“Would my opinion make any difference, General?” the man asked.
“Not a bit, Doctor. But this being a democratic society, I thought Td ask.”
“We need more medical people in here,” Doctor Barnes bitched to Ben. “The prisoners are in extremely bad shape. We need more doctors.”
Ben was tempted to tell the man that a frog probably wished it were more beautiful; people in Hell wished they had ice water, and that if Barnes’ aunt had been born with balls, she’d have been his uncle.
Ben was getting awfully weary with Doctor Ralph Barnes.
Ben held his temper. “In addition to Doctor Walland, there are two fully-trained medics with the Rebel platoon. I can’t pull any more people in here from Base Camp One.”
“Millions for defense, but not one cent for tribute.”
“Guns and butter,” Ben countered. He walked away.
He found Judy helping in the makeshift hospital. “I’m pulling out in the morning,” he told her. “If I stay here any longer, I’m going to end up beating the shit out of Doctor Barnes. And that’s not going to do either one of us any good.”
“Ben …” She faced him.
“I know. I know. You’re staying. I think you should, Judy. You’re needed here. I mean that, kid.”
She kissed him, then smiled up at him. “I’m going to make you proud of me, Ben. I’m going to study and learn how to write books.”
“I think you will, Judy. We’ll say good-bye, now.”
“Bye, Ben.”
He walked away.
Ben was surprised to see Doctor Barnes leaning against his truck in the just-breaking light of dawn. Ben tossed his kit into the protection of the camper and walked around to face Barnes.
“I hope you’re not leaving because of me, General,” Barnes said.
“You’re part of the reason,” Ben said truthfully. “But the real reason is I’m no longer needed here. Captain Chad and his people will handle it. So it’s time for me to be pulling out.” Ben stuck out his hand and the doctor shook it.
“I was thirty-five years old when the bottom dropped out, General,” the doctor said, speaking softly as dawn broke. “I had a family, a fine practice, and everything that went with that. I looked up the next day, and the entire world had gone mad.”
“And you bet your whole roll on Hilton Logan,” Ben said.
“Am I that transparent?” Barnes asked.
“Let’s see if I can peg you, Ralph,” Ben said, leaning up against the fender and lighting one of his horrible, homegrown, homemade cigarettes. He offered one to the doctor and Ralph took it.
“It’s bad for your health,” the doctor grinned.
“I heard that,” Ben replied with a laugh. “You were what was known as a Yuppie. You belonged to the country club locally. You were politically and socially aware and active …”
He paused while the doctor inhaled and went into spasms of coughing. “Damn, that’s good!” Ralph said. He took another drag and said, “Reasonably accurate. Continue, please. You’re a very astute man.”
“You were a democrat, politically. You were opposed to the death penalty and loudly in favor of gun control. You bemoaned the state of the nation’s health care for those who could not afford the skyrocketing medical costs, but you were against any type of socialized medicine. And you lived in a two-hundred-thousand-dollar home and your wife drove a Mercedes or BMW. How close am I, Ralph?”’
The doctor went on the defensive, as Ben had thought he would. “And what did you do about health care for those who could not afford it, General?”
“Nothing,” Ben said. “I didn’t have lobbyists in Washington, Ralph.”
“And you weren’t paying fifty thousand dollars a year for malpractice insurance, either, General.”
“Want to jump on the back of lawyers, now, Ralph?” Ben said with a laugh.
Barnes joined in the laughter. “No. I don’t believe so.
We’ll save that for your return trip.” He stuck out his hand and Ben shook it. “See you, General. Good luck to you.”
“Luck to you, too, Ralph. See you on the back swing.”
His scouts had reported that West and his people had last been seen trudging up Highway 51, heading north toward Kentucky. Ben headed west, taking 155 toward the Mississippi River and into Missouri. The bridge over the Big Muddy was clear and the river rolled beneath him, eternal and silent. Ben stopped on the center of the bridge and got out of his truck, gazing down into the muddy waters.
As he watched the swirling, ever-rushing waters of the Mississippi, a passage from the Bible came to him: One generation passeth away, and another generation cometh; but the earth abideth forever.
“But what kind of men and women will the next generation give the earth?” he asked the cool winds of late fall.
Like the river, the winds swirled and rushed, speaking in a language only they could understand.
With a sigh, Ben got back into his truck and headed west.
He stopped at Hayti and looked around. There was no sign of life. But he knew there was life. Almost every town of any size at all held two or ten or twenty survivors. But most, instead of organizing, pulling together, working together in a cooperative effort, for safety and defense and productivity’s sake, were instead lone-wolfing it, and by doing so, were helping to drag down what vestiges of civilization remained.
“No good,” Ben muttered. “It can’t be allowed to continue. The outpost idea must be implemented-and soon.”
He smiled as he drove on west. “That’s right, Ben. Set yourself up as a modern-day version of Don Quixote.” Or perhaps you’re playing the role of Sancho Panza, he thought.
Either way, what right do you have to play God, rearranging peoples” lives? Who named you the Great Overseer? Nobody came down from the mountain and whispered in your ear, Raines.
He shook away those thoughts and concentrated on his driving.
But his mind refused to stay idle; the outpost idea kept jumping to the fore. The outposts would, out of necessity, have to start out small. Because of the recent revolt within his ranks, his Rebel number had been cut by forty percent.*
They could not, as yet, stretch coast to coast; there weren’t that many Rebels left. Perhaps a thousand miles without strain. From Base Camp One in Georgia to the middle of Colorado. Maybe. Just maybe. But due to the aftereffects of the limited nuclear strikes, the jet stream had shifted, so he needed to get some people down south, to where the growing season was longer.
“Shit!” he said aloud. “Raines, this is supposed to be a vacation for you. You’re supposed to be doing some writing.”
But he doubted that would ever happen. Something always came up to keep him from paper and pencil.
*
Blood in the Ashes
Suddenly, one of those “somethings” reared up from the left side of the road. Ben braked and stopped. He checked both mirrors. It was clear behind him. He was still a good hundred yards from the man with a gun in his hands. Ben got out of the truck, taking his Thompson with him.
The hood of the truck protected him from the chest down. Ben clicked the Thompson off safety as the man slowly raised his rifle.
“I want your truck,” the man called. “Gimme it here and there won’t be no trouble.”
“Why do you need my particular truck?” Ben called. “There are thousands of vehicles for you to choose from.”
““Cause yours is runnin”,” the man said.
“Sorry, friend. Find your own mode of transportation.”
“Then I’ll just kill you,” the man said.
Ben stepped from behind the door. Holding the Thompson waist-high, the muzzle pointed at the man’s legs, Ben pulled the trigger and held it back.
A hundred yards is straining it for a Thompson, and the first six or eight rounds whined off the road in front of
