grass.
Several of the men shifted positions.
“The first man to raise a weapon,” Ben called. “Shoot him!”
“I don’t think you’ll do it,” the leader said.
“Then that makes you a damned fool twice.”
He grabbed for the pistol at his side.
Ben lifted the muzzle of the Thompson and blew the man backward, completely lifting him off his tennis shoe-clad feet and pushing him several feet backward.
A hundred M-16s, AK-47s, M-60 machine guns and sniper rifles opened fire. The men and women who made the mistake of trying Ben Raines and his Rebels died without firing a shot. They lay in crumpled heaps, the blood from their bodies staining the concrete, running off into the gutters and the ditches.
Ben ejected the clip from the Thompson and slapped a fresh one in its belly. “General Nathan Bedford Forrest put it as well as anyone, I imagine,” he said.
Rosita put a fresh clip in her M-16. “And what was that, General?”
Ben smiled at her. “’Git thar fustest with the mostest,’ is the way it’s usually repeated.”
“Well, we were here first and we damn sure had the mostest,” she grinned at him.
“We damn sure did, short-stuff.” Ben motioned Captain Seymour over. “Get some tractors with scoops on them to move the bodies.
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you see the general?” a young boy asked his friend. “He didn’t even flinch. Just stood right there in open daylight and faced them down.”
“Yeah,” the ten-year-old son of a Rebel said, his voice hushed with awe. “And he was the closest one and no bullets hit him.”
“Aw,” the other boy said. “They hit him all right. But no one can kill the general. My daddy says he’d follow Ben Raines right up to and through the gates of hell. So that must mean he’s a god—right?”
“I… guess so.”
“What are you two whispering about?” the first boy’s father asked.
“The General, sir,” his son replied. “Sir? Were you afraid just then? I mean, during the shooting?”
“Sure, son, weren’t you?”
“Yes, sir. But General Raines sure acted like he wasn’t.”
“No, son. I don’t believe he was afraid.”
Other young men and women gathered, listening to the dialogue.
“Then that makes the general something special, doesn’t it, dad?”
The father looked at his son for a long moment. Finally, he said, “Yes, son. I suppose it does.”
“You see,” his young friend said with a grin. “I told you so.”
FOUR
Ben lay with the warmth of Rosita pressed close to him, her skin smooth and soft against his own nakedness. His breathing had evened and his heart slowed. An old country song popped into his mind and he fought unsuccessfully to suppress a chuckle.
“What do you find so amusing, General?” she asked, her breath warm on his shoulder. “And it better not be me.”
He laughed in the darkness of the motel room. “You ever heard of a singer name of Hank Snow?”
“I… think so. Yes.”
“One of his earlier songs was one called ‘Spanish Fireball.’”
“Very funny. Ha-ha. Yes.”
“You asked me, remember?”
She spoke in very fast Spanish. Ben could but guess at the meaning. He did not follow it up.
“Ben Raines?”
“Uh-huh?”
“What are we going to do?”
“I don’t understand the question.”
She shifted and propped herself up on an elbow. “The government of the United States is no more, right? It is over.”
“That is correct.”
“There will not be a great many people left after the sickness has run its course, right?”
“Very few, I’m afraid.”
“Worldwide?”
“Yes.”
“So I repeat: what do we do?”
“We survive, Rosita. We make it to the Tri-States and begin the process of rebuilding.”
“For what?” she asked flatly.
Her question did not surprise Ben. He was only surprised more of his people had not asked it. Something was gone from the spirit of the Rebels. Not much, Ben was certain of that—but a little special something.
How to regain it?
He sighed, looking at her pretty face, framed by hair the color of midnight. “For future generations, Rosita. We can’t just give up and roll over like a whipped dog. We’ve got to get to our feet, snarling and biting and fighting. We’ve got to prove there is still fire in the ashes of all this destruction. And out of it, we rebuild. We have to.”
“With you leading us.” It was not a question.
“Rosita, don’t make me something I’m not. I am a man. Flesh and blood. I don’t know how many years I have left me. I…”
“You have many years, Ben Raines. You have another fifty, at least.”
He laughed at that. “You can’t know that for sure.”
She was deadly serious. “I know, Ben Raines. I was born with a caul over my face, and I know things others do not. Scoff at me if you like, but it is true. I know things you do not. I can sense that you were born—in this life— to do this thing: to lead. But you must be very careful not to let it get out of control. Your followers are… viewing you in a light that is, well, usually reserved for saints, let us say.”
Ben was silent for such a long time, she thought he had gone to sleep. He said, “So what I have been sensing is true to some degree, eh?”
“Yes.”
“I thought—hoped—it was only my imagination.”
“No.”
“I suppose I could shoot my big toe off and have them watch me leap around, hollering bloody murder—I guess that would prove to them I’m only human. But I have no desire whatsoever to do that…”
She was laughing so hard Ben had to hold off any further conversation until she finished. She wiped her eyes with a corner of the sheet.
“Damn right it’s crazy! Rosita—it’s times like these that superstition rears up. If people aren’t very careful, it can grab them. I’ve got to combat this mood that I’m something other than human. But I don’t know how.”
She was unusually silent.
“I think you do know something others don’t,” Ben prompted her.
Still she was silent. Her dreams of late had been disturbing. The same one, over and over. An old, bearded
