Back to the caves? Probably. Already, Ben knew, the nation was well into a generation of young men and women whose education was spotty, at best.
Ben Raines could not attempt to educate the entire nation. But he could start with his own people. If time would allow it.
And he had doubts about that.
He sighed, the soft expelling of breath lost in the whispering of the night wind. Again, his thoughts drifted back in time, bringing a smile to his lips.
All he wanted to do was travel the nation after the bombings, as a writer, from coast to coast, border to border, chronicling the events, talking to the people, putting their opinions and his views down on paper, in the hopes that someone, sometime in the future, would take the time to read it.
Instead, he had found himself as the leader of a people. And he had not wanted the responsibility.
But maybe it was his responsibility. Perhaps that was his purpose in life. But as he thought that, the ageless question rose silent in his mind, as it had done so many times: Why me?
As usual, he could find no answer.
Ben hefted the old Thompson, shifting the weapon from right hand to left. The submachine gun, modeled after the old 1921 Thompson with several improvements added over the years had been called the Chicago Piano in its heyday. It was as closely identified with Ben as the FBI had been with J. Edgar Hoover. Ben did not know, could not have known, that the Thompson was held in almost as much awe as the man who carried it, that youngsters believed the weapon held some special power. There was not a child in the entire Rebel-controlled areas who would have touched the weapon.
And quite a few adults felt the same way.
Ben Raines did not look his true age, nor did he feel it-except in memory. Discounting the light touch of gray in his hair, Ben looked years younger than he was. And he was in excellent physical shape, just as randy and horny as any young buck.
He fought back a smile in the gloom of night. Perhaps his true mission in life was to procreate the earth.
He turned at the sound of footsteps behind him. Doctor Carlton.
“I’ve checked out the survivors here as best I could, General,” the young M.d. informed him. “They’re scared and suffer from lack of confidence-life’s beaten them down pretty badly-but surprisingly, their physical condition is good.”
“Do they know how they beat the plague?”
“No. But Ms. Roth took the same type of medicines we took.” He laughed softly. “That, General, is one feisty lady.”
“I’ve noticed. Thank you, Wes. Oh, by the way, do you know if the teams found suitable transportation for the survivors?”
“Yes, sir. And they are eager to join us.” He hesitated for a moment. “General, the people are scared, sir. Even after the bombings of ‘88, we still had some form of government, some hope, if you will. Now they have no government, nothing to look forward to, no one to tell them what to do, and they don’t know what to do.”
“The de-balling of America,” Ben muttered under his breath, the words tossed unheard by the breeze.
“Beg pardon, sir?”
“The government got what it wanted,” Ben told him. “The goddamn liberals and the goddamned lawyers and the goddamned courts succeeded in de-balling the American people.”
“That’s a sexist remark if I ever heard one.” The voice came out of the darkness.
Neither man had to turn around; they both knew who it was. Ben said, “You wander around out here in the dark, Ms. Roth, around my people, and you’re very likely to get your butt shot off.”
“The de-balling of the American people, Mr. President?”
“Ms. Roth,” Ben said patiently, “I am not your president.”
“For a fact. I damn sure didn’t vote for you,” she told him.
“I don’t recall anybody voting for me, Ms. Roth.”
“Do you always carry that gangster’s gun around with you, Mr. President?”
Ben kept his patience. He sighed heavily. “I’ve found it to be the wisest thing to do, Ms. Roth.”
Dr. Wes Carlton found his cue. “I think I’ll say
goodnight,” he said. He quickly disappeared into the darkness.
“Coward,” Ben muttered to his fast-vanishing back.
“What if I don’t want to accompany you and your Rebels, Mr. President?” Gale asked. She stepped closer to Ben. A very slight figure in the dark.
“Then you may stay here.”
“You’ll leave troops behind to protect me?”
“Hell no!”
She stamped a foot. “Mr. President, I think you are-was
Ben cut her off. It would turn out to be one of the very few times he would be able to do that. “Goodnight, Ms. Roth. Go to bed, Ms. Roth. We pull out at 0700, Ms. Roth.”
“What the hell is oh-seven hundred, Mr. President?”
“Seven o’clock in the morning, Ms. Roth.”
“Where are we going?”
“Why don’t you just let it be a surprise?”
“I don’t like surprises.”
Ben turned to walk away. “Give the old college try, Ms. Roth. Boola-boola, and all that.”
Ben did not see her tongue sticking out at him or the perfectly horrible-looking face that she made next. Neither did he see her toss the bird at him.
Then she smiled gently.
CHAPTER THREE
The convoy took Highway 60 out of Poplar Bluff, staying with it until they came to state Highway 21 angling off to the west. Ben wanted to stay with the lesser traveled roads, feeling more survivors would be found in the less-traveled areas. He was right.
As they slowly traveled through the small towns of rural Missouri, slowly edging northward, the Rebels found survivors: ten in Ellington, a half dozen in Reynolds, twelve in Bunker, four in Stone Hill.
“Do you know of more who stayed alive around here?” Ben asked a middle-aged man outside Stone Hill. The man had been hoeing in his large garden. He wore a .45-caliber pistol around his waist, and had picked up a bolt action .30-06 upon first sighting the small convoy. He looked as though he was perfectly able and willing to use either weapon.
“A few more,” he replied, relaxing when he learned who he was speaking with. “We’re trying to gather up as many as possible and rebuild. That is, providin’ the IPF leaves us alone.”
“The what?” Ben asked.
“Call themselves the IPF International Peace Force. They talk funny, with kind of an accent. Can’t rightly place it. You ask me, they’re just too damned nice. Ain’t nobody that nice to a perfect stranger “less they want something in return, or they’re tryin” to hide something.”
Ben kept his smile a secret. He thought: Leave it to a farmer. Rural folks could spot a ringer a mile off.
“They say where they were from?”
“Nope.” The man shook his head. “And I asked them flat out.” He spat on the ground. “Personally, I think they’re communists.”
“Why do you say that?”
was “Cause you can ask the same damn question to every damn one of them. The answer don’t never vary. It’s down pat-like they’ve been drilled over and over. A few folks around here have taken a shine to them.” Again he spat on the ground. “Personally, I don’t like them worth a shit!”
“Are they armed?”
“I’ll say they are. Well-armed.” He described the weapons.
“AK’S,” Colonel Gray spoke. “Or AKM-74’S. Maybe the AKS’S. Soviet bloc weapons.”
“Did they give you any names?” Ben asked.
“Yep. But first names only. No last names. And I got the feelin” they was lyin’ about the first names. I don’t like them people.”
A sergeant standing nearby mused aloud. “How in the hell did they manage to keep it a secret for so many years?”