William W. Johnstone - Ashes 08 - Danger In The Ashes

Circle OF DEATH

A crowd of ragged men and women had gathered around

the pickup. They were armed with clubs, axes,

knives, and spears.

"The welcoming committee," Ben Raines said

softly.

"What do you want here?" a woman shouted at

Ben and Judy.

"We don't mean you any harm," said Ben

calmly, hoping for the best. "We're just traveling

through."

"Why did you stop?" a man called. He held

an axe in his hands.

"People on the roofs with bows and arrows," Judy

whispered.

"I see them. If shooting starts, you

take the south side of the street, I'll take the

north."

"All right."

"We don't want any trouble," Ben called

out. But he was going to get trouble-and plenty of it!

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Alone in the Ashes

BY WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE

ZEBRA BOOKS

KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

ZEBRA BOOKS are published by

Kensington Publishing Corp.

475 Park Avenue South

New York, NY 10016

Copyright [*copygg'1985 by William W.

Johnstone

reproduced in any form or by any means without the

prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting

brief quotes used in reviews.

Fourth printing: June, 1992

Printed in the United States of America

To Charles and Linda Abraham

All I want of you is a little servility, and that

of the commonest goddamnest kind.

Anonymous

Them's my sentiments.

Thackeray

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters and

incidents are either the product of the author's

imagination or are used fictitiously, and any

resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Prologue

Ben knew he should feel some sort of regret;

some feeling of sadness or sorrow at leaving his people-and

they were

his

people-behind.

But the only feeling he could muster up was a

feeling of freedom.

"Free at last," Ben said aloud, with only the

wind and the truck to hear him.

And they gave no reply.

He shook his head at the paraphrasing of

Doctor King's famous statement, and wondered how

many young blacks, a decade and a half after the world

had exploded in nuclear and germ warfare, could even

say who King was? Or for that matter, Ben

pondered as he drove, how many young whites knew

anything about J. F. K., or Watergate?

Most were too busy just staying alive in this world

gone mad, Ben concluded. They didn't have time for

school-even in those areas where school was available.

He sighed, the rush of cold wind carrying the sound

away, out into the brisk autumn afternoon air.

He was not making very good time, even with the new truck

his people had provided for him. The highways were getting

worse and worse. And for some reason Ben could not

fathom, highway maps were becoming as scarce as

hen's teeth. Any map printed between '89 and '98

was to be treasured. He had heard that people were killing

over highway maps. A good map could bring food,

weapons, ammo, and on occasion, women.

Ben could not prevent a bitter laugh from pouring

past his lips.

If a person could not understand the written word, how

could they comprehend a map? And Ben knew from

experience that a full seventy-five percent of those

born after the World War of '88 were illiterate.

He had turned west at the deserted Tennessee

town of McMinnville. A crude sign had

stated Highway 70 leading north was closed

to traffic, and another sign had stated Highway

56 north was closed to traffic. Ben doubted they were

closed for any other reason except the whim of a

local warlord or some religious nut who wanted a

closed society to practice his or her mumblings

upon.

On impulse, Ben jerked his Thompson

submachine gun free of the clamps that held it

upright, and laid the old weapon on the seat beside him.

"You and me, old boy," he said with a smile,

"are outdated." He patted the smooth stock. "But

we can still spit and snarl, can't we?"

Ben wore a .45 semiautomatic pistol

belted around his waist and a long bladed Bowie

knife on his left hip. In the rear of the

camper-covered bed of the pickup,

Ben carried a myriad of survival gear.

Tent and sleeping bag, extra clothing, a

case of grenades, and two cases of

.45-caliber ammunition. A rocket launcher

and a case of rockets for the tube. Cases of food

and jugs of water. He had a Weatherby 30-06 with

scope, and a Remington model 1100 S.

W.a.t. shotgun with an extended tube that held

enough three-inch magnums to stop a rampaging Cape

buffalo. Strapped to both sides of the Chevy

pickup, and on a special framework built on

top, he carried five-gallon cans of extra

gas. He had enough radio equipment in the truck

to transmit anywhere within what used to be known as the

United States of America.

After more than a decade of leading his people, constantly

searching for a place to put down roots and live and

work and grow and rebuild from out of the ashes, Ben

Raines was pulling out, heading out by himself.

He would be alone. In the ashes.

BOOK ONE

Chapter 1

Ben pulled off the highway just outside of what

remained of Woodbury, Tennessee. Tucking his

truck behind a farmhouse on the east side of the

highway, Ben sat for several minutes, his eyes

searching for signs of life. Falling back

on years of experience, Ben knew after only a

moment that he was alone.

He inspected the house, cautiously going from

room to room. The house was, of course,

ankle-deep with the litter left behind by rats and

mice. When the rodents had eaten everything they could

find to eat, they had left. But once they had done

that, the roaches had followed.

The house was crawling with living waves of brown

movement.

Ben pulled out of that locale and spent the night

sleeping in the cramped space under his camper.

He awakened to a cold dawn, under a sky that

promised rain very soon. The dull grayness of the

sky matched the landscape that surrounded Ben.

Everything around him seemed lifeless.

He didn't like this area, didn't like the feeling of

foreboding it offered him. Skipping breakfast of any

sort, Ben cranked the engine and pulled out, finding

Highway 53 and taking that until connecting with a

road that would take him to Interstate 40, at

Lebanon. There, he drove over the interstate and

pulled off the highway at the outskirts of town.

Smoke from wood and coal fires drifted up from

houses in the coolness of morning. But, as

Ben had so often sadly observed over the years, the

homes were not centralized or grouped for safety or

work. They were widely separated, which meant to Ben-and

it had been proved time after time-that the people were not

organized. And in these times of anarchy and warlords, and

roaming gangs of thugs and punks and creeps and

assorted savages, not to be organized was an

invitation to die quickly.

And to let what was left of civilization die.

Ben spotted the gang of young men and women long

before they spotted him.

Go on, Ben! he urged himself silently. Go

on. Just pull out and avoid trouble.

But he knew he would not. That flaw, if it was a

flaw, and Ben thought not, within him was rearing up.

Ben lifted his Thompson and cradled it,

clicking the .45-caliber submachine gun in his

arms. He got out of the pickup and stood by the hood

of the truck, watching as the young people spotted him.

Back in my day, Ben thought, they would be called

punks.

I'll still call them punks, he thought.

Ben stood tall and rangy and loose by his

truck. The years had peppered his hair with gray and

had put a few

lines in his face. But as Doctor Chase had

told him, "For a man your age, Raines, you're in

disgustingly good shape."

"Clean living," Ben had said with a smile, knowing

what response that would bring from the crusty old

ex-Navy doctor.

"Horse shit!" Doctor Chase had replied.

"You're going to be a dirty old man, Raines."

"What do you mean, "going to be?"

"Hey, Dads!" one of the young men called.

"They's a toll for passin" through here."

The young man was tall and slender and blond. He

was dressed in dirty jeans, heavy boots, and

wore a black leather jacket. His hair was very

long and very dirty and very unkempt.

The knot of young men and women around the punk were,

except for coloring and size, his mirror image.

Punks.

Ben was dressed in tiger-stripe field clothes.

His field pants bloused into jump boots. He

had already stopped along the road and fixed a meager

breakfast, boiling water to shave.

Even after a worldwide tragedy and a nation swarming with

anarchy, the generation gap still holds true, Ben

thought.

"Public road," Ben said.

"Not no more," the spokesman said. Ben pegged them

all as in their late teens to early twentiest he was not exactly in

conversation with a mental giant. Or even a mental

midget, for that matter. Ben asked the man if he

was from a certain part of the parish.

"Yep!"

"That figures," Ben muttered. Back when the

parish had built a new library, several

residents of that area had said it was the most useless

building in the parish.

Ben knew then when he was going to build the first

westward-stretching outpost. Right here.

"I've got several thousand troops camped just

outside of Morriston. Going to be lots of

activity around here."

The voice behind the ragged curtains was silent for a

time. "I reckon with you comin" back, we're

gonna have all sorts of laws and rules and sich as

that again, rat?"

"That js correct."

was "Posin" I don't wanna foller

"em?"

"Then I imagine somebody will shoot you," Ben

called cheerfully.

As his words were fading away, Ben saw the muzzle

of a rifle poked through the rags. He rolled out of the

Jeep, grabbing his Thompson as he went over the

side. A rifle cracked, the slug popping

through the windshield. Ben caught movement by the

side of the house. A man stepped into view, carrying

an M-16. Ben stitched him across the belly and

then lifted the SMG, emptying a clip through the

ragged curtains. A scream came from within the house.

Ben waited; no more shots came his way. He

ran, zigzagging across the tree-filled and weed-grown

yard, coming up to the edge of the house. Moaning could be

heard through the broken windows. Ben thought: I put a

lot of money into this house, only to have these trashy

bastards screw it all up.

He kicked in the door, which wasn't all that

difficult a task ... it was hanging by one hinge.

Ben looked down at the badly wounded man. The

.45 caliber slugs had taken him in the chest.

He lay amid filth on the floor. "You're not

exactly a paragon of neatness, are you?"

"Fuck you, Raines! I didn't lak your

arrogant ass when you lived here 'fore."

"Hell, man. I don't know you."

"I knowed you," the man managed to gasp.

"Always lookin" down your damn snooty nose at

the res' of us."

"The word is reserved, not arrogant." Ben felt

a little silly, standing there discussing word meaning with a dying

man.

"Whure's my brudder?"

"Was he carrying an M-16?"

"Yeah."

"He's dead."

The man cursed Ben.

"If you're quite finished...." Ben looked down

at him. "Anything else I can do for you?"

"Whut you gonna do with me?"

"Nothing." Ben turned and walked back

outside, across the lawn-loosely called-and got

into his Jeep.

"You jist gonna leave me here?" the redneck

hollered.

"That is correct," Ben muttered. He

cranked the Jeep and drove off.

It was a hard time, and Ben Raines was a hard

man when he had to be. Even when world conditions had

been at their best, before the Great War, Ben could not

tolerate ignorance, and he was doubly contemptuous

of those people who were ignorant and proud of that

ignorance. There had been too many schools, both

traditional and Vo-Tech, for anyone to remain

ignorant; therefore, he had no patience with anyone

who chose to muck around in blind mental blankness.

He met a patrol driving fast up the old

blacktop road.

"We heard shots. What happened, general?"

"A couple of people just learned a hard lesson about

the value of knowledge and civility," Ben told the

lieutenant.

The Rebel smiled. "Yes, sir. Will they be

needing medical assistance, sir?"

"If you want to mess with them, go ahead." Ben

I drove on.

Used to be a lot of people living in this area, Ben

mused, driving slowly along the rutted road. By and

large, good people. We're going to be starting from

scratch. He thought of the monumental task ahead of

them all.

First we build the outposts, one every hundred

miles, stretching from the Mississippi River to the

coast of California. Little oases of civilization,

where men and women could live in some higher degree of

safety and build schools and homes and once more

begin the job of pulling themselves out of the ashes of

destruction.

After the recent battles, the Libyan terrorist

Khamsin-the "Hot Wind," as he called himself-would

be weeks, maybe months, rebuilding his army.

Khamsin was of no immediate worry to Ben.

Getting the first real outpost set up and working was

Ben's main concern at the moment. That, and staying

alive long enough to do it.

Hiram Rockingham stepped out onto his front

porch and surveyed his own personal little kingdom. It

began some twenty miles from Morriston-south. That

area had been called, back before the Great War, the

last bastion of ignorance, intermarriage, and

intolerance in that part of the country. And that was only a

mild exaggeration. Every state, and probably a large

percentage of the counties therein, had something to compare to this

region. Albeit not something the Chamber of Commerce

would want to include in any tourist packet.

Hiram knew that Ben Raines was back, and

Hiram knew also that with Ben's return, things were

going to change.

The two men had hated each other for twenty

years. Ben, because Hiram was the

personification of an ignorant redneck. And

Hiram, even though he would never admit it,

indeed, probably didn't even realize it, had

always felt threatened by Ben Raines.

Both men were strong-willed individualists.

Both felt that their way was the best. The similarity

ended there.

Hiram was ignorant. Ben was a man of books

and knowledge. Ben preferred to talk matters over and reach

some sort of gentlemen's understanding. Hiram, if he

felt slighted, would burn the other party's house

down or shoot his dogs. And then go home and feel

very smug about it.

To Ben's way of thinking, people like Hiram took much

more from society than they gave.

To Hiram, Ben had always been uppity and

snooty. Read books and watched that silly stuff

on the Public Broadcasting TV. Ben Raines

felt that animals had rights. To Hiram's way of

thinking, that was nonsense; animals didn't have no

rights a-tall.

Back when the world still was spinning in some degree of

order, Hiram and his ilk hated the men who worked for the

Wildlife and Fisheries Department; "specially

them bastards in the enforcement arm of it. To Hiram's

way of thinking, a man had a right to shoot a deer

anytime he damn pleased. To try to convince

Hiram that if everybody felt that way, there would

soon be no game left was tantamount to beating your

head against a brick wall.

Ben felt that the wilderness areas and the forests and

streams were for the enjoyment of every citizen. And it had not

improved relations between the men when it got back

to Hiram that Ben had suggested an open season on

rednecks. Then you could shoot

one, strap it on the hood of your car or truck,

and ride around town, showing off your kill.

was 'at damn feller's plumb crazy!" was

Hiram's response to Ben's remark.

"That suggestion of yours is a little extreme,

Ben," a friend told him. was 'necks are human

beings, you know?"

"They walk upright," was Ben's reply.

Hiram believed that there never was and never would be no

damn colored man as good as or as smart as a

white man. Period. Wasn't no Jew worth a

damn; the Holocaust never happened. Mexicans

was lazy and no good. You couldn't trust them

slant-eyed folks. All Wops belonged to the

mafia. Anyone who didn't like black-eyed peas

and corn-bread was ignorant. And so on, and on

... imparting his dubious wisdom to his

kids and anyone else who cared to listen.

Ben, on the other hand, believed, along with a growing

number of people, before and after the Great War, that the time was

coming when the nation as a whole would be forced to see that people of

Hiram's ilk, regardless of color, could no

longer be tolerated, socially, morally,

economically, and probably most important,

intellectually.

"Whut the hale's far does all that mean?"

Hiram blustered, upon hearing Ben's comments.

"Hit means he'd lak to shoot you," a

slightly more intelligent neighbor informed him.

"Ifn you won't change."

was 'at bassard's crazy!" Hiram hollered.

As Ben drove the old country roads, Hiram

sat on his front porch and looked out over the

fields he and his kind worked.

They were good farmers; not even Ben would take that from

them.

The weather had been good and the crops looked fine.

Hiram wondered if Ben Raines was going to let

him live long enough to get his crops in.

One thing Ben Raines wouldn't have to worry about was

gettin" colored folks to join up with him. There

wasn't no colored folks left around these

parts. Hiram and his buddies had seen to that. There was

some lived over to Morriston, but they stayed to themselves

and didn't mess with white folks.

That was the way it ought to be. Hiram remembered

when that damn Kasim and his bunch come in; gonna

make this whole place something called New

Africa.

But President Logan had sent mercenaries in

and wiped most of them out.

Then Ben Raines had killed Logan.

Funny, Hiram pondered ... the word he'd got

was that Ben didn't even like Kasim.

Hiram sighed. All that was four-five years

back, at least. He couldn't "member 'xactly.

Didn't make no difference noways.

Ben Raines showed his ass down in this area, and

Ben wasn't gonna show it no more.

Hiram looked up as a pickup rattled over

his cattle guard. Frank Monroe from up the

road got out and come walking up to the porch.

"Mornin", Hiram."

"Frank. What's on your mind?"

"Ben Raines is back."

"I know it."

"Got an army with him."

"I hear he had him some soldier-boys.

Don't worry me none." That was a damn lie, but

Hiram wouldn't admit it for the world. If he hadn't

been worried about it, he never would have thought about Ben

killing him.

Frank spat tobacco juice on the ground.

"Five or six thousand strong."

Hiram gripped the arms of his rocking chair so

hard his knuckles whitened. "You a liar!"

Frank backed up and looked at Hiram.

"We elected you leader here, Hiram. But that

don't give you no right to call me no liar."

Hiram took several deep breaths. "You rat,

Frank. You rat. I "pologize. You seen this

army with yore own eyes?"

"I seen 'urn. Just got back from up there.

Looked like a bunch of beavers workin" live.

Stringin' wire for phones. Cleanin' out houses and

sich. They's wimmin soldiers, too. Some of them

givin' orders. They tough, Hiram. They lean and

they mean and they tough. You know the very first thang they

done yesterday morning?"

Hiram waited.

"Started school for they kids. Whole passel of

kids come in yesterday, right after the Rebels

hit the parish."

There were no schools in Hiram's little kingdom.

Hiram never saw much use for them. But he knew,

with a sinking feeling in his guts, he

knew,

that once Ben came into this area, and Ben would, there would

be schools built. Right then and there.

The goddamned pushy son of a bitch!

"Git the people together, Frank. Well have us a

preachin' and a singin' and a prayin' and a eatin' on the

grounds this night. Then we'll have us a meetin' of the

men."

"Hiram," Frank said softly, carefully

choosing his words, for he knew how much Hiram hated

Ben Raines, "you thinkin' about fightin' Ben

Raines and his Rebels?"

Hiram stood up. "This is our land, Frank.

Our community. My great-grandfather come in here and

cleared this land with mules and muscles and sweat. After

the Great War, Frank, you and me, and all the

others, we formed up and fought the outlaws and the trash.

We ain't botherin' nobody down here, Frank*"

That was not exactly true. Travelers had been

shot dead for simply walking along the roads. If

for no other reason than the parents of those who

pulled the trigger had imparted to their offspring that they were

"better than others."

"... we got our own law here, and by God no

fancy-soldier-suited blue-nose is gonna

tell me and mine what we can or cain't do. I

ain't a-gonna have it!"

"I'll pass the word, Hiram."

"You do that. And git hold of Reed. Tell him

to I build us a cross. We'll burn it after the

meetin'."

Ben connected with the old US highway and drove

back into town. The scene that greeted him was one he

had expected.

A large crowd of civilians had gathered around

the Rebel's main CP; a mixture of black and

white.

General Ike McGowan walked over to Ben's

Jeep. Ike cradled his CAR-15.

"This it?" Ben asked.

"Most of the adults that live in town. "Bout a

hundred more live around the outskirts. They tell

me the real trouble is south of here."

"Yeah, I know."

Ike smiled slowly. "I can hear the wheels

turnin" in your head, boy."

Ike was Mississippi born and reared, and at

times loved to talk as if he didn't have a thought in

his head. But he was highly educated and a former Navy

SEAL. One of the original members of Raines's

Rebels.

"Oh?" Ben smiled at his old friend. "And what

do you make out of all the turning and grinding, Ike?"

"That you are going to step out of character, and when you do,

you're going to do it up right."

"You've been talking to some of the townspeople?"

"Oh, yeah!"

"Which one?"

"Several. Black guy name of John

Simmons. White feller name of Rich. Several

of the townspeople who knew you from "way back when.

They told me some interestin" stories about you and a

"neck name of Hiram Rockingham."

"John Simmons. Got to be in his sixties

now. He was a young man out in L.a. when Watts

exploded. He and several other blacks guarded their

businesses with rifles until the trouble was over."

"Yeah? He kill anybody?"

Ben grinned. "John told me that an L.a.

cop got all upset when he saw them guarding their

places of business with guns. Asked them

what was going on. John told him that if any

nigger tried to burn his place, he was gonna get

shot. Cop told him, 'allyeah. Well, just don't

wound anyone." his

Ike laughed. "Cecil's been talkin' with

John ever since you pulled out this mornin'. I

imagine he's told Cec the story."

General Cecil Jefferys was yet another

Rebel who had been with Ben for years. A former

William W. Johnstone - Ashes 08 - Danger In The Ashes

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