by Vance Huxley
“But if Murphy and his minions make an appearance, I can slow them up. I doubt the Prophet will see us, but it only takes one idiot in the wrong place. Though if I actually see the Prophet, I could solve all our problems.” The sniper grinned and hitched his pack into place. “I’ve brought my Halloween costume, so they’ll never find me once I break contact.”
“You’re just worried your girlfriend will pine if you leave her behind. You should find yourself a woman. Just as noisy, but they’re cheaper to feed and warmer in bed.” The four men chuckled and followed Jer into the ruins. They’d given themselves two weeks to find out as much as possible, but warned the gangs to be ready to move at short notice.
Behind the scouts, five gangs tried to form a cohesive striking force. All the gang members could fight and follow orders but co-ordinating them, or getting them to obey orders from the wrong person, would be like herding cats. Even while the gangsters struggled to get organised, unfriendly eyes were watching, taking careful note. The possibility of those unfriendly eyes had been one reason the scouts slipped away without telling anyone.
* * *
The General:
In the south-west of the city the General didn’t have any trouble from conquered enclaves, because the mere thought of the Bloods kept them docile. For once he wasn’t worrying over Orchard Close either because he’d heard about the lorry full of diesel. Rhys, the spymaster, didn’t fancy the odds. “We’ll never get it. It’ll burn.” He pointed at the map and shrugged. “Even if your men grab it, you’ll never get it back here through at least two gang territories.”
“We can manage for diesel, just, if more of the patrols are on foot. What I really fancy is the armoured lorry, or that half-track.” The General stabbed the map with his finger, to the north of Rhys’s finger. “Then we can drive right up to Soldier Boy’s walls, or Beth’s, or the Castle, and ram our way inside.” His finger moved back to the diesel tanker. “We could swamp the place and get both vehicles, probably, but that will cost too many men. Even the Bloods won’t fancy a bloodbath if there’s no booze or women afterwards.” He tapped the map, torn between getting the armour and losing men. “I won’t send the Bloods. I’ll send Julius but tell him to keep back from the fight. With a bit of luck he’ll grab something when the winners try to get their prizes home.”
The spymaster shook his head. “This is too rushed. There’s no time to check the ground, or even plan properly. Julius and his men might be trapped, then we’ve lost our best-trained men.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll let Julius take a few rockets to blow his way free as long as he doesn’t let anyone realise what he used. We don’t want Soldier Boy thickening his walls, do we? Julius will stick to orders, only use them in an emergency, and I’ll make sure he takes enough men to stand off the other gangs. Only the steadiest men though, and not just so they obey orders.” The bigger man slapped the smaller one on the shoulder and grinned. “We’ll need the Bloods here when the bugnuts squad arrive.”
“Christ, too true.”
* * *
The General’s raiding force set off within the hour, looking more like an army. Julius only managed it because these men really were well-disciplined compared to many gangsters. The line of vans and cars crept across Barbie territory, through the back streets and across gardens, led by a van with an angled blade on the front to clear light rubble. Between the updated maps produced by Rhys and the local knowledge from the recent Hot Rod deserters, Julius also managed to bypass the Mansion without being spotted. From the complete lack of patrols, most of the local gangsters were heading for the fight.
Once he could see the smoke and hear the gunfire, Julius stopped his vehicles. He left the convoy parked in the street, running up the stairs to the top of a burned-out block of council flats to inspect the battlefield. Crouching behind the big ventilator hoods, Julius and his spotters took their time, identifying the combatants and estimating numbers before carefully marking up a large map. Back down in the street, the squad leaders gathered around to look at the problem.
“We won’t be going for the diesel. There’s too many gangs; one of them will blow the tanker up to stop the others getting it.” Julius glanced down the list of vehicles Rhys had provided. “The priorities are still the armoured lorry or the half-track, but we don’t want to lose too many men. Take any armoured vans or an ordinary lorry if you get chance, or kill and strip stray fighters. Only attack from ambush and only if you can kill them all. Don’t get sucked into a fight you can’t break clear of.” He pointed to the four squad leaders in turn, giving them routes into the melee, stressing they should keep to the edges and not get bogged down in fighting.
As the four scout groups felt their way into the war zone, Julius went back to the rooftop, occasionally redirecting one of them. After too many negative reports, two repeated radio messages stood out from the babble as seven or eight gangs all used the available nine channels.
Squad three reported that the Trainspotters had grabbed an armoured vehicle with tracks but no roof, and were going home. The route the gangsters were taking passed through a possible ambush point, but only if Julius pulled his men off the other targets.
When squad two reported the armoured lorry heading the wrong direction, Julius sprang into action. He quickly sent out coded messages to the four squads, one to follow the tracked vehicle and three to converge. Julius repeated the instructions until he received clear acknowledgements, folding his map as he ran down the stairs to his Jeep. The gangs tended to think of those routes as safe because Mart runs went down them, so they might not even register the ambush possibilities. Not an obvious chance, but Julius had artillery while the target didn’t have a roof.
Julius thanked any interested deity that the General had agreed to send steady troops. The Bloods would never have stayed out of that fight or pulled out to head off into the wilderness of ruins, not without Patton killing a couple. A few minutes later Julius smiled in relief as two steel plated vans, one with a blade across the front, led several cars out into the road ahead. He ran across to tell the drivers what to do.
* * *
Ahead of Julius’s squad three, the Trainspotters were jubilant. They’d lost a lot of men recently, fighting Hot Rods, then been chewed up trying to take a newly-claimed estate from the Barbies. The Ferdinands had started pushing them, hard. Now their new ride, a proper armoured WWII Bren carrier on tracks rather than a half-track, would back everyone off. Fighters crowded the WWII vehicle, crouched down below the level of the armour plate, real armour plate because there’d been enough bullets bouncing off to test it. A few shots still whined past or bounced off as three cars full of someone’s fighters stuck on their tail. The occasional shot kept the pursuers at a distance.
The road ahead ran down a street of old Victorian houses, some in ruins, with any rubble pushed off the road into front gardens. The gangsters recognised it from Mart runs and some cheered; they had a clear run home from here. As the last vehicle turned into the road, the Bren carrier because it made a terrific rearguard, bullets lashed the Trainspotter vehicles. “Push through, keep going!” Voices rang out or screamed into radios as the vehicles accelerated. For a few moments, as bullets flew both ways, it looked as if the Trainspotters would make it.
A steel-plated van lurched into the road ahead, which would slow the convoy but not stop them. The front vehicle saw the real danger, slowing as the driver looked for a way round it. The steel plate on the front of the van had pushed a heap of rubble out into the road, too much to drive over and ram a van aside. “Reverse, now! Get the fuck out of here!” The convoy screeched to a halt as voices urged the rear vehicle to get a move on. A couple of cars turned into driveways, but the low brick walls between the gardens made them impassable for anything but an off-roader with a steel blade.
On the third floor of one of the Victorian houses, Julius held a field telephone, waiting for just this moment. A voice on the phone confirmed target acquisition. Julius switched on
his radio, so everyone heard him. “Concentrate on killing the prime targets, then anyone shooting back. Specials, reload and wait. Two, one, fire!” Despite all the other messages on the radios, Julius’s men were near enough to get clear reception. Just in case, their commander had made sure everyone knew what to do.
The crew of the armoured vehicle, the prime targets, were suddenly in a lot of trouble as gunfire from second and third-floor windows raked the open driving position and rear compartment. Ahead of them five lines of smoke tore out of first floor windows, streaking down the driveways to blow five vehicles apart. Any of Julius’s fighters who weren’t shooting at the armoured vehicle concentrated on slaughtering the occupants of the stalled vehicles. The Trainspotters didn’t even fire back for a few moments, stunned, still trying to work out what had just happened. By then it was too late. Self-preservation urged the surviving passengers out into the gardens before their cars blew as well, but that didn’t save them.
As the firing died down, Julius’s jubilant fighters swarmed over the ambushed convoy, finishing off the wounded before stripping anything useful from the bodies. Precious fire extinguishers were quickly sprayed over any burning vehicles, so they could be pillaged and pushed or pulled off the road. Others siphoned diesel from fuel tanks, or drove the surviving vehicles clear. Julius watched impatiently, worried that the explosions and plume of smoke would attract attention. The General hadn’t liked the idea of taking rockets on the attack in case the secret got out, but Julius had promised there’d be no surviving witnesses.
Within minutes the few casualties had been either patched up or carried into a van, and the enlarged convoy had reformed. The plough-van took the lead, followed by a 4x4 off-roader and the armour. The tracked vehicle and 4x4 could cross the rubble to flank any blockage in the road. Julius used runners to send his instructions to the drivers so there’d be no radio messages to intercept. “Well done lads. We’re going home now, on the back roads. We’ll try to use the blue route marked on your maps, but stay alert in case we divert.” The line wasn’t straight because it avoided any roads used on the way in, keeping away from the recognised cleared routes. That left a wide area of uninhabited ruins to sneak through, but Julius had maps showing the worst blockages and a vehicle to shift light stuff.
* * *
Ten minutes later and several miles nearer the GOFS and Barbie borders, an electric motorbike screeched to a halt. The rider ran to the front vehicle of three. “The General’s mob snatched a tracked Army vehicle, armoured but with no guns or roof. They’ve got Geeks and Kurt’s Kutters following them. A van with a blade is clearing a path down the back roads, the ones with only a bit of rubble. The convoy will pass east of the Mansion, moving slowly but keeping well away from any witnesses. I reckon it’ll take them ten minutes to reach the first of our blockades, maybe less. The armour is the third vehicle.”
“Thanks.” Vulcan clapped the man on the shoulder before raising his radio. “Vulcan here. Into the web, not the sack. I repeat, into the web.” He turned to his troops and the five biker messengers, raising his voice. “We’ve got a General-flavoured fly heading into the web, the western stop line. They’re coming past the Mansion to the west, on back roads, so bring in the men waiting by the cleared roads as well as those east of the Mansion. Bikers, make sure everyone on the web side has blocked their road properly, enough to stop a van using a blade. Tell the men there to block the gardens so a 4x4 can’t go around, and remind them of their instructions. They are to leave a couple of guns covering any blockage that might be cleared fairly quickly, so the convoy diverts instead. Steer them into the trap, but send most of the men back to the web rendezvous. The rest of you follow me, no radios. We’ve got five minutes, tops!” As Vulcan led Harold’s Tank and the cannon to the ambush point, the motorbikes headed out to confirm which of Vulcan’s scenarios the GOFS would be using.
Just under five minutes later Vulcan spread his map out on the bonnet of an SUV to assess the latest messages. The rest of his men hid vehicles, breaking into the back of a bungalow to set up the cannon. The map showed which roads were clear, which were passable with a 4x4, and which were impassable for vehicles. Single and double lines showed where wrecked vehicles or heaps of rubble blocked the route and if the blockage could be removed. The GOFS war chief ran his finger down the routes the General’s plough-van could take. Additional lines showed where the GOFS had blocked some of them. All the gangs had these maps now, so they could sneak around their neighbour’s patch, but after today everyone else would need to revise theirs.
“I hope it works.” Ogou, one of the GOFS elite, pointed at the new red lines across some roads on the map. “The blokes have sweated for hours putting that lot in place. It’ll cost you a lot of beer if we end up with nothing.”
Vulcan thumped him gently on the back. “They’ll sweat some more now we know where he’s going. I didn’t promise a good prize, just a few strays running from the fighting, but now we might get more. The latest messenger had a solid ID on the armour. A WWII Bren carrier, so real armour and tracks that will go anywhere. Now it all depends on how careful the General’s man is, and how determined he is to stick to his route. I doubt he’ll risk his new toy to break through one of our blockages, not with two gangs right behind him. A lot depends on the fighters, if they’re Bloods or the steady ones under that Julius.”
“I hope the three gangs don’t combine.” Ogou looked up the road, to where the convoy would hopefully appear. “They’d run over us and take the cannon.”
“Wellington won’t join the General. To be honest, I’m surprised he’s teamed up with the Kutters. With luck they’ll all turn on each other when the cannon opens up.” Vulcan turned round to point along the road. “As the rest of the men arrive, they can help with blocking the gardens each side of the road, from here to the red garage door. Bring more wrecked motors, either drag them out of garages or the streets behind us. Set a few blokes on gutting the front room in the next house, the last semi-detached, right through the dining room and out the back. Remember to prop up the roof, and leave the front wall and window and the rear untouched.”
“Shit, I thought you were joking! Do you think that’ll really work?” Ogou looked at the house in question. “What if the house collapses?”
“Wrong question. You should be asking if the house will collapse at the right time. If not, we won’t get as much as we expected.” Vulcan turned away with a big grin on his face. “I’m just going to check on the cannon, and get it loaded. That should give even a Bren carrier a nasty headache.”
* * *
As the GOFS set out their web, Julius’s convoy made erratic progress. The map wasn’t dead right so despite the scouts with Jeeps and bikes out in front, Julius had to change his route too often for his peace of mind. Even so he’d passed the Mansion without meeting any Hot Rods, and began to hope he’d make it home without a real fight. Shots sounded ahead, followed by scouts reporting another blockage. A house had collapsed across a supposedly clear road. Julius had enough men to take the position and clear away the debris, but daren’t because of the gangs close behind him. “Mustang, we need another route, again.” The ex-Hot Rod had been useful today, showing Julius a succession of alternative routes.
Behind the General’s convoy, Wellington kept the Geeks back from making full contact. He’d started worrying as the convoy found a succession of collapsed buildings or roads blocked by wrecked vehicles, all guarded by armed men. When the convoy ahead detoured around a road he’d driven down only a few hours ago, Wellington smelled a big, lethal rat.
If the Hot Rods had set an ambush, the General’s men would probably plough them under, but that would give the Geeks and Kurt’s men a chance to strike. Wellington glanced at his map again, noting the two territories that lay ahead. There’d been no sign of the GOFS or Barbies at the fight, but those two had already combined once.
He quickly checked where his vehicles and men were, because if that pair turned up he’d
run like hell. At first glance that wouldn’t be possible because the last vehicles were Kurt’s, and those prats hadn’t seen Barbies or GOFS in action. They’d try to fight which would trap the Geeks in the middle.
Wellington beckoned to a man on an electric quad. “Pass the word back, mouth to mouth. Don’t let any of the Kutters get a hint. I smell Barbies and GOFS ahead, but Kurt’s mob will stop us breaking away. Tell the men to stay in place, but to take careful note where the nearest Kutters are. If I broadcast plan J, everyone turns and shoots the nearest Kutter, then the rest of them. No hesitation and no survivors, got it?”
“Shit Wellie, I thought we were allies.”
“Yeah, but for the first time, ever. We’ve spent at least half the last three years shooting at each other. They’d stab us as quick, in fact I expect it if we get that armour.” Wellington kept his voice down but jabbed the messenger with a finger to drive the point home. “I’ve explained properly for once, so everyone knows why. Tell half a dozen others, plan J, and explain properly, then get them to spread the word. We’ve got time, I think.” He grinned suddenly, clapping the man on the shoulder. “Think of all the loot.”
“Shit Wellie, don’t smile in daylight. On second thoughts, aim it at the Bren carrier. Those blokes might die of fright.” Despite the dig about his scars, Wellington laughed and waved the man away. The scars didn’t bug him these days, because they didn’t bother the only person that mattered.
* * *
Five minutes later Mustang came to the same conclusion as Wellington, but a little too late. “I’m telling you boss, someone is setting us up. That last road wasn’t blocked when I left the Hot Rods, or at least not enough to stop bikes or slow cars. I was almost sure it was deliberate, but I’m certain now because this road didn’t have all those cars in the gardens.”
