Fury in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  Beth walked up, a notepad in her hand. “We made forty miles today, General. General Ike is bivouacked in the Los Padres National Forest. General Cecil made about forty miles, and General Striganov is bivouacked near the Sequoia National Forest.”

  “Thank you, Beth. Have you any word from the forward recon teams?”

  “Ike can expect trouble at the south end of the old Hunter Ligget Military Reservation. General Cecil will have a fight in Coalinga, and we’ll have a pretty good scrap when we hit Highway 46. All units have been advised.”

  “Thank you. Get some chow and relax.”

  Linda studied Ben in the fading light of late afternoon. So far he had kissed her, and that was that. She didn’t know what her reaction would be when, or if, Ben tried to take matters further — although she had a pretty good idea how it might turn out.

  She had heard rumors about Jerre, and about their stormy relationship, and how she had died. She knew Jerre had borne Ben’s children, and that they were back at Base Camp One. She had also heard about the many other women in Ben’s life, and that he had really loved only one of them: Jerre.

  Ben was smoking his pipe, sitting in a camp chair. Linda got the impression that his mind was a thousand miles away. Or more specifically, about four hundred miles away, in the general area of Los Angeles.

  She walked away quietly, thinking that Ben probably would not notice her departing. It would not take her long to learn that Ben missed very little that went on around him.

  Buddy came to his father, opened a camp chair, and sat down.

  “Where have you been, boy?”

  “Talking with some Woods Children who came out of the deep forests across the state.”

  “How’d you find them?”

  “I didn’t. They found me.”

  Ben thought about that, sensing something was up. “It must have been very important news for them to leave the woods.”

  “They thought it was. Father, Sister Voleta is still alive.”

  The young man almost never spoke of the woman as his mother. Buddy had long ago realized that she was the epitome of evil and would have to be destroyed. But destroying Voleta, founder and ruler of the savage and vicious cult known as the Ninth Order, was proving to be very difficult.

  Ben fought back a quick surge of rage. He calmed himself and said, “Goddamn that woman! The Woods Children are certain of this?”

  “Yes. Absolutely. Their network reported that she had both legs amputated and was horribly burned and disfigured, but that she is alive, gaining strength, and filled with more hate than ever before.”

  “Damn! Where is she, son?”

  “Michigan, unless she has shifted her headquarters recently. And her followers are growing in number.”

  “Well, we have an outpost in Michigan. What do they report?”

  “They report nothing and they never will. They have been destroyed.”

  “By Voleta?”

  “Yes.”

  Ben sighed heavily and knocked the dead ashes out of his pipe. “Son, I am becoming awfully weary of that woman. She is like an albatross hanging around my neck.”

  “The Ancient Mariner. Yes. I read it. I understand what you mean. But getting to her is not going to be easy. According to the report I received, she is in the process of rebuilding her empire and is constructing numerous hiding places, all of them underground in deep woods. Michigan, Kentucky, Missouri, Maine. Probably more than that, but those were the ones told to me.”

  “Estimated strength?”

  “Several thousand, and growing.”

  “So are we.”

  “Yes, fortunately. I am told that Seven and Eight Battalions will be ready for the field in approximately six months.”

  “That’s correct. When we sail from this country, we’ll leave behind four battalions of field troops, plus the battalion in place at Base Camp One. How are things over in the Woods Children sector?”

  “Stable.” He smiled. “It’s difficult for me to keep referring to them as “children” since many of them are now young men and women. They have schools and medical facilities and are doing quite well. They asked me if you wanted them in this fight for southern California?”

  Ben shook his head. “No. They’d be totally out of their element in this fight. In the woods they’re awesome fighters. But this is going to be urban warfare. Have their dreams to become as one with the animals materialized?”

  “To a large degree. They are not flesh-eaters and the animals seem to sense that. They are also united with the Underground People. Together, they make up quite a force. Thugs and outlaws have tried to overwhelm them several times. I don’t think that any of those who entered the woods with hostile intentions ever came out. Neither have trappers,” he added dryly.

  Ben grunted. He had always felt — even as a boy — that most trapping was unnecessary and very cruel. He had never particularly given a damn what happened to trappers. “Are you going to have a second meeting with the Woods Children?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell them I wish them well and thank them for this information.”

  Buddy rose from the chair.

  “Son?”

  Buddy turned to his father.

  “Who, or what, do they worship?”

  Buddy smiled, knowing what his father had on his mind. “The Almighty. A great spirit in the heavens.”

  “That’s a relief. Thank the Lord they’ve stopped building altars to me.”

  Buddy slipped away into the darkness. He did not tell his father that those who lived in the timber and under the ground still held Ben Raines in the same awe and adoration as they did the invisible Almighty. His father just could not understand that all over the nation — and according to what Buddy had learned, and had not shared with his father, in pockets all over the world — people felt that Ben Raines was slightly more than a mortal flesh-and-blood man, very close to being a god — or at least a man who had caught the attention of the gods above and had a pipeline to them.

  Ben Raines just could not understand that it had become his dream to take a shattered nation and rebuild it. The young man knew that his father considered himself to be a soldier/philosopher and nothing more than that. Many others had had the same dream, but it was Ben Raines who’d actually formed the army of Rebels and put them on the march. It was Ben Raines who’d taken the nation, state by state, and reclaimed it from the outlaws and thugs and punks and warlords. Ben Raines who was the driving force behind the rebuilding. Ben Raines who had physically jerked up the nation from the ashes and held it there until he could get the props under it. And it was Ben Raines who would not be satisfied until the entire world was free and safe and once more a productive place.

  Ben Raines just did not understand that he had dreamed an impossible dream and brought it to light and made it reality.

  Buddy shuddered at the thought of anything happening to his father. For if the unthinkable happened, the entire load would quite possibly be placed on his shoulders, and the young man knew he was not ready for that. Not for a long, long time.

  If ever.

  TEN

  Ike reported that he had hit his first skirmish since leaving the city, and would be tied up for several hours at the south end of the old Hunter Ligget Military Reservation. Cecil was hanging back about a thousand meters north of the town of Coalinga, using artillery to bring the defenders to bay.

  “We’ll push on down to the crossroads and see what’s in store for us there,” Ben said. “From here on in, main battle tanks take the point. Corrie, what do the Scouts report about this unpaved road straight through to Parkfield?”

  “As far as they went, they reported it bumpy but passable.”

  Ben studied the map for a moment. The shortcut looked inviting. Maybe just a tad too inviting. The uglies would know that forward recon people would check out the road for at least some distance. So if there was an ambush planned — and Ben felt sure that was what lay in wait for them — it would co
me at the very end of the shortcut.

  “Too good to be true, gang,” Ben finally said, thumping the map. “Ten-fifty those orders. We’ll take the long way around and completely bypass Parkfield. We’ll take this little spur down here at Paso Robles and pick up 58 at Creston. Tell Leadfoot and his Wolfpack to spearhead the tanks. They’ll leave the main column and cut back east here at San Miguel, come up behind our ambushers, and give them some grief.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Tell them no heroics, Corrie. Tell them to go in fast and get out fast.”

  “Right, sir.”

  Moments later, the sounds of motorcycles cranking up drifted to Ben. The bikers now all rode the big Harley-Davidson motorcycles. They carried submachine guns, grenades, and sidearms. They were a wild bunch, but totally dedicated to Ben Raines and loyal to the Rebels. They had needed a second chance at life, and Ben had given it to them. They all to a person would die for Ben. The bikers dressed as they pleased, and Ben let them, for more than one reason. The bikers could go into enemy territory and look and behave exactly like the enemy — at least for a while. They had done so several times, returning with valuable information.

  The bikers roared out, anxious to get into a good fight.

  “Mount up, people,” Ben ordered. “Let’s go see some new country. We’ll take it slow. We don’t want to get too far ahead of Ike and Cecil.”

  The long column stretched out, cutting southwest and heading for San Miguel, some twenty miles away. The road was in bad shape, but not as bad as Ben had feared. This road had obviously not been used very much since the Great War, with most traffic staying with the Interstates and better-known roads.

  At San Miguel, the bikers had tied one of the yellow bandanas that all Rebels carried onto the city limits sign, a signal that the town was clear.

  The beautiful old historic mission, the Mission San Miguel Archangel, had been destroyed. Ben had been expecting it. The Rebels had seen a lot of churches and missions destroyed over the years. The people, survivors of the bombs and the deadly gas of the Great War, had lived through that only to see a deadly rat-borne plague strike that further cut the population. Many had blamed God, and had taken their misery out on the clergy and the churches.

  “Stupid damn people!” Ben muttered, standing in front of what was left of the old mission. He shook his head and walked back to the wagon. “Let’s go, Coop. Corrie, tell the forward people we’ll bivouac just as soon as we cross this spur. Tell them to find us a place on 46. We’ll wait for Lead-foot and Beerbelly there, and see what Ike and Cecil are doing.”

  The main column did not swing over to the Interstate to check out Paso Robles. Ben sent the Scouts in with some Dusters to give the town a once-over while the long column turned west and pulled over at the bivouac site.

  Ike had smashed the resistance at the old military reservation and was personally escorting a few prisoners over for Ben to interrogate. Cecil had punched through at Coalinga and was bivouacked a few miles south of the town. Georgi and West had just begun their turn south and had pulled over for the night in the Owens Valley.

  Ben decided that the battalions west of the Russian and the mercenary would stay put the next day, allowing those troops to their east to pull even with them.

  Ben’s CP for the next few days would be an old ranch house just outside of a small town that had once been called Whitley Gardens. The coffeepot was on when Ike pulled in with the prisoners and shoved the first one into the den.

  “Stand there,” Ike told the sullen-faced young man. “And keep your mouth shut until you’re told to speak.”

  “Fuck you, fatso!” the punk told the stocky Ike. He closed his mouth and his eyes widened in fear as Ben picked up a .45 autoloader from a desk and clicked it off safety. “Hey, man!” the punk hollered. “I got rights, you know?” He coughed, a deep, racking cough.

  “You have only what I decide to give you,” Ben told him, his voice low and very cold. “Whether you live or die is solely up to me. Whether I hang you, shoot you, stomp you to death, or let you live is my decision, and mine alone. Do you understand all that, you worthless piece of shit?”

  “You Ben Raines, ain’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  A dark stain appeared on the young man’s crotch, dampening his very dirty jeans. He bobbed his head up and down. “Yes, sir. I sure do understand where you comin’ from.” He coughed again, and Lamar studied him intently.

  “Good,” Ben told him, laying the .45 back on the desk, cocked but not locked. He waved a Rebel forward.

  The young man watched as a briefcase was opened; it contained a strange-looking object. Microphones were set up and the volume tested and adjusted. The operator of the equipment looked at Ben and nodded his head.

  “This is a voice/stress analyzer,” Ben told the punk. “Our scientists have vastly improved upon the old models, which used to be called psychological stress evaluators. Our people tell me that this machine is eighty-five percent accurate in showing the operator whether or not a subject is lying. Now let’s get all the bullshit out of the way. I’m going to ask you a number of questions. Everything you say is being recorded. On that machine, and on tape. Now, you know my name; you know a lot about me. Believe every bad thing you ever heard about me.”

  “I heard a bunch of bad things about you, General. How you —”

  “Shut up! If you lie to me, I’m going to kill you. Right here, in this room, without hesitation. Do you understand that, punk?”

  “Yes, sir!” he almost screamed the words. “Ax me anything you like. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

  In another building, Dan Gray was interrogating another prisoner, using the same methods.

  Ben stared at the young man. “What is your name?”

  “Henry Gavin.” Cough.

  “Fine. Henry, how many people live in or around the Los Angeles area?”

  “Thousands and thousands, sir. I don’t rightly know the exact number.” Cough.

  “You have lived in that area?”

  “Yes, sir. I live there. I was borned there. Twenty-five year ago.”

  “Borned there,” Ben said softly. “Where are your parents?”

  “I don’t know. Dead, I reckon.”

  “Don’t you care where they are?”

  “No.” Cough. “Why should I? All they ever done was make me go to school and beat me when I hung out with the Dukes.”

  “Who are the Dukes?”

  “My gang,” he answered proudly. “See this red headband I got? All Dukes wear red headbands. We’re one of the toughest gangs in the city.”

  “And that makes you proud?”

  “Damn right.” Cough.

  “I suppose you and the Dukes and the rest of the gangs have been active in cleaning up the city, caring for the sick and the old and very young, and setting up schools and hospitals and so forth?”

  “Huh?” Henry blinked. “Hell, no! Who wants a bunch of dumb shit like that?”

  “Who indeed?” Ben muttered. “Who is the leader of the Dukes?”

  “Rich.” Cough.

  “Rich . . . what?”

  “I don’t know. Just Rich.”

  “How many people belong to your gang, male and female?”

  “About five hundred or so. About three hundred men and the rest is chicks. That don’t count the slaves, of course.”

  “The slaves? Explain that.”

  Henry coughed and shrugged his shoulders. “Slaves is slaves. We use them for entertainment. We fight them like chickens or dogs. To the death. We bet on them. Every gang has their favorite slave-fighter. We buy them through barter, steal them from other gangs, snatch them from out in the zone.”

  Ike shook his head in disgust. Doctor Chase had a savage look in his eyes. Ben cleared his throat and took a sip of water. He had a very bad taste in his mouth. For years an animal-rights activist, Ben had always felt that people who made animals fight for sport — much less humans — were mean-spirited,
low-moraled assholes. “The zone, Henry What is that?”

  “It’s a no-man’s-land.”

  “Go into more detail, Henry.”

  “The gangs control everything from Ventura down to Tijuana, then east along the border over to Mexicali, then north up to Interstate 10; everything back west to the ocean. The zone is anything that ain’t under our control.” Cough.

  The Rebel commanders exchanged glances. “Tell me how you get along with the Believers.”

  “They leave us alone, we leave them alone. We swap them slaves for stuff. Dope and things like that. In case of trouble, we all band together to protect each other’s turf.”

  “How do you people survive? How do you eat? What do you eat?”

  “Slaves grow gardens for us. We have cattle and hogs and chickens and shit like that. When a slave gets too old or wore out to work or fuck or suck, we give him or her to the Believers.” Cough.

  Lamar Chase glanced at Ben. The men shook their heads in disgust. Ben said, “Henry, you’re a real prince of a fellow.”

  “Oh, well, thanks. Sure.” Cough. “I’m known as bein’ pretty cool.”

  Ben sighed and said, “Do you know all the gangs in the territory?”

  “No way, man. They’s too many of them. But I know all the main gangs.”

  “Run them down for me.”

  “Well, okay. Let me think.” Cough. “Chico runs the Swords. They wear black and red. Manuel is boss of the Mayas. They wear blue shirts. Bull bosses the Busters. They wear green. The Fifth Street Lords is run by a dude name of Hal. They dress all in black. Dicky is the main man of the . . .” Cough. “. . . Blades. They wear silver. Sally runs the Mixers. Purple is their color. The Angels is headed by Josh. They dress all in white. They look kinda stupid. Ruth fronts the Macys. Tan is their color. Chang is the boss of the Tokyos — black headbands. Fang is boss of a real big gang called the Hill Street Avengers. Brown headbands. Guy name of Brute is head of the White Men. They dress in hot pink.”

  Ike almost spilled his fresh mug of coffee. “Hot pink!”

  “Yeah. They’re a bunch of fags, but they’re all-right guys. Mean as hell if you crowd them.” Cough. “You want me to go on, General?”