William Johnstone - Fire in the Ashes

“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.”