by Vance Huxley
“Out of the cars, out out out! Come on, move it, run over the fuckers! Shooters, lay it on, keep their heads down!” More vehicles arrived, the men pouring out to surge up the road, spreading onto the rubble as the numbers grew. A few shots hit them, but if every asshole over there emptied half a dozen pistols it wouldn’t be enough. Across the rubble at least two defenders went down. Garth started thumping the wall rhythmically, urging the Barbarians on. He laughed as two transits covered in steel plate pulled out of cover, to block the road as it ran between the first houses. They’d never stop all these men, though if he’d known the Sikhs had plated vans he’d have sent for the Army rifle.
Garth’s smile died as two automatics, one from each van, opened up. The Sikhs didn’t have automatics, or Conan’s guy would have known. Garth didn’t know who the fuck Sylvester really was, but the spy seemed to know everything. These must be whoever made those radio calls about coming in hot. The weapons fired several bursts then hesitated. Garth started to hope but they started up again. The Barbarians faltered, even as more vehicles disgorged men to swell the horde. The only automatics Garth knew of were those coppers, and…. His smile came back as he raised the radio. The men out there with radios would pass the word to the rest. “Keep going, run over them. It’s those coppers and they’re short of ammo. The man who brings me an automatic gets to keep it.” Garth knew that Conan would either agree, or the poor fuck would have a fatal accident so he wouldn’t need the weapon. “Go, go, go, there’s only two, and no ammo!”
Inside one of the vans, Sergeant Koos stepped back from the loophole as bullets pinged and rattled on the plate. He ejected the clip, putting in another as the second shooter took his place to keep up the short bursts. The shooter concentrated on the Barbarians running up the road, the faster ones, letting the others spread out across the rubble. “They’re past halfway, fifteen.”
Koos clicked his radio. “Fifteen here. Break them.” He waited a few moments before moving up to the second loophole, raising his automatic. “God Almighty, that’s a hell of a lot of bloody targets.”
* * *
Garth began to wonder if he’d been wrong, because the men on the road were dying nearly as fast as they ran forward. Not all of them were dying, but thrashing, screaming wounded impeded the rest more than bodies would have. The front ones made it halfway across, while to either side the wide swathe of gangsters were actually moving faster. Ahead of them he could see glimpses of defenders emptying weapons blindly over the top of their cover before retreating. More vans drove into view, probably to pick up the survivors but they’d be too late.
The sheer noise stunned everyone on both sides for a few seconds, though the policemen with automatics had earplugs and were used to it. Mahaan’s men had blocked their ears, as advised, but weren’t expecting this! Rolling thunder drowned out speech, but not the screaming as ten automatics swept the front ranks of the barbarians in long bursts. Again and again they fired, while Garth stood open-mouthed, praying they’d run out of ammo. There were short breaks, but staggered, and some part of his mind realised the bastards were only replacing clips. Short of ammo? If he dared call for a retreat Conan would skin him an inch at a time but shit, the men were being slaughtered!
Garth never had to decide, because the Barbarians had taken enough. They’d charge home against anything or anyone, but they couldn’t charge. Their path was littered with friends and comrades, dead or screaming in agony, and then those lines of flame swept back and even more joined them. If the men had been half-pissed or jacked up, like they usually were before assaults, maybe that would have got them across. This time there’d been no time to prepare, and pure courage can only do so much. Just a few faltered at first, then in a rapidly growing shudder along the whole line charging men checked, turned, and tried to shove their way back through the men behind. For more long, bloody, murderous moments, those retreating shouted and punched at confused gangsters still pushing forward. More went down screaming, until realisation spread through the whole crowd. A group of men to one side broke, racing back towards Garth, the movement spreading along the whole front in one long, merciful ripple.
Garth watched, them, speechless. Conan would be yelling at them, probably kill a few to drive the rest forward, but he couldn’t. He honestly didn’t think even shooting would stop them running. He didn’t have the heart to try, because Garth knew he’d be running as well. The gunfire finally cut off, leaving an echoing silence pierced by the cries of the wounded. The Barbarian watched the rest of the Sikhs, and what must be those coppers, climb aboard the vans and drive away. He briefly considered sending whatever men he could gather to chase them, but one look at the roadway killed that idea. The vehicles would have to drive over a carpet of dead and wounded. Even then, he shuddered at the thought, if he caught the retreating vans those automatics might start up again. Instead he sent motorbike messengers to ask for every medic that could be spared, before telling one man to drive back to the big radio and tell Conan. Garth actually took out his pistol and considered shooting himself, just in case Conan decided he should be an example, then decided to ride it out.
* * *
In the vans silence fell. A dazed Koos moved, then looked down at his feet, startled. The floor was covered in empty brass. Still stunned by the noise, and the buffeting from the weapon, he checked his clips. He had one left, thirty original rounds for penetrating ordinary steel plate, and whatever was left in the gun. The government had upgraded to full automatics some years ago, but he’d rarely needed more than single shot or three-round bursts. He’d never, ever, fired like this. He looked at the other gunner, noting he’d got two clips left but had just ejected the one from his weapon. “That was close.”
“Too close. I really hope that ram of Mahaan’s works or we are in deep shit.” The man looked through his loophole. “We’d better be long gone before anyone over there tries that again.”
That seemed to be everyone’s opinion as the survivors crammed aboard and the convoy lurched into motion. At least the ammo situation settled one thing; the convoy couldn’t fight its way home. They’d be going full speed down the dual carriageway, soaking up whatever anyone threw at them. Hopefully they’d be gone before Conan got his men organised, or recovered enough to bribe another gang enough to risk the Army and block the dual carriageway. As the vehicles got under way hardly anyone spoke, still in some sort of shock. It’s one thing to talk of breaking a charging horde with gunfire, but the reality went a long way beyond what any of them imagined.
By the time the vehicles slowed, the stench of cordite had blown away, and the men had recovered a little. None of them were triumphant, because there was one more big obstacle. Ahead of them two burned-out coaches had been towed or manhandled across the road and adjacent gardens, completely filling the access road to the dual carriageway. The fronts had been jammed together in a vee, so nothing could bulldoze them apart. Koos inspected the ram, a pickup truck coated in steel plate with a long steel girder jutting five metres beyond the bonnet. The girder went through the passenger side of the vehicle cab, sticking out past the back of the pickup bed. Huge chunks of iron had been welded to the rear to try and balance the length jutting out the front.
Now that he’d seen the obstacle, Koos didn’t think the ram would do the job. Even as he wondered if they could storm the buses, or maybe get across the rubble and try for the next junction, one of the other vans drove up to the front. Men uncoupled a horsebox trailer, lining it up as the first metre of the ram on the pickup slid into an obviously prepared hole. The men jumped into their van, accelerating away as the pickup revved, the ungainly contraption lurching into motion. “Pray the front steel stops any bullets until impact.”
Koos jumped a mile, then turned to find Mahaan right behind him. “You nearly gave me a heart attack.” He pointed at the strange vehicle, now up above walking pace but still accelerating. “That still won’t shift those buses. It’ll never get up enough speed. We should get nearer and
charge as it hits, because it’ll give those buses a hell of a clout and knock the defenders off their feet.” The sergeant patted his automatic. “What’s left will go through that steel so we should make it. Then we can pull a bus out of the way.”
“Or you can put in your earplugs, get back in the van and shut all the loopholes. There’s a reason we stopped so far away.” Mahaan smiled at Koos’s look. “Thermobaric, or a crude version. Boom!” Koos took one startled look at the size of the horsebox and the size of what Mahaan expected to blow out of the way before diving into the van. He shouted Mahaan’s instructions over the radio as he jammed in earplugs, while men pulled or slid the loopholes closed. As he sat and waited, sending up a silent prayer that the explosion was enough but not too much, his driver accelerated towards cover. Koos added a prayer for the pickup driver, but didn’t have much hope.
The gangsters on the buses weren’t particularly worried, not wasting ammo on an empty trailer. The one with original ammo in his rifle waited, confident he could shoot the pickup driver as soon as he could see past the horsebox. Then the vehicles would swerve and flip, or stop dead when the horsebox hit at least one coach. “Brace yourselves, lads. When this doesn’t work, they’ll have to charge us or wait for the Barbarians.” This gang leader knew that if he stopped the wogs, Conan would be right behind them. He really fancied being a warband leader in a bigger gang, one big enough to be safe, and as a bonus he’d get his hands on some of those fancy swords. He never ever realised how wrong he was.
Koos knew when the horsebox hit, because the van lurched and even through earplugs he heard it, and felt the air pressure. After waiting for the debris to stop bouncing off the van he opened the rear door and got out, peeking around the building they’d parked behind, then gaping. The pickup truck rolled over once more, coming to a stop upside down. The front of the vehicle had almost disappeared except for the engine, as had the bodywork except for a steel box enclosing the driver’s seat. The badly bent girder landed twenty yards away, shedding lumps of the welded steel from the end.
Men with a fire extinguisher and a set of bottles swarmed over the steel box, trying to cut their way inside. “We sealed the driver into a triple-steel airtight box, to stop the pressure or vacuum and keep some oxygen in there. He might make it.” Mannan made a ‘hurry-up’ gesture. “Come on. That smoke will attract every vulture within miles.” By the time the rescuers burned through the plate to cut through all the straps holding the limp, heavily-padded driver, the first of the other vehicles were through the gap.
The first driver used the angled plate on the front of his van to scrape a clear path through the garden to the left of the road, around the crater. The chassis of the bus that should have stopped the van had been stripped of its bodywork, before being flipped up and backwards to lean on end against the burning stump of the nearest house. The framework of the other bus had been driven end on into another burning house, leaving only the engine block and part of the chassis still showing. The van driver revved a little to shunt a twisted length of steel out of his way. Behind him the first of the vans inched its way around the hole to follow. As the convoy drove through one after the other, before turning onto the dual carriageway, the cheering finally started. The twin lanes of tarmac stretched out towards home, with no barricades because the Army periodically sent armour along here to keep the road clear for supply convoys.
* * *
Garth wasn’t cheering, though he considered offering thanks to a deity of some sort. Conan had arrived, seen the slaughter and been winding up. The lieutenant really did wonder if his days were numbered, but a huge explosion had interrupted. It had to be a big one, not only to be heard so far away but because of the smoke and the way the ground smacked his boot soles. To the south, above the ruins, a tall, black, writhing column rose up, and up, until the top began to spread out and stream away downwind. “What in fuck’s name was that?”
Garth couldn’t have put it better than the anonymous Barbarian, but Conan knew. His axe hammered down, splintering the table in the room they were using. “I paid those fucks a fortune to keep the bastards penned in, and now we’ve lost them! That has to be the buses blocking the way onto the bypass. There’s a clear run to….” He snatched up a radio then turned on Garth. “This stupid fucking thing won’t reach. Get a message to the big radio, to contact Banner. Tell him there’s vans coming past on the dual carriageway and to shoot the fuck out of them.” Garth didn’t need telling twice, he got the hell out.
Behind him Conan turned to a man wearing fewer weapons than most, though what he had were in good condition and obviously used. Sylvester didn’t have to look dangerous; he was too valuable to Conan so none of the Barbarians would touch him. “I thought you said they were short of ammo?” His hand shot out to point at the swathe of bodies, and the men and women either bringing in wounded or stripping the dead. “That looks like a lot of ammo to me.”
“Not really, just a few minutes on full rock’n roll. They’ll have burned through a shitload, and the coppers really don’t have much left. I doubt they’ve got two clips apiece after that and a couple of guns will have jammed.” The spymaster narrowed his eyes, thinking it through. “It’s a pity Garth couldn’t have got another charge out of the men, because then you’d have more automatics than Precinct 19. Once you’d bought ammo you’d have been able to roll right over them.”
“If, but, and fucking maybe are no good to me. There’s at least two hundred dead or badly wounded out there, and the only bright side is the wogs didn’t have time to take their weapons. That fucking arsehole Mahaan has got away, and worse he’s teamed up with fucking machine guns.” Conan threw his axe into the wreckage of the table before kicking the pieces across the room. “That’s twice. I don’t care how good your info is. Lead my men into another fucking trap and I’ll see how you like some.”
Sylvester stared, really startled. In spite of all the information he brought, the nutter actually meant that. “I didn’t tell your men to chase those refugees in among the Sikhs. I didn’t tell Garth to attack either, but I didn’t warn him because those policemen understand operational secrecy. They were supposed to be on a Mart run today, one they paid a fortune for.” After a quick glance out of the window Sylvester pushed on. “Forget the zoo for now. Let me work on the problem, find you a way in past the weapons, then you’ll have the numbers to deal with any fighters. Remember, you’ve got four more gangs joining up to replace any losses.” The Cabal agent raised his eyes to watch the smoke. “Three and a bit now, I suppose.”
“I’ve got to forget the bloody zoo. The Barbarians need a string of victories before they’ll go up against those guns again, even if those fucking coppers are down to one round each.” Conan glared out of the window towards a cowering figure being escorted his way. “This bitch should have warned Garth. You find me those easy victories while I deal with her.” In one of those unpredictable shifts of mood, Conan smiled. “It’s a good job she isn’t a real nun, so I’m not going to upset the nurses. When she’s broken in she can cheer the blokes up while they’re in the hospital, a whole new version of bedridden.” The scowl swept back over his face as the door opened, to show a cringing woman in a nun’s habit.
“I’ll get right on it.” Sylvester got out, sharpish, because this would be brutal and bloody. Not for the first time he wished he could have been sent someplace else, more or less anyplace else. According to the original plan Conan’s Barbarians were too strong now, so a sniper should have dealt with the bloody animal.
Behind him he heard Conan building up to a brutal attack on the woman, their spy. “You were given that God frock and put among those fucking refugees instead of in the fucking brothel for one reason, to give me information. I warned you what would happen if you didn’t. I’ve moved you to the top of the list right now, ahead of the Bitch.”
* * *
Despite another two men being killed on the barges by sporadic sniping on the return trip, and two of the wounded
dying in the vans, everyone in Dudley Zoo wore a smile. As the barges came in under the bridge and unloaded, one by one, the children were taken off to see the animals, giving the mothers a chance to get organised. There were tears as the fallen were remembered but despite the losses, the wounded, and the amount of ammunition used, Precinct 19 and the Keepers considered this one a win. Well over a hundred and fifty people had been pulled out of a death trap, nearly a third of them experienced hand-to-hand fighters who could train up the Keepers and ex-policemen.
As the combined groups sat around, eating barbecued buffalo and trying to work out where everyone would live, the leaders made a fateful decision. With the original groups intermingled like this, and a third group joining, it would be simpler if they all had one name. Despite Precinct 19 doing most of the fighting, their meal decided them on the name. The next time the coupon bus called, the Zookeepers would be well over three hundred strong. None of them realised that they’d just solved two of their biggest problems, medicine and ammunition. Conan would be tearing his hair out when the news reached him.
* * *
Sutton Park:
Sutton Park also had plenty of young animals running about, many of whom needed tending, but the gang bosses would have been startled if they’d seen some of their wildlife wardens. Instead of herding this and that, five of them had transformed into something very familiar for people who watched certain types of film. The five big camouflaged packs, the night sights on headbands, the loose, camouflaged clothing, and the greens and browns streaking their faces were big hints, but the long wrapped something slung across Asif’s back would remove any doubt. “I thought you weren’t bringing your little friend, Asif?” Jer nodded towards the rifle. “We aren’t supposed to be seen, or heard.”
