Out of the Ashes

Sitting on the dock, a blanket wrapped around him, Ben fished and cussed, caught a mess of perch, then cleaned them for supper.

It was peaceful on the lake as the sun was setting, bathing the water, creating hues that bounced off the shoreline. Salina sat a few feet from him, in a chaise longue. She wore a bikini that could have been stuffed into a cigarette package that still had room for a few smokes.

Leaning back in his own lounge, Ben studied her profile (and her curves, which were many and provocative) in the glow of fading sun. She was not a tall woman: five-four, she had told him. Her facial features were soft, delicate, her skin a gentle fawn color.

“Why are you staring at me?” she asked, turning her head, meeting his eyes.

“Because I like to look at you. You're a beautiful woman; surely you must be used to men staring at you?”

“What were you thinking as you looked? Be honest.”

Ben grinned.

“Sure,” she said dryly. “That. Of course.”

“Among other things,” he added, which was true.

“And whitey says all niggers think about is sex. You people better get your act together. You're hypocrites.”

“Well,"—Ben's grin broadened—"I've always heard that if a man just has to marry, marry a white woman. If he wants a good piece of ass, get him a black gal.” He waited for the fire storm.

She rose slowly from the lounge and came to him, pulling him to his feet. “Old man,"—she smiled—"you are going to pay for that remark.”

“I just repeated what ‘they’ say, that's all.” Ben pulled her to him and they stood for a moment, mouths silent now, but their lips speaking silent messages.

“Uh-huh,” she whispered.

They walked hand in hand into the cabin.

Juno sat looking up at the darkening sky. And if he had a thought that could be put into words, it would be: humans sure do act funny.

Waco appeared to have been hard hit. From what they could see, Ben calculated less than one percent of the population had survived. Baylor was almost deserted, only a handful of people on the campus.

“Why is it, Ben,” Salina asked, as they walked the quiet corridors of a science building, “that in some towns a great many people survived, in others almost no one?”

He shook his head, unable to answer her question. He still did not know why he had survived when others had not.

Back in the bright sunlight, she asked, “Why do you always go to universities and colleges, Ben?”

“I'm looking for a ... friend.”

Salina picked up on the hesitation. “She?”

He told her about Jerre.

“Did you—do you—love her?”

“A little bit, yes. But I worry about her a lot more.”

“Ummm,” she replied.

They headed west. Occasionally, Ben would feel Salina's eyes studying him as he drove and he knew she had questions she would like to ask, about Jerre. Ben wondered how he would answer them when the time came. He thought he knew.

Less than a year after the worldwide war, the United States Government was off and running, with Hilton Logan at the reins. The East Coast was being resettled, from the edge of the hot areas in the northeast, down to central Florida. Law and order was being reintroduced to the citizens. The regular military watched as Logan's army, under the command of Col. Kenny Parr, knocked heads, confiscated weapons, shuffled people about, and listened grimly to the rumors of large bands of so-called Rebels moving west, stripping entire cities as they went. But the lawful military was very small, now, and they did little except maintain a presence and wonder what Logan would do next.

Logan chose as his vice president a man the regular military approved of; a man of good sense, who weighed the issues at hand and then acted, not out of emotion, but out of what he felt would be the best for the country. Aston Addison. Maybe, the military thought, there might be hope for the nation yet.

Mid-June found Ben and Salina in the state of Idaho, just on the southernmost fringe of the Great Primitive Area, on the south side of the Fork. Ben had spoken with Ike, and those who supported a free state were moving, from all over the nation, toward Idaho.

Ben cranked up his radio and called in. “How many do we have, Ike?”

“'Bout five thousand, I figure, not countin’ the Rebs. How many folks alive where you are, Ben?”

“Damned few. It's wild and beautiful, Ike.”

“Not too far from where you are, Ben, there's a platoon of Army Rangers from Fort Lewis ... or what's left of Lewis, that is. They've split with Logan. Down a way from them, there's what's left of the West Coast SEAL team. They don't like Logan either—but they like what you and I have planned and are ready to move to join us. Rebuild. I talked with some folks from up Canada way; they were hard hit. They'd like to pitch their hats in the ring, too.”

“O.K., Ike—let's get cracking.”

“I'll see you in about a month, partner. Excuse me—General.”

“What do you really know about Ben Raines?” President Logan asked his wife over dinner.