Fury in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  “The Dinks?”

  “Yes, sir. They’re worser than the Rats. You’ll be able to smell their territory a long time afore you ever get to it.”

  “And why is that? I’m quite sure they don’t bathe regularly, but it must be more than that. You don’t bathe either, but fifty feet away and I couldn’t smell you.”

  Jimmy’s smile was very thin. He knew there was no way on God’s green earth that he was going to leave this area alive. Everything he’d ever heard about the Rebels was true. “The Dinks drags their kills back to their home turf and hang them up so’s they can rot. It kinda lets people know they’s about to enter an area where they ain’t welcome.”

  “I would certainly get that impression,” Ben said. “I’ve hanged a few outlaws up myself to let them swing and rot.”

  “Did you torture them a long time before you swung them?” Jimmy asked with a sneer.

  “No,” Ben said softly.

  “You a real candy-ass, ain’t you, General? Torturin’ is fun. I like to hear people scream and beg for you to kill them.”

  “Yes, I bet you do,” Ben agreed.

  “Jesus Christ!” Lamar said. “Lawlessness is one thing. But this is a total breakdown of values, morality, decency . . . everything!”

  “You think it’s bad here, wait until you get into Los Angeles,” Jimmy warned them. “You people ain’t seen a damn thing yet. Dead bodies left to rot in the streets and be et by dogs and cats and rats. Screamin’ of them bein’ tortured all the time. Some chick has a kid she don’t want, she just tosses it out in the gutter and lets it die. You’ll see. This is paradise compared to what’s further down south. And they gonna kill all you candy-ass soldier boys and girls.” He cleared his throat to spit on Ben and Ben knocked the punk to the ground.

  Ben looked at his son. “Get rid of them all, Buddy.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ben walked back to his vehicle and got his kit. He poured a cup of water and brushed his teeth and rinsed out his mouth. He had developed a very bad taste in his mouth while listening to Jimmy.

  “I knew it was going to be bad,” Jersey said. “But nothing like this.” Her stomach rumbled. “I got to get me something to settle my stomach after listening to all that garbage.”

  Ben rummaged around in his kit and handed her a pill. “Try that. Corrie, find out where everybody is and give me a report. We don’t want to get too far ahead.”

  “Right, sir.”

  “Burn everything in our sector, Dan,” Ben ordered. “Leave nothing standing.”

  “Right away, sir.” The Englishman trotted off, yelling for his people.

  Four quick shots split the air. Linda walked up a few moments later, her face pale. “Your son just shot those young men, Ben.”

  “Yes, I know. I told him to.”

  She opened her mouth to speak, and Ben spoke first. “We don’t take many prisoners, Linda. And we’ll take none in this area, at least not for very long. Everyone in this area, everyone who belongs to a gang, joined knowing what they were getting into. They knew we were coming months ago. They were warned — by us — repeatedly. They could have left. They chose to stay and fight. We have neither the time, the facilities, nor — and I’m speaking for myself here — the patience to jack around with a bunch of no-goods. I’m not a social worker, Linda, although there are several in the Rebel army who were before the Great War. That should tell you something. Now does that answer any other questions you might have?”

  “I guess that pretty well sums it up, Ben.”

  “Believe it, Linda.”

  “General!” Corrie called. “West reports a lot of overpass and bridge damage, and so does General Cecil.”

  “All right. Acknowledge it. I anticipated that. Where is Ike?”

  “On 101 around Westlake Village.”

  “Tell everyone to hold what they’ve got. Stand by for a change in plans. I’m going to take a chance.”

  “This is something new?” Jersey muttered.

  Ben heard her and grinned.

  Dan and Buddy gathered around Ben as he carefully spread an old map of Los Angeles out on the hood of a Jeep. “Once Ike has established a secure position in his sector, he’ll begin advancing and neutralizing the Pacific Palisades area. We’ll make very slow advances until Ike gets a toehold in Santa Monica. Then we’ll start pushing down to the Ventura Freeway while Cecil drives through Glendale down to the Hollywood Freeway. We just don’t have the personnel to effectively cover such a massive area, so it’s back to taking chances.

  “When Ike, our bunch, and Cecil begin pushing toward a secure position to operate out of, Georgi will be swinging around and covering from here at Pasadena south down to just north of where West will be setting up with the Long Toms. I want West to take all of our long-range artillery — every piece of our self-propelled — and his tanks and get into position along this line. Burn out a five-block area in front of them for security, and then start lobbing in shells around the clock; the rest of us will be doing the same. Tanks spearhead each drive and this is a put-to-the-torch operation all the way.

  “Corrie, get in touch with Base Camp One and get me Seven and Eight Battalions in here. Start them coming right now! Fly them in around the clock, with heavy equipment following them in trucks. Roll them, Corrie. They’re about to get some real AIT — call it on-the-job training. I want them pulled in close to protect the backs of West’s people.”

  “There are a lot of green troops in there, Father,” Buddy said.

  “They won’t be for long,” Ben told him. “We’ll hold up any major advances until Seven and Eight are in position. Corrie, have Georgi send some people east to secure this airport at Upland. Seven and Eight will deplane there and move into position.”

  “Right, sir.”

  “All right, people. Right now, let’s take a few more blocks just to keep in practice. We’ll launch the main push as soon as Seven and Eight are on the ground and moving. Send those orders out on scramble, Corrie.”

  Ben turned to find Doctor Lamar Chase’s finger in his face. “I want that extra MASH unit from Base to come in with those boys and girls, Ben. Those are green troops and they are going to get bloodied.”

  “You took the words right out of my mouth, Lamar.”

  “That’s bull-dooky, Ben, but it sounds good. Just do it.”

  “No sweat, Lamar. Look, we’re going to be pushing hard when we kick this off, so for a time, you won’t have a secure central receiving hospital. Everything, everything, is going to be up to your MASH people.”

  Chase nodded his head. “We can handle it. I’ll advise my people. We’re going to need lots of whole blood, so I’ll start yelling for volunteers. Take care of him, Linda. See you around, Raines.”

  Ben said, “Let’s take a couple of blocks, people.”

  The Rebels spread out, with tanks spearheading, and began hammering their way south. An hour before dark, they had clawed and scratched their way to within a block of the San Fernando airport. Bodies of Bandits and Rats and Dinks, sprawled in grotesque postures of death, littered the trashy streets. Ben had felt all along that this campaign was going to be a tough one, and the afternoon’s battles had proved him to be correct. The street punks knew they were literally fighting for their survival. It was stand-or-die time. Ben Raines was not going to take prisoners, and was not going to have programs of reeducation and rehabilitation for them. He was going to destroy them to the last person and then burn the city to ground level and stir the ashes so they could never flame again.

  “It ain’t right,” a Rat bitched during a brief lull in the fighting. “We done run up surrender flags. Ben Raines oughta honor them.”

  Carlo Mendez, a man who had been a Los Angeles street punk even before the Great War, laughed at the Rat. “Why should he? We had our chance to give it up. Ben Raines is no sobbing hanky-twister. He knows he’s got our backs to the wall, and that if he takes our surrender now, as soon as they pulled out, ninety-nine percent of
us would go right back to what we were doing before he came. We got us maybe a fifty-fifty chance of winnin’ this fight. And pal, we’d better win it. ’Cause we just ain’t got no place else left to run. Ben Raines is gonna wipe the earth clean of everyone like us he can find.”

  “He’s a devil!”

  Carlo laughed. “Naw, he ain’t. He’s just a man who don’t like punks, that’s all. He’s a law-and-order type, from his head down to his boots. The world is gonna be different, pal. There just ain’t gonna be no place for guys like us in it. It’s gonna be a very polite society.”

  His friend snorted in disgust and spat on the dirty floor. He inched up and peeked over the edge of a windowsill. A Rebel sniper about five hundred meters out put a .50-caliber slug right between his eyes. The street punk died with his eyes bulging in shock, the top of his head and his brains splattered on the wall behind him.

  Carlos looked at the mess and shook his head. “Bastards can shoot. And that probably makes you one of the lucky ones, Garcia.” He glanced at one of his lieutenants. “We’re pullin’ back. We can’t win this fight with each warlord defendin’ his own turf. We got to call a meetin’ and make some plans. It can’t work this way. Let’s go.”

  “They’re bugging out, General,” Corrie called. “Forward units report a mass pullback.”

  “Start dropping artillery in on them,” Ben ordered. “Give them everything we’ve got for a couple of minutes. That will give us about a three-block secure area. Tell the gunners to keep the airport intact.”

  Corrie relayed the orders and the tanks and mortar crews began lobbing them in.

  “The son of a bitch!” Carlos cussed as the shells began dropping in all around him. “He never misses a bet.” A shell landed close and knocked the street punk off his tennis shoes. They were good tennis shoes too. He’d killed a dude to get them. Good tennis shoes were getting harder and harder to find. When the dust cleared, Carlos jumped to his feet and ran for his life.

  “Secure the airport,” Ben ordered.

  Tanks surged forward, Scouts and Buddy’s Rat Team right behind them.

  “Get me a report from Ike.”

  “He’s punched through and is holding along Highway N1.”

  “Tell him to break it off there and to get some rest. Cecil?”

  “Locked in heavy fighting along Interstate 210 just north of Glendale.”

  “It’ll be dark soon. Tell him to hold what he’s got. Georgi?”

  “He’s in control of his sector along 210. Colonel West is beginning his stretch-out move. That’s the heavy smoke we see to the east and north.”

  “Let’s don’t be too obvious with it. Tell all commanders to shut it down and secure for the night. Come on, gang — let’s go see what the airport looks like.”

  Not bad. There was no lingering stench of the Night People. That confirmed what the prisoners had told them. The Believers were concentrated in the heart of Los Angeles; true to form, they preferred the cities to the countryside.

  “Runways are not in that bad a shape,” a Rebel reported. “We can have one operational in several hours.”

  Ben shook his head. “We won’t need this one. We’ll push south in the morning and try to secure the Hollywood-Burbank airport. By that time, we’ll be needing supplies and we’ll have wounded to fly back to Base Camp One. Corrie, I want a casualty list all the way around.”

  Seven dead and twenty-two wounded. Of the wounded, five were in serious condition.

  “Transport the dead out of the burn area and bury them up in the mountains,” Ben said. They would be buried in unmarked graves, for the criminal element hated the Rebels so, they had been known to dig up Rebel graves and mutilate the bodies.

  “Father,” Buddy said, walked up. “A group of Woods Children have moved down to the edge of the mountains north of us. They have volunteered to bury our dead in secure places.”

  Ben did not ask how Buddy knew that, or how he had been contacted. There was a mystic aura about the young man that baffled his father. “I thought I told them to stay out of this fight.”

  Buddy shrugged his muscular shoulders. “They obviously chose to ignore that directive.”

  “Tell them thanks,” Ben said. “It’ll be a big help.”

  Thermopolis walked up to join the small group on the edge of the tarmac. He wore a grim expression. “I lost a man,” he said. “The street punks grabbed him and poured gasoline on him, then set him on fire. We found his body about ten minutes ago.” He clenched big hands into big fists. “Goddamnit!”

  “Now you see yet another reason why I deal with punks as I do,” Ben told him. “I’m really very sorry, Therm. The bodies are being readied for transport up into the mountains. Do you want to go with your man?”

  Therm shook his head. “No. I’m needed here. It’s just that Santana had been with me for a long time. We worked together before the Great War. He was a good decent human being. Loved animals and loved the earth. He used to work for the Forest Service.”

  “Why did he leave them?”

  “He didn’t agree with a lot of their policies. I’ll miss him.”

  Ben thought of all the Rebels, men and women, buried in lonely unmarked graves all over the United States. Border to border and coast to coast. Freedom fighters. “I know the feeling, Therm. I know it only too well.”

  “Do you ever get used to it?”

  “No.”

  Therm looked surprised, then managed a smile. “You never pull a punch, do you, Ben?”

  “Occasionally. Not very often.” Ben studied the man’s face. “Getting involved now, Therm?”

  “Let’s just say I’m trying very hard to keep Santana’s death from clouding my judgment.”

  “From becoming emotional about it?”

  Therm nodded his head. “Yes. You could say that.”

  “You lost Tapper and Robin last year, I recall.”

  “You remembered?” There was a note of surprise in the man’s voice.

  “I remember a lot of Rebel deaths, Therm. My memory goes back years in recalling the men and the women who died fighting for a dream.” Others had gathered around, standing in silence, listening. “Back at Base Camp One, there is a list of all the men and women who have died while serving in my command. It goes back years. The list just keeps getting longer and longer. And in a sense, I keep getting more and more emotional about it.”

  “You? Emotional?”

  “Oh, yeah, Therm — me. But I keep it up here.” He tapped the side of his head. “Every time I see some goddamn slobbering punk who refuses to obey even the simpliest of rules, I think of Captain Voltan. Salina, Pal Elliot, my son Jack Raines. And my unborn son who died in his mother’s womb after Salina was bayoneted in the stomach. I think of Jimmy Deluce. I think of Sam Pyron and his wife. I remember Valerie, Megan, Al, Abby, Belle Riverson, Badger Harbin. I remember hundreds of Rebel dead, Therm. And I think of all those who stepped up to take their places, knowing the risks involved. I feel like crying when I think of a little boy I found on the road — in Missouri, I think it was — a long time ago. I named him Jordy Raines. He was ten years old, he thought. He wasn’t sure. He died in my arms down in Texas, after being shot by a warlord.

  “I think of a woman named Rani, and of the kids she took in to raise. And I think of another woman . . . named Jerre.” Ben was silent for a moment, and Therm noted the silent rage etched on his face, and his hard, hard eyes.

  “I hate punks, Therm. I have hated punks and thugs and trash all my life. They come rich and poor, they come educated and illiterate. But to a person they are what they are because that’s what they want to be. Nobody made them take the dope. Nobody forced them to kill and rob and rape and assault. Because, Therm, we all, to a very large degree, control our own destinies. Especially in these times, Therm. Especially now. Now is when the true worth of men and women comes to the fore. Now is when you can see what a person is really made of. Now, more than ever before, there is only black and white and no g
ray in between. Now, when everybody has the opportunity to start fresh, can one truly see what a person is worth.

  “The psychiatrists and social workers and sobbing sisters and hanky-stompers can all kiss my ass, Therm. Both now and back when we had a so-called working society. You can take a rose, and you can dip it in shit, but after you do, all you’ve got is a shitty-smelling rose. You can wrap a punk in ten-dollar words and fancy excuses for his or her behavior, but after you do, all you’ve got is just another goddamn punk.

  “I keep my hate simmering low on a back burner, Therm. With the pot carefully lidded. But every now and then I have to go back and lift that lid and look inside. I have to hear the cries of those innocents who were raped and beaten and enslaved and tortured and killed by punks over the years.” He pointed south, toward the sprawling city of Los Angeles and the area all around it.

  He turned, looking square at Thermopolis, and his eyes were as cold as Therm had ever seen them. “It makes the killing a lot easier, Therm. A lot easier. Keep that in mind.”

  Ben walked away, toward his new CP. Jersey swung in behind him, the butt of her M-16 on one hip.

  Linda shivered and rubbed her arms as chill bumps rose on her flesh.

  The other Rebels who had gathered around were silent.

  “I always thought I would like to get a look inside that man’s head,” Therm said. “Until now. Now I’m just not so sure I’d want to take a look.”

  Buddy turned away. “Not unless you want to see what Hell looks like.”

  TWELVE

  Ben was up early, an hour before anyone else, except for Jersey and Buddy. He fixed a pot of coffee and opened a packet of breakfast rations. He preferred eating them in the dark so he wouldn’t have to look at what he was eating. The planes carrying the first of Seven and Eight Battalions had started arriving just after midnight; the flights would continue for several more days, with trucks rolling twenty-four hours a day from Base Camp One, bringing in additional equipment and artillery rounds.