Last Man Standing

by Vance Huxley

  * * *

  The General:

  Eight miles north-west of Orchard Close a man in pseudo-Army uniform, with braid on his peaked cap, stamped up and down a room. “The stupid, inbred, cock-sucking, pig-fucking pea-brained greedy fucking moron! Over one fucking woman! Thank fuck she killed him and cleaned up the gene pool!” He whirled towards a smaller man, who was patiently waiting for the outburst to die down. “How badly are they hurt?”

  “Badly, but those walls are intact and too many can still use a gun. Lots of guns because Caddi took half his men, the best half, and at least half of them had a firearm. Not many rifles but at least fifteen shotguns, some of them pump action, and between sixty and eighty pistols of various sorts along with up to sixty good crossbows. Caddi also took plenty of ammo, but I doubt many of his men got a chance to use it. Soldier Boy won’t need Dealer to replace what he used.”

  Rhys took a moment to check his notebook and to let the numbers sink in before he gave the General the really bad news. “Those fighters of Soldier Boy’s didn’t hang back; they went toe to toe as fast as they could. Their rifles were backup, but the Orchard Close fighters killed most of the Hot Rods up close and personal. I’ve had people looking at the bodies, and most of them didn’t have a bullet hole. That means those women carved up experienced fighting men so don’t be fooled by the mix of sexes.” Rhys pushed on quickly before the General blew again, about the women carving up Julius’s men. “The number of walking wounded won’t help us, because they’ll have two guns each so they’ll shoot the shit out of us. Soldier Boy will have gone through the weapons so they’ll all be working, and he’ll have stayed up overnight to reload any empty brass.”

  “So would I, if someone gifted me that lot.” The General turned to pick up a weapon with a long, curved magazine. “Though he didn’t get the AK. Pity your boy didn’t get the Army rifles as well.”

  “One is missing so it’ll be in Orchard Close I’m guessing. Soldier Boy won’t dare use it, not that close to the Army. There wasn’t time to cut the chains on the other so the Hot Rods still have it. There isn’t a lot of ammo for them, less than what came with the AK.” Rhys hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Mustang.” He paused to let the General roll his eyes at the name. “Isn’t my boy, or wasn’t. He fought under Chevy but has a serious habit. Caddi didn’t mind pot or occasionally something stronger but he didn’t trust the real addicts. Rightly, because Mustang has been selling any information he can find a market for. This time he sold me seventeen fully armed Hot Rods, the sort who’ll fit right into the Bloods, and that AK.”

  “Good, but not good enough.” The General punched the wall, then shook his hand. “Shit! Good reminder that because I want to go, now, before anyone in Orchard Close recovers, but I’d end up like my fist. I suppose it doesn’t matter if Soldier Boy’s lightly wounded recover for a week or two. They won’t shoot any faster, and the badly wounded won’t be up to really rough stuff for three or four months. What are the numbers?”

  “Forty or fifty never got into the fight. They were drugged and slept through the whole thing so they’re still fighting fit. A convoy took up to thirty people to the Barbies, which I’m guessing is the seriously wounded. From a rough count of bodies going onto pyres, very rough because my observer kept his head down, maybe a hundred dead. A lot of them were civvies.” Rhys threw up his hands in disgust. “Which would be a lot of help if I had a number to start from. Caddi knew because his watchers counted them onto the coupon buses, but he wouldn’t tell me. Whatever the losses, Orchard Close killed or captured about a hundred and fifty Hot Rods, hand-to-hand at night. That’s no secret. The bodies are laid out in plain sight as a border marker.”

  The spy subsided, leafing through his notebook again. “Do you want me to get the GOFS and Barbies here for a demonstration, to see if they’ll stand back?” Rhys hesitated, then went for it. “Right now they’ll probably tell you to stuff it. They’re flush with loot and hammering the rest of the Hot Rods.”

  “Which would make them easier targets because they’ve got wounded. Unfortunately the extra guns they’ve captured mean we’d take more casualties. We wouldn’t have enough fit men to risk facing all those guns in Orchard Close. Leave the GOFS and Barbies alone, but now I really will need that bugnuts preacher.” The General turned to his desk, looking through the papers. “We’ve got to hit Orchard Close fast, before the injured recover enough for close combat. How quickly can bugnuts get his men here?”

  “The Last Prophet can get the Children of Cain here within three weeks of you asking.” Rhys stressed the names, because religious nutters didn’t like being called nutters or bugnuts. “Maybe quicker because that was if he drifted them down a few at a time, so nobody noticed. For Christ’s sake, remember the names if they come here or we’ll have our own personal war on your doorstep.”

  “Yeah, but I get this itch I can’t scratch when I’m near a religious nutter. Send a couple of messengers asking for a hundred and fifty. We’ll invite any other gang that wants a piece to help us out. With bugnut’s squad and the Bloods, we can make sure they only get the loot we give them.” The General dropped into his seat, smiling at last. “While we’re waiting, check out the gangs near SainsMorr Mart. Start with Kurt’s Kutters and Shrek’s Green Goblins, the two nearest the Geeks. With luck they can keep the Geeks occupied until it’s too late.”

  Rhys consulted his notebook. “I can probably get the Jets onside for Orchard Close, but I’ll have to start now?”

  “Talk to the Jets, without dates or the actual target. Tell them we’ll want real numbers and it’s a big prize. They’ll think we’re after the Mansion, right up to when we set out. We’ll give the news to the Trainspotters, Baggies, Hot Rods and Ferdinands at the last minute. Too late for them to warn anyone, but in time for them to join in and grab some loot.” The general smirked at the next thought. “Even if the gang bosses don’t go for it, their wilder members might fancy a bit of freelancing.”

  “I’ll get started. Do you want Julius and Patton in here, to start planning?”

  “Send Patton in but not Julius. He thinks too much, so I’d rather keep him in the dark until the last minute.” The General waited until Rhys left and then finally let go properly, smashing both the chairs to pieces against a wall. Why, oh why couldn’t Caddi have just sent word? A hundred men could have driven through the night, got there before any warning from the Barbies and GOFS even if they were spotted.

  Outside, Rhys paused to listen to the sounds of destruction. He wasn’t happy either but more about the failure of his usual information sources. Caddi had moved too fast, and he’d fooled everyone. Rhys knew he should have warned the General when Caddi turned on his assassin, Mercedes, and she survived and made it to Orchard Close. He simply hadn’t believed a gang would go to war over one bloody woman.

  Rhys sent Patton to talk to the boss then headed off to have a quiet word with Julius, the only other sane man in this circus. If either Patton or the General finally blew their stack, Rhys knew he’d need a fighter to help him survive the fallout. So far Rhys couldn’t find out who the General had put among Julius’s troops, to cut a throat if necessary, so he couldn’t rely on Julius’s help. For now Julius would appreciate a heads-up, so he could make plans to keep his steadier troops clear of the Children of Cain when they arrived. A hundred and fifty would be a handful even for the Bloods, who were bloodthirsty nutcases themselves on a good day.

  * * *

  The Professors:

  “That’s as much seed as we can let you have because the rest is in our fields.” Prof wished he had more to give, because he wanted the remaining SIMS fighting fit.

  Michelle, the elected spokesperson for the refugees, smiled and patted the bags. “We’re very grateful, Prof. Benny sold us some and a lot cheaper than I expected. According to one of his men, he wants us ready to fight the General.” She paused, then bit the bullet. “Before that, he wants our help to deal with our neighbours, the Borg. They�
�ve been raiding now and then over winter, so he wants to slap them good and hard.”

  “He wants us to do the same but he knows my policy.” Prof sat down, because he realised this woman might have the one important skill the University hadn’t provided. He needed a military strategist; one he could trust. This woman wasn’t a gang boss, she was the leader of a democracy. She wouldn’t risk her people for no reason. “Do you think Benny has a point? We are University lecturers, not military leaders, so I’m never sure if Benny just wants to grab some land.”

  “Seriously? I’m not a military mastermind, but we had a war committee and I sat on it. Another ten days and I’d have stayed behind. Someone else would have led the bug-out because we rotated the duties.” Michelle reached into a desk drawer, bringing out a hand-drawn map. “I’ve listened to Benny, and what the people living near that border have to say. There’s a real problem. Benny wants to use you, or your trebuchets, to help him teach the Borg a lesson by taking an estate. He’s picked a soft target so Benny’s Boys don’t take serious losses, but there’s an even better possibility. If you look at this map, at the border, especially where it curves around that park?”

  Prof leant over the map, working out which way it faced and which border Michelle meant. “Yes, but that’s not what Benny wants. He’s after this estate, here, for more people to clear rubble and plant more crops. He’ll want the extra rents as well, of course. I’m not sure this gang are actually raiding, or not any more than the usual pinpricks.”

  “The Borg are probing, quite hard, to see if they can snip off some of what you and Benny took over after defeating the Lycans. Benny wants to hurt them but he also wants the extra rents, enough so he can support a few more fighters.” Michelle moved her finger back to the curve around a green patch. “What I’d like, and you might prefer, is this park. It’s already dug over, so if we wait until it’s planted we won’t need much extra labour to get a lot of extra food.”

  “But won’t that mean a war? I worry about getting our students hurt for no real reason.”

  “The Borg need a sharp lesson”—Michelle smiled briefly—“to prove that resistance isn’t futile. That will save you casualties in the long run. The trick is to hurt them much, much more than they hurt you, then they’ll accept a peace. To keep our casualties lower, we could do with your trebuchets.” Michelle set into explaining how to hurt the gang, enough for them to accept losing the park. Done properly, the initial losses should stop the confrontation becoming a war, weakening the gang so they couldn’t try for payback. For the first time in nearly fifty years Prof became a willing student, determined to learn as much as possible as fast as he could.

  * * *

  The Reivers:

  North of a ruined Inverness, deep in the Scottish Highlands, most of the Reivers and refugees had survived the winter. Bruce and Angus, the two leaders, would have loved to launch their assault on April the first, April Fool’s day, but the strike teams needed the mountains clear of snow. The heat given off by raiders as they crossed snowfields would be too easy for the foreign aircraft to spot.

  Launching the Ugly Duckling wasn’t strictly a part of the campaign, but it started what could be a very nasty surprise for the foreign airmen. Success might stop the fliers being so keen to bomb women and children. The submersible, crudely built and difficult to propel or steer, had been named Ugly Duckling by the volunteers who would man or woman her. Just before dawn the two huge fuel tanks, welded together with a rough point welded to the front, submerged for the last time. With luck they’d stay that way until Edinburgh, but without actually sinking.

  Inside, lines of volunteers sat on rows of seats and pedalled, driving linked chains that turned two propellers. A pipe at the front sucked air from a supersized snorkel into each steel cavern, while another expelled air at the back. One cycle in each tank drove the fans, while powering a dim bulb so the crew didn’t have to live in darkness. Observers took turns to watch the sea and skies through a pair of crude periscopes. The craft wouldn’t move fast, at least partly because of the weight of food and water aboard. In addition, shelves along each side were loaded with dozens of identical, carefully waterproofed boxes.

  There weren’t many inhabited coastal villages so hopefully the Duckling could pass unseen, at night or by detouring out to sea. Diversions and contrary currents would make progress slow, but Ugly Duckling would waddle ashore eventually. Any of her crew that survived the main mission would try to get south of Edinburgh, clear of the Army stop line and the radio jamming. They hoped to deliver a succession of smaller messages to the rest of the country. Some of their prisoners had talked, long and loud, so the Reivers now had a better idea of who the enemy really were.

  “I hope she makes it, Bruce. Tae be honest, I can’t see it.” The gaunt-faced man with haunted, pale blue eyes turned from the harbour as darkness swallowed any last sign of the vessel.

  “Aye Angus, but even if they spot her it’ll give yon Cabal a nasty shock. They’ll have half the navy sailing up and down looking for submarines. The other messages are just as important, even if she sinks before getting to Rosyth. If just one o’ yon lads and lassies survives to get the truth out to the rest of the country, or better still the Army?” Bruce’s lip curled in a snarl that wouldn’t have shamed a wolf. He really, really hoped the Army believed the leaflets exposing the Cabal, enough to supply a stream of deserters or trigger a mutiny. “Just in case they don’t, we’d better organise the other wee surprise. How is your swimmer, Lisa? Has she finished mapping the far shore?”

  “She’s given us every man, bridge, guard post, weapon pit, weapon and vehicle. I’ve got her searching back behind the lines, mapping bridges and patrol routes, to keep her busy.” Angus shook his head, his voice bleak. “Lisa is on the ragged edge, close enough so if I told her we’d got what we need she’d go on a killing spree. I’d let her, but I cannae risk alerting the soldiers over there. If they realise we can get people under the loch, unseen, twould be a disaster.” Angus shook his head, kicking at a patch of frozen snow. “If I couldnae get intae Inverness now and then, tae shoot someone, I’d likely go with her. Will ye look over the plans afore ye go? Just tae be sure I’m no too keen, that I’ve no done something stupid.”

  “Just a couple of hours then I’m off tae the Isles, organising the big move back across the Minch. More civvies for farming first, then the refugees I’ve been training as fighters tae help you. The first groups of civvies will be coming down from the mountains, intae these first villages, tomorrow morning. They’ll be digging within days and planting as soon as possible. We’ll need as many as we can, tae plant as much as possible, even if we’re only planting neaps and tatties. With those, and mutton and herring, we’ll be back tae the good auld days.” Bruce shook his head, unseen by Angus, as his attempt at humour fell flat. Even if the crops went in and ripened, which he couldn’t see happening without interference, there wouldn’t be enough. That meant he’d be sending half-trained civvies out to die, to steal the food the rest needed.

  Angus didn’t answer, so Bruce kept talking. “I’ll have the fighters ready, as long as we get ten hours’ notice afore ye strike for Fort William. Hamish promised me every boat that can carry an armed man. We’ll have them all waiting, spread out along the coast. Punch the hole, Angus, and we’ll prise it wide open.” The pair talked through the details of the attack for the promised two hours. After Bruce left, Angus headed for a small inland loch, to supervise a group of fighters learning how to cross the strip of water unseen. So far three had drowned and one had caught pneumonia, but none of the rest had quit. Everyone knew; they either broke the Cabal’s line of steel or the bairns would starve.

  * * *

  Cabal:

  In a bunker under fields that had already been planted, the true rulers of the UK met to catch up on progress. The UK Cabal still didn’t know the Reivers had even heard of them, though a leak was a possibility. Several people with ‘B’ passes, managers who knew some part o
f the greater conspiracy, had been captured. Even if one had talked the Reivers still wouldn’t have found out the full scope of the Cabal’s plans, just some of its aims, but as a precaution, the radio jamming south of Loch Ness had been strengthened. The Cabal wanted to stop any hint of the real conspiracy leaking to the rest of the country. The rest of the members sat around the table, rehashing the storming of Inverness when Joshua, the uniformed Army liaison, walked in waving a sheaf of papers. “They’ve taken the bait.”

  “Who and what bait?” Gerard, youngest of the members, wasn’t the only person who seemed baffled.

  “The Reivers. The first work parties have left the mountains and moved into villages on the coastal strip. They’re already checking the fields. Give them a couple of weeks to let everyone get settled and we’ll have them.” Joshua sat down and picked up the remote, turning on the wall screen to show drone footage.

  “Have you any idea how many starved?” Vanna, in charge of the Mart guards and paramilitary contractors, leant forward to look across the table at Maurice, the spymaster. “You must have spies among them now.”

  “I have, I think, and too many refugees survived. Reporting is a serious problem. The front line is sealed. Even military radios are jammed along the line itself, with the garrisons reduced to using phone lines.” He hesitated, then confessed. “We’ve had some messages, coded light flashes from the other side, but I can’t trust them. The information contradicts itself, but the codes are right. The Reivers must have caught some of my people and made them talk, so I can’t always tell which is misinformation. Something big happened on the coast, in a fishing village, but the agent obviously didn’t know details and the drones didn’t see anything unusual. That sort of thing.”