William Johnstone - Fire in the Ashes

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.”