Out of the Ashes

The grenade mushroomed the van, and Ben knew that was four shitheads out of it permanently. As he leaped for the protection of the feed bags, he rolled another grenade under the front of the third van: a high-explosive grenade. The grenade lifted the van off its front tires, setting the punk-wagon on fire.

On his belly, looking out the side of the stacks, Ben leveled the Thompson and pulled the trigger, holding it back, fighting the rise of the powerful SMG. He sprayed the remaining two vans.

If nothing else, Nola thought, he's stopped that damnable music.

Ben emptied the sixty-round drum into the vans, then pulled out both .45s, hauling them back to full cock. He waited, crouched on one knee.

“Oh, Jesus God!” The cry came from the rear van. “There's blood and shit ever'where. Ever'one's dead. God, don't shoot no more—please!”

Ben waited.

“We's a-comin’ out. Don't shoot no more.”

“We's,” Ben muttered. More than one.

We's! Nola thought, a grimace on her face. Illiterate redneck trash. Forgive me, Lord, but a rose by any other name is still a rose. Thank you, William and Gertrude.

“Hands high in the air!” Ben shouted. “If I see anything except skin in your hands, you're dead, bastards!”

He could have phrased that a bit more eloquently, Nola thought. But it was firmly spoken with a great deal of conviction.

Two young men, apparently unhurt, slowly got out of the van. Their faces were pale with shock and disbelief. Only two minutes before they had been riding high—king of the territory. Now their kingdom was in smoking ruins. And worse, they had peed their jeans.

“You.” Ben spoke to a punk with a pimply face and what Ben assumed was a mustache under his nose. “Facedown in the street and don't even think about moving.” The punk obeyed instantly. The dark stain on the front of the other's jeans appeared darker.

The elderly of the town appeared, walking slowly up the street. Homer with the riot gun in his hands; another man with a rope. He was fashioning a noose.

The punk on his feet fainted. The would-be tough on his belly started blubbering and hollering.

“Y'all cain't do this to me! I got rights, man.”

Ben smiled, a grim warrior's baring of the teeth. “So do other people, punk. Violate theirs, and you lose yours.” He turned to face the man with the rope. A noose was made. “Do with them as you see fit.”

They did. And that problem was solved permanently.

The people of the town cried when Ben and April pulled out. They were tears not only of sadness, but of relief and gratitude, for Ben had removed a horror from their lives. Before leaving, Ben had driven into a nearby town, prowled the stores and homes, and taken a small arsenal back with him: rifles, pistol, shotguns, and plenty of ammunition.

“You're off the beaten path here,” Ben told them. “You shouldn't be bothered too much. But the next time a gang like that comes through—and there will be a next time, bet on it—don't let them get the upper hand on you. One or two of you go out into the street. The rest of you get behind cover and poke your weapons out the windows; let the bastards know you're armed and ready to shoot. And don't hesitate to fire. Your lives are on the line.

“I've brought you CBs and two base stations; I've set them up for you. You've got a long-range radio to monitor news. I don't know of anything else I can do. I've gotten you several new cars and a van; all the medicine you asked for. I guess that's about it.”

All of the elderly wanted to scream out to him: you could stay with us.

But none of them would do that. They knew he had done enough—more than most would have done.

Ben shook the men's hands and kissed the ladies on the cheeks. Then he drove away. He did not look back.

When the tiny town was no longer in sight, April asked, “What will happen to them, Ben?”

“Some of them will die this summer from heart attacks, trying to put in gardens. Some will probably die this winter from the cold, or from fire. Medicines will run out. And if they're really unlucky, punks and crap-heads and other assorted scum will find them.”

“You're such a cheerful bastard, Ben Raines. You could have told me everything would be all right.”

“I would have been lying.”

“Nobody ever seems to care about the old people. Not their kids, not the state, especially the federal government—when we had one, that is.”