Ash: Rise of the Republic

by Campbell Paul Young

  A dozen outlaws could be seen lounging around in the dim glow of the cookfire, drinking from jugs, playing cards, and sharpening knives.

  “I hope they found a fat farm somewhere!” one of them wined. “That skinny moonshiner sure didn’t keep much food around. I hate drinkin’ on an empty stomach.”

  “At least he had these two little piglets,” replied the cook, nodding toward the back wall. “If anyone wants another go you better get at it! I’m going to start carving that one up soon so’s I have something hot for the boys when they roll in.”

  One of the card players scoffed and shook his head. “She’s been dead for an hour! You’re the only nasty piece of work in this outfit who likes cold trim.”

  “My momma always said: cold trim is better than no trim!” replied the shaggy cook, displaying his black teeth in a crazed grin. The feeble jest set off a round of guffaws from his drunken brethren.

  The Captain, disgusted, gestured at his rangers to ‘standby, observe’ and moved along the catwalk to the back wall, hoping he wouldn’t find what he thought he would.

  Behind a stack of crates, he could just make out a grisly scene. There were two small pale figures. One was hanging from a tall metal tripod by the wrists, head back, mouth open, long blonde hair matted with blood and hanging limp. The skin had been peeled from much of the body, the abdomen an empty cavity. The floor and the crates nearby were slick with blood. One leg ended at the knee. The other was lying face first on a low table, bent at the waist. Her ankles were bound to the table legs. She was very still.

  There was a stairway leading down to the warehouse floor nearby. Careful in the dim light, he slowly made his way down until he was hidden by the crates. He quickly checked for signs of life, hoping the card player was wrong. Her skin was cold to the touch. There was more blood coating her legs, still drying. Cursing under his breath, he made good time back to his waiting rangers.

  His voice was hard as he ordered: “Change of plans. Casper, you and your brother get to work. Don’t bother scaring them out of here. Put a couple in the middle of them. I don’t want any of those animals getting out of here alive. I want this whole place to burn. Stone, Legs, let’s get back outside. There’s a whole lot more of these fuckers and they’re due back any minute.”

  As the trio moved back toward the entrance, the twins started pulling Molotov cocktails out of their bags, arranging them in loose pockets up and down the front of their combat vests. Pulling out a small butane torch, Casper hurried to the center walkway and moved across the opposite catwalk. At the entrance, the Captain halted his troops and looked back to see two sparks of flickering light leave opposite sides of the warehouse simultaneously. They arced toward the orange glow on the floor. When they reached the ground, there was a strangely delicate tinkle of breaking glass and then flames bloomed and a scream erupted from the haze. He heard pounding steps along each catwalk and then another pair of flames arced down into the mess of bedding and refuse cluttering the floor. Knowing the two young pyros would do a thorough job, he turned with a smile and climbed out of the window into the dimming evening light.

  As he emerged, a bullet whistled past his head and ricocheted off the sheet metal behind him with a deafening spang. Thinking his sharpshooter had jumped the gun, he frantically waved at the tree line at the top of the ash drift, “Cease fire!”

  Deb, squatting behind a pile of crates to his right, shot out a leg and tripped him as he moved forward. He hit the ground just as a burst of gunfire erupted from the trees. He rolled behind cover next to his wife. His two grunts were behind another pile of crates, patiently waiting for a chance to return fire. Glancing back at the entryway, he could see the hazy interior getting much brighter. Legs snapped a quick look at the situation unfolding outside, hoping for an opportunity to exit the rapidly warming warehouse. The Captain held up a hand, commanding him to hold.

  “Those boys are gonna cook if we can’t get them out quick! I want covering fire, on my mark!” barked the Captain, readying his weapon, waiting for a lull in the crackle of fire from the ridge. “You boys scramble once we start shooting!”

  A few seconds later, the Captain shouted and four rifles snapped up and loosed a deafening volley of automatic fire at the tree line. The four rangers in the warehouse quickly slipped out the door under the covering fire from their comrades and took places behind the line of crates.

  “Casper, Pirate, keep eyes on that door! I don’t want any of those sick fucks behind us while we deal with their friends!” shouted the Captain.

  Casper smiled at him and held up a small device with a short antenna. The Captain returned the smile. “Good thinking! Go ahead!”

  “Fire in the hole! Fire in the hole!” The skinny demolitions expert looked right and left and pressed two switches on his detonator. A pair of muffled thumps rattled the sheet metal skin of the warehouse. The shaped charges he had placed on the catwalk on either side of the door neatly severed the section under the entryway and sent it crashing to the flames below, dooming the men inside.

  The majority of his troop momentarily safe, the Captain turned to his wife. He had to yell to be heard over the rattle of shots from the ridge. “What happened?”

  “We heard a scream and a shot from over there.” She jerked her thumb at the tree line. “And then bullets started hitting all around us. We took cover and you walked out straight into it. You know the rest.” She was clearly frustrated at the suddenly dire circumstances.

  “Any sign of Jennings and Mol?” the Captain knew what the answer would be. Deb shook her head, a dark look in her eyes.

  “Stone, I need you with Blue, find us a route out of here and then get me some eyes on what we’re up against. I’m thinking this is a ‘live to fight another day’ situation. Send me a signal when you have a way out.” The young man next to him nodded calmly and prepared to run. “Covering fire on three!”

  There was another sudden burst of automatic fire. The scout disappeared around the corner of the warehouse.

  “What the fuck do you mean by that, we’re pulling out?” growled Deb, “What about those two kids up there?”

  “Listen: there are digs for nearly two hundred men in that smoking heap of shit. Seems like we caught them coming home from a big raid. These kids are tough, but two hundred is a bite they won’t be able to chew, not all at once,” the Captain said, gruffly, “plus I think we lost the bikes, and most of the provisions with them. It’s a long walk back to Campus from here.”

  A shout from the tree line made him pause. A tall, burly man, shirtless, bald, and heavily scarred, was standing in the open, his huge, cruel knife pressed into the neck of an equally tall, slender girl. He held her head back with a firm grip on her long red hair. She screamed in terror, breaking the Captain’s heart and causing Deb’s face to redden in fury. The rest of the troop tensed and growled in indignation.

  “Hold your fire,” he warned his rangers, “looks like they want to talk.”

  A short man in ragged clothes was scrambling down the slope of the drift, unarmed. At the bottom he started walking slowly toward them, a crooked smile on his face.

  “Hello there friends, I’d like a word!” He was waving at them genially as if they were old friends. He kept smiling and beckoned them over. “Don’t worry, I won’t bite!”

  The Captain stood, laid his rifle on the crate in front of him, and started forward. He approached the small man warily.

  “I’m Captain McLelland, 1st Ranger Company, RNT. You men are interfering with the pursuit and apprehension of a number of dangerous felons. That girl you’re holding hostage is a peace officer commissioned by the Governor himself. Have your friends over there release her, lay down their weapons, and march down here with their hands where we can see them,” he said curtly, flashing his badge and placing his hand on his holstered revolver.

  The man looked quizzically at him for a moment and then shook with laughter. “When the Chief finds himself a filly like that he don’t just l
et it go! As for the guns, you’re welcome to march up there and take em if you think your badge will scare somma them animals! In fact, please do! I love a good laugh!” he said, chuckling and grinning, showing off a mouthful of broken, yellowed teeth. He danced a few jigged steps in delight as he laughed, then stopped. The mirth fell from his face and his voice suddenly dripped with menace. “Nah. He sent me down here to make our demands, not listen to yours!

  “Ok, what’ll you have?” asked the Captain, leveling a cool gaze at the shorter man.

  “The Chief left his son in charge of the camp when he left. He’s willing to let you lot go (except for the girl of course) if you send him up. We saw you come out with those kids. What you do, tie our boys up in there?”

  Before the Captain could reply, flames burst from several of the upper windows of the warehouse. He heard a howl of rage from the ridge. He and the small man turned to look as the big bald savage holding Mol shouted an order into the trees. He looked straight at the Captain and slowly sawed his wicked blade across Mol’s pale neck. She squirmed horribly and a panicked gurgle escaped her lips as blood welled past the dark blade. The man tightened his grip on her hair and ripped the knife back, nearly severing her head. He shoved her twitching body down the slope and turned to head back into the trees.

  The Captain’s eyes began to mist red with rage. He drew his revolver, pressed it to the temple of the small dirty man next to him, and casually pulled the trigger. He turned the big pistol toward the man on the ridge and snapped off a long shot. He cursed as it went wide and the murderer ducked into the bushes untouched, still howling. Fire erupted from both lines as the Captain turned and ran back to his shocked troop.

  When he ducked back behind his crate, he turned to see the big savage walk back out of the trees. Blood covered his bare chest. He screamed at the rangers and hurled a round, dripping projectile toward them. It landed a few feet from their cover, rolling twice before coming to rest facing them, still blinking.

  “Holy shit! Jenny!” cried Legs in grief at the sight of his comrade’s severed head. He leveled his rifle and fired wildly at the tree line, screaming.

  “Grumps, get him under control! It’s time to bug out folks!” Deb nudged her husband, pointing to the flare that had appeared in the sky above the warehouse.

  “Casper, Pirate, pop smoke!” shouted the Captain, “Prepare to withdraw by twos under cover like we practiced! Rally on Blue once you get past the warehouse. We’re right behind you, keep moving, don’t forget to cover your partner.

  Once the smoke from the twins’ grenades reached a sufficient density, the Captain gave the command and the first pair scrambled around the corner of the warehouse under a hail of covering fire. Two by two, the rangers escaped behind the building until only the Captain and his wife were left.

  “You see the scars on that big one?” he asked her as he pulled his detonator out of his pocket. He keyed in a command and an enormous explosion rocked the copse of dead trees where they had left their bikes. The violent blast momentarily disrupted the steady fire from the outlaws and the two seasoned rangers made their escape around the building.

  Rounding the warehouse, the Captain scanned the tree line for a moment. A piece of blue cloth caught on a dead branch fifty yards away fluttered in the light breeze. He tapped his wife, nodded at the sign, and quickly made his way across the open to join his troop.

  After doing a head count and checking for injuries, he nodded at the pair of scouts and they set off to the south through the trees in the fading light, quickly out pacing the shouts and crashes of their more numerous but undisciplined pursuers. Two miles later, they reached Blue’s escape plan: a storm drain outlet hidden by a deadfall. There was a short, claustrophobic crawl before they were safe in a small, lightless chamber. They cracked chemlights and made camp for the night. As they settled in to check their gear and clean their weapons, the Captain pulled his whiskey bottle from his pack and cleared his throat.

  “I want everyone to take a moment to mourn your fallen friends,” He began, “and then I need you to store that pain away and start thinking. Think about what happened. Think about every step you took and how you could have done it better. Think about how those two could have avoided capture, think about how hungry it’s going to get for the next few days. What I don’t want you thinking about is revenge. Not because I don’t think you deserve it, we all do. No, none of you is going to get revenge because that big bald son of a bitch is mine. His name is Werner. We have history.”

  Chapter 3

  July, 0 PC (2015 AD)

  *

  “Communications had broken down so quickly that most survivors initially underestimated the extent of the devastation. Without the media to tell them otherwise, each of the families or groups that huddled together for comfort assumed that they were only temporarily isolated, that the government was on the way to help. Nothing could have been further from the truth.”

  -Kristen Harrisburg, ‘The Grey Panic’; RNT University Press, 36 PC (2051 AD);

  *

  The ash was still coming down when we woke up. There was already a foot of it on the ground, and it had piled up on the north side of the house so high that it was blocking off the lower half of some of the windows. We had a quick breakfast, suited up, and trudged up the hill for the neighborhood meeting.

  There was only one vacant house in the neighborhood. It was desirable real estate, so houses didn’t stay on the market long when someone needed to sell. Mike and I had told everyone to meet there because it was neutral ground. I wanted to avoid politics here and I didn’t want someone thinking I was trying to put myself in charge by hosting everyone at my house.

  We set up in the big living room, and over the next hour couples trickled in, wrapped in an assortment of homemade ash suits. Everyone had heeded my advice the night before. Some only had towels or bandannas wrapped around their mouths, but a number of them had real gas masks. Clearly there were more ‘preppers’ in my area than I had thought.

  I wasn’t familiar with everyone, so I took the time to introduce myself as they arrived. Once everyone had settled in, muttering amongst themselves, I decided to start things off.

  “Ok folks, first thing, thank you for coming this morning,” I began, “it’s important that we get on the same page here. As you’re all probably starting to realize, this is bad. Things are much worse than they were saying on the news yesterday.”

  “The scientific community has known about Yellowstone for a long time. There is a tremendous body of evidence suggesting it has blown regularly over the past several million years. The USGS has had sensors all over that thing for years. We went over one of their reports when I was in school – damage estimates were high but fairly localized. The fact that there is now two feet of volcanic ash on the ground in Central Texas makes it clear that that report was naïve at best. Hell, it might have just been intentional bullshit. The fact is, this thing is probably going to end up being a global disaster. Think nuclear winter; think starvation; think extinctions.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” growled a fat man sitting a few feet away. Richard Werner, the neighborhood asshole, six feet of selfish, sweating, unnecessary rage. The one man in the neighborhood who could be counted on to complain about anything, up to and including children riding their bikes in the street. When we had first moved in, there was a neighborhood pet: an old white tailed doe that a little old lady down the street had raised from a fawn. She would wander from yard to yard, eating corn out of peoples’ hands and generally delighting the neighborhood kids.

  One afternoon, Werner’s offspring, a fat little sociopath named Robert, held out a handful of corn for the poor deer. When she walked up to him he cracked her in the head with the ball-peen hammer he had concealed behind his back. Luckily there wasn’t much strength behind the blow so it only dazed her. She reared up in surprise and kicked him in the chest, knocking him to the ground. The elder Werner, having watched this display from hi
s kitchen window, stormed out of the house with a single shot .22. He walked right up to the docile animal and shot her in the eye. She immediately dropped to the ground and began twitching and flailing her legs, attempting to flee.

  He stood there with his son for a few minutes, laughing as she struggled on the ground, and then slowly walked back inside. He returned a few minutes later and shot her several more times in the body. He then handed the small rifle to his son and let him finish her off. To his surprise, the neighborhood shunned him for this behavior. He could not understand why people were upset that he killed an animal that had threatened his son. He really never understood what he had done wrong.

  Now, he was sitting across from me on a wooden chair that threatened to collapse under his bulk. His face was an unhealthy burgundy. Sweat was forming on his forehead due to the army surplus NBC suit he had stuffed himself into. His portly twelve year old son sat next to him, a miniature version of his father. Their faces shared a gloating condescension.

  “I’m sure the ash will stop soon,” he continued, surprised to be the center of attention, “That thing was on the other side of the country, I’m sure the government will have it sorted out in a few days”

  “What I’m trying to tell you,” I replied, calmly, “is that if we’re getting this much ash down here, this thing is much bigger than the government. There is no way they are prepared for this. If that thing pumped enough material into the atmosphere for it to fall down here, it’s going to block out the sun, maybe for a long time. It’s going to raise the albedo of the planet. By that I mean that it’s going to reflect too much heat back into space and things are going to get cold. Plants won’t be able to grow, animals aren’t going to be able to eat, and a lot of people are going to get hungry. Not just here, everywhere. Hell if it’s big enough it might even change the composition of the atmosphere. If we don’t starve to death we might suffocate.”

  “And how do you know all this,” he snarled back, “what are you some kind of faggot scientist? Sounds like some global warming/climate change bullshit!”