Alone in the Ashes Read online

  CIRCLE OF DEATH

  A crowd of ragged men and women had gathered around the pickup. They were armed with clubs, axes, knives, and spears.

  “The welcoming committee,” Ben Raines said softly.

  “What do you want here?” a woman shouted at Ben and Judy.

  “We don’t mean you any harm,” said Ben calmly, hoping for the best. “We’re just traveling through.”

  “Why did you stop?” a man called. He held an axe in his hands.

  “People on the roofs with bows and arrows,” Judy whispered.

  “I see them. If shooting starts, you take the south side of the street, I’ll take the north.”

  “All right.”

  “We don’t want any trouble,” Ben called out. But he was going to get trouble—and plenty of it!

  WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE THE ASHES SERIES

  OUT OF THE ASHES (#1) (0-7860-0289-1, $4.99/$5.99)

  BLOOD IN THE ASHES (#4) (0-8217-3009-6, $3.95/$4.95)

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  ALONE IN THE ASHES

  BY WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE

  PINNACLE BOOKS

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  http://www.williamjohnstone.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  CIRCLE OF DEATH

  WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE THE ASHES SERIES

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  BOOK ONE

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  BOOK TWO

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  BOOK THREE

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE THE PREACHER SERIES

  WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE THE BLOOD BOND SERIES

  Copyright Page

  Notes

  To Charles and Linda Abrahm

  All I want of you is a little seevility, and that of the commonest goddamnest kind.

  Anonymous

  Them’s my sentiments.

  Thackeray

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Prologue

  Ben knew he should feel some sort of regret; some feeling of sadness or sorrow at leaving his people—and they were his people—behind.

  But the only feeling he could muster up was a feeling of freedom.

  “Free at last,” Ben said aloud, with only the wind and the truck to hear him.

  And they gave no reply.

  He shook his head at the paraphrasing of Doctor King’s famous statement, and wondered how many young blacks, a decade and a half after the world had exploded in nuclear and germ warfare, could even say who King was? Or for that matter, Ben pondered as he drove, how many young whites knew anything about J. F. K., or Watergate?

  Most were too busy just staying alive in this world gone mad, Ben concluded. They didn’t have time for school—even in those areas where school was available.

  He sighed, the rush of cold wind carrying the sound away, out into the brisk autumn afternoon air.

  He was not making very good time, even with the new truck his people had provided for him. The highways were getting worse and worse. And for some reason Ben could not fathom, highway maps were becoming as scarce as hen’s teeth. Any map printed between ‘89 and ’98 was to be treasured. He had heard that people were killing over highway maps. A good map could bring food, weapons, ammo, and on occasion, women.

  Ben could not prevent a bitter laugh from pouring past his lips.

  If a person could not understand the written word, how could they comprehend a map? And Ben knew from experience that a full seventy-five percent of those born after the World War of ’88 were illiterate.

  He had turned west at the deserted Tennessee town of McMinnville. A crude sign had stated Highway 70 leading north was closed to traffic, and another sign had stated Highway 56 north was closed to traffic. Ben doubted they were closed for any other reason except the whim of a local warlord or some religious nut who wanted a closed society to practice his or her mumblings upon.

  On impulse, Ben jerked his Thompson submachine gun free of the clamps that held it upright, and laid the old weapon on the seat beside him.

  “You and me, old boy,” he said with a smile, “are outdated.” He patted the smooth stock. “But we can still spit and snarl, can’t we?”

  Ben wore a .45 semiautomatic pistol belted around his waist and a long bladed Bowie knife on his left hip. In the rear of the camper-covered bed of the pickup, Ben carried a myriad of survival gear. Tent and sleeping bag, extra clothing, a case of grenades, and two cases of .45-caliber ammunition. A rocket launcher and a case of rockets for the tube. Cases of food and jugs of water. He had a Weatherby 30-06 with scope, and a Remington model 1100 S. W.A.T. shotgun with an extended tube that held enough three-inch magnums to stop a rampaging Cape buffalo. Strapped to both sides of the Chevy pickup, and on a special framework built on top, he carried five-gallon cans of extra gas. He had enough radio equipment in the truck to transmit anywhere within what used to be known as the United States of America.

  After more than a decade of leading his people, constantly searching for a place to put down roots and live and work and grow and rebuild from out of the ashes, Ben Raines was pulling out, heading out by himself.

  He would be alone. In the ashes.

  BOOK ONE

  1

  Ben pulled off the highway just outside of what remained of Woodbury, Tennessee. Tucking his truck behind a farmhouse on the east side of the highway, Ben sat for several minutes, his eyes searching for signs of life. Falling back on years of experience, Ben knew after only a moment that he was alone.

  He inspected the house, cautiously going from room to room. The house was, of course, ankle-deep with the litter left behind by rats and mice. When t
he rodents had eaten everything they could find to eat, they had left. But once they had done that, the roaches had followed.

  The house was crawling with living waves of brown movement.

  Ben pulled out of that locale and spent the night sleeping in the cramped space under his camper.

  He awakened to a cold dawn, under a sky that promised rain very soon. The dull grayness of the sky matched the landscape that surrounded Ben. Everything around him seemed lifeless.

  He didn’t like this area, didn’t like the feeling of foreboding it offered him. Skipping breakfast of any sort, Ben cranked the engine and pulled out, finding Highway 53 and taking that until connecting with a road that would take him to Interstate 40, at Lebanon. There, he drove over the interstate and pulled off the highway at the outskirts of town.

  Smoke from wood and coal fires drifted up from houses in the coolness of morning. But, as Ben had so often sadly observed over the years, the homes were not centralized or grouped for safety or work. They were widely separated, which meant to Ben—and it had been proved time after time—that the people were not organized. And in these times of anarchy and warlords, and roaming gangs of thugs and punks and creeps and assorted savages, not to be organized was an invitation to die quickly.

  And to let what was left of civilization die.

  Ben spotted the gang of young men and women long before they spotted him.

  Go on, Ben! he urged himself silently. Go on. Just pull out and avoid trouble.

  But he knew he would not. That flaw, if it was a flaw, and Ben thought not, within him was rearing up.

  Ben lifted his Thompson and cradled it, clicking the. 45-caliber submachine gun in his arms. He got out of the pickup and stood by the hood of the truck, watching as the young people spotted him.

  Back in my day, Ben thought, they would be called punks.

  I’ll still call them punks, he thought.

  Ben stood tall and rangy and loose by his truck. The years had peppered his hair with gray and had put a few lines in his face. But as Doctor Chase had told him, “For a man your age, Raines, you’re in disgustingly good shape.”

  “Clean living,” Ben had said with a smile, knowing what response that would bring from the crusty old ex-Navy doctor.

  “Horse shit!” Doctor Chase had replied. “You’re going to be a dirty old man, Raines.”

  “What do you mean, ‘going to be?’”

  “Hey, Dads!” one of the young men called. “They’s a toll for passin’ through here.”

  The young man was tall and slender and blond. He was dressed in dirty jeans, heavy boots, and wore a black leather jacket. His hair was very long and very dirty and very unkempt.

  The knot of young men and women around the punk were, except for coloring and size, his mirror image.

  Punks.

  Ben was dressed in tiger-stripe field clothes. His field pants bloused into jump boots. He had already stopped along the road and fixed a meager breakfast, boiling water to shave.

  Even after a worldwide tragedy and a nation swarming with anarchy, the generation gap still holds true, Ben thought.

  “Public road,” Ben said.

  “Not no more,” the spokesman said. Ben pegged them all as in their late teens to early twenties. “We took over the road. Now you shut your mouth and pay up.”

  “You want money?” Ben said with a smile. Money had been worthless for years.

  “You a real smart-ass, ain’t you?” a pouty young woman popped off.

  “At least my ass is clean,” Ben told her.

  “Dads,” the tall young man said, reaching for a pistol on his belt, “you just bought yourself a world of hurt.”

  “Kill ’im, Tad!” the young woman cried. “Shoot his legs out from under him and let’s watch him flop around.”

  “Yeah,” Tad smiled.

  Ben dropped the muzzle of the Thompson, heavy in his hands with its full drum of .45-caliber ammunition, and pulled the trigger.

  The quiet morning air was shattered by the hammering of the old Thompson and the screaming of the dead, dying, and badly wounded.

  Ben knelt down beside the young woman who had wanted Tad to shoot Ben’s legs out from under him so she could watch him flop around.

  The young woman had managed to pull a .38 out of her belt before Ben’s Thompson had very nearly cut her in half.

  Despite the events that had prompted the shooting, Ben felt some small waves of pity wash over him. The young woman was really, under the grotesquely and amateurishly made-up face, a very pretty woman.

  “It ain’t fair,” the young woman gasped. “Tad said he was the boss of this town and he’d take care of us.”

  “What did you do with the people who refused to pay your toll?” Ben asked.

  “Kilt ’em,” the young woman groaned.

  All feeling of sorrow for her left Ben.

  She closed her eyes and lapsed into unconsciousness.

  Tad screamed, his hands clutching his shot-up belly.

  Ben walked back to his pickup and pulled out. “You goddamned cocksucker!” Tad screamed after him. “My town! My road! Jimmy kilt Lucas for it and I kilt Jimmy. Mine!”

  “You are certainly welcome to it,” Ben said. He rolled down the window and let the cold air fan him. “Should be quite an interesting trip,” he said aloud. “Certainly starting out with a bang.”

  At an old truck stop just outside Nashville, Ben pulled off the interstate and into the parking lot, carefully maneuvering his way between rusted-out rigs and stripped cars. He tucked his truck between two rusting hulks that once were eighteen-wheelers, and walked toward what used to be the restaurant, his Thompson slung over his shoulder, the drum refilled.

  He liked to stop at these old truck stops because sometimes he lucked out and could find, among the rubble, playable cassette tapes; he had left all his back in Georgia.

  The first thing he spotted were two bodies, a man and a woman. The man had been tortured, then shot between the eyes. The woman had been raped, judging by the still-visible bruises on her inner thighs and the blood that had dried on her legs and buttocks. Like the man, she had been shot between the eyes.

  Ben knelt down between the bodies. He touched them both. They were cold, but they had not been dead for very long. Bugs had not found them, and rats and dogs had not gnawed their flesh.

  Ben walked the ruined and littered truck stop. There was not another living soul—that he could see. He stood and looked down at the man and woman. He had seen so many dead and rotting bodies that they had long since ceased filling him with any emotion. They were now merely a part of the way things were.

  He walked out of the truck stop and to his pickup.

  As he pulled back onto the car- and truck-littered interstate, Ben wondered if that was the way he’d end his span on earth. A bullet between the eyes and left to rot in some house or ditch?

  Before he could answer his own question, an old woman trudging along the side of the interstate flagged him down. What did they used to call people like this? Ben thought.

  Bag ladies. Yeah.

  He leaned over and rolled down the passenger-side window. “Can I help you, ma’am?”

  She cackled, exposing the blackened, rotting stumps of teeth. “If I was twenty years younger, you damn sure could, young feller!”

  Ben laughed. Young feller! “Thanks, lady. You just made my day.”

  “Or if you was twenty years older,” she laughed again. “’Course, if that was the case, you probably couldn’t get it up no more, could you?”

  “Probably not,” Ben said. “You want a ride?”

  “Well, you look like a trusting sort, Mr. Ben Raines. But I think not. I just wanted to warn you not to go into Nashville.”

  “How’d you know my name?”

  “Seen some pictures of you a time or two. Country sure has gone to crap, ain’t it, Mr. Raines?”

  “We’ll rebuild it.”

  She smiled and shook her head. “No, we won’t,
Mr. Raines. Not none of you nor me. Maybe two, three hundred years up the road. But we won’t know nothin’ about it. Don’t go into the city. Thugs and shitheads took it over. Turn back around and take the Gallatin exit. You a big, tough man, but don’t tempt fate.”

  “Aren’t you afraid of going into the city?”

  “Oh, they won’t bother me. Too old to do them any harm. They think I’m crazy so they leave me alone. Bye now, Ben Raines. Hang in there, kid.”

  She picked up her sacks and went trudging on up the road.

  Ben smiled as he watched her leave. “Luck to you, too, lady,” he muttered.

  He turned the truck around and backtracked, found the Gallatin exit, and cut north, then west. It took him almost six hours to drive approximately one hundred miles. He finally pulled over after crossing the bridge at Lake Barkley, deciding to spend the night on the west shore of the lake and do some fishing.

  He carefully hid his truck and laid out his sleeping bag on the porch of an old fishing camp, after first inspecting the cabin and several more nearby.

  He got his rod and reel, gathered up several of his favorite crank baits, and walked down to the pier of the camp. Within fifteen minutes, he had caught half a dozen smallmouth bass. “Kentuckies,” he said aloud. That’s what we used to call them. “Damn, they must be hungry.”

  Then he realized the lake probably had not been fished by sport fishermen in years.

  He cleaned the fish, carefully inspecting the liver for discoloration. He fixed an early supper, recalling as he did, that this was how he’d first met Pal Elliot. He struggled to remember what part of the country he’d been in when he first met the man. Arkansas, he thought. They had talked about forming a new country—a country within a country. And Tri-States had been born on that evening, years back.1

  But Pal was dead. And Valerie. And Salina. And hundreds more who had helped form Tri-States, and had fought for it, and died for it.

  Sitting on the porch of the old fishing camp, watching the afternoon fade into evening, Ben smoked one of the few cigarettes he allowed himself daily—harsh, homemade cigarettes—and let his thoughts drift back into the past, something he rarely did.