William Johnstone - Fire in the Ashes

“Proves one thing,” Jane Dolbeau said.

Heads turned to look at the woman.

She met their gaze. “We are not alone.”

No, the Rebels were far from being alone. In the northern part of the Midwest, Sam Hartline had gathered men and women around him and laid claim to the entire state of Wisconsin.

Cults were being formed all over the nation, and men and women who were weary of sickness and death, tired of tragedy and unrest, sick of troubles and heartbreak, were rushing to join any group that might promise them some peace and tenderness and a few moments of happiness.

Standard, accepted, organized religion was taking a beating all over the world as many survivors turned a blind face to the teachings of Jesus and the Commandments handed Moses from God.

Nothing He had promised came true. If He was a truly compassionate God, He would not have allowed anything like these troubles to befall a nation.

Would He?

The answer came back a silent No.

Then we must look elsewhere.

“Why, General,” Rosita propped her trim butt on one corner of Ben’s desk, “haven’t any mutants been born in any Rebel camp? Or,” her eyes searched his face, “have there been and no one is talking?”

“No,” Ben assured her. “We’ve had no such births. That’s what Doctor Chase and I were just discussing. Doctor Chase has a theory on it, but he has a theory on nearly everything.” Ben smiled. “Whether you want to hear it or not.”

“I resent that,” Chase said. “But please continue, Ben. I’ll stand by to correct any misstatement you attribute to me.”

“Proper diet,” Ben said. “Good medical facilities and prompt treatment. Hard work, adequate rest and play time, very little stress, lots of happiness and contentment. We had all those things in the Tri-States. I think they had something to do with it. Maybe not.”

Rosita looked at Chase. He smiled reassuringly. “He left out the most important word, dear: Luck.”

After Rosita left, Ben looked at the ceiling and muttered, “I just don’t understand it.”

“If you’re talking to yourself, Ben—watch it. When you start answering yourself, let me know, I’ll prescribe something.”

“I was thinking out loud, Lamar: two worldwide horrors in such a short time.” He shook his head. “I just don’t understand it.”

“You want an opinion from me?”

Ben smiled. “It doesn’t make any difference whether I want it or not, you’ll give it.”

Nothing daunted Chase; his skin was iron. “I don’t think we had much at all to do with it. Maybe,” the doctor pointed upward, “He grew weary of how the human race had so screwed up His world, He’s giving the people one more chance to correct it. I believe He is going to reduce this world—or regress its inhabitants might be better words—right back to the caves. Then He is going to say: All right, people, let’s start all over. And this time around, try to do a little better, huh?’”

Ben looked at the man for several heartbeats. “Do you really believe that, Lamar?”

“Yes, son, I do.” He bobbed his head affirmatively.

“Come on, Lamar, you’ve got something else on your mind—let’s have it.”

“You won’t like it, Ben.”

“I didn’t like shots of penicillin when I was sixteen, either; but I had the clap.”

Chase grimaced, then laughed. “You do turn such a delicate phrase, boy. All right. You’ve got approximately six thousand people in this area. We’re going to rebuild. But what are we going to rebuild, Ben? Ben… your people more than love you—they worship you. You’re like a god to many of them.”

Ben heard himself saying, “That’s a little strong, Lamar.” But he knew it wasn’t.

“Ben, I heard some little boys and girls talking the other day. They were talking about you being infallible. ‘You can’t die!’ they said. ‘You fought a monster and killed it.’ They talked about how many times you’ve been shot and hurt and blown up. And they have to get it from the parents.” He pointed to Ben’s old Thompson SMG. “And they constantly refer to you and that weapon as one and the same. Put it up, Ben. Retire that old Chicago Piano. Get yourself an AK or an M-10 or… anything. I mean it, Ben.”

This time around Ben could not believe it about his Thompson. His laugh was genuine. “Lamar, it’s just an object.”

Chase did not share in the humor. “So was, I believe,” he reminded Ben, “Baal.”

The killing of the mutant became a fading memory in the mind of Ben. It was something that had to be done, it was over, so don’t make a big deal of it.

And to him, it was not.

But to his followers, it remained vivid, much more so with each telling.

As summer drifted on, and much of the hard work was over, Ben became restless. He would find himself looking about, seeing nothing but images in his mind. Remembering his lonely but satisfying traveling and wandering of ‘88 and ‘89. And it filled him with longing.

Those whom he would allow close to him sensed this, but did not know what to do about it. Only the brash little Rosita had the courage to confront Ben.

“You walk around here looking like some stone-faced Mayan god, General. What’s the matter?”

He did his best to glare at her, but all she did was stick out her tongue at him and screw her face up into some awful-looking mask.

“That’s the way you look, Ben. You could make a living frightening little children.” She reached out and tickled him.

Ben laughed and playfully slapped her hands away. He looked around to see if anyone had observed this behavior—definitely out of character for him.

“Let’s take a trip, Rosita. Get the hell out of Dodge for a few days.”

“So where are we going, General?”

“Let’s see what Little Rock looks like.”

If Ben thought he and Rosita could slip off without company, he should have known better. He was reminding himself of that as the caravan pulled out early the next morning.

A full platoon of the Rebel army accompanied them. Guards to the rear, guards in front.

“No band?” Ben had sarcastically asked Ike.

“I always wanted to see Little Rock,” Ike sidestepped the question.

“Yeah, ol’ buddy,” Ben said. “I just bet.”

Little Rock was a dead city. Twelve years of neglect and looting had reduced it to blackened girders, stark against the backdrop of blue skies and burned-out buildings. Dead rats lay stinking in heaps on the streets.

Ben drove by a high school that looked somehow familiar to him. Then he remembered why. Troops had been sent to this high school back in the ‘50s, to integrate it.

He told Rosita as much.

She did not seem all that interested.

“Aren’t you interested in history, Rosita?” he asked.

She shrugged. “It don’t put pork chops on the table, Ben.”

“What?”

Her smile was sad. “Ben—I can’t read much.”

“Dear God,” Ben muttered. He glanced at her. “You must have been about eight when the bombs came. Right?”

“Nine.”

“How much schooling since then?”

“Plenty in the school of hard knocks.”

“Don’t be a smart-ass, short-stuff.”

“Not much, Ben. I read very slowly and skip over the big words.”

“You know anything at all about nouns, pronouns, adverbs—sentence construction?”

“No,” her reply was softly given.

“Then I will see that you learn how to read, Rosita,” Ben told her. “It’s imperative that everyone know how to read.”

“I’ve got by without it,” she replied defensively.