The day after: An apocalyptic morning

by Jessy Cruise

She tried to put these thoughts out of her mind. What point was there in thinking about it right now? She had neither the power nor the support to put a stop to it. Stung by the way they had been treated by the men of Auburn, most of the women were enthusiastically in favor of a little payback, most of them pretending to not realize that there were turning out just the same as their former masters. And we're supposed to be the fair sex? Madeline sometimes wondered.

  She walked along the far wall of the gym towards the bleachers, her eyes looking for her missing guards. She knew they were here of course, most of the guards had been invited since most of them had been in Jessica's little takeover plot from the beginning. She found the first of them - Rhonda Marx - after less than a minute. Rhonda was sitting in the same row as Jessica herself, right up front and center of the action. She headed over.

  "Hi, Maddie," Jessica said as she saw her approach. "Decide to join us after all?" Jessica's eyes had a slightly glassy sheen to them. She was drunk and had been spending much of her time that way since the revolution that had put her into power. She started off with three or four bloody Marys in the morning and graduated to rum and cokes by afternoon. Madeline often wondered what she was going to do when the liquor supply finally ran out.

  "No," Maddie said, looking at her leader for a moment. "I came for Rhonda here. Her and some of the other girls seem to have forgotten to show up for their shifts tonight."

  "Oops," Rhonda giggled, the odor of whiskey wafting off her in a wave. "Am I bad?"

  "You're drunk," Madeline said, shifting her gaze and glaring at her. "I told you not to drink before your shift."

  "I just had a few," Rhonda said with another giggle and a playful slap that landed hard enough to cause pain.

  "Son of a bitch," Madeline muttered. She increased the power of the glare a little. "Get your ass home right now and sleep this off. You're pulling a double shift tomorrow for this crap."

  "Maddie!" Rhonda protested. "I didn't..."

  "No you didn't," Madeline said. "And now Karen is going to have to work a double shift tonight because you couldn't keep your hands off the booze. In fact, I think two nights of double shifts oughtta be your punishment. Karen certainly deserves a night off for something like this, doesn't she?"

  Before Rhonda could answer, a hand touched Madeline's arm. It was Jessica's.

  "Don't you think you're being a bit harsh on her?" she asked, favoring Rhonda with a conspiratorial look.

  "Harsh?" Madeline asked, fighting to maintain a proper tone. "For getting drunk and skipping guard duty? I think not."

  "Well I do," Jessica said, taking a sip out of her latest drink. "My God, you act just like Skip sometimes. Lighten up a little." She turned to Rhonda. "Rhonda, you pull a double shift tomorrow for Karen, okay? In the meantime, since you're already unable to go out there, just relax, have another drink, and enjoy the show."

  "Thanks, Jess," Rhonda said happily, giving a vindicated glance at Madeline.

  Madeline was shocked at this public mockery of her authority. "Excuse me, Jessica," she said, still fighting to keep her tongue civil, "but the guards and their schedules are my responsibility. I believe that disciplining them is my responsibility as well."

  "This entire town is my responsibility," Jessica said firmly, her eyes daring Madeline to contradict her. "And you'll do well to remember that, little missy. I think you're being too hard on poor Rhonda here and I'm vetoing your decision, as is my right as leader of this town. Do you understand?"

  "Jessica," Madeline said reasonably. "I don't think you understand..."

  "I understand everything," she said arrogantly. "But what I asked is if you understand? Do you?"

  Madeline sighed. "I understand."

  "Good," Jessica told her. "Now leave poor Rhonda alone and don't go chasing down any of the other girls that are here either. Just cover their shifts and have them all work doubles tomorrow. It's fair for everyone. Stay and watch the show if you want, but otherwise, leave everyone alone."

  Madeline bit back a number of angry replies. It took some work. Finally she just said: "As you wish" and left the room.

  "What's the count?" Stu asked Colby first thing in the morning, after the customary roll call.

  "182," Colby said. "Four killed in the raids last night and two desertions."

  Stu nodded as if he'd expected that. "That's enough," he said. "Again, as long as we stick to the single thrust from the north."

  With no one to counter this notion, Colby quickly agreed to it. "Let's start briefing the squad leaders," he told Stu. "We'll move out in thirty minutes."

  At 8:00 that morning Skip and Jack were up in the helicopter, hovering 2000 feet above the west side of town. Skip was reasonably well rested as far as current standards went. They had flown three night attacks in the previous twelve hours and he had gotten a little more than five hours of broken sleep. Jack had a little less sleep under his belt - he had spent a few hours experiencing the finer things in life - but he was younger and able to utilize it better.

  "There they go," Skip said, holding his hover while his eyes watched the tiny figures of men marching through the trees far below.

  "They're heading north," Jack said, examining them through the FLIR, which gave him a better count. "Towards the interstate."

  "And no one's heading for the west side," Skip said. "It looks like they're intending to keep together for the attack." He shook his head a little. "Don't know what their commander is thinking, but he's sure as shit giving us a break."

  "Should we get our people down in the trenches?" Jack asked, eager to give the deployment order over the radio.

  "Not yet," Skip told him, glancing for a second at his instruments. "Let's wait until they cross the interstate and start heading east. Once they do that, they'll be pretty much committed."

  So Jack gave an update on the troop movements below to Paul, who was monitoring the helicopter channel, but told everyone to hold in place for the moment. They watched the troops continue to march north below them while in the community center, the Garden Hill army continued to sit restlessly in the cafeteria.

  "I don't like that fuckin helicopter watching everything we do," Colby told Stu over the radio. "Isn't there anything we can do about it?"

  The helicopter was plainly visible off to the east, hovering over the western wall of the town, its nose pointed towards the formation.

  "It's too high to shoot," Stu replied. "Even if a bullet somehow manages to hit it, it won't do any damage. They're more than 2000 feet above us. That almost 700 yards straight up."

  "I don't like it," Colby repeated. "It gives them too much of an advantage."

  "So they can see us?" Stu answered. "It's no big deal. We knew that would be a problem all along. Remember that we have the gun and numerical advantage. And we're men for God's sake, not a bunch of bitches with rifles."

  "I suppose," Colby said, continuing to put one foot in front of the other. He was having a bad feeling about all of this. A very bad feeling.

  Up above, Skip and Jack were hearing every word that was being said on the Auburn communications channels. This was a simple Micker of setting their radio to the citizens band frequencies and putting it on scan. And the militia was dumb enough to talk in the clear. Were they completely unaware that they were being monitored? Or were they just arrogant enough to think that it didn't Micker? Skip favored the latter suggestion. The statement that "bitches" were inherently inferior at combat than "men" was the clincher. Didn't this idiot know that modern combat with guns did not rely on physical strength, the only thing that the fairer sex was lacking when it came to comparison? Didn't he know that a good portion of the VC that had kicked the shit out of the US army in Vietnam had been women? Apparently not. If so, his blindness would be his undoing.

  Thirty minutes later the lead elements of the militia climbed up a small embankment and onto the asphalt lanes of the freeway. They came out less than two hundred yards from a sign that the Garden Hill squads had put up thr
ee days before, especially for this occasion. It was a large white placard with neatly printed, almost gothic script upon it, composed by one of the more artistic members of the community. The sign was almost humorous in nature, quoting from "The Wizard of Oz".

  ENTERING GARDEN HILLS TERRITORY

  I'D TURN BACK IF I WERE YOU

  The militia did not find it very funny however. When Private Williams, at the order of Colby, approached the sign to knock it down - a completely unmilitary goal - he stepped on a trip wire and set off a mine that was mounted eight feet away on a pine tree beside the road. The pellets blasted out and ripped a hole in his side, causing him to utilize his pistol three minutes later.

  The rest of the militia, shaken and scared, continued forward. The sign remained in place.

  "They're across the interstate," said Jack's voice over the VHF radio in the cafeteria. "The rear elements just made the crossing. The lead elements are turning east."

  "We copy that," replied Paul, who was in charge of monitoring the frequency.

  "Begin deployment in the north bunkers," Jack said, obviously repeating instructions given to him by Skip. "Platoon one and two, occupy the bunkers in grid C-charlie six and D-delta six. Platoon three, occupy the bunkers in the rear of D-delta six. Estimate ninety minutes to contact."

  "All right, people," Paul shouted after acknowledging and repeating the transmission. "The time has come. Form up and get out to where you need to be. God be with us!"

  Now that the initial phase of waiting was over, the troops moved in a very efficient, very disciplined manner. They had practiced just such a thing many times in the past. The squad leaders gathered their men and women and told them to arm up. The platoon leaders watched, making sure that everything went according to plan.

  Guns were put over shoulders and backpacks, heavy with ammunition, water canteens, and first-aid supplies, were strapped to backs. Each of the squads was in possession of at least one of the automatic weapons that were available. Each of the automatic weapon carriers was in possession of a full clip of tracer rounds in addition to a box of extras. Each platoon leader - Christine, Paula, and Mick - was carrying a VHF portable so that communications with the helicopter were possible. They also carried a CB portable to talk to their squad leaders.

  As a group they donned their rain gear and headed out the door, walking in formation through the paved streets of Garden Hill towards the gate that guarded entrance to it. They were silent, contemplative as they marched, but determined. They exited the gate and then walked along the walls, using the road to travel on. Above them they could see but not hear the helicopter, their eye in the sky, hovering. No one waved at it, no one really even wasted time looking at it. It was comforting enough just to know it was there. They reached the northern wall and continued forward for another fifteen minutes, until they were approaching the Interstate. Then they headed off into the woods and the gentle hills there.

  Within thirty minutes of getting the orders, they were climbing into their trenches and assigning areas of responsibility. They loaded their weapons and began to wait.

  Paul and his medical team, which consisted of three of the women, climbed into the hauling truck and drove it out to the road, parking it along the northern wall. In the back were sheets and some makeshift carrying cots as well as field packs of medical supplies. A plastic cover tied over the top kept everything dry. When there were wounded (he could not, no Micker how much he tried, think if there were wounded) he and his team would go out and haul them in. Another team was standing by in the community center to care for them further - hopefully keeping them stable until Skip could fly them to El Dorado Hills.

  They staged for a few minutes just north of the interstate, reforming into their squads and platoons for the coming march. Everyone drank out of their canteens and checked their weapons. Squad leaders made a final inspection while the platoon leaders - all of them except Stu and Colby hastily promoted sergeants - tried to offer some encouraging words.

  "All right, guys," Stu said, addressing the men while Colby stood beside him. "It's time for the final push into this town. Somewhere across that freeway, probably rather close to the wall itself, we're going to hit some resistance from these bitches. I expect it will be little sniping attacks at first, maybe a little heavier as we get to the wall. The hit and run attacks that they've been pulling all this time are no longer effective so it's time to tighten up again, close enough to hear orders.

  "What we're going to do is spread into a wide front and move in quickly, almost at a run if we can. When they fire at us, we'll send platoons to advance on their positions while other platoons provide fire support. Again, speed is our ally here! We need to move quickly and wipe out the resistance as soon as we hit it. Surround their positions when we identify them, that's the key."

  He looked up and down the ranks, at the filthy, tired men that had managed to survive the hellish march. For the first time there seemed a certain eagerness in their eyes. At long last their goal was in sight and with it, a chance for revenge upon their tormentors. "If we do this right," he told them, "we'll be inside that wall in less than an hour. An hour after that, we should be outside that community center itself. Now these bitches are gonna scatter when we charge them, especially inside the wall, but have no fear. We'll hunt every last one of them down and we'll have ourselves a fine party tonight. There should be just about one for each of us, how about that?"

  There were some grins and sounds of enthusiasm from the ranks at his words.

  "Now remember, we try to take that helicopter intact if we can, but don't hesitate to bring that fucker down if you get a shot. That chopper is their only advantage over us - their only one - and if we take it out our job will be that much easier. So... is everyone ready to march?"

  They all yelled that they were. It almost sounded sincere this time.

  "Then let's move out. Remember, keep your dicks in your pants until tonight."

  At that, the militia began to move. They crossed the freeway and began to close with the Garden Hill positions.

  "They're moving in," Skip, who had taken over the radio from Jack, told his platoon leaders down below. "They're crossing the interstate right now in a line stretching across grid D-delta three. They've tightened up considerably and are layered in platoon-sized formations. Estimate contact in twenty minutes - that's two-zero minutes. Christine, if they keep moving on their present course, they're gonna reach your position first."

  Christine, Paula, and then Mick all acknowledged this information and relayed it to their troops, using their voices instead of their radios. Eighty-six sets of hands tightened their grips on eighty-six weapons. Eighty-six sets of eyes peered over the mud and through the trees, waiting to spot the invaders.

  "We're gonna get to shoot first," Christine told her people, her heart hammering in her chest. "Let's keep sharp and remember what Skip told us. Stick to your sector of responsibility if you can, both at the squad and the individual level. Remember, the riflemen fire first, as soon as they're in range. Those of you with the automatics, don't waste ammo. Short, controlled bursts when they're close enough to hit."

  "Look how much they're bunching up down there," Skip said, alternating glances between his instruments and the advancing line of militia. "They think they're out of danger now that they're close."

  "If only they knew," Jack said with a grin. "When are you going to show them they're wrong?"

  "Soon," Skip said. "When they make contact they're gonna be pinned down behind those hills over there. That'll be the time. In fact, it's about time to head down for some fuel anyway. See if you can get Steve on the tactical net and have him get ready for us."

  "Right," Jack said, switching the frequency button.

  "And remember," Skip said, "code words only. They're probably monitoring the CB channels."

  Jack looked wounded at the suggestion that we wouldn't remember something so elementary. "I know," he said indignantly.

  "Sorry," S
kip said, favoring him with a fatherly glance. "It's best not to leave anything to chance."

  This helped Jack's pride a little. He keyed up the microphone and said: "This is mother bird calling Edison, are you there, Edison?"

  "Edison here," replied Steve after a few moments. Edison was Kensington's code name, picked because of his propensity for invention and assembly. "Go ahead, mother bird."

  "Mother bird's coming down for lunch," Jack told him. "We'll be needing an egg while we're down. Can you get one ready for us?"

  "One egg, coming up," Steve said, obvious pleasure in his voice. "And I'll get your lunch crew ready to rock too."

  "You're the man, Edison," Jack told him.

  "What the hell does that mean?" asked Colby, who had heard the conversation on his scanning CB. It was the first time they had picked up anything but clicks and static. "What's an egg? Who's mother bird? Who's Edison?"

  "They're using code," replied Stu, who was marching near him in the center of the formation. "Obviously mother bird is the helicopter. You could hear the engine in the background. And I would guess that 'going down for lunch, ' means that they need fuel."

  "And the egg?" Colby repeated, finding something sinister about that very word.

  Stu shrugged. "No way of telling," he said. "But I wouldn't worry too much. That chopper's not good for anything but recon during the day unless it wants to get close enough to get its ass shot off."

  "I have a bad feeling about this," Colby muttered, watching as the lead elements continued to close.

  "Don't sweat it," Stu said. "In two hours this thing will be all over."

  Skip touched neatly down forty feet from the shed where Kensington's magic was made. While the fuel truck, which had once been a water truck, came rumbling over to fill the helicopter's tank, Steve and his crew emerged from the shed with one of their "eggs" attached to a handcart.

  The egg was actually one of the gas tanks that had been removed from the cars in town. Steve had cut it in half with a torch and then welded it back together using a strip of thin metal to adhere the pieces. It was a strip that would easily come off if enough pressure were put on it in the right way. The top of the tank had two hooks welded onto it as well. One hook was in the center of the tank and the other was attached to the thin strip that held the two halves together. Inside of the tank was a mixture of gasoline from the railroad tanker and Tide laundry detergent from the tractor-trailer. The concoction was nothing more or less than a very simple form of napalm.