Blood in the Ashes Page 11

  Gale shook her head. “Poor Ike. Chased like an animal. I feel so sorry for him. And why did you just grin?”

  Ben laughed, and she could not understand the laughter.

  “I fail to see the humor in the situation, Ben.” There was indignation in her tone.

  “You don’t understand, Gale. Don’t feel sorry for Ike—feel sorry for the people who are chasing him.”

  “You’re right, Ben. I am confused. Ike’s being hunted and you sound like you’re happy about that.”

  “Ike is the hunter, Gale. Ike is a master at survival. He knows more dirty tricks than I do. He’ll turn those woods into a death trap for those chasing him.”

  “Jesus, Ben. You act like you’d like to change places with him.”

  Ben grinned. “Ike’s probably found him a woman by now. Might be interesting, all right.”

  “Very funny. Would you like to be up there, Ben?”

  “Yes. I think it would be fun.”

  “Fun! Raines, you have the damnedest idea of fun I have ever encountered. Fun?”

  “Warriors are seldom understood, Gale. But they are—or were—much maligned. Warriors are not only molded, Gale, they have to be born with that streak within them. Either one has it, or one does not.”

  “Fun, huh? Well, I hope Ike is having . . . fun.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  Ike and Nina had rummaged through an abandoned old home and found a trunk the rats had not chewed through. The large trunk contained old clothing from members of the whole family. Ike and Nina had found clothing that fit them. They had taken a very quick bath in the icy waters of a rushing mountain stream.

  Then they lay wrapped in a quilt from the old home, locked in love-making. Both knew it was a very foolish thing to do, surrounded as they were by danger. But that knowledge only made the love act that much more spicy.

  Later they lay by the stream, listening to it gurgle and bubble and race past them, a happy sound to its passage.

  “Ike? You really think we’re going to get out of this mess with our skins on, don’t you?”

  “You just watch ol’ Ike go into action, Nina. I’m a mean motor scooter when I get my dander up.”

  She giggled at him. “Well ... you may get your dander up, Ike, but that’s about all you’re gonna get up at the moment.”

  Ike thought about that for a second. He took her tanned hand and placed it on his penis. “Famous last words, darlin’.”

  She felt him thicken under her fingertips. “Why, you old goat!”

  Midmorning of the next day found Ben and his contingent of Rebels prowling through the rubble of what had once been Fort Gordon. The post had been picked clean of anything that might be of use to anyone. Litter covered the broken streets; tin cans rolled unchallenged in the buildings as the breeze, coming through the broken windows, pushed the cans along, bouncing them off walls.

  “There’s nothing here,” Ben said. “Let’s roll it. We can be in Lincolnton by early afternoon.”

  Not wanting to take a chance on the big bridge over the Clark Hill Reservoir being out, the column headed west until reaching Thomson. There they connected with Highway 78 and followed that to the junction of 378 and 47, cutting east to Lincolnton.

  Captain Rayle answered Ben’s radio call. “Waiting just west of the first town on Highway 43 South, General. Everything is secure. And we have fresh-caught fish for supper.”

  “Sounds good to me, Roger. OK. Coming in.”

  An old-time fish fry was underway when the two contingents of Rebels met. Ben was amused at the name of the town.

  “Loco, Captain?”

  “We thought you’d get a kick out of it, General. Sure isn’t much else amusing about the situation back at the base camp, though.”

  “Give me a thumbnail briefing, Roger. And don’t spare me a thing.”

  “Yes, sir. Willette and his men have taken in a lot of the young troops, sir. Several hundred of them, at least. Probably more. General, those young troops are not doing it as any act of defiance toward you. Willette has convinced them that you are tired, you need a rest, that you are becoming senile, that that you are so old no one really knows how old you are. The list is staggeringly long.” Rayle sighed. “And a lot of people are buying that garbage.”

  “I know the young Rebs aren’t doing this to harm me, Captain. What concerns me is this: What are the odds of us putting this coup attempt down without spilling a lot of blood?”

  Rayle shook his head negatively. “Very slim, sir. It’s fast becoming a divided camp. And, sir? Colonel Gray is convinced Willette and his crew are somehow tied in with this Ninth Order business.”

  “I have entertained that thought more than once myself, Roger. And I believe this Tony Silver is somehow tied up in it.”

  “I read a slim dossier on that one, General. He’s pure evil. The dossier stated that Silver is not only into slavery and murder and forced prostitution, but that he is starting up a pornography business down in north Florida. Mostly kiddy porn and snuff films.”

  “Among other things,” Ben added.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What’s a snuff film?” Gale asked, walking up to the men. She had a huge plate of catfish, piled high with french fries.

  “Is that for me?” Ben asked.

  “Hell, no. It’s for me. Get your own. What am I, your servant?”

  “Like I said: eats like a horse.”

  Gale ignored that. She bit into a piece of crisp-fried fish, then fanned her mouth as she made little oohhhing sounds.

  “Hot?” Ben asked innocently.

  She nodded her head vigorously.

  “Watch the bones,” Roger cautioned.

  “Nothing deters her from food,” Ben said, smiling at Gale’s antics with a mouthful of steaming hot fish. “She’ll kill for a hamburger.”

  Gale swallowed the fish and took a long drink of water. She sighed and wiped her eyes. “I repeat: What is a snuff film?”

  Roger looked at Ben, clearly dubious about telling her. “Tell her,” Ben said. “She asked.”

  “Just at the moment of climax,” Roger said, avoiding Gale’s eyes. “One of the performers kills the other.”

  Gale looked at the plate of food, looked at Ben, and grimaced. “You might have had the decency to warn me, Ben.”

  “You asked.”

  She handed him her plate of food. “Here, you eat it. Probably did it just to get my food. Be like you.” Before she walked away, she grabbed a large piece of catfish from the plate. She walked away, munching and fanning at her mouth.

  “They using kids in the snuff films, Roger? And who is buying the goddamn things? And with what?”

  “They’re not using too many kids, way I hear it. Mostly women in their mid-twenties to mid-thirties. As far as buying them, sir, it’s not so much buying as it is bartering for territory and guns and slaves. Silver is using slave labor on his farms and small factories.”

  “Blacks?”

  “All races, sir. If a woman gives him much trouble in prostitution, Silver whips her into submission. And charges admission for people to see the beating. He sounds like a real nice fellow.”

  “It’s difficult for me to believe this Sister Voleta would be involved with a punk like Tony Silver.”

  “She’s as twisted in her own way as Silver. Sexually bent all out of shape. That young kid, Claudia, told Doctor Chase Sister Voleta gets her jollies from watching people tortured—the torture, more often than not, has sexual overtones. I thought the world was bad, General, but nothing like this.”

  “Those types have been around for as long as we’ve stood upright, Roger. They began crawling out of holes in the ground, so to speak, back in the sixties, when the nation’s courts became liberal. Liberal means permissive, and that’s exactly what happened.”

  “You wanna know something, General?” Roger asked, an embarrassed look on his face.

  Ben smiled. “You weren’t even born then, right?”

  Roger’s s
mile met Ben’s. “Yes, sir.”

  THIRTY

  “Stay in the water, Nina,” Ike warned her. “I know it’s uncomfortable as hell, but it’ll help throw the dogs off our scent.”

  “It’s cold!” Nina responded. “Jesus Christ! My toes are frozen.”

  “Better numb than having the dogs chew them off,” Ike reminded her. “Along with other parts of your anatomy.”

  “Thanks, Ike,” Nina said, slopping along behind him in the center of the stream. “You’re a real comfort to me.”

  Ike grinned. Nina was one hell of a spunky kid. No, he thought, not a kid. A grown woman. And he knew he was getting very much attached to her. He wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. But he couldn’t help his feelings.

  They both heard the baying of the dogs, far in the distance. The baying changed as the animals picked up their scent.

  Ike stopped in the center of the stream. He put an arm around Nina’s shoulders. “And the chase is on, kid.”

  “I’m scared, Ike.”

  “Well, honey, you’d be a prime idiot if you weren’t scared.”

  “You’re not scared.”

  “No,” Ike admitted. “Scared isn’t the right word. I’m . . . concerned. But you gotta understand something: I went through this many times in ’Nam, workin’ behind the lines up in the North. Believe me, I’d rather have those dogs after us than Charlie.”

  “Charlie? Who the hell is Charlie?” Nina asked, as they began once more wading up the stream.

  Ike looked back at her. That war, he thought, isn’t even a part of her memory. She wasn’t even born when that misfought, misunderstood conflict came to its disgraceful conclusion. So long ago. “The Viet Cong, baby. The bad guys.”

  “I’ve heard some about that war. I think.”

  “Well, now,” a man’s voice rang out from the bank above them and to their right. “You two just hold it right where you is,”

  Ike and Nina stopped, both looking up. They looked into the muzzle of a shotgun, pointed at them. The man stood flanked by other men, all carrying weapons. One of the men looked at Nina and licked his lips. “Ain’t that a fine-lookin’ piece of ass, boys?”

  THIRTY-ONE

  “My friends and fellow worshippers of the great god, Blomm, the ever-knowing and all-seeing Blomm. I have spoken with our supreme ruler. Blomm has instructed me to join with another of his disciples to the north, Sister Voleta and the Ninth Order. Now, we will not have to leave our fine and comfortable homes to do this. All I had to do was pledge our allegiance to Sister Voleta.” What Emil did not tell his followers was that some brutish types from the Ninth Order paid him a visit late one night. They told him if he didn’t cooperate, they would cut his pecker off and stick it in his ear. Emil had almost peed his BVDs at that.

  The idea of Blomm had come to Emil one evening while he was blissfully toking and getting off on some really fine weed. The more he toked, the wilder his flights of imagination soared. And Blomm’s conception became reality in Emil’s drug-soaked brain. He would tell his people that Blomm had just recently left God’s side, after growing weary of God’s restrictive type of living. Blomm said it was OK to still worship God, but with a few twists added to spice it all up. Kinda like adding three inches to your dick, Emil thought. He giggled at that. Had his way, he’d add six.

  It would be OK to fuck and all that good shit, according to Blomm. Do some dope, of course that was OK. As a matter of fact, how about anything goes? Yeah. Why not? Blomm was an all right dude. The more Emil toked, the more all right Blomm became. And so, by the time Emil had finished with his King Edward-sized joint, Blomm was no longer a figment of his rather weird and overactive imagination. Blomm was real, man! And what a heavy dude, too.

  “And so, my friends and followers,” Emil said, looking over his ever-growing flock of nuts and bolts, “let us have a love feast in honor of our new friends to the north.” Savage motherfuckers, Emil thought. He stepped forward, his foot catching in the hem of his robe, and Emil fell off the raised platform, hitting the dirt, on his face.

  “Son of a bitch!” Emil muttered. He was helped to his feet by a throng of concerned worshippers, the dust brushed off his ornate robe. Emil smiled and said, “Pax vobiscum. Be bop a lula and shake rattle and roll, too.”

  His followers smiled and beamed at him. Whatever Emil said was perfectly all right. Etch the words in your heart, man. Gods were supposed to behave a little strangely.

  Emil made the sign of the cross. “Bless you all, my children. Joan Baez to you—and Boy George, too.”

  Emil walked away, toward his beautiful new home, compliments of the Rebels. They moved out, Emil moved in.

  “Blomm!” a woman shouted. “All praise the wonderful Blomm!”

  “And me!” Emil shouted. “Goddamnit, don’t forget me.”

  “And Father Emil!” the crowd roared.

  “Fuckin’ bunch of loonies,” Emil muttered. But not loud enough for any of his people to overhear. Didn’t want to screw up a good scam.

  He shuffled toward his fine new home, kept spotless by his followers. Emil never lifted a finger to do anything. Make matters worse, he was getting fat. He tried to be dignified as he shuffled along. Whoever made his robes was going to have to tighten up their act, Emil thought. Goddamn things were too long.

  Emil entered the coolness of his home, tripped over the hem of his robe, and fell down on the floor.

  “Emil Hite’s joining the Ninth Order does not concern me,” Ben told Captain Rayle, after being informed of the merger. “Emil just has a non-violent scam going for him. He’s laughable in a Jim Jones kind of way. Emil and his cupcakes present no danger. They are more to be pitied than feared. The Ninth Order, on the other hand, is a paramilitary group posing as a serious religious order. They can sucker and con people into the fold, then, I’m sure, use brainwashing tactics to keep them there.”

  “Yes, sir,” Roger said. “We have strong evidence that is how they do it.”

  “The only thing I am reasonably certain of about this whole confusing business is that General Striganov is not involved with it. Our intelligence reports the Russian is clean on this matter.”

  “If ‘clean’ is the right choice of words,” James said.

  “Yes,” Ben replied. He looked toward the north. “Come on, Ike,” he muttered. “Hang in there, buddy.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  “Finally caught up with you, eh, pretty pussy?” A man grinned down at Nina. “I seem to recall you got nice, soft titties on you. I’ll soon see. We gonna have some fun with you, bitch.”

  “To claim to be so religious,” Nina fired back, “you guys are sure a bunch of scumbags.”

  “That crack is gonna get you pronged right up the bunghole, baby,” he said with a grin. “I can jist hear you hollerin’ now.”

  Any combat-experienced member of any special unit—and all branches of the military had them, when there was a military—knows there is no such thing as a fair fight. Not outside the ring, and even that can be questioned at times. The term “fair fight is a contradiction in itself. There is a winner and there is a loser. Period. Never give a sucker an even break. One either kills or cripples one’s antagonist, or one gets killed or crippled. Was it a fair fight? is a question that surely must have originated from the mouths of lawyers. Shakespeare was right.

  While the men’s eyes were on Nina, standing proudly and defiantly in the stream, Ike jerked up the muzzle of the M-16 and burned a clip into the three men, standing close together on the bluff of the bank. Two of them were blown backward. The third one, half his face gone from the so-called “tumbling rounds” of the M-16, fell into the stream, blood and brains coloring the rushing waters.

  Changing clips as he ran up the embankment, Ike crested the bluff and inspected the carnage he had wrought. The men were dead or near death.

  “Oh. God, help me,” one man pushed the words past dying lips.

  Ike looked at him. The contempt he felt was evident on his f
ace. “Fuck you, partner.”

  The man closed his eyes and had the good grace to expire.

  Ike called down to Nina. “Help me strip these people down to the hide. We’ll put them in the deepest part of the stream and wedge them in tight with rocks. We’ll put on their clothing. Shoes, too, if they’ll fit. That will further confuse the dogs. Come on, Nina. Let’s get crackin’.”

  Working together and hurriedly, the two of them stripped the clothing from the men before it became too bloodstained. They rolled the bodies off the bank and into the stream, covering them with heavy rocks, wedging them down on the bottom.

  The baying of the dogs was getting louder, but Ike knew the bloodhounds—and from their barking, he was afraid they weren’t bloodhounds, but Dobermans—were still a couple of miles off.

  “Bundle our clothing up and bring it,” Ike told her. “We’ll sink it in a deep hole further on down. Come on. I’ll get the weapons.”

  Ike tossed one old shotgun into the stream. He kept the second shotgun, a Winchester pump, twelve gauge, chambered for three-inch magnums. He looped the bandoleer of shells around his shoulder and picked up the only rifle among the three men. An old Savage .270. He slung another shell belt over his other shoulder and gave the .270 to Nina.

  She inspected the rifle, Ike watching her. She knew what she was doing, Ike concluded.

  She checked the four-shot box and grinned. “Full. Other than needing a good cleaning, it’s OK, Ike. Now I can do some damage.”

  “Head out, Nina. Fast a pace as you can maintain comfortably.”

  “You just watch my stuff.”

  He grinned.

  She caught the double meaning and flipped him the bird.

  A mile later, they stopped to catch their breath and Ike wrapped their old clothes around rocks, tied them securely, then sank them up under the lip of the bank, still underwater.