Fire in the Ashes

“It was. But hell, what was the point? Supreme Court and federal judges ran the country. The people didn't have anything to say about it. Not the people who had any goddamn sense, that is.” He grinned in the dim light from the dash. “Excuse me, Miss Jerre. That was selfish of me to say. We all have rights. I just wish they'd have left us alone in Tri-States. We weren't bothering a soul. Just being happy, that's all we were doing."

Ben groaned in his sleep.

“I wonder what the general is thinking of?” James said.

* * * *

He had first met Salina in a motel in Indiana, just off the interstate. At first he thought she was a white woman traveling with a group of blacks. Since he had just come from visiting his brother in Chicago, where the blacks and whites were preparing to do their best to kill each other off, he thought that odd.

But as one member of the group had blurted—a white-hating member—Salina was a zebra.

“What does that mean?” Ben had later asked her, when they were alone.

“Half white, half black. Yes, my parents were married,” she told him.

“I didn't think you were—"

“Pure coon,” she interrupted, but with a smile.

In the group were men and women who would later join Ben in the formation of Tri-States. Cecil Jefferys and his wife, Lila. Jake and his wife, Nora. Clint and Jane. And Ben and Salina would later marry. Salina, heavy with child, had been killed in the woods of Tri-States, during the last hours of the fight for survival.

So many had died for the dream.

* * * *

Sam Hartline looked like the stereotyped Hollywood mercenary. Six feet, two inches, heavily muscled, a deep tan, dark brown hair just graying at the temples, cold green eyes, and a scar on his right cheek. He spoke to the one hundred FBI agents gathered in the old hotel in the deserted Virginia town. He did not have to speak to his own men; they had heard it all before.

“So you boys are gonna spearhead the move to kill Ben Raines, eh?” he grinned. “And you're gonna do it by breaking the civilians who support him, right? Well, you'd all better have strong stomachs.” Again, he grinned. “I expect you do. You boys don't look like that bunch that used to make up the Bureau. You boys look a sight tougher. I'll tell you this: you damn well better be."

He took a sip of water and again looked over the roomful of men. “Dealing with male prisoners prior to the actual interrogation,” he spoke impersonally. “Man ... the protector of the home; the strong one. The techniques are diametrically opposite when dealing with the man as opposed to the woman. You must handle the male roughly—right from the beginning. You assault his male pride, his virility, his manhood, his penis power. You take the clothes from the man by force and leave him naked before you. A naked man feels defenseless. He will lose much of his arrogant pride.

“With a woman it is quite different. Do not use physical force except as a last resort. You order her to remove her clothing. You demand it. Make her disrobe. Thus her dignity has, from the beginning, rotted. A very important first beginning.

“Don't let them sleep. Interrupt them every few minutes while they lie in their cells, imagining all sorts of dire and exotic tortures lying in wait for them. Lack of sleep disturbs the brain patterns; disrupts the norm, so to speak.

“I will give you gentlemen an example.” He motioned toward a man standing by a closed door.

The man opened the door and two of Hartline's men pushed a young man out into the large meeting room. The man was in his late twenties, unshaven, red and bleary-eyed. He was pushed onto the small stage.

“Good morning, Victor,” Hartline said cheerfully. “Did you sleep well?"

The man said nothing.

“Remove your clothing, Victor,” Hartline said, smiling.

“Fuck you!"

Hartline laughed and motioned toward the two burly men. They wrestled the young man down on the stage and tore his clothing from him, pulling him to his feet to stand nude, facing the roomful of strangers.

“You see, Victor,” Hartline said, “you are a baby. I can do with you anything I choose, at any time I choose. Remember that, Victor. It might save you a lot of pain. Now then, Victor ... who is the leader of your cell?"

Victor stood impassively, with as much dignity as he could muster. The agents in the room all tried to keep their eyes from the young man's groin.

“Victor, Victor,” Hartline said. “Why are you doing this? You know you're going to tell me what I want to know."

“If you're going to torture me,” the young man said, “get it over with."

Hartline laughed, exposed strong, white, even teeth. “Oh, Victor! I'm not going to torture you, my boy. Oh, my, no.” He cut his eyes to the man by the closed door.

The door opened and another pair of men pulled a young woman into the room. That they were closely related was evident by their features. Both Victor and the young woman had the same delicate features and skin coloration, the same pale eyes.