William Johnstone - Out of the Ashes

Ben nodded.

“Word is being passed up and down the line about your death. I told Conger and Voltan and some of the others to hang loose, I didn’t believe it.”

“I thought it best.”

Ike agreed. “Good idea. Well,”—he sighed—“we been tryin’ to get this land in shape—do some truck farmin’. People gotta eat. But… Logan’s gonna move in here sooner or later. I don’t know what to do.”

“Where are Tatter and June-Bug?”

“Oh,”—Ike’s face brightened, losing its tension—“they found themselves a couple of ol’ boys and got married. Whatever me and Megan decide to do… they’re with us.”

Ben looked at Megan. “You haven’t had any trouble with the rednecks?”

She shook her head. “Only one incident.”

“Trashy bastard came around here,” Ike said. “Runnin’ off at his mouth. I remembered him from high school. Son of a bitch didn’t get out of the ninth grade—so stupid he quit—and he’s talkin’ about me marryin’ a low-down nigger.”

“What happened?” Ben asked, although he hardly had to ask, knowing Ike’s volatile temper.

“I killed him,” the ex-SEAL said calmly. “Took his body into town and dumped it on the courthouse square. Folks been right friendly since then.”

Despite the awfulness of the statement, Ben had to smile. “If you can’t educate them to mind their own business, kill them—right?”

Ike shrugged. “I don’t have the time or the inclination to educate folks, ol’ buddy. Way I figure it, we’re back to the days of the old West. You do your thing and I’ll do mine. Think whatever in the hell you wanna think—I got no right to restrict you there—but don’t insult me or mine; don’t steal from me or mine; don’t try to hurt me or mine; and don’t manhandle me or mine. Just live and let live. You get in trouble, I’ll help you, but by God, if I get in trouble, you’d better help me.”

“Ike, what do you think about the West? Where I’ve sent some of the Rebels.”

“Idaho and Montana?”

“Yes.”

“Wild and beautiful. Everything a man could ask for. Grow good crops and raise fat cattle. Cold as a witch’s tit in the winter.”

“Beats being told where to live.”

“And being told what kind of job to do and what time to get up and go to sleep and all that happy crap. Yeah, it sure does beat it.” He rose from Megan’s side. “I’ll be right back, Ben. Hang on.”

Megan looked at Ben. “We’re going to have a lot of trouble with Logan, aren’t we, Ben?”

“Yes. And when it comes, it’s going to come very quickly.”

“Logan scares me. I didn’t trust him fully; a lot of my people didn’t. What is that line about the ‘man who would be king’?”

“Yes. That’s the way I see it. I think he’s unbalanced.”

Ike returned with a large suitcase-looking container, metal, with electronic inputs on the front and a collapsible antenna on the side. “This is a very high-frequency radio, Ben. I borrowed a couple of them from Keesler on the way up. Built-in scrambler, the whole bit. This thing will transmit three thousand miles and receive worldwide.” He showed Ben how to adjust the band. “This is if you wanna contact the Rebs. This one is for me.”

“If I decide to head west, Ike—”

“Hell, you’ve already made up your mind to go. I know you well enough to see that.”

“…Lots of high mountains out there.”

“So get on top of one of the mothers, General.”

“Ike? You be careful—you hear me?”

The stocky Navy man laughed. “Lord, General, you worry more than an old mother hen. Come on, let’s get something to eat. We got a lot of jawin’ to do before you pull out.”

Ben changed his mind about going to Louisiana, knowing the only reason for the visit was to see Salina. So he crossed the river at Helena, south of Memphis, and headed across Arkansas, making good time, staying on the secondary roads. He skirted Little Rock, not daring to go any further north. For from Fort Smith in Arkansas all the way up to just a few miles south of Kansas City, everything was gone; that area had taken both types of warheads. He spent a night by a lake in the mountains, fishing in the late afternoon sunlight. He caught more fish than he could possibly eat and was cleaning them, preparing to fry them on his portable Coleman stove when Juno growled low in his chest.

“We’re friendly.” The voice came out of the brush. “I have some children with me.”

“Come on in,” Ben said, keeping one hand on the butt of his pistol.

A black man and woman with several kids in tow walked up to the cabin porch. The man stuck out his hand. “Pal Elliot.” He smiled his introduction. “This is Valerie. And these,” he said, pointing to the children, “in order, starting with the oldest, are Bruce, Linda, Sue, and Paul.”

Two blacks, one Oriental, one Indian.

Ben shook the offered hands and smiled at the kids. “Ben Raines,” he said. He sat down on the porch and motioned for the others to do the same. “You folks live around here?”

Pal smiled. “No, just passing through. Like a lot of other people. I was an airline pilot, based in L.A. Valerie was a model in New York City. We met about seven months ago, I think it was.”

“Six months ago,” she corrected him with a smile. “We picked up the kids along the way. Found them wandering.”

“No children of your own?” Ben asked.

“No. But he did.” She looked at Pal. “Lost his whole family. You?”

Ben shook his head. “I was—am—a bachelor. Lost my brothers and sisters and parents.” He grimaced in the fading light.

“Memories still painful?” Pal asked.

“No, not really. One brother made it out—up in Chicago. Suburbs, actually. We met… had a falling out.”

“Carl Raines?” Pal asked.

“That’s the man.”

“We passed through that area,” Valerie said. “Very quickly. It was… unpleasant.”

“Well, folks…” Ben stood up, rubbing his hands together. “How about staying for dinner? I have plenty of fish.”

“We’d like that,” they said.

“I knew I’d heard that name somewhere,” Pal said. It was evening in the mountains. The air was soft with warmth, the lake shimmering silver in the moonlight. The children played Rook in the den of the cabin; the adults sat on the porch, smoking and talking and drinking beer. “Way you write, hard law and order, I had to think you were a racist—at first. Then you did some other books that had me confused about your… reasoning. What is your political philosophy, Ben? If you don’t mind my asking, that is.”

“No, I don’t mind. I… think I was rapidly becoming very apolitical, Pal; pretty damned fed up with the whole system. I did a couple of books about it. I was fed up with the goddamned unions asking for more money than they were worth—trying, in many instances, to dictate policy to the government. I was very weary of crime with no punishment, sick of the ACLU sticking their noses into everybody else’s business. Oh… don’t get me started, Pal. Besides, as a young lady once told me, not too long ago, it’s all moot now, anyway.”

“Is it, Ben?” Pal asked. “What about Logan?”

Ben chuckled. “Our president-we-didn’t-elect? Yeah, I know. I gather you folks aren’t responding to his orders to relocate?”

“Logan can take his orders and stick them up his nose,” Valerie said. “I never did like that man; didn’t trust him.”

Megan’s words.

“I shall live,” she continued, “where I damned well choose to live.”

Ben told them about Ike and Megan; of New Africa and what the government planned to do. And then he told them, just touching on it, of the idea that was in his mind—to get their reactions.