me; don't like me. Never have. But damn it, I'm only doing what I think is right and best for the country. And Colonel Parr is all tied up with minor revolts. He and his men put down one group, another pops up. My God, you'd think I was trying to deny them their sex lives instead of just taking their guns. What is this morbid fascination with guns, anyway? People are really dying fighting over a gun. It's stupid, Fran. Ignorant.”
“Hilton?” Fran touched his hand. “Leave Ben Raines alone.”
The word went out, all over the nation: head west. If you don't like the crap that is coming out of Richmond, head west. Get trucks and head west. Stop at every national guard and reserve armory and strip it bare. Same with every base. Search every deserted town for gold and silver and precious gems. Take every piece of medical equipment you can find; bring anything you think we might be able to use, from panty hose to bulldozers. But if you're lazy, gossipy, unethical; if you lie, cheat, or if you're ignorant, you'd better stay away.... Odds are you won't fit in with the crowd.
Tell lawyers to stay the hell out; we don't want them, don't need them. Our laws will be very simple and very few and enforced to the letter; no muddying the water. They will be enforced to the letter. No exceptions. No deals. No plea-bargaining. No twisting of words—truth. Our nation is going to be a bit different from that to which you've been accustomed. We're going to try something; see if it will work. So leave us alone.
The message went into every state and a lot of countries. A lot of people heard it, liked it, and packed up.
And a lot of people heard it and didn't like it.
“He's your brother, Carl,” Jeb Fargo said. “What's he tryin’ to pull?”
A large farm in Illinois; a cooperative venture that encompassed hundreds of thousands of acres. Run by a group of men and women who went by no official name, but whose members secretly embraced the teachings of Hitler and the goose-egg mentality of the Klan. To Logan, they were hard-working, God-fearing people who caused no trouble but just wanted to work the land and do what was best toward restoring this devastated nation to its former glory.
Logan loved them. Addison was suspicious of them. The military knew exactly what they were.
Lots of churches scattered throughout their lands. Funny thing though: wasn't a nigger or a dago or a chink or a greaser or a Jew in the bunch.
And their churches did not teach love—the ministers preached hate.
“I never was close to Ben,” Carl replied. “Lot of difference in our ages.”
“We'd best keep an eye on what he's doin'. Might even send some men out there next year. You'd be in charge. You know, Carl, I kinda had my eye on that land out there for us. Good cattle country and farmland. Word is, Carl, your brother's livin’ with a nigger gal.”
“Ben!”
“That's the word I get. Hell, messages we been interceptin’ tell us they's all kinds of undesirables headin’ out there: slants, Jews, burr-heads, greasers—all kinds of filth. We cain't have that, Carl. Cain't let them people get a toehold in some of the best land in the country. Brother or no brother, he's got to be stopped.”
“When you want me to go, Jeb?” Carl said. “I'll go.” The thought of his brother actually kissing a nigger made him sick at his stomach.
“I'll let you know, Major Raines,” Jeb said.
All sorts of people were heading west, to join those already there.
There was a young man named Badger Harbin who had met Ben and Salina in Idaho. He just wandered up to them one day, introduced himself, and said he was there to stay.
Ben could not believe anyone would have the first name of Badger, but the young man assured Ben that, yes, that's what his daddy had named him.
Sid Cossman was a New Yorker who had once owned a radio station in upstate New York. He had lost it by refusing to bow to the often dictatorial whims of the Federal Communications Commission. Sid did not like Big Brother.
Lieutenant Conger was the platoon leader of a contingent of Rebels coming in from the East.
Bridge Oliver was with the SEAL team from southern California.
A man named Clint Voltan was a major in the Rebel army formed in the West.
And Sam Pyron was about to make his move toward freedom.
Sam, a West Virginia boy, sat by his grandfather's bed. He was watching the old man die.
The grandfather met the young man's eyes. “Git outta here, boy. There ain't nothin’ you can do for me.” He coughed up blood and pus.
“I'll stay with you, Granddad,” Sam said.
“Just like your mother—hard-headed. Boy, listen to me. You gotta run!”
“I'm not leavin’ you.”
“You killed a Fed, Samuel.” “He started it. Tryin’ to tell me I got to move. To hell with him. That's probably where he went, too.”
“I know, Sam—I know. It ain't right, but big government almost never is. I think you better link up with them survivalists that was livin’ over ‘crost the mountain and get gone from here.”
“The Rebels?”
“Yeah.”
“I thought you didn't agree with what they stood for, Granddad?”
“I don't agree with ever'thing they talked about—them I knowed in the bunch—but I do agree with most of it. ‘Specially them wantin’ to bring the law back to the common folk, back to some common sense.” He coughed for a moment, then caught his breath, pain in his eyes.
“Maybe all this misery was due us, boy—I don't know. I cain't help but think the Lord had something to do with it. I figure He was gettin’ awful tired of what was happenin’ down here. And maybe it's a good thing, too. That Rebel that was by last week when I was so awful sick, he said they's a man settin’ up out West. Said that feller was gonna have a land where a man can live free— all races. It's past time for that, too. Wasn't gonna be no damned lawyers screwin’ up ever'thing with fancy words. That'd be the greatest thing since corn bread, Sam. I hate a damned lawyer. This man out West—accordin’ to the Reb—is gonna make the law so plain, so simple, so easy to follow, that even a child can understand it. That's the way it oughta be. He said that so long as a person can mind his or her own business and follow jist a few simple rules, a man can live the way he sees fit.
“Our laws, Sam—back when we had a country—went from bad to worse to stupid. I seen all the trouble comin’ years ago; ‘fore even your mamma was born. Country went bad; people quit wantin’ to work for a livin', wanted the government to do for them. Damned unions got out of hand; kids got too big for their britches. Too many cops, too many lawyers, too many laws the common man couldn't understand. Judges sittin’ on their brains, turnin’ bad people loose without punishment. No morals nowhere. Government stickin’ its nose in ever'body else's business when they couldn't even keep their own house clean. It had to come to an end.” He coughed up blood and gasped for breath.
“Sam?” The old man's hand groped for his grandson as his eyes filmed over with near-death. He fought back the darkness.
“I'm here, Granddad.” Sam took the old hand.
“I want you to remember what I'm about to say, Sam; carry it with you all your life. What's yours is yours, provided you worked for it, and you paid for it—or is payin’ for it—and don't no man have no right to take it from you by stealin'. You got a right to protect what's yours by any means at hand. And don't never let no smart-mouthed lawyer tell you different.
“There ain't no human-person god, boy. ‘At's something them hoo-hawin’ TV preachers never learned. But they shore thought they was God, all the time a-tellin’ ever'body else how to live, what to read in the books and papers, what to see on the TV and in the motion pitchers. I ain't sayin’ they wasn't good folk in their hearts, just that they di'n’ have no right tellin’ other folk how to live. Them TV preachers had a God complex-thing ‘bout ’em. But they was wrong, Sam.
“If a man is tryin’ to do right by his family, by his job, or them that work for him, and be a good neighbor in time of need, then whatever else he does, Sam ... ain't nobody else's damned truck! Man's got to live by and with his conscience, boy. And if you was taught right in the home, then you'll do right outside it. Some of them fancy-talkin', fancy-dressin', high-up judges might ought to sweep off they own back doorstep ‘fore they start tellin’ others to clean they steps. Same thing with preachers and politicians. And that damned Logan is gonna be the ruination of ever'thing. He's twofaced, boy, and crazy as a road lizard!
“Sam, listen to me. There ain't but one set of rules a man's got to follow, and they come from God— written in stone and handed down. Man's rules come second—always. No badge, no man-made law, no government job or high uppity office ever made no man ... God.”
He was wracked by coughing. He vomited up pus and blood, then closed his eyes. A few hours later, he slipped behind the veil.
Sam Pyron buried his grandfather in the rocky soil of West Virginia. He had no other family left alive. Sam took his grandfather's old .30-.30 lever-action Winchester and struck out for the highway, down where old man Garland lived—or used to live. Garland had an old pickup truck that had been sitting idle since the war. Sam figured that with a fresh battery and some gas, he'd get that old truck running again.
Then he'd head west.
He was eighteen years old.
There was something in the way Sam walked the mountain road, with a rifle in his hand, a knife on his belt, and a small sack of food slung over his shoulder; some mannerism that might make a knowledgeable person recall the descriptions of other mountain men, free men, of another century. Men who fought and died for freedom, the right to live their own lives without fear of tyranny, from within or without the government; to live without fear of the lawless, or those who would impose their own selfish wills on others.
This young man was reminiscent of the men who called themselves Green River Boys, or Rough Riders; those who rode with Darby's Rangers, or Major Rogers, or who suffered in silence at Valley Forge; the men and women at Buchenwald or Dachau or the men who stormed the beaches on June 6, 1944; and the men who rode to make a stand at an old church in Texas—called the Alamo.
Chapter 17
President Logan called for his VP to have lunch with him. He came right to the point. “Aston, there is a bunch of people, four or five thousand, maybe more, all heading west. They are stealing everything that isn't nailed down. And sometimes that doesn't even stop them.”
The VP looked up from his salad. “Why are they heading west?”
“To link up with Ben Raines, I suppose. They even stole a railroad.”
“Hilton—that's impossible! You can't steal a railroad. That's stationary. They took the engines and cars, perhaps. But what do they want with it?” “To transport all the things they're stealing! Aston, they've broken into military bases and armories and stolen God only knows how much heavy artillery and bombs and guns and anything else they could get their hands on. Radar is gone from many places. Highly sophisticated electronic gear, computers—you name it, those people took it. A bunch of those crazy navy porpoises stole an entire base. Everything! They even took the damned portable buildings!”
