Fire in the Ashes

After a minute had ticked by in silence, Dawn chuckled softly. “You are a very suspicious man, General Raines. Are you always this suspicious?"

“Suspicious might be the wrong choice of words. Try careful."

“Despite what you might think, General—and I don't blame you for thinking it—I'm not in the habit of throwing myself at men."

“I shouldn't think you would have to throw yourself at anybody."

“If that's a compliment, thank you."

“It was."

A night bird called plaintively, its voice penetrating the settling gloom. Somewhere in the distance, the call was answered. The asking and the reply touched the man and woman with an invisible caress.

“Nice to know I'm not the only one who wants company this evening,” Dawn said wistfully.

“I can assure you, you are not."

“You make it hard for a lady, you know that, General Raines?"

Ben fought back a chuckle, not quite succeeding in muffling his humor.

“Damnit! that's not what I meant."

“I know."

“You don't like for people to get too close to you, do you, General?"

Ben smiled again in the darkness. The lady was no dummy; but then, he thought, she wouldn't be a highly successful photojournalist if she was stupid. She had pegged him quickly enough. Either that or she had been observing his movements in camp closely for several months.

Maybe suspicious was right, Ben, he thought. Maybe you are.

“I'm not a kid, Ms. Bellever..."

“Dawn."

“...Dawn, then. I'm past middle age. You're what ... not yet thirty?"

“That's close enough,” she said evasively. “But what has age to do with it—unless, of course, you're proposing to me."

“I don't believe I shall ever do that again,” Ben said flatly.

“Your wife was killed in the battle for Tri-States, right?"

“Yes. Salina. She and the unborn child. I also lost an adopted son, Jack. My adopted daughter, Tina, is ... in another camp."

“Gray's Scouts,” Dawn said. And Ben was again amazed at the underground pipeline that ran through any military unit. There really were no secrets; just men and women who knew how to keep their mouths shut around people not of their stripe.

“We'll be working very closely together, Dawn—for the next several months."

“Yes."

“So is this a good idea?"

“We're both adults, aren't we?"

He took her hand and together they walked around the fringes of the camp. And Dawn was one very surprised lady when Ben stopped in front of her tent.

“Good night, Ms. Bellever,” he said. He bent his head and kissed her mouth.

Before she could reply or respond, he was gone, the shape and form of him melting into the darkness.

She stood for a moment outside her tent. Then the humor of it all struck her. She laughed. “Shit!” she said.

“You'd better set your sights a bit lower, honey,” a woman's voice spoke softly from the confines of the canvas. “That one is off-limits."

“Says who?” Dawn said without turning around.

“Common sense,” another female voice cut through the darkness.

“If I had any common sense,” Dawn said, turning around, looking into the darkness of the big eight-person tent, “would I be here?"

* * * *

The residents of Fort Wayne, Indiana—those that remained alive, that is—slowly put their guns on the ground and walked out to Hartline's men. The mercenaries waited just past the northeastern city limits sign, on old Highway 37. Behind the rag-tag staggering knot of men and women, the city burned, dancing colors and dark plumes of smoke formed a kaleidoscope of tones against the sun, just rising above the horizon.

A mercenary pointed to a line of military trucks parked on the shoulder of the road. “Get in the trucks,” he ordered. Then his eyes found a very attractive teenage girl. “All but you,” he said with a grin. “You wait in the car over there,” he pointed.

“You leave my daughter alone,” a man spoke, his voice filled with exhaustion.

Hartline's man looked at the father, the grin still on his lips. “All right,” he shouted to the fifty or so survivors of the shelling. “You people gather around me. I got something I want you all to hear."

The men and women gathered in the road, lining up in ragged rows. Some kept their heads bowed, eyes downcast, defeated, beaten, whipped—no more fight left in them.

Others glared defiantly at the well-armed, well-trained mercenary army, surrender the farthest thing from their minds.

“All right, people,” the mercenary captain spoke, his words no longer harsh and demanding, taking on a gentler tone. “You may find this hard to believe, but I'm an American, just like you people. I was born in Havana, Illinois; and I don't, repeat, don't want any more killing.” He waved his free hand toward his men. “None of us do."

“Okay, you folks hate us, fine, we can live with that. We're soldiers, and we have a job of work to do, and we're doing it, distasteful as it might be. And that job of work is to restore order to America.” He pointed to the greasy smoke filling the sky behind them. “There was no need for that. None at all. All your friends, your loved ones—they died for nothing."

“They died for freedom!” a woman shouted.