The Day After Never (Book 7): Havoc

by Blake, Russell

  Snake bit back the angry response that his fevered brain wanted to hurl at the pompous ass, and settled for another glare. “You’ve been saying that for a long time. Meanwhile, I don’t have any advantage that any of the rival warlords can see, so it’s just a matter of time until they make a move to test for weakness. We lost too many when Magnus fell, and we haven’t been able to rebuild to full strength. So we need an edge. Which you promised…and haven’t delivered.”

  Barton’s expression didn’t change. “Would you like me to tell Lassiter that you’re questioning your arrangement?”

  The threat was obvious, and Snake sat back and did his best to relax. “I’m not questioning anything but why we’ve done everything we committed to, and you haven’t.”

  “Did I miss where you provided us with a working vaccine?”

  Snake swallowed hard. “That was never guaranteed, and you know it.”

  “Yes, well, neither was our ability to wave a magic wand and get the refinery back into production. Not to mention that it also involves restoring the wells to life and figuring out a way to transport the raw crude from the fields to the refinery. There are a lot of moving parts.” He paused and then cleared his throat. “Lassiter anticipated your frustration and has authorized another shipment of gold so you can acquire whatever you need. Mercenaries, if you can’t convince qualified candidates to join your group, for example. We don’t want you feeling as though we aren’t supporting you. But there are practical limits.”

  Snake smiled at the mention of gold. “That’ll come in handy, but I don’t like using hired guns. They’ve got no loyalty, and they’ll turn on you when you most need them.”

  “I’ll leave you to figure it out. My message is that there’s gold on the way, and they’re doing everything they can to provide a solution to your power problem.” Barton stood and graced Snake with a withering look. “Sorry I disrupted your morning routine. You said you wanted to know as soon as I had a response.”

  As Snake watched him walk out the door, the drug in his veins urged him to leap into action and gut the bastard with his shiv like a carp. He looked down at where his hands were gripping the arms of his chair, his fingers white, and let out a long breath.

  Barton would get his. At a time and place of Snake’s choosing. The smug prick obviously believed he had nothing to fear from his captive lapdog, but he’d called that one very wrong. Nobody talked to Snake like that. He ran the biggest gang in what remained of the U.S., and could have a man killed for looking at him wrong.

  Which Barton would soon find out.

  Once Snake had his gold, of course.

  He headed back to his room, his head throbbing from tension. “Don’t bother me with anything for a few hours,” he ordered his guards, and then pushed through the door.

  The woman was sitting up in bed, still naked. Tattoos of barbed wire encircled both arms, and an angel’s wings were elaborately inked across her back. She swung her long legs off the bed and stood with an expectant look.

  “That was quick.”

  Snake approached her with a smile and backhanded her as hard as he could. Her head snapped to the side and she cried out, and a trickle of blood oozed from the corner of her mouth.

  “I’ve heard about enough out of you,” he snarled.

  Tears welled in her eyes and she stepped back. “I…I’m sorry, Snake. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  The rage that clouded his vision slowly eased, and he retrieved the meth baggie from his pocket and tossed it on the table.

  “Do a bump and then get your ass busy. I don’t have all day.”

  Chapter 6

  Astoria, Oregon

  Clouds blew across the moon, creating spectral shadows on the tent city outside the town walls. The night was quiet, the squatter camp still with four more hours to go before sunrise.

  Inside the town walls, the Chinese contingent was gathering. They moved quietly, their boots wrapped in cloth to avoid any sound. Captain Liu, the surviving ranking officer in Astoria, had spent the last few days attempting to contact anyone in his chain of command, without success. When the ship had gone down, it had taken with it the long-range equipment, and his handheld radios had proved inadequate to reach his superiors in Seattle. He’d hoped to boost the transmission range with a variety of improvised antennas, but none had been successful, leaving him and the troops stranded in a town that was becoming increasingly radioactive – the water was now undrinkable due to contamination, and food stores were dwindling to emergency levels.

  Liu had decided the correct strategy was to retreat to somewhere less toxic and live to fight another day. The objective of taking and holding the main water gateway to Portland had been viable before the meltdown of the reactor, but was now a slow death sentence with no point. As far as he understood, nobody would be able to use the river for the rest of eternity, so Portland and, with it, Astoria, had become liabilities rather than assets, and he needed to cut his losses before more of his men succumbed.

  It rankled him to have to slink away in the darkness, but he was pragmatic; honor was for the living to debate, and he intended to remain among their number if possible. He didn’t have a final destination in mind, but he would figure it out once the force was clear of Astoria – and of the fighters who’d joined the ranks of the scum outside the walls, all of them emboldened now that the ship had been destroyed and thus far more dangerous than they otherwise would have been. There appeared to be thousands of squatters, whereas he had only a hundred and seventy men. Although he despised the undisciplined American rabble that lived on the periphery of the town like vermin, he wouldn’t underestimate the effect of thousands against a few hundred.

  So he’d decided to make a run for it while the encampment slept rather than fight his way out, as his ego would have had him do.

  His men had been given their orders and had complied, taking only what they could carry and binding their boots to muffle their footfalls. Beyond that he’d forbidden any speech, even whispered; the troops would communicate using hand signals until they were clear of the area.

  Lieutenant Feng, Liu’s immediate subordinate, approached in the gloom and offered a stiff salute. Liu nodded and returned the gesture, and Feng leaned into him and spoke in a soft murmur.

  “The men are ready.”

  Captain Liu checked his watch: 2:40 a.m. If everything went as planned, they could get to the bridge south of the town in less than an hour and cross to safety, blowing it up behind them so none of the tent parasites could follow. He knew that the arms cache the advance group had told them about was on the far side of the bridge, so destroying it would cut the rabble off from arms and ammunition, increasing their vulnerability whenever more of his countrymen made their way across the ocean.

  “Very well. You’re to lead with Tiger Platoon. Nobody is to fire unless fired upon. All we have is the element of surprise. If we lose that, it won’t go well for us.”

  Feng nodded. “I made sure your orders were clear. Everyone understands.”

  “I’ll follow with Jade Platoon and the stragglers from Dragon Platoon.” Liu had made the difficult decision to leave the wounded behind. There was no choice – they couldn’t sneak through the tent encampment carrying litters. His compromise had been to leave those still conscious with pistols with which to defend themselves…or end their lives. It ran against everything he believed in to do so, but he could see no other way, and he’d dispatched Feng with a dozen handguns earlier that night.

  The tent city had pulled back from the area around the main gate. Even the idiot Americans had apparently realized that whenever the Chinese ultimately made their play, to be squatted there would mean instant death. Liu walked with Feng to the gate and peered through a gap to confirm that all was still, and then turned and signaled to the lieutenant to move the barrier and lead his platoon to freedom.

  Art stirred at the feel of fingers prodding him awake and sat up, blinking away sleep. Ray’s face was a couple of
feet away, his expression animated.

  “Bill says they’re moving the gate, General. This looks like it’s it.”

  The general rose and adjusted the sling that supported his wounded arm. “Is everyone in position?”

  “Yes. You were right they’d try it at night.”

  Art had told Bill’s fighters, as well as the several hundred squatters who’d signed up to act as a militia, to sleep during the day in shifts and to remain awake and ready at night in anticipation of the Chinese launching an offensive. He’d sent relays to the mountain armory and secured enough rifles, grenades, and ammo to equip an army, and the men were eager to put the gear to use after the victory against the ship earlier in the week.

  Now it looked as though the preparation would pay off.

  “Let’s get over there. Don’t want our boys tipping our hand before we know what the Chinese are up to.”

  Ray and Art crept along the tree line to where Bill was waiting with his fighters and a score of squatters, all armed to the teeth. Bill glanced up at him and pointed to the dark mass of troops moving out of the town.

  “Looks like they’re making a run for it. You nailed it,” Bill said.

  “It’s the only real option they have. Henry’s group in position?”

  “Yep.”

  Henry, an ex-marine who’d been forced onto the trail after the collapse, had organized the squatters who wanted to fight into a ragtag group and had instilled a semblance of discipline in them with the help of several other ex-military denizens of the encampment. They were massed on the far side of the entry, equipped with the twin of the radio at Bill’s side, both scrounged from the dead Chinese they’d encountered along the river the day before.

  “Stick to the plan,” Art said. “Wait until they’re all through the gate and far enough so they can’t make it back, and then send twenty men behind them and cut them off. But for God’s sake, no shooting until I give the word or we’ll create a crossfire where we’ll be mowing each other down.”

  “Got it,” Bill said, and relayed the order to Henry in a tense whisper.

  They watched as the Chinese moved stealthily along the road from town. When they were certain there were no more coming, Bill led a group of his best fighters around the edges of the tent city and to the gate, where they took up position behind the barrier in anticipation of at least some of the Chinese turning tail and trying to make it back to cover – where they’d be walking directly into Bill’s guns.

  Ray edged closer to Art and leaned into him. “How much longer?”

  “Maybe two minutes. Once they’re past the trees, it’ll be a turkey shoot. There’s no place to hide.”

  Art was interrupted when the night filled with gunfire as Henry’s men opened fire. Art cursed and yelled to his men, “Make your shots count. Don’t waste ammo!”

  The first salvos cut down many of the Chinese, and when they returned fire, the volleys were ragged. As Art had hoped, the Chinese had been caught in a deadly pincer movement with cover limited to a few trees and the bodies of their dead. Shots echoed through the trees as Henry’s men pressed their advantage, and Art swore at the sound of rifles on continuous fire targeting the column. He’d warned the men against using full auto for accuracy reasons as well as conservation of ammunition, but apparently some of the squatters had decided to ‘spray and pray’ versus picking their targets carefully. Undisciplined fire could result in friendly casualties from stray rounds, but it was too late now, so all he could do was hope that the culprits exhausted their magazines quickly and managed to hit at least some of the enemy force.

  “They’re on the run!” Ray shouted above the gunfire.

  The Chinese had split in disorganized panic, and some were sprinting back toward town while the rest made for the bridge in the distance.

  Bill’s group held their fire until the soldiers were almost on top of them, and then cut them apart with disciplined bursts. Not a single Chinese fighter made it to the gate, and within moments the retreat was finished, leaving Bill to decide whether to give chase or stay in position.

  He eyed the orange muzzle blossoms erupting from the trees and shouted to his gunmen, “Larry, Tom, Wally – stay here and cover the gate. The rest of you, follow me.”

  They took off at a run, firing from the hip as they made their way toward the enemy. Ray and two dozen of Art’s shooters covered them as they neared, and then Bill and Ray’s men converged and closed on the Chinese, who were now down to less than thirty fighters. Rounds snapped around Ray’s head, and he ducked and zigzagged along the trees. When he was close enough, he freed a grenade from his tactical vest, pulled the pin, and hurled it with all his might at a clump of soldiers.

  A hail of rounds slammed into the tree trunks where he’d been only moments before, and then the grenade detonated with devastating results, blowing five men to pieces and sending their limbs flying through the air like night birds. Ray dropped to his knee and picked off two more soldiers with three-round bursts, and then his men were running past him, howling like banshees as they fired into the remaining troops.

  Three minutes later, the skirmish was over and Ray was standing by Art’s side, studying the carnage in the moonlight. Bill joined them, and his radio crackled to life with a report from Henry.

  “Henry lost six men, with two wounded,” Bill said. “I’ve got a couple of wounded myself. How about you?”

  Art frowned. “We got off light. Three dead, one winged, but he’ll make it.”

  Bill nodded. “Doesn’t look like there are any survivors, does it?”

  Art’s expression hardened. “Don’t forget how they treated us. No quarter.”

  Bill and Ray exchanged a glance, and Bill grunted. “We didn’t cross the ocean to take over their homes. I’ll relay your order.”

  “Tend to our wounded and gather their weapons,” Art said. “There must be over a hundred of them. Between their rifles and their ammo and any other ordnance they’re carrying, we just hit another jackpot.”

  Ray exhaled loudly and wiped perspiration from his brow. “It all happened so fast…”

  Art nodded again. “That’s how it goes in a big firefight.” He gazed at the dead Chinese and shook his head. “But don’t get cocky. We were lucky this time. They don’t all go this way.”

  “Let’s hope our luck holds,” Bill said.

  “Hope’s for children and fools,” Art said. “Set up a triage area, and let’s see how bad our guys are hurt.” He eyed Ray. “You okay?”

  “Sure. Why?”

  He inclined his head at Ray’s leg. “You’re bleeding.”

  Chapter 7

  Trading Post, Colorado

  Duke was finishing up the second sandbag bunker at the entry to the truck stop that he was converting into a trading post when John called out from the roof of the main building.

  “Dust cloud on the highway. From up north.”

  Duke scooped up his M16 and patted the spare magazines in his plate holder. “Be up in a second. You make anything out?”

  “Just the dust. Looks about a mile and a half off.”

  Duke made his way to the building and climbed the stairs to the roof, where they’d set up another sandbagged defense position when they’d first arrived. Luis was off hunting for dinner, leaving Duke and John to hold down the fort – no problem if nobody showed, but potentially a big one if a group of raiders was working the area.

  John was staring through his binoculars when Duke arrived and plopped down beside him. A tarp they’d strung from four poles for shade fluttered in the light breeze, but other than that, the area was silent.

  “What have we got?”

  John handed him the spyglasses. “Take a look.”

  Duke raised the binoculars to his eyes and scanned the highway. The asphalt was beige from years of sand and dust blowing across it and collecting in drifts, and the terrain was flat on either side for a quarter mile. The Rockies rose into the sky to the west, and Fountain Creek meandered along
the railroad tracks to the east, where the taupe of the Great Plains stretched to the horizon, leaving the trading post with unobstructed visibility for miles.

  He focused on the dust cloud and shifted to the highway below it. Three riders were approaching at a gallop, and he strained to make them out. After a moment, he lowered the glasses and turned to John. “Am I seeing things?”

  “If you are, so am I.”

  “What are three women doing out in the middle of nowhere?”

  “Beats me. But they’re running from something – those horses look like they’re ready to drop.”

  Duke took another look and confirmed John’s impression. “Got that–”

  He stopped midsentence as four more riders came into view: men, also riding hard, their clothes ratty and coated with dust, two of them with rifles in their hands, all with the unkempt long hair and beards of scavengers.

  “They’ve got company chasing them. Doesn’t look good.”

  “Raiders?”

  “Could be. More like highway lowlifes. Bet they don’t have ten good teeth between them.”

  “How do you want to play it?”

  The smart move was not to get involved. The paint on the sign advertising the trading post was barely dry, and they didn’t need to start off by making enemies of the locals, even if these looked like murderous thugs.

  Duke raised the glasses again. “They’ll be within range in another minute or two.”

  “So…take them down?”

  “We don’t, those women are history.”

  Both Duke and John knew how the story would play out if they didn’t intervene. The women would be raped for days and then sold to the highest bidder, assuming the scavengers didn’t just slit their throats and move on to their next victims.

  Duke handed him back the glasses, and John took another look. “Nice looking, aren’t they?”