Fire, Ruin, and Fury (Embers Saga)

by Matthew Taylor

Small teams of fresh troops appeared all around them, swarming the command center. Close behind them came a well-dressed officer with colonel birds on his epaulettes.

  “You boys did a great job,” the colonel croaked, gazing across the hillside and the expanse beyond. Without ever looking down at Paul and the men who’d saved the black ants on the Coit, he reminded them that there were wounded that needed tending to. Cargo that needed to be unloaded. A thinly veiled order to get to work.

  Paul was too tired and disgusted by the officer’s demeanor to reply.

  “We should go,” he muttered to Chris. “Let’s find Charlie, Phil, and Mauricio.” Chris answered only with a nod towards Paul’s leg. Looking down, Paul found his flight suit soaked with blood from his thigh to his boots, and he felt the first tinge of pain since the fighting began.

  “Maybe I’ll see them in the M.A.S.H.”

  “You boys still here?” The colonel finally looked down at them, an impatient indignation in his voice.

  Chris forced himself up to help Paul, who winced getting to his feet for the trek back to the medical tent. The others in Paul’s team, seemingly unphased by the colonel’s lack of respect, took their time in congratulating and thanking Paul. Each patted him on the shoulder or gave him a sidelong embrace, acknowledging that they owed him their lives. They then trudged down the hillside to help out however they could with the wounded and repairs.

  Chris helped Paul limp his way through the smoke and smoldering wreckage wafting over the Head until they reached the M.A.S.H. There they found soldiers laying on cots and fold-out chaise lounge chairs. The less grievously wounded lay on tarps or blankets. A host of troops sat on the ground, and many more milled around slowly, holding bloody bandages to one leaking hole or another.

  Through the haze and confusion, Paul locked on to one face he recognized.

  “He really is built like a brick shithouse,” Chris joked.

  Brick was scrambling from patient to patient, snapping orders at the nurses and any able-bodied soldiers on hand. Looking up, he saw Paul and stopped cold before walking over to take him by the arm and mutter a quip about shitty luck.

  “You done good, you two. I reckon we’d all be dead if it weren’t for you, Lanc-o-shyster.”

  Paul looked at Brick blankly, unsure how Brick could have any idea what he and Chris had been doing all day as the chaos consumed the camp. As Chris passed the burden over to Brick, Paul also couldn’t understand how Brick could spend more than half a second on him, with all the more-seriously wounded soldiers around them.

  Brick immediately summoned a nurse, who set up a folding chaise lounge chair and sat Paul down on it.

  “Marisol’s gonna take care of you. I’ll be nearby, but you do whatever she says. Hero or no, she’ll kick your ass if you don’t cooperate.” Brick placed his hand affectionately on Paul’s shoulder and then disappeared into the bedlam.

  “Marisol? Well, I’ll be. I just got outta here, and I’ve never seen you.”

  “That makes sense, since I just landed twenty minutes ago.” She was all business. If she had bedside manner—and Paul doubted it—it had to have dissolved as soon as she touched down on the Coit. She injected Paul with a sedative, covered him in a thin blanket, and ordered him to lay back. She set to work cutting off his flight suit.

  As the meds began to take hold, Paul found himself staring at Marisol and dreamily hoping that he would make it through the rest of his tour in one piece. He gazed at her olive skin, glistening with a sheen of perspiration, and her black hair, which she had tied back under her cammo baseball cap. She ignored his stare as she cleaned and stitched his wounds, but he half-hoped his sister’s plan for an early transfer might apply to Marisol as well.

  For a moment, he regretted his harsh response to his sister’s suggestion that he abandon his unit to get back to the Commonwealth. He fantasized about what could come next if his sister’s plan worked out. He imagined himself in a crisp new uniform, walking the streets of Portland. Driving up the cool mountain roads of the Cascades. Flying over the shimmering Colombia River or watching the giant waves crashing on its massive rocks. He’d only seen these things in pictures, or in the MediaStream.

  Without the drugs flowing through his bloodstream, his fantasies would have been firmly grounded in the reality of being separated from his family indefinitely. But after today, anything sounded better than the misery of the Coit. The drugs were doing their job in taking the edge off, and Marisol’s beautiful face lent itself to pleasant dreams.

  “When can I call home?” he heard himself ask, knowing what a stupid question it was.

  She smiled at him patiently, recognizing the effects of the drugs.

  “Well, comms are actually up here again, but I hear they’re down in half the Commonwealth.”

  That made no sense to him, and for a second, he paused. But the drugs wouldn’t be denied, and by the time he let go of the comment and went to smile at her and make a connection she was already walking away to care for more pressing injuries.

  Chapter 39: Outbreak, Desert Plains Territory

  (Benjamin Holland)

  Ben Holland crawled into the cargo hold of his team’s battle lorry to get some privacy for his call with Farid Sherman. Pushing aside some of the boxes of the food and water they’d been handing out to the migrants and refugees for the past several weeks, he presented his face to the portable V-plat, and Sherman’s hologram appeared, his face grave and tired.

  “Change of plan,” Sherman opened matter-of-factly.

  Ben couldn’t think of more troubling words to hear from Sherman, even though the relief mission had been no walk in the park. He felt like he’d been rolling in hot talc for days. Chewing it. Breathing it. Rubbing it from his eyes. Feeling it muddy in his sweat, crust up, and muddy again between his legs. There was no escaping it, as he and Felipe traded-off looking after Alias, who scurried between the church depot, the refugee tent camps, and the Austin Migrant Assistance Center.

  Then there was the misery of the teaming, wretched throngs of men, women, and children—which was hard to take. Their gaunt, dirty faces. Their coughing and weeping. The smell. The swarming insects. The rats.

  After hours, when Ben wanted nothing more than to relax in the tent he shared with Alias, he was sent on his own missions for Sherman, delivering weapons, ammunition, and supplies to Sherman’s more unsavory customers.

  The Justice Brigades from the White Light of Christ. The Mormons’ Legions of Joseph Smith. Meso-American cartel enforcers. Shadowy marauders, mercenaries, and road raiders—most unnamed and some even masked. Any one of them likely to kill him and his team if they even suspected he was trading with the others.

  The furious pace of deliveries never seemed to relent. The volume of contraband flowing into the badlands was like nothing he had ever seen in all his forays for Sherman. He had traversed the country many times and seen all manner of nefarious activities, giving him some barometer of normal trade levels. This was on an entirely different scale. Sherman was getting fabulously rich, and Ben was moving faster toward the day when he might have enough to free himself from his life of smuggling, stealing, extorting, enforcing, and killing. He savored that possibility—a fuzzy dream of a comfortable life with Alias—but an undercurrent of dread was poisoning the fantasy.

  All this firepower.

  “Our customers want Alias brought back to Park City,” Sherman said.

  “You want to move up our departure?”

  “We have to. You’re set for the final deliveries tomorrow?”

  Ben nodded.

  “And the pyros? Everything’s in place?”

  Ben nodded again.

  “Good boy. Make the last deliveries tonight. Take Alias with you. Then get to the site and execute at 04:00 exactly. Use any means necessary to get back to Park City.”

  Any means necessary? Ben didn’t like the sound of that one bit. “Are you expecting trouble? I thought the militia’d be busy.”

  Sher
man sighed, always hating to explain himself. “They’ll have their hands full, we need to stop—or at least delay—any reinforcements from reaching the areas behind you. Cut the roads and have your weapons hot—the whole way. Anyone gets in your way—anyone—kill ‘em.”

  “Roger that,” Ben answered dutifully, but his stomach was starting to churn.

  Delaying reinforcements? He now had more insight than Sherman had ever offered before. …All the weapons shipments they had moved through the churches and construction sites. All the explosives secretly planted in buildings, under overpasses and bridges, and along the few arteries still connecting the badlands to the rest of the Commonwealth.

  As the orange sun set on the distant mountains, Ben hung up and made his way back to his crew to inform them of the ordeal ahead. He gathered them around, pulled up GEO, and illuminated the route.

  Depart for the Austin MAC at the abandoned university in thirty minutes. Up Interstate 35 to the intersection with Route 183. Cut the road. Move northeast on Route 183 to its intersection with the old US-20. Cut it. Head west on 20, through Abilene to the Route 84 intersection with the old US-27. Cut it. Back on 84 to Interstate 40. Cut it. Move west on 40 to Albuquerque. Then up Route 25 to Bernalillo and cut the intersection at Route 25. Head north to Crescent Junction and cut the intersection with Route 70. West on 70 before cutting it again at Green River. Head up Highway 89, and cut it at Spanish Fork. Move through Provo and into the mountains to Park City.

  “Perry, Gustavo, Abdul. You’re in Hunter Scout.” If they ran into trouble, Hunter Scout, the lead vehicle, was often the first to be bloodied. Ben usually gave that job to Nanner, because the driver had to be fearless. But with Nanner babysitting Alias’ sister in the Mid-Atlantic, he had no choice but to use Perry Summers. Perry Summers was a sort of liaison to Sherman’s organization from the White Light of Christ, so he knew the region well. But it also made him dangerous to any mixed-race outfit. Summers would have his hands on the wheel, with Gustavo Mindanao, a former Filipino gang-banger, sitting beside him. Abdul Nguyen, a former Vietnamese mob enforcer, would man the .50-cal.

  “Dog-Bone, Desiree, Smokie. Yer in Hunter Giant.” The first of his two battle lorries, Giant had been stripped of most its armaments to make room for the extra cargo they’d been moving the past few weeks. Ben chose to ignore the grimaces he got from them. He wanted to keep Dog-Bone, a white-supremacist, separated from Summers. Desiree Jardinero was Ben’s best bet to keep Dog-Bone under control. Smokie, the oldest of the crew, rolled his eyes, knowing he’d be stuck on the turret gun.

  At least he’s a good shot.

  “Cobb, Aaron, and Felipe, you’re with me in Hunter Mammoth. Alias too.” The second of his cargo lorries, Mammoth was the command vehicle, and was therefore more battle ready than Giant. It was the safest place he had for Alias. He didn’t know Cobb Tomason or Aaron Culver well, but Sherman had assured him they both were battle-tested and trustworthy.

  “Jenny, Adam, Burger. You’re in Hunter Tail.” The second snake-eater would protect the rear of the convoy and become the lead if Hunter Scout were taken out. Ben usually liked to have Billy Washington in the rear, since they’d need a hard-core fighter if the lead vehicle got pinched. But Billy was with Nanner, an arrangement Ben reluctantly accepted, since this was pitched as just a short-term aid mission. Ben now had to confront how little he trusted Sean Burger, a dirt-bag pirate among pirates. The kind of man who stripped corpses with a grin and no revulsion at the smell. Burger had also become Perry Summer’s only friend on the team, leading Ben to fear white supremacist tendencies. So, Ben put a trusted ally, Jenny Akindele, a migrant from west Africa, in the car with Burger, hoping she’d provide some kind of deterrent. If things got charged between them, Adam Price’s even temperament might help to keep it under control.

  Balancing personalities, rivalries, and skills was always a challenge running a crew, and it was worse when new people were substituted for trusted ones. Regardless, the best approach was always to get moving right away—before any of his subordinates could quibble with—or refuse—their assignments.

  “Check the vehicles. Full tanks. Leave nonessentials behind.”

  The mood of the group became somber at hearing the last item. They knew what it meant.

  “We’re traveling light,” he affirmed. “Body armor. Extra ammo. Clean weapons. Felipe, drones in attack mode and ready to fly in two hours.”

  Felipe gave a nod, as he always did, but there was dread in his eyes.

  Giving the news to Alias Goodwell was easier, if only because he didn’t walk through the itinerary. Alias’ sister was ill in the Mid-Atlantic Province, and he was keen to get back to civilization. Alias insisted they give the undelivered aid to the Austin MAC, a proposal Ben said he would see to. He couldn’t tell Alias he would be trading it away to mercenaries at a rendezvous site near the MAC. Nor could he say that they’d be dumping all of Alias’ belongings from the back of the truck once night had fallen. Alias was satisfied with the lie, though, and he gave Ben an affectionate kiss before starting to gather-up his stuff.

  You’ll just have to forgive me once I deliver you home in one piece. …If I get you home in one piece.

  When the time had come, Ben nudged Cobb Tomason to take the wheel of Hunter Mammoth and help Alias into the rear of the cab. Ben then climbed into the passenger seat as Felipe crawled into the vehicle’s tiny Immersive Commands Sphere, from which he would control the convoy’s aerial drones. Alias squeezed into the small seat next to the ICS, and Aaron Culver scaled a skinny ladder to the turret to man the .50-cal.

  Ben looked around as nonchalantly as he could to make sure the others were following orders and then gave the command to move out. The four vehicles eased forward in the darkness, driving lights dimmed. Ben leaned forward and peered upward to watch the aerial drones lift off from the roofs of the lorries. Through the rear-view mirror, he saw Alias nodding off.

  Rest while you can, he thought to himself.

  It had only been five minutes rumbling down the road on the way out of town, when they stopped near the Austin MAC at the disused University of Texas for the trade Sherman had ordered. This was, at least on paper, the easiest assignment of the mission. But Ben was so tired when they arrived that he worried the buyers would notice and play games with the payment—or kill them dead and leave them in a ditch.

  “What’s out there, Felipe?”

  “Small convoy ahead. Coupl’a buggies, two lorries, three technicals. Two dozen soldiers, more or less. No sign of militia or DSS.”

  “Steady ladies,” Ben said softly into his helmet mic.

  Ben’s convoy slowed as it approached their trading partners; their lights were dimmed as well. Ben could only make out the outlines of the vehicles in the moonlight, but he could see they were bristling with guns. A line of ghost-like men clung to the side rails of their two large trucks.

  Getting out of the truck to meet his counterpart, Ben didn’t expect to see Nathan Bedford Calhoun from the White Light of Christ on the other end of the trade. His heart sank a little, not only because he detested the White Light’s blind hate of almost everyone—gays, non-whites, liberals, Jews, Muslims, etc.—but also because Calhoun’s forces had a reputation for wanton killing. Calhoun wouldn’t like seeing the color of some of Ben’s crew, and he wouldn’t blink an eye in killing Ben if he knew Ben’s sexual orientation. He would likely kill Alias on sight—regardless of the consequences. Ben was also keenly aware that members of his own crew were White Light sympathizers, and that introduced uncertainty.

  Despite his anxiety and Calhoun’s scowls at seeing the “ethnics” in his crew, the deal went down exactly as Sherman had assured him it would. Money, drugs, and the remaining aid to Calhoun in trade for the extra explosives Ben would need to sever the road arteries on the way to Park City. The two men said nothing to each other in the 15 awkward minutes it took their people to transfer the crates from one convoy to another. Both then checked their wrist-plats t
o account for goods and payment, turned away without a word, and returned to their vehicles.

  As Ben’s convoy pulled away, he noticed Calhoun’s people taking up positions around the MAC, a sight that made him feel queasy. But he had his own job to do, so he directed his crew forward.

  A short drive later, they arrived at the first objective, and Ben gave the order to go dark. No comms, no lights.

  Ben turned around and whispered to Felipe. “How’s it look?”

  “Some pedestrian traffic on the bridges. A handful of civvie autocars.”

  “Alright,” Ben answered, glancing back at Alias to make sure he was still asleep. “Signal the team.”

  Ben looked in the rearview mirror at Felipe, who gave him a thumbs up. Drone ready to detonate the stack.

  Ben drew a deep breath to steel his nerve. “Light it up.”

  Felipe swiped his finger and entered a code on the console, and the pre-dawn sky flashed pale yellow. The wind-rippled sand around them glowed orange and purple as a ball of fire rolled upward from beyond the nearby hills.

  “What the fuck was that?” Alias croaked, rubbing his eyes and looking around frantically.

  “Prob’ly road raiders in a scrap,” Ben replied, his voice shaky. “Way behind us, though, so we’ll be fine. Go back to sleep if you can.

  “Hunters, rev up. Best speed.”

  The convoy rolled on, faintly illuminated by the raging fires in the distance. But it was only a few minutes before Ben noticed red lights blinking in the sky.

  “Militia?” Ben queried.

  “No ID,” Felipe answered.

  “What does that mean?” Alias asked, looking panicked.

  “Hunters, go dark,” was Ben’s only response, and all the lights in the convoy went out.

  “They must be militia,” Alias ventured. “Or maybe medics on their way to the fight back there. We should hail them. See if we can help.”

  “Weeee’re not gonna do that,” Ben said coolly.

  Before Alias could interrogate further, the red lights in the sky sent streams of luminous-orange bullets at the blast site over the hills and disappeared into the darkness.