Free Alone in the Ashes by William W. Johnstone Page A

Ben muttered. “It can’t be allowed to continue. The outpost idea must be implemented—and soon.”
    He smiled as he drove on west. “That’s right, Ben. Set yourself up as a modern-day version of Don Quixote.” Or perhaps you’re playing the role of Sancho Panza, he thought.
    Either way, what right do you have to play God, rearranging peoples’ lives? Who named you the Great Overseer? Nobody came down from the mountain and whispered in your ear, Raines.
    He shook away those thoughts and concentrated on his driving.
    But his mind refused to stay idle; the outpost idea kept jumping to the fore. The outposts would, out of necessity, have to start out small. Because of the recent revolt within his ranks, his Rebel number had been cut by forty percent. 2
    They could not, as yet, stretch coast to coast; there weren’t that many Rebels left. Perhaps a thousand miles without strain. From Base Camp One in Georgia to the middle of Colorado. Maybe. Just maybe. But due to the aftereffects of the limited nuclear strikes, the jet stream had shifted, so he needed to get some people down south, to where the growing season was longer.
    â€œShit!” he said aloud. “Raines, this is supposed to be a vacation for you. You’re supposed to be doing some writing.”
    But he doubted that would ever happen. Something always came up to keep him from paper and pencil.
    Suddenly, one of those “somethings” reared up from the left side of the road. Ben braked and stopped. He checked both mirrors. It was clear behind him. He was still a good hundred yards from the man with a gun in his hands. Ben got out of the truck, taking his Thompson with him.
    The hood of the truck protected him from the chest down. Ben clicked the Thompson off safety as the man slowly raised his rifle.
    â€œI want your truck,” the man called. “Gimmie it here and there won’t be no trouble.”
    â€œWhy do you need my particular truck?” Ben called. “There are thousands of vehicles for you to choose from.”
    â€œâ€™Cause yours is runnin’,” the man said.
    â€œSorry, friend. Find your own mode of transportation.”
    â€œThen I’ll just kill you,” the man said.
    Ben stepped from behind the door. Holding the Thompson waist-high, the muzzle pointed at the man’s legs, Ben pulled the trigger and held it back.
    A hundred yards is straining it for a Thompson, and the first six or eight rounds whined off the road in front of the man. But as the powerful old .45-caliber spitter roared and bucked, the muzzle pulling up and right from the weapon on full auto, a dozen or more rounds struck the man, starting at his ankles and working up, stitching him from ankles to head. Part of the man’s skullbone flew out into the field behind him as the man was knocked backward, dead before he hit the ditch.
    Ben quickly ejected the drum and slapped in a full thirty-round clip. Crouching beside the truck, Ben did a slow sixty count before moving out. He ran to the body and crouched down in the ditch. The back of his neck was tingling with suspicion. Something was all out of whack here. Working quickly, Ben jerked the web belt off the man. The man was loaded down with M-16 clips, all full. Ben grabbed up the M-16 and inspected it for damage. None of his slugs had struck the weapon. He looked at the dead man. The man wore new boots, reasonably fresh trousers, and clean—discounting the fresh blood stains and bullet holes—shirt and jacket.
    â€œI don’t know what your problem was, buddy,” Ben said, walking back to the truck. “But you’ve been relieved of it.”
    He stowed the M-16 and extra ammo in the camper and drove on, thinking it was another mystery that would never be solved.
    Ben drove on into Kennett, Missouri, stopping at the edge of town. He could see smoke from fires pluming into the sky, but as it so often was, the smoke was not