Pedestals of Ash

by Joe Nobody

  The first thing the army infantrymen noticed was the lack of noise. It was unsettling to approach what was clearly a place where people should be, and hear absolutely nothing but the occasional bird song or buzz of a passing insect. Absent was the hum of power lines, exhaust of internal combustion engines, televisions, radios, and children playing outside. There was nothing but a few quiet sounds of nature, highlighted by the light rustling of leaves tossed about in the calm breeze.

  Powell noted that every yard was littered with trash and debris. Clothing, pots and pans, paper bags and all sorts of household items were scattered randomly in front of each home. Shrubs hadn’t been trimmed, and small limbs lay where they had fallen, polluting once pristine lawns. Grass hadn’t been mowed, and knee high weeds were growing from sidewalk cracks and along curbs. As the column slowed, he began to notice every door had a splintered frame or broken glass. This area had been ransacked and looted. In the middle of the second block, they encountered the first burned out residence. The brick chimney stood blackened and charred, surrounded by the low outline of its block foundation. A few wall studs were still erect, looking more like burnt matchsticks than the strong timber once tasked with supporting the roof. Mounds of charred grey ash and lumpy clusters of cold cinders filled the foundation to the brim. Powell thought the phrase “burned to the ground,” described the place perfectly. No fire department had responded to fight this blaze.

  Agent Powell was impressed at how quickly the soldiers accompanying him moved and he relaxed somewhat, as it became clear he was working with experts. No doubt many of these men had seen combat in the cities of Iraq and were experienced in urban operations. Despite the hundreds of hours of instruction received by Secret Service personnel, Powell was a little out of his element here. He could probably outperform any of these men with a pistol or short-barreled weapon, but they were obviously more adept at moving through a populated area. Without any order being issued, the patrol immediately broke into two columns when they reached the first city street. At first, the soldiers methodically entered and searched the scattered buildings on both sides of the roadway. As the column progressed, it became clear that the area was uninhabited. The men at the front began to ignore the structures unless something unusual caught their eye. Still, caution ruled their progress. Rifles snapped around the corners at intersections, vehicles parked along the street were approached slowly, and weapons were carried at the ready. Eyes scanned second-story windows over and over again, searching for any signs of movement or occupation.

  The point man of the column suddenly raised his fist into the air, and the soldiers on both sides of the street instantly moved for cover, their weapons pointing outward, looking for work. After a few moments, the lieutenant was called to the head of the column, and Powell went with him to see what was going on. As they approached, the corporal pointed down at a small pile of spent rifle cartridges scattered around the street. The man then continued pointing here and there, drawing attention to several similar groups of brass. Dark red lines stained the sidewalk, looking very much like old, faded blood trails. The lieutenant turned and motioned for three men to move forward and set up a perimeter. When they were in place, he turned to the Secret Service agent and said, “There was a firefight here. Look at that house. See the bullet damage? Somebody had a pretty serious shootout.”

  Powell stood and began surveying the area. He noticed at least three different calibers of brass, lying around the street, and there must have been at least 200 spent cartridges. The agent drew his pistol and opened a small gate leading to the front yard of the home. As he approached the porch, the story of what happened here became clear. The front door had been boarded up with several cross members of 2x4 lumber. That door and every window facing the street were peppered with dozens of small bullet holes. One window in particular appeared to have been the focal point of the attack. As Powell waded through the knee-high weeds in the yard, he could see the window frame had been severely eaten away by incoming lead. The agent stopped and ducked his head around the glassless opening, making sure no one was home. When his action didn’t draw any response, he gradually advanced to peek inside.

  The wall directly behind the window was completely destroyed. Shredded sections of drywall, strips of wallpaper, and splinted wood gave evidence to the volume of incoming fire. Pink insulation had been blown all over the room. Someone had tipped over a large metal filing cabinet under the windowsill to use as cover. A heavy, wooden desk appeared to have hastily joined it as additional reinforcement. Lying behind the makeshift bullet stop was the remains of the defender. Scattered yellowish-white bones were still partially covered by a plaid shirt and overalls. The carpet was stained with a faded red pool that time and the elements had faded to a distressed pink color. The floor was littered with colorful shotgun shell casings and dozens of pistol rounds. The skull had a large bullet hole in one side.

  Powell turned and returned to the waiting lieutenant, shaking his head. “There’s no one left here, LT. That poor bastard put up one hell of a fight though. He died defending his home, and from what I can tell, he didn’t go down easy.”

  The young officer agreed, “Yes, sir – I count four blood trails. The amount of brass lying around here tells me this went on for a while.” Both men stood and stared at the scene for a few moments before Powell whispered, “We need to get going.”

  Without comment, the officer waved his command forward. Powell stood in the street and watched as the soldiers passed by. He smiled as one private stopped and came to attention in front of the house. Staring directly at the window, the soldier threw a crisp salute, held it for precisely three seconds, and then snapped his hand back to his side before trotting off to catch up.

  Smokey stood on the top courthouse step, his hands behind his back with his chin jutting out. Anyone observing him might have sarcastically compared his posture to Napoleon marshaling his forces before a campaign. While none of the hundred or so men gathered around the square would have had the guts to say that out loud, it would have been difficult not to make the association.

  Smokey was suffering from two conditions that were absolutely dangerous to any leader. First, he was out of patience and wanted results, regardless of how realistic the situation was. The second problem with the man’s mental state was paranoia. Smokey was convinced that hundreds of people were flocking to his archrival in Alpha, Deacon Brown. His conviction was centered on the observation that his men were encountering less and less “unaligned” people in the town. No matter how hard his men tried to explain, there was no convincing Smokey that there simply weren’t that many people left in the city, and the ones that were not in the church complex had become very adept at hiding.

  Smokey’s state of mind wasn’t uncommon for megalomaniacs. Practically every dictatorial leader from Alexander the Great to Adolf Hitler had suffered from similar conditions at one point in time. Fortunately, Smokey’s scale of influence was limited to a few dozen hardened criminals controlling part of a small western town, but the man had aspirations.

  As he stood there motionless, Smokey was in fact daydreaming about attacking the Beltron ranch and then annexing that little town down the road as part of his domain. His mind raced with terms like consolidation, power base, and loyalty. He had already mentally achieved victory in the upcoming battle and was off on futuristic conquests to expand his realm. Hawk approached his boss, having no idea he was interrupting the creation of an empire. “Hey chief, the men are about ready. Anything you want to add or say?”

  Smokey flashed just a touch of annoyance at the interruption. “No, I’ve nothing to add. They all know that failure is not an option this time. Let’s get moving.”

  The word was quickly passed to the waiting lieutenants who started forming the men up. In a few minutes, over 100 armed men were moving in two columns toward Deacon Brown’s church. One group of attackers was led by Smokey, the other by Hawk.

  Nick’s attention was immediately drawn to
movement several blocks away. A line of men was moving down the street, and he brought up his rifle to get a better view through the optic. The man heading the column could be easily identified by his perfectly bald scalp and scruffy goatee. Nick could also tell his arms were heavily tattooed. His ensemble included a dirty, white wife-beater sleeveless shirt, brown leather belt, and blue jeans. Some sort of work boots rounded out his attire. The leader carried an AR15 rifle on a traditional shoulder sling, and Nick counted five magazines, shoved in various spots on the man’s belt. There was no canteen or other visible sign of hydration, no blow out bag. When the man turned to examine his column’s progress, Nick noticed a long-blade, hunting knife in a sheath on his hip.

  Nick observed the next three men in line and found the level of their equipment lacking even more so than the leader. Clearly, no thought had been given to a prolonged fight. There wasn’t a single bottle of water or medical kit in sight. He was also surprised at the casual way that the column moved through the city streets. Apparently these guys had operated with such impunity for so long they didn’t even consider that someone might actually attack them. Nick’s eyes changed to those of the predator. He would make them pay for their over-confidence.

  After watching the approaching enemy to verify their route, Nick hurried back into the store and briefed the small group of men gathered there. He quickly barked instructions, and everyone scrambled to get into position. He made it absolutely clear – no one was to fire until he initiated the ambush. Nick picked up the statue of Mary and carried it down the street, strategically staging the figurine in front of the shop. He had picked the perfect spot upon their arrival. There was an intersection that was absolutely clear of any vehicles just down from the storefront. Unknown circumstances had seen to it that no one was driving in this area when the gas cloud had killed thousands. The rare open area could be seen from all four directions, and Nick placed the statue directly in the middle of the crossing. The smiling woman looked odd sitting there, her brightly painted clothing and crown in sharp contrast to the black pavement surrounding her. After one last glance around, he hurried back to the t-shirt store. He couldn’t help but notice the sign on the front of the building, which read, “Mary’s Embroidery and Silkscreen.”

  Nick glanced around at the men in the storefront one last time. Like any commander of men about to do battle, he had a long wish list. He wished he had the time to train them on this, that or the other. He wished he could have found a slightly more protected position. The list could go on and on and Nick stopped the mental process almost immediately. The time for organization and instruction was over; the outcome would soon be determined. There was never enough time to prepare for a fight.

  The men waiting in the t-shirt shop watched as the first few of their enemy passed by. Several of the Christian soldiers looked up at Nick with questioning expressions, but the big Green Beret paid them no attention. He only risked a slight head movement to the right in order to verify the progress of the column.

  Chapter 17 – Meet me in Alpha

  Hawk saw the statue first and stopped walking immediately. He had passed down this street several times and knew it hadn’t been there before. This thoroughfare was his favorite approach to the church because there was less clutter to walk around and less chance his men would be distracted or get out of line.

  His first reaction to the statue was one of caution. He carefully glanced all around but didn’t see anything out of place. What he didn’t notice was the long column of curious men behind him had started to bunch up right in front of Nick’s position, and that had been the intent all along.

  Everyone in the store heard Nick’s safety click off, and several of them jumped when his rifle began shooting at the gathering men on the street. It took a few seconds, but eventually, 10 rifles began slamming rounds into the surprised skinnies.

  Hawk’s initial reaction when the shooting started was to duck behind a nearby car. He knew almost instantly that his column had walked into an ambush, but he couldn’t think clearly enough to react appropriately. He glanced back and saw that at least 12 of his men were lying on the street, motionless. The rate of fire coming from the storefront across the street was almost constant and appeared to be working its way back along the line. Hawk raised his weapon and started firing at the dark windows without acquiring any specific target. That proved to be a mistake as his action drew attention to his hiding place, and rifle rounds began impacting all around him. He ducked around the corner building, being chased all along by thumping lead, tearing into the concrete structure. When he had safely made it to cover, he leaned against the wall, breathing deeply in and out. He had to think of something and do so quickly. He scanned the immediate area and identified two of his men standing nearby with frightened expressions on their faces. He pointed to the closest man and ordered him to inform Smokey’s group that they had been ambushed. He forgot to tell the man to ask for help.

  There is no small unit tactic more devastating than an ambush. In addition to the extreme loss of life inflicted on the victims, the effects of the action include confusion and demoralization. Nick gave his men almost a minute of firing into the enemy column and then stopped the attack. Anyone caught in their kill zone was either dead, injured or behind cover by then. Any additional shooting would only waste precious ammunition. As suddenly as it had started, the shooting stopped, and the men from the church hustled out the back door of the t-shirt shop. It was time to go.

  Smokey was four blocks away and moving his line of men on a parallel route with Hawk. When the shooting started, his first thought was that Hawk had started his attack too early. When the sound of gunfire ceased, he was puzzled and stopped his column. Like Hawk’s formation, halting their forward progress caused his men to bunch up and gather together.

  Nick wasn’t sure how the ambushed men would react and wanted to swing a wide arch around them on the way back to the church. He and his men were moving rapidly down a street and rounded a corner, running right into Smokey’s column. Nick overcame the surprise first and opened fire on the 20 or so men in the middle of the block. His men followed his lead a second later, and by the time they had broken contact and moved on, another bunch of men were dead or dying on the ground.

  Nick hadn’t considered a second group of skinnies and didn’t want to be caught out in the open with such a small force. While his men had gotten the better of the second encounter, breaking off the fight caused them to flee in the wrong direction.

  Agent Powell was five blocks away to the north of the ambush site. When the shooting had begun, the army troopers around him had all reacted immediately and sought cover. In a few moments, it became clear that there were no incoming rounds, and everyone waited for the Secret Service man to determine a course of action. Powell’s goal was to find the president, and so far, they hadn’t encountered a single living soul. After a quick conference with the lieutenant and top sergeant, orders were issued to move cautiously in the direction of the gunfire. Where there was shooting, there were people pulling the trigger. The short duration of the fight led Powell to visualize another incident like the home they had just passed. In reality, he didn’t care about the who or the why of the gunfire. He wanted to interrogate someone to see if his boss had been spotted.

  Bishop and the president were just exiting the ice cream shop, when the gunfire erupted some nine blocks away. Like everyone else, he initially ducked back into the doorway, but quickly realized the fighting was some distance off. Bishop’s decision how to react was probably the most difficult of anyone’s. His first thought was that the church was under attack. He wanted to go and help the congregation, but felt stewardship of the man traveling with him. The last thing he wanted was to bumble into a full-fledged battle with a man whose experience with a weapon consisted of shooting a single rabbit. When the second round of shooting began, it was clear to Bishop that the fighting had moved closer to his location. This posed a real dilemma, as he was not in a good defens
ive position and had little chance of surviving an encounter with a superior force. The fact that the president wasn’t very nimble didn’t help things one single bit. In the end, Bishop decided to move off at an angle away from the last sounds of battle, but still in the general direction of the church. Along the route, he hoped to find some place better to hide and defend. The Commander in Chief was clearly concerned about the sounds of fighting so close by and simply nodded when Bishop explained his plan.

  The duo had moved a few blocks when Bishop turned to find his partner missing yet again. “Jesus Henry Wilson Montgomery Christ,” he mumbled, “where has he wandered off to now?” Backtracking quickly, he found the president, mesmerized by the wall of a building. There on the whitewashed plywood were hundreds of pictures and notes. Some were stapled while others had been glued or taped. Bishop looked around to make sure they were alone, before reading one of the messages:

  Looking for Carrie Perkins, Junior at Alpha State. 5’4”, blond hair, green eyes. If you see her, please let her know her father is in Alpha, and I’m sleeping in my car at Woodridge and Elm…God bless and thank you.

  Bishop hadn’t seen anything like the display since the news coverage of 9-11. Evidently, some survivors of the gas cloud had been looking for family members. Carrie’s father must have driven to Alpha from somewhere. He hoped the man had found his daughter.

  The chief executive was clearly touched by the collection on the wall. He didn’t seem to be able to pull himself away. Bishop waited until he was about to jump out of his boots, and finally couldn’t take it anymore. “Sir, I don’t mean to be cold, but we have to get moving. We can’t stay out here like this.”