Out of the Ashes

“Get rid of an entire race! Ben, that's genocide. You can't be serious. Their place? Where the hell is that, Carl?”

“It damned sure ain't alongside me, brother. Ben, I'm not gonna stand here and argue race with you; you always was too good with words. I'm just a workin’ man. Besides, what we're doin’ here ... well, it's the principle of it.”

“The principle of it!” The words rolled from Ben's mouth. He laughed in his brother's face. “How about the black children, Carl—you going to kill them, too?”

His brother shrugged. “Little niggers grow up to be big niggers, Ben. They're all taught from birth to lie and steal and lust after white women.”

Ben was shocked and his face was tight with anger. “Carl ... you don't mean that. Now, I'll admit I don't have many black friends.” He grimaced. “Matter of fact, I don't have any. But you can't believe all black people are the way you describe them.” He looked at his brother. “Carl,” he asked slowly, “do you have any Jews in this ... gathering of yours?”

His brother shook his head. “No. All they are is a bunch of nigger lovers. Just like the goddamn ACLU. Hell, the Jews and the niggers support it. You're the one who has changed, Ben—not me. So maybe you'd just better carry your ass on out of here. You don't fit in with us.”

“I sure as hell don't, Carl. That's one thing we agree on. Carl? How are you going to survive this winter? There's no electricity. Do you have a fireplace? How about food?”

“We'll get by with heating oil—lots of that in storage. We'll get the food from stores and warehouses.”

Ben smiled. “By looting it, Carl? Isn't that what the blacks are doing in the city?”

“Why don't you just carry your Jew-lovin', nigger-lovin’ ass on out of here?” The voice ripped at him from behind.

Ben turned, his eyes widening in disbelief. The small, wiry-looking man was dressed in a Nazi storm trooper's uniform. A swastika on his sleeve.

Ben looked around him: a crowd had gathered, and their faces were hostile. This was solid middle-class America glaring at him. Ben turned his gaze at his brother.

“Aw ... no, Carl—not this. You're a vet. You fought against what this"—he waved his hand at the Nazi—"turd represents.”

“Maybe, baby brother,” Carl said, “we were wrong back in ‘44. George, there, he's convinced me that back then our forces should have let Hitler go on and wipe out the Jews. Then we should have linked up with him and gone into Africa and cleaned up on the jungle-bunnies. I'm glad I was too young for the second world war, Ben. I think I'd have been ashamed to admit I was a part of it. Jews and niggers, Ben—they're just alike. And we're gonna do what should have been done a long time ago.”

Ben stood for only a few seconds, looking at his brother. “I don't know you anymore, Carl.”

“Get out, Ben. Right now. ‘Fore some of my friends take it upon themselves to whip your nigger-lovin’ ass.”

“My pleasure to leave, Carl. I'm just glad Mamma and Dad don't have to see this.”

The brothers did not shake hands. Ben brushed past him and the Nazi-lover, fighting back a very strong urge to knock the storm trooper on his butt.

SEVEN

Ben drove fast and he drove with anger eating at him. He just could not believe his brother had changed so, and he wondered just how many men and women this George commanded. Too many, he was certain. One would have been too many.

He drove first to the south, out of the suburbs, and then cut east, crossing over into Indiana. Just before dark, he pulled into a motel off Interstate 65. Thompson in hand, Ben prowled the motel. In one wing he found the rooms had been occupied and they held stinking, stiffening dead. But the entire east wing was clean and free of bodies. Ben chose a room, found the laundry room, and picked up sheets, pillowcases, and blankets. He was walking back to his room when he saw the dark shapes standing in the parking area.

About a half-dozen black men and women. No, he looked closer, one of the women was white—he thought.

Ben made no move to lift the SMG, but the click of his putting it off safety was very audible in the stillness.

“Deserting your friends in the suburbs?” a tall black man asked. Ben could detect no hostility in his voice.

“I might ask the same of you,” Ben said.

The man laughed. “A point well taken. So ... it appears we have both chosen this motel to spend the night. But ... we were here first—quite some time. We were watching you. So ... which one of us leaves?”

“None of us,” Ben said. “If you don't trust me, lock your doors.”

The man once again laughed. “My name is Cecil Jeffreys.”

“Ben Raines.”

“Ben Raines? Where have I heard that name? The writer?”

“Ah ... what price fame?” Ben smiled. “Yes. Sorry, I didn't mean to be flip.”

“I didn't take it that way. We're in the same wing, just above you. My wife is preparing dinner now—in the motel kitchen. Would you like to join us?”

“Yes, very much so. I'm tired of my own cooking.”

“Well, then ... if you'll sling that Thompson, I'll help you with your linens.”