“He’d never known defeat before this,” Ashley spoke in a low voice.
“It’s more than that,” Meg said. “He’s scared. Ben Raines really frightened him.”
“Leave him behind,” Satan grumbled, contempt in his voice. “The punk’s turned yellow. From now on out he ain’t gonna be nothin’ but a drag on us.” The biker spoke loud enough for Kenny to hear.
“Screw you!” Kenny said, cutting his eyes to the outlaw biker.
Satan laughed at him. “You wanna be my punk, boy? We ain’t exactly overrun with wimmen around here and I’m sorta horny.”
“That’s enough!” Villar told him.
“You his sweetie now?” Satan faced the terrorist, an evil grin on his ugly face.
Villar stood nose to nose with the biker. “Don’t push me, outlaw,” he warned the man. “I’ll chop you up in little pieces and feed you to the bears.”
Satan wasn’t afraid of the man, but he had enough sense to know his bunch would be no match for the men Villar had standing around him, weapons at the ready. And Satan wasn’t really sure he could take Villar in a one-on-one fight.
The biker shrugged his shoulders. “No point in us fightin,’ Lan. But I still say the boy’s lost it. What good is he to us?”
“Time will tell, Satan. Battle fatigue can strike any of us at any time. And don’t think you’re immune. Because you aren’t.”
Satan snorted, spat in Kenny’s direction, and walked away.
“I think he is immune,” Ashley said. “Because I’m not sure he’s entirely sane. He rules by brute force and that’s all he understands.”
Villar nodded his head in agreement. “Perhaps you’re right. Well, let’s start walking out of this place. South,” he added. “We’ll pick up vehicles outside the park.”
“We still goin’ to Alaska, Lan?” Kenny asked, his voice trembly.
“After we stock up some food, yes. There must be government stockpiles of MREs that Raines’s bunch missed. We’ll start searching armories and military bases. That’s our only shot. It’s just too damn late in the season to grow anything.” He struggled into his pack and glanced over his shoulder at Satan and his pack of bikers. A grin crossed Villar’s face. The Rebels had not taken the motorcycles, but what they had done was even worse, and Satan had been livid with rage when he discovered it.
They had removed the handlebars and attached bridle and bit to the front hydraulic forks, looping the reins around the seat.
The look on Satan’s face had been priceless.
“Well . . . mount up, Satan,” Lan called cheerfully. “Time’s a-wasting.”
The look Satan gave him would have fried eggs. “I hate that goddamn Ben Raines!” the biker said.
SIX
With what was left of the small city being attacked by artillery from two sides, it did not take long for the town to become engulfed in flames. Rebels had spread out around the objective’s perimeter and were shooting any creepies who tried to escape the inferno. The screaming of the godless cannibals could be heard over the crackling of flames and the bark of rifles.
By noon of the first day of the statewide assault to clean the area of thugs, punks, cannibals, outlaws, and warlords, the city and suburbs of Idaho Falls was burning, the flames pushing great clouds of smoke twisting into the skies.
In the northern part of the state, General Striganov and troops were meeting stiff resistance from a major gang of thugs, outlaws, and warlords. The crud had thrown up a defense line a few miles south of Sand-point and were, because of the terrain, temporarily holding back the Russian’s troops.
A huge lake, nearly forty miles long, made up the eastern line of the outlaw’s defense perimeter, blocking Striganov’s troops from that point. For the moment, Georgi’s troops were stalled, slugging it out with machine guns and mortars, and being met by the same while Coeur d’Alene and Spokane were being beefed up by the outlaws’ reserve forces.
Ike’s people had yet to enter the Caldwell/Nampa/Boise area because of bridge defenders all along the line. Ike guessed that the bridges were wired to blow should his people bust through, and he did not want the bridges along the river destroyed.
“Leave it for the time being,” Ben radioed. “Swing your people east until you can find a crossing and concentrate on cleaning out the crud along I-Eighty. That’s supposed to be territory controlled by the Bloody Bandits. Ike, it’s probably going to take you most of the day to get in position. Bivouac north of the area and hit them fresh in the morning. I’m going to hold what I’ve got and take on Pocatello at dawn.”
“That’s ten-four, Ben. Georgi is bogged down up north. It’s about to get bloody up there.”
“Only if we let it, and I’m not going to allow that. The hang-up is the crud have blown most of the bridges. I’ve told Georgi to pull back and wait. They’ll probably do an end-around east or west in the morning and come up under them. Spokane is going to be a real bitch, I’m thinking.”
“Five and Six Battalions?”
“They’ve had it pretty easy. Very little resistance along that route. Dan and his people haven’t fired a shot. Buddy reports some light resistance and he was forced into two firefights. He and his Rat Team have since returned to this sector. They suffered no wounded or dead. Cecil and West are at a standstill at the intersection on the Middle Fork Selway. We’re all going to stand down and dig in for the night. That’s effective immediately.”
“That’s ten-four, Eagle. Shark out.”
Ben and his people had moved several miles outside the city and were bivouacked between the Interstate and the Snake River, north of the Fort Hall Indian Reservation. The reservation, according to reports from Scouts, appeared to be deserted.
“Damn creepies probably ate them,” Cooper said with a shudder.
Even after several months of close-in fighting with the Night People, just the mention of the cannibalistic clan still brought shudders of revulsion from the Rebels. Their way of life was so repulsive to any type of civilized behavior that none among the Rebels could come close to comprehending it.
Jersey looked at her just-opened packet of field rations and sighed. “Thanks, Cooper. I really needed that last remark.”
Corrie took off her headset and said, “General, pilots are reporting in from their fly-bys east and west. They state that heat-seekers show several large human holding pens just south of Pocatello and just north of the Caldwell/Nampa/Boise area. Hundreds of people.”
“Shit!” Ben said. He spread out a map on a table while Corrie was getting the coordinates from the pilots. After Ben had penciled in the locations, he said, “All right. We’ll hold off any further attacks until we can get those people out of there. Tell Ike to take the western holding pens and we’ll take this side. Buddy, you spearhead down this old county road — Dusters with you. The pens are just off Highway Thirty. About two miles north of this northernmost just of the highway. You’ll get into position and then give me a bump. We’ll hit it just after dawn. Lamar, I want medics on hand to check for diseases and trucks to transport these people out.”
“What are we going to do with them, Father?” Buddy asked.
It had been the Rebels’ experience that once men and women were held for any length of time by the Night People, many of them were quickly reduced to near-mindless beings; that condition brought on by such intense fear and revulsion at what lie ahead for them, they were turned into babbling idiots. Most of the young could be salvaged, but the Rebels had to build or refurbish hospitals to care for the others; and it was a terrible drain on Rebel resources and personnel.
“Care for them as best we can, son. Allowing them as much dignity as possible, considering their condition.” Ben again studied the map. “There is an airstrip a few miles east of the holding pens. Check it out, Buddy. It might be easier all the way around to fly the survivors out. Get some of your team moving on that right now.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Corrie, have the pilots found any hold
ing areas of the creepies in the interior or up north?”
“No, sir. Only the two I gave you.”
“That confirms that the Night People cannot exist outside urban areas,” Jerre said. “For whatever the reason. Or,” she added, “they want us to think they can’t.”
“I agree with the last part, Jerre.”
Doctor Chase looked up from the map. “What time are we pulling out in the morning, Ben?”
Ben looked at him. “We, Lamar?”
“That’s what I said, all right. Are you becoming hard of hearing, Ben?”
“Lamar, we don’t know what in the hell we’re going to find down there. I . . .”
“Dawn, then,” he cut him off. “Fine. I’ll be ready.” He looked at Jerre. “How is his BP, Lieutenant?”
“Ah . . . just fine, sir.”
“Good, good. Check it daily. You can’t be too careful with that.”
“Lamar!” Ben said, exasperated. “I’ve never had high blood pressure in my life!”
The doctor ignored him, turning to Jersey. “I hear your boss got you all in a jam earlier today.”
“Nothin’ we couldn’t handle, sir,” she said, sticking out her chin.
“You wouldn’t dream of saying a bad thing about him, would you, girl?” Chase asked it with a slight smile on his lips.
“There isn’t anything bad to say, sir.”
“You know he walks a fine line, don’t you, girl?”
“What do you mean, sir?”
“There isn’t much separating loyalty from fanaticism. That’s what I mean.” The chief of doctors turned and walked away.
“Well, what got his back up!” Jersey demanded. “What the hell’s he talkin’ about?”
“He’s urging you all not to view me as anything other than a mortal man. The talk has sprung up again, Jersey.”
“I heard it,” she said.
Thermopolis was leaning up against a truck fender, Rosebud by his side. Both were silent, listening.
“But that don’t mean I pay any attention to it,” Jersey continued.
“You let me know if any Rebels start believing it,” Ben said.
“Sure.”
But Ben knew she was lying. He faced this same problem every two or three years, when the talk sprang up about him being more than a mortal man; somehow blessed by some higher deity. And Ben tried to squash the talk as soon as it surfaced.
“All right, Jersey.” Ben smiled and walked off, over to where Thermopolis stood. “Have you heard the talk, Therm?”
“For years. You know, Ben, that Jersey would willingly die for you.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Yes. I know.”
“It doesn’t bother you?”
“It bothers me. I try to fight it. If you ever hear the talk, try to get it through to them that I am not some sort of god, or blessed by some higher power.”
Thermopolis laughed. “Oh, I’ve been doing that for years, Ben. The god business, that is. Blessed by some higher power? I don’t know about that. God gave some damn strange characters a lot of power back when He was taking a more direct hand in earth matters.”
Ben laughed. “Now, Therm, I really don’t know how to take that. Are you saying I’m strange?”
“You were a writer, weren’t you? I never knew a writer in my life — and I have known a few — who wasn’t at least a little bit off the wall.”
Ben couldn’t argue that. “Therm, I am not blessed by God. I am just a man who managed to put together an army — no, that’s not even right. The army came to me. I avoided taking command for a long time and fought like hell when it was shoved on me. I am just a man.”
Thermopolis smiled and patted him on the arm. “Sure, Ben. Right.”
Buddy left in the wee hours of the morning and was a few miles from the holding pens several hours before dawn. The job that lay ahead of them was one of the most gut-wrenching of all the many missions a Rebel could be sent on and Buddy was not looking forward to it.
But one of the many reasons the Rebels idolized Ben was that he would be right in there with them, in any type of mission — including this one. And Buddy knew his father was much more deeply affected by the sight of these unfortunate people — chosen by the creepies to be eaten — than most Rebels realized.
Buddy and his team, backed by Dusters, waited for dawn to cut the sky.
As gray fingers touched the horizon and began streaking the land with lances of silver and gold, Buddy’s radio popped.
“Lead the assault, Rat,” his father’s calm voice came out of the speaker. “And try not to get your ass shot off. Your sister worries about you.”
With a laugh that broke the tension, Buddy waved his teams forward and within minutes the breeding farm and holding pens came into view.
Two Dusters, buttoned down as tightly as they could be, and rolling side by side, crashed through the gates and assumed a defensive posture, back to back, allowing Buddy and his Rat Teams to use them for protection against unfriendly fire.
Creepies came screaming out of the barracks, firing automatic weapons. The 40mm cannon fire turned them into quivering, bloody chunks as Buddy and his team raced toward the holding pens and the huge barnlike breeding area.
Ben and his people busted onto the scene moments after the Dusters had rammed through. Ben left the wagon before Cooper got it to a full stop and was running for what looked to be an office building of some sort, Jersey, Corrie, and Jerre right behind him. Ben threw himself at the closed door and crashed inside, rolling on the floor and coming up with his old Thunder Lizard banging and barking and biting.
He stitched three robed and stinking creepies in the belly, chest, and head as the M-14 rose up in his hands on full auto. The head of the last creepie exploded as the slugs impacted with flesh and bone and brain, splattering the wall behind him with gore.
Jersey, Jerre, and Corrie cleared the adjoining office of cannibals with automatic rifle fire and Beth tossed in a grenade for good luck.
They all came very close to losing their breakfast at what greeted them behind a closed door. Obviously the creepies had been having breakfast when Buddy’s team hit the gates.
What was left of a young girl was lying on a table. The child had been carved on by the creepies.
They were all stunned into silence when the child opened her eyes and murmured, “Help me, please!” The plea was just audible.
Jersey crossed herself and muttered a prayer, joining in the astonishment silently written on everyone’s face that anyone could be alive after losing so much blood and after having so much flesh carved from her. One of the creepies had just split her open, probably to get at her heart when the attack came.
Ben looked at Jerre. “Is there any chance at all she could make it?”
She shook her head. “No way, Ben. None at all.”
Chase pushed through the crowd, took one look at the child, and turned to Ben. “Finish her, Ben. For the love of God, put her out of her misery.”
Ben’s hand dropped to the butt of his .45, carried cocked and locked. He hesitated.
“Ben,” Chase said, “the medics are fifteen minutes behind. The damn truck broke down. I don’t have anything with me to do the job.”
The girl began screaming, the terrible pain ripping through her ravaged body.
“Goddamnit, Ben!” Chase yelled. “Shoot her!”
Ben jerked out his .45, placed the muzzle close to the child’s head, and muttered, “May God have mercy on my soul.”
He pulled the trigger, ending the child’s agony. Ben holstered the weapon and walked outside.
Beth had gone outside to find a clean blanket to cover the ravaged body. She paused at the sight of Ben, kneeling between the buildings, his hands covering his face. He was alone, and crying.
SEVEN
The Rebels avoided Ben the rest of that morning, for they all knew that hell on earth was about to break loose. They got a small reminder of how enraged Ben was when he ordered a
dozen creepie prisoners into a wooden shed.
“Douse it with gas and set it on fire,” he ordered. “Any troop who shoots an escaping creepie to put him or her out of their misery will face a court-martial.”
The building went up with a roar. The screaming of the burning creepies could be clearly heard over the howling flames. Several broke out of the inferno, running balls of fire. They fell on the ground and beat their hands and feet against the earth, howling out their misery.
The Rebels stood in silent lines, watching and listening. No one lifted a weapon to end the screaming. No one really wanted to.
The unmistakable and unforgettable smell of charred human flesh clung close to the earth. The day had turned out gloomy and overcast, the threat of rain evident.
When the last echoes of the wailing had died out, Ben turned to Corrie. His inner rage was still burning out of control. “Bump all commanders. I want prisoners from all sectors. I want to know if any outlaws or warlords or whatever those lousy motherfuckers call themselves have been dealing with the Night People.”
“Yes, sir!” She got the hell gone from that area in a hurry.
The Rebels looked at one another, each man and woman knowing that things were going to get very interesting, very quickly.
Leadfoot whispered to Axehandle. “The general is pissed.”
“No kidding?” Axe returned the whisper. “I never would have guessed.”
Wanda said, “I ain’t never seen him this mad. Boy, he looks like the wrath of God, don’t he?”
“That’s plumb poetic, Wanda,” Beerbelly said. “You ought to be the one to say something when we bury that poor little girl.”
“The general’s gonna bury her over yonder in the woods,” Lamply said, pointing. “He asked me to pick out the spot and I found a real pretty place.” He looked around the silent and stinking compound. “I hate these damn creepies, and anybody who does business with them. I figure the general is gonna go on a rampage now. We all think we seen action before. I got a hunch that we ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”
Survival in the Ashes Page 18
