Out of the Ashes

She dropped the pistol three times during the reloading process. Ben said nothing; he let her find her own way. She could do nothing but improve—damned sure couldn't get any worse. Each time she dropped the weapon Ben picked it up, checking for barrel blockage. What he did not need was a young lady with some fingers blown off. Or a hand.

Jerre practiced for an hour the first day. By the end of that time, she could hit the box five out of nine times.

“It's hopeless,” she said, disappointment on her face.

“I think you did very well. You'll get better.”

They drove through the outskirts of Petersburg. And it was there Ben found the first organization geared toward rebuilding. But neither Ben nor Jerre wanted any part of this group. The leader was a Fundamentalist preacher (Ben didn't ask of what) who reminded Ben of a certain member of the old Moral Majority (title self-proclaimed). This one was too slick, too glib, too quick with a smile—an answer for everything.

“That guy makes my skin crawl,” Jerre observed. “Let's get the hell out of here.”

Although many members of the group had heard of Ben, and some actually had begged him to stay, the preacher's protestations over Ben's leaving were weak, spoken without much sincerity. Ben pegged him as a man who would be king, and wanted no interference from the outside.

“He was afraid of you, Ben,” Jerre said.

“He won't last long,” Ben predicted. They were heading southeast on U.S. Route 460, toward Norfolk—or what was left of it. Saboteurs had just about destroyed the city. “There will be a few dimwits who'll follow him to the end, but most of those people back there are too intelligent to listen to his line of bullshit for very long.”

“He sounds stupid,” Jerre said with the blunt honesty of the young. “And I don't think he's very sincere. To tell you the truth, I think he's an asshole.”

Ben laughed at her.

They drove as close to the Norfolk/Portsmouth/Virginia Beach area as Ben felt was safe. Smoke still clung over the area, smarting their eyes. They pulled back a few more miles and spent the night in a motel.

“Why is it,” Jerre asked, “that most of the bad people seem to be located ... concentrated, I guess, in the cities, the larger places?”

Interesting question, Ben thought. But he hedged it, saying only, “Remember that when you strike out on your own.”

“Don't worry.” She smiled at him over their dinner of C-ration. “I have vivid memories of Wheeling.”

“And the four-minute mile.”

“And fifty peckers,” she capped it.

They made love slowly that night, very gently, both of them sensing their time together was growing short. Ben was steeling himself for the time Jerre would leave him. He had grown more than fond of Jerre, and though he tried to keep that from her, he sensed she knew.

They backtracked to Suffolk and then headed south, taking highway 32 to Edenton. Ben stopped at every town along the way, looking for survivors ... but he was stalling and knew it. And worse, he felt Jerre knew it.

During those last days, she sat very close to him most of the time, her left hand resting on his thigh. She spoke very little as they traveled through North Carolina, through the dead and silently littered towns. They watched the packs of dogs slink and snarl at their arrival and departure. They drove over to the coast and down to Nags Head.

Ben had picked up a Polaroid and had made a hundred pictures of her, and she of him. They walked the beach and picked up bits of driftwood and shell. Ben sensed she had something to tell him, but he did not push her. She would tell him in her own time.

They spent a week on the beach, Ben teaching her what he could of survival. She became a fair shot with the pistol, could pitch a tent and properly ditch it, build a fire and cook over it. But Ben did not have the time to teach her, to instill in her, the sixth sense of knowing when danger approached, and who to trust. And how could he teach her, in so short a time, to shoot first and ask questions later? That took learning the hard way. Ben hoped she would make it.

One morning Ben awoke to find her gone from his side. He called for her, and she quickly stepped back into the cottage. She looked at him, her eyes serious.

“Let's pack it up, Ben. Head west. O.K.?”

“O.K., babe. How far west and any particular reason for that direction?”

She nodded. “Time to level with you, General.” She tried a smile that didn't make it. “I heard on the road that kids were going to gather at the university at Chapel Hill the first and second weeks of November. The word was passed up and down the line. The reason ...? Ben, I don't want to hurt your feelings, and please don't take this the wrong way, but—”

“But the adults screwed up the world and maybe you young people can do better this time around,” Ben finished it for her.

“You're a wise man, Ben Raines.”

“I'm a survivor, Jerre.”

“Am I, Ben?”

“I think you'll make it, babe.”