Fire in the Ashes

—"Nobody liked them...” (probably because there was nothing about them to like)

—"The teacher picked on them..."

—"The coach made fun of them...” (that might have more than a modicum of merit)

And all the other shopworn and clichéd excuses ... hadn't counted on running into Ben Raines and his well-trained and disciplined Rebels.

The key to survival and success in any personal endeavor is contained in the above sentence.

* * * *

The convoy rolled slowly westward, and the stench, as Ben had predicted, worsened.

Ben's scouts had found a motel just east of Richmond, Indiana, just before Interstate 70 and Highway 35 connected. The rooms had been sprayed, the area around the motel burned and sprayed. Towels and bed linens were washed and dried in high heat, the kitchen area cleaned and disinfected, cooking utensils and silverware boiled before use. Water heaters were turned on as high as they could be adjusted and the lines cleaned before anyone was allowed to bathe. Ben would not allow the drinking of the water until it had been purified and tested.

At noon of the fourth day, Ben told his people, “Okay, folks. We get to spend a few days sleeping in real beds and taking baths."

The cheer that followed that would have put a major pep rally to shame.

Ben picked a small lower-floor room and allowed himself to luxuriate a few moments longer than was necessary under the hot spray, soaping himself several times, washing his short-cropped hair, sprinkled generously with gray among the dark brown.

He dressed in tiger-stripe and jump boots and walked to the restaurant, choosing a table set apart from the main dining area.

There, he enjoyed and lingered over a good cup of fresh-brewed coffee.

“Something to eat, General?"

“Not just yet, thank you. I'll eat when the others do."

The young man's eyes flicked briefly to the old Thompson SMG leaning against a wall beside Ben's table. Lots of talk about that old weapon, the young Rebel thought—and more about the man who carried it.

Most of the young people among the Rebel ranks viewed the man as somewhere between human and god. And the very young stood somewhere between awe and fear of the man. He had heard his own little brother, saying his prayers at bedtime, always mention God and General Raines in the same breath.

The young Rebel didn't see a thing wrong with that.

He wondered if General Raines knew how most of his people felt about him. He decided the general did not. He wondered what the general's reaction would be when he found out?

Back behind the serving line, the young man met the eyes of his girlfriend. “It's funny, you know, Becky? I mean, it's really—I get the strangest feeling being close to the general. You know what I mean?"

“He scares me,” Becky admitted. But what she would not admit, not to anybody, was the other feeling she experienced when thinking about General Raines.

For one thing, her boyfriend might never speak to her again if she told him the truth.

“Scares you? Why?"

“Well—you know how talk gets around,” she spoke in a whisper, as if afraid Ben would hear her and punish her in some manner. “You know he's been shot fifty times, blown up three or four, and stabbed several times. He won't die."

“No!"

“It's true,” a young man said from the serving line. “My brother was serving directly in his command the night General Raines's own brother tried to kill him back in Tri-States. He said Carl Raines emptied an M-16 into the general. But it didn't kill him. The general just walked away from it."

“My God!” another young Rebel spoke.

“That's what I think he is,” Becky spoke the words that made legends. “A god."

* * * *

How hated Ben's system of government was did not come home to the people of Tri-States until late fall of the first year. Ben had stepped outside of his home for a breath of the cold, clean air of night. Juno, the big malamute, was with him, and together they walked from the house around to the front. When Juno growled, Ben went into a crouch, and that saved his life. Automatic-weapon fire spider-webbed the windshield of his pickup truck, the slugs hitting and ricocheting off the metal, sparking the night. Ben jerked open the door, punched open the glove box, and grabbed a pistol. He fired at a dark shape running across the yard, then at another. Both went down, screaming in pain.

A man stepped from the shadows of the house and opened fire just as Ben hit the ground. Lights were popping on all over the street, men with rifles in their hands appearing on the lawns.

Ben felt a slug slam into his hip, knocking him to one side, spinning him around, the lead traveling down his leg, exiting just above his knee. He pulled himself to one knee and leveled the 9mm, triggering off three rounds into the dark form by the side of his house. The man went down, the rifle dropping from his hands.

Ben pulled himself up, his leg and hip throbbing from the shock of the wounds. He leaned against the truck just as help reached him.

“Get the medics!” a man shouted. “Governor's been shot."