Chapter Nine
Tightjaw
April 14, ’98
Kaptain Gene Thomas shoved his back against crumbling oily dirt, his breathing hard and fast, his ribs aching. They wouldn’t stop coming. The degenerates now had sleds, gleesons for their heavy armaments, and working supply lines. A horde of soulless animals busily chewing at the legs of what used to be America. Time and again, orders came down to hold “at all costs” and to make a “last stand” that would throw the enemy back. Which was just about as possible as stopping a tornado in its tracks, or changing the path of a hurricane.
The screaming hordes had supplies. They had an abundance of weaponry and support. It wasn’t like Gloria, where they knew their place, firmly under the boot. Someone had made a mistake, had not crushed the snake of rebellion when the West seceded six months after the Last Election. Now the tide was past the West Virginia border. Rumors flew from shell-hole to cover about what they did when they caught Patriots, or even just regular citizens in good standing.
“Bastards,” the soldier next to Gene said. “Fucking immie bastards.”
There was no quivering kampog to shine Gene’s boots, and the rations were, in a word, complete shit. Cannos began to pop over on the right flank, and the soldiers hunched, as if a hole in the mud and a heavy helmet could save you. Gene’s belly griped from the tan water that passed for coffee and the sawdust crumbs they called biscuits. Somewhere behind the lines, some motherfucker was organizing himself a nice cozy nest with real coffee and actual bread, of course, and if they’d been able to halt for any amount of time Gene could have done some arranging of his own. Instead, he’d been pressed into a scratch company after the kerro broke down and the jug-eared orderly vanished into a heavy ground fog peppered with booms and flashes. Anyone in a uniform was expected to fight, and his rifle had been wrested from the still-warm corpse of a double im—an immigrant impressed into military service, used for mine clearing.
The double ims were supposed to get secondary citizen status, after the war; Gene shuddered at the thought. It was probably a gentle misdirection to get them to fight, since immies were crafty, cowardly little bastards.
His silver ring was tucked in his boot and if things went badly, he’d have to ditch it. He’d even have to pretend he was only a low-ranking soldier. There was no Federal mercy for officers, less for Patriots.
On the bright side, if somehow they managed to beat back the hordes and make the homeland safe again, he could claim he’d been on fire with real patriotism, burning to join up with the military instead of cooling his heels in a kamp, and parlay that into a good position afterward. The bright side was better than the likely, but at least he was still able to think ahead. Plan. Survive.
For the moment.
Sometimes, between the rumbling of artillery and the pops and pings of smaller fire, he wondered how she was faring. The degenerates had probably swept through the camp, raping everything they could find. The thought sent a fierce, scorching hatred through him, and each time it did he gripped his rifle afresh, determined to kill at least some of them.
It could have been so perfect. He’d been organizing at Gloria, quietly since Kommandant Porter was a diehard Three Percenter and the rules were very strict. A few careful bribes, one or two files electronically burned, and he could have arranged to take the girl somewhere, ideally the moment his transfer came through. It had been very close—an office job, a pretty, compliant, utterly grateful wife who knew her damn place, and a reasonably lavish lifestyle.
Then the degenerates started winning at First Cheyenne and the Dakotas Offensive, the transfer freeze went through, and all his plans were knocked awry. Perhaps he should have simply left her there and transferred out, but where would he find another woman with the right looks and the kamp habit of compliance? A partisan past just meant she’d been led astray, as women often were.
Besides, he didn’t want another one. Access, in this case, did not breed contempt.
The artillery quieted. Gene squinted over the top of the shallow hole scratched in oily Virginia mud, eyeing a line of woods probably very much as his distant great-great-more-greats-granddaddy—a bona fide certified First Civil War veteran, registered and everything—had a long time ago. Waiting for the Yankees had turned into waiting for the immies and degenerates. Different century, same fucking thing.
Gene squeezed his rifle, lifted it, and exhaled sharply. Each one he killed should have been for America, first, last, and always. Instead, they would be for her, because the thought of even one of those filthy brutes touching the skin he had fondled, sticking himself in that purity, owning that little piece of warmth Gene had reserved solely for himself…
Shapes in the fog. Whistles blew urgently. “Stay down, stay down!” Admonitions not to waste ammo. The soldier next to Gene grinned, both of his top front teeth knocked out and the hole bloody from tight-jaw gnashing. “Jus’ let ’em get close enough,” the young man said. “Jus’ let ’em.”
Gene braced himself. The shadows grew clearer, more definite.
He couldn’t imagine dying, but he knew very well how to kill.
Chapter Ten
Paint
May 1, ’98
Chuck dipped his fingers into the tin bowl. They came out smeared with thick, oily, vivid red. “Fuckin’ Memphis, man.” He pushed Sal the Greek’s helmet strap back a bit, and drew his fingers along Sal’s cheekbone. The paint smeared, caught on stubble, and stuck. Sal, his mouth slack and his eyes half closed under a shelf of oily black curls, just stared straight ahead. What he was thinking of, nobody could tell, except maybe Swann.
Sal had been with the bald man from the beginning, or at least, longer than anyone else. Even Pana.
“You were there.” Lazy Eye, blinking madly, hunched down next to the fire. “What was it like?”
Lara, now called Spooky or Spookster or sometimes even, with rough good nature, the Spook, held out both her skinny hands, warming them or watching the fire’s leaping shadows against their backs. Her chin dipped, and she stared at her fingers while both hands shook, muscles in her forearms twitching. “Like that,” she said, and clenched them into fists. Her face had filled out a little more, her high cheekbones no longer sharp-gaunt. Her dark curly hair stuck up anyhow, and Chuck had tied bits of it with red thread unraveled from a cotton bandanna, just like his own woolly locks. Ain’t gonna dread up, he said, but keeps it out of yo’ face.
“I heard they scalped the raiders they caught.” Lazy Eye shuddered. His wrists were too big for his camo jacket, his fingers too thin. He was put together from nonmatching parts, every piece of him either too delicate or too thick, an uneasy conglomeration. Even his teeth were different sizes, a crowded picket fence. He crouched, rocking back and forth a little, hugging his knees, and his face twitched, cheek muscle jerking under skin.
“Didn’t see that. Hung a few; sent the rest of us to kamps.” The paint on Spooky’s left cheek itched a little as it dried. A steely weird smell of four in the morning filtered through the pine trees, and whenever the breeze veered eastward, a hint of that sickening barbecue reek drifted through the rest stop campsite again. Bits of paper from the explosion at the clapboard house still tiptoed around the burned camp’s charred remains.
Any casualties the timed shell could have caused were incidental to destroying the goddamn evidence. Typical.
“I hate those bastards.” Lazy Eye kept rocking. He was next in line for the paint. “My aunt Connie was in Florida. We barely got out.” His left eye wandered sideways, caught on Lara’s nose, came back. “Visiting, you know. They took her at a checkpoint. ’Cause of her last name. Jewish.”
“Everyone hates those bastards.” Sal held very still, his lips barely moving. “My mom, she was an antiwar protester. She told us what was gonna happen if McCoombs got reelection. We all laughed at her, you know. She was a hippie.”
“Peace and love.” Chuck’s soft words were almost lost in the susurration as the Federals a
ll started to stir at once, purposeful movement spreading from the command tent. “I hear the trucks are crossing the river with us, and we go straight south to Memphis.”
“Maybe they’ll fucking bomb it, since we got an air force again.” Sal closed his eyes, his Adam’s apple moving as he swallowed. “Finish up, man. I want some more coffee.”
“Done.” Chuck took his fingers away, surveying his work with a satisfied air. “Bring back some for the rest of us. You’re up next, Lazy, my man.”
By the time Sal came back with more of the thick black caffeine mud the Federals had for coffee, they were doing equipment checks. Spooky was still trembling, her cheeks pale except for two high round spots of unpainted red, high up. The whites of her eyes showed more than they should, but nobody mentioned it.
Swann appeared at 0445, clean-shaven and grim. Zampana arrived with Prink and a hungover Simmons in tow. The latter, his blond head freshly shaved as well, crouched next to Lara and held out his hands for the bowl of paint. Chuck handed it over.
“Listen up,” Swann said. There was a new turkey feather tucked in his hat band—legend said he ate the old decorations, but nobody had ever seen him do it. Nobody had ever seen him throw them away, either. “Y’all ever heard of Elvis Presley?”
A chorus of yessirs and a few nods. Zampana snorted. “I told you, everyone’s heard of him. What kind of Americans you think we are, old man?”
“Melt-pot ones.” Swann grinned, but it didn’t reach his eyes. His big shoulders were tense. “We made it this far, and we’re heading to Graceland. We ain’t quite front row; we’ll be cleaning up with Crunche. But this is Memphis.”
“Raider’s graveyard,” Lazy Eye supplied, not very helpfully. Nobody paid any attention, and he glanced nervously at Lara.
“I don’t want to lose a single one of you. So I’m telling you now, take it easy.” Swann fixed Simmons with a steady look. “No heroics on this run, we’re support only.”
The big blond guy dipped his fingers in the bowl of paint. One stripe down the outside of the right side of his face. Two, this one coming down his forehead, skipping his eye, starting again on his cheekbone and slicing down. Then a third, parallel, touching the side of his many-times-squashed boxer’s nose. He finished the third line, then pushed his coat aside to dab his fingers high on the left side of his bared chest, right over his heart. Curly, wiry golden-brown chest hair glinted in the firelight, a solid mat of fur.
“What’s that one for?” Lazy Eye wanted to know. Zampana smacked him on the back of the head, lightly.
“Cut it out, kid.” Gold glittered at her ears, jewelry a Federal would get busted for during inspection.
A raider wore whatever the hell she pleased as long as she could fight. And as long as he knew when to keep his fucking mouth shut. Painting up was private.
Still, Lazy was just a kid. A nervous child whose eyes took on a flat hateful shine when there was killing to be done.
Simmons still didn’t say a word. The silence stretched out, full of rustling, coughing, the sounds of tents being loaded and fires hissing as they were extinguished. It was almost time to move. Finally, the Reaper passed the paint bowl to Zampana, who dipped her first and second fingers, drawing them down from her bottom lip to give herself fangs. Dots under her eyes completed her usual look.
Finally, Swann shook his head. The new turkey feather bobbed. “All right. Gimme the bowl, then we’re out of here. Lazy, your ass is on fire duty, and you’ll be digging privy ditches if you don’t keep that mouth of yours in line.”
“Yessir,” Lazy mumbled. “Sorry, Simms.”
“No problem.” Simmons unfolded, looming over the fire. Zampana and Swann exchanged a worried glance, but the big man just turned halfway, looking over the Federal camp. The rest of them finished equipment checks, and Spooky Lara hitched her pack higher on her back, held her hipbag open and gazed at the contents as if she expected them to have changed in the last ten minutes. Her shoulders quivered, and those hectic red spots on her cheeks glared like the paint stripes.
The breeze picked up, dawn pushing air across the world from the east. The days were getting longer; the thaw had deepened. So had the mud, but they’d be on actual roads now. Winter’s back was well broken, and the Mississippi might even flood this year.
“You want some more?” Swann offered the bowl to Spooky, who shook her head.
“Not yet,” she said, then swallowed hard, as if the words stuck. Swann studied her for a moment, letting her change her mind if she was going to.
She didn’t, and he nodded curtly, accepting. Chuck took the bowl and set off to wash it out before they left.
Simmons stepped close to Spooky, who dropped the flap of her hipbag and tilted her head back, staring up at him. Her face settled into dull rage and resignation at the consciousness of a male too far in her personal space.
“Hey. I’ll tell you.” He pointed to his face. “My sisters, and my brother.” Then his closed fist struck over his heart, and the red paint, rapid drying but not yet set, smeared in his chest hair and on the inside of his coat. “This one, for the camps.” He held her gaze for a long moment, then turned sharply and set off for the waiting trucks. One of the truck engines woke, then another, and their roaring was deep and jarring as the first jolt of caffeine hitting a sleepy soldier.
Spooky watched him go. The hiss of Lazy Eye putting out the fire in its concrete park pit was lost in the general, disciplined noise.
Chapter Eleven
Memphis
The Mississippi had swollen, but not much. It carried a glitter and gleam on its broad, lazy, tea-colored back.
Memphis was aflame.
Disposable drones dropped zappers first, electromagnetic pulses taking out lights and frying small electronics. Spotters in the cell towers were crispy-crittered, the packed hospitals suddenly went dark, and the streets were silent for one long eerie second before anthill activity started, people finally understanding that something worse than potshot artillery was coming.
What remained of the Second Southern Patriot Army, in full retreat, had failed to make it any farther. They crammed into the city along with refugees streaming eastward and the Firsters who couldn’t get official permission to leave. Which was pretty much all of them, since the Firster party chiefs got out before the roads jammed up, and without them to sign off on any action, the rest of the organization was paralyzed.
State’s rights, the Firster articles of faith said. Petty fiefdoms was more like it, jealously guarded.
Just before dawn, the Federal columns heading for Memphis got the order to stop. Traffic snarled and soldiers began cursing, logistics people holding their heads. The roads in the opposite direction filled suddenly with Federal vehicles—heavy artillery, engineer squads, and the like—pulling back in good order. Yelled questions across the meridian or the yellow line got no answer except that orders were to get the hell back.
The Federal Army paused, a giant fist hovering over a fly.
The delay meant Memphis refugees and civilians were cramming the bridges and roads out of town in every vaguely southerly or eastern direction instead of cowering in holes that might shelter them. Word spread quickly that the Feds were retreating, and rumors inside the city were full of wonder-weapons, something happening in New York, an end to the war? A miracle?
As soon as the Federals were pulled sufficiently back, K-jets boomed overhead, and the Feds caught their breath. The planes came in waves, darkening the sky, but only the last fringe dropped their payloads on dark, seething Memphis.
And what they dropped were burners.
The previous night, while Swann’s Riders had been sleeping—or, in Simmons’s case, drinking to blackout to get some rest—the siege of DC had reached its inevitable conclusion, and the fighting surging toward the White House shattered even McCoombs’s last illusions of winning the war. His cabinet had fled, even the diehard Confederate Yells who’d sworn to hold DC until death. The biggest bastard on the h
eap was determined, however, to go out in style, or in what passed for it in his lexicon. McCoombs still had a few airfields and launch codes, and he chose the city he hated most, the city he’d started out in, the city that had betrayed him with resistance almost all through his tenure. After a decade of Firster governance, including four-plus years of civil war, New York was a shadow of what it used to be, but when McCoombs knew all was lost, he decided to take the biggest apple of all with him.
Then, while the sound of tanks echoed on the sandbag- and obstacle-choked lawn of 1600 Pennsylvania, when the rifle fire and yells of infantry were audible, the Firster President for Life retreated to the Oval Office and bit a capsule he’d been told would provide him a painless death.
For whatever reason, it didn’t. But that was too late for New York. The Firsters had been busy with all sorts of toys during their twelve-year reign, and the worst of them detonated just north of the middle of Manhattan.
Nobody afterward could pin down just who among the Federal generals gave the orders to blow the South’s capitals and trade centers off the map. Every plane the Federals had capable of carrying burners, from K-jet to antique Thunderbolt, was loaded up, and that had to take a while. Some suspected a Great Burn had been planned on both sides, and New York was just the prelude to McCoombs’s version. Insanity on one side matching insanity on the other, or the Federals had decided that two civil wars were one too many and in order to build a better country, maybe they had to level a few stubborn patches.
Afterwar Page 5