Out of the Ashes

Sam Pyron buried his grandfather in the rocky soil of West Virginia. He had no other family left alive. Sam took his grandfather's old .30-.30 lever-action Winchester and struck out for the highway, down where old man Garland lived—or used to live. Garland had an old pickup truck that had been sitting idle since the war. Sam figured that with a fresh battery and some gas, he'd get that old truck running again.

Then he'd head west.

He was eighteen years old.

There was something in the way Sam walked the mountain road, with a rifle in his hand, a knife on his belt, and a small sack of food slung over his shoulder; some mannerism that might make a knowledgeable person recall the descriptions of other mountain men, free men, of another century. Men who fought and died for freedom, the right to live their own lives without fear of tyranny, from within or without the government; to live without fear of the lawless, or those who would impose their own selfish wills on others.

This young man was reminiscent of the men who called themselves Green River Boys, or Rough Riders; those who rode with Darby's Rangers, or Major Rogers, or who suffered in silence at Valley Forge; the men and women at Buchenwald or Dachau or the men who stormed the beaches on June 6, 1944; and the men who rode to make a stand at an old church in Texas—called the Alamo.

SEVENTEEN

President Logan called for his VP to have lunch with him. He came right to the point. “Aston, there is a bunch of people, four or five thousand, maybe more, all heading west. They are stealing everything that isn't nailed down. And sometimes that doesn't even stop them.”

The VP looked up from his salad. “Why are they heading west?”

“To link up with Ben Raines, I suppose. They even stole a railroad.”

“Hilton—that's impossible! You can't steal a railroad. That's stationary. They took the engines and cars, perhaps. But what do they want with it?”

“To transport all the things they're stealing! Aston, they've broken into military bases and armories and stolen God only knows how much heavy artillery and bombs and guns and anything else they could get their hands on. Radar is gone from many places. Highly sophisticated electronic gear, computers—you name it, those people took it. A bunch of those crazy navy porpoises stole an entire base. Everything! They even took the damned portable buildings!”

“Porpoises? SEALs?”

“Whatever. Yes, that's the bunch.”

“An entire base? Hilton, no one can steal an entire base!”

“Well, they did. Probably had some damned Seabees with them, too. I made a speech on the Senate floor one time, I remember it well. I said that Green Berets and Rangers and SEALs and all those special units should be disbanded. They're all nuts! I said—”

“Just calm yourself, Hilton. These are breakaway units of the military?”

“Some of them, yes. I hate the military.”

Hilton had once been forced to stand in front of his training platoon, back in ‘59, with his M-1 rifle in one hand and his pecker in the other hand, reciting, “This is my rifle, this is my gun. This is for shooting, this is for fun.”

It had affected him. Deeply.

“Send the military to stop them,” Aston suggested.

“The military couldn't stop a hamster—driving a red wagon. And until I can replace the top men, they refuse to even acknowledge I'm the president. They hate me. Colonel Parr is far too busy with the relocation efforts.”

“Hilton, disband that bunch of mercenaries before they get out of hand—too powerful.”

“No. They are loyal to me, and that's more than I can say about the regular military. I need Colonel Parr and his men.”

“All right, then do this for me: break up that bunch of people in Illinois. You know what they are, Hilton.”

Logan shook his head. “No. If we ever need someone to control any nigger uprising, they'll come in handy.”

“The blacks helped put you in office years ago,” Aston reminded the man.

The president ignored that.

Aston wanted to reach across the table and slap the man. But he knew he had to keep his head, keep his wits about him. He had suspected years before that Logan was using the minorities only as stepping stones; that he really, deep down, was a bigot. But someone with a calmer head had to be close to Logan and, he had told his wife, “Looks like I'm it.”

“So what are you going to do about this Raines person?”

“Nothing. Nothing I can do. We're spread too thin as it is. We've lost too many agents in the mountains of West Virginia, Kentucky, Tennessee, and North Carolina trying to bring some law and order there. Damned hillbillies are shooting at anything that moves.”

“We need them to work the mines.”

“I know, I know. That's why I had to compromise with them.” He shook his head. “I'm only doing what I feel—what I know—is best for the country.”

Aston excused himself and left the table. His thoughts would have been grounds for treason.