William Johnstone - Out of the Ashes

“What?”

“We need every gun and every white man we can get in this fight. We’re gonna wipe those damned niggers out once and for all. Then we can rebuild a decent society.”

I don’t believe I’m hearing this, Ben thought. He stared at the man.

“Let him go in, see his brother.” The voice spoke from behind Ben.

Ben turned to face an older, neatly dressed man. In his late fifties or early sixties, Ben guessed. “I thank you, mister,” Ben said.

“We’re all a little bit tense here, I’m afraid.” The man offered an apology along with an explanation. “We’re outnumbered, you see. I’ll wait for you here; see you get back out. We have no right to detain you. This isn’t your fight.”

Ben nodded his thanks and drove to his brother’s house through what appeared to be an armed camp. His brother was waiting for him in the front yard, a walkie-talkie on his belt. He had been alerted to Ben’s arrival.

It had been eight years since the brothers had seen one another; the moment was awkward after they shook hands.

Ben opened the conversation. “Get Mary and the kids, Carl… let’s get the hell out of here.”

His brother shook his head. “No. Mary’s still alive—thank God. Alice, she’s the oldest, you know… she made it O.K. All the rest are dead, near as we can tell. Isn’t safe to go into the city. Can’t search for them. I hope they’re dead. Be better than gettin’ raped by them coons.”

“I’m sorry, Carl. I saw to our brothers and sisters. Mom and Dad. All dead.”

The older man nodded. “Figured they was. Lot of others in the same boat. Terrible thing. No, I’m not leaving, Ben. I’m staying here and protecting my home against looters. The niggers are tearing up the city—rapin’ and killin’.”

“Protect your home! Hell, Carl, there must be ten million homes standing empty across this country. Take your choice—live in the governor’s mansion if you like.”

“Be niggers in there, eatin’ fried chicken and smackin’ those five-pound lips. Doin’ the jumpin’ funky-humpy in the governor’s office.”

Ben stared at him for a moment, then shook his head. “What’s changed you, Carl? You never used to feel this way. We came from conservative stock, yes, but you were not brought up to be a racist.”

His brother’s look was just short of being unfriendly. “You changed into a nigger lover now, Ben? All them words you been writin’ done this?”

“I won’t even dignify that with a reply, Carl.”

His brother refused to let go. “You didn’t used to be a nigger lover, Ben.”

“Carl, I believe some of the things wrong with this nation—back when we had a nation, that is—could, and probably should be placed on the blacks’ doorstep; probably will be placed there by historians. Me, for one. The give-me, give-me-more programs. But you can’t, in all honesty, blame the black race for this”—he waved his hand—“horror.”

“I’m not sayin’ that, Ben. I’m sayin’ now is the time to either get rid of them or put them back in their place.”

“Get rid of an entire race! Ben, that’s genocide. You can’t be serious. Their place? Where the hell is that, Carl?”

“It damned sure ain’t alongside me, brother. Ben, I’m not gonna stand here and argue race with you; you always was too good with words. I’m just a workin’ man. Besides, what we’re doin’ here… well, it’s the principle of it.”

“The principle of it!” The words rolled from Ben’s mouth. He laughed in his brother’s face. “How about the black children, Carl—you going to kill them, too?”

His brother shrugged. “Little niggers grow up to be big niggers, Ben. They’re all taught from birth to lie and steal and lust after white women.”

Ben was shocked and his face was tight with anger. “Carl… you don’t mean that. Now, I’ll admit I don’t have many black friends.” He grimaced. “Matter of fact, I don’t have any. But you can’t believe all black people are the way you describe them.” He looked at his brother. “Carl,” he asked slowly, “do you have any Jews in this… gathering of yours?”

His brother shook his head. “No. All they are is a bunch of nigger lovers. Just like the goddamn ACLU. Hell, the Jews and the niggers support it. You’re the one who has changed, Ben—not me. So maybe you’d just better carry your ass on out of here. You don’t fit in with us.”

“I sure as hell don’t, Carl. That’s one thing we agree on. Carl? How are you going to survive this winter? There’s no electricity. Do you have a fireplace? How about food?”

“We’ll get by with heating oil—lots of that in storage. We’ll get the food from stores and warehouses.”

Ben smiled. “By looting it, Carl? Isn’t that what the blacks are doing in the city?”

“Why don’t you just carry your Jew-lovin’, nigger-lovin’ ass on out of here?” The voice ripped at him from behind.

Ben turned, his eyes widening in disbelief. The small, wiry-looking man was dressed in a Nazi storm trooper’s uniform. A swastika on his sleeve.

Ben looked around him: a crowd had gathered, and their faces were hostile. This was solid middle-class America glaring at him. Ben turned his gaze at his brother.

“Aw… no, Carl—not this. You’re a vet. You fought against what this”—he waved his hand at the Nazi—“turd represents.”

“Maybe, baby brother,” Carl said, “we were wrong back in ‘44. George, there, he’s convinced me that back then our forces should have let Hitler go on and wipe out the Jews. Then we should have linked up with him and gone into Africa and cleaned up on the jungle-bunnies. I’m glad I was too young for the second world war, Ben. I think I’d have been ashamed to admit I was a part of it. Jews and niggers, Ben—they’re just alike. And we’re gonna do what should have been done a long time ago.”

Ben stood for only a few seconds, looking at his brother. “I don’t know you anymore, Carl.”

“Get out, Ben. Right now. ‘Fore some of my friends take it upon themselves to whip your nigger-lovin’ ass.”

“My pleasure to leave, Carl. I’m just glad Mamma and Dad don’t have to see this.”

The brothers did not shake hands. Ben brushed past him and the Nazi-lover, fighting back a very strong urge to knock the storm trooper on his butt.

Ben drove fast and he drove with anger eating at him. He just could not believe his brother had changed so, and he wondered just how many men and women this George commanded. Too many, he was certain. One would have been too many.

He drove first to the south, out of the suburbs, and then cut east, crossing over into Indiana. Just before dark, he pulled into a motel off Interstate 65. Thompson in hand, Ben prowled the motel. In one wing he found the rooms had been occupied and they held stinking, stiffening dead. But the entire east wing was clean and free of bodies. Ben chose a room, found the laundry room, and picked up sheets, pillowcases, and blankets. He was walking back to his room when he saw the dark shapes standing in the parking area.

About a half-dozen black men and women. No, he looked closer, one of the women was white—he thought.

Ben made no move to lift the SMG, but the click of his putting it off safety was very audible in the stillness.

“Deserting your friends in the suburbs?” a tall black man asked. Ben could detect no hostility in his voice.

“I might ask the same of you,” Ben said.

The man laughed. “A point well taken. So… it appears we have both chosen this motel to spend the night. But… we were here first—quite some time. We were watching you. So… which one of us leaves?”