William Johnstone - Fire in the Ashes

A few of the older Rebels laughed dutifully. The younger ones did not have any idea what Ben was talking about.

“Go on back to your duties,” Ben ordered.

The crowd slowly broke up, the men and women and kids talking quietly—all of them speaking in low hushed tones about Ben.

“…maybe it’s true.”

“…heard my kids talking the other day. Now I tend to agree with them.”

“…mortal could not have done that, you know?”

“…calm about it.”

“Gods don’t get scared.”

Ben heard none of it.

Ike stepped up to Ben, a funny look in his eyes. He had overheard some of the comments from the Rebels. “Are you all right, partner?”

“I’m fine, Ike.”

Ike looked at him. His breathing was steady, his hands were calm. Ike looked at the still-quivering man-beast. “I wouldn’t have fought that ugly son of a bitch with anything less than a fifty caliber.”

“It had to be done, Ike. Don’t make anymore out of it than that.”

Ike’s returning gaze was a curious mixture of humor and sadness. He wanted so badly to tell Ben the feelings about him were getting out of hand; something needed to be done about them.

But he was afraid Ben would pull out and leave for good if he did that.

Afraid? the word shocked Ike. Me? he thought. Afraid? Yes, he admitted. But it was not a physical fear—it was a fear of who would or could take Ben’s place.

Nobody, he admitted, his eyes searching Ben’s face. We’re all too tied to him.

“Don’t anybody touch that ugly bastard!” Doctor Chase elbowed and bulled and roared through the dissipating crowd. For a man seventy years of age, Chase was very spry on his feet. “You use that knife on that thing, Ben?” he pointed to Ben’s Bowie.

“Yes, I did. After shooting it seven times,” he added dryly.

Ike grinned and pointed to Ben. “I thought you were talkin’ about him when you said ‘ugly bastard.’”

Ben laughed, and the laughter felt good. He had not found much to laugh about lately.

Chase shook his head. “Boil that blade, Ben. It could be highly infectious.”

“Yes, sir,” Ben said with a grin.

Chase looked at Ike. “And you see that he does, you web-footed, aquatic redneck.”

“There you go again,” the Mississippi-born-and-reared ex-SEAL said. “Always puttin’ down my heritage.”

“Shut up and clear this area,” Chase said.

Ike walked off, muttering very uncomplimentary remarks about ex-Navy captains. But he cleared the area.

Ben and Ike remained, watching the doctor and his team of medics work on the mutant. “I want a look at that brain, too,” Chase said. “But God’s sake, be careful handling it.”

The next day, Chase dropped the news in Ben’s lap. “That human being—and it is more human than animal—is about six years old.”

Ben spilled his coffee all over his table. He rose to his feet. “You have got to be kidding!”

Ike’s eyes widened. He said nothing. Cecil sat and slowly shook his head.

“No more than eight,” the doctor said. “And that is positive.”

“How…?” Ben asked.

“I don’t know for sure,” Chase cut him off, anticipating the question. “But I was up most of the night conferring with my people—and I’ve got some good ones. Here is what we put together:

“They have intelligence—how much, I do not know. But they are more human than animal. You probably didn’t notice when you were fighting it, but the poor creature had covered its privates with a loincloth. That in itself signifies some degree of intelligence; not necessarily enlightenment.

“Cell tissue, brain, blood, all are more human than animal. It’s a mutant. It is not a monster. It is not The Creature from the Black Lagoon, or The Blob. It is a product of radiation.

“And it was also pregnant.”

Ben and Ike and Cecil sat stunned. Ike finally blurted, “What the hell was it gonna whelp?”

“What appeared to be a perfectly normal human baby.” He paused. “Until I examined its hands. They were clawed. Its feet were pure animal.

“All right, gentlemen, as to why. After an all-night conference, we have agreed on this: The mutant beings, and that is what they are, have some degree of intelligence. I would venture to say that some probably have more than others, and they come in varying stages of mutation. Doctors have always predicted this would happen. We are the first generation to actually see it.

“In some, the radiation and germ warheads caused only minor physical changes; in others the alteration was radical and grotesque. The radiation and germs have slowed growth in some areas of the body, primarily the brain, drastically speeded it up in other areas. I think, as more and more of these mutants are found, we shall see that all experienced changes in brain size, shape, and function.

“Probably beginning a year after the bombings of 1988, some women began birthing mutants, babies whose growth cycle was speeded up five to ten times the normal rate. Perhaps at two years of age, a child might be six feet tall and weigh two hundred pounds—and be retarded to some degree. If the child were a twin, the other might be perfectly normal in every way.

“Understand, this is all hypothesis on my part.

“Those who were born in the sparsely populated rural areas of the world were possibly sometimes killed by the attending doctor or midwife. Some were possibly raised out of fast puberty and ran off into the woods. Some might have been taken into the woods and left to die. Some died, others lived, to live as animals. Some might even have been raised by animals—it’s occurred before—to be as animals.

“Because there were so few humans left—as compared to the population before the bombings—the mutants were seldom seen by humans. That, coupled with the mutants’ seemingly inbred animal-like wariness and suspicion of normal human beings.

“Then they found each other and began copulating. I think it’s a good bet we’ll see more of them.”

“I hope you’re wrong,” Ike said.

“I’m not wrong,” Chase predicted. “You’ll see.”

“I can hardly wait,” Cecil said dryly.

“We are leaderless,” the voice spoke. “The world is tumbling about in chaos. The population is dying by the millions. God has spoken. Fall down on your knees and seek the Lord God in prayer. He…”

A shot ended the impromptu sermon.

A harsher voice took the mike. The station was not identified.

“Get off your knees, brothers!” the voice shouted. “Now is the time to rise up and kill the white devils!”

“Oh, good Lord!” Cecil said. He stood with a group of rebels, all gathered in and around the communications shack in south Arkansas. They listened to various stations pop back on the air, most at the hands of amateurs. Some preached love, some called for reason, some shouted hate. “Not this again.”

A stronger signal cut in, overriding the first signal. “Don’t nobody listen to that nigger,” a man’s voice spoke. “You coons bes’ stay in yore places if you know what’s good for you. All praise the invisible empire!”

“I had hoped that insanity was dead and gone,” someone said.

“Not as long as there are two humans left alive,” Ben said. “With just one cell of ignorance between them.”

“Praise God!” a woman’s voice implored.

“There ain’t no God!” a man’s voice overrode her.

Other stations popped on the air. Wild-screaming lay preachers; people who were seeking news of relatives; men and women preaching hate and love and brotherhood and violence; peace and profanity—racists on both sides of the color line.