She laughed, then shook her head. “They were registered Republicans, Ben.”
“I never would have guessed,” he said dryly.
While Ben prepared his people to fight on two fronts, those members of the press who had been booted out of the country began complaining to anybody who would listen, which, of course, was every liberal Democrat in Congress. But to everyone’s surprise except Ben, for he knew the man had steel in his backbone—it had just taken Homer a while to find it—President Blanton told them to shut up. In Blanton’s words, “World stabilization is much more important than the lives of a few hundred, a few thousand, or a few million hard-core criminals. Those who stand in the way of a return to civilization and orderly government had best understand now that if they persist, they will be treated in the harshest manner. I fully back General Ben Raines and his Rebels.”
“Well, I’ll be damned!” Kathy said, after reading the communiqué. “What the hell happened to him?”
“He stopped paying attention to the screwballs in his administration, told his wife to shut up, and started listening to the majority of the American people. That’s what happened,” Ben replied. “If the politicians had done that years ago, worldwide, this goddamn mess we’re now in, and will be in for the rest of our lives, and a good portion of our children’s lives, probably would not have occurred.”
“To someone who didn’t know you, Ben, that remark would sound very racist.”
“One has only to look at the ranks of the Rebels to know that racism is not tolerated, Kathy. From any direction.”
She smiled at him. “Really, Ben?”
Ben was still puzzling over that question long after she had left the room. His team had been in the room when Kathy made the comment, and he looked over at Corrie, who was taking a break from her radio. She shrugged her shoulders.
“Beats me what she meant, boss. But reporters are weird people. I never met one yet I’d trust very far.”
Ben met the eyes of each of his team members. No more than kids when they first joined him—and they picked him rather than he choosing them. Now they were all adults, in their midtwenties, and there wasn’t fifteen cents worth of difference in their combined philosophies. They had taken Ben’s philosophy as their own. But, as Ben remembered back over the years, not without question; and they had asked good questions and still did.
“You might be right about that, Corrie,” Ben finally addressed her statement, wondering if she were trying to caution him about Kathy. “You may be right.”
SIXTEEN
Paris was going to be a real bitch.
Ben had been studying maps for several days, while his battalions made ready for urban warfare against the creepies in the old city. Paris had to be taken and the back of the creepies broken. Once Paris was taken, Ben and his nine battalions could link up and finish the warlords and punks. But there was no way Ben could bypass the city and leave the Night People at his back, nor could he totally destroy Paris. That was part of the agreement he made with the secretary-general of the UN. There were about a dozen cities in Europe that he had agreed to leave intact . . . if at all possible. Paris was one of them.
“A real son of a bitch,” Ben muttered, folding the old maps carefully and putting them away. He looked up at Jersey. “They’re going to be down in the old sewers, Jersey. We’ve got to go in and flush them out.”
“Then let’s get to it,” she replied.
“Indeed,” Ben said, thinking, Oh, to be that young again. He looked up as Mike Richards strolled in. The chief of Rebel intelligence had been out in the field with some of his other spooks for the past week, and he had a grim look on his face. “You going to rain all over me?” Ben asked.
Mike nodded his head. “Yeah,” he said, pouring a cup of coffee. He was unshaven and his clothes were dirty from days of working close to Paris . . . and probably inside the city as well. “Goddamn cannibals are holding several thousand men, women, and kids prisoners inside the city, Ben. Fattening them up for slaughter.”
“We anticipated that, Mike. And no, we aren’t going to launch a rescue mission.”
Mike looked at Ben. “That’s firm?”
“Yes. And you know all the reasons.”
Mike nodded. Something happened to those prisoners once they were held for a long period of time, knowing they faced being eaten, some of them consumed alive. A large percentage of them lost their minds and had to be warehoused for the rest of their lives.
“The press is going to raise hell, Ben,” Mike said softly.
“I can’t help it, Mike. You know as well as I do they’re better off dead. How did the press find out?”
“I don’t know that they did. But my people tell me they’re all roaming the secure areas, trying to find something they can use against you. Why don’t you just run them out of the country?”
“The thought is becoming more appealing. But I keep coming up with reasons why I shouldn’t.”
Mike drained his coffee cup. “When do we hit Paris?”
“Day after tomorrow. Dawn.”
The FRF moved in to help in the job of sealing off roads on the outskirts of the Paris suburbs. Ben was under no illusion that he could destroy all the creepies in the city; the best estimates his intelligence people could offer was that 60 to 70 percent would be eliminated. And the Rebels would suffer between 0.5 and 1 percent killed and another 2 to 3 percent wounded.
“Let’s prove them wrong,” Ben told his batt coms just hours before the push was to begin. “If I find anybody without body armor, I’ll court-martial them.”
“How about the press?” Pat O’Shea asked.
“They can get their own body armor.”
The batt coms all laughed. Pat shook his head. “Are they going to be with us?”
“Some of them will be working a day behind us. Only a half dozen will actually go in with us. I just don’t want to have to read about how harshly we treat these poor, misguided creepies: how they were forced into a life of cannibalism because when they were young the coach wouldn’t let them play, or the homecoming queen wouldn’t date them, or they had pimples, or somebody was politically incorrect with them—and because of that terribly unfair treatment, they were somehow forced into a life of crime in order to rebel against the system, or some such shit.”
The batt coms and company commanders and platoon leaders were roaring with laughter. There were those among them who had personally suffered terrible deprivations as children, or knew of others who had, and who had gone on to become productive, law-abiding men and women, both before and after the Great War.
Kathy, David Manor, and Paul Carson were in attendance, sitting in the rear of the room, and the three of them exchanged knowing glances and small smiles at Ben’s remarks and the laughter that followed the words. They all knew men and women in the press corps who would have done just that . . . they themselves had done it in their early reporting days, before a hard dose of reality slapped them back into the real world.
“You all know where you’re going in and what to do once in there. I don’t have to belabor the point. Our objective is to kill creepies and stabilize the city. Let’s do it building by building, slow and easy. That’s it, people. Take off.”
When the room had cleared except for Ben, his personal team, and the three reporters, Kathy said, “Ben, you’re really going to get some bad coverage if you don’t permit the press to enter the city tomorrow.”
“I don’t recall ever getting good coverage from those people. It’s a little late to worry about it now.” He looked at Paul and David. “You know your staging areas?”
They did.
“I’ll see you in the city.” He took Kathy’s arm, and together they walked out of the room.
* * *
Rain began slicking the streets just before dawn, a light but very cold rain, the temperature hovering in the low forties. Ben and the Rebels looked like some mad artist’s drawing of people from outer space dressed in their protect
ive gear. They stood around and sipped hot coffee from canteen cups, waiting for the first tints of gray to fill the eastern sky. Tanks snorted and rumbled around the outskirts of Paris, filling the cold air with diesel smoke.
The Rebels loathed the creepies and hated dealing with them. They despised going in and finding the creepies’ fattening farms, filled with insane and half-insane men and women and young children waiting to be eaten by the cannibalistic clan. Even Jersey was nervous as she waited for Ben to give the jump-off signal. She wished Smoot was here, so she could pet the husky, but Smoot was back with Thermopolis, out of harm’s way.
For once even Emil was silent, his face showing the signs of strain at the thought of dealing up close and face to face with the stinking Night People. Emil was not afraid of the creepies, he just hated dealing with them. They were savages through and through.
Ben stood by his HumVee, sipping coffee, his facial expression unreadable. Kathy stood a few yards from him, trying to guess what might be running through his mind. She soon gave that up as impossible.
The Rebels had circled the city and were miles from the heart of Paris. They were right at the edge of the suburbs, and intelligence had warned them that they were about to wage war on the most massive gathering of Night People anywhere in the world. Paris was literally filled with them.
“So you will be outnumbered again?” Kathy said to Beth, after giving up trying to engage Ben in conversation.
“Nothing new,” Beth replied casually. “We’re almost always outnumbered. It’s been that way ever since the Rebels were formed.” She smiled. “The general is always like this before a big fight. It’s nothing personal. He’s gearing up mentally for the fight, that’s all.”
A few gunshots were heard coming from the mist-shrouded homes and buildings that lay rain-gray ahead of them. The shots were muffled by the rain.
“Recon,” Beth said. “They’re clearing out a place for a MASH unit and communications. They’re doing the same in three other locations. We’ll take some casualties,” she added.
“You say that very matter-of-factly,” Kathy said.
“Can’t make scrambled eggs without breaking the shells,” Beth said. “Better drink your coffee. We’ll be shoving off in a few minutes, I think. Did you fill your canteens?”
“Yes. Both of them.”
Beth nodded and walked off.
Kathy looked at her watch and turned to Cooper. “It’s past 0600. What’s the delay?”
“The boss is waiting for good light. It’s going to be bad enough when we do push off; streets slick as goose shit.”
“The Rebels have a healthy respect for these Night People, right, Cooper?”
“You bet we do. They don’t surrender. Ever. They fight to the last person. They’ll rush you carrying fifty pounds of C-4, or Molotov cocktails, or whatever they can get their hands on. Just as long as they can take one of us with them.”
Ben gazed up at the gray sky for a moment and then took a final drag on his hand-rolled cigarette. He toed out the butt with his boot and muttered something under his breath that no one could hear and then glanced at Corrie. He lifted his right hand and began making a circular motion with his index finger up.
“Get to your vehicle,” Cooper said to Kathy. “The boss is gettin’ this circus on the road.” He glanced at her. “Secure that body armor and fasten the chin strap on your helmet. It’s gonna get real mean, real quick.” He walked off toward the Hummer and opened the driver’s side door. Ben’s voice stopped him.
“On foot, Coop. Corrie, order the tanks to spearhead.” Before Cooper could respond, Ben was off and running through the mist and rain and fog.
“I knew it, goddamnit!” the driver of the vehicle Kathy was in said, opening the door and jumping out just as Lieutenant Bonelli was yelling for his people to follow the general.
Kathy jumped out of the backseat and went running off toward Ben and his team, almost losing her footing on the slick street and busting her ass before she caught up with them.
Ben was squatting down behind a house. He glanced at her and grinned. “You sure you don’t want to stay in the rear?”
“I’m sure.”
He nodded and was up and running toward another house before Kathy caught her breath. Saying a few very choice words under her breath, Kathy followed, staying with Beth.
“That area is not secure!” a scout yelled, as Ben angled off and went running up another block.
“Then let’s secure it!” Ben yelled over his shoulder just as unfriendly fire started yammering from a house. Ben hit the wet grass and slid on his belly for a few feet before coming to a stop behind a tree. Beth and Kathy took to ground and belly-crawled to a low stone fence.
“Is he always like this?” Kathy asked, as heavy machine-gun fire clipped bits of stone from the fence just a couple of feet over their heads.
“Yes,” Beth said, setting the fire selector on her M-16 to full auto. “But you haven’t seen anything yet.”
“I can hardly wait,” Kathy muttered.
Ben tossed a grenade toward the open window of the house where the heavy machine gun fire was coming from. The grenade fell about a foot short, but the explosion caused the old bricks to collapse and when they did, part of the roof fell in. Ben was over the fence and running toward the rear of the house. Beth was over the fence and running toward Ben before Kathy could react. Wisely she decided to stay right where she was for the time being.
The back door flew open just as Ben reached it, and a familiar stench reached his nostrils. Ben leveled his Thompson and held the trigger back, sending the knot of creepies that crowded the back entrance into that long sleep.
“Teams left and right of me!” Ben yelled to Corrie. “Let’s clear this block and do it right the first time.”
Ben cautiously stepped over the stinking bodies of the creepies and into the house. One of the creeps was still alive and moaned. Ben shot him in the head. His eyes penetrated the gloom of the dark interior and found the body of a young woman—or what was left of the naked being. The creepies had been eating on the carcass.
Ben glanced over his shoulder. Corrie and Cooper were right behind him. “Get Kathy and that film crew up here,” Ben said. “Now. Have other batt coms pull reporters in and do the same.”
Rebels were working the block, quickly clearing the houses of creepies. Kathy and a network reporter and film crew came to the rear of house and looked for a moment at the dead creepies piled in a stinking heap at the back door.
Ben stepped to one side and motioned them all inside. He pointed to what was left of the naked and eaten-upon young woman. “Film it,” he said, and his tone warned them all they had better do it. “The people we’re fighting eat other human beings alive. They keep them alive as long as possible. They say the flesh tastes better that way.”
The top-gun network reporter gasped and stepped to the door, barely able to hold his vomit until he reached the outside. There he lost his breakfast, almost puking on the boots of several other reporters who had gathered . . . or had been herded over to the house.
Ben said, “From this moment on, I don’t want to hear another goddamn word about offering these people pity, or compassion, or mercy. The first time I hear any of those words, or similar words, in conjunction with the Night People, the reporter who says them will be out of this country so fast it will take his or her breath away. Does everybody read me loud and clear?”
“We have only your word that all Night People commit these atrocities, General,” a man said.
Ben did not hesitate. He pointed to two Rebels. “You and you. Escort this person to the airport at Rouen and make damn sure the officer in charge there gets him on a plane for the States. Pull his entry papers. He is not to be allowed back on this Continent without authorization from me. And that is not likely to happen.”
The reporter flushed in anger and opened his mouth. “Now you see here, General. You can’t—”
Ben stepped forward and
hit the man on the mouth with a gloved fist, splitting his lips and loosening several teeth. The reporter’s butt bounced on the blood-slick floor, and before he could recover, the two Rebels assigned to escort him had jerked him up and tossed him outside.
The other reporters present wisely kept their mouths closed and their opinions to themselves.
Ben pointed to the naked, half-eaten human carcass on the floor, the last horrible grimace of unbearable pain frozen in death on her face. “Film it!” he roared. “And from this moment on, until I feel I can trust you people to tell the truth and not slant your reports, all copy, all film, will first be submitted to our censors for evaluation before being sent back home. Is that understood?”
It was. Perfectly. Loud and clear. The reporters didn’t like it, but the order was understood.
Ben turned away from the knot of print and broadcast reporters to look for a moment at the stiffening young woman on the dirty floor. “Bury her,” he ordered. “Burn the bodies of these goddamn creepies.”
The reporters quickly stepped to one side to allow Ben through to the outside. The rain had picked up. But it could not cleanse the earth of the stench of death and depravity and horrible perversion.
“I hate these goddamn people,” Ben said, stepping under the dubious protection of the barren limbs of an old tree to roll a cigarette.
“The creepies or the reporters?” Jersey asked with a straight face.
BOOK TWO
My opinion is that the northern states will manage somehow to muddle through.
- John Bright
D-Day in the Ashes Page 13
