William Johnstone: Fire in the Ashes

The news of the man who called himself The Prophet being in two places at the same time was finally disregarded by Ben and a few of the others.

But most believed it, although they did not share that belief with Ben. But soon, as with all phenomena that appear once and never again, it was, for the most part, forgotten as the survivors began the task of forming a new government in the area that was once known as Arkansas, Louisiana, and Mississippi.

Ben settled in south Arkansas, not wanting to return to Louisiana; too many memories there, both good and bad. He settled on a small farm about seventy-five miles south of the ruins of Little Rock, on an old farm, and began working the land. He was late doing it, but he read some books on farming and decided it wouldn’t hurt to break the land this year and clear away any trees and brush that had grown up in the twelve-year hiatus.

That late summer, there were marriages among the Rebels: Ike married a lady named Sally; she had one little girl, Brandy. Jerre and Matt were married. Cecil married a lady that had been a State Department employee in Richmond. Margaret. Hector Ramos married. As did Steve Mailer and Judith Sparkman. Rosita announced she was pregnant, and Ben knew without any doubt he was the father.

The robed, bearded man’s words returned to him. He brushed him back into his memory vault and slammed the door.

Every Rebel knew the type of law Ben advocated, and there was no hassle about it. People knew what they had to do, and did it without being ordered to do so.

Ben knew that eventually he would have to deal with Sam Hartline and his army of mercenaries. But as long as Hartline stayed north, Ben would not make the first move.

Emil Hite and his cult stayed in the mountains of west central Arkansas and caused no trouble.

Yet.

The plague seemed to have run its course.

Very few outsiders attempted to enter the new Tri-States.

But they would come; Ben knew it. And knew he would have to fight for what freedoms his Rebels held dear.

But Ben found he loved the land. Loved the smell of new plowed ground, and itched for the planting season to arrive.

But somehow he knew he would never be allowed to live a quiet, uneventful life.

“El Presidente,” Ike said one afternoon when he drove out and met with Ben, “I have it in my mind that you are contemplating being a farmer. You are going to raise your turnips and peas and cabbage and to hell with governing those who followed you here—right?”

“Ike, I’m tired. I’m not a young man. I want out.”

But Ike shook his head. “No way, General. You seem to forget: the people elected you for life. They follow no one but you. So why don’t you just go on into town and find you a nice office; set up shop? All this was your idea, buddy.”

Ben stared at him.

Ike said, “I took the liberty of ordering you a car and driver. Young feller name of Buck Osgood. He’d be right pleased to be your driver and bodyguard. Like most folks, I reckon he kind of idolizes you.”

“I don’t want to be anyone’s idol, Ike.”

“Ben, I reckon it’s past the point of what you want. It’s what is good for the people who follow you that matters. And I think you know that.”

Ben looked around him. He sighed; took a deep breath. The aroma of freshly turned earth came to him. His gaze touched a hawk as it wheeled and soared high above them, its sharp eyes seeking prey.

“I guess somebody has to do it,” Ben said, kicking at a clod of dirt.

“No, Ben,” Ike gripped him by the shoulders. “If a productive society is to be built; if civilization is to endure… you have to do it.”