Out of the Ashes

The winds turned cold and Ben cast a thoughtful eye at their surroundings. “This cabin's not made for winter occupation, honey. I think we'd best be moving on.”

“Haulin’ ass,” she said with a smile.

And it was with sadness that they left. Kind of like a travelogue, Ben thought. And so, friends, it is with a sad heart filled with fond memories that we now leave the quaint village on the tropical isle of Bonda-Bonda.

Ben remembered those travelogues from Saturday afternoon matinees. Jerre hadn't even been born when those were discontinued.

Ben sighed, feeling his age.

By now, much of the stench of death had left the land. More than a month had passed, and the rains and the winds and the passing of time had softened the odor. But a faint sickly sweet smell still clung to the earth.

Packs of dogs roamed the countryside, quickly turning wild, reverting to the survival instinct, never quite fully bred out of them: the German shepherd, the Doberman, the husky, the malamute, the pit bull, the boxer, the chow.

Lesser, smaller breeds died for the most part: the little poodles, the Chihuahuas, certain breeds of collie—almost all toy breeds were no more. Working breeds lived.

“Be careful and don't get too far away from me or the truck,” Ben cautioned Jerre. “Dog packs are running wild.”

“What else can they do?” she typically asked.

“Nothing. They have to survive. And they will survive. I just don't want them surviving on us."

She was thoughtful for a moment, her eyes looking at but not seeing the passing landscape as they drove away from the bay, heading inland. The land had a sameness, an emptiness.

“Will you shoot every dog you see with your guns?” she asked, jaw set, ready for an argument.

“No, Jerre—of course not. But I will shoot any rabid animal we see, and I'll shoot to survive.” He told her of the incident in Morriston. “In a few months, rabies will be a problem, I think. Then I should imagine it will taper off, more or less back to normal, like most animal diseases.”

“I'd like to see your home in Louisiana, Ben Raines. But I don't think I will—at least not this time around.”

He looked at her, more than a glance, for he had not tired of seeing her: the shape of her face, the smoothness of her skin, the wild tangle of her blond hair.

“When I feel I'm getting too attached to you, Ben, I'll leave. Walk away, and not look back, even though I'll want to look back—not go. I'll survive, General—'cause you'll teach me that. If I had any sense, I'd stay with you, despite the difference in our ages. But right now, I'm cute to you. I don't talk like you and I'm young and kind of have a bad mouth. Cute. But that cute would get frayed around the edges pretty quick, I'm thinking.”

Smart kid, he thought.

“So what I want you to do, General, is teach me to survive. ‘Cause ... well, I have some things to do after a while. We won't talk about them now. For now, we'll stop along the way and you pick me out a gun, teach me how to shoot it; teach me how to spot those who are going to hurt me—if you can, and I think you have that instinct built in. Then ... when the time comes, I'll cut out. I'll tell you about it, Ben—when the time is right.”

Ben wondered what she had up her sleeve; he had felt all along she was holding something from him.

“All right, Jerre. I'll teach you what I can, in the time left us. But I'll be honest. I'm going to miss you when you decide to leave.”

She nodded. “I'll miss you, too, General. Believe that.” She touched his arm. “You were dreaming last night, Ben—have for several nights. What were your dreams?”

“Strange dreams, babe. You'll probably think me an idiot.”

“No, Ben. I'd never think you that. But I do think you have a destiny.”

Worry clouded his features for a few seconds. He sighed. “Funny you should say that. That's what the dreams are all about. I've been dreaming of a land that has mountains and valleys and beautiful plains; of cattle and crops and a people living free, under simple laws, a government formed—really formed—of the people and run by the people. The dreams have bothered me.”

“You're going to do something fine and good, Ben. I really believe that.”

He smiled.

“What you thinking about?”

“Stopping this truck and the two of us going over to that picnic table and making out.”

“Then what the hell are you waitin’ on, General?”

At a sporting goods store outside of Richmond, Ben found a cache of illegal pistols, just as he had in every sporting goods store at which he'd stopped. Obviously, as could have been predicted (and was), not too many people really paid much attention to the gun-control act of Hilton Logan.

He picked out a nine-shot .22 magnum revolver and a belt and holster for her, then handed her the gear. “Get the feel of this. Point it, cock it, dry-fire it, and go boom-boom. If you can point your finger, you can fire a pistol. I'm going to put together a pack for you: ground sheet, light tent, sleeping bag. I'll fix you a stash of dehyd food later on ... when I sense you're ready to pull out.”