Blood in the Ashes (12 page)

“Stay in the water, Nina,” Ike warned her. “I know it's uncomfortable as hell, but it'll help throw the dogs off our scent.”

“It's cold!” Nina responded. “Jesus Christ! My toes are frozen.”

“Better numb than having the dogs chew them off,” Ike reminded her. “Along with other parts of your anatomy.”

“Thanks, Ike,” Nina said, slopping along behind him in the center of the stream. “You're a real comfort to me.”

Ike grinned. Nina was one hell of a spunky kid. No, he thought, not a kid. A grown woman. And he knew he was getting very much attached to her. He wasn't sure if that was good or bad. But he couldn't help his feelings.

They both heard the baying of the dogs, far in the distance. The baying changed as the animals picked up their scent.

Ike stopped in the center of the stream. He put an arm around Nina's shoulders. “And the chase is on, kid.”

“I'm scared, Ike.”

“Well, honey, you'd be a prime idiot if you weren't scared.”

“You're not scared.”

“No,” Ike admitted. “Scared isn't the right word. I'm . . . concerned. But you gotta understand something: I went through this many times in 'Nam, workin' behind the lines up in the North. Believe me, I'd rather have those dogs after us than Charlie.”

“Charlie? Who the hell is Charlie?” Nina asked, as they began once more wading up the stream.

Ike looked back at her. That war, he thought, isn't even a part of her memory. She wasn't even born when that misfought, misunderstood conflict came to its disgraceful conclusion. So long ago. “The Viet Cong, baby. The bad guys.”

“I've heard some about that war. I think.”

“Well, now,” a man's voice rang out from the bank above them and to their right. “You two just hold it right where you is,”

Ike and Nina stopped, both looking up. They looked into the muzzle of a shotgun, pointed at them. The man stood flanked by other men, all carrying weapons. One of the men looked at Nina and licked his lips. “Ain't that a fine-lookin' piece of ass, boys?”

“My friends and fellow worshippers of the great god, Blomm, the ever-knowing and all-seeing Blomm. I have spoken with our supreme ruler. Blomm has instructed me to join with another of his disciples to the north, Sister Voleta and the Ninth Order. Now, we will not have to leave our fine and comfortable homes to do this. All I had to do was pledge our allegiance to Sister Voleta.” What Emil did not tell his followers was that some brutish types from the Ninth Order paid him a visit late one night. They told him if he didn't cooperate, they would cut his pecker off and stick it in his ear. Emil had almost peed his BVDs at that.

The idea of Blomm had come to Emil one evening while he was blissfully toking and getting off on some really fine weed. The more he toked, the wilder his flights of imagination soared. And Blomm's conception became reality in Emil's drug-soaked brain. He would tell his people that Blomm had just recently left God's side, after growing weary of God's restrictive type of living. Blomm said it was OK to still worship God, but with a few twists added to spice it all up. Kinda like adding three inches to your dick, Emil thought. He giggled at that. Had his way, he'd add six.

It would be OK to fuck and all that good shit, according to Blomm. Do some dope, of course that was OK. As a matter of fact, how about
anything
goes? Yeah. Why not? Blomm was an all right dude. The more Emil toked, the more all right Blomm became. And so, by the time Emil had finished with his King Edward-sized joint, Blomm was no longer a figment of his rather weird and overactive imagination. Blomm was
real,
man! And what a heavy dude, too.

“And so, my friends and followers,” Emil said, looking over his ever-growing flock of nuts and bolts, “let us have a love feast in honor of our new friends to the north.” Savage motherfuckers, Emil thought. He stepped forward, his foot catching in the hem of his robe, and Emil fell off the raised platform, hitting the dirt, on his face.

“Son of a bitch!” Emil muttered. He was helped to his feet by a throng of concerned worshippers, the dust brushed off his ornate robe. Emil smiled and said,
“Pax vobiscum.
Be bop a lula and shake rattle and roll, too.”

His followers smiled and beamed at him. Whatever Emil said was perfectly all right. Etch the words in your heart, man. Gods were supposed to behave a little strangely.

Emil made the sign of the cross. “Bless you all, my children. Joan Baez to you—and Boy George, too.”

Emil walked away, toward his beautiful new home, compliments of the Rebels. They moved out, Emil moved in.

“Blomm!” a woman shouted. “All praise the wonderful Blomm!”

“And me!” Emil shouted. “Goddamnit, don't forget me.”

“And Father Emil!” the crowd roared.

“Fuckin' bunch of loonies,” Emil muttered. But not loud enough for any of his people to overhear. Didn't want to screw up a good scam.

He shuffled toward his fine new home, kept spotless by his followers. Emil never lifted a finger to do anything. Make matters worse, he was getting fat. He tried to be dignified as he shuffled along. Whoever made his robes was going to have to tighten up their act, Emil thought. Goddamn things were too long.

Emil entered the coolness of his home, tripped over the hem of his robe, and fell down on the floor.

 

 

“Emil Hite's joining the Ninth Order does not concern me,” Ben told Captain Rayle, after being informed of the merger. “Emil just has a non-violent scam going for him. He's laughable in a Jim Jones kind of way. Emil and his cupcakes present no danger. They are more to be pitied than feared. The Ninth Order, on the other hand, is a paramilitary group posing as a serious religious order. They can sucker and con people into the fold, then, I'm sure, use brainwashing tactics to keep them there.”

“Yes, sir,” Roger said. “We have strong evidence that is how they do it.”

“The only thing I am reasonably certain of about this whole confusing business is that General Striganov is not involved with it. Our intelligence reports the Russian is clean on this matter.”

“If ‘clean' is the right choice of words,” James said.

“Yes,” Ben replied. He looked toward the north. “Come on, Ike,” he muttered. “Hang in there, buddy.”

“Finally caught up with you, eh, pretty pussy?” A man grinned down at Nina. “I seem to recall you got nice, soft titties on you. I'll soon see. We gonna have some fun with you, bitch.”

“To claim to be so religious,” Nina fired back, “you guys are sure a bunch of scumbags.”

“That crack is gonna get you pronged right up the bunghole, baby,” he said with a grin. “I can jist hear you hollerin' now.”

Any combat-experienced member of any special unit—and all branches of the military had them, when there was a military—knows there is no such thing as a fair fight. Not outside the ring, and even that can be questioned at times. The term “fair fight is a contradiction in itself. There is a winner and there is a loser. Period. Never give a sucker an even break. One either kills or cripples one's antagonist, or one gets killed or crippled. Was it a fair fight? is a question that surely must have originated from the mouths of lawyers. Shakespeare was right.

While the men's eyes were on Nina, standing proudly and defiantly in the stream, Ike jerked up the muzzle of the M-16 and burned a clip into the three men, standing close together on the bluff of the bank. Two of them were blown backward. The third one, half his face gone from the so-called “tumbling rounds” of the M-16, fell into the stream, blood and brains coloring the rushing waters.

Changing clips as he ran up the embankment, Ike crested the bluff and inspected the carnage he had wrought. The men were dead or near death.

“Oh. God, help me,” one man pushed the words past dying lips.

Ike looked at him. The contempt he felt was evident on his face. “Fuck you, partner.”

The man closed his eyes and had the good grace to expire.

Ike called down to Nina. “Help me strip these people down to the hide. We'll put them in the deepest part of the stream and wedge them in tight with rocks. We'll put on their clothing. Shoes, too, if they'll fit. That will further confuse the dogs. Come on, Nina. Let's get crackin'.”

Working together and hurriedly, the two of them stripped the clothing from the men before it became too bloodstained. They rolled the bodies off the bank and into the stream, covering them with heavy rocks, wedging them down on the bottom.

The baying of the dogs was getting louder, but Ike knew the bloodhounds—and from their barking, he was afraid they weren't bloodhounds, but Dobermans—were still a couple of miles off.

“Bundle our clothing up and bring it,” Ike told her. “We'll sink it in a deep hole further on down. Come on. I'll get the weapons.”

Ike tossed one old shotgun into the stream. He kept the second shotgun, a Winchester pump, twelve gauge, chambered for three-inch magnums. He looped the bandoleer of shells around his shoulder and picked up the only rifle among the three men. An old Savage .270. He slung another shell belt over his other shoulder and gave the .270 to Nina.

She inspected the rifle, Ike watching her. She knew what she was doing, Ike concluded.

She checked the four-shot box and grinned. “Full. Other than needing a good cleaning, it's OK, Ike. Now I can do some damage.”

“Head out, Nina. Fast a pace as you can maintain comfortably.”

“You just watch my stuff.”

He grinned.

She caught the double meaning and flipped him the bird.

A mile later, they stopped to catch their breath and Ike wrapped their old clothes around rocks, tied them securely, then sank them up under the lip of the bank, still underwater.

“OK, little one,” Ike said. “We stay in the water for another mile or so, then we hit the brush and timber. Once in there, I wanna rig a few surprises for our friends.”

“Surprises? What kind of surprises?”

Ike's usually friendly face took on a mean look. “Let's just say they ain't gonna like 'em a whole lot.”

 

 

Ben and Gale—accompanied by a dozen Rebels laying back a few hundred yards—drove to one of the inlets of Clark Hill Reservoir, on the north side. They walked to the water's edge.

She took his hand. “It's so peaceful here, Ben. So lovely and serene. It's like ... it's like all the trouble never happened.”

“Get careless in this area, Gale, and you'll see trouble quickly.”

“Harbinger of doom!” She looked at him. “What do you mean?”

“The peacefulness is nothing but a dangerous illusion.”

“Will you cut the suspense, Raines!”

“You notice we haven't seen one human being—other than Rebels—in this area?”

“Yeah. So what?”

“Mutant country, I'm betting. Since I haven't detected any of the foul odor usually associated with them, I'm thinking this may be a group with a higher level of intelligence. That's why they haven't bothered us.”

“You mean they're
friendly
mutants. I never heard of such a thing.”

“No, not friendly. Cautious. Wary. They've probably seen how heavily armed we all are, and that we never go unarmed. They've had experience with people with guns. They know guns can inflict pain. We're being watched though.”

Gale looked around her. “Where? I don't see any mutants.”

“They're in the bushes to our left. I saw one just a moment ago, while we were walking down here.”

“And you didn't tell me? Thank you so very much, Ben.”

“Want to stay for a while and see if you can spot one?”

“Hell, no! Are you nuts? I'll be more than happy to take your word for it. Can we please leave now?”

Ben grinned. “Sure. Come on. We'll head on back. ”

As they turned to leave, Gale tugging at Ben, a low growl came from the thick timber and brush by the lake.

“Oh, shit!” Gale said.

“Relax. I'm armed, and Roger's got people standing guard right up there by the road. I believe the mutants are telling us to go away, rather than warning of an attack.”

“Oh, wonderful. I'm impressed. You speak mutant now, huh?”

Ben playfully ruffled her short dark hair and laughed. “I'm a man of many and varied talents, my dear.”

“Great. Ben, I have this fondness for living. So tell me we're not going to spend much time around this place.”

“Pulling out in the morning.”

“Best news I've heard all day. I wonder if there is any catfish left?” she muttered.

“We gotta figure a way to get Colonel Gray and his Scouts outta here,” Sergeant Bennett said. “I think we got enough Rebels behind us to handle things if Gray and that wild-assed bunch of his can be counted on not to interfere.”

“I understand Gray is sending most of his people out into the field,” Captain Willette said. “So we don't have to worry about them. But just remember this: When it goes down, it
must
go down nonviolently. At first.” He smiled. “At first. That is something Sister Voleta does not understand. Any act of violence on our part—at the outset—would destroy everything we have worked to build. Our new converts would turn on us faster than a striking snake should anyone be hurt—initially. In that, we must all be very careful. We will show weapons, of course, and those opposed to us must be convinced we will use those weapons. But keep violence to a minimum at all times.”

“Unless,” Lieutenant Carter said, a smile on his lips, “the people could be convinced Ben Raines is their enemy.”

“Interesting idea,” Willette said, fixing Carter with a steady gaze. “But just how would you go about doing that?”

“Raines pulled out, leaving them leaderless. In the minds of many, even among those loyal to him, he should not have done that. They follow Ben Raines, not Cecil or Ike. I think it's time we got the rumor factory cranked up again. At full steam. Really pour it on hard this time around. A statement from the doctors stating Ben Raines is seriously ill—mentally ill—should start it off very well, I'm thinking. Borderline nuts. Hell, hasn't he done some weird things? Sure he has. Play it up. We can follow that with a rumor that Ben Raines is thinking of breaking up the Rebels; each person will have to go it alone—without Ben Raines. But we'll have to make certain the general doesn't pop back in here unexpectedly and screw it all up.”

“I like it,” Willette said. “Hell, we have a person with Raines' column. We know where he is. Our people down south—Silver's bunch, along with some of our own—could set up skirmish lines to hold Raines up until we got the job done up here. Yeah. I like it. All right. Let's get to it.”