Valor in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

“What happens if we gotta go to the bathroom?” Beth asked.

  “That depends entirely upon how modest you are and whether or not you have a helmet.”

  Her reply would have stricken every member of a censor board dead on the spot.

  “You ever give him the wheel again, Cooper,” Jersey warned, “and I’ll shoot you!”

  “How the hell do you tell a general he can’t drive?” Cooper protested.

  “You tell him no!”

  Ben just grinned and changed lanes, crowding the ass end of a tank.

  “You see, Cooper?” Jersey yelled. “That’s why General Ike told you to be his driver. General Ike said he was a madman behind the wheel.”

  “Madman?” Ben said. “Ike said that about me?”

  “And Doctor Chase said he was the worst driver in the entire Rebel Army.”

  “What!”

  “And General Jefferys said he couldn’t be trusted. He said Ben Raines will tell you he’s going one way and then go the other just to throw off his bodyguards.”

  Ben couldn’t rebut the truth.

  “Awright, awready!” Cooper growled.

  “Pay no attention to them, Cooper” Ben told him. “They’re just jealous because they have to sit in the backseat. Women’s lib and all that.”

  Beth and Jersey groaned.

  “Yes, sir.” Since Cooper had been just a young boy when the Great War scoured the earth, he didn’t have the foggiest what women’s lib meant. He guessed it might have something to do with a brassiere.

  Ben changed lanes again, trying to figure out how to get through the tank blockade. But the commanders had him in a box and weren’t about to let him through.

  “Having trouble, sir?” one of them asked politely.

  “Not a bit, thank you,” Ben radioed his reply.

  “Just checking, sir.”

  “Thank you for your concern.”

  “You’re welcome, sir.”

  Ben settled back and eased off the tank’s donkey — much to the relief of his passengers.

  “Columbia University will be coming into range in a couple of minutes, General.” The speakers spewed the words. “You want us to shell it?”

  “No,” Ben radioed. “We don’t know if or how many prisoners they’re holding in there. Do not shell.”

  “Ten-four, sir.”

  “Get set for some more hostile fire, people,” Ben told his troops. “We’ll be running close to Riverside Drive from here on in. All troops not manning weapons keep your heads down.”

  His orders were acknowledged up and down the rolling line.

  “Thanks, swivel turrets for machine-gun fire. Halftracks and APG gunners, prepare for returning unfriendly fire.”

  Those orders were acknowledged.

  As Riverside Park ended, just past Grant’s Tomb, and the parkway ran in close proximity to Riverside Drive, the bogies began firing on the column. The returning fire from the Rebels was blistering and deadly. Another Rebel truck had tires knocked flat, disabling the vehicle. Once more, the column was forced to slow, several Dusters falling back to protect the troops and equipment as they were off-loaded onto other vehicles. A mass of black-robed creepies made the mistake of climbing onto the parkway. The Duster’s 40mm cannons, hurling their “red golf balls,” and machine-gun fire turned the crawlers into chunks of chopped meat. In under two minutes, the column was once more rolling at max speed.

  “West One Hundred Fifty-fifth Street coming up,” Beth announced from the backseat.

  “Not far now,” Ben said. He lifted his mike. “We’ve got a traffic maze coming up soon, people. Be very careful that you don’t get separated. There’ll be creepies on the overpasses, throwing everything they’ve got at us; Ike said that’s SOP for them. Heads up and watch out for firebombs.”

  “I see cocktails already lighted, General,” a tank commander radioed.

  “Do not use cannon,” Ben ordered. “We’ve got to keep this place intact. Open up with Fifties as soon as you’re in range. Which should be now.”

  Fifty-caliber and 7.62 machine guns began rattling and yammering and blowing out chunks of death at the bogies gathered on the overpasses and hidden along the roadway. Rebels were standing up in the trucks, giving the Night People ten rounds for every one round the creepies fired.

  The besieged column, miraculously, stayed together through the traffic circles and maze of interchanges and heavy bogie fire, with Molotov cocktails bouncing off the vehicles and hostile fire clanking and whining off of metal and concrete, and stayed on Riverside, driving right into unknown territory.

  It was full light, and the Rebels in Ben’s personal battalion were looking at sights that no outsider had seen since the Great War — at least none that Ben knew of.

  They roared past 181st Street, receiving no enemy fire. When they reached the point where Fort Tryon Park lay to their right, Jersey summed it all up.

  “It’s eerie. I mean . . . the silence. It’s like, well, nobody is out there.”

  “I’m afraid you may be right in that, Jersey,” Ben replied. He picked up the mike. “Column halt. Easy does it, people. Let’s don’t ass-end each other.”

  The column slowed, then stopped. To their right, on a hill, looking like a fortified monastery, was the Cloisters.

  “Dan?”

  “Here, sir.”

  “Scouts out. Two Abrams point the Scouts. Stay on Riverside and then cut back on Dyckman and rejoin us. Stay in radio contact at all times.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Two IFV’s filled with Dan’s Scouts, and two Abrams pulled out of the column and moved into the silence. The Infantry Fighting Vehicles, each with a ten-personnel seating capacity, were armed fighting machines: a 25mm cannon, TOW missile launcher, and 7.62 machine gun. In addition, the six Scouts inside could fire ball-mounted 5.56mm port weapons.

  Before anyone could object, Ben opened the door and got out of the Blazer, stretching his legs. He was immediately surrounded by a squad of Rebels, Jersey, Beth, and Cooper bailing out of the Blazer right behind him.

  “Get Ike on the horn, Beth.” Ben hand-rolled a cigarette and lit up. “And don’t anybody say anything about my smoking.”

  No one did.

  “And get me a casualty report.”

  Beth handed him the handset. “General Ike, sir.”

  “So I’m a madman behind the wheel, huh, fatso?” Ben asked the ex-SEAL, a smile on his lips.

  “Did I say that, Ben?” Ike said with a laugh. “No! You know I wouldn’t say anything like that about you.”

  “We made it, Ike. I’m getting a casualty report now. But I think we came through intact. Lost a few trucks, that’s about it. It’s very quiet up here, Ike. Nothing, and I mean nothing is moving.”

  “You’ll recall the flybys we took when we first got here showed very little life up that way, Ben.”

  They were not using translators. No point. The bogies knew they were here. Only for important communiqués would the translators be used. “I’ve got Scouts out now, Ike. They should be reporting back in about twenty-thirty minutes; but there have been no shots fired since our arrival.”

  Cecil came on the horn, listening in from his sector. “Ben. We’re meeting a solid line of resistance on all fronts. The creepies have really dug in.”

  “Switch to translators. Feed through Katzman.”

  Ben waited until the translators were all in place. The radio transmissions were being scrambled on both ends, then fed to the translators in whatever language: Apache, Sac, Fox, Yiddish.

  Ben took it. “We noticed and commented on how slow our advance has been over the past few days. It could well mean that you’re getting close to a breeding farm or a feeding farm. Check those first flybys with heat-seekers. We know where the Central Park survivors are, so we can eliminate them. The printouts might tell you something. Let me know.”

  “Ten-four, Ben. Good hunting.”

  Ben rehooked the phone. “Let’s take a walk, gang.”


  Dan appeared at his side. “Where are we going, General?”

  “I don’t know where you’re going. I’m going over there and check out the Cloisters.”

  Before anyone could stop him, Ben had started walking toward the off-ramp that led into Fort Tryon Park.

  “General!” Dan called. Ben turned around. “Would you mind terribly if we rode over into that as yet unchecked-out-area? Preferably in this armor-plated and bulletproof-glass Blazer?”

  “Just as long as Cooper drives!” Jersey yelled.

  “Oh, all right.” Ben returned to the Blazer and got in. Dan had taken that time to send a couple of squads of Scouts running into the 62-acre park. He was in a Jeep, leading the way.

  “How old is this place, General?” Jersey asked. “And what is it? Is it something religious?”

  Ben handed her a tourist guide. “Read that, and you’ll know as much about it as I do. I think it’s some repository for medieval art.”

  “What kind of art, sir?” Cooper asked.

  “Old.”

  The Scouts’ first reply back was short, and exactly what Ben had been dreading. “Place is a mess. Looks like it was looted and vandalized.”

  “According to this thing,” Jersey said, “it’s got several levels.”

  “Yeah. I think so.” Ben pointed to a sign. “Pull around to the main entrance, Cooper. We’ll check it out.”

  Ben grunted in anger as he walked through the once magnificently appointed main and ground floors. The place looked as though a horde of naughty, malicious-minded, undisciplined children had set upon it with cans of spray paint and machetes. The beautiful tapestries, some dating back to the fourteenth century, had been slashed and torn; rats and field mice now made their homes amid the torn beauty. Once-priceless and irreplaceable statues had deliberately been tumbled to the floor, smashed for no reason. Stained glass panels, some centuries old, were shattered beyond repair. Antique chairs and tables and benches had initials and gang slogans carved into the wood. In the Campin Room, the painted Spanish ceiling had been repainted with cans of spray paint, ugly and obscene slogans defaming the beauty.

  Ben muttered an oath that equaled the words on the walls and ceilings and walked on.

  Nothing had been spared from the mindless, senseless destruction.

  “Why?” Jersey asked.

  “Who knows why punks do what they do,” Ben told her. “Liberal shrinks used to say it was because the coach wouldn’t let them play, or the homecoming queen wouldn’t date them, or they had pimples, or some other equally idiotic froth from the mouth.”

  Ben had seen all that he cared to see. The destruction of such beauty was offensive to him, offensive to anybody with more than an ounce of sensitivity in his soul. And it was depressing.

  Ben stepped outside and looked for Dan. The Englishman was sitting on the steps. He turned around at the sound of Ben’s boots.

  “Barbaric! I could not linger in there a moment longer. The destruction of such beauty is beyond my level of comprehension.” He spat on the ground, summing up his contempt for those responsible for wreaking such havoc upon priceless souvenirs of centuries past.

  “Come on, Dan.” Ben motioned him to his boots. “This is a good time for us to inspect a part of New York we’ve been ignoring.”

  Dan rose and looked at him, a puzzled look on his face. “What?”

  Ben pointed. “It’s right out there, Dan. The 190th Street subway station.”

  Dan pointed a finger at a group of his Scouts. They took off running for a Hummer and sped off in the direction of the subway station.

  “Naturally, you will insist upon inspecting the underground passages personally?” Dan asked, just a touch of hope against hope in his voice.

  “Naturally,” Ben told him. He looked at Jersey and Beth. “We’re looking forward to it, aren’t we, ladies.”

  Jersey blinked and stared at him. “Oh, yes, sir, General!” It would have taken an idiot to miss the sarcasm in her voice.

  “I gotta go to the bathroom!” Beth said.

  THREE

  A foul odor seeped out of the entrance to the subway station. Dan’s Scouts had already slipped on their gas masks. A portable generator had been set up and was running. Another masked team was stretching wire for lights. Even lit, the steps down were not in the least inviting-looking.

  Beth returned from a visit to the bushes, muttering something about the ever-increasing beauty of cows. “Cows?” Dan looked at Ben. “It appears that I have missed something.”

  Ben had to laugh. “It’s a long story, Dan. I’ll tell you about it sometime.” He slipped on his gas mask. “Let’s go, people.”

  A Scout met them just as they were walking down the steps to the subway platform. “What you’re gonna see pretty well confirms it, General. The city took a chemical hit.”

  The Scout led the way down into the now lighted subway and up to the platform, where subway cars were pulled up. Full of skeletons.

  “Open the doors,” Ben ordered, his voice muffled coming through the mask.

  Scouts had to use axes to break down the doors, the hinges long rusted closed.

  Ben stepped inside the first death-car. Nearly every skeleton had a camera either on the floor beside the rotting shoes or still draped around the bones of the neck, depending upon the material and quality of the strap. The floor was covered with rat droppings.

  With gloved hands, Ben picked up a purse and opened it, taking out a wallet. “Irene Golanski,” he read from the driver’s license. “From Iowa. Tourists. All of them, or most of them.” He replaced the wallet and dropped the purse back beside the bony feet of Irene. Dust popped up from the impact. Ben turned and walked up the car, where Rebels had chopped open the doors.

  Each car was the same. A steel and glass and chrome mausoleum for Jim from Mobile, Hazel from Hot Springs, Larry from Dallas.

  Hardest for the Rebels to take were the skeletons of the children. Jersey picked up one little plastic purse, started to open it, then shook her head and put the purse back on the floor. “Whoever you are, I’m sorry.”

  “Why should you be sorry?” a Scout asked her. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  Jersey looked at him. “Jimmy, you’ll never be a mother. Well” she smiled, “maybe one kind of a mother.”

  Dan chuckled and patted Jimmy on the shoulder. “You’ll think of something in the form of a repartee . . . keep working on it.”

  The Rebels left the cars. Ben stood on the platform for a moment, looking up the dark tunnel. He removed his mask and sniffed the air a couple of tunes just as Dan walked up to his side. “That odor is not the stink of the creepies, Dan. That’s stagnant water and bat shit.”

  Dan pulled off his mask and took a whiff, grimacing. “Not quite as bad, but bad enough. Do we press on into the darkness, General?”

  Ben shook his head. “No. It’s strange, Dan. Amid all that mess at the Cloisters, there was not one sign or smell of the Night People. So . . . let’s go find them.”

  The Rebels began working north, spending all that day in a search-and-destroy mission. They did lots of searching, but found nothing to destroy. Once outside of the Fort Tryon Park area, they did find lots of evidence that the night crawlers had once occupied this area . . . but no creepies.

  They swept the area fast, with teams working Staff and Henshaw streets, Payson and Seaman avenues, and up Broadway. They found nothing alive. Not a bird, a dog or cat, or a human being. Nothing.

  By the time the teams had finished their sweeps, it was late afternoon. They had worked all the way up to Baker Field, but still had everything from Broadway over to the Harlem River to clear.

  Ben called a halt to it. A team had been working clearing a building just east of Inwood Hill Park, on Seaman, for Ben to use as a CP, and several other buildings, along Dyckman, to use as quarters for the Rebels.

  The weather was rapidly turning foul, with a light cold rain that was mixed with flakes of snow and pellets of sleet. The Rebe
ls had found a warehouse filled with kerosene stoves and had brought along trucks loaded with them and five-gallon cans of fuel.

  “I don’t like it,” Ben said, over a meal of MRE’s.

  “The food?” Dan looked up, a twinkle in his eyes.

  “The food is bearable. But I can’t figure out what kind of meat this is.”

  “Don’t ask.”

  “It has to be one of Chase’s highly nutritional concoctions.”

  “Correct.”

  “That old goat is going to starve us all to death in the name of proper nutrition.”

  “I agree.”

  “The lack of creepies, Dan. That’s what’s got me worried. All signs point to them pulling out about a week or ten days ago. But where did they go?”

  Dan looked at what was dangling from his fork, sighed, and ate it. “A guess would be to beef up those in Lower Manhattan.”

  “Maybe. But that is one of the reasons I wanted to split up, Dan. I don’t want the entire force trapped in a box. It’s going to be damned difficult for Monte and the creepers to trap us all, with Cec and West and Ike ten miles south of us. Unless,” Ben held up a finger, “I’ve badly miscalculated.”

  “How could you have? You and I figured every angle. What could we have left out?”

  “How did the Henry Hudson Bridge look today?”

  “Like it hasn’t been used in ten years. Car or foot traffic.”

  “The creepies could have used the subways, though.”

  “To do what, General?”

  “To slip behind our lines. To slip out in any direction; to lie in wait for Monte. To somehow trick us into a trap. I tried to think of everything, Dan. But I have this sinking feeling that I missed something.”

  “Has Chase concluded his interviewing with those creepie prisoners?”

  “Yes. Obviously the only ones privy to that type of high-level information are the Judges. Whomever they are and wherever they might be in the city. Chase told me before we pulled out that the Night People he personally interviewed — if you want to call a drug-induced state an interview — had to be the most degenerate and disgusting people he ever encountered. They told him nothing of substance.”