Fury in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  “Then you’re opposed to hunting?” Linda asked, after a sip of coffee.

  “Oh, no. Not at all. Never have been. Back before the war, in many instances, it was necessary to keep the animals from starving to death. But now, with the human population cut by probably sixty percent, sport hunting is no longer necessary. Hunting for food is another matter entirely.” He looked up and lifted a walkie-talkie. “Creeps setting up on the roof of that building ten o’clock from my position in front of the bank building. Blow the top off that building, please.”

  Linda could not help but notice that he gave the orders with about as much emotion as she’d once used in ordering a hamburger at a fast food restaurant.

  Four main battle tanks lifted the muzzles of their cannon and the entire top of the building was blown away. Mangled bodies of creepies were tossed into the air and fell spinning to the street below.

  “General?” Corrie said, moving to his side. “Colonel West has reached Tina’s position.”

  Ben checked his watch and smiled. “Damn! He must have grown wings and flown over there. Ain’t love grand? All right, Corrie, tell the troops ten more minutes and then we butt heads again.”

  Thermopolis walked up, after darting and dodging his way through the unprotected areas of the street. The aging hippie did not like all the killing, but despite his bandana, now covered by a helmet, and his colorful clothing, now replaced by battle dress, and his penchant for arguing with a stump, he knew that if peace were ever to once more reign over this land, thus enabling him to take his followers back to the commune, the common enemy must be destroyed. Therm and his group, now battle-tested, had proven to be fine soldiers.

  “Rosebud is taking care of Smoot and Chester,” Therm said, referring to his wife and to Ben’s husky and Dan’s mutt. “I pulled my bunch up close. They’re grouped on both sides of the street directly behind this position.”

  “Good,” Ben said. “As soon as the tanks have loaded up full we’ll take another block. You’ve learned tactics quickly, Therm. You’ll make a fine commander.”

  “That’ll be the damn day,” the hippie said promptly.

  Ben smiled.

  “Everyone reporting in position, sir,” Corrie said, after acknowledging the radio calls.

  Ben looked at his watch. “Five more minutes. Corrie, check on Dan, please.”

  “More tanks just busted through to his position, sir. The airport is secure.”

  “Good. Tell the transport pilots to warm their engines and get ready to resupply him. Advise Dan they are now under his orders and to take it from this point.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The transport planes would fly first south, then cut west around the fighting, and once over the Pacific, would turn northeast before making their final approach to the small airport.

  All major arteries out of the city of San Francisco were now blocked by the Rebels. The creepies could use the sea to escape, but Ben, knowing how shortsighted they were, doubted if the leaders of the Night People had worked up any plans for that eventuality.

  There were no bridges left connecting San Francisco to the mainland. To the north and east of the city, flames and smoke faced the creepies. To the south, Ben Raines and his Rebels were massing.

  Inside the city, the Believers were frantically radioing for assistance, all the while knowing there was no escape for them and no help coming. Their pleas were met with a cold and uncaring silence from their comrades to the south. Every group living outside the city that had been aligned with them had fled south, setting up skirmish lines to slow the Rebel advance once the city by the Bay was finished and that damnable Ben Raines turned his army southward.

  “All right,” Ben said. “Let’s do it.” And the Rebels opened fire with small arms, mortars, cannon, and rockets.

  From the Pacific eastward to the San Francisco Bay the land exploded in flames and smoke and death as the Rebel gunners laid down a field of rolling artillery fire. Ben and his forward contingent moved north another burning block. They ignored the cries from wounded creeps. It was not difficult for them to do. All had seen firsthand the savagery and brutality of the cannibalistic tribes called Believers. The wounded creeps had very quickly learned to still their cries for help. Their pleas for mercy got them quick and cold compassion from the muzzle of a Rebel weapon.

  Everything in the Rebels’ path was put to the torch as soon as it was cleared of enemy troops. Only the roads were left intact. The smoking rubble left no place for the creeps to hide. When they tried to run, they were cut down; if they remained where they were, hoping to avoid Rebel detection, they were either crushed to death under the treads of tanks or burned alive.

  The Believers practiced a barbaric and savage way of life, and the Rebels gave them exactly that on their way to death. Many of the creeps had heard how ruthless Ben Raines was. Most did not believe it. Most expected to be taken prisoner and housed and fed and their wounds attended to. Then, when the Rebels had left, the creeps could resume their hideous way of life.

  The creeps soon learned, very quickly and quite painfully, that Ben Raines had absolutely no intention of allowing their way of life to continue. Many of the creeps began to curse their leaders for getting them into this predicament. But their leaders did not do it. Just as with the criminal who tries to blame society for his misfortune, that worn-out excuse was not acceptable. They were forced to face the fact that as individuals they were solely to blame.

  Two more blocks were taken, and Ben and his battalion linked up with Tina and West at Wood-side. Behind them, what was left of Menlo Park was obscured from view by the flames and the smoke that soared into the skies.

  “All artillery up to this position,” Ben told Corrie. “All planes capable of carrying payloads resume dropping napalm on the city. Group all my people on 101. We’re moving toward the airport right now.”

  Corrie relayed the orders and Ike came on the horn. “Lots of creepies over that way, Ben.”

  “There won’t be in about two hours,” Ben told him. “Let’s go, people. My next CP will be on the tarmac of the San Carlos airport.”

  SEVEN

  Heavy machine-gun fire stopped the advance of Ben’s team in Redwood City.

  “Forward observers out,” Ben ordered. “And tell them to get it right the first time. We’re too close for mistakes.”

  They were so close that the ground beneath their feet began to tremble as the 105’s and 155’s pounded the target area just ahead of them. With a range of twelve miles, the huge 155mm self-propelled howitzers dropped in high explosives with deadly accuracy. The 90mm cannon that some Piranhas were equipped with began barking and biting as the 81mm mortars rained in death. The air over the heads of the Rebels began howling and fluttering and screaming as the deadly mail started arriving in the city.

  With one long block turned to bloody rubble, the FOs called in corrections and the Rebels moved forward as the gunners corrected elevation and began a new onslaught. The creeps were shoved back, back toward the burning city north of them.

  “We’re going to shove them all the way back into the city proper,” Ben told those around him. “Then we’re going to seal it off, west to east, and start tossing incendiaries in on them. But we’ve got about twenty miles of hard slogging to go before we can do that.”

  Beth was doing some fast figuring with a hand calulator. “The city is about eight miles wide and about that deep, if we plan to push all the way up to Daly City. Our artillery will handle that easily.”

  Ben studied an old map of the region. “Let’s take another block, gang.”

  The Rebels clawed their way through the rubble that littered the streets. Ben and his contingent stayed along 101 while General Striganov and his people crossed over and started up 280. Rebet and Danjou and their battalions began punching up the area between the two main highways.

  It was grim, slow work. Artillery would soften up a block, then the Rebels would move forward, working building to building, hou
se to house, oftentimes engaging in very close combat. Since the creepies were so highly infectious, and Ben did not want his people needlessly exposed to some dreadful, uncurable disease, he soon called a halt to the advance, along all fronts.

  Ike and Cecil were across the Bay, slowly burning their way south, destroying everything in their path.

  “Get Georgi on the horn for me, Corrie,” Ben said. “Something’s got to give here and it isn’t going to be us.”

  The Russian who had once been a mortal enemy of the Rebels came on the radio. Years back Ben and Georgi had fought each other from the Mississippi River to the northern California coast.

  “We’re going to have to hold up, Georgi. We just can’t risk infection. Some of our people are getting blood-splattered from close-in fighting. Hold what you’ve got until we can get flame-tossers up here for the troops and give those tanks with the capability time to fuel up.”

  “I am in complete agreement, Ben. I’ll stand my people down immediately.”

  The Rebels broke for a well-deserved rest while trucks ran the burning and rubbled streets bringing in backpack flamethrowers for the troops and mix for the tanks.

  “Still plan on making the San Carlos airport by this afternoon, General?” Cooper asked.

  “You bet, Coop.” A dozen main battle tanks rumbled up, hatches closed. Ben used the outside phone on the lead tank. “You flame-equipped?”

  “That’s ten-four, sir.”

  “Spearhead us.” He hung up and turned to Cooper. “You bring the wagon up, Coop. I’m going ahead on foot. Let’s go!”

  His team spread out behind the tanks and followed them in. The bodyguards assigned to protect Ben could do nothing to stop him. How do you tell the commanding general he can’t do something? They fell in with him and surged forward.

  The rattle of machine-gun fire came from a building with a faded sign, SPORTING GOODS, painted on the front of the bricks. The slugs howled off the armor of the MBT and the tank clanked around, lowering its cannon. The muzzle spewed liquid fire, engulfing those inside in flames. The screaming of the torched lasted only a moment as their brains cooked and their heads exploded from the buildup of steam inside the skulls.

  “Mop up!” Ben shouted, and a team lanced the smoking interior of the old building with automatic-weapons fire.

  “Ben!” Linda yelled. “Up the street. North. They’re charging us.”

  Several hundred yards away, the street was dogged with running, screaming creepies, howling their fury as they came in a suicide charge.

  A dozen .50-caliber machine guns, a dozen 7.62 machine guns, a hundred M-16’s, one shotgun, and one old Thunder Lizard — caliber .308, in the hands of Ben Raines — began yammering. The Believers came in waves of rage and perversion and died in bloody piles of stinking filth.

  “Up on the tanks,” Ben shouted, jumping up and crouching behind the commander’s cupola. “Let’s go!”

  The tanks all had bags of sand and dirt piled and secured around the turrets, the Rebels jumped on and crouched down as the tanks lumbered forward. They all tried not to listen as the steel treads of the fifty-plus-ton tanks crushed any life left out of the piles of creeps in the street.

  They crossed another street and came to a halt. Steel railroad tracks had been welded in sections, completely blocking the street.

  The tank commander opened the hatch and poked his head out. “Go around it, General?”

  “Negative. It appears that’s what they want us to do. The other streets seem clear, so they’ve probably got them mined. Use HE and punch through.”

  The commander clanked his hatch shut and Ben hollered, “Get down, people — down!”

  From a half a dozen tanks 90mm and 105mm cannon roared and the barricade was ripped apart. Ben cut his eyes upward and then slid off the tank and grabbed up the phone. “Elevate your cannon. The creeps are waiting for us on the rooftops with satchel charges.”

  Ben stepped out of the way, his team with him, and ducked into the storefront of an old building. The tanks swiveled into position and the street was filled with a deafening roar as the cannons howled. Several Big Thumpers were brought up. The 40mm fully automatic Thumpers began spitting out antipersonnel high-explosive rounds at an astonishing rate of fire. Bodies of creepies began falling off the rooftops and crashing screaming down to the rubbled streets.

  “Every other tank use fire,” Ben ordered. “Torch the buildings from the ground up and give the bastards a hotfoot. Troops stay behind the tanks. Give me a report, Corrie.”

  The woman spoke calmly into her headset as the Rebels remained behind the protective bulk of the huge tanks. One creepie charged and Linda gave him some double-ought buckshot in the guts. The creepie folded up and hit the street, howling his life away.

  Ben watched her. Linda’s face was pale beneath the grime of battle, but she was hanging in as she pumped another round into the sawed-off shotgun.

  Ben shouted over the din of battle. “Corrie, tell the troops to seek cover and have the TCs back up their tanks. Let’s let artillery bring it down.”

  Once Ben and his contingent were secure, or at least behind cover, the tanks backed up and added their cannon to the incoming shells. Row after row of buildings began coming apart in explosive flames. Teams working Big Thumpers moved into position and began lobbing rounds into the area that Ben suspected was mined. The 40mm rounds proved him correct as the concussion of the exploding grenades touched off the mines that were to have killed the Rebels.

  Ben walked from the storefront into the building itself. Long ago it had been a drugstore. The pharmaceutical section of the store had, of course, long since been looted. Poking around in the rat-and-mouse-chewed remnants of the vials and bottles, Ben found hundreds of pills, precious antibiotics, years out of date. The stupid and greedy people who had looted the store had taken only that which would make them high, or low, depending upon what perverted kick they had been seeking. Uppers and downers — Ben recalled the old slang terms for them. The looters had taken nothing that would have fought infection. So much for the mentality of looters. Ben had always held the belief that once a curfew had been established in an area, looters should be shot on sight. This just reinforced his opinion.

  Ben squatted down in the rubble as Linda and Thermopolis and Corrie joined him.

  “They took everything to get themselves high,” Therm said, poking around the mess with the toe of his boot. “But nothing to help maintain their health. Not even vitamins.”

  “They weren’t concerned about their health when we had a more or less civilized and productive society,” Ben said, standing up. “I never understood why law-abiding citizens ever put up with them.”

  An amused look passed over Thermopolis’ face. “Would you have put them up against a wall and shot them, Ben?”

  “The pushers, yes,” Ben responded quickly. “But not the addicts. Not unless they committed a serious enough crime to feed their habit.” He stared at Thermopolis. “The Rebel philosophy is still to shoot those engaged in illicit drug manufacturing.”

  “Yes, I know. Ben, did you ever stop to consider why people take drugs?”

  “Oh, yes,” Ben said, as the battle raged outside the trashed store. He smiled. “Like you, Therm, I have an opinion on nearly everything. Whether it is correct or incorrect is yet another story.” Ben looked away as a very slight sound came from behind a closed door to his right. The others seemed not to notice it. He shifted his M-14. “Escapism. Unable to face reality. Wanting everything their neighbors had but knowing they would never have it for one reason or another. Laziness. Greed. In many cases the same applied for those who drank to excess. The only difference was, alcohol was legal. For a brief period in my life, I drank to excess. That was just before the Great War. But I didn’t do it because I was afraid of reality. I did it because I liked the taste — I still do. It helped me sleep — it still does. And it was legal. It still is. When I can afford the luxury, I still enjoy a drink or two before dinne
r. Dinner being what it is in the field,” he added with a smile, “it helps to hide the taste.”

  The closed door suddenly burst open and a creepie with a pistol in each hand screamed out. Ben gave the Believer a burst of .308 slugs. The lead knocked the stinking cannibal backward and dumped him in a bloody, torn pile on the floor. He looked up at Ben and with his last breaths, cursed him.

  Ben kicked the pistols away from the man’s reach. “But after I grew out of my adolescence,” Ben said, resuming the conversation as if nothing of any importance had happened, “I never got behind the wheel of a car after I’d been drinking excessively, or in any way endangered the lives of others.” The creepie died. “As you have no doubt observed, Therm, during your months with us, any Rebel who drinks to excess and then attempts to drive is punished. The first offense is a mandatory six months in the stockade. It gets progressively harsher. Killing someone while driving drunk is murder, not manslaughter.”

  “People should be allowed one mistake, Ben.”

  “Not when they take the life of an innocent person, Therm.”

  Thermopolis grunted and shook his head. “I would say that you are a hard man, Ben. But you’d just reply that it’s a hard time.”

  “And you’d be right, Therm.”

  The Rebels hammered and clawed and scratched their way block after block through the small city. Dan, now reinforced, had bulled his way up Highway 1 to just outside of Pacifica. Georgi had slammed his way to just north of Palomar Park on I-280. Tina and her Scouts and West and his mercenaries had advanced up to the junction of Highways 35 and 92.

  “Dan is up there all by his lonesome,” Ben radioed. “Tina, you and West beef him up. Rebet, pull your people up and reoccupy the area Tina and West are leaving. Danjou, hold what you’ve got and advance as we do.”

  As the Rebel troops were shuffled around, plugging up holes and advancing as they did, Ben’s people stood down for a well-deserved rest. Beth guesstimated they were about five miles from the San Carlos airport.