Fire, Ruin, and Fury (Embers Saga)

by Matthew Taylor

  “Best speed,” Ben repeated into his mic, and they surged forward again over the bumpy winding road.

  They spent the next five hours to the Abilene church and worksite in a silent, frightened daze. Only Alias slept, and only a little. They replenished their supplies in the church warehouse, where they had deposited them months before. They then cut interstate 20 eastbound with Calhoun’s explosives as planned and moved on to Lubbock, where they destroyed the intersection with Route 27. The second blast woke Alias up again, though they were far enough that the flash was hardly visible. Ben knew Alias wouldn’t sleep again.

  The sun was about to come up anyway, and they all started to make out a wall of smoke smeared on the horizon in all directions. In the far distance, Ben thought he glimpsed more orange tracer streams firing down from the sky. They stared in disbelief at the wreckage of a dragon-fire attack ship on the side of the highway, blood coating its windscreen. A bull-shark attack transport burned a short way farther, surrounded by blackened corpses.

  So far from their destination, now moving through daylight, Ben was worried enough without the sight of destruction he hadn’t anticipated. Then their V-plats died, including GEO. Felipe had drawn in their aerial drones so close that they couldn’t tell him much about their surroundings. He was oddly thankful Sherman had sent him and his crew on so many nighttime excursions into the region; at least he could find his way back from memory.

  In the rearview mirror, he could see Alias staring anxiously out the window. Next to him, Felipe rubbed his tired eyes and tried to regain his focus on the command screens in the ICS. For his part, Ben’s heart raced in his chest, keeping him alert despite his exhaustion. His stress and fatigue gave the chaotic scenes unfolding around them a dreamy, surreal quality, and he wondered if he was still alive. Where he was. If he’d make it back. If he’d still be himself if they got there.

  He snapped-to, along with everyone else, with the sudden clink-plank of bullets on the hull of his truck. In an instant, Hunter Scout was consumed in a concussive flash of fire and noise. Hunter Giant and Hunter Mammoth swerved to miss the burning wreck as it flipped and tumbled into a sand-drift on the side of the road. They hit the breaks, fishtailing in a skid, as a rocket exploded on the spot where they should have been.

  “Felipe, find them!” Ben shouted, pulling a mini-periscope down from the ceiling and activating the truck’s mortar-cannons.

  “Hunters, weapons free. Keep moving! Don’t stop!”

  Adam Price opened up with the .50-cal machine gun, the heavy Chunk-Chunk-Chunk consuming all Ben’s senses.

  More bullets ricocheted off the hull of their truck, and a thin spray of blood fanned over their windshield. Ben watched helplessly as Smokie slumped over and slithered lifelessly into the belly of Hunter Giant, which lost its momentum and meandered slowly to a stop in front of them.

  “All stop,” Ben croaked.

  “Drones two and three are down,” Felipe stammered.

  “Drone four has muzzle hot spots. 11:00. 300 meters. …Rocky ridge.”

  “Roger that,” Ben answered. He turned his periscope and pulled the trigger. A muffled plunkshah-plunkshah-plunkshah followed. “Mortars away!”

  They listened for distant thuds over the continuing Chunk-Chunk-Chunk of the .50-cal and the grumble of the engines.

  “Miss!” exclaimed Felipe. “Miss! …Hit! …Direct hits on muzzle sites. Drones 1 and 4 moving in. …Drones show six dead. One buggy, one snake-eater. …One small howitzer burning.”

  With that, Adam dropped down from the turret, closing the hatch behind him. He pulled off his helmet and goggles and mopped his face of dust and sweat. “Howitzer?!”

  “Get back up there, you stupid fuck!” Ben didn’t know if the attack was over or not, but he wasn’t about to chit-chat with one of the few machine gunners he had left.

  “Hunter Tail, get the fuck up here. Burger, you fuckin’ retard, you’re lead. Hunter Giant, check in.”

  Nothing but static came back from Giant, and Ben saw Hunter Tail through the rear-view mirror still doing nothing.

  “Burger, you get out in front right now or I’ll skin you alive and leave you for the roaches.”

  “Cobb, keep an open mic on this channel. I’m going to check on Giant. Any more shooting, you bolt.” Cobb nodded. “Felipe, get the drones on a perimeter. Auto-kill anything within a half a KiM.”

  “You got it.”

  Ben turned impatiently to look for Hunter Tail, which finally pulled out from behind them and skidded to the lead of the wounded convoy. Still unable to reach Giant over comms, Ben kicked open his door, jumped from his seat, and scrambled toward the eerily unmoving truck in front of them. He threw open Giant’s driver-side door, ducking around Dog-Bone’s body as it toppled to the pavement. Climbing inside, he found Desiree curled up in the passenger seat, quivering in her blood-soaked battle fatigues. He cast a quick glance back at Smokie, who laid in a bloody heap on the floor, before leaning over to inject Desiree with a morphine syrette.

  Not much chance of getting you back to Mammoth, he pined to himself. He sat for just a second to gather his thoughts and think about what to do next. It was unlikely their attackers were alone, and whoever was with them would renew the assault soon. So, he keyed his access code into Hunter Giant’s console panel, and the truck whined back to life, though most of its instruments were dead.

  “Hunter Mammoth, this is Hunter Giant,” he said. “We have partial systems, two dead, one wounded, but we can move. I’m gonna drive Giant.”

  “Roger that, Hunter Giant,” answered Cobb, desperation in his voice. “We’re ready to move.”

  “Moving drones into skinny ellipse on our path,” Felipe chimed.

  “Good. Let’s get the fuck out of here!”

  Chapter 40: Outbreak, Troy Township

  (Victoria Lancaster)

  Victoria Lancaster couldn’t take another step when she reached the elbow, a sharp turn in the gravel path leading up to one of Troy Township’s perimeter gates. From the overlook at the tip of the elbow, citizens sometimes gazed out onto the hilly expanse—all the way to the Outer Edge and beyond. The forest at the Outer Edge, though dryer and more sparse, still looked verdant and beautiful from this distance.

  Her mother Nessa had brought her here to celebrate shortly after they were given their residency badges and Victoria had been selected for the Track. Her mother even offered her a small taste of ill-gotten wine.

  “Everything’s gonna be OK now,” Nessa assured her as they watched an orange sun dip below the far-off purple mountains. “Just be prepared for the worst and hope for the best.”

  Of course, Victoria had no idea how to do that. But her mother was almost always right—her pick of a spouse notwithstanding. So, Victoria gazed out upon the view and tried to reconcile the contradictory notions.

  Now, all this time later, Victoria stared upon the expanse again, trying to ignore her pounding headache and the uncomfortable sweat coating, and periodically chilling, her entire body. There was no good way to wipe it from her face while her insect mesh was down, leaving her the choice of sweat burning her eyes, or letting in a cloud of gnats and the more worrisome mosquitos.

  We’re better off now than we’ve ever been—even with all this mess, she thought.

  “Everything’s gonna to be OK,” she whispered to herself. “…Just don’t expect it to be.”

  Jesus, no wonder I’m so confused all the time, she concluded with an exasperated sigh.

  Realizing that her wheelbarrow was again idle, she forced her eyes away from the vista, arched her back in a tall stretch, and leaned forward to grab the wheelbarrow handles.

  “There you are—” came a voice close behind her. Startled, Victoria spun around and launched an unconscious swing.

  “Jesuchristo!” exclaimed Brady Saussa, jumping back from the wayward punch.

  “What the hell, Brady?!” she shouted. “You scared the crap out of me!” She took a half-step toward him and gav
e him a hard shove.

  “What the hell, yourself, Vic?” he answered, now starting to chuckle. “How long does it take to bring up a load? It’s self-propelled, for chrissake.” He paused to make sure she had caught her breath—and temper—before re-assuming his team-lead demeanor. “Anyhow, your mom called up to check on you. Asked me to look for you.”

  “I needed a break,” she whined, fiddling with her wrist-plat volume and reception. But she knew her words were inadequate, and he wouldn’t buy it. “And then when I got here. …I guess I just started thinking about stuff.”

  Shit, I won’t need the little fatty to nark on me to get put on scutwork in the afueras, she shamed herself. Busted slacking—twice—and then take a swing at my team lead?

  “I’m sorry I swung at you,” she offered, sheepishly.

  “Yeah, well, we need to get you more civ-def training if you wanna land one on me,” he joked. Then he sauntered up next to her and took in the view she had been admiring. “Funny how even the patches the beetles took look pretty from far away. Like splotches of polished silver.”

  Victoria hated when people—even Brady—tried to see the bright side of ruin. The bark beetle infestation had destroyed vast swaths of forest, leaving behind thickets of lifeless skeleton-hands scratching at the sky.

  She knew she was already on weak ground, though, and her mom told her often enough that people liked “Happy Vic.” Plus, the dead trees did glisten silver in the sun sometimes, and deep down she wanted to see the world the way Brady and her mother did.

  It’s just better to look at things that way. She took in the view again, stepped up next to Brady and slid her arm in his.

  “The silver goes nice with the purple mountains,” she admitted, reluctantly. “Reminds me how lucky I am to be here with my family and all these good people.” She gagged a little on her words, but Brady placed his hand affectionately on hers.

  The tenderness came apart the next moment with the sight of her wrist-plat blinking, her mother’s face appearing as the caller. Her mind flashed back to the last time she hadn’t answered her mother’s call right away. The lover behind her and the one below her were groaning some monosyllabic dirty talk when her mother called. Victoria had silenced her ringer, but she sensed the blinking lights through her crumpled clothes on the nightstand.

  “Pull out,” she commanded.

  “Awe, c’mo—”

  “Pull out!” she insisted, twisting and jerking to free herself. She crawled over to her wrist-plat, her heart pounding as she threw a sheet over her shoulders and slumped into a battered armchair. She pulled her hair back and took a quick, deep breath before pressing the screen to answer.

  Her mother’s face came into focus.

  “Hi Mom. What’s up?”

  “Vic, what are you doing? …Nevermind,” she corrected herself at seeing the background. “Where are you? …Nevermind,” she sighed.

  “What’s up?” Victoria repeated, now a bit more defensive.

  “Well, I can see you aren’t watching the MediaStream, Dear, but you should put it on. Better yet, get your clothes on and come home.”

  That was the day she heard about her brother being arrested for his role in a massacre, and she would never forget the sick, sinking feeling when she tuned to the news feeds on the MediaStream and saw his picture among the mug shots of the accused. Ever since, the blinking of her wrist-plat sent her insides into a dive.

  Now, she found herself in another anxious moment between seeing her wrist-plat’s flashes and whatever news her mother might bring. It was like purgatory—at least as the Goodwells described it.

  “You should reeeeally get that,” Brady said. “For my sake.”

  “Finally, I found you,” her mother started, out of breath. “Vic, you have to answer your wrist-plat when I call. I need you to come to the infirmary as soon as you can.”

  “Why, what’s—”

  “We’re not sure. Uncle Joshua said there are reports of some kind of trouble at Paul’s base. And Shay said we need to stay—” She stopped herself. “Anyway, meet Joshua back at the apartment. I’ll be there as soon as my shift is over.”

  Victoria looked pleadingly at Brady.

  “Brady, Dear,” Nessa continued, leaning in towards her camera as if to see him. “I have arranged a pass for Vic. I’ll send it to you momentarily. She’ll be back on duty tomorrow.”

  “Yes Ma’am,” Brady answered respectfully.

  Victoria shrugged her shoulders apologetically. “I’ll get this load to the depot before I check out.” But first she slid her arm into his once more, as if to recapture their moment.

  No sooner had she returned her gaze to the gray-blue haze hovering on the tree tops and hillsides than Victoria’s eyes fixed on a dark plume of smoke rising in the distance. The smoke of small camp fires always emanated from the rolling forest at this time of day—especially after a major storm. Travelers cooking food or drying clothes. People burning wreckage and debris, clearing fallen trees and branches. Disposing of swollen corpses. Like most citizens of the township, she could pinpoint the area’s trading posts, trail stops, and checkpoints by the smoke they exhaled. But this was different. Wiping another bead of sweat from her church, she pointed to it, as if for verification from Brady.

  “I see it,” he muttered, already listening for the sound of alarms.

  As if on cue, a clang of bells echoed up the valley, prompting them both to scan the fissures in the tree tops for the lights of fire trucks moving on the trails. Instead, half a dozen thuds punched the air, and new serpents of smoke slithered skyward. More thuds. Closer. And then a series of tell-tale claps and pops.

  They looked at each other for a moment, hoping the other would have a positive interpretation.

  “Marauders.” Brady said gravely.

  WHIZ-CRACK!

  —“That’s close!” Brady flinched. Victoria instinctively crouched lower, grabbed Brady by the hand, and hurried away from the Elbow overlook to a ditch at the edge of the tree line. Sirens now wailed from all around them, and the clitter-clack of gunfire mixed with the chatter of splintering wood and falling branches. Victoria could make out shouting, cursing—and screaming—in the din. She pulled Brady down to crouch lower still.

  Heart pounding, she craned her neck over the crest of the ditch to look down the path, but she couldn’t see much. Just mist and smoke shrouding a thicket of tree trunks. Her wheelbarrow standing absurdly out in the open. The watchtower’s roof, a rusted metal sliver peeking out from beyond the wall. Gray smoke puffed from the tower as it spat glowing orange embers over their heads and into the woods.

  All that trouble getting up the hill, only to be trapped so close to the gate, she lamented. Then her sense of distance and direction returned to her.

  Twenty meters—tops—to the wheelbarrow. We covered that distance without even realizing it. Prob’ly 100 meters to the township’s razor-wire perimeter. Another 25 meters to the gate.

  She turned around to find Brady hiding his face from the furious noise, his forehead pressed into the craggy bark of a nearby tree. Victoria fixed her stare on him, willing him to look up and receive her message.

  If marauders are making their way to the gates, we’d damned-well better be inside before they get there, she tried to telepath to him. C’mon Brady, we have to make a break for it.

  Brady finally looked up and met her piercing stare. She nodded upwards towards the gate. She could see he had lost his nerve, but she was undeterred.

  The tower gunner prob’ly can’t see us, she calculated. But Civ-Defs’ll be on the walls by the time we get there. We’ll get gunned down in the clearing at the perimeter wire. Maybe he’s got it right. Maybe we should stay here, piss our pants, and wait.

  No. I’d rather die instantly at the wire than get captured . . . sold . . . and then God-knows-what.

  “Let’s go,” she rasped, and without waiting for a response, she peeled herself off the ground, Brady getting up next to her.


  Thank heaven, she thought with relief.

  But as she took her first step, the WHIZ-CRACK! Of bullets stopped her in her tracks, and a large black assault vehicle roared by, shaking the ground beneath her feet. It kicked mud, dust, and gravel at her as it slid to a halt just up the path between them and the perimeter clearing. A filthy bearded man swiveled in a machine-gun turret jerry-rigged in the truck’s rusted cabin and fired wildly at the watchtower. A second gunner sprayed the tree line from the turret roughed into the truck’s cargo shell.

  The engine revved, belching pungent fumes into the air, and she fell instinctively back into the ditch with Brady. The smell of diesel exhaust and sulphur burned their nostrils as they clung to the grass and earth in the ditch.

  Two additional men with tattered clothes and battered infantry helmets dismounted from the truck and scrambled into the woods.

  No way up, Victoria despaired, as machine-gun fire transformed the very air around them into a whirling tempest of lead, debris, and a mind-racking cacophony of noise.

  A furious blast hammered Victoria’s senses, forcing her to slither into the lowest point of the ditch. Brady crawled on top of her, suspending himself on his elbows on either side of her head. She looked up at his face, mere inches above her own, to find a cut over his eye trickling blood down to his chin, where droplets hung, poised to fall on her.

  That was the razor line.

  Another blast forced Brady to cup his ears, and he gently rested his forehead on hers. Victoria felt his warm blood dripping down her cheek.

  I think that was the wall, she thought in a panic, and she shuffled herself out from under Brady to get a look.

  A second truck, desert camouflage, raced past them, spitting up more mud and gravel. It pulled-up next to the first vehicle and joined-in the rabid shooting spree.

  To her horror, the smoke puffs from the township’s tower guard suddenly stopped, and the black truck lurched forward towards the perimeter and the wall.