Fury in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

His team looked at one another, each with the same thought: And pray that nothing happens to Ben Raines.

  “Corrie, do you have a location of Seven and Eight?”

  “They’re not even to the Nevada line yet. They’re a good three hundred miles away.”

  “A day and a half if everything goes right. Two and a half days would probably be more accurate. As soon as a runway is clear, have Cecil advise the pilots that if they have to make a night landing, we will light the runway with vehicle headlights and they’ll go off as soon as the planes touch down. That will give the creepies less of a target. And you can bet they’re all around us. Dan, lay out a perimeter and get everybody moving some dirt and bricks and concrete blocks. We’ve got to hold out for at least two days.”

  “What about Cecil?” Therm asked.

  “He can’t move. The creepies are waiting for him to try something like that and he knows it. At least we took some of the pressure off him. Buddy, take your Rat Team, pick some other people, and start blowing buildings for a couple of blocks around this place. Blow us out a buffer zone. No point in trying to burn anything in this damn rain. Let’s go, people. We’ve got a lot to do and damn little time to get it done.”

  And once again, the Rebels went to work, digging and building and moving material, constructing bunkers and earthen walls and fortifying the existing buildings on the small airport grounds.

  “General?” Corrie called. “Cecil on the horn.”

  “Go, Cec.”

  “My God, Ben, we must have vastly underestimated the number of creepies. My spotters around here say it appears there are several thousand creepies moving toward your position. And that’s just from this point.”

  “It’s as we discussed, Cec. We were overconfident. Are the planes airborne?”

  “That’s ten-four. They’ve been up for an hour. It’s approximately four hundred and fifty air miles to your location. The pilots don’t like to push those old crates too hard. Every engine we’re using is long overdue for an overhaul. Call it four hours to touchdown. That will put them down just about one hour before dark.”

  “Couldn’t be better, Cec. Hang tough. We’ll see you.”

  Buddy and his Rat Team were flushing out creepies as they blew the buildings around the old airport. They took one alive, dunked him in a huge old fountain — which was now filled with fresh rainwater — and took him to Ben.

  “Well, he smells some better, at least,” Ben said, after the creepie was handcuffed to a radiator pipe in the old office building. “Talk to me, mister.”

  “I will tell you nothing!”

  “Oh . . . yeah, you’ll tell us. One way or the other. It’s your choice.”

  “I’ll tell you nothing!”

  “Drugs can produce some amazing results,” Dan said. “Obviously Buddy captured some sort of officer in the Believer movement. He knew quite a lot, actually. Very informative fellow.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Lamar drew some blood for study. Must have scared him quite badly. Poor fellow died. Lamar is having an autopsy done on the remains.”

  “I can see you’re all broken up about it.”

  “Oh, quite. The creepies really suckered us this time, General. Us, and the street punks. Obviously the street punks never had a clue that the majority of the creepies were living below the city. They had quite an elaborate system worked out. But once we’re free of this little upcoming altercation here at the airport, it will be a very simple matter to seal off any underground tube systems and the sewer systems.”

  “How many are we facing, Dan?”

  “About fifteen thousand, Ben.”

  Ben whistled softly. “Damn. Were we ever suckered! Now tell me the rest of it, Dan.”

  “They’ve got Cecil pinned down. There is no way he can move to help us. They’ve split their forces. They are anticipating help from the north and they’ll be waiting. As far as we are concerned, they’ll be throwing about five thousand people at us tonight.”

  “Corrie, how many planes are bringing us supplies?”

  “Everything that can fly, General.”

  Ben turned to Therm. “You heard it. Let’s get ready for it.”

  Therm nodded and left the office building.

  “Is everything and everybody positioned, Dan?”

  “Ready and waiting, sir.”

  “I want teams standing by to off-load supplies as quickly as possible so those planes can get the hell out of here. I want them back in the air to start ferrying West’s people in to the airport at Santa Monica. Corrie, do we still have a strip open there?”

  “As far as I know, sir.”

  “All right. That will take some more pressure off Cecil. We can’t use the runways up here at Ontario because they were destroyed. Corrie, bump Cecil and tell him to radio Seven and Eight. Tell them to come down behind us, through Barstow and San Bernardino. We know that’s reasonably clear. Fighters are escorting the transports so we can use them to strafe any mortar emplacements past the buffer zone. They’ve been advised of that, Corrie?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “All right, Dan. Let’s you and me make an inspection tour and see just how good a shape we’re in.”

  * * *

  The planes began coming in right on schedule, about an hour before dark.

  Almost immediately, sniper fire began coming from the ruins surrounding the airport. And just as quickly, Rebel gunners began shelling the ruins with mortar and cannon fire, while the fighter plane escorts straffed the ruins.

  The pilots did not cut their engines. They taxied out of the way of incoming planes, the cargo was off-loaded, and within minutes they were taking off, heading back to base, while other planes were landing.

  Mortar rounds and artillery shells were off-loaded and rushed to waiting crews. Medical supplies were taken to Doctor Chase. Rounds for Big Thumpers and Vulcans and Gatling guns were rushed to waiting crews. Claymores and pressure mines were offloaded and Buddy and his Rat Team began laying them out on the perimeters. Flares were brought in, as were tear gas rounds and canisters, clean socks and underwear, and food.

  Beth checked off the contents of each plane, and then relayed that information to Ben. “It won’t be a picnic,” Ben said to Linda. “But I believe we can withstand anything the creepies throw at us.” He smiled grimly and added, “We’ll probably know in about an hour.”

  She was pushing .380 rounds into clips and slipping the clips into an ammo pouch. “It’s bad, isn’t it, Ben?”

  He nodded his head. The movement was barely noticeable in the waning light. “Yes, it is. Very bad. And they’re going to start lobbing mortar rounds in here before long. The reason they haven’t done so before now is because they haven’t had time to move the mortars into position. The streets are in such bad shape, getting cars and trucks through them takes hours. They’re having to hand-carry the tubes and rounds in for long distances.”

  Dan walked in. “We’ve got your bunker dug, General. It’s about a hundred yards behind and to the east of this building.”

  “Thank you, Dan. Let’s go, people. We’re moving.”

  The bunker was about twenty by twenty and seven feet deep. It was damp and it was cold, but it was a hell of a lot safer than what Ben and his team had just left. The roof was beamed with heavy timbers, corrugated metal placed on that, and earth on top of that. Boards had been placed on the floor as walkways to keep from churning up the mud.

  “The last plane has left, General,” Corrie told him. “Everyone got in and got out safely. Cecil is now coming under small-arms and mortar fire.”

  “We’re next, then. Everybody in flak jackets and helmets. Check gas masks.”

  “Done,” Corrie told him after a moment.

  Linda looked up. “Sounds like a covey of quails overheard.”

  “Mortars,” Ben told her, just as the first rounds began exploding, knocking chunks of earth and mud from the walls of the bunkers. “Tell the artillery to return the fire, Corrie. Let
’s get this dance going.”

  For a few moments, it was a battle of cannon and mortar, a deafening, nerve-wracking cacophony of ground-trembling thunder.

  During a few seconds’ lull, Ben said, “Corrie, advise the troops the creepies will be moving into place while this is going on. Ready flares.”

  “Flares ready, sir.”

  Creepie mortar fire stopped. “Flares up.”

  Flares were fired and the harsh brilliance caught the creepies as they were advancing across the buffer zone.

  “Fire!”

  The Rebels opened up with every weapon that could make the range. Creepies went down like pins in a bowling alley. The Believers called their people back. The first attack had been beaten back without a single Rebel dead or wounded.

  Ben waited in silence for a couple of minutes. Then he smiled. “They’re short of mortar rounds,” he said. “I believe they gave us all they had during the last barrage.”

  “That won’t disappoint me,” Jersey said.

  “Get Cecil, Corrie.”

  She handed him the mike. “Cec. Are you still coming under mortar attack?”

  “That’s ten-fifty, Ben. Small-arms fire only.”

  “That’s ten-four, Cec. They’ve shot their wad, then. I’d guess they’re out of rounds.”

  “They’ve still got us pinned down tight.”

  “Same here. But if small arms is all they have, we’ve got the fight won. It’ll just take a little time. We’ll wear them down with artillery and then bust out as soon as Seven and Eight show up. As soon as West shows up with enough people north of you, he’ll push to your location.”

  “I damn sure won’t complain about that.”

  “See you in a couple of days, Cec.”

  * * *

  After twenty-four hours of exchanging fire, the Rebels could tell the creepies were losing steam. By noon of the second day, spotters reported the creepies falling back into the ruins.

  “Keep up the artillery fire,” Ben ordered. “Don’t give them a chance to catch their breath.”

  “Seven and Eight are a few miles out, sir,” Corrie said. “They want orders.”

  “Tell them to come on in and share supplies with us. Eight will occupy this airport and Seven will accompany us into the city.”

  The next day’s dawning brought an end to the rain. “Saddle up,” Ben ordered. “We’re moving. Scouts out along the Interstate to the junction with 55.”

  Eight Battalion moved into the airport, and Ben took his people and Seven Battalion in pursuit of the creepies holed up inside the ruins of the city.

  They advanced twelve miles the first day, moving over to within a few miles of what was left of Anaheim. Ike was barreling in with Georgi paralleling him. The rest of West’s troops were coming in with the rolling equipment. Cecil had cleared LAX and planes were landing every hour, bringing in explosives from Base Camp One.

  Dan’s Scouts had found maps of the sewer system and the tunnels under the city. “Blow them,” Ben ordered. “Blow every entrance and exit you can find. Seal it off — block it. The bastards like the tunnels and the darkness. Let’s give it to them. Let it become their tombs.”

  The Rebels advanced, working block by block, blowing and burning everything that stood in their way. This time the devastation was total. They left nothing standing behind them. Early fall melted into late fall, and more rains came. The Rebels worked on, destroying the city and flushing out creepies.

  It was the most massive undertaking the Rebels had ever tackled. House-to-house and building-to-building searching and destroying and fighting.

  Cecil was working from LAX east, West and Ike working from the north down, and Georgi and Ben from the west toward the ocean. Seven and Eight were working from the south northward. They left nothing behind them except devastation.

  On a blustery cool day in mid-November, a man came staggering out of the smoking, battle-ravaged ashes of what remained of Los Angeles, carrying a white flag.

  “You hold it right there, asshole!” a Rebel yelled.

  The creepie stopped.

  “What do you want?”

  “To speak with General Raines.”

  “About what?”

  “Surrender,” the Believer said bitterly.

  “When hell freezes over!” Ben said.

  “Anybody else, I’d say give them a chance,” Ike said. “But not these people. No way.”

  “I will not accept the surrender of those creatures,” Dan said emphatically.

  “Nyet!” Georgi Striganov said.

  “No,” Cecil said.

  “No,” West said.

  Thermopolis shook his head. “No.”

  The commanders of Seven and Eight Battalions shook their heads.

  Buddy and Tina appeared in the doorway of the CP. Both of them wore odd expressions on their faces.

  “What’s the matter with you two?” Ben asked.

  “It appears that we all misunderstood what the creepie meant by surrender,” Buddy said.

  “What are you talking about?” Ike asked.

  “There are no more of them,” Tina said. “At least not in this city. He’s the last one left.”

  TEN

  “What the hell am I going to do with you?” Ben asked the Believer.

  “What difference does it make?” the ragged man asked. “The mighty General Ben Raines and his army of Rebels have won — at least here in the remnants of America. Europe, my good general, will be quite another matter, I assure you.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d like to tell me what you know about it?”

  “Ah . . . no.”

  “Why did you surrender?”

  “To receive proper medical treatment. I am sick.”

  “Yes. We know. You’re probably dying.”

  “I suspected as much. I contracted the disease while visiting friends down in San Diego.”

  “San Diego no longer exists.”

  “I know. You’re a vicious man, General.” He reached around and scratched his butt for the umpteenth time, and Ben’s eyes followed the movement.

  Lamar grunted his astonishment at that remark and Ben laughed at the man. “You call me vicious?”

  “We were exercising our right to practice our religion. What gives you the right to wage war against us?”

  “I don’t think our Founding Fathers had cannibalism in mind when they wrote the First Amendment.”

  “No matter. Are you going to kill me, General Raines?”

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do with you.”

  He reached around to scratch his butt. With a smile on his face he said, “Good-bye General Raines.”

  The booming of Ben’s .45 was very loud in the closed room. The slug took the creep in the center of his forehead and when it exited, made a big mess on the wall behind where the creep had been sitting.

  “What the hell, Ben!” Lamar shouted.

  “Ten bucks says he had a grenade wedged in the crack of his ass,” Ben said, easing the hammer back down on his .45.

  Ike and Dan turned the creep over and jerked up his ragged robes. “How did you know?” Dan asked softly.

  “He scratched his butt one time too many.”

  “I can’t believe it’s over here,” Linda said. “It just doesn’t seem possible.”

  “He may or may not have been the last creepie,” Ben replied. “I think he was sent here on a suicide mission. But I also believe there are damn few of them left.”

  “General,” Corrie said, walking up behind him. “Five and Six Battalions report everything is clean all the way up to the Canadian border. Their recon people have found where large numbers of men have bivouacked. They followed their trail straight to the border. They want to know if you want them to cross over and engage.”

  “Tell them to stand down and go on back to Base Camp One. They’ve earned the break. They’ve been on the road for two months.” He paused. “What month is it, anyway?”

  “November,” J
ersey said. “It’s almost Thanksgiving, I think.”

  “One week from today,” Beth, the unofficial record-keeper said.

  “Thank you, Beth,” Ben said. “We’ll pull out six days from today. We’ll have Thanksgiving dinner on the road. For the next six days we’ll break up into platoon-sized units and sweep the city. It looks dead, it feels dead, but let’s make sure. I don’t want any more surprises sprung on me.”

  The Rebels fanned out all over the smoking and rubbled ruins of the City of the Angels. If any building they came to was still intact, they either blew it or burned it. When the Rebels left the city this time, there would be precious little left. They found very small pockets of creepies, and the creepies had anything but surrender on their minds.

  It wouldn’t have done them any good if they had chosen to surrender.

  Ben and his team, accompanied by a platoon of Rebels, roamed the city, inspecting what used to be called — by the tourist board — points of interest. The tall buildings of downtown Los Angeles still stood, but they were shattered and torn from artillery and mortar rounds, huge gaping holes knocked in them from 105 and 155 artillery rounds.

  “Bring them down,” Ben told his demolition people.

  The destruction of the city was in its final stages.

  Ben personally inspected the city’s museums and waves of disgust swept him at what he found. Priceless and precious works of art had been wantonly destroyed by the punks. Paintings had been slashed for no apparent reason — other than ignorance. They lay on the littered floors, amid the other rat-chewed objects.

  “Can they be restored?” Jersey asked.

  “We’ll try,” Ben told her.

  The Los Angeles Zoo had lain in ruins for years. “They let the animals starve,” Beth said, looking at the skeletal remains of the long dead captives.

  “You maybe expected compassion from punks?” Coop asked her.

  “What is all this?” Jersey asked, as they stood amid the ruins of the Chinese Theatre’s Forecourt.

  “Bob Hope’s nose, Betty Grable’s legs, and John Wayne’s fist,” Ben told her, looking down at the impressions in the cement. “It was a gentler time.”