William Johnstone - Out of the Ashes

He left her going “boom-boom,” and prowled the store. He took all the .45-caliber ammunition (which wasn’t much), then opened a compartment in the gun vault, stepped back, and smiled at his discovery.

“Well, now,” he muttered. “Just look at that. I’ll just bet that old boy wasn’t supposed to have those.”

A pair of Ingram submachine guns, M-10s, 9-mm. There were extra clips for both of them, thirty-two-round clips. Ben looked around the store and smiled gleefully when he found, hidden under a counter, two cases of 9-mm ammo. He picked up, from the same compartment in the safe, two Browning 9-mm automatic pistols, and the leather to go with them. Saying nothing to Jerre, he took the gear to the truck and stowed it. Back in the store, he chose a 7-mm bolt-action rifle that had been drilled for scope, a good scope, and went looking for ammunition.

“You planning on starting a war, Ben Raines?” Jerre asked him.

“No.” He laughed at the seriousness on her face. “But a thought just occurred to me: when is the last time you had a fresh steak?”

She smiled and licked her lips. “Not since all the trouble began.”

“We will tonight,” he promised her.

They skirted Richmond, searching the bands on the CB for chatter. The talk was rough: Killin’ niggers and killin’ honkies and lookin’ for pussy.

“That is so sad,” Jerre commented. “The whole world is in a state of chaos; no telling how many millions of people are dead. We don’t have a government—nothing, and all those… fools can think of is old hatreds and prejudices and raping and looting.”

“Those are the bad people, Jerre; they’ve been here all along. They always surface after or during a tragedy. There are, I believe, lots of good people left alive.”

“Then where are they?”

“Staying low, keeping out of sight, waiting for the trash and the scum to kill each other off.”

“I hope they do!” she said, with more heat in her voice than Ben had ever heard.

“They won’t,” he replied. “Hell, they never have.”

“You’re sure you want to watch this?” Ben asked her. They stood in a pasture between Hopewell and Richmond. A pasture filled with lowing cattle.

“Yes,” she said. “If I’m to learn how to survive, I’ve got to know it all. The days of me going into Safeway and getting a ribeye are over. And they won’t be back for a long time, will they, General?”

Maybe never, he thought. “No, they won’t.” He looked over the herd. “Pick your dinner, Jerre.”

She pointed.

“No, that’s a bull. Let’s leave him to do his thing.”

A cow came up to them, lowing softly, looking at them through soft liquid eyes.

“Oh, Jesus Christ, Ben! I can’t watch this.”

Ben cocked his .45 and shot the animal. The cow’s legs buckled and she fell to the ground, quivering and dying.

“You son of a bitch!” Jerre cursed him.

When Ben replied, his voice was bland. “Welcome to the Safeway, dear.”

She stood glaring at him, rage in her eyes.

“Can you drive a tractor?” Ben asked.

No reply.

“All right, then stay here. I’ve got to crank one of those tractors in the shed.”

“Why?” she asked, her voice shaky.

“To drag the cow over there,” he pointed. “We’ve got to hoist it up, cut its throat, bleed it, then butcher it.”

“Gross,” she said. “The absolute, bottomless pits, man!”

The gross, absolute, bottomless pits left Jerre that evening, while Ben was grilling the thick steaks.

“Make mine rare, Ben,” she said. “And I mean, really rare. That smells so good!” Then, at his smile, she laughed. “O.K., Ben, so I got my first lesson in what’s in store for me. But, Ben—I’d never seen anything like that before. Lord, I’d sure never seen the inside of a cow.”

They were grilling the steaks in the back yard of a farmhouse. Here, as in so many homes Ben had stayed in, from Louisiana to Chicago, to the east, then down through the country to Virginia, there were no bodies, no signs of any trouble.

“Most people haven’t,” he told her. “You’d be surprised at the number of people—grown men and women—who don’t have the vaguest idea how to even cut up a chicken for frying.”

“I used to love fried chicken and mashed potatoes and gravy. Mamma used to…” She looked away from Ben, sudden tears in her young eyes.

Eyes that would, Ben felt, grow much older, very quickly, if she was to survive on the road. “You believe in God, Jerre?”

She wiped her eyes and nodded. “Yes, sure. But after all this”—she waved a hand—“it makes a person wonder.”

“Maybe He decided to give a few of us a second chance.”

“I don’t understand, Ben. If that’s the case, why did He let so many bad people live?”

“I can’t answer that, babe. I was simply putting forth a theory, that’s all. No proof to back it—none at all.”

“How will people like me survive, Ben? I mean, you told me you haven’t hunted for sport in years… yet, all this seems as natural to you as breathing. All that training you had in the service, I guess. But… people like me, who have never fired a gun, never butchered an animal, how will we make it in a world that has come down to this: dog eat dog and the strongest survive? I’m lucky, and I know it more and more each day. I found you and you’re going to teach me as much as you can. But the others—what about them?”

“People are tougher than even they suspect,” Ben said. “I think we all have a… hidden reserve in us; a well of strength that only surfaces in some sort of catastrophe. I also believe that in the long run, good will defeat evil.”

She thought about that for a time. “You mean, even if we have to return to the caves for a time?”

“You could say that. Sure. That’s what we’ve done, in fact, in essence.” He grinned to soften the seriousness of her mood. “Dad raised us to be resourceful, but to be kind to those less fortunate, not to be mean to others.” He thought of his brother in Chicago. “Maybe Carl forgot what Dad taught us.”

He turned the steaks and was lost in his own thoughts. As always, the recorder was on. At first it had spooked Jerre, her every word being recorded. But she had quickly grown accustomed to it. She had said, “I guess all writers are kind of nuts.”

She brought him back to the present. “Maybe your brother did, Ben. Forget, I mean. But you’re only looking at the bad he is doing, or contemplating doing. I don’t agree with what he’s doing, but every coin has two sides. Look at the other side.

“Maybe your brother got tired of not being able to walk down the street at night without fear of being mugged, or his wife and daughter being raped. Maybe he got tired of seeing criminals and thugs and street punks being treated like they were something special instead of what they are: just sorry bastards. Maybe he got tired of seeing his taxes go to support criminals instead of their victims. It’s a long list, Ben, and you know it as well as I. Criminals being provided extensive law libraries so they can look for a loophole to get out of prison. I think that’s wrong. I’m no screaming liberal, Ben. I think if you do the crime, you’ve got to be prepared to do the time.

“We had a professor at school who used to rap with us a lot. He was a history professor, and he really had his shit all together. I hadn’t thought about him until you told me your political philosophy a couple of days ago. You know, when I asked if you were a Democrat or a Republican. You said you were forty percent conservative, thirty percent liberal, ten percent evolutionary anarchist, and twenty percent revolutionary anarchist. That’s just about what Professor Hawkins used to say.