by Vance Huxley
The sergeant went back to beating on the sandbag as the lunatics poured through the breaches in the walls and the defenders fell back. The survivors were trying to rally on those three fortified houses, but as far as Sarge could see there just weren’t enough fighters left. He barely heard the rattle of the machine gun and the screaming, followed by a few single shots. When the corporal reported that the intruders were dead, he grunted acknowledgement. “Take four men along the bypass, with the rope ladder. Send someone down to get the weapons. Shoot anyone who interferes, or even looks at any of you.”
The corporal didn’t answer. To be honest, he hoped someone would look.
* * *
Down below in Orchard Close, in the only strongpoint still firing, there were only two men still standing. A couple of defenders had already run downstairs, abandoning the other rooms. “I’m out. Is it time?”
Alfie picked out a gangster with a shotgun, dropping him. “Leave the bloody Army rifles alone, Josh. Harold will say when. We’ve still got people outside.”
“Not enough. Oi, someone chuck a shotgun and ammo up here, will you?” Josh wiped a hand across his forehead to stop the blood dripping into his left eye before glancing at Alfie. “Can’t miss with that.” He listened, but nobody answered. “I think they’re all dead down there.”
“There’s a couple to come yet.” Alfie pulled the pin on a bomb. “Only three more of these. Have you seen Hazel? I lost sight of her. Is she inside yet?”
“Ah. Sorry mate. She’s down.” There was a short silence as Alfie pushed the last two bombs through the mesh, to fall on the gangsters milling around below.
He didn’t turn but his voice sounded flat, dead. “That’s it then. Give me that pistol and get downstairs, Josh. Casper’s got a bolt in his bloody leg again. Drag him to the cellar, will you?”
“What about the Army rifles? We need two of us up here for them.”
Alfie nodded towards the stairs before emptying the 303 almost straight down out of the window, as fast as he could work the bolt. “The boss will be here. Go on.” He staggered as another bullet hit him, but all that bulk and muscle finally came in handy. Alfie shrugged off the wound, sticking in a new clip, and raising his rifle again. His eyes were too weak for really long range but he could see plenty of targets now, nearly close enough to reach out and prod them.
“Thanks Alfie. Here.” Josh stuck his pistol in Alfie’s belt. “About half a clip.”
Alfie still didn’t turn, and his voice still didn’t have any expression, but Josh had other things on his mind right now. “Ta, now piss off.”
Alfie didn’t even aim properly. He burned up the last clip of rifle rounds as fast as possible, just making sure they hit a group, then emptied the 9 mm at a large group closing in. More bullets hit him, but Alfie had dressed for the occasion. He wore two heavily-plated armoured jerkins, the second reversed, open down his back because it wouldn’t fasten. Even with his magnificent physique they made him clumsy, but very tough because the usual underpowered, badly cast pistol rounds couldn’t get through both. Even the better bullets that made it through had lost most of their power. His accuracy wasn’t too good now because too many bullets had penetrated, so his vision had started blurring. When he heard a splintering noise from downstairs, Alfie smiled, though not with his eyes. He picked up one of the two Army rifles propped against the wall, next to the big Starlight scope. Harold smashed that because the bastards weren’t allowed to capture something that dangerous.
Scrubbing a hand across his eyes to clear them, Alfie staggered to the top of the stairs. As the front door came in he emptied the full clip into the crowd trying to get inside. Dust and smoke billowed in the hallway, then the floor slapped his feet, hard. The survivors near the doorway scattered, so Alfie tottered back into the bedroom. He picked up the other Army rifle then tottered to the window, setting himself before opening fire in long bursts. Harold had been crystal clear on that. Long bursts mattered more than accuracy, so the Army were absolutely sure about automatics.
Alfie wasn’t trying to stop the gangsters getting into the house now; it was too late for that. He targeted the biggest groups, long raking bursts so he’d hit as many as possible while sending the Army their message. Harold reckoned these rounds would go through at least one bloke at this range. Alfie wanted numbers, not clean kills because he didn’t care if they bled out later. Another bullet caught Alfie but his impressive physique held, so although he leant against the window frame to stay upright he fumbled in another clip. He spat blood and let off a long burst towards the bloke firing a machine gun, hoping he got somewhere near the target.
There were several other automatics firing now, so the idiots who brought them obviously didn’t believe in artillery. Harold did, and Alfie believed in Harold. More bullets hit until one struck Alfie’s leg, finally bringing him down. He rammed in another clip before grabbing hold of the window mesh to haul himself to his knees, then his feet. One arm remained hooked into the mesh as Alfie fired one-handed. The barrel danced about all over the place, but he kept the stock high with the barrel through the mesh so most of the bullets stayed low, among the attackers. Alfie coughed, spitting blood as his vision darkened. “Hang on Hazel. Coming soon, luv.” The last man standing never heard the shotgun that killed him from the top of the stairs.
* * *
Up on the bypass Sarge stiffened. “You hear that?”
“An automatic. One of ours I reckon.”
“Yes, and I’m sure I heard an AK. Sure enough, and now there’s three automatics at least.” Sarge reached for the radio. He’d watched the flames and screaming from the big garden, the noise dying down now, and he’d seen the gun flashes and movement spreading across half the compound. He’d watched them concentrate, slowly and then with a rush until this last furious exchange around those three houses. There’d been nothing he could do, until now. More than one automatic, or an AK or Army rifle, meant he had only one option.
The artillery were ready. They always were because if someone called for them, there wasn’t time to dick about. This time Sarge had warned the gunners, so the long barrels were already set up for the right coordinates with the first rounds loaded. All he had to do was confirm the fire order. “They’ve got automatic weapons. Send the shrapnel, air bursts above the main enclave just like I ordered. I’ll tell you when to stop.” Even as the first shots climbed into the night, the artillery officer argued for the RAF with napalm. “No, I told you, just shrapnel. Air bursts because there might still be women hiding down there.” Sarge kept arguing, and he was the man on the spot so the officer backed off. Meanwhile the second instalment was already airborne. As the first bright flashes lit up Orchard Close, above the rooftops, Sarge shuddered briefly in relief. He’d been involved in clearing the bodies of young women caught in napalm. Never again, not in this life. He ducked below the sandbags, calling for the rest of the squaddies to keep their bloody heads down.
Sarge heard the helicopter high overhead and for a moment thought the RAF were going to burn the place anyway, but the flier just circled. The RAF must be spotting, possibly because there wasn’t a drone to spare. The explosions marched back and forth across Orchard Close, sometimes in among the houses or hitting them, scouring the streets and gardens clean of life. When the sergeant’s men confirmed there weren’t any gangsters left on their feet he called the artillery off, almost. The officer didn’t want another argument, so he agreed to keep throwing single rounds over at odd intervals until the relief force arrived. The stroppy sergeant actually had a point, because that really should keep the automatics pinned down.
* * *
Sarge’s reinforcements had finally arrived, too late for the fight but now he had another job for them. Five of the dozen squaddies had sharpshooter rifles, with long fat Starlight scopes on the top. Not real sniper weapons, but they had plenty of range for this job. “Down there the bloody animals have just killed a lot of decent people. The guns have knocked them about,
because there are Army rifles in those houses.” Sarge pointed to the five big scopes. “Use them. Shoot anyone carrying a firearm. Shoot anyone attempting to leave if he’s carrying a weapon.”
One of the men turned his head. “Any weapon, Sarge?”
“A bloody toothpick or a wrinkle in his sleeve that might conceal one. After all, he might have a rifle like yours down his trouser leg.”
The squaddie looked at the sergeant for long moments. “Your call Sarge.”
Sergeant Stokes scowled, because the Rules of Engagement only allowed the Army to shoot gangsters clearly armed with rifles and shotguns, or in self-defence. “Don’t worry, I’ll take any shit that’s thrown. If any women get out of there, you shoot anyone chasing them even if he’s stark naked and waving a white flag.”
The corporal in charge of the sharpshooters nodded. “We’ve got it Sarge. Shoot anyone we believe has a firearm, nobody leaves and protect any women.” He turned back to his men, holding the rifle where Sarge couldn’t see it as he pulled a thin wire loose. Four big smiles answered him. The other four rifles soon had the same wire hanging loose. The five men lined up at the edge of the carriageway, settled in, and occasional shots began to ring out.
The corporal, the usual one, came over. “We couldn’t do any more, Sarge.”
“If that dipstick had passed it to the captain soon enough, maybe we could have. God protect us from virgin lieutenants. Now there’s Christ knows how many automatics down there, so he’ll have to pass it upstairs.” The sergeant spat, out over the edge of the bypass.
“But a shooting gallery? They’ll have your stripes.” The corporal glanced at the riflemen.
“Probably, but not permanently. I’m just keeping the automatics there until the brass can make a decision. To be honest, they’ll sling the keys away when someone realises I let the women and wounded run.” The sergeant sighed and confessed. “He told me. Soldier Boy, Harold. He said that if I heard automatics, right at the end, I wasn’t to hesitate.” The NCO smiled briefly, despite the carnage in front of him. “I wouldn’t be stunned to find out our Soldier Boy pulled the trigger himself.”
“You mean?” The corporal looked down at the fires flickering here and there, illuminating ruined houses. The three strongpoints were just heaps of rubble, completely collapsed, but they hadn’t caught fire.
Sarge wondered why all three strongpoints had collapsed, but the attackers had probably been chucking enough bombs to do the job. “If the heathen were about to pull you down and you could drop that sort of shit onto their heads?” The sergeant swept a hand across the scene. “He even suggested shrapnel, air bursts so if any women are hiding in the buildings they might survive.”
“You reckon?” From his voice, the corporal didn’t fancy the odds.
Neither did Sarge. “Unlikely, but he swore there are cellars. If a miracle happened, the occasional shell and the sharpshooters will stop those animals searching. Providing the survivors stay hidden until the captain gets here, they’ll live, but even then it’ll be the camps. Since I still can’t reach the captain that might take a while, which is why those lads have their instructions. Now go and tell Percy and the other idiot before they do something stupid.” The sergeant picked up the radio, but waited until the corporal moved out of hearing. He didn’t want any witnesses to how close he was going to get to insubordination. If that bloody lieutenant kept being obstructive he might go well past getting close.
* * *
Beyond the wire, deep in the small wood outside the enclosure, fifty-three men, women and children crouched or laid in darkness, most of them inside their tents. There were no lights in the impromptu camp, nothing that might draw attention their way. The carers watched the flashes as the artillery barrage crashed down, then listened as first the gunfire and then eventually the explosions almost died away. “He was right.”
The dark figure next to the speaker sighed before answering. “Yes Susan, he usually is. Now let’s hope Harold got the rest right.”
“Sorry Patricia, it’s just, well, my Rob’s in there.” A gentle sob sounded in the pitch black. “He said he had to.”
“All of them said that. You never know. After all, Harold got it right with the Army. Big guns and no napalm, or we’d see the fires from here.” Patricia wanted to sound confident, but there’d been a lot of very big explosions.
“Yes, and they’re still shooting now and then. The Army I mean. It’s gone quiet out there. Do you think they’ve gone, the gangsters?” There was a little bit of hope in Susan’s voice. “If they have and Patty gets over there fast enough, my Rob might still be all right. Just trapped.”
“The gangsters won’t leave tonight, but don’t worry because they’ll leave in the morning. Then we can go and get Rob.” Patricia sighed again because she really didn’t expect to see any of the defenders again. “Or if need be, we can trek down the outside of the wire tomorrow night and head for the electric cars.” Another quiet sob was her only answer. Patricia turned back to caring for the long-term patients on stretchers. If those shells kept coming, Patty would be forced to stay under the bypass and watch them. At least that way Patricia wouldn’t have any more bleeding, screaming young women to patch up or send into the long night.
* * *
Across the gardens, in the farm, the General had binoculars to his eyes, carefully ignoring Patton as he stamped up and down the room. “Jesus Christ, General, why did the Army open up?” Branson looked frightened as he glanced upwards. “Will they target us as well?”
“No, because the fucking dickhead fucking Jets or fucking queers or maybe some dickhead fucker from bugnuts used a fucking automatic.” Patton kicked the wall before whirling towards the General. “Get my Bloods out of there!”
“I can’t, Patton. I really wish I could, but that artillery can start up again at a moment’s notice.” The General kept his tone quiet and level, as if he was talking to a savage dog that might bite. “You saw what happened when a man tried to run.” The body lay among the rest, indistinguishable now, but the Army rifleman had let the man get far enough to prove he could hit his target anywhere in the open. “Either some of the latecomers brought an automatic, or maybe the bugnuts squad hid a couple.” The General certainly wasn’t going to mention the automatics he’d sent with Julius’s men, for emergencies, especially now one of the dickheads had lost it and got a lot of Bloods killed.
“The survivors can get across that garden, into that Annex place where the fucking houses still have ply.” Patton glanced at the ruin of his radio, smashed against the wall. “Call Sumo again. Now that it’s calmed down, he can collect the rest.”
“Nobody is answering, Patton, except a Jet who refuses to leave his house and someone who must be too badly hurt to make sense. He’s going on about mines and invisible gunmen in houses and someone nailing his feet to the floorboards.” The General nodded towards his riflemen, sat against the walls trying to get some sleep. “Once it’s light enough I’ll tell these lads to spread back out into the other houses. We’ll kill the Army blokes, fast so they can’t call artillery. There’s only a couple of dozen and they’re stuck up there above the bypass, clear targets. We’ll shoot those fucking snipers first.”
When Patton stamped off downstairs to find another radio and check on his wounded, the ones who had been hurt at the beginning, the General turned to another man. “Well Rhys, I thought you’d fixed the fucking Army? And how come you didn’t notice how thick that fucking wall was? I had to ask for another two volleys of rockets, and they still didn’t blow a fucking hole.”
The spy glanced after Patton, grateful the General had waited before making that comment. Patton would kill somebody if the rest of the Bloods didn’t get out of Orchard Close. Personally, Rhys wanted to throw a party because the nasty shits would be a bit less bolshie now they’d been thinned out. “I’ve no idea why the paranoid bastard built the wall like that, or when. As for the Army, I got you that file, or a copy, and the Army task force
didn’t turn up? A dozen soldiers, without full body armour, weren’t enough to stop our attack. The lights went out on time as well, didn’t they?” Rhys paused, a careful couple of beats, then headed off the explosion. “We ought to be getting the hell out of here. I don’t trust the GOFS and Barbies to stay bought, or frightened.”
“Nor do I, but if even one of their people sees us retreating, and all the wounded, they’ll know we got stuffed. Then it’ll be a running fight all the way home. I’m waiting to see if we can extract anyone so we go as one force, still big enough to slap them down.” The General moved closer to Rhys, Scrooge and Branson, away from the shooters, lowering his voice. “According to the first radio reports there weren’t any bloody civvies, and the houses looked stripped. I want to get our men back so we can look for those women and experts because the slippery fucker has hidden them nearby.” He lowered his voice even further, glancing at the dozing riflemen. He’d brought them all into one house for safety, so only a few had to stay awake on guard, but now the crowding was inconvenient. “Though if we don’t get anyone out of that enclave, we’d better get home quickly and dig in. We’ve still got the rockets and automatics, and eventually I’ll get more men. We’ll be safe for a while because, after all, we actually beat Soldier Boy. Now we’ve just got to survive the victory.”
“Unless the Professor decides to nip down and get some payback for the SIMs? I’ve never believed they lost everyone who could make a rocket.” Branson shrugged and Scrooge spat on the boards. “We’ve been on the receiving end one too many times already.”
“Good point, that rocket woman. Scrooge, nip down there and sit with her, keep her safe and alive. Someone might think she’d make a good buy-in with another gang, and I still need her. We’ll be nearly out of rockets.” The General fell silent, trying to work out the permutations if he’d lost all the men, or only got a hundred back, but it wouldn’t gel. The attack had worked out as expected, more or less, even the carnage as the Jets and Pink Panthers soaked up Soldier Boy’s bullets. Maybe there’d been something inside the wall, another stop line, something tough enough to need an automatic. At least the Army only used artillery, no napalm, so the survivors could still bring out some loot. That was assuming the survivors escaped.
