Out of the Ashes (28 page)

“Here at home . . .” Ben sighed and thought for a moment. “The central government became too powerful, moving into every facet of public and private lives. Big Brother came out of fiction to become reality. Our laws became so vague and so left-leaning, the average citizen did not even have the right to protect what was his or hers.

“Anytime a government takes away the basic liberties of its citizens, it will inevitably lead to war. And it did.”

“Will we have to fight for what we have here, Governor?” a teen-age girl asked.

“Yes,” Ben said. “And probably very soon.”

“Why don't other people just leave us alone?” another asked. “What business is it of theirs, anyway?”

“Dear,”—Ben smiled sadly—“people have been asking that of government since the first government was formed. And government has yet to come up with a satisfactory reply.”

 

Ben and Salina took two kids into their home, twins, a boy and a girl. They were handsome, well-mannered, and intelligent. Of course, all parents think that of their children.

Tina and Jack originally had come from Arizona. In hiding, they had watched their father shot to death by a gang of thugs and their mother raped repeatedly, then killed as she tried to run away, in the opposite direction from where her kids were hiding. But she bought them enough time to get away. Neither Jack nor Tina had any love or compassion for the lawless.

Their story was similar to that of almost every adopted child in the Tri-states. The young who lived through the holocaust, like their elders, needed very little prompting to demand harsh penalties for criminals. They had seen firsthand what permissiveness in a society can produce, and they wanted no part of it.

Jimmy Deluce, Jane Dolbeau, Jerre Hunter, and Badger Harbin remained single. Jimmy flew for the Tri-states' small air force; Jane and Jerre worked as nurses at one of the many free clinics in the Tri-states; and Badger became Ben's bodyguard.

That was not something Ben wanted, or really felt he needed, but after the assassination attempt, Badger announced his new job and moved in. He lived with the Raineses and became a constant shadow wherever Ben went.

Badger idolized the governor, as did most of the Rebels and residents of the Tri-states, and would have jumped through burning hoops had Ben suggested it. He was also devoted to Salina, but not in any overt sexual manner. That thought had occurred to him, but once he had become so preoccupied about it he had walked into a wall and broken his nose.

Salina noticed his attention, however, was amused by it, and finally mentioned it to Ben one night.

“Yes, honey,” Ben said, laying aside the book he was reading, “I've noticed it a couple of times. But I don't know what to do about it. Has he made any advances?”

“Oh, Ben!” She laughed. “For heaven's sake—no. I just think he needs a girl, that's all.”

Ben smiled.

“A wife, Ben.” She returned his smile. “I'm talking about a nice girl for Badger to marry.”

“Badger's shy, that's all. I know he ... ah ... visits a lady—or ladies—at the . . . ah ... house just outside of town.”

“Along with several hundred other men,” Salina remarked dryly.

“But it's Jerre and Jane I can't figure out.” Ben carried on as if his wife had said nothing. The communities in the Tri-states were small, deliberately so, and everybody knew everybody else. “Both of them young, good-looking, smart. Yet, they both seem so detached from everybody. Neither of them date. I mentioned both of them to Badger the other day, and he looked at me as if I were an idiot. Is something going on I need to know about?”

Salina smiled at her husband. Years back Ben had told her about Jerre and the relationship they had had for a few weeks. But Ben believed all that was past. Salina knew better. What good would it do to tell him Jerre was hopelessly in love with him? And Jane had also developed an enormous crush on Ben. She wondered if they had discussed their feelings with each other? What good would it do to tell him the entire Tri-states knew about it? That both of them knew Salina knew? She shook her head.

“No, darting—nothing going on that I know of.”

“Ummm.” Ben picked up his book and resumed his reading. The subject was closed.

Salina laughed at the man she loved and rose to check on the twins. Tina had a friend over that night and they were in the bedroom, discussing, of all things, karate. Ben insisted that all Rebels and dependents become at least familiar with some form of self-defense—the killing kind, preferably—and Tina had taken to karate and the other forms of gutter-fighting that were taught to Tri-states' regular army. She had now advanced to the dangerous state, and the seventeen-year-old was considered by her instructors to be a rather mean and nasty fighter.

Jack, on the other hand, had two left feet when it came to weaponless, hand-to-hand fighting. He just could not master the quickness of unarmed combat. But he loved weapons, spending as much time as possible on the firing ranges. At seventeen, he was an expert with a dozen weapons, and a sniper in his unit of the reserves.

There had been much discussion, some of it heated, between Ben and Steven Miller as to the advisability of teaching war in public schools. In the end, however, the professor had acquiesced to Ben's demands, agreeing, not too reluctantly, that it was, for the time being, essential in the Tri-states' schools. The professor conceded that if the Rebel way of life was to flourish, the young had to be taught to defend it.

Jack was cleaning Ben's old Thompson SMG when Salina entered his room. The young man looked up and smiled. “Hi, Salina.” He held up the Thompson. “Great, huh?”

Salina smiled, nodded at the weapon's “greatness.”

“Yes, I know, Jack,” she said, her voice soft.

“Yeah. I forget sometimes, Salina. You saw combat, didn't you?”

Her face changed expression, hardening. All the memories came rushing back to her, filling her brain with remembrances she had tried very hard to suppress: the horror of the killing and raping in Chicago; the running in pure terror for days afterward.

She blocked it out, sealing it away, shutting the memory door.

She looked at the young man she loved as her son. She looked at the gun in his hand. “Yes, Jack. I know what combat is.” She closed the door and walked back into the den to be with her husband.

“Talk to me, Ben! Put down that damned book and
talk to me!”

Her outburst startled him and he choked on the smoke from his pipe. Ben was trying to give up cigarettes—they were very scarce and stale—and had turned to a pipe. That wasn't much better. He looked at his wife, hands on her hips, glaring at him. “What's going on, Salina?”

“Ben, is there going to be another war? Is everything we've worked so hard to build going to be destroyed?”

“What? Huh?” Ben looked confused, having gone from Tara in Georgia to his wife yelling at him in about one second. Quick trip. “You've lost me, honey.”

She sat down on the hassock in front of his chair, taking his hands in hers. “Will there be more war? Are we going to have to defend what we have here? Is Logan going to send troops in here? And is it worth it, Ben?”

He leaned forward, putting his arms around her, loving the feel of her. Not an emotional man, Ben seldom told her he loved her. But he did love her, very much.

“Yes,” he said softly. “Logan hates me—us—and he'll try to smash us. As for the worth; are you happy here?”

“You know I am,” she murmured, face pressed into his shoulder. “Happier than I've ever been. But I do wonder about our life here, if what we're doing is the right thing for the young people. Tina is an expert in killing with her hands; Jack is playing with your old Thompson. It just upsets me. These kids have seen enough in their young lives. More war for them, Ben?”

“Honey, if it upsets you, I'll take that old Thompson away from Jack. I'll—”

She abruptly pushed away from him. “Damn it, Ben! You're missing the point.” She stood up, pacing the den. “Is there no middle ground for us? Can't we compromise with Logan?”

“I've written to him, offering to meet and discuss a compromise. He didn't respond. You know that.”

“Then war is inevitable?”

“That's the way I see it.”

She lost her temper, pacing the den in a rage, pausing to pick up an ashtray to hurl it against a wall. She thought better of it.

“Shit!” she said; then put the ashtray back on the coffee table.

Ben, as millions of husbands before him, did not know what to do, or really, what he had done. “Honey,” he said, preparing to put his foot in his mouth, “let me call the clinic and the doctor will send Jane or Jerre over with a sedative. Or maybe you two can just chat. That ought to—”

Salina suddenly became very calm. Icy. She spoke through clenched teeth. “Oh, my, yes. By all means, call Jane or Jerre. Maybe one of them understands you better than I.” She whirled and marched to their bedroom, her back ramrod straight. She slammed the door so hard the center panel split down the middle.

Juno ran under a coffee table, overturning it, dumping ashtrays and bric-a-brac on the carpet.

The young people, who had gathered in the hall to listen to the adults argue, slipped back to their rooms and shut the doors . . . quietly and quickly.

Ben looked to his right and saw Badger standing in the foyer; the shouting had brought him out of his small apartment on the side of the house.

“What did I do?” the governor general of Tri-states asked his bodyguard. “What did I do?”

The young bodyguard shook his head. “Governor, with all due respect, sir; somebody ought to tell you the facts of life.”

“What the hell does that mean?
” Ben roared. “And who asked you in the first place?”

“Pitiful.” Badger frowned. “Just plain pitiful.” He turned and went back to his apartment.

Juno looked at him, showed Ben his teeth, then padded out of the room.

For several hours that night, Ben slept on the couch in the den. During the early morning hours, Salina slipped into the den to waken him. Together, they got into their own bed, Salina snuggling close to him.

“I'm sorry, Ben,” she whispered.

“I would have been the first to apologize,” he said, caressing her. “But I didn't know what I'd done. Still don't.”

“I know, Ben.” She moved under the stroking of his hands.

“I understand,” he said. But of course, he didn't.

She smiled in the darkness as he touched a breast and she moved a slim hand down his belly.

 

At breakfast, Salina fixed Ben his favorite foods while he went into the yard to cut her a rose from the many flowering plants around the house. She did not mention to him that he whacked off half the bush to get one rose; merely laughed and thanked him, poured him more coffee, and wondered if she could graft the mangled part back on.

Jack, tactful for one so young, made no mention of his plans to visit the shooting range later that day, and Tina stayed home, helping her adopted mother around the house.

Juno viewed it all with an animal's patience.

Life in the Tri-states was really not that much different from that in other states or countries.

The communications people in the Tri-states had the finest electronic equipment in America—perhaps the world—for they had commandeered only the very best during their searches. From listening posts high in the mountains of the Tri-states, they monitored dozens of broadcasts daily, not only in America, but around the globe. They listened to military chatter, broke the codes, and knew what was going down, when, and where. They knew the government in Richmond was watching and listening to their every move, as they were listening and watching them.

Kenny Parr's mercenaries, fighting alongside the regular military had swept through Louisiana and Mississippi, crushing Kasim's small army of guerrillas. Kasim was dead, but he had killed the mercenary Parr before he'd died.

The nation was slowly, painfully, being pulled back together. The central government, under the direction of Hilton Logan and, Ben suspected, the military, was taking absolute control . . . again.

But they kept out of the Tri-states.

 

A small town stood almost directly in the center of Tri-states. Its name was changed to Vista, and that became the capital. Their flag was a solid, light blue banner with three stars in a circle. A constitution had been drawn up during the first year, much like the Constitution and Bill of Rights of the United States, but going into detail and spelling out exactly what the citizens of Tri-states could receive and expect if they lived under that document.

Early on, Tri-states was broken up into districts and elections were held to choose spokespersons from each district. At the end of the second year, Ben was elected governor for life, running with no opposition and no campaign. The laws of the Tri-states were set by balloting, and were firm against amending.

The first session of the legislature (to be held one time each year, no more than two weeks in length) was probably among the shortest on record, anywhere. Major Voltan, a spokesman from the second district, summed it up.

“Why are we meeting?” he asked. “Our laws are set, they can only be changed by a clear mandate from the people. No one in my district wants anything changed.”

Nor in any of the other districts, it seemed.

“The constitution states we must meet once a year in session.” Ben spoke.

“To do what?” a farmer spokesman inquired.

“To debate issues.” Cecil said.

“What issues?”

There were none.

“Like the Congress of the United States?” a woman asked. “We're supposed to behave like they do?”

“More or less,” Cecil said.

“God help us all.”

Laughter echoed throughout the large room.

“I move we adjourn so we can all get back to work and do something constructive,” Voltan said.

“Second the motion.”

“Session adjourned,” Ben said.

 

Tri-states' laws, the liberal press said, and even after a nuclear war the press was still controlled by liberals, constituted a gunpowder society.

They were correct to a degree.

But those reporters with more respect for their readers and viewers—and they were outnumbered by their counterparts-looked at Tri-states a bit more closely and called it an experiment in living together, based as much on common sense as on written law. Most of those reporters concluded that yes, Tri-states could probably exist for a long, long time, and it was no threat to America. And, yes, its citizens seemed to be making the Tri-states' form of government work, for they were of a single mind, and not diversified philosophically.

But could this form of government work with millions of people? No, they concluded, it could not.

And they were correct in that assumption ... to a degree.

But most people can govern themselves, once basic laws are agreed upon;
if
those people are very, very careful and work very, very hard at it.

That a people must be bogged down in bureaucracy; beset by thousands of sometimes oily, rude, arrogant, and frequently hostile local, state, and federal “civil servants”; licensed, taxed, and harassed; ruled by a close-knit clan of men and women whose mentality is not always what it should be and whose weapons are power; be dictated to by judges who are not always in tune with reality; and yammered at year after dreary year that a couple of senators and a handful of representatives have the power to decide the fate of millions . . . is a myth.

And Tri-states proved it.

 

There was not much pomp in Tri-states. Ben's governor's mansion was a split-level home on the outskirts of Vista. In good weather he rode to work in a Jeep.

Ben was on the road a lot, visiting the districts, listening to grievances, if any; and they were few. But of late, the one question asked, the one question paramount in the minds of Tri-states' residents was: what happens when we open our borders?

The residents had met in open town meetings (something that was required by law before any decision affecting the lives of the citizens was initiated) and finally had decided to open their borders to the public, if any persons wanted to visit. They had been wholly self-contained for almost six years. Maybe it was time.

But most viewed the border openings with highly mixed feelings.

The Tri-states' communications people contacted the major TV and radio networks, and the major papers, asking if they would like to cover the opening of Tri-states' borders.

All did.

“Now the shit really hits the fan,” Ike projected.

 

The driver of the lead bus brought it to a hissing halt and motioned for the chief correspondent of CBN to come to the front. “Take a look at that, Mr. Charles.” He pointed to a huge red-and-white sign that extended from one side of the road to the other, suspended twenty-five feet in the air. Other buses and vans stopped and discharged their passengers. Cameras focused on the sign and rolled, clicked, and whirred.

“It hasn't been up long,” a reporter from Portland said. “I've been out here a half-dozen times during the past six months and this road has always been blocked. And no sign.” He looked at the message.

 

WARNING—Y
OU ARE ENTERING THE
T
RI-STATES.
Y
OU
MUST
STOP AT THE RECEPTION CENTER TO FAMILIARIZE YOURSELF WITH THE LAWS OF THIS STATE.
D
O NOT ENTER THIS AREA WITHOUT PERMISSION AND KNOWLEDGE OF THE LAWS.
Y
OU MUST BE CLEARED AND HAVE ID.
—WARNING

 

The internation symbol for “danger—keep out” was on either side of the huge sign.

“I think I want to go home.” A young lady grinned. In truth, a mule team could not have dragged her from the area.

The knot of press people, sound people, and camera-persons laughed. Clayton Charles put his arm around the young woman's shoulders. “Come, now, Judith—where is your sense of journalistic inquisitiveness?”

“Well, the nuke and germ war came so fast no one had a chance to cover it. So, maybe this will do.”

Larry Spain, reporter for another network, pointed to a steel tower, much like those used by the forest service, except that this one was lower. The tower sat inside the Tri-states line, across the bridge.

“Low for a fire observation tower,” he said.

“Look again,” a friend told him. “That one's got .50-caliber machine guns to put out the blaze. Jesus! These people aren't kidding.”

They said nothing as they all looked at the tower. The muzzle of the heavy-caliber machine gun was plainly visible. Silently, the men and women climbed back aboard their vans and buses. A moment later they were the first outside reporters to visit the Tri-states (legally) since the states' inception. One reporter would later write: “The soldier in the tower never made a hostile move; never pointed the muzzle at us. But it was like looking at the Berlin wall for the first time.”

The vehicles pulled off the road and onto a huge blacktop parking area. Set deep in the area was a long, low concrete building, painted white. On the front and both sides of the building, in block letters several feet tall, painted in flame red, were the words:
ENTERING OR LEAVING—CHECKPOINT—ALL VEHICLES STOP
.

“I think they mean it,” someone said.

“Very definitely,” another said.

“Unequivocally,” Judith replied.

“Explicitly,” another reporter concurred with a smile.

“Knock it off.” Clayton Charles ended the bantering.

The bus driver turned to the press people before they could enter the building and spoke to the entire group. “I want to tell you people something,” he said. “I have friends in the Tri-states; I've been checked and cleared and am moving in here next month.... So listen to me. It might save you a broken jaw or a busted mouth, or worse.

“Whatever impression you might have of the people who live in the Tri-states—put it out of your mind, for it's probably wrong. Even though they are doctors, dentists, farmers, shopkeepers, whatever, I'm betting you're thinking they are a pack of savages or crazy terrorists. If you do, you're wrong. They are just people who won't tolerate trouble—of any kind. You'd better remember that.

“Don't go sticking your nose in their business uninvited. The laws are different here; you're liable to get punched out. I hope all of you are going into this assignment with an open mind—I really do. 'Cause if you get cute with these folks, they'll hurt you. Even the kids are rough.”

A lone male reporter stood in the back of the crowd and solemnly applauded the driver's speech. “How eloquently put,” he said.

The driver looked at him; then slowly shook his head in disgust, as did many of the press people. Barney had the reputation of being rude, arrogant, obnoxious, and a double-dyed smart-ass.

“Barney,” Judith said. “I know we work for the same network, and are supposed to be colleagues, and all that, but when we get inside, stay the hell away from me, O.K.?”

Barney smiled and bowed.

The reception center was large and cool and comfortable, furnished with a variety of chairs and couches. Racks of literature about Tri-states, its people, its economy, and its laws filled half of one wall. A table with doughnuts and two coffee urns sat in the center of the room; soft drinks were set to the right of the table. Between two closed doors was a four-foot-high desk, fifteen feet long, closed from floor to top. Behind the desk, two young women stood, one of them Tina Raines. The girls were dressed identically; jeans and light blue shirts.

“Good morning,” Tina said to the crowd. “Welcome to the Tri-states. My name is Tina, this is Judy. Help yourself to coffee and doughnuts—they're free—or a soft drink.”

Barney leaned on the counter, his gaze on Tina's breasts. She looked older than her seventeen years. Barney smiled at her.

“Anything else free around here?” he asked, all his famous obnoxiousness coming through.

The words had just left his mouth when the door to an office whipped open and a uniformed army Rebel stepped out, master sergeant stripes on the sleeves of his tiger-stripes. He was short, muscular, hard-looking, and deeply tanned. He wore a .45 automatic, holstered, on his right side.

“Tina?” he said. “Who said that?”

Tina pointed to Barney. “That one.”

“Oh, hell!” Judith whispered.

“Quite,” Clayton concurred.

The Rebel walked up to Barney and stopped a foot from him. Barney looked shaken, his color similar to old whipped cream. The filming lights had been on, and no one had noticed when a camera operator began rolling, recording the event.

“I'm Sergeant Roisseau,” the Rebel informed the reporter. “It would behoove you, in the future, to keep off-color remarks to yourself. You have been warned; this is a one-mistake state, and you've made yours.”

“I ... ah ... was only making a little joke,” Barney said. “I meant nothing by it.” The blood rushed to his face, betraying the truth.

“Your face says you're a liar,” Roisseau said calmly.

“And you're armed!” Barney said, blinking. He was indignant; the crowd he ran with did not behave in this manner over a little joke. No matter how poor the taste.

Roisseau smiled and unbuckled his web belt, laying the pistol on the desk. “Now, fish or cut bait,” he challenged him.

That really shook Barney. All the bets were down and the pot right. He shook his head. “No . . . I won't fight you.”

“Not only do you have a greasy mouth,” Roisseau said, “but you're a coward to boot.”

Barney's eyes narrowed, but he wisely kept his mouth shut.

“All right,” Roisseau said. “Then when you apologize to the young lady, we'll forget it.”

“I'll be damned!” Barney said, looking around him for help. None came forward.

“Probably,” Roisseau said. “But that is not the immediate issue.” He looked at Tina and winked, humor in his dark eyes. “So, newsman, if you're too timid to fight me, perhaps you'd rather fight the young lady?”

“The kid?” Barney questioned, then laughed aloud. “What is this, some kind of joke?”

Judith walked to Barney's side. She remembered the bus driver's words and sensed there was very little humor involved in any of this, and if there was, the joke was going to be on Barney. And it wasn't going to be funny. “Barney, ease off. Apologize to her. You were out of line.”

“No. I was only making a joke.”

“Nobody laughed,” she reminded him, and backed away, thinking: are the people in this state humorless? Or have they just returned to values my generation tossed aside?