Sons of War

by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

  Rain drizzled on the smoldering fires and the corpses that were once his customers.

  “Son of a goddamn bitch,” he grumbled.

  Pulling up a bandanna over his face, Antonio walked away from the warehouse to the sidewalk, the cold rain hitting his exposed neck.

  Christopher and Vinny remained standing in the open doorway.

  “Is it over?” Vinny asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Christopher said.

  The constant gunfire had ceased, and they hadn’t heard an explosion for over three hours, but Antonio kept his senses attuned to danger. His other soldiers were holed up at another property close by and with his family back in Anaheim. Everyone had strict orders: be prepared for a fight to protect the weapons, cash, and vehicles.

  So far, they had lucked out and avoided any sort of bloodshed. But Antonio knew it was coming.

  The rats would soon venture out of the sewers, searching for resources.

  He scanned the smoky sky for any sign of AMP aircraft. Yesterday, he had watched the dogfight over downtown that kicked off the battle, and last night he had heard the Navy cruise missiles that pounded the Los Alamitos Base.

  It felt odd being a spectator to war.

  You’re not a spectator, he remembered. He was part of the fight for the city, and he had made a deal with the wrong side. Chances were good that Lieutenant Marten and the other dirty AMP soldiers were crispy critters.

  “Better get inside,” Christopher said. He ushered Vinny back, but Antonio stayed on the sidewalk. To his right, four men were walking up the middle of the street. They wore baggy clothes, face masks, and firearms of various sizes.

  Looters, and not just of the garden variety. These guys were gangbangers, even more dangerous than the random lowlifes.

  Antonio walked back to the side door of the warehouse and grabbed an M4. Lino, Yellowtail, Frankie, and Carmine stood inside wearing body armor and holding their rifles. Inside, they had close to half a million dollars in the safe, from their recent payment from AMP, not to mention their vehicles and weapons.

  The rest of the men were guarding their other valuables in a locked garage, but with cell towers down, someone would have to physically go and get them if they needed reinforcements.

  “We might have trouble coming,” Antonio said.

  He closed the door and walked over to a window to watch the men still coming up the street. They would be no match for his soldiers here, but he didn’t want to engage in a firefight if he didn’t have to. They had only twenty thousand rounds of ammunition, and it needed to last.

  Tires screeched, and a pickup truck careened around the corner. It slowed behind the four men as they continued their march—or hunt, Antonio realized.

  Gripping his M4, he prepared to defend what was his.

  But the fight never came.

  The four men and the vehicle continued past the warehouse. Antonio relaxed and retreated to his office with Lino, Christopher, and Vinny. When he got to his desk, he slumped in the chair, exhausted from staying up all night. The adrenaline had long since worn off, and he felt a crash coming on.

  Picking up his coffee mug, he downed the rest of the cold espresso.

  Lino carried the battery-operated radio to the card table and started flipping through the stations. Vinny took a seat too.

  “Unconfirmed reports are coming in that President Elliot has been charged with treason by General Macke of the United States Army. Macke claims that President Elliot is responsible for orchestrating the coup against the late President Coleman. Again, these are unconfirmed reports. What we do know is that the navy has joined the army and the marines in the fight against AMP.”

  “So, basically, both sides are blaming each other,” Christopher said.

  Antonio set the coffee mug down and cracked his neck from side to side. The news wasn’t a surprise. That was how war always seemed to work: each side accusing the other of atrocities, assassinations, and bloodshed.

  “Who knows what really happened,” Antonio said.

  Lino continued to the next station.

  “All residents within a two-mile radius of Los Alamitos Training Base are being told to evacuate as quickly as possible …”

  Antonio went over to the radio. “Turn that up.”

  “We’re still not sure exactly how much radioactive material was at the training base, but authorities aren’t taking any chances …”

  Lino felt the bandage on his head and looked over at Antonio, eyes wide. The forty-year-old warrior didn’t normally show fear, but even warriors got nervous.

  Antonio felt his nerves tighten too. He didn’t fear the soldiers, the cops, the other crime organizations, or even the gangbangers. But he did fear radiation.

  “How far away is that from Anaheim?” Antonio asked.

  Christopher shook his head, unsure.

  “Well, get out a fucking map,” Antonio said.

  Lino retrieved one from the Mercedes in the garage and brought it back to the office, where he draped it over the card table. For the next few minutes, they pored over the 112 cities in Los Angeles and Orange Counties. It appeared that Compton was safe, but Anaheim was right on the border.

  “Looks like the Sarcone castle is toast,” Vinny said. “If they’d bombed the base a couple of days earlier, they coulda saved us some trouble.”

  Antonio clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to curse a blue streak. He had tried to keep it together for his men, even with this new development threatening his plans.

  But knowing that his family was in harm’s way sent him over the edge. His men could protect them from bullets but not from radiation.

  “I should have walked there last night!” he yelled, slamming a fist down on the table.

  “You never would have made it,” Christopher said. “Don’t worry, brother, we’ll get them out of there.”

  A voice shouted down the hallway. “Those thugs are coming back!” It was Carmine, and he darted back the way he had come, rifle in hand.

  Antonio grabbed his weapon and hurried into the warehouse after the others. Sure enough, the truck had parked outside, and six men were standing in the circular drive.

  “Open your garage!” one of the men shouted.

  He was big, at least six-three, and wearing a tank top that showed off thick biceps and pecs. But he wasn’t the leader—Antonio could see that right away. That guy sat in the passenger seat of the truck.

  “Frankie, get over to the other warehouse,” Antonio said, “and take a truck to Anaheim. Bring my family and the men watching them here.”

  “You got it, Don Antonio,” Frankie said.

  The shouting outside continued.

  “Open up, or we’ll shoot out your windows!”

  “Like hell you will,” Antonio said. He walked over and grabbed the door handle before anyone could stop him, prepared to show them all exactly what a leader looked like.

  “What the hell are you doing ?” Christopher blurted in Italian.

  Leading by example, Antonio thought. If his men were going to follow him into battle, they needed to see he was fearless.

  “Why don’t we just light these fuckers up, Don Antonio?” Lino asked.

  “’Cause I don’t want a bloodbath outside. Nor do I want to attract attention to this place. Now, stay here and watch my back.”

  Stepping outside, he took in a breath of the steamy air. The rain had stopped, but sirens continued to wail. He glanced over his shoulder to see his men shouldering their rifles from behind several windows in the warehouse.

  Be smart and be calm, Antonio thought as he walked into the circle driveway.

  Six bangers stood along the edge of the concrete. Only two held guns, but of course they were all carrying.

  What bothered him most was the guy with the Uzi. He was thin and his movements
jerky, which told Antonio he was a junkie or a meth head—not exactly the guy you wanted holding an automatic weapon.

  “I said open your garage,” said the linebacker.

  “And why would I do that?” Antonio said. He stood as tall as he could. “This is private property, and I’m fully prepared to defend it.”

  The big guy looked at him and then broke out laughing. The other men also chuckled, but then quieted as the leader got out of the truck.

  “Where the fuck you from, old man?” said the giant.

  “He ain’t from ’round here,” said the leader. He stepped into view. Dark-skinned, tall and slender, with a salt-and-pepper beard. Unlike his men, he didn’t wear a mask—just sunglasses.

  “Why haven’t I seen you before?” he asked. “I know most everyone worth knowing in this part of Compton, so that means either you’re new or you ain’t worth knowing.”

  A shadow moved over next to Antonio. He could tell by the shape that it was his brother.

  “What’s the problem here, brother?” Christopher growled.

  “I’m not your brother. You can call me Mouse.” He took off his glasses and squinted at Antonio. “Who do I have the great pleasure of meeting on this fine morning in the hood?”

  “Antonio Moretti.”

  “Ah, so you’re a guinea,” said Mouse. “I haven’t dealt with many of your people, but the ones I’ve met have heads almost as big as their noses.”

  Antonio took a calming breath. He wanted to defuse the situation without having to expend any bullets or draw undue attention, but he also wanted to blow this dude’s face off.

  “I know you got shit in that warehouse,” said Mouse. He waved a Glock at the door. “Especially since y’all ready to defend it.”

  “You aren’t listening,” Antonio said. “I’m asking nice for you to get off my property.”

  Mouse frowned and motioned to the big guy, who flexed his pecs and lats and walked over. Christopher stepped up to intervene, drawing the lunk’s attention while Antonio pulled out his Beretta M9 and smashed the guy in the temple.

  The thug crumpled like a bag of ice, and before any of the other men could aim their weapons, Antonio put a round in the chest of the sketchy guy with the Uzi. Then he aimed the gun at Mouse’s head.

  “You think you’re hard,” Antonio said. “But you don’t really know what hard is.”

  Another gunshot cracked, and Mouse took a round between the eyes. He staggered backward and then crumpled to the dirt.

  “Shit, shit!” one of his men yelled before he, too, went down from a round to the head. The rest of the bangers took off running as loyal Moretti soldiers moved out into the driveway with their M4s up and ready.

  Antonio held up a hand to keep them from firing. Then he called out after the escaping gangbangers.

  “Don’t fuck with the Morettis, you rat fucks!”

  Christopher bent down next to the injured man on the ground. He lay in a fetal position, moaning.

  “Don’t shoot me,” he mumbled.

  “What do you want me to do with this prick?” Christopher asked.

  Antonio shrugged. “The Morettis are hiring if he wants a job, but he’s gonna have to get some new clothes.”

  The last of the gangbangers rounded the corner and vanished. Antonio lowered his gun and walked over to look at Mouse. The garbage gangster had never dealt with real mafiosi. Soon, the other gang leaders of this city would start hearing stories of the Moretti family.

  It was time to bring some class to organized crime in Los Angeles.

  * * *

  The air-raid sirens gave Dom the chills, but this time the warning wasn’t of incoming fighter jets. The fighting in the city had ended almost as quickly as it started, with the navy joining what President Elliot was calling “the rebels.”

  California had seceded from the union, and Illinois, New York, and Colorado were following close behind.

  The United States was crumbling, and it wasn’t alone. South America, Europe, and most of Asia had all fallen into anarchy with the global economic collapse. Fighting raged in all corners of the globe.

  The apocalypse, it seemed, had finally arrived.

  In Los Angeles, the end came with a macabre soundtrack of jet engines, aerial bombs, emergency sirens, air-raid Klaxons, and gunshots.

  Dom sat in the back of a Ford Explorer, wedged against the passenger door beside his sister, trying to reassure himself that everything was going to be okay, even though he knew better.

  “Come on,” Marks said, pushing down on the horn.

  “There’s nowhere to go,” Ronaldo said. “Everyone is trying to get out.”

  Marks looked anxiously in the rearview mirror and then the side mirror. Ronaldo was doing the same thing.

  They were wanted men, and Dom was, too, after what happened on the rooftop last night. It was hard to believe that just months ago he was thinking about colleges, taking exams, and preparing for his sixth match in the Octagon. Now he was a refugee trying to escape a postapocalyptic Los Angeles.

  He thought of Moose and Camilla, wondering where they were and whether they were safe. God, he missed his friends. He hadn’t even had the chance to say goodbye.

  Fleeing vehicles crawled ahead, snaking around cars that had stalled out or run their gas tanks dry. Throngs of people walked along the sidewalks and through front yards, heading out.

  Dom watched the chaos, pistol in hand. Several aid workers wearing hazmat suits directed foot and car traffic, but they weren’t helping much.

  “Dad, are we going to get sick?” Monica asked.

  “No, sweetie,” Ronaldo replied. “We’re going to be just fine.”

  Dom could tell by the subtle tone in his voice that their dad wasn’t telling the whole truth, but part of that was because of the conversation Dom had overheard this morning when he was pretending to sleep in the back seat.

  “This could be worse than Phoenix,” Marks had whispered. “Anyone within that two-mile radius is going to be cooked from the inside.”

  “What the hell was AMP doing with radioactive materials?” Ronaldo had said.

  Then Elena had stirred awake, interrupting the conversation. Since then, they had been sitting inside the Explorer for the past four hours and had moved only a few miles.

  But at least the fighting between the military and AMP had died down. The naval bombardment had done the job, eradicating most of the AMP soldiers in a single stroke.

  Dom wasn’t afraid of those soldiers at this point. He was afraid of the people who didn’t care about the radiation. People who had spent the past month living on the streets, and those living on the streets before the collapse.

  Junkies. Meth heads. Wackos.

  Dom drew in a deep breath and locked eyes with his dad.

  “You good?” Ronaldo asked.

  “I’m good.”

  “You sure?” he said.

  “I’ll be okay.”

  Elena reached over Monica and put a hand on Dom’s shoulder. “You saved us,” she said. “I know this is hard, but don’t forget that.”

  Dom nodded. Killing the two AMP soldiers had left him feeling a deep guilt even though he was protecting his mom and sister. He had known that this moment would come, but now it kept replaying in his mind. Maybe there was another way it could have gone down. The hardest part was thinking of the young soldier he had shot in the thigh. He suffered for several minutes before finally bleeding out.

  A fight had broken out in a park to their left, distracting Dom. He turned to watch as four men kicked and stomped a man on the ground. The residents walking on the sidewalk passed right on by as if it were nothing.

  “Jesus Christ,” Dom whispered. Judging by the scene unfolding all around him, he was going to be faced with violence again. It was just a question of when.

 
He sighed and nudged Monica. “You okay, sis?”

  She glanced back at him and nodded. Most girls her age would have screamed and cried their eyes out last night, but she had just shed a few tears and asked her dad for a gun. She was a tough kid, and smart.

  They would get through this, as a family.

  Dom looked back up at his dad and relaxed a degree, knowing he was going to stay with them.

  Traffic inched forward, and a break suddenly allowed an opening. The cars ahead all sped forward, and Marks turned the engine back on.

  “Here we go,” he said, pushing down on the pedal and giving the engine precious fuel.

  They crossed a boulevard lined with palm trees, the fronds rustling in the morning breeze. Smoke drifted across the horizon, fed by dark plumes coming from a location down the block.

  Minutes later, Dom saw what was causing it.

  The charred building and concrete islands out front were the remains of a gas station—maybe the very one they had seen go up last night.

  A half-dozen burned-out cars sat in the parking lot. In one of them sat a blackened corpse, its wrinkled surface the texture of a charred marshmallow.

  “There,” Marks said, pointing.

  Dom followed his finger toward a group of soldiers standing at a roadblock at an intersection to their right. For a second, his heart thumped, but then he saw that the men weren’t soldiers.

  “Never thought I’d be this happy to see Devil Dogs standing post!” Marks shouted. He pounded the wheel, smiling for the first time all day.

  Ronaldo cracked a grin and looked back at Elena, who stared at him with that look—the one that almost always got her what she wanted.

  In this moment, it was a silent plea for him to part ways with his best friend.

  Marks pulled into the right lane, prompting a driver to lie down on his horn.

  “Yeah, yeah, I know, asshole,” Marks said. Then he pulled over to the right side of the road and cut into a parking lot. The view gave Dom a better look at the marines holding security at the side street, not allowing any cars into the area. They all wore CBRN suits.