Alone in the Ashes

Book 5: Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

Genres: Action & Adventure; Sci-fi Action & Adventure; Post-Apocalyptic sci-fi; Dystopian; Military Sci-Fi; Military Thrillers; Military Fantasy

Synopsis

A lon e mercenary must fend for himself against gangs of bloodthirsty thugs in a post-apocalyptic wasteland—from a USA Today –bestselling author. While those who survived the bombs, the fallout, and the germ warfare struggle to stay alive in a world gone mad, legendary soldier and survival expert Ben Raines is fighting to rebuild a nation out of anarchy and bitter chaos. In this hellish new order, there are devils leading armed gangs of marauders. Under monikers like Cowboy Vic and Texas Red, they wreak destruction wherever they go. When Raines is cut off from his SUSA Rebel forces, he becomes their prey—a special target for their frenzy and bloodlust. From Georgia to West Texas and Colorado to Idaho, Raines must stay one step ahead of death…until he decides it's time to turn and fight. Fifth in the long-running series!

Release date: July 11, 2012

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 356

Sample

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 the 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.

But he could not allow much of that. And he knew it. It was dangerous. He, and others like him, needed to look constantly toward the future. That was the only way anything could ever be rebuilt from the ashes.

Far across the lake, Ben caught the first flickerings of a fire being built. No fires for me this night, he thought. Too dangerous. I don’t know if the people across the lake are friends or enemies; probably the latter.

Then he realized the campfire was not across the lake but, rather, across a narrow inlet of the lake. The cabin he was using was facing the inlet. That knowledge made him even more wary.

He went to bed on the open porch. He was asleep in less than five minutes.

Voices brought him awake, tensing his muscles, bringing his nerves taut.

Slowly, quietly, he unzipped his sleeping bag and slipped from the down-filled warmth. He laced up his boots, slipped into his field jacket, and got to his feet, Thompson in hand. He eased the bolt back, locking a round in place.

“I heard a truck yesterday afternoon,” a man’s voice came to him. “I know I did.”

“That doesn’t mean it stopped around here,” a woman replied.

“We have to check it out. They might be coming back for you.”

“I’ll die first,” the woman said. “I mean it, Wally.”

The man and woman rounded the corner of the cabin and came face to muzzle with Ben’s Thompson. They froze.

“I’m just traveling through,” Ben said softly. “I don’t mean anybody any harm. My name is Ben Raines.”

The man’s eyes widened. “General Ben Raines? President Ben Raines?”

“Yes.” Ben first looked at the woman. And she was well worth looking at. Probably in her late twenties. Dark brown hair. Tanned, smooth face. Stacked, as used to be said. Ben shifted his eyes to the man. The family resemblance was strong between them. Probably brother and sister.

Both were well-armed. The woman wore a pistol and carried a rifle. The man wore two pistols and carried a pump shotgun.

“I saw your campfire last night,” Ben said. “I wanted to check it out but didn’t know what kind of reception I’d get.”

Ben lowered the muzzle of the submachine gun.

“Where are all your troops, General?” the man asked, suspicion plain in his voice.

“North Georgia. I left General Cecil Jefferys in charge and pulled out. For many reasons; some of them purely personal.”

The man relaxed his grip on his shotgun. “I guess even Ben Raines gets tired.”

“Yes. Come on up and let’s talk. I have a little bit of coffee. Would you like some?”

“This is the best coffee I have ever tasted,” Judy Williams said.

Her brother, Wally, laughed. “Sis, it’s the first cup of coffee I’ve had in months.”

“I get the impression you’re both running from somebody,” Ben said. “Care to talk about it?”

Brother and sister exchanged quick glances. Made up their minds. “Jake Campo,” Wally said. “Ever heard the name?”

“No. What is a Jake Campo?”

“He’s a warlord. Controls most of this part of Tennessee and up into Kentucky. Has two, maybe three hundred men in his gang. What he wants, he takes. There was ten of us originally. Me and Judy’s all that’s left. Jake and his men raped and tortured and killed the rest. We’ve been running for the past two weeks. I’m . . . I’m afraid, General, you’ve stepped right into something that even you can’t handle. You see, Jake and his gang have been closing the circle on me and Judy. We figure they’re maybe three, four miles from here, and closing fast. They’ve got every road and path blocked off. They’ll be here sometime today, we’re figuring. Sorry, General. But you’re stuck.”

“Oh, I’ve been stuck before, Wally. But I seem to have this knack of getting unstuck.”

“Well,” the voice came from behind Ben. “Let’s see you get unstuck from this, mister.”

Ben took Judy and Wally with him, the woman in his left arm, the man in his right. He jumped and sent all three of them crashing through the rotted railing of the porch. Rolling, he did not look to see who or what the man behind the voice might be. He just came up with his .45 in his right hand and shot the man twice in the chest.

Movement and a slight sound from the far corner of the cabin spun him around, the Colt .45 barking and bucking in his hand. The slugs caught the second man in the throat and face, blowing off part of his jaw, sending bits of jawbone and teeth spinning wetly through the air.

“Jesus God!” Wally said. “You are quick, General.”

Ben rose to his booted feet and reached for his Thompson, holstering his Colt. “A person had damn well better be quick, Wally. Or get dead. Check the surroundings and shoot anybody you don’t know that even looks like they might be hostile. Learn that right now, up front—if you want to stay alive.”

Wally looked at the man, a curious glint in his eyes. “I’m a minister, General. I can’t kill wantonly.”

“I’m not asking you to kill wantonly,” Ben said. “I’m telling you that in these times, if you feel any degree of suspicion toward strangers, if they make just one off-the-wall or hostile gesture, if they even say anything that could be construed as hostile, shoot first and worry about it later.”

Wally smiled gently. “I will shoot if fired upon, General. Other than that, I can do no more.”

Ben nodded his head. “Wonderful,” he said. Glancing at Judy, he asked, “You feel the same as your brother?”

“No,” she said quickly.

“We got a chance then,” Ben said.

Ben had stripped the two men of their weapons: two 9mm pistols and two M-16’s. Both men had bandoliers of clips for the M-16’s around their shoulders, bandit style, and clips for the pistols on their belt. He tossed the weapons and ammo in the bed of his truck and motioned for the brother and sister to get in the cab.

“You have some kind of transportation?” Ben asked.

Judy smiled. “Shank’s mare.”

“I heard that,” Ben said, returning the smile. “What kind of vehicles does the Campo gang use?”

“One-ton trucks that they’ve fortified with welded-on sheets of metal,” Wally told him. “They’ve made light tanks out of them.”

“Uh-huh,” Ben said with a smile. He dropped the gear selector into D and pulled out. “But how about underneath the trucks?”

“What do you mean?” Wally asked. “There’s nothing under the trucks except what the trucks came with.”

“That’s their weakness, then,” Ben told them. “Roll a grenade under the trucks and they go sky-high.”

“I like the way your mind works, General Raines,” Judy said, placing a hand on his thigh.

“Call me Ben.”

After consulting his map, Ben took a rutted county road out of Dover, heading south. He connected with Highway 49, then turned east on 147, stopping at a deserted little town called Stewart. The buildings had been looted and all were in bad condition. He pulled in front of an old service station.

“See if the doors of the bays will open, Wally,” Ben said. “You might have to put some oil on those old hinges. If so, use it sparingly; we don’t want to change the appearance of the building.”

“Don’t dribble it all over the place, right, General?”

“You got it.”

While Wally was struggling with the door, Ben walked around the building. At the rear, he smiled. Around front, he told Wally, “Forget it. There’s no back wall to the station. We’ll hide the truck somewhere else and we’ll use the station to wait for Campo’s men to find us. Judy, start rounding up a dozen or so old soft-drink bottles; any long-necked glass container will do.”

While she was doing that, Ben used a small portable pump to bring up any gas that might be left in the tanks of the old station. Ben and his Rebels had learned all the tricks of survival years back. He used the old measuring stick first to check the gas, then to detect water in the tanks. Had there been water in the tanks, the stick would have come out of the tank a pretty pink.

“Water settles to the bottom,” Ben told the brother and sister. “Almost any station that was worth a damn would or will have a detection stick around. Good, you found some wine bottles. Fill them up about three-quarters full with gasoline, then stick a rag down the top and set the cocktails inside the old station. Hurry right back, because we’re just getting started. I’ll rid this country of Campo and his creeps for good.”

“You’re awfully sure of yourself, Mister Raines,” Judy said.

“Yeah, I am,” Ben said. He looked at Wally. “You go around to every car you can find in this burg. Remove the batteries and, if possible, dump the battery acid out into a large glass container. Don’t get any of it on you. Bring it back to me. Judy, when he gets back, you find a pot and boil that battery acid until white fumes appear. Then remove it from the heat and don’t inhale any of the fumes.”

Ben prowled the station until he found several cans of antifreeze. “Good enough,” he muttered. “Mister Campo, you are about to experience one hell of a lot of big bangs.”

When Ben had all the materials at hand, he began measuring carefully. Judy watched him intently. “Ben, what are you doing?”

“Making methyl nitrate dynamite, dear. You’re old enough to remember the United States Army Rangers, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Were you one?”

“Yes.” Before you were born, Ben thought sourly. “Get some shotgun shells out of my truck and pour out the powder in a dry container. I’ve got to make some blasting caps.”

“You’re a strange man, Ben.”

“I’m a survivor, honey. Do unto others before they do unto you.”

She laughed at that and went off to get the powder Ben needed.

“Wally, prowl the town and find me some iron or steel pipe that has one end capped off. Get a hacksaw—I saw one in the office—and cut me half a dozen. No smaller than an inch. Take off.”

With the brother and sister out of harm’s way, Ben checked the glass containers. The mixture had settled and separated. Ben carefully removed the top layer and very carefully placed that in another jar. This was the explosive. He added an equal amount of water and began swirling the mixture. He set it aside and once again allowed the mixture to separate. The highly volatile explosive was now the bottom layer in the jar. He removed the top layer and threw it away—carefully. Ben had shredded some cloth and placed that in an old pan. He slowly added the mixture until the cloth had absorbed it and was damp. He now had a form of dynamite.

It took him only a few minutes to construct blasting caps.

“What are you going to use to detonate those things?” Wally asked.

“I’ll make regular fuses for some of them,” Ben explained. “For the others, find me some clothespins.”

“Clothespins?” Judy asked.

“Clothespins,” Ben repeated. “Wally, you get me some copper wire and . . .