Alone in the Ashes (17 page)

Ben stood on a rise and viewed the terrain where the outlaws were dug in. Lowering his binoculars, he said, “They know we're not taking prisoners, Dan. Either way it goes, they know they're dead men. There won't be any offer of surrender from either side. And I will not lose good men and women fighting these scum.”

“No, sir.”

Ben reached down and pulled up a handful of grass. Sparse grass, at best. What there was of it was bone dry. “Ring the area with gasoline and kerosene,” Ben said. “As much as you can find. Burn them out and shoot them.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Rebels began lobbing in heavy mortar fire, using HE and WP rounds. The Rebels were as expert with the mortars as any organized fighting force presently operating anywhere in the world. They dropped in the rounds with deadly accuracy, walking them in behind the outlaws, driving them out of their holes, sending them running toward the thinly burning fires.

Then the Rebels opened up with heavy .50-caliber machine guns, continuing the deadly fire until not an outlaw could be seen standing.

“Finish them,” Ben ordered, lowering his binoculars. Turning to Dan Gray, he said, “That's one for Jordy.”

 

 

“West and his people is finished,” Texas Red told Jake.

The men had had scouts watching the action from a distance.

“West was a fool,” Jake said. “We maybe could have whipped them if we'd all stayed together.”

Both outlaws knew that statement was a crock of crap.

“Now what, Jake?” Texas Red asked.

“Straight out?”

“Straight out.”

“We tuck our tails between our legs and carry our asses just as far away from here as we can. That's what we do.”

“What are we waitin' for?”

 

 

“If Jake Campo and Texas Red are in Texas, General,” Dan said, “they've found themselves a hell of a hideout.”

Ben shook his head. “They've gone. It's been ten days since we finished West and his bunch. I think the others heard the news—probably had people watching it—and hauled out. No telling where they went.”

“That's my philosophy, too, General. Well, we've found something else, though. There are warlords and outlaws cropping up everywhere we look. A great many people have asked us for help in dealing with them. I told them I would take it up with you.”

“I won't order you to do it, Dan. Not without taking it up with the folks back at Base Camp One.”

“You know what Cecil and Ike would say, Ben,” the Englishman said, calling Ben by his first name, something he rarely did. He was British born and British military trained. Familiarity with superior officers just wasn't done.

“It's up to you, Dan. I'm pulling out in the morning, taking Rani with me.”

That did not come as any surprise to Dan. “May I assign a squad to accompany you, sir?”

“No, you may not, Dan. But I'll tell you where I'm going. Back to the old Tri-States. We'll winter there.” He outlined their route on a map. “I won't say we won't deviate from that route, but it'll be close most of the way. The static has eased considerably, so we'll be able to keep some sort of communications open between us.”

Dan opened his mouth to protest, and Ben waved him silent.

“If we hit a snag, I give you my word we'll head for cover and call in for help.” Ben stuck out his hand. “And we'll shake on it to seal the bargain.”

The men shook hands, and that was that. But Ben knew he wasn't fooling Dan Gray. He knew that Dan knew Ben was going headhunting—alone. But Dan also knew that if Ben said he'd call in if too much trouble faced him, he would do just that.

“Take care of yourself, General,” Dan said.

“And good hunting to you, Dan.”

You, too, General, Dan thought.

 

 

Ben and Rani pulled out the next morning, early. They took two trucks, Ben pulling a small trailer behind his. The pickups were loaded with supplies. And this time Ben was going to be ready for almost anything that might come their way. He carried a mortar and several cases of rounds; an M-60 machine gun; and enough C-4 to blow up anything he might feel like blowing up—with timers and detonators. Between them, they had enough food to last several months. Gray's communications people had installed a military radio in Rani's truck and checked out both of their CB's. They had installed boosters in both of them. The CB's could be operated at three different levels: extremely low power, with a range of no more than a mile, for use when they felt transmissions might be monitored; normal range; and with a flick of a toggle switch, jacked up to four hundred watts, giving them an enormous range.

Ben had watched, amused, as Colonel Gray surreptitiously—so he thought—checked out Ben's and Rani's trucks.

Ben slipped up behind the Englishman and touched him on the shoulder.

“Great God!”
Dan roared, almost separating his feet from his boots.

“Do you have a guilty conscience, Dan?” Ben asked.

“Heavens, no, General. You just startled me, that's all.”

“Uh-huh,” Ben said. “Certainly.”

Ben knew he had been planting fresh bugs in their trucks. He let it ride. Humor the man.

With Ben leading the way, they drove first to Hobbs, New Mexico, then took state roads east to Artesia, spending the night just north of the small city. It was then that Ben made love to her, and she could not help but think how incredibly gentle the man was.

When she awakened the next morning, she awakened to the sounds of pecking. She opened sleepy eyes and saw Ben pecking away at his portable typewriter. He was sitting by a window, the sunlight managing to penetrate the dusty glass.

“Are all writers crazy?” she asked.

“It helps to be,” Ben admitted, not looking up from his labors. “It sure does.”

 

 

The two of them puttered around that day, first exploring the few deserted towns they found between Artesia and Roswell, then viewing the looted and ruined remains of the museum and art center in Roswell.

“Why?” Rani asked, looking at the desecration.

“No reason,” Ben told her. “Just like all vandalism—mindless.”

It was afternoon when they began the lonely drive between Roswell and Vaughn, and they found it slow going. The highway was littered with deserted cars and trucks, now no more than rusting hulks blocking the way. They could see the shining bones of skeletons in a few of the cars. Ben got out to inspect some of the vehicles and their gruesome contents.

“Shot through the head,” Ben told Rani. He pointed. “That car is the mausoleum for an entire family. Man, woman, and two small kids. All shot through the head.”

“I wonder why?” Rani asked.

“We'll never know.”

They stopped for the night at what remained of the tiny village of Ramon. The place had been picked clean, and done so with deliberate care, Ben noted.

“It's ... eerie,” Rani said.

“No,” Ben answered slowly. “I don't think so. Most of what we've seen so far, since leaving Artesia, reminds me of what my people did back in '89. I think there just might be a group of people, probably a large group, doing what we did—setting up a community, somewhere.”

“Mormons?”

“Probably. Most of what we've seen I would not call looting. It wasn't done with damage in mind. But done carefully.”

“I hope you're right, Ben.”

“So do I. And that might explain why we haven't seen any thugs or outlaws or bandits since we entered this state.”

“I don't understand.”

“The Mormons are extremely fine people; very self-sufficient. I'm told that during the great depression—and that happened years before you or I made an appearance on this earth—the Mormons really took care of their own, without, for the most part, government assistance. And they also won't put up with a bunch of crap from people. They are deeply religious, but will defend to the death what is theirs.” He shrugged. “So I've been told.”

They pulled out early the next morning and were in Vaughn an hour later. The town was empty and still, and it had been systematically taken apart. Even down to the last drop of gasoline in the storage tanks.

Ben smiled, looking around him. “I think we shall avoid Utah,” he said. “Unless we just absolutely have to enter the state. I will leave those people alone if they'll do the same for us.”

Ben stopped on the outskirts of Santa Fe, pulling off the road. He studied maps, trying to determine the best way to avoid the city. There was something disturbing about the quiet of the place, something that set the hairs on the back of Ben's neck to tingling.

Rani walked up to his truck. “What's wrong, Ben?”

“Too quiet. I feel eyes on us. Whether they're friendly or unfriendly, I don't know. But I don't feel like taking any chances. Cities have always been a problem since the Great War. They seem to attract the scum of the land.”

“So we do what?”

“Backtrack and take 41 until we reach this county road, which we take over to 14. We head south until we hit this other secondary road that will take us over to Interstate 25. We'll connect with Highway 44 there and take that northwest to Aztec. It's going to be slow going, so let's be careful not to get separated. I don't like the feel of this country. If we're stopped, Rani, be ready to shoot first and apologize later.”

“I finally got that message through my head, Ben.”

They backtracked on 285 until coming to their cutoff. Then the going was slowed down to no more than a crawl. The road had deteriorated badly, and was littered with junked vehicles.

Their radios on low power, Ben said to Rani, “If a paved road is this bad, Rani, an unpaved road will probably be impassable. So forget the road over to Interstate 25. We'll stay on this all the way down to Interstate 40 and then try to plot a new route.”

“One thing about it, baby,” Rani radioed back. “We're sure going to see some new country.”

“That's a big ten-four,” Ben said with a grin.

 

 

“It worked, Jake,” Texas Red said, smiling. “Our scouts just pulled in. Raines and the cunt left the Rebels, travelin' in two pickups.”

The one hundred and fifty-odd outlaws were camped along the banks of the Conchas Lake, westnorthwest of Tucumcari. Jake and Red had ordered their men to keep their heads down and stay quiet.

“Which way the Rebs heading?” Jake asked.

“Scouts report they're goin' to help some folks up around Odessa. Something about settin' up outposts.”

“Raines and the broad?”

“They headed west for a time, then cut toward the north.”

Jake's grin broadened. “OK. I know where he's heading, now.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Back to his old stompin' grounds. The Tri-States. Him and the cunt is plannin' on wintering there. Bet on it.”

“So we take them now?”

“No, you dummy! We send out scouts—our best people. Haircuts, shaved, clean clothes—a good appearance in case they accidently run into Raines. But they don't have to do that.” He spat on the ground. “We can track them.”

“
How?
” Texas Red asked, exasperation in his voice.

“'Cause, my good man,” Jake said, smiling, patting his fellow outlaw on the back, “that goddamn Englishman didn't change the frequency on them bugs he put in Raines' pickup. And our radioman just figured it out.”

“Oohhh,” Texas Red said. “That's slick, Jake. Real slick.”

“So in about a week, we move out in teams, real quiet like. No more than four or five guys at a pop. By then, we'll have a pretty good idea where Raines and Rani is going. Then we'll just slow-like gather up there in the old Tri-States, and do it real professional-like.”

“And then we kill Raines,” Texas Red said.

“Yeah,” Jake said dreamily. “I want you to send out some boys. Find two-three cameras and lots of film.”

“What you gonna take pitchers of, Jake?”

“Raines. He thinks he's a god, so I'm gonna treat him like one.”

“Huh?”

“I'm gonna crucify the bastard.”

Ben and Rani stayed on Highway 41 all the way south to Highway 60. There they cut west over to Interstate 25. Just before reaching the interstate, they pulled off the highway and made camp.

“Ben?”

“Uh-huh?”

“I thought New Mexico had a lot of Indians in it?”

“Probably still does. But they're keeping their heads down. Like a lot of other Indians. You see, Rani, back when we were building the Tri-States, we—the Rebels—helped many of the Indian tribes, too. We helped them move out of and off of those goddamned disgraceful reservations and onto better land where they could farm and build and grow. Then when the government decided to move against us, they went against the Indians first. Thousands of Indians were killed—slaughtered. Men, women, kids. It was senseless. Totally senseless. My God, but there was plenty of land for everybody.” Ben sighed. “It was my fault.”

“How in the hell was it your fault!”

“President Logan had a hard-on for me. He hated me. Just about as bad as I hated him. I wouldn't kowtow to him; him or the Supreme Court or that august body known as the Congress of the United States. If the Indians hadn't thrown in with us, maybe there wouldn't have been a slaughter. I don't know.”

Rani smiled at him. Then she laughed. “I guess all the things I've heard about you are true, then.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I heard that when the Supreme Court ruled that everything you and your Rebels were doing out in the Tri-States was unconstitutional, you wrote them a letter and told them all to kiss your ass.”

“That is correct. I did just that. That was after the first threat from the central government. We were not guilty of harming
any
law-abiding citizen. Not one. What we did was take a mixing bowl full of people of all races, all religions, and make it work. We had some of the toughest laws anywhere in the world and stuck to them. And ninety-nine point nine percent of the people of the Tri-States liked it that way. That one-tenth of one percent who didn't, left. They went back to a society where, if they stole, they usually got away with it. Hell, if they broke
any
law, the odds were they would never serve any time for it. We just viewed matters in a different light, that's all.”

“So the government sent troops in to destroy the Tri-States.”

“Yes. And split the country in half by doing so.” Ben looked far into the distance. “We will rebuild. We will rise out of the ashes and rebuild. We've got to.”

She put her hand in his and gently squeezed.

South of Albuquerque, they turned northwest, bypassing the city. An hour later, after twisting and turning and dodging obstacles in the old road, they rolled onto Interstate 40 and continued westward. They made camp for the night halfway between Albuquerque and Gallup.

Ben had been driving the nation's highways for the past few years; he was accustomed to the strain of backtracking, detouring, and winching fallen trees and junked cars out of the way. Rani was not. She was so tired she was trembling from exhaustion.

Ben pitched camp, made a quick supper over a low fire, and fed Rani. She fell asleep before she was finished eating. Ben led her to the tent and got her into the big, double sleeping bag. They had packed their blankets away, for it was turning colder by the day, and the down-filled sleeping bag was warmer and easier to handle.

Ben sat by the little fire, sipping hot tea and listening to the night animals prowl the land in search of food. Soon the cold drove him into the tent, to crawl in beside Rani. They reached for each other in the darkness.

Now there were two alone in the ashes.

 

 

“I would like to take a bath!” Rani said. “I feel grimy.”

“Well,” Ben said with a smile. “I figure it's about 30° this morning, and getting colder. There's a stream back a few miles. Want to bathe there?”

She flipped him the Rigid Digit.

With the silence of the Cibola National Forest their companion to the south, Ben and Rani traveled the interstate, stopping at every small town along the way. At Thoreau, they found an old service station whose tanks had not been drained. Using his pump, Ben filled their tanks and topped off their spare cans.

Both had been monitoring their CB's, listening to the increasing chatter. Gallup, it appeared, had been taken over by half a dozen gangs of punks, thugs, and various gangs of what appeared to be Hispanics, all fighting each other for control of what was left of the small city. And ambushing and killing anybody else who happened to blunder onto their “turf.”

Rani could see that Ben was getting angry. She questioned him about it.

“I'm getting tired of detouring around street gangs who seem to possess shit for brains.”

She put the needle to Ben. “You don't like Hispanics, Ben?”

“Don't be stupid! Colonel Hector Ramos was one of the best friends I ever had. He was killed fighting the IFP. I don't like street gangs no matter what nationality they might be.”

“I'm only kidding, Ben,” she said softly.

“I know. Sorry I spoke harshly to you. But if I have an overriding hatred of anything in this world, it's punks. Secondly would be the goddamn liberals who made excuses for the behavior of street gangs—for years.”

She looked confused.

“Liberal is probably not a word you're familiar with, right, Rani?”

“I've heard it. But I'm not sure what it means.”

“It was going out of vogue about the time you got out of high school. I guess the simplest way to say it would be that a liberal made excuses for the criminal while a conservative punished the criminal. While neither one made any great effort to pursue a middle ground. Now it's too late.”

“You are a confusing man, Ben. I can't peg you.”

Ben smiled. “You are not the first person to say that to me, Rani.”

“So what road do we take to bypass Gallup?”

“We don't,” Ben said, a hard glint in his eyes. “We go right through.”

“Why am I not in the least surprised to hear you say that?”

 

 

“You will pay a toll,” the hard-eyed young man said to Ben. “And we will take what we like from your truck.”

“Oh, my!” Ben said, feigning great shock and fear, keeping his left hand hidden from the young punk. “Do you do this to all visitors to your lovely city?”

“'At's right, pops. And if they're lucky, we let them live.”

Ben smiled at the street hood. “You know what?”

“I know I don' like you.”

“Oohhh,” Ben said. “You're hurting my feelings.”

“I don' care. I think I keel you.”

“I don't think so.” Ben released the spoon of the grenade he held in his left hand and reached out the window, stuffing the live grenade down the front of the punk's open shirt. The street-slime recoiled in horror, tearing at his shirt in vain. Ben lifted his right hand and emptied his .45 into the knot of garbage gathered around the truck, all of them grinning and scratching themselves.

They stopped grinning when Ben started shooting.

Grenades being what they are, the punk's body absorbed most of the impact. It spread him all over the littered street as Ben and Rani raced through the punk blockade.

Ben picked up another fully loaded .45 from the seat beside him and shot at anything resembling a punk as the pickups roared through what remained of Gallup. Ben had a pile of loaded pistols on the seat beside him. Driving one-handed, both windows down, Ben cleared the streets of all living things—if they had two legs, greasy hair, fruit boots, rings full of fingers, tight jeans, and jackets with a club name on the back.

Rani spent most of her time just keeping up with Ben and screaming at him. She called him every uncomplimentary name in her vocabulary. And made up a few new names she felt applied to this particular situation.

Just outside of Gallup, Ben whipped off the interstate and roared up onto an overpass. Jumping out, Ben grabbed his RPG and quickly inserted a rocket into the tube, and locked it in place. He looked around for Rani.

“Stand over there,” he told her. “The backblast from this thing is dangerous.”

“You're fucking
crazy!”
she screamed at him.

“I believe we settled all that the other morning, didn't we?”

The street punks came roaring up the interstate in their low-rider cars. Ben felt sure the interiors would be of crushed velvet, red or black. And the drivers would have one hand on the wheel, the other holding a comb. They came in a knot of fancy machines, hubcaps gleaming in the sunlight.

The rocket welded the first two macho cars to the concrete, those behind slamming, sliding, crashing, and exploding into the mass of burning fancy metal.

Those who did not become part of the burning interstate did their best imitations of a State Trooper turn-around and carried their asses back to Gallup. Wiser, but not a damn bit smarter.

Picking up his M-16, Ben shot any survivors who staggered from the inferno.

He stood up and looked at Rani. “Now we can continue with our journey, dear.”

“And what the hell do you think you accomplished by doing this?” she demanded.

“Making the world a little bit safer for innocent travelers, darling,” he told her. “And I got rid of a lot of crud.”

“You could have been
killed!”
she squalled at him. “Now I see why your people think you need a keeper!”

“The world would have been in a hell of a shape if the Rangers on D-Day and the Marines on Wake Island had shared your sentiments.”

“What the hell is Wake Island?” she asked.