Terror in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  The men and women dropped flat to the road, pulling their kids down with them as lead began whistling above their heads. The gang members panicked and tried to run. They didn’t make it as Rebels — who had been silently working their way into position — popped up all around them.

  It was over in a minute, and as always, the silence after combat was slightly unnerving. Corrie radioed for the medics to come up as Rebels began checking over the slaves. The enemy received medical attention last — Ben Raines’ orders.

  One elderly man had been killed and one woman received a slight flesh wound.

  “It could have been a lot worse,” Ballard said to Ben.

  “Yes. We got lucky,” Ben said, looking around him at all the human garbage lying in their own blood. Many were still alive. The medics ignored them until they had checked out the civilians and the Rebels.

  “Bastards,” the woman who had made the obscene gesture to Buddy said. “Heartless bastards.”

  “You’re calling us heartless?” Jersey said to her. “Hey! I know you. We chased your ass out of Texas. Dallas/Fort Worth area. I remember your ugly face. You were ramrodding a gang of street punks over there. Yeah.”

  The woman had a hole in her side and was obviously in great pain. But her hatred for law and order and justice overrode her pain. She spat at Jersey. The spit fell short of Jersey’s boot.

  “You spit on me, bitch,” Jersey warned her, “and I’ll punch your ticket right now.”

  “What are you going to do with us?” a punk moaned from his position on the road. He had taken a 7.62 round in the leg and the leg was twisted and broken.

  “Turn you over to the British Resistance Forces,” Buddy told him. “They’ll deal with you.”

  “Oh, man,” another whimpered. “They’s gone back to hangin’ folks over here. We’re all Americans, just like you. Cut us some slack, man.”

  Buddy turned his back to the punk. He had an almost overwhelming urge to shoot the bastard.

  “You’re General Ben Raines,” a punk said, looking up at Ben. “I seen you before, back in Colorado. How’s about givin’ us a break, boss?”

  Ben turned away without replying and walked over to the group of abused civilians. They were a pitiful sight, but one that he’d witnessed more times than he cared to remember.

  “You’re all from this general area?” he asked.

  They were.

  “We’ll patch you up,” he told them. “And we’ll supply you with food to eat and grain to plant. And we’ll arm you. After that, it’s up to you. It’s doubtful that we’ll be back. Don’t ever let anyone take your guns again. No government, no politician, no punk. You all had the will to fight, you just didn’t have anything to fight with. Don’t let it happen again.”

  Members of the BRF showed up and gave the prisoners some very hard looks.

  “Don’t let them people have us, General!” a punk shouted. “They’ll hang us. For God’s sake, please don’t.”

  “For God’s sake?” Ben said. “You, calling on God? He must be getting a good laugh out of this. And He probably needs one. Mount up, people, we have miles to go.”

  Three

  Rebet and his battalion, aided by the BRF, quickly secured everything in the southern part of Cornwall and pushed on to reach Ben’s One Battalion. Battalions were regrouping now, the small teams scattered all over England linking up with units of the BRF. The Rebels soon learned that the thugs and punks and human garbage had no stomach for a fight with the Rebels . . . at least, not in the country.

  “They never seem to learn,” Ben said, rubbing his eyes and leaning back in his chair. “They can’t understand that cities are death traps for them.”

  “Yeah, Ben, but in this case, they don’t have any choice in the matter,” Ike said, at a staff meeting. “We thought we’d seen bad in Ireland. But, Christ, the punks and creepies have really raped this country. . . literally.”

  Ben nodded his agreement. The advancing Rebel army had found living conditions to be appalling in most areas. The thugs and assorted crapheads were literally starving the people to death, forcing them to work the gardens and fields, and then taking the food, leaving the citizens not quite enough to get by on.

  The people told the Rebels that the creepies had a number of large breeding farms around the country, but none of them could tell the Rebels where they were located.

  Dr. Chase had been livid with rage upon seeing the hundreds and hundreds of malnourished children. And he had laid it on the line to Ben.

  “Don’t bring any enemy wounded to my hospitals, Raines. None. I’ll personally cut their stinking no-good throats with a dull scalpel.”

  “All right, Lamar. I’ll give the orders. What have you seen that’s set you off so?”

  “I’ve seen babies who were raped and sodomized.” Chase’s words were filled with loathing. “Boys and girls. Every deviant sex act known to humankind. . . I’ve seen the aftermath of it here on this island in only the short time we’ve been here. I’ve seen battle-hardened doctors and nurses who have been with us since the beginning break down and weep at the stories from the mouths of children. I’ve personally witnessed hardened Rebel veterans with tears running down their cheeks as they carry in kids, or what is left of them, after being assaulted, tortured, maimed, mutilated, and left for dead. I have yet to hear one child, one adult, male or female, tell me of one single act of compassion from the disgusting, perverted ... filth who have taken over this land. I’ve had my say. Goodnight. If you need me, I’ll be at the main hospital in Torbay.”

  Ben issued the orders declaring the death sentence on any punk, thug, warlord, and the like who offered even the slightest resistance to the Rebels.

  By this time, his communications people had every frequency used by the enemy locked in. Ben went on the air and laid down the options available to the lawless. There were only two choices. “You will surrender now and take your chances in a court of law, or you will be hunted down by the Rebel Army, the British Resistance Forces, and the Free Irish Army, and you will be killed. We will stand down for twenty-four hours to give you time to make up your minds and seek out a Rebel, BRF unit, or Free Irish, and surrender. At the end of that time, no one will be taken prisoner. That is all.”

  “He’s bluffing!” the warlords told their already spooked followers. “He ain’t gonna just shoot us down like animals.”

  “No,” London Lulu said, after hearing the same from some of her followers. “He ain’t bluffin’. We’ve had it, mates.”

  “What do you mean?” one of the group asked.

  “The British courts will hang us, or the Rebels will shoot us. It’s just that simple.”

  “But England done away with the death penalty a long time ago.”

  “Don’t try to think, Sammy,” Lulu told him. “You ain’t no good at it. This is a new order comin’ out of the ashes, people. All them sobbin’, hankie-stompin’ folks that went easy on the likes of us is gone. There’s gonna be law and order now. And the only way that’s gonna happen is for them out yonder to get rid of us. You follow me now?”

  “They ain’t gonna take us in London,” another said. “There ain’t no way that’s gonna happen. We know ever’ alley and tunnel there.”

  “They took every major city in America,” Lulu reminded them all. “And they didn’t even slow down doin’ it. No,” she said, shaking her head. “I got to get with Butch and we got to map out a retreat route.”

  “This is it,” Butch told her. “I’ve got people out now gathering all the small boats they can find. We’ll stash them all up and down the coast. When the end is looking at us — and it will, kid; we can’t win this — we’ll set out at night for France and link up with them over there. Raines is going to clear the countryside first, saving the cities for last.”

  “The cities is gettin’ all clogged up, Butch. People are comin’ in from the country by the hundreds.”

  “I know. Those coming into London are being spread out on a
line from the city down to Brighton. They’re blowing bridges and cutting up the roads west of their positions. As those who elect to fight protecting their turf fall back from Birmingham, Nottingham, Manchester, I’ll position them north of the city on the east side of the river. I’m already blowing the bridges, leaving just a few of them open for retreat. Once them that’s coming is across, those bridges will go.”

  “It’ll buy us some time, for sure,” Lulu said. “But what if Raines decides to launch another attack by sea?”

  “Then we’re fucked.”

  Lulu smiled at him. “Speaking of that . . .”

  Butch patted her denim-covered butt. “Might as well.”

  “You’re so romantic, Butch.”

  “They’re going to try to retreat using the Channel,” Ben said, after reading intell reports. “Probably using hundreds of small boats that would be impossible to intercept and destroy at night. Especially if it’s foggy and they’ll wait for that, bet on it. What do we have on this Butch Smathers fellow?”

  “Not much,” Georgi said. “But he’s had some military training. He’s making some smart moves.”

  “All the special units are back with their battalions,” Ike said. “As well as those who jumped in. Thermopolis and his Eight Battalion have cleared the county of Dyfed in Wales and opened the ports there. He reports that resistance has been extremely light. His people found one of the creepie breeding and fattening farms,” Ike said, the words leaving a bad taste in his mouth. “Physically, the people are fine. Mentally, they’re in rough shape.”

  “What is the word on those in Bristol?” Ben asked.

  “They’re digging in for a fight,” Tina told him. “My battalion is standing by just south of the city. We’ve cleared Bridgewater.”

  “That’s the last town of any size in Devon,” Ben said. “But Bristol is another matter. That’s a good-sized city. Over half a million before the Great War.”

  “But a lot of the thugs ran like rabbits, General,” the commander of the BRF pointed out. “Our people tell me that no more than thirty five hundred to four thousand hard-core criminals remain in the city.”

  “How about the general population?”

  The man shook his head. “I have to say that those who chose to remain were slaughtered. Either that, or traded to the Believers.”

  “The birthplace of America,” Ben spoke the words softly. “A treasure-house of historical importance.”

  “Not anymore,” the BRF commander said. “It’s been trashed and looted and vandalized over the years. Take it down, General Raines.”

  “That’s the consensus of the people, Commander Drake?”

  “It is, sir.”

  “Out of the ashes,” Ben muttered. “We’ll try to save the more important landmarks. Where is the Methodist Chapel located, Commander Drake?”

  The man smiled sadly. “It isn’t, anymore, sir. The hoodlums burned it.”

  Ben sighed. When something like that occurred, the loss was deep, for history could never be replaced. “What else have the bastards destroyed?”

  “Nearly everything that was priceless and precious to us,” the man replied. “England will not be rebuilt in our lifetime. These thugs and hoodlums have done more damage than the Nazis did more than half a century ago.”

  “The university?” Ben asked.

  “Trashed and vandalized. The books were all destroyed. They heaped them in piles and burned them. I have eyewitness accounts of that.”

  “What do your people say about the punks’ armaments?”

  “Light weapons. A few mortars and rocket launchers. The tanks and other modern equipment were simply too complicated for them to master. But the taking of Bristol will not be a walk-through.”

  “No,” Ben agreed. “It never is. All right, we’ll use three battalions, plus armor and artillery. My One Battalion, Dan’s Three Battalion, and Georgi’s Five Battalion. The rest of you, hold your lines. Commander Drake, your BRF people will continue the sweeping of the countryside down to the coast. All right, people.” Ben smiled and looked over at Jersey, sitting in a chair by the door, her M-16 across her legs. “What do you say, Jersey?”

  Her dark eyes twinkled. “Kick-ass time.”

  Those in Bristol who had chosen a life of crime and pitched their lot in with the Believers knew the sands of time had very nearly emptied the glass when the mist of dawn was abruptly shattered by incoming artillery rounds that rained down on their heads like some hideous storm.

  Ben was throwing heavy artillery and mortar rounds at the center of the city while his Rebels smashed into the suburbs north and south of the river and caught those there by surprise. Those who tried to flee toward the east ran right into two battalions of Free Irish who cut them down with heavy machine gun fire. To the west lay the heavily patrolled Bristol Channel.

  Ben ordered the thundering pounding to continue for an hour. Then he ordered tear gas to be dropped into the center of the city, canister after canister of it. For blocks in any direction, people were staggering around, unable to see. Then Ben ordered pepper gas to be dropped in, and that really caused the punks and crud and creepies some problems. The gas was by no means lethal, one simply felt that death would be a relief from the choking and stinging.

  When the creeps and crud staggered into a free-fire area, the Rebels cut them down. Some of the Brits (but not many) with the BRF thought this to be a bit on the barbaric side, and certainly ungentlemanly, but they kept their mouths shut and maintained a stiff upper lip.

  “This offend you?” Ben asked a newly arrived observer from the BRF.

  “To be truthful, yes, it does. But nothing that I can’t live with,” he added dryly.

  “Want to get a little closer?”

  “I thought you would never ask, General,” the distinguished-looking gentleman said.

  Ben had tried to pinpoint the man’s age, but it was hard to tell. He might be anywhere from sixty to eighty.

  Ben and his team and the BRF observer moved to within a block of the battle lines, which made the frontline Rebels awfully nervous. Ben ordered body armor and helmet for the seemingly unflappable Mr. Carrington and made the much older man get into the protective gear. Carrington carried an old bolt-action rifle which looked to Ben to be about a hundred years old.

  “Ah, Mr. Carrington,” Ben asked, pointing to the rifle. “Will that thing shoot?”

  “My heavens, yes. Certainly, it will. It functioned quite well at Dunkirk.”

  “Dunkirk! That was more than half a century ago! I wasn’t even born then.”

  Carrington looked at Ben, a twinkle in his eyes. “Quite right,” he said, then returned his attention to the battle lines up the street.

  “Bastards!” a scream cut the morning’s chill. “Dirty, rotten bastards and bitches, all of you!”

  A man appeared out of the fading fog of tear gas and pepper gas carrying an M-16. Carrington lifted his rifle, sighted in the man, and cut him down.

  “Good show,” Ben said.

  “Thank you, General,” Carrington said, as he worked the bolt and rammed home a round. “I do like to pull my weight.”

  The streets suddenly filled with Rebels, all running back toward Ben’s position. “Get the general out of here!” one yelled. “We’re about to be overrun. They’re trying a suicide attack.”

  Ben jumped out onto the sidewalk. “Stand your ground!” he yelled, stopping the Rebels. “Spread out left and right of me. Corrie, get Dusters up here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Oh, jolly good, I say, General,” Carrington said. “This is just the place for a to-do, I should think.”

  “Quite right,” Ben said. The English manner of speaking is very contagious. “Corrie, call up gunships.”

  “Yes, sir. Calling up gunships.”

  “Here the buggers come, men!” Carrington said, then looked around him. Jersey was staring at him. She shook her head. “And, ah, ladies. Stand firm now for God and the King.”

&
nbsp; “Right,” Cooper said, from behind his bi-podded Stoner. “And for Ben Raines and America.”

  “Quite right, lad,” Carrington said, a flush to his cheeks.

  They could hear the screaming and cursing mob quite plainly now.

  “Hold your fire,” Ben shouted. “Hold your fire until they’re in the middle of the block. We’ll take the first wave and the choppers can have the rest.”

  “Marvelous things, those helicopters.” Carrington’s voice could just be heard over the rantings of the thugs and creepies as they rounded the corner and began the charge up the last block to Ben’s position. “Wish we’d had them during World War Two.”

  “Fire!” Ben shouted, and there was no more time for conversation that would have gone unheard anyway

  The ground floor of the old building reverberated with the sounds of weapons on full auto — all but one. Carrington was calmly working the bolt and making each shot count. “Damn!” he said. “I’m all out of ammunition. Drat!”

  A Rebel medic couldn’t hear his words, but saw his predicament. He crawled over and handed the man two .45’s from his kit and a bag full of clips.

  “Oh, good, lad! Thank you.” And Carrington was back in business with a vengeance, blasting away with both hands full of autoloaders.

  The mob was right on top of them when the Dusters clanked up, lowered their cannon, and went to work. Overhead, helicopter gunships were just arriving and cutting loose with everything they had.

  Thugs and punks and creepies and other assorted street slime hurled themselves through the glassless windows and the fight was hand to hand, eyeball to eyeball.

  Knowing he was much too old to engage in this type of nonsense, Carrington backed up, loaded up both .45’s, and began picking his targets in the gunsmoke-filled room. And he was deadly accurate.

  Jersey kicked a thug in the balls and then shot him in the neck as he bent over, puking.

  Beth had a Beretta 9mm in each hand and was holding her own in a corner of the room. Corrie had slipped off her backpack radio and was swinging her empty CAR-15 like a club, and doing some terrible damage to jaws and heads. Ben shot a creep in the belly and another one point blank in the face before a punk jumped on his back and rode him down to the dirty floor.