Valor in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

“Is he tank-reinforced?”

  “Ten four, sir. Dusters.”

  “West? This is Eagle. Take the point and clear it out for us.”

  “My pleasure, sir,” West’s calm voice came over the speaker.

  The 40-mm twin guns of the old Dusters were time-proven; the only problem was carrying enough ammo, for at a max of 240 rounds per minute, with both barrels going, the Dusters could spit out a lot of grief.

  And heading up Bowery, toward the split where Bowery ends and branches off into Third Avenue, the 40mm cannons dealt some misery to the creepies.

  The Dusters were running in a Wolf pack, three abreast, the middle tank slightly ahead of the flankers. A lot of modification had been done to these old tanks, first introduced as the M-19. Fifty-caliber machine guns had been mounted on some, with cannibalized gunshields from other models. Some Dusters had twin-mounted M-60’s — whatever the crews were happiest with.

  The column, now grown in size, angled off onto Fourth Avenue. Ben picked up the mike.

  “West, take your people on north and cut over on East Eighth. Start working south from there. I’ll cut over on Broadway now and come up under you on West Third. Good hunting.”

  “Thank you, General. Take care of yourself.”

  “Ike? You cut east at Waverly Place. That’ll put you and your people right on top of Washington Square Park. See you shortly.”

  “Ten-four,” Ike drawled.

  “Dan? Where are you?”

  “Right behind you, sir.”

  “Dan, when I cut off on Third, you continue on to Washington Place and start securing that area.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Let’s do it, gang.”

  As the Rebels’ objectives became known to the Night People through their monitoring of the transmissions, the creepies tried to move into place, to get into better defensive positions. But Ben and his people were moving too fast, their advance too sudden, and the crawlers were caught with their pants down — or their robes up. Whatever.

  The Abrams swung onto Third, with Ben right behind them. Ben had been busy hooking grenades onto his battle harness. He looked up as a library came into view. “Right here, Cooper,” he ordered. Ben bailed out of the Blazer before it even stopped moving, Beth and Jersey scrambling out and running to catch him, as Ben’s squad of bodyguards were hard pressed to keep up.

  Creepies met the Rebels on the steps. Ben cleared the first row of them with one sustained burst from his Thompson. The big .45-caliber slugs slammed through dirty robes and tore into filthy human flesh, knocking the crawlers backward and to either side. The steps became slippery from the blood of the creepies. One stared up at Beth through hate-filled eyes and tried to grab her ankle. She shot him between the eyes, ending, among other things, the hate.

  “Cows have nicer eyes,” she muttered, then followed Ben and Jersey inside the library.

  The place was a wreck. Rat-chewed books and magazines littered the floor, ankle-deep. And black-robed spookies were all over the place, stinking it up, profaning the knowledge and entertainment between the covers of the thousands of books.

  Ben ducked behind a counter just as one bogie leveled his AK and sent half a clip in Ben’s direction. The slugs tore holes in the counter and blew dusty, rat-shitted papers flying.

  Jersey stopped that bogie with a burst of .223 slugs, then turned her weapon to a group of black-robes that came charging and squalling at her from a hallway. Beth dropped to one knee and added another full auto to Jersey’s. Together, they turned the hallway into a death trap for smelly people, sending blood and other parts of human bodies splattering all over the place.

  Ben had dropped an empty drum, refitted a full one, and was busy ruining the day for any number of creepies.

  A squad of Gray’s Scouts had battled their way through the rear of the huge red sandstone building — which at one time had housed over two million books — and now the Night People who remained alive in the library had but two choices: surrender or die.

  They chose the latter.

  And did it en masse.

  The air filled with the stink of creepies and the sharp smell of gunsmoke as the Rebels closed the jaws of the trap and cleared yet another tiny part of the Big Apple.

  Ben stood in the ankle-deep mess and shook his head in disgust and despair at the wanton waste of so many valuable works of the masters. But the clean-up and the inventory would have to come later.

  He fitted a full drum into the belly of the Thompson and jacked in a round. “Let’s go, people. We’ve got a lot of work to do.”

  With Beth and Jersey and Cooper, he stepped outside and breathed deeply of the cold air, clearing his lungs of the stink of the Night People. Together, they stood for a moment, just outside the front door of the library. They could all hear the sounds of fierce fighting as other Rebels struck blows for freedom from fear and cannibalism and ignorance. A crawlie moaned from inside the library. A single shot put an abrupt end to the moaning.

  “All those books in there,” Jersey said. “Destroyed. It doesn’t make any sense. What kind of people do things like that?”

  “Ignorant people, Jersey,” Ben told her. “Ignorant people are very fearful of knowledge. Books are the light at the end of the dark tunnel of ignorance. People who are ignorant want to keep others the same way. Ignorant people have no power or influence over those who wish to climb out of the pits of stupidity. Ignorant people want only to destroy. Erudite and curious-minded people want to learn more and more. People who stop learning, stagnate. Wherever we go, Jersey, we try to leave it a better place.”

  “We’ve got a hell of a job ahead of us in this city, General,” Beth said.

  Ben smiled at her. “Then I guess we’d better get to it.”

  NINETEEN

  Tina and her Rebels, most of their work done, had little to do except wait and guard the airport. Since their arrival, they had seen nothing of the Night People. The uglies had been at the airport; some of their discarded clothing had been found, and burned. But it looked as though it had been a long time since any of the creepies had visited Teterboro. Which, at first, was a relief. Now Tina and those in her command were getting bored, and a little irritated. Especially since they were monitoring the radio transmission in the city, and knew that Ben had pushed on ahead and was engaged in some heavy fighting around Washington Square.

  There is a reason for General Raines to have us out here,” Ham said, during a break in the monitoring. “This airport is a vital link to the city. That’s why he beefed us up.”

  “Yeah, I know” Tina told him, after a long sigh. “But that knowledge doesn’t make the waiting any easier to take.”

  “He sent me and my people along for a reason,” Doctor Ling spoke. “And that reason is he expects us to take some casualties. I’ve a hunch he strongly believes this Monte person will try to take this airport and cut off the Rebels’ supply route into the city.”

  “Yeah,” Pam said. “Lord knows he sure trucked in enough supplies for us.”

  They looked up as the still far-off sounds of a cargo plane reached them. “Let’s go to work,” Tina said.

  Emil breathed a sigh of relief as Virginia faded behind them. He had thought for a time they never would get out of that state. Not that he had anything against what used to be known as Virginia; it just took so damn long to clear it.

  With Thermopolis’s people added to his own force — if that is what Emil’s followers could be called with any degree of accuracy — the ragtag-looking bunch now numbered just over two hundred.

  And no stranger collection of warriors — and the vehicles they drove — was ever gathered together in recorded history.

  Emil, of course, led the column, behind a few guard vehicles. Emil traveled in his black hearse.

  The rest of Emil’s people rattled and banged along in a collection of vehicles that would send a junk dealer into throes of ecstasy.

  Thermy’s bunch all drove VW’s. Every friggin’ one of them
either drove or rode in a VW. A Bug or a van. But it was a VW. With flowers painted on them. And peace signs and symbols and other hippie crap that Emil hadn’t seen since the 1960’s.

  Emil wondered if Thermy had himself a pretty good scam going as well.

  He decided not.

  But that music, man, was fuckin’ awful! Every VW had a tape player, and together, Thermy’s bunch must own a zillion tapes. If it wasn’t low-down cottonpatch blues, it was some other nasal hideousness with words that made absolutely no sense — the ones Emil could understand, that is.

  “No wonder the Russians bombed us,” he muttered.

  But all in all, Emil had to admit, he liked Thermy and his people. That old 1960’s expression fit them very well. What was it? Yeah. They had their shit together. And there was nothing the hippies couldn’t fix. No sweat if a car or truck broke down. They could fix it. And they weren’t like the hippies Emil remembered from those old days of protest.

  These people were clean. They took baths. Not many of the men shaved. But they were clean. Amazing!

  And as far as the names went . . . Emil didn’t believe any of them. But that was all right. Emil wasn’t Emil’s real name either. Hadn’t been for a long time. Since years before the Great War . . . Emil had been on the run from his third wife when the balloon went up. Bitch had chased him all over three states. Caught up with him once in a supermarket in Kentucky and beat the hell out of him with a ten-pound roll of salami. That was embarrassing. Painful, too.

  So it didn’t make any difference to Emil about names. Emil was just glad Thermy and his bunch had linked up with them.

  If they’d just do something about that music.

  The sounds of battle had faded to a occasional shot; after the fury of the morning it was a welcome calm.

  The Rebels had cleared everything around Washington Square, from the Provincetown Playhouse to the E. H. Bobst Library. They had cleared several churches, removing the black-robed stinking blasphemy from the Houses of God and dumping the bodies into the snowy streets; they lay in bloody heaps, awaiting transport to the garbage scows that would take them to a watery grave.

  The cold air stank of death.

  There is not a painting left in the Grey Art Gallery, General,” West reported. “The main building of the University is completely clear. Would you like to walk over for an inspection?”

  The men, accompanied by Ben’s ever-present bodyguards, walked through the square, under the arch, past the statue of Garibaldi, and entered the main building. The floor was littered with refuse and rat droppings, but there was no sign of any vandalism of the paintings: there was not one shredded or torn canvas alive with colors. No evidence of broken frames.

  “Did they leave anything at all behind?” Ben asked.

  “Nothing. Not one painting.”

  “Somebody, somewhere, certainly has quite an impressive art collection.”

  “That they do, General.”

  Outside, the garbage details, masked and gloved against disease, were picking up and tossing into trucks the bodies of Night People. The dull sounds as bodies struck bodies did not carry far in the snowy afternoon.

  Ben stepped outside to stand facing Washington Square East. A folded piece of paper, carried by the wind, stuck to his right boot. Ben reached down and removed the wet paper. A brochure of some type, the words faded, but still readable. Some sort of real estate flyer.

  Ben carefully opened the folder and shook the water from it.

  Seventy-four residential units for sale in the Village, read the flyer. Nine hundred square feet, one bedroom, two hundred and sixty thousand dollars. Call Cindy. Do it today. These units are going fast.

  Ben wadded the wet paper into a tight little ball.

  “Wonder what happened to Cindy?” he muttered, the words lost in the cold wind.

  Blister gas had been used in the areas Ben’s people had bypassed getting to Washington Square. Screaming in agony, the Night People ran from the buildings, to be shot down by Rebels waiting outside, in full protective gear.

  There was nothing glamorous about the action. There is nothing glamorous about war. It was cold, dirty, nerve-tearing work. The blister gas had eaten into the flesh of the cannibals, driving many of them mad under the intense pain.

  And Ben was in no mood to jack around taking prisoners and giving aid and comfort to any of these filthy, disgusting and savage people.

  The Rebels had cordoned off several blocks containing the buildings presumed to be booby-trapped. They would deal with them later.

  The chemicals had struck fear into the hearts of the Night People. For they now knew that Ben Raines was no subscriber to any type of so-called rules of war. Just how much fear Ben had struck into the souls of the cannibals soon became evident.

  Ike and Cecil and West walked up, joining the group.

  Beth suddenly held up a hand, signaling for silence. They stood just inside a building on the corner of Fifth Avenue and 9th Street, across from the Church of the Ascension. Beth smiled grimly and turned to Ben.

  “That was Katzman. The Night People have been in touch with him. They want to make a deal.”

  “Oh?” Ben returned the grim smile. “What sort of deal are they proposing?”

  “They will no longer use booby traps if we will stop using the gas.”

  Ben thought about that. The several blocks that the Rebels presumed booby-trapped had been sealed off and bypassed. The immediate area around them was almost cleared of creepies by use of the blister agent. While the Rebels certainly owed nothing to the Night People, the use of chemicals was repugnant to nearly all of the Rebels.

  “And if we don’t stop?” Ben felt he already knew the answer to that. Beth confirmed it.

  “We will have to kill the women and children they have in captivity before we get to them.”

  “Nice folks,” Ike said.

  “Yeah. Just peachy.” Ben cut his eyes and nodded to Beth. “All right. But the first time we encounter a booby-trapped building north of West Houston the deal is off. And I want the SoHo and Little Italy districts cleared of explosives. We won’t bother them while they clear it, they don’t bother us.”

  Beth relayed the message to Katzman. “He says give him a few minutes. He’ll get back to us.”

  “War certainly produces some strange arrangements between enemies,” Dan observed.

  “Yes,” Ben agreed. “Now if we just knew the locations of the prisoners, we could extricate them and go back to using gas.”

  “My goodness, General!” Dan looked heavenward, a smile on his lips. “You mean you would go back on your word and resume the use of gas against these poor wretches?”

  “Faster than you can dunk a tea bag.”

  Those gathered around had a good laugh at that. All knew that Ben Raines could be totally and utterly ruthless in dealing with an enemy — especially one as odious as the Night People.

  Beth listened to her headphones for a moment. “The creepies accepted the deal, General.”

  Ben’s eyes were hard for a moment. They remained hard as he said, “We scared them with the blister gas. But for them to want to face us nose-to-nose and resume slugging it out . . .” He paused for a few seconds. “. . . That means they’ve got us so badly outnumbered that they can afford to lose hundreds or even thousands more, knowing they will eventually defeat us, or they’re counting heavily on Monte’s assistance. Or, a combination of both.”

  “What’s the word on Monte?” West asked.

  “They’re still in Canada. We bought maybe a week to ten days by blowing the bridge. If they elect to cross at Cornwall, they’ll have to spend some time repairing it. Striganov told me that a portion of that bridge had been knocked out several years back. They could cross over about fifty miles on up the road, but I’m betting they won’t. That would put them out on a maze of poorly maintained secondary roads. They’d lose a lot of time. I’m betting they’ll go on up and cross over just west of Montreal and hook up with Eigh
ty-seven.” He pulled out a map and opened it. “Right now, Rebet’s people and Dan’s Sappers are busting their butts trying to get to this area here.” He pointed to the map. “To blow a series of bridges on the New York Thruway. If we can pull that off, that will force Monte over into Vermont, bringing them down to the north of us, rather than to the west of us, and close to Tina’s position.”

  Ben looked down at the map case. “But that entails a lot of ifs, people. Monte is a thug, but he’s a smart thug. He’s going to see all these bridges blown, and that’s going to tingle the short hairs on his neck. If he decides to cut west, bypassing the blown bridges, then he’ll eventually link up with Eighty-seven again. And if that happens, we’ll be cut off from the airport, and from Tina’s bunch.”

  And from Jerre, Ben silently added.

  “You want to split the forces, Ben?” Cecil asked. “I could take my battalion up, and that would put Danjou and Rebet on top of him and me and mine below him.”

  “I thought of it, Cec. But we’re spread thin here in the city now. Right now we’re running the risk of night crawlers infiltrating back across our lines at night.” He shook his head. “No. I’ve got planes ready to go when Monte crosses over. Dan’s Sappers will radio us from the bridges, telling us what direction Monte’s taking. We’ll just have to make a decision when that time comes. And,” he added, “hope that it’s the right one.”

  “How about all our people out in America, General?” Beth asked. “You know, the patrols and the Rebels manning the outposts and the ones down in Louisiana?”

  Again, Ben shook his head. “No. If we pulled the troops assisting those civilians at the outposts, the warlords and outlaws would attack, trying to reclaim. The same for Joe Williams’s troops down at Base Camp One. He’s got to guard the ammo-producing factories and food-processing plants and all of that. Hell, Joe’s got the thinnest battalion of us all. No. It’s up to us.” Ben smiled and then laughed, while the others looked at him, wondering what in the hell was going on. “And, of course, we’re forgetting a very important ally.”