Anarchy in the Ashes (8 page)

“I was sixteen,” Gale began. She cleared her throat and spoke louder, firmer. “Sixteen. I didn't know crap about the real world. I was still going to a damn summer camp when I was fifteen years old. That summer I didn't go to camp. Raised so much hell with my parents they finally threw up their hands and told me I was impossible.

“On the day ... the day it ... happened, I was out driving with a girlfriend. We went into a panic. We just couldn't believe it was happening. We were way out in the country, miles out of the suburbs. But when we tried to get back into the city, all the highways and streets were blocked for miles. I tried shortcuts, got lost. Then I calmed down some and pulled an E.T. Managed to call home. My mother said my father was at the hospital, working. I remember she was very calm. She told us not to attempt to enter the city, but to drive into the countryside – even further out than we were – get miles from St. Louis. She said to get food and bottled water and clothing – if I didn't have the money to buy them, steal them. I was shocked. Really. This was my mother telling me to steal. She said to find a sturdy house or barn, hide the car, and hide ourselves. Don't come out for anything or anybody. She said it might take days for this thing to wind down. Something like that.”

“Your father was a doctor?”

“Yes. A surgeon. A very good one. My mother was a psychologist. I still remember how incredibly calm she was over the phone. Anyway, the girl I was with, Amy, she became unglued. Said she wasn't going anywhere except back into the city. She jumped out of the car. I tried to stop her. I yelled at her and screamed at her. She just kept on running. I never saw her again.

“I drove . . . I guess maybe thirty miles from the city. Then I stopped at a country store and got gas. No one was there. It was eerie. I mean, the place was deserted. I rummaged around and got all sorts of food and bottled water and pop and clothes and stuff. I felt so ... so
guilty
about just taking it. So I put all but five dollars of my money on the counter and left.

“I drove. Just drove aimlessly. Ben, to this day I can't tell you how long I drove, but it was fifty or sixty miles further from the city. And I can't tell you where I finally hid. It was terrible, though, I can tell you that. I hid like some animal in this barn. I mean, I never
left
that place. I had hidden my car, a little Chevy, in some kind of stall thing and covered it all up with straw and hay and stuff. Except to go to the bathroom and to wash my face and hands, I stayed the whole time up in the second floor.”

“The second floor of a barn?” Ben questioned, looking at her.

“Whatever you call it.”

“The loft.”

“Thanks. I'll treasure that knowledge forever, I'm sure. What do
I
know from barns? Anyway, it was scary. There were rats and snakes up there at first. How do snakes get up that high? I don't know. Anyway, I killed them with a handle off some kind of tool. It was broken when I found it.

“Then the men came prowling around. They were looking for whiskey and women. Not necessarily in that order. The first group of men – I don't know whether they were black or white or green – had a little boy with them. They did ... disgusting things to him. I don't want to talk about it. Then they left, took the little boy with them. Then some white men came in and looked around. One of them even climbed up the ladder to the second – to the loft – and looked around. But I was hidden really well in the hay and he didn't see me. This bunch said now would be a good time to get together and kill all the niggers. They left. Then some drunk black men came around and I overheard them talking about how would it was a good time to get together and kill all the honks. But first they wanted some tight white pussy. They left and some guys came in and had this woman with them. Woman isn't correct. She was a young girl, maybe fourteen or fifteen. I never saw her, but I could hear her begging them to stop . . . what they were doing. It got pretty . . . perverted. They raped her – among other things. Took turns with her. It was awful.

“When they finally left, they took the girl with them – said they could swap her for guns, maybe. I was alone for two or three days. I don't remember; the days kind of all ran together. Maybe it was longer. Then it got real quiet, like I was the last person left on earth. You know what I mean?”

Ben nodded, remembering his feelings of being alone when he finally left the house after being so sick for so long.

 

 

It was his birthday. It was a Sunday. 1988. It was a day the survivors would remember all their lives. Ben had started a new book, writing for three hours. It was the first time he'd felt like writing after being stung repeatedly by a swarm of yellow jackets. The stings had dropped him into shock. He did not know at the time how long he'd been out – days, surely. But now he felt fine. The mood was not to last.

He drove into town. Just outside of the small town in Louisiana, Ben cut his eyes to a ditch and jammed on the brakes.

There was a body in the ditch.

Ben inspected the dead man. Dead at least a week – maybe longer. The corpse was stinking and blackened.

He tried his CB. Nothing. He turned on the radio, searching the AM and FM bands. Nothing.

With a feeling of dread settling over him like a pall, Ben drove into town.

There, he found the truth.

“Yes,” he told Gale. “I know the feeling quite well.”

“I guess maybe you do,” Gale said. “But you're tough. With me, it was different, believe it. Anyway, I finally ran out of food. I went through it like Grant took Atlanta.”

“Sherman,” Ben said automatically.

“Who's telling this story, anyway?”

“Sorry.”

“I had eaten like a starving person. Ate from fear, I suppose. Gained about ten pounds, at least. I had to leave to find more food. And, I guess, even though I was still scared, I wanted to see what had happened. I just couldn't believe there had really been a war. Well, my damn car wouldn't start. I lifted the hood and looked in. Talk about a shock. There wasn't any motor. I finally figured out the motor was in the rear. I am not mechanically inclined, believe it. What I knew then about engines and stuff was nothing. But I could see where the rats had chewed a lot of wires and things. I sat down by the car and bawled and squalled.

“I finally got it together and stepped out of the barn. The sunlight blinded me for a few moments. Gave me a headache, too. Then I stepped right on a body. Talk about freaking someone out. I almost lost control at that point. Maybe I did lose control for a time. I ran. Boy, did I run. But it didn't do any good. There were bodies
everywhere.
Like in a movie, you know, after a big battle? And animals and birds were
eating
the dead people. It was the worst thing I had ever seen in my life. Period.

“Well . . . I stopped at this house – fell down in the front yard would be more like it, collapsed. Then I went inside. Luckily, the shape I was in, emotionally, the house was empty. No people, I mean.

“Ben, I know how you feel about liberals, and my mother and father were liberals, the whole bag. Gun control, civil rights, opposed to capital punishment, everything, you know?”

Ben nodded his head in agreement.

“OK, so they were liberals. But they taught me how to
think.
They taught me to sit down, be calm and rationalize things out. So that's what I did. I sat in a chair, calmed myself and thought. I thought myself right into a headache – that's all I accomplished.”

Ben laughed at the mental picture of her doing so, then he apologized for it.

She smiled. “No, it's all right, Ben. I feel better finally being able to talk about it. And I understand, really, I do. Looking back, some of the things I did were funny – but not at the time. So I went looking around in this farmhouse. It was set way back from the road, in a bunch of trees, and had been left alone by the looters. I found a rack full of guns. I took out a shotgun and then found a box of shells that said twelve gauge. The double-barrel gun was a twelve gauge – said so on the metal. So I thought: By God, there isn't anybody going to rape this kid. I'll get tough.

“I finally figured out how to open the damn gun – that thing was heavy – and loaded it. I went outside to fire it. Damned thing knocked me down. When I hit the ground the other barrel went off and almost took my foot with it. I decided right then I'd better find me some other kind of gun.

“There were some other shotguns in the rack. I got the smallest one. A 410, it said. Wonderful. Personally I found it all rather confusing. It was smaller than the twelve gauge, but it had a bigger number, so thinking logically, it should have been more powerful, right? I mean, there's three hundred and ninety-eight things difference between the two, right?”

Ben was trying desperately to maintain a straight face.

“Go ahead, laugh, you big ox. I know, I know, klutzy little girl from the city trying to figure out how to work guns. But Ben, my parents wouldn't even let my brother play with toy guns when he was little. Me? I had Ken and Barbie. Fantastic. Really helps a girl prepare for disaster. Doesn't help you prepare for anything. Ken had been neutered and Barbie didn't have nothing. It was a big disappointment.

“The 410 was OK. It kicked, but not much. The keys to a pickup were on the kitchen table. The electricity was still working. I took a long, hot bath. I mean, I was
gamy.
I washed my clothes, fixed something to eat, and slept in a real bed.

“The dreams were kind of bad.”

She was silent for a few miles, gazing out the window at the barren landscape, at lands that were once among the most productive in all of America.

Gale said, “When I got up the next morning and dressed, I looked out the living room window. There were some guys walking up the gravel road. I loaded both guns and walked out onto the front porch. I just knew bad trouble had found me. The twelve gauge was as big as me. The men laughed at me. I told them to stop and to go away. They laughed and one of them asked me what I was. I told him I was an American. He said that wasn't what he meant. I knew what he meant. Then he said some things I'd rather not repeat. Finally he said he'd never had any Jew pussy.

“Ben – ” she glanced at him, her eyes seeking support and condonation of what she was about to say – “I got so mad I lost control. I became so angry I didn't even feel the shotgun kick, and it didn't knock me down when I fired it. I shot the man right in the stomach. Then I fired the other barrel and hit a man in the leg. There was maybe thirty feet between us. Took his leg off at the knee. Just blew it off. I dropped the big shotgun and grabbed up the 410. I fired both barrels of it. I don't think I hit anyone, but the other two men were really running up the road. I heard a car or truck start and never saw them again. I went in the house, packed my stuff, and put it in the pickup, along with both shotguns and all the shells I could find. I walked out to where the guys were lying on the ground. One was dead. The other one was bleeding really bad. I vomited on the ground.

“I stood right there and watched that man die, Ben. I felt . . . I felt lots of things. But Ben, I didn't feel any pity for him. I . . . felt like he deserved what I had done to him.”

She sighed heavily, as if the telling had lifted a load from her slender shoulders.

“One of the men had a pistol in a holster, and some bullets for it in loops. I took all those. I got in the pickup and drove off. Kind of. It was one of those four on the floor types. I knocked the whole porch down before I figured how to get the damn thing out of reverse. It was embarrassing.

“I found some people a little while later and they were very nice. They told me they heard St. Louis had blown up. So I headed for Columbia. My parents had friends there that taught at the university. They took me in. There's a whole lot more, but that's the high points. Except for this:

“I am tired of running. I am tired of being alone. I am tired of being scared. I do not want to be alone
ever again.
Do you understand what I am saying, Ben Raines? I mean, really understand it?”

He looked at her and full comprehension passed silently between man and woman.

“Yes, I do,” Ben told her.

“Fine.” She smiled and mischief popped and sparkled in her dark eyes. “Then keep your eyes on the road, Ben. You're not the best driver I've ever ridden with, you know?”

Ottumwa contained more people than Ben had seen theretofore in any one place. And Ben noticed that most of them were armed, with both side arms and rifles.

He ordered his convoy to a halt and got out to speak with some of the people. He was greeted courteously, if not, at first, warmly.

So spotty were communications throughout America that some of the people did not even know Ben had been in and out of the White House at Richmond.

Ben commented on the highly visible arms.

“Had to go to it,” a man told him. “First those awful things were around – you know what I'm talking about, don't you?”

Ben nodded. “Mutants.”

“Yeah. Then the IPF came nosing around, spewing that communistic bullshit. We ran them out of town, but they just spread out all around here, all around us. They got a firm hand and hold on Waterloo, conducting classes at the college, and lots of folks are being taken in by that line. But not us.”

“How far up north do they extend?”

“All the way up into Canada, so I hear tell. But it's a funny – odd – type of communism. Not like the way it was in Russia before the bombings.”

“Yet,” Ben said.

The man smiled. “Yeah. Say, why don't you folks spend the night here? We have running water, electricity, all the comforts. Well, most of them. We can talk about what to do about the IPF.”

“I'd like that,” Ben said with a smile. He stuck out his hand. The man shook it.

 

 

“You're sure you won't reconsider and make the move down south with us?” Ben again asked. “Join up with us.”

Dinner had been delicious. The people of Ottumwa had opened up their homes to the Rebels, eager for company and for some news of happenings on the outside. The days of turning on a radio or TV for news and entertainment were long gone . . . and for many would never return.

The Iowan smiled and shook his head negatively. He refilled their cups with hot tea. Coffee was now almost unknown. The tea was a blend of sassafras root and experimental tea leaves grown in South Carolina and in hot houses.

“I don't believe so, General. This land around here is still some of the best farm land in the world, and me and the wife have been farming it for some years now. Think well just stay on.”

“And if the IPF returns?” Ben asked. “In force, with force?”

“We do try not to think about that, General Raines.” the man's wife said. “But we're not always successful in doing it.”

The farmer said, “If that happens, General Raines, look for us to join you.”

“I'll stay in contact, try to warn you in time to get out.”

“We'd appreciate that, General.”

“But if you see it coming at you, don't wait until it's too late,” Ben cautioned.

“There's about three hundred of us rebuilding around here,” the man said. “And we're all armed and know how to use the weapons.”

“The Russians have between five and ten thousand troops,” Ben replied.

The man paled. “Then well have to give your suggestion some heavier consideration, General.”

 

 

The convoy pulled out the next morning, rolling northward. They halted at the junction of Highways 63 and 6 while a team was sent into Grinnell College to inspect.

Ben stood beside Gale, both of them leaning against the fender of the pickup. They heard the plane coming and looked up at the twin-engine prop job as it dipped lower, coming out of the north.

“It's unarmed, General!” a spotter called, viewing the plane through binoculars. “But its markings show it's an IPF aircraft.”

“Stand easy,” Ben told his people.

Paper fluttered through the air as the plane did a slow fly-by. The pilot waggled his wings, banked to the north, and was gone before the bits of paper had fallen to the earth.

Gale snagged one of the falling leaflets and handed it to Ben. After she read it. Ben waited patiently.

“I wouldn't trust a goddamn Russian any further than I could spit,” a Rebel said.

Colonel Gray smiled, anticipating Ben's reply. He was not disappointed.

“I think that probably has a great deal to do with the shape of the world at the present time,” Ben said. “But the Russians never inspired a great deal of confidence in me, either. Colonel Gray?”

“Sir?”

“Take a team and reconnoiter the situation. Do not fire unless you are fired upon. If you meet with any of General Striganov's people, set up day after tomorrow for the meeting and report back to me immediately.”

“Sir.” The Englishman saluted and called for three other Rebels to join him. They left within five minutes in two Jeeps.

“Corporal.” Ben looked at the radio operator. “Get on the horn and have Colonel McGowen get his people up and moving. I don't want to risk a night landing using vehicle headlights, so tell him to use the airstrip just outside of town and I'll expect him no later than 1200 hours tomorrow. I'll be waiting.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Dismount and make camp,” Ben hollered.

 

 

“You are?” Colonel Gray asked the uniformed young man.

“Lieutenant Stolski, sir, IPF.”

“Nice old Welsh name,” Dan muttered under his breath. “Well, Lieutenant, are we going to be civilized about this, or do we draw a line with the toe of a boot and dare each other to step over it?”

The young IPF officer laughed and stuck out his hand. “I have some excellent tea in my quarters, sir. Would you join me for a cup?”

Dan shook the offered hand. “Delighted, son.”

 

 

The four old, prop-driven planes were airborne within an hour after receiving Ben's orders. The planes were old, but in excellent mechanical condition, the motors rebuilt from the ground up. The four planes carried two full companies of hand-picked Rebels, in full combat gear.

The planes had refueled in central Missouri and spent the night there. They were circling the small airport outside Grinnell, Iowa at 1150 hours.

Ben had arranged transportation (thousands of vehicles around the nation were still operable after a bit of servicing) and the troops mounted up and were rolling after guards were placed around the aircraft.

“You're in charge here while I'm meeting with General Striganov,” Ben told Ike. “I'm only taking four people with me.”

“Plus your bodyguards.”

“Only four people,” Ben repeated.

“Plus your bodyguards,” Ike insisted, staring out the windshield.

Ben sighed. “All right, Ike. If it will make you happy.”

Ike sniffed the air of the cab. “Smells like perfume in here, Ben. Have you gone funny on me?”

Ben gave him a hard look. But it was to no avail. No one could stay miffed at Ike. Ben told him about Gale.

“One good thing came of this trip anyway,” the stocky ex-SEAL said with a grin. His grin faded. “We got a little more trouble down home, though.”

“Oh?”

“Emil Hite and his band of kookies and fruities. They're growing, Ben. Seems people are looking for something or someone to believe in. 'Bout five or six hundred more new members just joined up with Hite and his creampies.”

“Moving into our area?”

“I don't know how to keep them out, Ben. They're not armed, never make any kind of hostile move. They are not aggressive at all. What the hell can we do under those circumstances?”

“We can run their paganistic asses clear out of the area,” Ben spoke through clenched teeth. Emil Hite was the Jim Jones type – only worse. Ben suspected, but had no way of proving, that Hite was having sexual relations with young boys and girls ten years of age – and less. And he
knew –
having seen with his own eyes – Hite and his followers were worshipping idols. Well, they could worship a pile of horse hockey if they chose, but it was the children that concerned Ben.

Ike glanced at him and worked his chewing tobacco over to the other side of his mouth. “The mutants might not like that too much, ol'buddy.”

“What the hell do the mutants have to do with Emil Hite?”

“Well – ” Ike spat out the open window – “Emile Hite and his nutsos kind of worship the ugly bastards.”

That so startled Ben he almost lost the pickup. He was glad Gale was not with him. “What!”

“Yeah. Our intelligence just discovered that a few days ago. Seems they – Hite and his jellybeans – have been feeding the mutants for the past year or so; kind of tamed some of them, I reckon. And hold on to your balls for this one: Every now and then, so intelligence has gathered, Hite gives the ugly things women.”

“You have got to be kidding!”

“Nope.” Ike shrugged philosophically “Savage and stupid people the world over have been doing things similar since the beginnings of time, Ben. You know that.”

“Yeah. The Aztecs, Mayans, hell, the Hawaiians used to toss selected maidens into volcanoes.” He shook his head in disgust. “Well, I'll deal with Hite later. Right now, let's worry about the Russians.”

“One thing at a time.” Ike grinned.

 

 

The men stood for a full minute, each silently appraising the other. They were very close in age; no more than a year or two separated them. Both were in excellent physical shape, heavily muscled and lean-waisted.

“General Striganov.” Ben was the first to speak. He extended his hand. The Russian took it.

“So good to at last meet you, General Raines. It's rare one gets to meet a legend.”

“If indeed I am a legend.”

“Oh, you are, sir.” Georgi said with a smile. “Have no doubts concerning that.”

Ben decided to pull no punches with the man. “I won't apologize for what happened to your young man in Rolla, General. He and his men raped one of my people and roughed up another.”

The Russian smiled grimly. “No apologies expected, General. I personally shot him.”

Ben lifted his eyes to meet the Russian's open gaze.

“Oh yes, General Raines. His orders were not to rape or physically abuse the population. And I run a very tight ship, so to speak. I will not tolerate any breach of discipline. Besides, Mikael, so I learned, was somewhat of a – how to say this – was twisted sexually. He will not be missed. His rather lame excuse about your two young people being spies had no validity. Spies against what or whom? Russia no longer exists as a government; America no longer exists as a government, a power. The world, indeed, is a free, open land, as unbridled by man-made law as the vast seas. I view it this way, General: If you have the right to set in place your own form of government, amenable to the people who follow you, then so do I. Would you argue that?”

Ben had to smile. Putting the question that simplistically, Ben could not argue the concept or the method – thus far – but he could argue and question the ideology. And he said as much.

The Russian returned the smile, viewing the American through cold eyes. “As the Americans used to be fond of saying, General, I'm being quite ‘up front' with the people. At first I was not; I will admit – openly – to some initial deceit. But no longer. I am telling the people who I
was
and what I have now
become:
a communist who has now shifted a bit to become a pure socialist in thinking and actions.”

“And of the caste system you advocate?” Ben was not letting him off the hook that easily.

But the Russian was full of surprises. “But of course! Stupid and shallow people are very often quite vain, General Raines. You are a very intelligent man; I don't have to tell you about human nature. Oh no, General, I am now – much to Sam Hartline's disgust – being quite open and honest in my dealings with the people. But what is amusing to me is this: Not one of the people who now embraces my form of government actually believes he will be placed in the lower levels of the system, even though I intimate they certainly will. That, I believe, is the dubious beauty of the naive and the arrogant man who knows not that he is either. And would not believe it if he was so informed. You know those types, General Raines. The world is – or was – full of them.”

The man was anything but a fool, Ben reluctantly conceded. And he would be a formidable adversary. If it came to that.

As if on some invisible signal, an aide brought them coffee – real coffee. Ben savored the rich smell and taste. He had to ask where in the world General Striganov got the coffee.

“Call me Georgi – please. And may I call you Ben?”

“Certainly, Georgi.”

“Stockpiled it, Ben. Hundreds of tons of the finest coffee beans in the world, although I can't personally guarantee each bean was hand-picked by that fellow on your American TV.”

Ben smiled in remembrance of that commercial: a coffee bean picker with manicured fingernails.

“And also some of the finest tea in the world, as well,” Georgi concluded proudly.

“But none of that will be shared with the, ah, lower classes of your system?”

“Certainly not.”

“I could attack that, Georgi.”

“But of course you could! However, Ben – ” the Russian leaned forward, pyramiding his finger tips in a vague gesture of praying – “do tell me this: Does an ignorant person appreciate the beauty and talents of a Renoir, a Van Gogh, Cezanne, Caravaggio?” He smiled in anticipation of an easily won verbal victory. “We both know the answer to that. If an ignorant person had a choice, which would you envision him hanging in his hovel: a print of a famous master, or some hideous cloth depicting dogs playing billards or poker?”