William Johnstone - Fire in the Ashes

“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?