Fury in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  Ben waved to his XO. “Take over here. I’m moving my section and securing McClellan AFB.” To Corrie: “Tell Dan to get his people moving. We’ll link up at McClellan. Dusters and LAVs out. Let’s go.”

  Cooper cut east, with Interstate 80 to the south of them, and headed for the old Air Force base. They crossed Marysville Boulevard and ran into a roadblock they could not breech.

  “Get a Duster up here, Corrie,” Ben said.

  A Duster pulled up and began hammering at the roadblock with 40mm cannon fire. Outgunned, those left alive at the barricade abandoned their dead and wounded and pulled back, cutting south toward the Interstate.

  “Let them go,” Ben said. “Coop, get us to the base.”

  Cooper rolled through the east gate of the base, right behind a main battle tank that had pulled ahead of them. The tank busted through a wooden barricade, crushing several creepies who thought they might be able to stop the tank with small-arms fire. They were wrong. The treads left several bloody smears on the concrete and rumbled on.

  The tank led the way across what Ben guessed might once have been a parade field, and then brought them into a complex of old buildings.

  “Out!” Ben yelled. He bailed out of his side of the wagon, M-14 in hand. “Tuck the wagon behind a building and join us, Coop,” Ben said, then grinned and added, “And leave some water for Smoot.”

  The Husky pup, although battle-hardened and accustomed to loud booming noises, had been trained to get down on the armor-plated floorboards and stay put.

  Shots kicked up dirt at Ben’s boots and he made it to the door of an old building, Jersey right behind him. He kicked in the door and went in, the Thunder Lizard set on full rock and roll, Jersey’s M-16 clattering along with it.

  A smelly creepie reared up in front of Ben, his unshaven face a mask of hate and perversion. Ben lifted the muzzle and blew the man’s face into several corners of the room. He stepped over the cooling, twitching body and pointed to a closed door.

  Jersey nodded and moved to one side of the door, a grenade in her hand. She pulled the pin and held the spoon down.

  Ben blew the doorknob off with .308 slugs. The door yawned open and Jersey released the spoon, tossing the Fire-Frag grenade into the stinking room. A few screams gradually faded into silence.

  Ben and Jersey hit the floor as the grenade boomed, sending shock waves through the first floor of the building and sending bloody hunks of creepies in all directions.

  Ben both heard and felt footsteps above them, on the second floor. He rolled over on his back and pulled the trigger of his M-14, emptying a full clip of lead into the overhead. He slapped in a fresh clip and got to his boots just as Corrie, Beth, Linda, and Coop ran into the room.

  “You’re late,” Jersey told the group. “You missed all the fun.”

  Linda’s face was pale, but she was hanging in, her Remington 870 sawed-off at the ready, a bandolier of shells looped around her waist.

  “Next building,” Ben said, stepping into the blood-and-gore splattered room and over the mangled body of a creepie.

  “This one is still alive,” Linda said, looking down.

  “Shoot him,” Ben told Coop.

  Coop’s M-16 barked once and the creepie had no more worries on this earth.

  Before Linda could recover from her shock at the execution, the team was out the back door and running hard. Beth jerked her along.

  Automatic-weapons fire from the second floor of a barracks building kicked up dirt and rocks at their feet as they ducked behind the foundation of a burned-out building.

  “Duster up,” Ben ordered.

  Within seconds, a Duster spun around the side of the building and opened fire with its 40mm cannon. The old frame barracks began to splinter and smoke under the impacting shells, and the screams of the cannibals inside reached Ben’s group. One creep tried to run for safety. Ground fire tore him apart. Another jumped from the second floor. He was riddled with bullet holes before he hit the ground. The building burst into flames.

  “Corrie, order all buildings demolished by cannon fire. All capable use Willie Peter.”

  Main battle tanks began hammering white phosphorus at the old buildings. Creepies with their clothing on fire began running in all directions, screaming as the WP ate holes into their flesh. Ground fire ended their search for safety.

  The Rebels took their time, taking it building by building, following the MBTs, the Dusters, and the Piranhas. Behind them and to the south, Sacramento began to burn from the relentless bombardment of artillery.

  Inside the besieged city, creepies were frantically radioing to San Francisco and L.A. California was the last great bastion of the Believers, and if they could not stop Ben Raines and his Rebels here, their cause would be lost nationwide. South of the border, in Mexico, the people had banded together, re-formed their army, and were putting Believers up against walls, in front of firing squads. South of San Francisco, creepies began blowing bridges up and down the Interstate. They did not care that they were cutting major arteries; they did not care that the structures might never again be rebuilt. Their only thought was to slow Ben Raines’s march toward them. They did not care that they were cutting off their comrades north of San Jose, dooming them. Ben Raines had to be stopped.

  The Believers threw up skirmish lines across the state, stretching from the Pacific to the Nevada line. Suicide teams were sent out, their mission: to kill Ben Raines at any cost.

  One of General Striganov’s radio operators, scanning the frequencies, caught something, backed up, and listened, recording the conversation on tape. Her face paled as she realized the content of the transmission. She sent a runner for General Striganov.

  He came at once and listened to the tape, his fists clenched and his face hard. “The bastards! All right. Go to scramble and advise all commanders. I want a screen around Ben at all times. He’ll curse and fume and object, but it’s the only way. The others will agree with me, I’m sure of that. Go, Neta — hurry!”

  The old AFB was declared secure by 1200. The creepie dead were pushed into piles by blade-equipped trucks and set on fire. The stench of burning flesh mingled with the smoke from the burning buildings on the base.

  The Rebels had taken yet another step toward clearing southern California.

  Ben looked up from a map to see an entire section of Gray’s Scouts moving into position all around him. “What the hell is going on here?”

  “Colonel Gray’s orders, sir,” a young Scout said. “He said under no circumstances were we to let you out of our sight.”

  Ben waved to Corrie. “Get Dan on the horn. I . . .” He turned as Dan’s Jeep pulled up in front of the CP and the Englishman stepped out, walking toward him.

  Dan neither backed up nor apologized for his actions. He explained his reasons quickly and succinctly. “And there is more, General. My forward recon people are reporting the creepies and outlaws are blowing major bridges on the Interstates all the way across the state, west to east. We’re going to be forced to take secondary roads down to Los Angeles.”

  Ben slammed a fist on the hood of the vehicle. “Damn!” He knew those bridges would never be rebuilt in his lifetime, and possibly never rebuilt at all. Take two steps forward and one step back toward progress and the unrestricted movement of future generations. “They’re desperate people trying to buy a little time.” He nodded his head. “All right, Dan. I understand the need for all the extra security. I don’t like my movements limited, but I understand the reasoning. Let’s get reports from all fronts and then call for a face to face with all commanders. We’ve got to rework our travel plans, so to speak.”

  Santa Rosa and Napa were burning as Ike and Cecil walked into Ben’s CP at the old AFB. Striganov and West had arrived a few minutes before. Ben’s kids, Buddy and Tina, were also in attendance. Gunners were still lobbing shells into Sacramento and the city was burning out of control. Rebels had surrounded the city and were picking off any creepie who tried to escape the i
nferno.

  For once, Ben had to sit and listen as others told him what to do.

  Cecil Jefferys, second in command of all Rebel forces, laid the law down to Ben.

  “I’m shifting Buddy and Tina and their teams to your command, Ben,” the black man said. “The section of Gray’s Scouts will remain as your security. I won’t even suggest that you stay out of heavy combat situations, Ben. However, I can see that you are blanketed with security.”

  Ben sat, his face impassive.

  “I know you don’t like it, Ben. But that’s the way it’s going to be — understood?”

  Ben nodded his head.

  All present knew that only two people could get away with speaking to Ben in such a manner: the ex-Army Green Beret and the ex-Navy SEAL, Cecil Jefferys and Ike McGowan, men who had been with Ben since the inception of the Rebels.

  Cecil turned to Colonel Gray. “I want heavy security around Ben twenty-four hours a day, Dan.”

  Dan nodded his understanding.

  Cecil turned to Buddy. “Buddy, you are to be your father’s shadow, understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” the heavily muscled and handsome young man said. He smiled. “I suppose I can put up with his grouchiness for the duration.”

  Ben glared at him. “I thought I told you to take that damned bandana off your head and put on a helmet, boy. What are you trying to be, the twenty-first-century Rambo?”

  “I have very vague recollections of a movie character by that name,” Buddy replied, undaunted by his father’s glaring look. “Be that as it may, I am attempting to be no one but myself.”

  “Hardhead!” Ben grumbled.

  “I would say that he comes by it quite naturally,” General Georgi Striganov said with a smile.

  Ben grunted and glared at the Russian. The Russian glared right back.

  “All right, all right!” Ike said, standing up, a mug of coffee in his hand. “Let’s everybody settle down and work out a battle plan. The blowing of bridges can be discussed after we’ve taken San Francisco. And we’re not going to be able to just walk in there and have the creeps roll over dead. You want to take it, Ben?”

  Ben’s irritation at his movements being limited had long passed. He saw the need for it and accepted it with a soldier’s stoicism. Thermopolis walked in and stood beside Buddy. “You’re late,” Ben told him.

  “I was busy with my afternoon’s ablutions,” Therm replied. “Hanging one’s bare buttocks over a log is uncomfortable. We need more Porta-Potties.”

  “Fine,” Ben said. “Would you like to be in charge of procuring more portable shitters?”

  Therm sighed and looked toward the heavens. “Has anything else of great importance been discussed?”

  “Father doesn’t like my bandana,” Buddy said.

  “He wouldn’t,” Therm replied.

  “Thank you,” Buddy told him. “Perhaps if I had one made of bullet-proof material it would be more acceptable?”

  “I doubt it. You’d look too much like a hippie to suit him.”

  “Goddamnit!” Ike roared. “Will everybody knock it off and let’s get down to business?”

  “Thank you, Ike,” Ben said. He moved to a map thumbtacked to a wall. He pointed a finger at San Francisco and the Bay area. “There is no way we’re going to be able to keep the creepies from bugging out south when they figure out what we’re doing — or at least a lot of them. We just don’t have the forces to do it; we’re going to be committed on a lot of fronts. What we can do is prevent them from pulling either north or east. Ike, the bridges at San Rafael and the Golden Gate are yours. It’s not going to take much of a force to hold them, but don’t spread yourself too thin. I don’t want to blow the bridges, but it might come to that. The creepies have probably wired them all to go anyway. We’re going to have BART to deal with, the Bay Area Rapid Transit. And we all remember the problems we had with the subways in New York City. I think we’ll just use chemicals and to hell with it. Then we’ll use explosives to finish the job. Any objections to that?”

  Thermopolis summed up the feelings of all. “If it will save Rebel lives, I say go for it.” Although he did not mention the possibility of prisoners being held within the city, Therm, like everyone else, knew that in a city, there was no feasible way to get them out without too great a cost in Rebel life. He, like the others, felt that those being held would prefer a quick death to being eaten alive, as many creepies liked their human flesh.

  The others nodded their heads in agreement.

  Ben made eye contact with everyone in the room, knowing they were thinking, as he was, about any prisoners within the city.

  “Okay,” he said softly. “I understand. Now then, Cec, you take the Oakland bridges. Georgie, you and Colonel West swing on down here and take the San Mateo and Dumbarton bridges. I’m going to pull my people down and come up through Palto Alto. That’s it, people. We start butting heads in the morning.”

  Ben knew that if the Believers, the Night People — the creepies, as the Rebels had dubbed them — had any sense at all, they would be bugging out of the city right now, regardless of the blown bridges to the south of them. But there was one exit the creepies might think to use that Ben was going to plug. Or try to. He sent for Dan Gray.

  “Dan, I want and your people to start working your way over to Half Moon Bay. Blow all these bridges. That will effectively block at least one exit south for the creepies. I’m moving tanks into position now. You can follow them in as far as they go.”

  “Right, sir.”

  “Good luck, Dan.”

  “Same to you, sir.”

  Dan knew as well as Ben that he could easily get himself trapped in there and be in one hell of a bind.

  Ben was staring at the large wall map when Doctor Chase walked in, accompanied by Linda Parsons. Ben turned and smiled at them both.

  Chase looked uncomfortable for a few seconds, then asked, “Where do you want my MASH people, Ben?”

  “Just behind all forward units, Lamar. Hell, you know that! What’s your real reason for coming in here and bugging me?” He softened that with a grin at the crusty doctor.

  Chase sighed and rubbed his temples with his fingertips.

  “Headache, Lamar?” Ben asked.

  “Yeah. Ben, is the city going to be put to the torch?”

  “Yes. Unfortunately. I wish it could be saved, but that’s impossible.”

  “And the same with Los Angeles?”

  “Yes. Is that what’s bothering you?”

  “No. It’s the highly infectious diseases our people will probably encounter once in the city — cities — proper.”

  Ben sat on a corner of an old desk. “You have some intelligence you’d like to share with me?”

  “Recon brought back some prisoners this morning; they grabbed them last night — you know that. I’ve had lab people doing blood work. It . . . worries me, Ben.”

  “AIDS?”

  “Well . . . closely related. But resistant to anything we’ve got. And anything we’re likely to have for years. Ben, I’m afraid Los Angeles is going to be the same.”

  “It’s hell fighting in gas masks, Lamar. They restrict vision.”

  The doctor shook his head. “I don’t think it will come to that. But I would advise surgical masks and gloves taped tight on the wrists. As little exposed flesh as possible.”

  “All right. That will present only a small problem. What else?”

  “Anyone with an open wound — however minor — to be used as rear-echelon personnel.”

  “Done.”

  “When we establish a toehold, Ben, I would suggest that we use artillery to bring down the city. Try to avoid as much physical contact with the creeps as we can.”

  “I’ll go for that. Fine. I’ll have Beth and Corrie send out directives right now.”

  “Ben?”

  Ben met the doctor’s eyes.

  “I don’t want any prisoners taken. No creepies or anyone in the city with them.”


  Ben arched an eyebrow. For Doctor Chase to suggest something that drastic meant that he was really worried about disease. “Is it that bad, Lamar?”

  “Yes. It’s that bad, Ben. I want this city destroyed by fire. I don’t want anything left, Ben. Nothing.”

  Ben studied the toe of his jump boot for a moment. He looked up. “Lamar, if you’re telling me that the creeps and their associates are infected with some disease that we are powerless to combat, medically speaking, that means that more than likely every creep and associate in this state has the same disease.”

  “Yes. That is a very good possibility. Carriers, at least.”

  “Damn!” He turned to Corrie. “You heard it all, Corrie. Get on the horn and advise all unit commanders. They make no moves until we get surgical masks and gloves on every person. Anyone with a wound — no matter how minor — is to pull back to the rear. Get on it, please.”

  “Do you want Dan to pull out, sir?” she asked.

  “No. Tell him to hold up until he and his people are masked and gloved. Tell him to stand down and wait for my orders.”

  He waited until Corrie had sent the orders out, then said, “I want all our planes, two-engine and above, to start coming in here. Travis AFB is clear. Tell them to land there and come bomb-equipped. Napalm only.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  To Lamar: “We don’t have that many pilots and we don’t have that many planes that are equipped for bombing raids. This is going to be quite a jury-rig operation.”

  “Anything will help, Ben. Los Angeles is what’s got me worried. It’s such a sprawling place.”

  “We’ll deal with L.A. when we get there, Lamar. Now I’m going to ask a layman’s question. How far are we from a vaccine for this disease?”

  “Ben, we weren’t even close when the Great War hit us. There were so many variants in the AIDS thing, we’d get one whipped and three more resistant strains would pop up. The powers that be back then just would not put the needed money into research; I don’t think they realized what a dreadful plague upon the land it really was.”