Fire in the Ashes

“Have all your people withdraw from their stations,” Ben ordered. “Take all their equipment with them. Withdraw to the countryside and set up there. Have them get sidearms and automatic weapons from the military. I'll pass that order down the line. I don't want any heroics out of this. Protect themselves; shoot to kill. Is that understood, Harrison?"

“Yes, sir. But I don't know if my people can or will do that."

“They'll do it or die. That's how simple it is, Doctor Lane. In the end, it all comes down to survival."

“Yes, sir,” the doctor said, bitterness evident in his voice. He hung up.

Ben got the Joint Chiefs on the line. “Order your troops away from the cities,” he told the chairman. “Have them withdraw to the nearest bases and set up security around those bases. No one enters unless they have proof of inoculation. Shoot to kill."

“It's come to that?"

“Yes, Admiral, it has."

“The end?"

“We are rapidly approaching the final chapter, Admiral. Whether there will be a sequel remains to be seen."

“I used to enjoy the hell out of your books, Mr. President. I still have all of them; reread them from time to time."

“I wish I was still writing them, Admiral."

“Yes, sir. Good luck, sir."

“The same to you men."

Ben broke the connection.

Sam stuck his head into the office. “Sir. We have reports of a small atomic device just detonated in Central Iowa. General Rimel is dead. He went up with the device."

Ben looked at Dawn and Rosita. “Death. Pestilence. Plague. I wonder when the locusts are coming?"

Two

LIVE COALS IN THE ASHES...

Richmond was burning.

Ben stood in the bedroom of his private quarters and watched the first flames lick at the white-dotted air. He was dressed in field clothes, his feet in jump boots. He wore a .45 belted at his side. His old Thompson lay on a nearby table, the canvas clip-pouch full of thirty-round clips.

He turned as James Riverson stepped into the room. Steve Mailer was with him; several other Rebels. All were dressed in battle clothes, armed with M-16s.

Ben had slept for several hours, his aides taking the ever-grimmer messages from the field. The situation had been worsening hourly: the nation was in a panic, people fleeing in a blind stampede of crushing humanity, rolling over anyone who stood in their way. Young, old, male, female—it made no difference.

And none of them realized they were racing straight into hell, away from the vaccines and medicines that could possibly save them. It was a grim replay of the events of 1988, just hours preceding the first wave of missiles.

“Fools,” Ben muttered. “Blind panicky fools."

He turned to the men and women he had known and trusted for years.

“Anyone get hold of Hector?"

“He's on his way to the Tri-States,” Rosita said. “We're pulling all our people in, muy pronto. They will leave their vehicles at the border and walk across the sprayed zone into Tri-States."

“How many of our people have we lost—that anyone knows of?"

“Bobby Hamilton and Jimmy Brady bought it,” Cecil said, stepping into Ben's quarters. “Carla Allen made it out; she's with the first contingent to leave our base camp. They're rolling. Ike and Dan and all their people made it across the borders. Lynne Hoffman, Tina, and Judy Fowler left with the second convoy. The third convoy should be pulling out within the hour."

Bob Mitchell stepped into the room. The first tint of ashen light was appearing in the east. “We'd better get out of here, Mr. President,” he said. “The rioters and looters are getting closer."

“Got your wife and family, Bob?” Ben asked.

“Yes, sir. But I feel like a traitor pulling out while so many are stuck."

“Don't feel that way, Bob. I'll tell you like I told Doctor Lane: it all comes down to survival. How about the other fellows?"

“A few are going with us. Most said they'd take their chances in the timber. I wished them good luck."

“They'll need it,” Ben said tersely. He looked at the small group. “Everybody been needle-popped and got their pockets stuffed with oral medication?"

All had.

Sam came running into the quarters. He paused for a moment to catch his breath. “Sir! Mobs just hit the airfield. Most of the planes have been destroyed or damaged. We won't be flying out."

If the news affected Ben, he did not show it. He picked up his Thompson and jacked a round into the chamber, putting the weapon on safety.

“No reason why we should expect our luck to change at this date,” he said. “I think our best bet will be trucks and buses. We'll fill some tankers with gasoline and diesel; won't have to risk pulling off the road. There is a truck-and-bus terminal just on the outskirts of the city.” He looked at Riverson. “James, you take some people and get out there. Pick the best ones of the lot. Make sure the floors and sides are in good shape. We'll reinforce them with sheet metal if necessary."

The big ex-truck driver from Missouri nodded his understanding and left.

Ben looked at Cecil. “How many of our people were staying, flying out with us?"

“One company, Ben. They're downstairs."