Out of the Ashes (25 page)

“O.K., Ike—let's get cracking.”

“I'll see you in about a month, partner. Excuse me—General.”

 

“What do you really know about Ben Raines?” President Logan asked his wife over dinner.

The question startled her, caught her off guard. She had not thought of Ben in months. Did not know if he was dead or alive. She pondered her husband's question for a moment.

“Well . . . he's a rude man, very arrogant, sarcastic. But he's also a very tough man—not just physically but mentally. I don't think he's afraid of anything. He's smart, too. Why do you ask?”

“He was put in charge of Bull Dean's Rebels.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes. But I don't know if he accepted that charge. At first, word was he did not. Then the word was passed that he was dead. But he was spotted out west just a couple of weeks ago. Rumors persist that he is forming some sort of . . . state . . . nation out there. Didn't he write about that one time? Some sort of free state?”

“Yes. Rather a trashy novel. Where out west?” Logan shook his head. “I don't know. The military won't really cooperate with me; don't like me. Never have. But damn it, I'm only doing what I think is right and best for the country. And Colonel Parr is all tied up with minor revolts. He and his men put down one group, another pops up. My God, you'd think I was trying to deny them their sex lives instead of just taking their guns. What is this morbid fascination with guns, anyway? People are really
dying
fighting over a gun. It's stupid, Fran. Ignorant.”

“Hilton?” Fran touched his hand. “Leave Ben Raines alone.”

 

The word went out, all over the nation: head west. If you don't like the crap that is coming out of Richmond, head west. Get trucks and head west. Stop at every national guard and reserve armory and strip it bare. Same with every base. Search every deserted town for gold and silver and precious gems. Take every piece of medical equipment you can find; bring anything you think we might be able to use, from panty hose to bulldozers. But if you're lazy, gossipy, unethical; if you lie, cheat, or if you're ignorant, you'd better stay away. . . . Odds are you won't fit in with the crowd.

Tell lawyers to stay the hell out; we don't want them, don't need them. Our laws will be very simple and very few and enforced to the letter; no muddying the water. They will be enforced to the letter. No exceptions. No deals. No plea-bargaining. No twisting of words—truth. Our nation is going to be a bit different from that to which you've been accustomed. We're going to try something; see if it will work. So leave us alone.

The message went into every state and a lot of countries. A lot of people heard it, liked it, and packed up.

And a lot of people heard it and didn't like it.

 

“He's your brother, Carl,” Jeb Fargo said. “What's he tryin' to pull?”

A large farm in Illinois; a cooperative venture that encompassed hundreds of thousands of acres. Run by a group of men and women who went by no official name, but whose members secretly embraced the teachings of Hitler and the goose-egg mentality of the Klan. To Logan, they were hard-working, God-fearing people who caused no trouble but just wanted to work the land and do what was best toward restoring this devastated nation to its former glory.

Logan loved them. Addison was suspicious of them. The military knew exactly what they were.

Lots of churches scattered throughout their lands. Funny thing though: wasn't a nigger or a dago or a chink or a greaser or a Jew in the bunch.

And their churches did not teach love—the ministers preached hate.

“I never was close to Ben,” Carl replied. “Lot of difference in our ages.”

“We'd best keep an eye on what he's doin'. Might even send some men out there next year. You'd be in charge. You know, Carl, I kinda had my eye on that land out there for us. Good cattle country and farmland. Word is, Carl, your brother's livin' with a nigger gal.”

“Ben!”

“That's the word I get. Hell, messages we been interceptin' tell us they's all kinds of undesirables headin' out there: slants, Jews, burr-heads, greasers—all kinds of filth. We cain't have that, Carl. Cain't let them people get a toehold in some of the best land in the country. Brother or no brother, he's got to be stopped.”

“When you want me to go, Jeb?” Carl said. “I'll go.” The thought of his brother actually kissing a nigger made him sick at his stomach.

“I'll let you know, Major Raines,” Jeb said.

All sorts of people were heading west, to join those already there.

There was a young man named Badger Harbin who had met Ben and Salina in Idaho. He just wandered up to them one day, introduced himself, and said he was there to stay.

Ben could not believe anyone would have the first name of Badger, but the young man assured Ben that, yes, that's what his daddy had named him.

Sid Cossman was a New Yorker who had once owned a radio station in upstate New York. He had lost it by refusing to bow to the often dictatorial whims of the Federal Communications Commission. Sid did not like Big Brother.

Lieutenant Conger was the platoon leader of a contingent of Rebels coming in from the East.

Bridge Oliver was with the SEAL team from southern California.

A man named Clint Voltan was a major in the Rebel army formed in the West.

And Sam Pyron was about to make his move toward freedom.

Sam, a West Virginia boy, sat by his grandfather's bed. He was watching the old man die.

The grandfather met the young man's eyes. “Git outta here, boy. There ain't nothin' you can do for me.” He coughed up blood and pus.

“I'll stay with you, Granddad,” Sam said.

“Just like your mother-hard-headed. Boy, listen to me. You gotta run!”

“I'm not leavin' you.”

“You killed a Fed, Samuel.”

“He started it. Tryin' to tell me I got to move. To hell with him. That's probably where he went, too.”

“I know, Sam—I know. It ain't right, but big government almost never is. I think you better link up with them survivalists that was livin' over 'crost the mountain and get gone from here.”

“The Rebels?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought you didn't agree with what they stood for, Granddad?”

“I don't agree with ever'thing they talked about—them I knowed in the bunch—but I do agree with most of it. 'Specially them wantin' to bring the law back to the common folk, back to some common sense.” He coughed for a moment, then caught his breath, pain in his eyes.

“Maybe all this misery was due us, boy—I don't know. I cain't help but think the Lord had something to do with it. I figure He was gettin' awful tired of what was happenin' down here. And maybe it's a good thing, too. That Rebel that was by last week when I was so awful sick, he said they's a man settin' up out West. Said that feller was gonna have a land where a man can live free—all races. It's past time for that, too. Wasn't gonna be no damned lawyers screwin' up ever'thing with fancy words. That'd be the greatest thing since corn bread, Sam. I hate a damned lawyer. This man out West—accordin' to the Reb—is gonna make the law so plain, so simple, so easy to follow, that even a child can understand it. That's the way it oughta be. He said that so long as a person can mind his or her own business and follow jist a few simple rules, a man can live the way he sees fit.

“Our laws, Sam—back when we had a country—went from bad to worse to stupid. I seen all the trouble comin' years ago; 'fore even your mamma was born. Country went bad; people quit wantin' to work for a livin', wanted the government to do for them. Damned unions got out of hand; kids got too big for their britches. Too many cops, too many lawyers, too many laws the common man couldn't understand. Judges sittin' on their brains, turnin' bad people loose without punishment. No morals nowhere. Government stickin' its nose in ever'body else's business when they couldn't even keep their own house clean. It had to come to an end.” He coughed up blood and gasped for breath.

“Sam?” The old man's hand groped for his grandson as his eyes filmed over with near-death. He fought back the darkness.

“I'm here, Granddad.” Sam took the old hand.

“I want you to remember what I'm about to say, Sam; carry it with you all your life. What's yours is yours, provided you worked for it, and you paid for it—or is payin' for it—and don't no man have no right to take it from you by stealin'. You got a right to protect what's yours by any means at hand. And don't never let no smart-mouthed lawyer tell you different.

“There ain't no human-person god, boy. ‘At's something them hoo-hawin' TV preachers never learned. But they shore thought they was God, all the time a-tellin' ever'body else how to live, what to read in the books and papers, what to see on the TV and in the motion pitchers. I ain't sayin' they wasn't good folk in their hearts, just that they di' n' have no right tellin' other folk how to live. Them TV preachers had a God complex-thing 'bout 'em. But they was wrong, Sam.

“If a man is tryin' to do right by his family, by his job, or them that work for him, and be a good neighbor in time of need, then whatever else he does, Sam . . . ain't nobody else's damned truck! Man's got to live by and with his conscience, boy. And if you was taught right in the home, then you'll do right outside it. Some of them fancy-talkin', fancy-dressin', high-up judges might ought to sweep off they own back doorstep 'fore they start tellin' others to clean they steps. Same thing with preachers and politicians. And that damned Logan is gonna be the ruination of ever'thing. He's two-faced, boy, and crazy as a road lizard!

“Sam, listen to me. There ain't but one set of rules a man's
got
to follow, and they come from God—written in stone and handed down. Man's rules come second—always. No badge, no man-made law, no government job or high uppity office ever made no man ... God.”

He was wracked by coughing. He vomited up pus and blood, then closed his eyes. A few hours later, he slipped behind the veil.

Sam Pyron buried his grandfather in the rocky soil of West Virginia. He had no other family left alive. Sam took his grandfather's old .30–.30 lever-action Winchester and struck out for the highway, down where old man Garland lived—or used to live. Garland had an old pickup truck that had been sitting idle since the war. Sam figured that with a fresh battery and some gas, he'd get that old truck running again.

Then he'd head west.

He was eighteen years old.

There was something in the way Sam walked the mountain road, with a rifle in his hand, a knife on his belt, and a small sack of food slung over his shoulder; some mannerism that might make a knowledgeable person recall the descriptions of other mountain men, free men, of another century. Men who fought and died for freedom, the right to live their own lives without fear of tyranny, from within or without the government; to live without fear of the lawless, or those who would impose their own selfish wills on others.

This young man was reminiscent of the men who called themselves Green River Boys, or Rough Riders; those who rode with Darby's Rangers, or Major Rogers, or who suffered in silence at Valley Forge; the men and women at Buchenwald or Dachau or the men who stormed the beaches on June 6, 1944; and the men who rode to make a stand at an old church in Texas—called the Alamo.

President Logan called for his VP to have lunch with him. He came right to the point. “Aston, there is a bunch of people, four or five thousand, maybe more, all heading west. They are stealing everything that isn't nailed down. And sometimes that doesn't even stop them.”

The VP looked up from his salad. “Why are they heading west?”

“To link up with Ben Raines, I suppose. They even stole a railroad.”

“Hilton—that's impossible! You can't steal a railroad. That's stationary. They took the engines and cars, perhaps. But what do they want with it?”

“To transport all the things they're stealing! Aston, they've broken into military bases and armories and stolen God only knows how much heavy artillery and bombs and guns and anything else they could get their hands on. Radar is gone from many places. Highly sophisticated electronic gear, computers—you name it, those people took it. A bunch of those crazy navy porpoises stole an entire base. Everything! They even took the damned portable buildings!”

“Porpoises? SEALs?”

“Whatever. Yes, that's the bunch.”

“An entire base? Hilton, no one can steal an entire base!”

“Well, they did. Probably had some damned Seabees with them, too. I made a speech on the Senate floor one time, I remember it well. I said that Green Berets and Rangers and SEALs and all those special units should be disbanded. They're all nuts! I said—”

“Just calm yourself, Hilton. These are breakaway units of the military?”

“Some of them, yes. I hate the military.”

Hilton had once been forced to stand in front of his training platoon, back in '59, with his M-1 rifle in one hand and his pecker in the other hand, reciting, “This is my rifle, this is my gun. This is for shooting, this is for fun.”

It had affected him. Deeply.

“Send the military to stop them,” Aston suggested.

“The military couldn't stop a hamster—driving a red wagon. And until I can replace the top men, they refuse to even acknowledge I'm the president. They hate me. Colonel Parr is far too busy with the relocation efforts.”

“Hilton, disband that bunch of mercenaries before they get out of hand—too powerful.”

“No. They are loyal to me, and that's more than I can say about the regular military. I need Colonel Parr and his men.”

“All right, then do this for me: break up that bunch of people in Illinois. You know what they are, Hilton.”

Logan shook his head. “No. If we ever need someone to control any nigger uprising, they'll come in handy.”

“The blacks helped put you in office years ago,” Aston reminded the man.

The president ignored that.

Aston wanted to reach across the table and slap the man. But he knew he had to keep his head, keep his wits about him. He had suspected years before that Logan was using the minorities only as stepping stones; that he really, deep down, was a bigot. But someone with a calmer head had to be close to Logan and, he had told his wife, “Looks like I'm it.”

“So what are you going to do about this Raines person?”

“Nothing. Nothing I can do. We're spread too thin as it is. We've lost too many agents in the mountains of West Virginia, Kentucky, Tennessee, and North Carolina trying to bring some law and order there. Damned hillbillies are shooting at anything that moves.”

“We need them to work the mines.”

“I know, I know. That's why I had to compromise with them.” He shook his head. “I'm only doing what I feel—what I
know—
is best for the country.”

Aston excused himself and left the table. His thoughts would have been grounds for treason.

 

By late August, everyone who was coming in ... was in. The three-state area looked like the world's largest supply dump—and probably was. Entire towns had been stripped bare. Every ounce of precious metal and every chip of precious gem had been carefully searched for and taken. Billions of dollars of gold, silver, and precious stones were now under guard in Idaho, Wyoming, and Montana. With these Ben planned to back his new currency.

Many people, even after almost a year had passed, still did not fully understand what had happened. If there had been a war, they asked—who won?

How does one tell another that nobody won—everybody lost.

When the breakaway units of the military began arriving, they were met by a few people who had survived, wary people.

“Is the military coming in?” a woman asked. “Dear God, we need help in the worst way.”

“Sort of,” a SEAL told her. “Don't worry—we'll help you.”

“Looks like you're coming in to stay,” she observed, taking in the growing mounds of equipment and supplies.

“Yes, ma'am. We sure are.”

“Then you'd better know that a gang of outlaws and thugs say they control this area. They've been stealing and killing and raping for months. They took our weapons and disabled our vehicles.”

“Where are they hiding, ma'am?”

“They aren't hiding. They took over the town of Challis.”

“Holding any prisoners, ma'am? Any innocent folks?”

She shook her head.

The SEAL smiled.

He and his team were back the following afternoon. He told the lady, “You don't have to worry about them anymore, ma'am. They won't be back.”

“Will they be tried?” she asked, looking around for prisoners. She saw none.

“They've been tried, ma'am.”

 

The few survivors in each state were in almost total confusion due to lack of organization, something nearly all governments discourage. For local militias, except those under government control, cannot be established in the United States, not for over a hundred years. For, as had been pointed out, most governments, certainly including the government of the United States, are based on fear; fear of the central power, fear of the IRS, fear of the FCC, fear of the FBI, fear of the ICC, fear of the state police, fear of the local police, fear of everything. That is the only way a massive government can work. If the people were armed and organized, and of one mind, they just might start hanging rapists, murderers, armed robbers, burglars, and others of that slimy ilk—those they didn't shoot from the outset, that is.

And the people (who, so the myth reads, comprise the government, and are supposed to
tell
government what
they
want, and the government is then supposed to do it) would truly be in control. Government doesn't like to even think about that happening. Scary.

The young people from the colleges Ben had visited rolled in and looked around. They were wary, for they believed the adults had caused the original mess (which was true), and they weren't too certain this new state would be any better. But they decided to give it a try.

Jerre saw Ben, at first from a distance, and for a time kept her distance as she realized the woman with Ben was more than just a friend. Then she worked up enough courage to speak to him.

“Hi, Ben.”

Ben turned from his work and let a smile play across his face. He was aware of Salina watching intently. He took Jerre's outstretched hand, held it for a moment, then released it.

“You're looking good, Jerre. I was worried about you, wondering if you made it.”

She nodded, as emotions flooded her. She wondered if those same emotions were flooding Ben. They were, but not to the extent they filled her. “This is Matt.” She introduced the beefy young man beside her.

Ben shook the offered hand. “I'm glad you two could join us up here. There's a lot of work to do. Going to live here in Idaho?”

Jerre shook her head. “No, Ben. We thought we'd try it over in Wyoming. Maybe go back to school in our spare time.”

“That's a good idea. We'll have the colleges open in a few months.”

There seemed to be nothing left for them to say; at least that they could say.

“See you, Ben.” Jerre smiled.

Ben nodded, watching the young couple walk away. Matt hesitated, then put his arm around Jerre's shoulders in a protective way; a possessive way. Ben had to smile at the gesture.

“That your young friend, Ben?” Salina asked.

“That was her.”

“Just friends, huh?”

“Sure—what else?”

“Uh-huh.” She smiled.

 

Ike and Megan had brought about a thousand people with them, people the glib ex-SEAL had picked up along the way. “Just folks,” he called them.

“What are you going to call your new state, Ben?” Megan asked.

“Mine?” Ben said, surprised. “This is not mine. Call it Montana, Idaho, and Wyoming. What else?”

“Who is the governor?” Tatter asked. “The leader—the man in charge?”

“There isn't any,” Ben replied.

“Well, then, Ben Raines . . .” She smiled. “I guess we'll have to have us an election.”

“Just don't nominate me. I'm a writer, got a lot to do. I'm not a politician.”

And Ben could not understand why everyone smiled.

 

Winter comes early in that part of the nation, and there was still much to do in preparation. The few residents left in the three-state area, while certainly glad to see the newcomers, were still not quite certain what was going on around them. But it looked as though things were shaping up—in a hurry.

The trucks and trains and planes continued to roll and rumble and roar into the area, bringing in looted booty from all over the nation. And more people arrived, some of them the type that wanted something for nothing. They did not last long. The graveyards began receiving new additions to their silence. For this was frontier country, and while the East had been settled and under law (and lawyers) for three centuries, much of this part of the nation had been settled for only about seventy-five years. Justice here came down hard and swift, but as fair as Ben could make it, considering the conditions under which his people were working. Here, no one needed to steal, there was work for all, and everybody worked—or got out. Or died.

As Logan's laws became more tyrannical, more people fought back, and Logan could do less to stop Ben Raines and his people in their breakaway nation. But Logan could do something about those blacks who were bent on creating a New Africa.

 

“Logan's mercenaries have pushed the blacks out of south Louisiana,” Cossman told Ben. “He's told them if they want to work the land and reopen the factories, to go ahead. But the oil and the gas belong to the government, end quote.”

Cossman had looked at the communications equipment and grinned, rubbing his hands together in glee. Now, under his direction, if it was broadcast from anywhere in the world—or space, for that matter—he could and would monitor it. In a very short time, the three states controlled by Ben's People, as Logan had begun saying, would have the finest communications network in the world, including public radio and TV, free from the constraints of the FCC and the mumblings and threats of pressure groups, who used to maintain (and would again) that they “only wanted what was best for the people.”

“He won't stop here,” Ben said. “He'll never permit a New Africa. Is Cecil Jeffreys in charge down there?”

“Right.”

“Can you get him on the horn?”

“I can try.”

It took twenty-four hours to reach Cecil.

“Ben!” His voice crackled through the speakers. “I hear you're doing great things up there. Congratulations.”

“I hear things aren't going so well for you.”

“There have been a few minor setbacks,” Cecil admitted, caution in his reply. Both men knew Big Brother was listening, monitoring the conversation.

“Don't believe a word Logan says, Cecil.”

“He said he'd let us reopen the factories and work the land, Ben.”

“Perhaps for a time, buddy, but Logan is a liar, and you know it. He's power-mad and has been all his life. He'll do anything to gain that power. Look at the switch in philosophy he's made.”

“We have to try, Ben. How is Salina?”

“Great. Fine.”

“Ben? Word I get is that you're breaking away from the constitution. Dangerous, if true.”

“It isn't true, Cecil. We're not breaking away from it; we're returning to it.”

“We just got some people in from up North. They say there is a hit team coming after you. Can't pinpoint exactly when.”

Salina's fingers dug into his arm. “Hit team?” Ben questioned over the miles. “Government?”

“No. Jeb Fargo.”

“I know who he is: little Nazi prick.”

“That's all I know, Ben. So you be careful; you've made more enemies than we have.”

After the men said their good-bys and good luck, Salina said, “Logan is somehow tied in with Fargo. I never did trust that man.”

“One day Cecil will look up, and there'll be troops standing on his front doorstep. You let just one white person report he or she's got trouble in New Africa; just let one of Cecil's blacks screw up one time and Logan will crush his dream.”

“Cecil's
blacks, Ben?”

“He's the leader, honey—so he'll get the blame for failure.”

“And here, Ben?”

“I'll get the blame; it's my dream. But most people here are—for now—white.”

“And that makes a difference?”

“You know it does, Salina.”

“Everyone expects a nigger to screw up, right?”