Terror in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  A female gang leader called Lulu studied her purple-painted fingernails for a moment. “So what’s it gonna be?” she finally asked. “Ever since Raines hit Ireland all we’ve done is sit about on our arses. We’ve made no plans, elected no leaders, formed up no battle lines ... nothing. We’d better get crackin’, people. We either step lively or we’re dead.”

  “All right, Lulu,” Butch Smathers said. “You got a plan, let’s hear it.”

  “We set up teams of people who do nothing but monitor radio transmissions from the Rebels ... twenty – four hours a day. Write down or tape everything. Ireland is about to fall. Oh, they’ll be fightin’ in Dublin for several weeks, doin’ mop-up stuff, but that city is through. We’re next. We’ve got to figure out where they’re gonna land when they come over here after us. We got to start layin’ in supplies and ammo. We got to assign people to do specific things. Butch, you was in the Army. You was a paratrooper. Can you run this operation?”

  Butch sighed. “I was a corporal, Lulu, not a general. But you’re right on everything you said. I figure we got a month ’fore the Yanks come over here. My bunch has been ready. We’ve trained for years for this. But my bunch don’t make up but about five percent of all the gangs in England. If we all come together, I think we could maybe whip Raines..”

  “I’ll take orders from you, Butch,” Lulu said. “Count me and my gang in as part of yours.”

  “Okay,” Poole said. “I’m in.”

  Slowly, the others in attendance agreed to take orders from Smathers. Butch pointed to one of Lulu’s girls. “Lizzie, you was in the BBC when the shit went down. I’m puttin’ you in charge of communications. You get in touch with all the gang leaders on this island. We got to meet and we got to get organized and we got to do it fast.”

  “I’ll get right on it,” Lizzie said.

  “We got a lot to do and a short time to do it,” Butch said. “Let’s move, people.”

  The Rebels sensed victory now, and they pressed the now panicked enemy harder. The Judges and their most faithful followers had moved under the city.

  Leaderless now, the creepies on the surface could do nothing but fight very fierce and very short battles with the Rebels. They had no place left to run.

  “Street punks and creepies control Trinity College,” Corrie reported that to Ben.

  “Wonderful,” Ben said. “I’m sure they’ve spent their time educating themselves.” He checked his CAR-15. “Let’s go give them their final exam.”

  Fifteen

  The Rebels hit the grounds of Trinity College from all sides and turned the hallowed grounds into a killing field. They tossed grenades through long shattered windows, kicked in doors, and went in shooting. The creepies and street punks who had aligned with the Believers had never faced anything like the Rebels. For years they had given no mercy or pity to their slaves and the girls and boys and women they had raped and abused and tormented and then handed over to the cannibals.

  Now they received no mercy or pity from the liberating Rebel Army.

  Some tried to surrender. It was a futile gesture, for the Rebels had found some of the creepies’ holding areas for their human food source.

  The Rebels had already been fighting angry, now they were outraged, disgusted, and appalled, and the killing fever was high. It did not take them long to take the old college grounds. A few creepies and punks were still holed up in most of the buildings, but the grounds were in Rebel hands.

  Ben and his team headed for the library in the Long Room.

  “That’s not secured, General!” a Rebel yelled.

  “It will be in a few minutes,” Ben told him, and kept on running.

  A burst of automatic weapons fire sent the team scrambling to the ground. “Second floor, people,” Ben called, as he lifted his CAR and gave the windowless frame a burst. Then he was on his feet and running. He reached the building and jumped in through the open doors, rolling on the floor, the rest of his team following, ducking left and right, seeking whatever cover they could find.

  “Bastards,” Ben said, his eyes sweeping the place. The floor was literally ankle-deep in priceless volumes. “That’s what I was afraid of.”

  A Free Irish soldier who had gotten separated from his unit and had linked up with Ben’s team hissed his hate at anyone who would do such a thing.

  “They always do it,” he said. “The terrible bastards always destroy the books.”

  “Destroy the books and you control the minds,” Ben told him, as his eyes continued to sweep the seemingly deserted ground floor of the Long Room. “Take away the guns and you control the body.”

  “Second floor,” Cooper whispered. “About one o’clock.”

  “For once you’re right, Coop,” Jersey told him.

  Linda’s shotgun roared and the street punk screamed as buckshot ripped into his chest. He staggered first backward, then forward, and pitched headfirst over the railing, falling to the floor below and landing on his belly.

  “I hope he landed on books I never cared for,” Ben said dryly.

  Lead started chipping away at the railing just above their heads. A single shot from a Rebel sniper rifle cracked. Probably a 7mm magnum. A creepie stumbled on the second floor landing, and fell over, and his foot caught in the spokes of the railing. He dangled there. He wore nothing under his dirty gray robe.

  “That’s not exactly a turn-on,” Beth remarked.

  Rebels from Ben’s personal platoon began appearing at either end of the Long Room. The firing outside on the campus grounds was growing lighter as Rebels began mopping up.

  More Rebels entered the building and began fanning out, a dozen of them taking up positions around Ben and his team. Ben rose to one knee and looked at the mess, then looked at the Free Irish soldier.

  “Get some of your people in here to care for these books,” Ben told him. “Your entire history is trashed on the floor.” He put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “The punks and dickheads did the same in America, if that’s any consolation.”

  “They’ll never get the chance to do this again in Ireland,” the man said, steel in his voice. “The first politician who stands up and announces he’s in favor of gun control is very likely to get shot.”

  By the end of the day, what creepies and street punks and collaborators remained were all hemmed up in an area no more than six blocks wide and four blocks deep. But the Rebels had no way of knowing how many creepies had gone underground, how long their tunnels were, and how many escaped into the countryside.

  “It’d be a safe bet to assume that several hundred, maybe several thousand, got away,” Ben said. “But it’s very difficult for them to live outside the cities. They do stand out,” he added.

  “In more than one way,” Ike agreed. “You can smell the bastards a block away.”

  “I’d bet on several thousand escaping,” Georgi Striganov said. “The taking of Dublin was just too easy.”

  “Yes,” Ben said, looking at a map. “What they’ve probably done, or plan to do, is work their way north and try to cross over at the narrowest point of the North Channel into Scotland.”

  “We have conflicting reports about the creepies in Northern Ireland, General,” Pat O’Shea said. “We just can’t get an accurate fix on it.”

  “Maybe we could encourage them to stay in Northern Ireland,” Bobby Flynn said, not at all kindly in his opinion of conditions in the north. “That would be one solution to the problem.”

  “Now, Bobby,” Pat said with a laugh.

  “Well, they left behind enough weapons to re-arm the entire population,” Ben pointed out. “And enough ammo to keep you supplied for years. Once we get England cleaned out, your two countries can work together. It’s never going to be the way it was before the Great War – at least, not in our lifetime. We’ll help you restore power and water and get sewerage treatment plants back in operation. Where did Jack get his gasoline?”

  “From the platforms in the North Sea,” Bobby told him. “
Several refineries are still operating in England. Punks and thieves and hooligans they might be, but they’ve enough smarts to keep those going.”

  “You know where they’re located?”

  “Oh, yes.” He pointed to several locations on the big wall map. “Right there.”

  “And they’re heavily guarded?” Dan questioned.

  “Very tight security, sir,” Pat said. “English resistance forces say you can’t get within five miles of those places.”

  “Somehow, I think we’ll manage to get a bit closer than that,” Dan said with a smile.

  “Oh, quite!” Ike mimicked.

  “Blow it out your arse, tubby,” the Englishman told him.

  Ike grinned, then his grin faded as he watched Ben turn from the map and walk to a window, staring out over the old campus of Trinity College. Rebels had cleaned out the second floor of one of the buildings and Ben was using it for his CP.

  “What’s wrong, Ben?” Ike asked.

  “Too easy,” Ben replied. “They just rolled over and let us walk on them taking this city. They’re up to something. I just don’t know what it is.”

  “But we beat them, General!” Bobby Flynn said. “We whipped them proper, we did.”

  Ben was silent for a moment, still looking out the window. He slapped his hands together and finally said, “No. But I believe they wanted us to think we did.” He shook his head. “Corrie, give the word for all Rebels except for One and Three Battalions to get the hell out of the downtown area. Spread them out all over the city and prepare for a hard counterattack.” He turned to face his commanders. “Get tanks up here fast and tell all CO’s to dig in tight and right.” He looked at Ike. “Get back to your commands, gentlemen. I think all hell is going to break loose come night. Move!”

  While they were filing out, Ben said to Buddy, “Get down into the basement, take a team with you, double-check all suspected creepie holes, and boobytrap them solid.” To Corrie, “Have supply round up every perimeter banger we have and get them out to all units. I want everyone resupplied with everything we might need, and I want it done like yesterday.”

  He picked up his 9mm spitter and checked it. “When you’re finished, Corrie, we’ll all take a little stroll around campus.”

  “Anything in particular we’re looking for, Ben?” Linda asked.

  “I don’t know. I only know I’ll recognize it when I see it.”

  They came to a manhole and Ben squatted down, inspecting the heavy cover. “There is no grit or trash between the lip and the cover,” he said. “This thing was used not very long ago.”

  “Might be booby-trapped,” Jersey said.

  “Probably is,” Ben said, standing up. “From the bottom side.” He smiled.

  “You think that’s funny, Ben?” Linda asked.

  “In a perverse sort of way, yes.” He walked away and spoke to a Rebel sergeant for a moment. The sergeant grinned and nodded his head.

  Ben returned to his team. “Corrie, have the welding of manhole covers stopped immediately.”

  “Yes, sir.” She wasn’t at all sure why the general would want that, but . . .

  “Let’s get back to the CP,” Ben said. “I have a lot of radioing to do.”

  It was a quick afternoon, but to any creepie who might be watching, nothing really out of the ordinary. Just troops moving around, inspecting this and that. But while it looked innocent enough, the troops weren’t dawdling; they were moving with a definite purpose. Ben had thought of some perfectly horrible ways in dealing with the creepies who might be coming out of those manholes during the night hours. Ben thought it was amusing. So did Jersey. Dr. Chase just shook his head.

  “Sometimes I worry about you, Raines,” the old doctor said. “I really do.”

  Ben had ordered M18 mines, called Claymores, to be readied. At dusk, every Claymore the Rebels had would be placed around as many manholes as possible, at fifty to seventy-five yards, four to a hole. Behind the mines, dug in and fortified, would be Rebels manning heavy machine guns, carefully placed for maximum crossfire. The Rebels would hold their fire until the creepies realized there were no more mines and again started their stinking way out of the ground.

  “We’ve all seen how quickly they pour out of hidey-holes,” Ben told his people by scramble-net. “Give them time enough to get a crowd above ground, then cut them down and don’t stop firing until no one is moving. Tomorrow, we’ll decide on pumping chemicals into the system and flushing them out. Now play along with me on this next bunch of bullshit.”

  Ben looked at Corrie. “Take me off scramble, Corrie. Let’s see if they buy this gambit.” Corrie put him on an open frequency. “This is General Raines. I want to congratulate all of you for a job well done. You have soundly defeated an enemy who outnumbered you. I’m proud of you. Tonight, you all can go to low alert and relax. This city is now in Rebel hands!”

  All around the city, Rebels cheered and clapped their hands and shouted right on cue. Ben looked at Linda and grinned. “What a bunch of hams.”

  “Whoopee!” his team shouted in unison.

  The Rebels quietly began getting into position and laying out the mines. Then they sat back and waited.

  From a window on the second floor of his CP, the room void of light, Ben watched the street, his team spread out left and right of his position. In selected areas of the city, Rebels partied and sang songs and danced for a time after dark, just enough of them hopefully to convince the creepies the entire contingent had relaxed their guard.

  After a time, the Rebels began turning down their lamps and making a big production of getting ready for bed. They were being watched from a few well-chosen vantage points; there was no doubt in anyone’s mind about that.

  Slipping on a headset, Ben bumped Dan. “How’s it look where you are, Dan?”

  “Quiet as a church, General.”

  “Ike?”

  “Nothing movin’, Ben.”

  “Georgi?”

  “Our sensors are picking up a lot of scurrying around under our feet, Ben.”

  “Same here, Dad,” Tina reported. “West reports movement under the streets.”

  “General,” Corrie said. “We have movement under the streets in our sector.”

  “Therm?”

  “We have bogies under us, Ben.”

  “Danjou?”

  “Definite movement in the sewers and tunnels, General. Rebet reports the same.”

  “All right, people,” Ben radioed to his commanders. “They’re about to open up this street dance. Let’s make sure the band is all tuned up.”

  “Manhole covers are opening in all sectors,” Corrie said calmly, monitoring the frequencies.

  Ben clicked his M-14 off safety.

  “Spotlights are ready,” Corrie said.

  Vehicles had been parked so the streets could be easily illuminated by headlights and spotlights.

  “Creepies coming out, sir,” Corrie said.

  “Jesus, would you look at them,” Cooper said, behind his Stoner. “They’re like roaches.”

  “Well, we’re about to step on them,” Ben said. “Just about ... now!”

  Sixteen

  The Claymores blew and thousands of steel fragments tore into creepie flesh. Those closest to the blast were literally ripped into shreds. But the creepies did not pause in their pouring out of the holes. They just kept right on coming, screaming out their wild hatred for Ben Raines and the Rebels.

  The Rebels opened fire and the streets were suddenly filled with stinking dead and dying Believers. And still they continued to pour out of the underground of the city, screaming and racing toward death.

  “Un-fucking-believable,” Cooper muttered, holding back the trigger on his Stoner and letting the lead fly.

  On the ground, the booming and sparking of grenades turned the night surreal.

  It was, as was once the saying, like shooting ducks in a barrel. Rebel fire was so intense, few creepies could get out of the manhole area. They we
re forced to climb over the bodies of their own dead, which were now two and three deep, and once there, faced the harsh light from dozens of vehicle headlights and spotlights.

  The Rebels shot them dead.

  No one among the Rebels – including Ben Raines – knew why the creepies behaved as they did. They could, on occasion, plan good, solid military moves. Then, as on this night, they behaved very irrationally, racing headlong into certain death.

  The warm summer air became choked with gunsmoke, the odor of unwashed bodies, the crashing and roaring of grenades, the screaming of the badly wounded, and the stink of death. The hands and arms of Rebels became sore from the gripping of weapons, and shoulders ached from the pounding of recoil.

  Still the creepies poured out of manholes all over the city, screaming their hate and rage. But they were far fewer in number now, and the Rebels were still unrelenting in their deadly hail of fire.

  Gradually, the firing lessened in the city. “Tina reporting all firing has ceased in her section,” Corrie called, her eyes smarting and tearing from the acrid bite of gunsmoke. “Rebet reporting no more live creepies in his T.O.”

  Ben stood up and rubbed a sore shoulder. The M-14 could punish a shooter. As his ears adjusted to the sounds of normalcy, he became aware that no more shooting was occurring in his section. He looked down from his second story vantage point at a scene that never becomes acceptable to the human mind: hundreds of torn and ripped bodies clogged the streets and sidewalks and weed-grown patches of ground.

  “Un-fucking-believable,” Cooper said again, as he stood up and stretched aching muscles.

  “Get me casualty reports,” Ben requested. Only faint pockets of gunfire now reached his ears.

  “Prelim reports from all batt corns say no Rebel dead and only a very few wounded,” Corrie said.

  Their faces were grimy from gunsmoke and their eyes gritty from strain and smoke and stink.