William Johnstone - Out of the Ashes

“Yes, sir, folks, it’s a bright, beautiful day here in the city with the titties. Temperature in the mid-seventies and you’re listening to the SEAL with the feel, Ike McGowen, watchin’ the records go ‘round. Are you listening, world? If so, and you’re the friendly type, just head on down to the coast to Yankeetown and be received. But if you’re hostile, just carry your ass on, brother.”

Ben laughed and wondered if SEAL meant Navy SEAL—sea, air, and land—or was just a nickname. He decided to find out. As he drove, he kept looking for a radio tower. He didn’t spot it until he got to the water’s edge, and it was the crudest looking tower he had ever seen, leaning precariously to one side, looking as if it might topple over at any moment. Ben pulled into the drive of the large, oceanside house and got out.

A gaggle of bikini-clad young ladies, bouncing and jiggling, came racing out to meet him. They were all armed with automatic weapons. Kind of took away from the beauty of their bare skins. A man with a CAR-15 walked behind them.

“I’m peaceful,” Ben called. “I really can’t speak for the dog—only known him for a few days, but I think he’s friendly.”

“What’s your name, friend?” the man called.

“Ben Raines.”

“I’m Ike McGowen. What’s the dog’s name?”

“Juno.”

“Well, Ben and Juno, come on into radio station KUNT and set for a time.”

Ben laughed at the old joke of call letters. “KUNT?”

Ike returned the laugh. “Yeah—it’s a little fuzzy around the edges but mighty fine, man. Mighty fine.”

In the sprawling house, Ike introduced Ben. “This one here is Tatter, and that’s June-Bug, and that one there is Space-Baby, and that one is Angel-Face. The blond is Honey-Poo. That dark one all sprawled out on the floor, too goddamned lazy to get up is Bell-Ringer. She claims to be a black person of the Negroid persuasion, but I think she’s just been out in the sun too long.” Bell-Ringer smiled and gave him the middle finger. She smiled at Ben, then went back to reading her book. Ike said, “We got all the conveniences, friend. Generator for electricity which gives up light, music, and hot water. So fix yourself a drink and let’s talk. Then we’ll vote.”

“Vote? Vote on what?”

Ike grinned. “To see if you’ll stay with us for a time—or leave.”

“Well, I wasn’t planning on staying, but I’ll take your offer of a drink.”

“Aw.” Ike waved off Ben’s idea of leaving. “You look like an O.K. sort of guy. Hell, hang around awhile. Tell us your story and we’ll vote.”

Over his bourbon and water, Ben told them what he was doing—and had done. He told them about the general at Shaw AFB, about Logan, the Rebels.

“I wondered if you were the writer. Yeah, I’ve heard about the Rebels; talked to them a couple of times on 39.2. I don’t know much about them—what they’re all about—but they sound pretty straight. Hell, Ben, we can’t throw a general out of here.”

Ben grimaced and they all laughed.

“You don’t strike me as the DJ type,” Ben said to Ike.

Ike grinned, his boyishness coming through. “I’m not, really. But I always wanted to be. No,” he said, sighing, “I’m—was—in the Navy. SEAL. We were doing some training at Fort Walton Beach when the balloon went up. Talk about confusion, man. Jesus! Nobody knew their ass from peanut butter. I got sick as a dog.” He looked at Juno. “No offense, pooch. And wandered around in a daze for about a week. Ran into Bell-Ringer; she was in the process of gettin’ raped by a bunch of rednecks—so I sorta jumped in and did my survival bit on her behalf, since her below was all filled up, so to speak.”

Bell-Ringer shot him the bird.

“You killed them.” It was a statement on Ben’s part, not a question.

“I damned shore did.” Ike grinned. “Me and my little ol’ CAR-15. Then, the next day, we ran into Tatter and June-Bug and we all sorta migrated down here. The others just wandered in when I got the station on the air.” He looked at the ladies. “Let’s vote. All in favor of Gen. Ben Raines stayin’, raise your hand, or your foot, or lift a tit—do somethin’.”

All hands went up.

Ike’s grin widened. “You’re home, General. Let’s get you unloaded.”

Juno was cuddled up to June-Bug. He had already made up his mind to stay.

Ben couldn’t blame him for that.

“Have there been many visitors around?” Ben asked. It was dusk on the coast and the gulf was as beautiful as the Prussian blue eyes of Jerre; it gleamed softly, bathing the sand with a peaceful glow. For a moment Ben thought of Jerre and he was saddened.

Honey-Poo picked up on the gentleness in his voice and stirred. Ben was conscious of the vibes from her, and she of the vibes from him.

Ike looked at both of them and grinned knowingly. “Yeah, several have tried to come in here and take over; throwin’ their weight around, runnin’ off at the mouth. But I’ve taught all these gals about weapons, and they won’t hesitate to blow the ass off a troublemaker. Those guys didn’t last long. We buried ’em right over there.” He pointed. “The other side of that house way down yonder. I guess the word spread after the last shoot-out; hasn’t been any more rednecks or trash comin’ around. But we hear it’s really tough up in the north part of the state, and really bad down in Jax and Tampa. Some of the other cities, too.”

Ben spoke of the bodies he’d seen hanging by the side of the road and he elaborated on what was about to happen—if it hadn’t already occurred—in Chicago and some of the other cities around the nation.

“Right and wrong on both sides,” Bell-Ringer said; then rose from her chair and went inside.

Ike followed her.

“They got a thing for each other,” Honey-Poo said. “I think they’re gonna get married here pretty soon.”

Suddenly, without any warning, Ben thought of Salina. “She’s a beautiful woman.” And she was.

“Smart, too. Was going to college in Gainesville, working on her Ph.D. in something or the other. Doesn’t talk much about it, though. Guy she was going with—not steady or heavy—was killed two or three days after the war, or whatever the hell it was that happened.”

Ben told her of the tape recording he’d heard, sitting in front of the Radio Shack in Morriston—a thousand years ago, it seemed.

“Yeah, Ike heard that same tape.”

“Bell-Ringer’s boyfriend, or just friend, whatever—how did he get killed?”

“She doesn’t say much about it, but I gather he was kind of a militant. Didn’t have much education, but was trying to do the right thing—her words—in his own way. I don’t know who started the shooting the day he was killed—she kind of thinks he did—but anyway, he got dead and she just wandered for a day or so until those ‘necks caught up with her and were taking turns raping her. That’s about all I know about her.”

“You?” Ben looked at her. About twenty-five, in the prime of mature beauty. High full breasts, long sleek legs, long thick hair.

“I worked in a bank down in St. Pete.”

“No boyfriends?”

“Just on a social basis, nothing heavy. You know what I mean?”

Ben nodded. “Yes.”

“Tatter was a schoolteacher.” She laughed. “Really! June-Bug was a college girl. Space-Baby worked for the government down at the cape. And Angel-Face was a housewife. Woke up one morning and her husband was lying dead, next to her. She said it was awful. Kind of freaked her out for a time.” She looked up at him from the pallet on the darkening sun porch. “You’re really going to travel around the country, seeing what happened and talking to people?”