The Last Rebel: Survivor (18 page)

“Take two fingers of your hand and pick your gun up by the butt and place it on the ground,” the voice said.

Maybe, Jim thought, he could whirl and perhaps take out the person behind the tree. A single shot in the middle of the head wouldn’t be hard. That would drop him. Then what? If Jim got to squeeze that trigger, even as the man dropped he would let go a short burst and possibly get him and Bev both.

Then, of course, he would have to deal with the guys grabbing Rosen. They might kill him before they turned their attention—Jim assumed automatic weapons—toward Jim and Bev.

But whom were they up against? Jim could see, now, that two people had control of Rosen, but who knew how many were in the woods? No, he wasn’t going to do anything. Couldn’t do anything. Not yet. Not until he knew the terrain. To commit to some course of action without knowing what you were getting into was insane—and stupid.

He picked the gun from his waistband with two fingers and laid it on the ground.

“You and your ladyfriend move toward the tents,” the man in the woods said.

Jim did as he was told. He was well aware that he still had his knife—in a sheath on his right side—on him, but that would only be good in close quarters. If he threw it at someone, that would be only good enough to take out one person.

Then it struck him. He was not alone. Bev was with him, and he was sure that she would act with a ferocity that would be a big surprise. It didn’t get any tougher than those two Rejects back at the church. If she could, she would try to do something. Still, even if he could do something he might be in trouble because the plain fact was that he didn’t know how many more people he would be dealing with, and instinct told him that there were more people in the woods.

Very true, because just as he and Bev came into the tent area, three more people filtered out of the woods. None had Reject or Believer uniforms on. All were dressed differently but all carried automatic weapons, bandoleers of cartridges, and grenades hanging off their belts. They looked like real badasses. Jim had no idea who they were.

One of the men, thirtyish, with a shaved head and tattoos all over muscular forearms, looked first at Rosen.

“You own this HumVee?” he said to Rosen. He had, Jim thought, a distinct accent, perhaps Irish or British.

“No. I’m just sleeping in it,” Rosen said.

“How about you, stretch?” he said to Jim. “Yours?”

“Yes.”

“Where’d you get it?” he said. His eyes had narrowed.

Jim had not sensed any particular anger in the man. Now he did.

“It was given to me by a man named Ben Raines.”

“Who, the general?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Back in Nevada. He gave it to me before he died of the plague.”

“He died?” The voice was low, sad. Jim sensed, in fact, sadness settle over all of the men.

“Yes. Like I said, of the plague.”

“Why did he give it to you?”

“I met him by chance. And some people attacked us while he lay dying. I helped him defend against them. He said he liked the way I handled things, and wanted to give it to me, that he had no further use for it.”

“Did you leave before he died?” This came from one of the other men. He was as tall as Jim and looked like a full-blooded Indian in his mid-sixties.

“Hell no. I wouldn’t do that. I buried him and said a few prayers, and then I left.”

All of the men just stood there, each with his own thoughts. Ben Raines had meant something to them, though Jim did not know yet exactly what. Then a man who Jim would guess was the youngest of the group suddenly had tears running down his face.

“Christ,” said a tall, dark-haired, creepy-looking guy.

“What a way for the general to go,” he said. “He should have a holiday named after him but instead he dies of the fucking plague in some little place somewhere. He should have died a hundred times before that, and he didn’t.”

“He didn’t die,” Bev said.

Abruptly, there was total silence. All the men, including Jim, looked at her.

“What do you mean?” the British-sounding guy said.

“The lessons of his life for the world will never die.”

The truth of the statement hit like a silent bomb. And subtly, without an announcement, the situation had changed from Jim and Bev and Rosen being captured to a conversation. The guns had lowered.

“And by the way, who are you all?” Bev asked.

“We served under him,” the Indian said. We’re part of what’s left of the Rebel army.

“I’m Duke Kindhand,” he continued. “That man who drew down on you is Kevin Shaw, from across the pond, and the other guy here is Frank Langone.” He pointed to the tall, creepy-looking guy.

“And Jim Watson, and Slobodan Granic, or Bo as we call him.”

In turn, Jim shook hands with each of the men and introduced Bev and Morty Rosen.

“I also have a note from the general,” Jim said, “to introduce myself.”

“Where?” Kindhand said.

“Right here.”

Jim reached in his back pocket, took out a wallet, picked the note out of it, and handed it to Kindhand. He read it while the other Rebels read it over his shoulder.

“He also gave me all the locations of your supply depots.”

“You have something on that?”

“In my head. He told me to memorize and then tear up the paper. I did. You want ’em?”

“No,” Kindhand said. “I know where they are too.”

Jim nodded.

“Where are you headed now?” he asked.

“We’re on our way to meet up with more Rebels in a town on the Wyoming-Montana border named Billerica.”

“I know of it,” Jim said.

“How are you getting through to them?” Rosen asked.

“Cell phone,” Kindhand said, “and radio. But the connections are spotty at best.”

“Where are you headed?” Kindhand asked Jim.

“Right now just north. Ultimately east, maybe.”

“What’s there?”

“Nothing, but it isn’t here,” Jim said. “What are you guys meeting for?”

“You know about the SUSA?” Kindhand asked.

“Sure.”

“We’re going to try to establish a new one up here in the Northwest and go from there.”

“There are going to be folks in your way. You’re going to need a big army,” Jim said. “How many Rebels are left?”

“There are thousands. They’re scattered all over the country, but the phones and the radio communications are so spotty that Rebels are networking rather than all of them being directly communicated with. Whatever, we’re just trying to get a force together that’s big enough before the Rejects, who have vastly superior forces—and well-trained ones, I might add—take us out. Fortunately, we’re not a priority. They have the Believers to contend with.”

“I’ve dealt with both groups,” Jim said.

“Yeah,” Kevin Shaw chimed in. “They’re all cut from the same bolt of cloth, except the Rejects kill you.”

“But so will the Believers,” Jim said. “Or at least drive you out if you don’t believe in their philosophy.”

“Yes,” Kindhand said, “exclusionary thinking leads to that, the fanatical belief that what you’re doing is the way, the truth, and the light and that people who don’t think that way are nonbelievers and may someday be perceived as a dangerous enemy—with violent consequences.”

“I agree with that,” Jim said, “one hundred percent,” and Bev nodded.

“Now,” Jim said, “I have to tell you something that should affect your plans.”

“What’s that?” Kindhand asked.

“There’s an outside possibility an elite unit of the Rejects may be heading this way.”

“Why?” Kindhand asked.

“Why don’t you tell him, Morty?” Jim said.

Rosen laid out the story of his undercover work, his escape—and its implications.

“How big is this escape unit?” Kindhand asked.

“Twenty-five.”

“I don’t know what the other guys feel,” Kindhand said, “but I’d say our best bet is to wait a day and see if they show up, then give them a reception they don’t expect. We haven’t engaged any Reject forces yet, and at one point it’s inevitable we do. It might as well be now.”

The other men nodded. They did not seem upset by facing a force four times as large as theirs.

“You have only a half dozen men,” Rosen said, as if to remind Kindhand of something he didn’t know.

Surprisingly, Jim, instead of Kindhand or any of the others, responded.

“Surprise is worth everything,” he said. “In battles it’s a force unto itself. I mean history is just full of how surprise won battles against superior forces. Troy was probably the best example, but I think ordinary people know that if they’re in a fight with someone and throw the first punch the chances of winning the fight increase geometrically.”

“That’s right,” Kindhand said. “Ten or fifteen of these guys will be standing in front of God”—and he chuckled—“before they know it. They’ll be surprised to be dead—and surprised that there is a God!”

Everyone laughed.

“What kind of firepower you got?” Jim asked.

“I’ll show you,” Kindhand said.

For the next fifteen minutes, Kindhand showed Jim, Bev, and Rosen their firepower inventory, stored in two camouflage-painted HumVees parked a couple hundred yards from where Jim’s was. Among the items were a variety of machine guns, pistols, rifles, and shotguns, but also mortars and explosive devices, including Semtex and booby traps and a supply of ammonium nitrate fertilizer, diesel fuel, and dynamite.

Jim knew just how powerful ammonium nitrite was—he used it to fertilize fields and was very careful with it—but Bev didn’t.

“Why fertilizer?” Bev asked.

“Makes a big bomb,” Langone said, “which is my specialty.”

He paused.

“We weren’t even born when this happened, but in one city, Texas City, Texas, it showed the world just how powerful it was. A freighter was in the harbor with its hold full of the stuff and it went off. They found the anchor two miles away. That blast—actually a series of blasts—killed a lot of people. Destroyed the town itself.”

All Bev could do was shake her head.

“And you’ve heard of the bombing of the Murrah Building in Oklahoma City years ago by terrorists?”

“I saw a film on it,” Bev said.

“Ammonium nitrate is what they used.”

“By the way,” Kindhand said after they were finished examining the weaponry in the HumVees, “did you know that the vehicle you’re driving is armor-plated?”

“No,” Jim said, “I didn’t. All I knew that it was a good solid vehicle.”

“I’ll say,” Kindhand said. “It’s also got a windscreen that’s made of one-and-a-quarter-inch Lexan and side windows that are an inch thick.”

“That’s good,” Jim said. “As you saw, I travel with cans of gas.”

Kindhand nodded.

“Now,” he said, “we’d like to debrief Mr. Rosen a little more on this escape unit, and maybe some other things.”

“No problem,” Rosen said.

“Also,” he said to Rosen, “when you get through—I assume you’re having difficulty too—”

“Yes,” Rosen said.

“We’d like you to sit on what you know for now.”

Rosen looked as if he had been stabbed in the heart.

“Why?” he asked.

“There are pockets of Rejects all over the country,” Kindhand said. “We also know a lot, but we don’t want them to know what we know.”

“Surprise,” Jim said, “remember?”

“I don’t like it,” Rosen said. “Countries are dependent on a free press—for freedom.”

“I understand that,” Kindhand said, “but you’ve also heard of the press sitting on a story for a little while if it’s in the national interest, haven’t you?”

“Yeah, sure, but—”

Kindhand interrupted him.

“We’re just asking you to hold on to what you know for a little while. Anyway, there’s no way you have to get the information back to New York right now.”

Rosen still did not seem convinced, but on the other hand he knew that he really had no choice.

“There’s another reason,” Jim said, “if you think this through. If
Rolling Stone
publishes the story, this may give the Rejects a military advantage in some cases—and may influence the course of whatever conflict there is. And if it helps them achieve victory, you, me, and the
Rolling Stone
are going to be no more.”

“That’s it in a nutshell,” Kindhand said.

Rosen nodded and threw up his hands and walked away. Both men, as well as Bev, were watching Rosen’s reaction, and got the distinct feeling that he had not been convinced.

FOURTEEN

The debriefing by Kindhand and the other Rebels of Morty Rosen took a half hour. Jim attended the questioning, but the interesting thing was that the way Kindhand conducted it, it seemed more like a conversation than a debriefing or an interrogation, which, about one-third of the way through Kindhand’s gentle, conversational style, complete with laughs and anecdotes, he realized it was. The result was that Rosen was very relaxed, and Jim was sure that he would remember more details and come forth with more information because he was more relaxed than he might have been had Kindhand come on hard.