Out of the Ashes (18 page)

In March, with the weather warm, the sun bright, and the gulf sea blue-green, a period of restlessness hit him. He drove into Tampa, knowing it was a foolish thing to do.

The city was a littered, pockmarked battleground. Fires, still smoking, scarred its former beauty. Ben made one quick pass on Interstate 75, turned east on Interstate 4, then went up to the University of South Florida. It was as if he had stepped from one world to another. The campus was peaceful, almost serene. He parked his truck, locked it, and walked the campus. It had a deserted feel, but for the most part, had not been disturbed by looters.

Naturally, Ben thought; ignorant people don't loot books. He rounded a curve in the sidewalk and came to an abrupt halt. An elderly gentleman sat on a bench, reading a book and eating a sandwich. The man was dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, and dark tie. His shoes were polished, and he was clean-shaven. He looked up.

“Ah! I do so hate to be the bearer of bad news, young man, but we are not holding classes. I really can't say when this institution will reopen its door to welcome the young seekers of knowledge.”

“We come in idealistically and leave with money our only goal.”

“Precisely.”

“It will reopen someday,” Ben said. “Hopefully,” he added.

“Glad you added that disclaimer,” the man said. “I wish I shared your optimism.” His eyes drifted to Ben's M-10 and the canvas pouch of clips; the 9-mm belted around his waist; the knife hanging on his left side. He looked at Juno, looking at him.

“Handsome animal. Is he friendly?”

“He has been so far, sir.”

“Please.” The man gestured toward the empty bench beside him. “Come—sit down. Despite your rather rugged appearance and your formidable display of arms, you behave as though you might have more than a modicum of intelligence. Join me in some conversation.”

“Watch Juno,” Ben cautioned the man. “He swipes food.” He sat down, looking at the book the man had been reading:
Selected Works of Wadsworth.
“Interesting reading, but shouldn't you be reading something on survival?”

The man chuckled and patted Juno's big head. Juno grabbed his sandwich and ate it in two gulps.

“See what I mean?” Ben said.

“There is ample food to be had, son. For as long as I shall live—which, hopefully, won't be much longer.”

“Why would you hope that?”

“This”—the man waved his hand—“is—was—my entire life. I taught here since its opening day. Before that I was at the University of Florida—Gainesville. I have been a professor for all of my adult life. I know nothing else. And I am seventy-five years old. What else is there for me?”

“Life.”

“But a life without flavor. What is your name, young man?”

Ben told him.

“And you did what before everybody went away?”

Went away? Ben glanced at him. “I was a writer. But I doubt you ever read any of my books.”

“I fear you are correct, Mr. Raines. But I am so glad you came along. Tell me about yourself, what you plan on doing. Enlighten me.”

Ben felt the elderly gentleman did not have both oars in the water; probably the tragedy had been too much for him to cope with and he slipped just a bit. But Ben told him in detail, if only to have someone to talk with for a time.

The professor clapped his hands and giggled. “Oh, wonderful!” he cried. “Now I can go without feeling guilty about leaving her.”

“Go?” Ben queried. “Go, where? Leave her? Her who? ”

“Whom, son.”

“Are you sure?”

“I'm a professor, young man.”

“Yes, sir.”

“To join my friends in that great classroom in the sky. Where the debates are endless and the merits of Wadsworth and Tennyson and all the greats are discussed with the respect and admiration due them. And Kipling can take Gunga Din and both of them can squat on the coals until their nuts roast.”

Now Ben was certain the man's bread was not fully baked.

“I like Kipling,” Ben said.

“I shall ignore that outrage. Look, look!” The man pointed. “See that building over there? See it, see it?” Ben said he did.

“That's where I live. With April.”

“April is your wife?”

“Good heavens, no! My wife has been dead for ... umm ... well, a long time, I suppose—haven't seen her around. No, you see, April was a student of mine—last year. She survived the . . . ah, what did happen, son?”

Ben told him what he knew and what he surmised.

“Is that right? Umm? Well, I've often wondered about it. ”

“There wasn't anyone you could ask? No one came around here?”

“Only those rather large, boorish types. Very hostile. But you've informed me, so I won't worry about it any further.” He peered at Ben through his thick glasses. “What were we talking about?”

“April.”

“April? It's not yet April, is it?”

“No, sir,” Ben replied patiently. “It's March. April was a student of yours.”

“Oh, yes! Now I remember. Yes, well ... April took it upon herself to look after me. Not that I need any looking after, mind you. And she is beginning to annoy me with all her fussing about. She's not my type of woman at all. Not at all. She is ... rather ... a clinging-vine type. Not that there is anything wrong with that—not at all. She just doesn't have big titties. I like women with big titties. My wife—God rest her soul, wherever she is—had big titties. I used to love to play with her big titties. Don't you like big titties?”

Ben nodded his head in agreement. Even Juno was looking at the man rather strangely.

“Well ...” The professor selected a pill from a tiny pillbox. A white pill. He swallowed it. “Now that April is going to be all right, I can go without guilt.”

“What did you teach, Professor?”

“Chemistry.”

“And what was that you just took?”

“KCN.”

“And that is?”

“Potassium cyanide.”

The man stood up, smiled, waved bye-bye to Ben and Juno; then grabbed at his chest and fell to the ground in convulsions. A moment later, he was dead.

“Shit!” Ben said.

He walked over to the dorm the man had pointed out and entered the cool hall. “April,” he called. “April! Are you here?”

“No! Go away.”

“April, I'm Ben Raines. I had the ... ah ... misfortune to encounter your friend, the professor. He told me about you and then the old fool took cyanide. He's dead.”

Footsteps on the stairs and a heart-shaped face peered around the corner. A very pretty face with large dark eyes. Huge glasses in front of the eyes. “He's really dead?”

“Yes. I'm sorry.”

“Yeah, me, too.” She stepped from around the corner of the stairwell. “But that son of a bitch was about to worry me to death. Always complaining about my titties.”

She came a bit closer. She was dressed in jeans and denim shirt. Maybe her titties weren't large enough to suit the professor, but the pert little lady was unmistakably female and well enough endowed to suit Ben.

“He said you were a student of his—last year.”

She laughed. “Yeah, he would. Hell, mister, he wasn't a professor. That was just his nickname. He was a dealer.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“A dealer, man. Like in dope. Hell, every kid on this campus knew the old ‘Professor.' ”

Ben shook his head. “Well, every man is entitled to make a fool of himself once in a while. He sure had me fooled.”

“Oh, he was well-educated, for a fact. And he
used
to be a professor. But that was a long time ago. He kept messin' with the female students. No telling how many he got pregnant. He finally was barred from teaching in this state.”

Ben stepped closer. She did not seem afraid of him. “He did seem genuinely concerned about you.”

“I think he was, in his own strange way. He was all right until about two months ago. That's when his wife died.”

“He told me his wife had been dead a long time!”

“Yeah? Well, he lied a lot. His wife's upstairs in a box.”

“Jesus!”

“Yeah, you can say that again. That's when he started slippin' downhill. Quickly. Called me his daughter at one point and then wanted me to give him a hand job with the next breath. As if he could get it up.”

Ben could but shake his head.

Her eyes went from Ben to Juno. “That's a pretty dog. Does he bite?”

“I guess he would if you made him angry. April what?”

“Simpson. I guess the professor told you to take care of me, right?”

“He mentioned something to that effect, yes.”

“Well ... you don't look too old. Can you get it up?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Keep a hard-on. Man, I'm horny!”

“I'll do my best,” Ben said dryly.

“I'll get my things. What are you going to do with the professor?”

“What do you want done with him?”

She shrugged. “He loved the campus. I'd leave him where he is.”

“All right.”

“Ben Raines, right?”

“Yes.”

“So I'll be with you in a shake, Ben Raines.”

And Ben had found yet another survivor.

Heading back to his house just a mile south of Ike's place, now deserted, Ben answered the girl's seemingly endless chain of questions and asked a few of his own.

“Why didn't you leave campus, April? If the professor was giving you such a bad time?”

“Where would I go? Where could I go? And do what?” She put her dark eyes on him. “I went home once, right after ... it happened, after I got well from being so sick. Back to Orlando. Found my parents. Dead. I didn't know what to do so I just went back to what I'd grown accustomed to: the campus. I'd been there four years; all my friends were there. Or had been, that is. I tell you one thing, though. The professor might not have had all his beans baked, but he knew people, and he saw something in you he could trust. Lots of guys had been there before you came—all looking for women. But he never said anything about me.”

“How often did you leave the campus?”

“Only once after I got back from Orlando. That was when Penny had joined us in the dorm. Penny Butler, from Miami. Seventeen years old. Things had sort of calmed down, and we went for a walk, just to look around, you know? Some guys started chasing us—all of them drunk and mean-looking. They caught Penny. I can still hear her screaming while they were dragging her into a department store. I hid in a grocery store right next to the department store. I was afraid to move; so scared I thought I'd die. I didn't know what to do. I found a pistol under the cash register, but I didn't know what to do with it. It was kind of like the one you have on your belt. How do you work the damned thing? I've never fired a pistol in my life—any kind of gun, for that matter.

“They took turns raping her; and it wasn't just rape. They did ... ugly things to her. I could hear them through the walls, laughing and shouting. They ... buggered her, you know? Then they beat her when she wouldn't ... suck them off. I guess she agreed to do anything they wanted, ‘cause the beating stopped. I heard them talking about her taking three guys at once. You know, one in the mouth, one up the ass, and one the . . . normal way. One of them must have been real big, 'cause Penny kept screaming in pain and then they'd beat her again.”

She sighed. “I ... guess they beat her too much. All of a sudden it got real quiet. She wasn't screaming. The guys laughed some more, then walked out of the building, up and street. I slipped out the back door of one building and in through the back door of the department store. She was just lying there on the floor, naked, her eyes open, but she was dead. Her neck was at a funny angle. I guess it was broken. I checked her pulse, wrist and neck, but she was dead. Ben?”

“Uh-huh?”

“How come there's so many shitty people in the world? How come they lived and the good people died?”

Jerre had asked pretty much the same question. All Ben could do was shake his head.

April kept pretty much to herself in the big house by the beach. She was impressed by Ben's determination to write a chronicle of the disaster, and she helped whenever she could. But when it got down to the actual writing of the journal, Ben told her to take a hike; he worked alone.

She did not take offense, seemed to understand. So she walked the lonely beaches, picking up driftwood and sand dollars and shells.

Ben had sensed their time together would not be long, for in their conversations, April had let it be known, loud, clear, and proud, that she was a liberal; she opposed capital punishment, believed in gun control, loved the ACLU, was thrilled with Hilton Logan, hated the military, et cetera.

Ben had listened to her blather and babble and then had told her that if she so much as mentioned Hilton Logan or the ACLU to him again, she would find herself back on the road—alone.

She got the message.

On the first day of April, 1989, Ben told her to get her gear together, they were pulling out.

She asked no questions.

 

They drove up to Perry, then took highway 221 to Georgia. They saw no one along the way, but Ben felt certain someone had seen them. His senses were working overtime, and he could not shake the feeling of being watched ... tracked.

April surprised him by saying, “I think we're being followed, Ben.”

“When did you pick up on it?”

“When we crossed into Georgia.”

A few miles south of Moultrie, Ben pulled off the road and tucked the pickup behind a service station. He checked the M-10 and his 9-mm pistol, then he hooked a couple of grenades into his belt.

“Stay back here and keep quiet,” he told April. “Keep Juno with you.”

He was getting some very bad vibes concerning just who was following them—or what. Then he heard the sound of motors coming up the road from the south. The engines were running ragged, as if they had seen hard use and had not been serviced properly. Or at all.

Two military trucks came into view, camouflage paint jobs. Two men in each truck. That he could see, that is. Ben felt there were probably men in the back of each truck. He clicked the M-10 off safety and stood by the side of the station. He pulled the pin from a grenade and held the spoon down with his left hand.

The trucks slowed as the drivers spotted him. The trucks pulled into the parking area and stopped, their engines cut. The morning was very quiet. When the men got out of the cabs, Ben fought to keep from laughing.

They were dressed in a mishmash of military and Georgia Highway Patrol uniforms and were a living caricature of the Hell's Angels. But Ben could sense a real danger all around him.

“We are a part of the Georgia Militia,” a pus-gutted, unshaven man said. “It is our duty to see to it that no riffraff enter this state.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“Huh?”

Ben said nothing, just looked at the men.

“Are you friendly?”

“To my friends.”

“That's not much of an answer, mister.”

“Wasn't much of a question.”

“Who do you have traveling with you?” The man licked thick wet lips. That he was asking about women was obvious.

“I don't figure that's any of your goddamned business,” Ben told him bluntly. The M-10 was off safety, on full auto.

“I don't care for your attitude, mister.”

“One of life's little tragedies, I'm sure.”

“I don't much care for you, either.”

“Where's your sheet and burning cross, redneck?”

“Well now.” The man smiled. “We got us a nigger-lover here. ‘At's allraht though. I ain't had me no smoked meat in some time. Got you a nigger gal travelin' with you, huh? Stand aside.”

“Fuck you!” Ben lifted the M-10 and shot the man in his pus gut; at the same time he tossed the grenade at the others. Ben dived for the protection of an abandoned car.

The fragmentation grenade blew, and left one dead and two badly wounded on the ground. Before the rocking sounds had abated, Ben lobbed another grenade into the rear of the first truck and hit the ground. The frag grenade blew, sending one man through the ribs of the canvas mount and over the side of the truck. Someone screamed in the back of the truck. ,

Ben rose to one knee and sprayed the back of the second truck, changed clips, and waited. A man lunged out of the truck and tried to run. Ben put a short burst into his back, knocking him face-down on the concrete.

It was over. It was silent. The smell of gunpowder was thick, mixing with the heavy blood odor. Ben's legs were shaky and his hands trembled. But he and April were alive. Juno was at his side, the hairs on his back and neck raised, his fangs bared. April came around the corner of the building and put one hand to her mouth as she saw the carnage and smelled the shit and the piss from relaxed bladders and bowels. She was sick for a moment, wretching onto the gravel. Ben changed clips in the M-10 and slung it over his shoulder. He pulled out his pistol and walked to the bed of a truck. All dead. He stepped to the other truck and looked inside.

One man was alive, but just barely.

“Help me,” the man pleaded.

“All right,” Ben said, then raised the 9-mm and shot the man between the eyes. He walked back to April. Her face was pale, lips bloodless.

“I can't believe you did that, Ben.”

Ben turned his back to her and walked away.

 

In Moultrie, Ben found quite a group of people, more than a hundred, he guessed, gathered at a local church. He had to struggle to hide his amusement. It had taken a world-wide catastrophe to bring blacks and whites together—at least here in Moultrie.

He told the crowd what had happened down the road. They seemed to sigh as one in relief.

“There is no Georgia Militia, Mr. Raines,” a man said. “That was Luther Pitrie and his pack of filth. We're Christian people here, or try to be; no way would we tolerate that kind of man among us.”

“He tried to make trouble for you?”

“About three months back. He had gathered around him some thirty or forty of the worst types of trash you could imagine. Convicts, ne'er-do-wells, degenerates. They strutted in here just as we were picking up our lives and trying to restore some reason for being. He killed one man. I guess rage overcame us; we buried eleven of those who came with him. The rest have not been back.”

“Good for you,” Ben said, conscious of April's look of horror.

“Please stay and have supper with us, Mr. Raines. Spend the night. I know what happened today was a terrible experience; doubly so for Miss Simpson. Rest awhile, you'll be safe and you certainly are welcome.”

Good people, Ben thought. I hope there are a great many more pockets of people such as these.

 

“You've heard what's happened in Chicago?” the leader of the small band in Moultrie asked.

Ben shook his head. “No, I haven't.” But he had a quick flash of
déjà vu
.

Carl.

“Well, communications are, at best, spotty—we rely mostly on ham operators for news, and we don't get that very often.” The man paused to butter a slice of home-baked bread. Real homemade country butter.

Ben said, “I was in Chicago last fall—couple of weeks after the war. The suburbs, actually. I didn't like what I saw brewing.”

“The brew exploded, I'm afraid. Some sort of movement started there. Neo-Nazi, fascist—something of that type.”

“Don't forget the Klan,” a woman said, bitterness in her voice. “My brother is part of that mess in Chicago. Went up there when he heard what they were doing. Couldn't wait to get right in the middle of it.”

“So is my brother,” Ben said quietly.

The clicking of knives and forks ceased; conversation was momentarily halted.

“I'm sorry to hear that, Mr. Raines. Yes,”—the man shook his head—“a Raines was mentioned in one broadcast we monitored. A Carl Raines is one of the leaders.”

“The damned fool!” Ben muttered.

“I said the same thing, Mr. Raines,” a black woman said. “My first cousin was on the other side of what took place up there.”

Ben looked at her. “What
did
take place?”

“There was spotty violence all winter. The whites controlled the suburbs, the blacks controlled the city. The whites cordoned off the city, wouldn't let the blacks out. And last winter was a particularly brutal one. Many died from exposure. Expressways were blocked and guarded, same with bridges and avenues. The white group raided national guard and reserve armories, got mortars and cannons, began shelling the city. It was a regular war. Then, a couple of months ago, a full-scale military invasion took place. Not the regular military, but the whites. There were no prisoners taken ... on either side. From what we've heard, it was senseless and brutal.”

“Who won?” Ben asked, a sour taste in his mouth. He thought of Cecil and Lila. And of Salina.

“Well,” a local minister said, “if it can be called a victory, the whites did. Then they turned on the Jews, the Latins, the Orientals. Everyone not ... what's the old term? WASP?”

“Yes,” Ben said. “It had to come. Sooner or later. I wrote it was coming.”

“I read that book of yours, Mr. Raines,” a black woman in her mid-thirties said. She sat across the table from Ben. “I didn't like it when I read it—I thought you surely had to be a racist. Then I reread it and changed my opinion of you. You're a complex man, Mr. Raines, but I think you mean well ... for those who, in your view, deserve the well-meaning.”

“Thank you.” Ben acknowledged the decidedly left-handed compliment.

The minister said, “The party seems to have grown in strength over the months. So far it is still mostly centered in the Chicago and central Illinois area, but it is fanning out. And”—the man tapped his finger on the table—“it is not comprised only of filth like that dogfighting Pitrie and his ilk. From what we can gather by listening to the broadcasts, some rather ... at one time anyway ... level-headed men and women are joining. That's the ... ones I don't understand.”