Alone in the Ashes Read online

  They were on Highway 90, nearing the Oklahoma line, just south of the Huckleberry Ridge State Forest.

  Jordy smiled. “What do you mean, sir?”

  “You know what I mean.” He pointed to the north. “Pineville is that way. What letter of the alphabet does the word begin with?”

  Jordy laughed. “P! Like in Possum!”

  They were on Highway 59 heading south through Oklahoma when they had their first real trouble. Just before they reached the junction of Highway 10, Jordy pointed.

  “Roadblock up ahead, Ben.”

  “I see it.” Ben braked the truck some distance from the blockade. “Stay in the truck,” he told Jordy.

  Ben got out and stood behind the open door. He waited for whomever, or whatever it was behind the blockade to make the first hostile move.

  “Why don’t you just bust right through?” Jordy asked.

  “Because I don’t know if they’re unfriendly or just cautious. People have the right to be cautious, boy. But their rights end when they get unfriendly, or dangerous.”

  He turned back to the blockade. “We’re just passing through!” he yelled. “We don’t mean anyone any harm.”

  “Leave the truck and start walkin’ back toward where you came!” the voice called.

  “Fuck you!” Ben muttered.

  “Right!” Jordy said.

  “You weren’t supposed to hear that, boy.”

  “I’ve heard worse.”

  Ben jumped back into the truck, banged his knee on the steering wheel, said a few very ugly words, and dropped the truck into reverse, swiftly backing up a couple of hundred yards. He pulled off the road, around a slight bend in the road, and got out, walking to the rear of the truck. He took out his .30–06, slung a shell belt over his shoulder, and sighted in the blockade through the scope.

  He waited for them to open the dance.

  “Get the son of a bitch!” a man called, his voice faint. “I want that fancy truck and the kid. Kill that tall bastard.”

  “Scoot out of the truck and bring me that M-16, Jordy,” Ben said. “Lay it in the seat with some extra clips.”

  An old Ford barged its way onto the road from behind the blockade. Ben sighted it on the driver and pulled the trigger. With no front window, the slug went true, hitting the man in the face. The Ford swapped ends in the road and slid into the ditch. A man jumped out and Ben shot him in the side, spinning the man around, jerking and cursing in pain. The man fell to the road and was still.

  A second vehicle roared onto the road and Ben put two fast rounds through the windshield. The car slewed to one side and the driver fell out, a hole in his throat.

  Ben ran to the camper, jerked out his rocket launcher, and cocked the hammer of the RPG. He inserted the rocket and rolled it until the grenade was locked in, mated with the U-cut. He stepped out from behind the truck, dropped to one knee, and sighted through the telescopic sight with its built-in range-finding scale. There was no wind, and the distance was three hundred and fifty meters. Ben’s first shot hit true. The 85mm rocket grenade, capable of penetrating up to thirteen inches of rolled steel armor, exploded the blockade in a burst of flames and debris and human bodies.

  There was a hole in the blockade large enough to drive a tank through.

  Not wanting to waste his rockets, Ben stowed the RPG and the M-16 back into the camper, along with his sniper rifle, and waited outside the truck, listening to the fading moans of the badly wounded.

  Ben dropped the truck into four-wheel drive and skirted the burning, smoking ruins of the blockade. He left the carnage behind without so much as a second glance.

  “Reckon why they wanted to kill you, Ben?” the boy asked.

  “I don’t know, Jordy. But I just don’t like unfriendly folks.”

  “Yes, sir,” the boy replied solemnly. “I picked up on that right off.”

  Ben took a county road and skirted the town of Tahlequah. There had once been a university there, but Ben did not want to see the place in ruins. He had personally witnessed too many institutions of higher learning in ruin. It was depressing.

  He and Jordy made camp on an eastern finger of Tenkiller Ferry Lake and fished for their supper. Jordy had never sportfished before, but he was a fast learner. Once he got the hang of casting, he was all smiles, especially when he hooked what was at least a five-pound bass and fought him to the shore.

  “Supper, Ben!” the boy yelled.

  “Supper, Jordy,” Ben replied, smiling at the boy’s happiness.

  And his own.

  They slept that night in a deserted old fishing cabin, with Ben getting up twice in the night to add wood to the fire.

  “Cold as a witch’s tit,” Jordy spoke from his sleeping bag on the floor.

  “We are going to have to do something about your language, Jordy,” Ben told him. “It isn’t right for a ten-year-old to speak like you do.”

  “Why?” the boy asked.

  “It just isn’t.”

  “OK, Ben. Whatever you say. But all the kids my age that I know talk like that.”

  “Do you hear me talking like that?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Bear that in mind.”

  “OK. Does that mean when you cuss, I can cuss?”

  Ben smiled, tossing another log on the fire. The wind had picked up, howling around the old cabin. “No, it doesn’t. But I’ll try to watch my language, too. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  They had just crossed Interstate 40, heading south on Highway 2 when Ben’s CB radio suddenly popped into vocal life, almost scaring the piss out of Jordy.

  “Son of a bitch!” the boy yelled.

  Ben fixed him with a stern look. “I’ll forgive that. This time.” He reached for the mike. “Come on,” he said to the unknown caller.

  “You in the fancy pickup,” the voice said. “Pull it over and you won’t get hurt. We got you blocked front and back.”

  Ben glanced at his map and cut the wheel hard to his right, heading west on a badly rutted old blacktop road. “Hang on, Jordy,” Ben told him. “And keep watch for me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ben drove as fast as he dared, but had a sinking feeling that it wasn’t going to be fast enough to elude his unknown pursuers.

  “Trucks and motorcycles comin’ up fast behind us, Ben!” Jordy called.

  Eufaula Lake was looming up large in front of him, but Ben didn’t want to get caught on the long bridge with no place to run.

  Ben slid onto a dirt road with a farmhouse and falling-down barn, brought the truck to a halt, and jumped out, Thompson in hand. He leveled the old submachine gun and pulled the trigger, fighting the rise of the weapon as the bolt worked at full auto.

  A windshield of a truck exploded in a shower of glass and two motorcyclists were flung backward as bloody, smoking holes appeared in their jackets. The motorcycles slammed into a car and the car slewed sideways, ending in a ditch. Ben riddled the car with .45-caliber slugs, took time out to change drums, then jumped back in the truck and backed out onto the rutted road. He pulled the pin on a Firefrag grenade and tossed it under the bullet-riddled truck. Ben was a hundred yards up the road when the grenade did its work. The truck exploded, sending burning metal and parts of human bodies all over the place.

  “Slocum!” Ben’s CB radio squawked. “What’s happenin’, man?”

  “The son of a bitch has blocked the road on us!” the voice of who Ben guessed was Slocum yelled over the air. “Cut him off at the bridge.”

  “10–4.”

  “We got to hunt a hole, Jordy,” Ben said. “Hang on, boy.”

  Ben chanced a quick look at the map and made up his mind. He cut off the road the first chance he got, dropped the truck into four-wheel drive, and drove for a mile straight north. He then turned back east, keeping the black smoke from the burning truck to his right. He fought the steering wheel as the pickup dug and spun through the brush-covered ground. When the smoke was at least two miles behind them
, Ben cut south, both he and the boy bouncing up and down in the seats as they roared on.

  “Fasten your seat belt, Jordy!” Ben yelled.

  “My what?” Jordy yelled over the roaring of the engine.

  “Forget it, boy. Just hang on.”

  The road appeared just in front of them, but a deep ditch was between them and blacktop. Ben raced along, the road to their right until he found a place where he could try. He spun the wheel, goosed the engine, and they were across, the rear tires on rutted blacktop. Ben slipped the truck out of four-wheel drive. At the junction of Highway 2, Ben cut north, driving as fast as he dared until intersecting with Highway 266 and Interstate 40. He elected to stay with 266, turning west once more.

  “The bastards got away!” the CB squawked. “But I got ‘em in sight. They’re on 266 headin’ west.”

  “Keep them in sight. We’re about fifteen minutes behind you.”

  “We have to make a stand someplace, Jordy. And this interchange right up here looks just dandy for it.”

  “What are you goin’ do, Ben?”

  “I’m going to ambush them, boy.” He turned off 266 and tucked the truck behind an old service station. Ben grabbed his rocket launcher, told Jordy to grab a couple of rockets, and took his M-16 and sniper rifle, draping a bandoleer of ammo over his shoulder for both weapons. Jordy stuffed his jacket pockets with hand grenades without being told. Ben grinned at the boy.

  They both were panting when they reached the top of the overpass.

  Ben hurriedly loaded the RPG, checked to see that Jordy was out of the way of the backblast, which could be lethal, and sighted in the lead truck that had been following them.

  Ben sighted in the truck at six hundred meters, but he knew he had to hold his fire until they were within three hundred meters, maximum. There was a slight wind blowing, and firing the RPG would be tricky, since the finned rocket grenade could be thrown off course by a crosswind. Several of Ben’s Rebels, unfamiliar with the RPG, had found this out the hard way.

  Ben triggered the round and the truck exploded in a ball of flames. The explosion literally tore the truck from its wheels, leaving the smoking frame, with its melted tires, welded to the concrete.

  “Holy shit!” Jordy said.

  “I’ll agree with that, too, Jordy,” Ben said. He looked at the slender boy. “Can you fire a rifle, Jordy?”

  “Yes, sir. That warlord that grabbed me? All his men had M-16’s. I know how to work them.”

  “Well, get ready, son. ’Cause here they come.”

  11

  The chase vehicles were on the interstate, paralleling 266. Ben smiled, for the first time thinking he and the boy might get out of this box without too much trouble.

  The vehicles were coming at them in a knot, all bunched up, and rolling very fast. Ben sighted in the RPG, tracked the lead vehicle, a king-cab truck, through the range-finder, and triggered off a rocket.

  The rocket struck the truck dead center, the aftereffects turning the interstate into a flaming hell for those in the vehicles behind the truck. They could not brake in time and a monumental pile-up was created. Ben reloaded and fired, adding more burning hell to the confusion and death below them.

  Jordy’s M-16 began barking, the boy coolly firing the weapon, picking his targets and hitting them a good two out of three times.

  Ben picked up his .30-06 and joined the boy, with Jordy taking the left side of the interstate, Ben the right side.

  More vehicles began exploding as the flames reached the gas tanks. Men and women began running from the wreckage, human torches screaming as flesh cooked and sizzled.

  “Back to the truck, Jordy,” Ben called. “Now’s the time to split.”

  The man and the boy ran for safety as black smoke poured into the sky. They roared off down the interstate, leaving behind them the foul stench of burning human bodies and the howling of the soon-to-be dead.

  If there were any survivors in Henryetta, Oklahoma, Ben didn’t stop to check them out. He stayed on the interstate all the way to the junction of Highway 99, and there cut south. Ben began to breathe a little bit easier when they crossed the Canadian River. He bypassed Ada and turned west on 19, staying on that highway until they were halfway between Pauls Valley and Chickasha. At a clump of trees by the Washita River, Ben cut off the highway.

  “We’ll spend the night here, Jordy. I think we deserve a good hot meal and some rest, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir,” the boy replied. “But I got to change clothes first.”

  “What’s the matter? Your clothes don’t look that dirty.”

  The boy blushed. “I peed my pants back there, Ben.”

  Putting together bits and pieces of information gathered along the way, plus the reports from their scouts that had fanned out north, south, and west, Jake and West tracked Ben’s movements. But they were always three to four days behind.

  Jake Campo stood looking at the ashes of a campfire for a moment. Then he checked the tire tracks left in the earth.

  “He picked up company,” West said, hobbling up on his crutch. “Got him a woman.”

  “I don’t think so,” Jake said. “More like a small kid. Some underwear over there in the bushes. Boy’s drawers.” He was thoughtful for a moment. “That’s good, West. Goddamn punk will slow him down. He’ll be worryin’ about the boy; might drop his guard.”

  “The man who kills Ben Raines,” West mused aloud, “will be able to just about write his own ticket. You know that, Jake?”

  “Yeah, West. I know it. Or the men who kill him.”

  “That’s what I meant, Jake.”

  “Uh-huh,” Campo said. Campo was an outlaw, and a man with few principles. But West was even worse than Jake. Jake knew the man had put his own sister into a whorehouse back in ’95. Low was low, but that was the pits.

  Have to watch West, Campo concluded.

  Jake Campo was a no-good bastard, West was thinking. Would shoot a man in the back if given half a chance. Jake had teamed up with men over the past. His partners always met a very bad end. Son of a bitch was just no good. Killed his best friend, West recalled. Back in ‘97 or ’98.

  Have to keep an eye on Jake, West concluded.

  “Somehow I got it in my mind Raines was headin’ to Texas,” Jake was speaking. “He ought to be cuttin’ southwest; but he ain’t. What the hell is the man up to?”

  “Scouts callin’ in, Jake!” a man shouted.

  Jake took the mike. “Yeah?”

  “Big shoot out just west of Siloam Springs, Jake,” the scout reported. “Man and a kid in a fancy, duded-up pickup truck raised hell at a local roadblock. Scouts south of us reported a lot of smoke and flames around Eufaula Lake.”

  “Ten-four. Keep on his tail and call in every day. Jake out.”

  “Now the bastard is headin’ southwest,” Jake said with a smile. “Roll ’em, boys! Let’s go get Ben Raines.”

  She couldn’t let the children know it, but she was scared—plenty scared. Her old bus had broken down and she didn’t know Jack-shit about fixing engines.

  She crouched in the old warehouse in Lubbock, Texas, and looked at the kids. An even dozen. The youngest was three, the oldest, twelve. She had started out from north Oklahoma with fifteen. One had died of something along the way. She never had known what it was, except that the boy had coughed a lot and had finally began spitting up blood and running a very high fever. He had died ten hours later. They’d gotten caught in a storm between Dalhart and Interstate 40. That’s when the little girl had wandered off.

  Hadn’t turned my back for more than a minute, Rani thought. And the kid was gone. Just like that. Called and called. But she couldn’t leave the others to go and look. She had thought there were no more tears left in her. But she’d found more when she had to drive off after waiting a full twenty-four hours.

  Then in Amarillo she’d lost the oldest girl to those goddamned outlaws. And the human filth had wanted the young boys, too. Perverted bastards. Some
how she had managed to elude them, the rattletrap old bus on its last legs. Just south of New Deal, the old bus had finally given up the ghost. She and the kids had walked to the outskirts of Lubbock, seeking shelter at the old Lubbock International Airport. There was a bob truck behind some crates in the building next to where she’d hidden the kids. The empty crates looked like they’d been deliberately placed around the truck, but a long time back. She had replaced the battery—she knew how to do that much—and she’d found some drums of what she hoped was gasoline, carefully hidden in the far side of the warehouse, or whatever the hell this building used to be. In the morning, she’d prime the carburetor and try to start the damn thing. She knew she had to get south for the winter. The kids already had colds, and without any medication at all, she’d have cases of pneumonia on her hands.

  And there was the not-so-small matter of that goddamned self-proclaimed warlord who called himself Vic.

  Crazy Vic.

  And his men were just as nutty. She thought they were all escapees from a nuthouse.

  She had started her little orphanage up in north Oklahoma, taking in wandering kids. Some stayed with her, though most had left, the lure and pull of the road having been all they’d ever known. She’d worked very hard on her little wayside home for kids. And at one time she’d had almost forty kids to care for. She loved doing it.

  Then Vic and his men had arrived.

  They had taken her guns, and then raped her. Vic had told her if she didn’t become his woman, he’d pass the kids around to his men and Rani could damn well have what was left of them after his boys got done butt-fucking them.

  Rani had endured Vic’s perversions for a week, until she got her chance to escape. Most of the kids had already run off.

  Now she had Crazy Vic and his bunch following her.

  But she also had a pistol and a rifle she’d found in a house along the way, and lots of ammunition. And Rani was a good shot.

  If that truck will just start, she thought, we might make it.

  If.

  “Crossing into Texas, Jordy.”