Fire in the Ashes

As the full impact of what had occurred came to rest with Ben, he drove the town and parish, looking for anyone left alive. On the second day, he found one—just one. Fran Piper.

She hated Ben and the feeling was certainly mutual. From the moment he got out of his truck after seeing her alone on the parish road, the conversation was less than cordial.

“Why, good morning, Mrs. Piper. What a surprise seeing you. Not a pleasure, but certainly a surprise."

“Mr. Raines—you're armed! I thought pistols had been outlawed for some time?"

“Yes, ma'am. Three years ago, I believe. Thanks to Hilton Logan and his bunch of misguided liberals. But be that as it may, ma'am, here I am, Ben Raines, at your service. That trashy Yankee writer of all those filthy fuck books, come to save your aristocratic ass from gettin’ pronged by all the slobbering rednecks that must surely be prowlin’ around the parish, just a-lustin’ for a crack at you, ma'am."

“Raines,” she said, her eyes flashing hatred at him, “you just have to be the most despicable human being I have ever encountered, unfortunately. And if that was supposed to be Rhett Butler, you missed the boat."

“Paddle-wheel, I'm sure."

From that point on, the conversation was downhill all the way.

But Ben could not bring himself to leave the woman to fend for herself. She would not have survived alone.

“Well, you can come with me. No play on words intended."

She rolled her eyes and off they went.

At one point in their wanderings about the parish, Fran had waved her hand, as if a scout with a wagon train.

“Head ‘em up and move ‘em out,” Ben had muttered.

She had stayed with Ben until Memphis. There, she had met Hilton Logan, a bachelor, and the two had hit it off. She eventually married the man and became the First Lady—although a lady she was most definitely not.

After the fall of Tri-States, Fran and one of her lovers had been shot to death by Ben's Zero Squads.

Just at the moment of mutual climax.

The ultimate orgasm.

* * * *

“Yes,” Ben brought himself back to the present. “Head ‘em up and move ‘em out."

“Regrets, partner?"

“I don't think we can afford regrets, Ike. I think we have to look forward, and not look back for a long time."

“Well,” Ike stood up and slung his CAR-15. “Let's get rollin.’ We sure got a ways to go."

Seven

IN SEARCH OF A DREAM...

Wreckers and tow trucks and heavy-duty pickups with PTO winches on the front traveled a full day ahead of the main column, clearing the roads of stalled and abandoned vehicles.

The convoy, stretching for miles, left on Interstate 80, picked up Interstate 15, and took that down to south-central Utah. There, they intersected with Interstate 70 and pointed eastward, gently angling south when roads permitted.

It was slow going, the convoy lucky to maintain a 40 mph average—often less than that. Ben, almost always traveling alone, usually was miles ahead of the column. Oftentimes playing games with his guards, deliberately outdistancing them, losing them so he could have some time alone.

When Captain Seymour reported this to Ike and Cecil, both men could only shake their heads.

“Rosita's not with him anymore?” Captain Gray asked.

“No,” Ike told him. “Ben says she's too young. I'm worried about him, to speak frankly. He's becoming more withdrawn."

“Ben always has been somewhat of a loner,” Cecil said. “But the feeling the men and women have about him is disturbing to him—he told me that."

“Leave him alone,” Jerre settled the discussion. “Ben is doing what Ben wants to do. He's got a lot on his mind and this is his way of coping with it. Just leave him alone.” And that settled it.

* * * *

Crossing over a mountain range, Ben pulled off the interstate and jammed his truck into four-wheel drive, climbing high above the interstate. On a crest, he parked, and squatted alone, watching the column crawling snakelike below.

If I had any sense, he thought, I would wait until the column is long past, get in my truck, and head west. But I would feel like Pilate if I did. Those little boys talking the other evening, when they thought no one could hear them (and God I wish I had not), talking of the general being a god. And those teenage boys and girls who joined them—they should have known better; should have corrected the younger ones immediately.

But they didn't.

I am not a god. I am merely a man who is ten years past true middle age. Maybe I don't feel it; some say I don't look it, but it's not good to attempt to alter the truth.

A god. Damn!

When did this start? Did it begin back in ‘88? If so, why didn't I catch it then?

A god.

How to stop the talk? What to do? Anything? Yes—of course. Something must be done. But what? And how? Do I go to the parents and tell them what I heard? But according to other whispered conversations I have overheard and from the looks I have finally put together after being deaf, dumb, and blind for only the true God knows how long, many of the parents might share that foolish belief. If not to the extent of their kids, at least a bit.