William Johnstone - Out of the Ashes

Juno and me. See the country. His thoughts drifted to Jerre, as they often did since the day he had left her. He wondered how she was faring; had she found herself a nice young man? He hoped he would see her again. And he felt he would. With that thought, his mood lifted and he clicked on the cassette recorder and began taping. Suddenly, with an unexpected and unexplained warmness, he thought of Salina.

He cut off long before he reached Atlanta and using state and county roads, he took a winding route around the city. But he saw no one as he drove. No signs of life for more than sixty miles of traveling through the Georgia countryside. That puzzled him.

South of Atlanta, there had been hundreds of survivors, but the closer he drew to the city, the more it appeared that no one had survived. His curiosity finally got the better of him and at Lawrenceville he cut toward the interstate and headed into the city.

He stopped at two dealerships before, at the third dealership, he found the truck he wanted. This one had been ordered for a local sheriff’s department and had all the equipment Ben felt he would need. He walked through the parts department, found a cassette player, and installed it.

He installed a new battery, changed the oil, and patted the accelerator. The pickup fired at first crank. “American workmanship isn’t dead,” Ben muttered. “Just most Americans.”

He transferred his gear and drove to a bulk plant where he filled up the main and reserve tanks; then he rolled on into the city. A dead city. Ben began to see huge billboards. One read: Repent, the end is near. Prepare to meet your Maker.

There were dozens more like it, and one that read: Ben Raines—contact us.

He knew who had put that one up, and he ignored it.

He checked his map and drove out to Dobbins AFB. He smiled ruefully when he saw that the aircraft had been destroyed. He prowled the base, trying to ignore the skeletons, clad only in rotting rags and bits of stubborn flesh, that dotted the streets.

Depression hit him, the worst he had felt since Jerre’s leaving. Why no survivors here? An entire city… wiped out. Why? He was speaking into his mike, recording his depression, his sense of loss and bafflement. Juno whined through the open rear glass, reminding the man he was not entirely alone.

Ben clicked off the recorder, patted Juno’s great head, put the truck in gear, and headed for the front gate. Something nagged at him, some suspicion about this city. He could not pin it down.

As Ben drove out of the base, he passed the headquarters building. A few red, white, and blue rags fluttered in the breeze atop the flag pole.

Ben stopped and with all the dignity he could muster, he brought down the flag.

The first of May found Ben in the middle of the Great Smoky Mountains, sitting in a motel room in a deserted town, eating a cold lunch.

These mountain people, he concluded, were weird! He couldn’t get close enough to any of them to say a word. At a little town just south of Bryson City, one of them had made the mistake of taking a shot at Ben. Ben had reacted instinctively and had spent the next few, long hours watching the man die from a stomach wound.

“Why did you shoot at me?” Ben had asked. “I wasn’t doing a thing.”

“Outsider,” the man had gasped. “Got no business here. We’ll get you.”

“Why do you want to ‘get me’?”

But the man had lost consciousness and Ben had never learned the answer to his question—at least not from the man he had shot.

Sitting in the motel room, Ben was filled with doubts and questions. Where had all the people in this area gone; the people of Atlanta? What was the use of spending years writing something…?

His head jerked up as Juno growled softly, rising to his feet, muzzle toward the door.

“We don’t mean you no harm, mister,” a boy’s voice said. “But if that big dog jumps at me, I’m gonna shoot it.”

Ben put a hand on Juno’s head and told him to relax. He clicked on the recorder. “So come on in and sit,” he said.

A boy and a girl, in their mid-teens, appeared in the door. They looked to be brother and sister. Ben pointed to a couple of chairs.

The boy shook his head. “We’ll stand. Thank you, though.”

“What can I do for you?” Ben asked.

“It ain’t whut you can do for us,” the girl said. “It’s whut we can do fer you.”

“All right.”

“Git your kit together and git on outta here,” the boy said. “They’s comin’ to git you tonight.”

“Who is coming to get me—and why?”

“Our people,” the girl said. She was a very pretty girl, but already the signs of ignorance and poverty were taking their toll.

The poverty and ignorance of her parents, Ben thought.

Root cause—in the home, passed from parents to children.

When will we ever learn?

“I’ve done nothing to your… people.”

“You kilt our uncle,” the boy replied. “Ain’t that doing something?”

“Your uncle shot at me for no reason. All I was doing was standing by the side of a stream, trying to fly-fish for my supper.”

“Our roads, our mountains, our fish,” the girl said.

“I see,” Ben said, his words spoken softly. “And you don’t want any outsiders here.”

“That’s it, mister.”

“If you feel that strongly, why are you warning me?”

The question seemed to confuse the boy and girl. The boy shook his head. “’Cause we don’t want no more killin’ ‘round here. And if you’ll leave, there won’t be no more.”

“Do you agree with your people’s way of life?”

“It ain’t up to us to agree er disagree,” the boy said. “The word’s done been passed down from Corning. And if you stay here, mister, you gonna die.”

“Who, or what, is a Corning?”

“The leader.”

“Ah, yes.” Ben smiled, but was careful not to offend the young people, or rib their way of talking or thinking. “Let me guess; this Corning is the biggest and the strongest among you. He is a religious man—or so he says—and he has a great, powerful voice and spouts the Bible a lot. Am I right?”

“Mister,”—the girl’s voice was soft with awe—“how’d you know all that?”

Ben looked at her. She was shapely and ripe for picking. “And I’ll bet this Corning… I’ll bet he likes you a lot, right?”

“He’s taken a shine to me, yeah.”

“No doubt.” Ben’s reply was dry. How quickly some of us revert, he thought. Tribal chieftain. He stood up and the kids quickly backed away, toward the open door. “Take it easy. I won’t hurt you. Are you going to get into trouble for coming here, warning me?”

The girl shook her head. “We come the back trails. We know where the lookouts is.” She met his gaze. “You leavin’?”

“Yes. I’ll be gone in half an hour. And I thank you for warning me.”

She stood gazing up at him. “We’re not bad people, mister. We jist don’t want no more of your world, that’s all. Why cain’t ever’body just live the way they want to live, and then ever’body would git along?”

Why indeed? Ben thought, and once again, the Rebels entered his mind. He felt compelled to say something profound to the girl. Instead, he said simply, “Because, dear, then we wouldn’t have a nation, would we?”

She blinked. “But we ain’t got one now, have we?” Then they were gone.

And fifteen minutes later, so was Ben.

He drove up to Knoxville, where he found a large group of people, perhaps five hundred or more.

“Is this all?” he asked over a cup of coffee at a Red Cross building.

“No,” a man told him. “I would imagine there’s probably… oh… four or five thousand alive in the city… taking in all the suburbs. But the rest of the people are just existing. They seem to be waiting around for the government to move them.”