Fire in the Ashes

She was deadly serious. “I know, Ben Raines. I was born with a caul over my face, and I know things others do not. Scoff at me if you like, but it is true. I know things you do not. I can sense that you were born—in this life—to do this thing: to lead. But you must be very careful not to let it get out of control. Your followers are ... viewing you in a light that is, well, usually reserved for saints, let us say."

Ben was silent for such a long time, she thought he had gone to sleep. He said, “So what I have been sensing is true to some degree, eh?"

“Yes."

“I thought—hoped—it was only my imagination."

“No."

“I suppose I could shoot my big toe off and have them watch me leap around, hollering bloody murder—I guess that would prove to them I'm only human. But I have no desire whatsoever to do that..."

She was laughing so hard Ben had to hold off any further conversation until she finished. She wiped her eyes with a corner of the sheet.

"Eso es una locura," she giggled. She tapped the side of her head. "Loco!"

“Damn right it's crazy! Rosita—it's times like these that superstition rears up. If people aren't very careful, it can grab them. I've got to combat this mood that I'm something other than human. But I don't know how."

She was unusually silent.

“I think you do know something others don't,” Ben prompted her.

Still she was silent. Her dreams of late had been disturbing. The same one, over and over. An old, bearded man, in robes and sandals, carrying a staff, facing Ben Raines, pointing the staff at him, shouting something at him.

But she didn't know what he was saying. It was in a language unfamiliar to her. But she knew—somehow—the words contained a warning.

“Rosita?” Ben said.

“I ... don't think I have the right to tell you what I think; what I feel; what I sense. I think ... it is out of human hands."

Ben shuddered beside her. “You do have the ability to spook hell out of me, short-stuff."

“Then we won't speak of it again.” She glanced at her watch on the nightstand. “Look, Ben!"

“What?"

“It's just past midnight."

“So?"

“Big ox! It's New Year's Day, 2000. Happy New Year, Ben Raines."

“Well, I'll be damned."

No, she thought—you won't be damned. But you will be bitterly disappointed in the years to come.

And I wish I didn't know that for a fact.

* * * *

On the morning they pulled out of the motel complex, on January the fourth, the year 2000, Dawn walked to Ben's side.

“Ben, I don't want you to get the wrong idea, ‘cause it's been fun. But..."

“You don't have to say it, Dawn. I never had the wrong idea about you."

“No, Ben, I want to say it. I don't know what you're searching for in a woman, but it isn't me. I don't have it. And ... to tell the truth, I'm glad I don't. You're not like any man I have ever met before. It ... it's like you're driven—a man possessed to pull something out of the ashes. You're a dreamer, a warrior, a gentle man, a Viking and a priest. I can't cope with all that, Ben. And I'm beginning to see what the others only whisper about: that almost visible aura about you.

“At times you are a lonely man—I can sense that. But you really don't need anyone, Ben. I'm a tough, street-wise professional woman, but I'm still a woman, and a woman likes to feel needed by her special person. I hope you find that special woman, Ben. I really do.” She stuck out her hand. “Friends?"

Ben grinned and shook the hand. He leaned close and whispered, “How come Penthouse removed that birthmark just a few inches below your navel? I think it's cute."

She laughed and said, “Ben Raines! You're impossible."

* * * *

The convoy rumbled on, trekking westward like a 21^st-century wagon train.

And all did their best to keep their eyes away from the hideousness that lay in stinking piles and heaps all around them. The going was slow, for not only were the cities burning, but many small towns were ablaze. Why, was anybody's guess. Perhaps something had short-circuited; oily rags had ignited; rats and mice had chewed wiring, shorting something out.

The rats.

The men and women and children of the convoy did not see many of the huge mutant rats; but even sighting one was too many for some—and the revulsion was not confined to one gender.

But they saw other rats, of the more common variety. And none of them could accustom their eyes to the sight of bodies of humans covered with the rats—feasting on dead human flesh.

“Keep your eyes straight ahead,” the platoon leaders would tell the people. “Don't look at them."

But most were drawn to the sights, and after a time, after a fashion, stomachs did not rebel at the sights—but no one ever became accustomed to the awfulness.

Ben did not seem to be bothered by the dead or the rats. Of course, he was bothered by the sights; it was just his nature not to show any alarm; not to visually display his inner disgust.

And his reputation as something just a bit more than an ordinary human grew and was enhanced by his stony acceptance of the sights.