William Johnstone - Out of the Ashes

He drove around the town, and saw a few more live people, none of whom would answer his call. He said to hell with it and pulled back on the interstate, heading north.

As he drove, he experimented with the recorder, making the first of what would eventually be thousands of vocal notes and observations and comments.

He thought about what the colonel had said to him and shook his head in disbelief. “Commander of a Rebel army!” He laughed. “Shit!”

And as he drove, he found the memory of Fran already fading as the excitement of what lay before him intensified and spread itself out in his mind, exposing to his mental light all the ramifications and historical aspects of his one-man Odyssean undertaking.

“Maybe a hundred years from now I’ll be famous.” Ben grinned, speaking aloud.

He would be, but it would be for something other than his writings.

As he crossed the river into Cairo, Ben slowed and became more alert, scanning the channels of his CB for any chatter—good or bad.

A voice leaped out at him. “Truck jist crossed the bridge.”

Ben turned on the recorder, the volume up high to catch all the words.

“How many?” another voice asked.

“Jist the one dude.”

“No pussy with him?”

“Naw.”

“Damn! I don’t think they’s a goddamned cunt left in this town. How old is this dude? If he’s a kid and he’s pretty, we can take turns cornholin’ him.”

“Cain’t tell. He’s gittin’ out of my sight, turnin’ off on 51.”

“We’ll foller him, laid back, sort of. You listenin’, Ralphie?”

“Yeah,” Ralphie answered.

“You and Tarver take your pickup and block this side of 51, over there by that old beer joint we used to hang out at—you ‘member it?”

“Yeah. Will do. If he’s too ugly to cornhole, we’ll have us some fun with him ‘fore we kill him.”

Ben’s smile was savage, a pulling back of the lips into a snarl. “Sorry to spoil your fun, boys,” he muttered. “But I’m going to see if I can’t rid the world of some human scum.”

Why is it, he thought, the scum always seem to survive any tragedy?

He shrugged away the age-old question and smiled grimly. What those scumballs didn’t know was that Ben knew Cairo probably better than they knew it. He’d had his first woman—a whore—in Cairo, back when strippers were still bumping and grinding in various clubs.

Ben turned down a side street, jumped out of the truck, and walked to the rear. He quickly assembled the antitank weapon. It was a one-shot, one-time affair, and Ben had never understood why the Army had replaced the bazooka with it, as the bazooka could be used over and over. But, he didn’t recall the Army ever asking for his opinion. He readied the LAW and laid it in the bed of the truck; then clicked his Thompson off safety.

Soon, he heard the sounds of a car approaching, and smiled when he saw the vehicle: a new Cadillac. Then he knew the mentality of the men after him: “white trash,” folks in the south called them, and they were correct in that name. He listened to the CB in his truck to be certain he was about to zap the right men. The speaker rattled as the volume grew louder with the approach of the Caddy. Ben waited until all transmissions were concluded, then stepped out of the alley and gave the men a full dose of .45-caliber medicine. Thirty rounds.

The Cadillac slewed to one side, the windshield a maze of pocked spiderwebs. It rolled up on the curb, banged into a storefront, then died in a gush of steam from the ruptured radiator.

Ben looked inside to see if they were both dead—they were—and walked slowly back to his truck, inserting a fresh clip from habit. There was little emotion in him as he pulled out into the street. He did not feel himself an avenging angel; did not feel that he, and he alone, had been appointed to rid the land of vermin. He did not even feel much satisfaction. (Is one supposed to feel satisfaction after stepping on a roach?) But he did feel that this scene would, in all probability, be repeated, if he lived, many more times on his journey.

Ben drove out of the city proper and headed north on 51. He stopped before he reached a bend in the road and slipped up behind a house, carrying the lightweight LAW. He had chosen the LAW over the grenade launcher because he felt it more accurate. He had taken five of them from the armory—all they had.

He looked around the corner of the house. The truck, with two men sitting in the cab, was parked about seventy-five meters away. He opened the LAW to its extended position, lifted front and rear sights, armed it, then dropped to one knee and sighted into the truck, making several adjustments before being satisfied. He fired the 66-mm rocket and it was dead-on accurate.

After the roaring concussion, when the glass and metal had ceased its hot raining, the area was quiet. Ben tossed the LAW aside and walked back to his truck. He suddenly felt eyes on him. He spun, the pistol jumping into his hand.

Several older men and women stood by the side of the road. One of the men held up his hand in a gesture of submission. “Peace, friend,” he said. “We mean you no harm. You’ve rid this town of filth, and we thank you for it. We were listening to those heathen talk on our CBs.”

The men were dressed in dark clothing, flat-brimmed hats; the women in long dark dresses, bonnets.

“Why didn’t you men arm yourselves and do it?” Ben asked. “Why wait and let someone else risk his life?”

“Our religion forbids the taking of human life,” the older man replied.

“Then you’re fools!” Ben said. He had no patience with a people who would not defend themselves or their country.

“The Lord provided you,” the man said, not taking exception at Ben’s hot remark.

“This time,” Ben countered. “The next time might turn out much differently.”

The man shrugged. “The Lord will provide.”

“Wonderful,” Ben said, his voice loaded with sarcasm. He opened the door to his truck. “I have to go find my sister and her family.” The tape recorder was running, recording it all. “I want them to have a Christian burial, if possible.”

“We have been doing that,” the spokesman said. “Street by street. For health reasons as well as decency. Where did your sister live?”

Ben told him.

The man consulted a notepad. “We have seen to that.”

“Thanks.”

“It is we who owe you, brother.”

“Do you know what happened?” Ben asked. “Any idea what brought all this on?”

The man again shrugged. “The Lord’s will.”

“Yeah,” Ben said dryly. “Right. As good an answer as any, I suppose.”

The man smiled.

Ben got into his truck and drove away, up 51, heading toward the junction with highway 37. The darkly dressed people stood out in his mirrors, fading quickly. They looked so vulnerable standing there.

But, Ben thought—they had survived.

At a farmhouse just a few miles south of Marion, Ben pulled into the drive and looked for a long time at the place of his birth and his youth and his growing up—the good years, including the lickings he had received and so richly deserved, every one of them. He really did not want to go inside that old two-story home. But he felt he had to do it. Reluctantly, he drove up to the house and got out.

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.