Out of the Ashes (17 page)

“Lieutenant Conger, sir.”

“Fine. All right, Conger. If you people have places in ... ah ...”He closed the mike switch and thought for a few seconds, then said, “Idaho or Montana, take them there. Pick up anything you feel you might need along the way. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir!”

With the mike closed, Ben said, “Goddamned yo-yo. That ought to keep them busy.”

“General Raines?” The voice popped and snapped.

“What!”

“Where are you, sir? I need your location so I can send some personnel to guard you until you link up with us.”

“Guard me? Goddamn it, I don't need anyone to guard me!”

The voice was silent for a few seconds and Ben was sure he had broken off transmission. “Yes, sir. You said General Ruther, sir? That'd be Shaw AFB. We'll have our South Carolina contingent pick you up as soon as possible. I—”

Ben began shouting into the mike, not knowing whether the man called Conger was off the air listening or still jabbering his nonsense. “Now, you listen to me!” Ben roared. “I am
not
—repeat—
NOT
your commander. I hereby appoint you, Conger, as commanding officer of the army of the Rebels, or whatever in the hell you're called. Do you understand that?”

“Affirmative, sir. But you can't make me commander.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because Bull Dean was my uncle. He gave his life for this country, and he said you were to command after his death. And, sir, that is that.”

Ben knew when he was whipped. “Fine, Lieutenant, dandy. You have my orders. Carry them out. I'll be in contact ... sometime.”

He cut off the transmitter before Conger had the time to object. He looked at the radio and said, “I am not your commanding officer, son. Period. Good-by. Good luck.”

Ben prowled the base until he found the ordnance hut. He broke open the building and began picking through the explosives. He was too rusty to trust himself if he used any type of timer, so he chose several crates of incendiary grenades and began the job of filling five-gallon cans full of high-octane jet fuel and pouring some around the line of jets on the tarmac. He then began the job of destroying the aircraft.

When he had finished, he was covered with soot and hard of hearing from the booming explosions. This was one runway that would be a long time getting cleared and repaired.

He then drove around the base, tossing grenades into every other building, and setting the base ablaze. He drove out the main gate, smiling. He said, “Fuck you, Logan.”

Ben took highway 601 down to Orangeburg, then picked up highway 21. He spent the night in a home by the side of Interstate 95, about fifty miles north of Savannah. In the morning he would drive close enough to listen to CB chatter, then decide if he was going into the city.

The next morning, after reviewing the talk on the CB, he decided he most definitely was not going into the city.

He skirted the city, between Savannah and Fort Stewart, on Interstate 95. South of the city, he picked up highway 82 and once more began checking towns along the way, making notes into his recorder, and letting Conger and his band of reactionaries slip from his mind.

Just a few miles outside of Jessup, at a roadside picnic area where he had stopped to eat a can of C-ration, Ben heard a growling. He turned slowly, picking up the M-10 with his right hand.

At first he thought it was a wolf sitting in the bed of the truck, on a tarp-covered crate, and peering over the side at him. Ben took a closer look and could see its upturned tail. This was not a husky, he concluded, but a malamute, the largest of the breed. The dog looked to be about thirty-two inches high, about eighty to ninety pounds. Big. It was wolf-gray with a black mask area around its almond-shaped eyes.

The animal yawned, exposing teeth that could tear a man to painful chunks of meat very quickly Then the malamute closed his mouth and looked at Ben. It was neither friendly nor hostile, just curious. Ben dumped what was left of his C-ration into a piece of paper and placed it on the ground beside him.

“Come on,” he said.

The dog jumped from the truck and walked to the food, eating it in two bites. He looked up at Ben, as if asking, but not begging, for more. Ben opened another can and dumped that on the paper. The animal ate, then walked to the ditch beside the small park and enjoyed a noisy drink of water. His thirst quenched, he walked back to the truck, jumped up into the bed, and lay down, closing his eyes as if he had been doing that, on this truck, all his life.

Probably belonged to someone who rode it around in a pickup truck, Ben thought.

“Well,” Ben said, “if you want to ride, you can damned well ride. I'm not going to tell you to move.”

The dog opened its eyes, looked at Ben, then went back to sleep.

Ben policed the area, dumped his trash into a container, and got into the truck. He opened the sliding glass of the rear window, cranked up, and pulled out. After a few miles, the animal stuck his head through the window, looked at Ben, who was holding his breath; then licked Ben on the cheek. Ben rubbed the animal's head and the dog barked happily, then settled back on the canvas.

“Looks like I found a friend.” Ben grinned.

 

So Ben and his new friend, whose name, Ben discovered, when he checked the tags on the collar, was Juno (probably, Ben thought, a shortened version of Juneau, Alaska), spent the day and the evening getting acquainted. And Ben and the dog took to each other. He had not had a pet since his boyhood days in Illinois and, after spending a little time with Juno, he wondered why he had not. He found Juno to be alert, probably no more than three years old, and seemingly intelligent.

Ben's sleep that night was deep and secure, for the animal was attuned to the night's every noise. During the night, Juno had snuggled up to Ben's sleeping bag, the closeness and warmth comforting to both man and beast.

Lost a girl friend and found a dog. Ben smiled as he drifted off.

The next morning, however, Ben discovered he was crawling with fleas.

Juno met his new master's reproachful scratching with a look of doggie disgust, as if saying, “What the hell? Lay down with dogs, what do you expect?”

At the first town they came to that morning, Ben picked up a supply of flea powder and spray, and several flea collars. Then he bathed both Juno and himself and that solved the problem of fleas.

Ben headed southeast out of Callahan, having no desire to travel through Jacksonville. He had seen a few people. They were, for the most part, silent and withdrawn, but some were openly hostile. He picked up talk on his CB, but none of it was friendly. He had stopped along the highway several times to look at bodies. They were all no more than two or three days old and they had been shot.

A few miles down the highway, Ben found a body hanging from a tree alongside the road. A crudely lettered sign hung around the neck read:
NIGGER
.

Further on, he found the body of a white man hanging from a tree. The sign around his neck read:
JUSTICE WILL PREVAIL
.

“Wonderful,” Ben remarked. “I am so happy to find our judicial system—inadequate as it was—is still flourishing.”

He drove quickly out of that part of the state. Even Juno seemed relieved to be on the move.

At Raiford, Ben followed the signs to the big prison, but long before he saw the wire and the walls he smelled it and turned around, heading back. A huge flock of buzzards circled in the sky.

He wandered the northern part of the state, all the way over to Hampton Springs, seeing a few people, some friendly, some hostile. He saw signs of looting and violence everywhere he went.

Then, while turning the dial on his portable radio, he heard the music. He was so startled he pulled off the road and turned up the radio. The music faded and a voice sprang out.

“Yes, sir, folks, it's a bright, beautiful day here in the city with the titties. Temperature in the mid-seventies and you're listening to the SEAL with the feel, Ike McGowen, watchin' the records go 'round. Are you listening, world? If so, and you're the friendly type, just head on down to the coast to Yankeetown and be received. But if you're hostile, just carry your ass on, brother.”

Ben laughed and wondered if SEAL meant Navy SEAL—sea, air, and land—or was just a nickname. He decided to find out. As he drove, he kept looking for a radio tower. He didn't spot it until he got to the water's edge, and it was the crudest looking tower he had ever seen, leaning precariously to one side, looking as if it might topple over at any moment. Ben pulled into the drive of the large, oceanside house and got out.

A gaggle of bikini-clad young ladies, bouncing and jiggling, came racing out to meet him. They were all armed with automatic weapons. Kind of took away from the beauty of their bare skins. A man with a CAR-15 walked behind them.

“I'm peaceful,” Ben called. “I really can't speak for the dog—only known him for a few days, but I think he's friendly.”

“What's your name, friend?” the man called.

“Ben Raines.”

“I'm Ike McGowen. What's the dog's name?”

“Juno.”

“Well, Ben and Juno, come on into radio station KUNT and set for a time.”

Ben laughed at the old joke of call letters. “KUNT?”

Ike returned the laugh. “Yeah—it's a little fuzzy around the edges but mighty fine, man. Mighty fine.”

In the sprawling house, Ike introduced Ben. “This one here is Tatter, and that's June-Bug, and that one there is Space-Baby, and that one is Angel-Face. The blond is Honey-Poo. That dark one all sprawled out on the floor, too goddamned lazy to get up is Bell-Ringer. She claims to be a black person of the Negroid persuasion, but I think she's just been out in the sun too long.” Bell-Ringer smiled and gave him the middle finger. She smiled at Ben, then went back to reading her book. Ike said, “We got all the conveniences, friend. Generator for electricity which gives up light, music, and hot water. So fix yourself a drink and let's talk. Then we'll vote.”

“Vote? Vote on what?”

Ike grinned. “To see if you'll stay with us for a time—or leave.”

“Well, I wasn't planning on staying, but I'll take your offer of a drink.”

“Aw.” Ike waved off Ben's idea of leaving. “You look like an O.K. sort of guy. Hell, hang around awhile. Tell us your story and we'll vote.”

Over his bourbon and water, Ben told them what he was doing—and had done. He told them about the general at Shaw AFB, about Logan, the Rebels.

“I wondered if you were the writer. Yeah, I've heard about the Rebels; talked to them a couple of times on 39.2. I don't know much about them—what they're all about—but they sound pretty straight. Hell, Ben, we can't throw a general out of here.”

Ben grimaced and they all laughed.

“You don't strike me as the DJ type,” Ben said to Ike.

Ike grinned, his boyishness coming through. “I'm not, really. But I always wanted to be. No,” he said, sighing,

“I‘m—was—in the Navy. SEAL. We were doing some training at Fort Walton Beach when the balloon went up. Talk about confusion, man. Jesus! Nobody knew their ass from peanut butter. I got sick as a dog.” He looked at Juno. “No offense, pooch. And wandered around in a daze for about a week. Ran into Bell-Ringer; she was in the process of gettin' raped by a bunch of rednecks—so I sorta jumped in and did my survival bit on her behalf, since her below was all filled up, so to speak.”

Bell-Ringer shot him the bird.

“You killed them.” It was a statement on Ben's part, not a question.

“I damned shore did.” Ike grinned. “Me and my little ol' CAR-15. Then, the next day, we ran into Tatter and June-Bug and we all sorta migrated down here. The others just wandered in when I got the station on the air.” He looked at the ladies. “Let's vote. All in favor of Gen. Ben Raines stayin', raise your hand, or your foot, or lift a tit—do somethin'.”

All hands went up.

Ike's grin widened. “You're home, General. Let's get you unloaded.”

Juno was cuddled up to June-Bug. He had already made up his mind to stay.

Ben couldn't blame him for that.

“Have there been many visitors around?” Ben asked. It was dusk on the coast and the gulf was as beautiful as the Prussian blue eyes of Jerre; it gleamed softly, bathing the sand with a peaceful glow. For a moment Ben thought of Jerre and he was saddened.

Honey-Poo picked up on the gentleness in his voice and stirred. Ben was conscious of the vibes from her, and she of the vibes from him.

Ike looked at both of them and grinned knowingly. “Yeah, several have tried to come in here and take over; throwin' their weight around, runnin' off at the mouth. But I've taught all these gals about weapons, and they won't hesitate to blow the ass off a troublemaker. Those guys didn't last long. We buried ‘em right over there.” He pointed. “The other side of that house way down yonder. I guess the word spread after the last shoot-out; hasn't been any more rednecks or trash comin' around. But we hear it's really tough up in the north part of the state, and really bad down in Jax and Tampa. Some of the other cities, too.”

Ben spoke of the bodies he'd seen hanging by the side of the road and he elaborated on what was about to happen—if it hadn't already occurred—in Chicago and some of the other cities around the nation.

“Right and wrong on both sides,” Bell-Ringer said; then rose from her chair and went inside.

Ike followed her.

“They got a thing for each other,” Honey-Poo said. “I think they're gonna get married here pretty soon.”

Suddenly, without any warning, Ben thought of Salina. “She's a beautiful woman.” And she was.

“Smart, too. Was going to college in Gainesville, working on her Ph.D. in something or the other. Doesn't talk much about it, though. Guy she was going with—not steady or heavy—was killed two or three days after the war, or whatever the hell it was that happened.”

Ben told her of the tape recording he'd heard, sitting in front of the Radio Shack in Morriston—a thousand years ago, it seemed.

“Yeah, Ike heard that same tape.”

“Bell-Ringer's boyfriend, or just friend, whatever—how did he get killed?”

“She doesn't say much about it, but I gather he was kind of a militant. Didn't have much education, but was trying to do the right thing—her words—in his own way. I don't know who started the shooting the day he was killed—she kind of thinks he did—but anyway, he got dead and she just wandered for a day or so until those 'necks caught up with her and were taking turns raping her. That's about all I know about her.”

“You?” Ben looked at her. About twenty-five, in the prime of mature beauty. High full breasts, long sleek legs, long thick hair.

“I worked in a bank down in St. Pete.”

“No boyfriends?”

“Just on a social basis, nothing heavy. You know what I mean?”

Ben nodded. “Yes.”

“Tatter was a schoolteacher.” She laughed. “Really! June-Bug was a college girl. Space-Baby worked for the government down at the cape. And Angel-Face was a housewife. Woke up one morning and her husband was lying dead, next to her. She said it was awful. Kind of freaked her out for a time.” She looked up at him from the pallet on the darkening sun porch. “You're really going to travel around the country, seeing what happened and talking to people?”

“Yes, I am.”

“But, really, Ben, we did hear you are the commander of that Rebel army. Really!”

“You heard wrong. I am the commander of no army. I'm a writer. That's it.”

“Ummm,” she said. “Well, how long do you figure this project will take you?”

“Several years, probably.” If I don't get sidetracked. Damn you, Bull!

She sighed. “That'd be fun, I guess. Kind of adventuresome. Like the pioneers, in a way.” She shook her head. “But I'm not very adventuresome. I'm a chicken.”

“Well, I'm going to winter around here, I think. For a couple of months, anyway. Maybe three. I think I'll take a run down the coast tomorrow and find a place to stay.”

“Want some company?” she asked softly. Her voice was like an invitation to dine—on her.

“Sure. I think we're compatible.”

She grinned up at him. “I imagine we are. You like to fuck, don't you?”

 

Ben and Honey-Poo were more than compatible; she told him on that first night at Ike's place that she liked to be around a man, didn't like to sleep alone, liked to do for a man. But ...

“Don't trust me too much, Ben. I mean, I'll be true-blue as a puppy for a time, then I'll get itchy feet and hungry eyes. I won't mean to hurt you, but I will leave when I feel like it. So don't fall for me, O.K.?”

“I'll do my best,” Ben said, running his hand over her belly, then down to the tangle of pubic hair. She moved under his strokings, sighing as his finger found and entered her wetness. “What's your real name, Honey-Poo?”

She hissed her pleasure and arched her hips upward, meeting his thrusting finger. Her hand found his stiffness and slowly began working him. “Prudence.”

“I'll stick with Honey-Poo.”

“Stick it in me first, Ben.”

 

Christmas

 

It was raw for this stretch of Florida, the temperature hovering around the forty-degree mark and the winds cool enough to bring out sweaters and jackets and to warrant a big roaring fire in Ike's den.

It was a wedding day.

Ike sat with Ben in the den; Bell-Ringer was in the bedroom with the girls, getting ready. For once (the only time since Ben had arrived), Ike was in a semiserious mood.

“Go ahead and ask it, Ben,” he prompted. “I know it's on your mind. So get it over with.”

Ben drained his coffee cup. Since he was to act as the “minister,” he felt it only proper he should be sober. For a fact, no one else was.

“You're sure about this, Ike? Sure you're doing the right thing?”

“Flat-out certain.”

“What are the odds of you two making it, Ike?”

“We've already made it, Ben. Lots of times.” Ike grinned at him.

“Get serious, Ike!”

“O.K.” He sobered. “I figure we got maybe a ninety to ninety-five percent chance of coming out with the roses. And I think that's a hell of a lot better odds than most marriages. Even when times were normal, quote/ unquote.”

Ben had to agree with that. He glanced at his watch. A half-hour until post time. “Where are you from, Ike?”

Ike flashed that boyish grin. “North Mississippi.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“I'm serious, Ben. So yeah, I kinda think I know what I'm doing.” He popped the tab on another beer. “My daddy was a member of the Klan, so I grew up hatin' niggers. Well, I still don't like niggers, Ben Raines, any more than I like white trash, or sorry Mexicans, or bad Norwegians. Come to think of it, Ben, there is, was, just a whole hell of a lot of folks from Texas I never did cotton to, but that don't mean there wasn't a whole lot of real good folks in that state. You see what I'm sayin'? I figured you did. Bell-Ringer isn't a nigger. She's a real nice person that has a pretty good tan, that's all.”

“But she's still a black.”

“Shore. So what?”

“I had to be sure you understood that, Ike. I have to know her real name, Ike.”

“Megan Ann Green. And my name is Ignatius Victor McGowen. And if you call me Ignatius during the ceremony, I'm gonna bust you right in the mouth.”

Ben laughed out loud. “I'll stay with Ike.”

“My daddy was a banker,” Ike said softly. “Good one, too, I guess. Made a lot of money in his time. But he had dreams of the old South: cotton fields white in the fall, plantations, mint juleps—he wanted to see the day when blacks would once again be slaves. He really did, talked about it. He hated blacks. He tried to teach me to hate them, but it never took—not really. I always felt kind of guilty about it. Well,”—he sighed—“we had a big fight my senior year. That was '70.”

Ben gave him a startled look. “You don't look that old, Ike. That would make you ... in your mid-thirties.”

“I owe it all to my clean living.” Ike smiled. “Anyway, I left home the day, or the night, I graduated high school. Joined the Navy, went into UDT, then the SEALs. Been with 'em ever since.”

“You ever been back home?”

“Oh, sure. I went back a bunch of times. Dad and I made up, in our own peculiar way. Dad died in ... let's see ... ‘80. Mom joined him in '81. Hell, Ben, I'm a rich man; all that property Dad left me. I just didn't want to leave the Navy.”

A warning bell began dinging in Ben's brain. “What are you going to do, Ike? After the wedding, I mean.”

Ike smiled. “I'm goin' on back to north Mississippi, Ben. Farm my land.”

“That's spite, buddy—and you know it. You're asking for a lot of trouble, Ike. Not just for you, but a lot of grief for Megan.”

Ike shook his head. “I think, Ben, once the initial wave of hatred subsides—if it does”—he put a disclaimer on it—“you'll see a lot of changes in the way people think. That was my original thought. But with Logan going in as the next president, and all you've told me about him ... I don't know. I've been thinking a lot about that, and also one of those books you wrote: that one about a nation within a nation, a government really for the people and by the people. And I've been thinkin' about your Rebels, too.”

“They are
not
my Rebels, Ike.”

“Yeah, I think they are, Ben.” Once again, that smile. “You see ... I'm one of them.”

Ben looked at him, then slowly nodded his head. “O.K., that fits. Conger got in touch with you, didn't he?”

“yelp.”

“Now what?”

Ike shrugged. “Now ... nothing. Hell, General, I'm not going to push you. Go on for a time, see the country, write your journal. Your duty will come to you after a time.”

“My... duty?”

“That's right, Ben. Duty. The old Bull picked you to lead his children, so to speak. Conger told me about you telling him to destroy all the planes they could, and so forth. Good idea. But what's that about Idaho and Montana?”

Ben told him of his dreams, of a land with mountains and valleys and cattle and crops and contented people, all living under laws they had all agreed to live under and with.

“Your nation in the book, Ben?” Ike asked softly.

Ben sighed and shook his head. “I don't know, friend. I guess so. I've got to think about it for a while, though.”

“You do that, buddy. We have time. You know, Ben ... know what Big Brother's problem was?”

“No,” Ben said, not understanding where Ike was going.

“Well ... Big Brother said—told us—we had to like everybody we met. Right off the bat, that was some kind of stupid. Ever since the beginnings of time, all the way to the caves, Ben, I'll bet you there has been some kind of caste system and there will
always
be some sort of caste system. No government can order a person to like another person; hell, the personal chemistry between the two might be all wrong....”

Jerre's words, Ben thought.

“... It just won't work. There was a philosopher, Frenchman, I think, can't remember his name, but I read something by him that has always stuck in my mind. A fellow was askin' this man his likes and dislikes: do you like Germans? No. Do you like Italians? No. Do you like Jews? No. Do you like Negroes? No. Do you like Catholics? No. Protestants? No. Finally, the man got exasperated and asked him just who he did like? The philosopher looked at him and said, ‘I like my friends.'”

Ike grinned as he popped open another can of beer. “That's the way it's got to be, Ben Raines. You think about it. We'll keep in touch.”

“You're quite a philosopher yourself, Ignatius Victor McGowen,” Ben said.

Ike poured a can of beer over Ben's head.

 

A few weeks after the wedding, the radio station went off the air (the tower fell down one night), and the party broke up, each going his or her own way. Tatter and June-Bug went to Mississippi with Ike and Megan; Space-Baby and Angel-Face slipped out one night without even saying good-by.

“They kinda have this thing for each other,” explained Honey-Poo.

“How about you?” Ben asked.

“Well, Ben Raines,”—she smiled—“I been thinking about hittin' the road. There was a ham operator on the other night talkin' about this big party that's goin' on over at St. Augustine. I 'magine that's where Space-Baby and Angel-Face went, or will eventually land.”

“When were you thinking about pulling out?”

“Oh . . . I was kinda thinkin' about pullin' out today. I'm packed. I think you and me have about run our course, don't you, Ben?”

Ben allowed he believed they had. She was about to screw him to death.

“You got things to write about, Ben. And me? Well ... I guess I'll go party until the day I die. I wish you lots of luck, Ben Raines.”

“Same to you, Prudence.”

She kissed him on the cheek, patted Juno on the head, and went bouncing out the door, in search of a perpetual good time in what was left of a world's madness. She waved good-by as she bounced off in a Jeep that had been painted pink.

And Ben was alone once more. Juno stuck his muzzle into Ben's hand and whined softly.

Well, not quite alone.

 

Ben pulled out his portable typewriter and began writing the first of his journal; it was, he knew, a mammoth undertaking. And he wondered if he could, or would, ever finish it; for always in the back of his mind were the Rebels and his dream of a free land of good laws and good government. He could not shake them away.