William Johnstone - Fire in the Ashes

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.

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.”