Slaughter in the Ashes Page 7

  “Units to the west report punks are surrendering en masse,” Corrie said.

  Before Ben could respond, Corrie added, “The scouts are reporting that the punks say their own people will kill them if we don’t accept their surrender pretty damn fast. Their words, boss.”

  “Tell the scouts to wave the punks in. Tell them to keep their hands over their heads. If they drop their hands, they get a bullet.”

  All across the southern end of the ruins of Manhattan, the dregs of society began surrendering to Raines’s Rebels. Within an hour, almost a thousand punks had turned themselves in, throwing their fate on the doorstep of Ben Raines, all of them doing so with no small amount of trepidation, for they knew that with just a nod of his head or a simple hand gesture, Ben could hang them—and would, if they gave him the slightest excuse.

  The punks were searched, then marched back half a dozen blocks to a secure area and lined up, ten deep, in the littered street, crowded in close due to the lack of space.

  Ben walked slowly down the line, eyeballing those who would meet his hard gaze. After a moment, he sighed and shook his head. “Get them out of here and across the river to Ike. We’re still within mortar range of the gangs and it would be like them to kill any of their own who surrendered.”

  “Oh, they would, General Raines!” one gang member blurted. “They sure would.”

  Ben fixed him with a hard look and under the young man’s dirty face, he visibly paled.

  Ben walked away a few yards, his team with him. “They didn’t steal any of our laser range-finders, boss,” Beth reminded Ben. “Or our latest sights.”

  The hand-held laser range-finder could accurately range up to 10,000 meters, thus enabling the mortar crews to direct-fire at a target without first firing ranging rounds. With the new sights, developed by Rebel scientists, the 60mm mortar had an accuracy of plus or minus ten meters at extreme ranges.

  “They probably wouldn’t have been able to understand how they worked anyway,” Ben muttered. He cleared his throat and said, “Get me Ike on the horn, Corrie. I’ve got to warn him what’s coming his way and we’ve got to talk about what to do with them.”

  “What are you going to do with them, Ben?” the question came from behind him.

  Ben turned and looked at Doctor Chase. He sighed. “Lamar, what the hell are you doing away from your hospital complex? This is very close to the front.”

  “I know where I am, Raines. The question still begs an answer—what are you going to do with the prisoners?”

  “I don’t know, Lamar. But I am certainly open for any and all suggestions.”

  “Well, first of all they have to be showered and fumigated, then given physicals. We’ll test for TB and so forth.” He smiled. “Beyond that, I don’t have the vaguest idea what to do with them.”

  “You’re a lot of help, Lamar.”

  “Anytime, Raines.”

  “All right, Corrie. Have our people march them down to the docks. You have Ike on the horn?”

  “His CO says he’s momentarily out of pocket.”

  “That means he’s up with his grunts. The old goat.”

  “You’re a fine one to talk about old goats, Raines,” Lamar said, not about to let an opening like that pass.

  “I’m in better shape than Ike,” Ben came right back. “Hell, why don’t you put him on a diet, Lamar? He’s 50 pounds overweight.”

  “Twenty-five pounds, Raines. I keep an eye on him.” Chase winked at Anna, standing a few feet away. “Just as I do with all you doddering old warriors.”

  “Screw you, Lamar!”

  Anna laughed.

  “You’re not my type, Raines. See you.” The chief of medicine walked over to a group of Rebels guarding the prisoners and chatted with them for a moment.

  Ben turned away just as his ears picked up a familiar sound. “Mortars!” he shouted. “Incoming! Hit the deck, people!”

  The words had just left his mouth when the first round struck, landing right in the middle of the prisoners. The screaming of the wounded joined the fluttering of incoming mortar rounds.

  Ben jumped for cover, sliding under the rusted hulk of an old car. “Damn set-up,” he muttered. “They knew about the surrender and set up mortar crews and waited us out. Son-of-a-bitch!”

  Anna squirmed under the car with him. “We got had, General Ben,” she said, speaking between exploding rounds, and they were coming in hot and heavy.

  “We sure did, kid.” He looked at the clearing where the prisoners had been lined up. He guessed over a hundred dead and at least that many wounded littered the street. But there was nothing he could do about the dead, dying, and wounded.

  Ben pulled Anna close to him. “There will be a break in the incoming, Anna. Get ready for it and when it comes, make a dash for that building over there—” he cut his eyes, “—and join the team.”

  “But what about you, General Ben?”

  “Don’t argue with me, Anna. Just do it. Now slide toward the edge of the cover.”

  The rhythm of the enemy mortar crews was broken as the Rebels began returning the mortar fire. “Go, Anna! Now!”

  Anna scooted out from cover and scampered for the safety of the building. Ben watched her disappear into the old storefront and smiled. He shifted his gaze toward the north and worked his way out of the cover, cussing as his right canteen hung briefly on something. He worked his way clear and scrambled for an open doorway, just making it before the incoming began dropping in.

  Ben settled in, his back to a wall, his long legs stretched out in front of him, and took a sip of water. He had just slid the canteen back into the holder when what seemed like half a dozen mortar rounds struck the old building in rapid succession, the concussion knocking his helmet off his head. The entire front of the building collapsed all around him; several bricks bounced off his head.

  Ben was slammed into unconsciousness, half buried under a mound of debris.

  EIGHT

  Ben slowly came to his senses in a world of darkness and pain. His head pounded fiercely and his back and shoulders and arms ached from being struck by falling bricks and other debris.

  He briefly wondered where he was, then the memories of the mortar attack came rushing back. He wondered if his team had made it out? How many Rebels had been killed in the attack?

  Ben tried to move his legs and found them pinned solidly by bricks and beams and other junk. His arms were free and he looked at his watch. Miraculously, it had remained intact. It was 1800 hours. He had been out all afternoon. It was full dark outside. Slowly he began to work to free himself, careful to make as little noise as possible, for he could hear only silence from the outside and had a pretty good idea his people had been overrun by the punks. As he worked, the stiffness and some of the soreness left his arms. But his head still throbbed.

  After a few moments of work, Ben freed his legs. Before attempting to stand, he carefully moved his legs to check for broken bones. His legs were numb from being pinned for so long, but worked just fine. He felt around in the darkness for his rifle and found it several yards away . . . smashed. A beam had fallen directly on the M-16. But he still had his sidearm belted around his waist. He found his helmet, the top crushed by a falling beam.

  Ben checked his canteens; one was full and the other nearly full. He took a small sip of water then rose carefully to his boots and began picking his way soundlessly through the shattered store. He stopped abruptly when the toe of his boot touched a lifeless, stiffening form.

  Ben knelt down and inspected the body. It was a Rebel. The man had been shot in the throat and face and apparently had fallen into the open doorway of the store.

  Ben removed the man’s web belt and battle harness and felt around for a weapon. Found it—a CAR. He took the dead man’s magazine pouch, which held six full 30-round mags and moved slowly toward the open door. He almost stumbled and fell over another dead body which lay just off the littered sidewalk. The whiteness of naked flesh caught his eyes in th
e almost nonexistent light. A Rebel. The body had been stripped of everything except his underwear.

  We took a real beating this day, Ben thought.

  He backed up until he touched the storefront and stood for a moment, getting his bearings and gathering his thoughts. To his right, which would be south, about two blocks away, he could see the flickering glow of dozens of small campfires. He could hear the feint sounds of hollering and laughing. He knew instantly the campfires did not have Rebels around them. No Rebel would be that stupid.

  Under cover of the mortar attack, coming in right behind it, the punks assaulted our positions, Ben concluded. Gutsy move on their part. And they probably shoved us right off Manhattan.

  Shit!

  So if I can’t go south, Ben thought . . .

  He began moving out slowly and carefully, staying on the littered sidewalks as much as possible, making his way west. He inspected each body he found. They had all been stripped down to their underwear. Using a tiny penlight that each Rebel carried, but using it sparingly to save the batteries, Ben shone the tiny beam of light into each store opening, door or shop window. Two blocks from where he’d lain unconscious, Ben found another Rebel. The man had crawled into the store, behind an overturned counter. Ben spotted one boot sticking out.

  Ben took the man’s full magazine pouch and pack, which contained several grenades and three days’ supply of rations, first aid kit, and several other items of survival, and added those to his own small supply.

  He could not find the dead man’s rifle, but he now had a dozen full 30-round mags for his 5.56 CAR. Three Beretta sidearms with nine full 15-round mags. Nine grenades. Ground sheet and blanket. Nine days’ supply of food in the form of those damnable hi-energy bars dreamed up by the lab boys and girls. They tasted like shit smelled but would keep a person reasonably full and alive, if not happy. He had six canteens of water, his own long-bladed and very sharp knife, and was wearing a just broken-in pair of boots.

  He had matches and extra batteries for his flashlight and three small plastic bottles of water purification tabs. He had extra socks (the ones found on the first dead Rebel were too small for him). He could not find an extra helmet, but he had a first aid kit.

  None of the dead Rebels had carried a walkie-talkie.

  Ben sat and rested for a time, gathering his strength and washing down two aspirin with a long, much-needed drink of water.

  Ben silently cursed when he heard the scurrying of dozens of tiny feet above him and in the rooms behind where he sat on the dirty floor. The rats were coming to feed, but there was nothing he could do about it. He didn’t like the idea of the rats eating on dead Rebels, but he didn’t blame the large rodents. Just as he was struggling to stay alive, so too were they.

  He made up his mind to move west, to the waterfront, and try to somehow signal his people on the Jersey side. Tomorrow he would look for a broken piece of mirror to use to send some Morse in the afternoon when the sun was in the west. The trick would be to get over to the waterfront and stay alive in the process.

  He ate one of his candy bars and tried not to dwell on how bad it tasted. But he had to admit, reluctantly, although he would never tell Doctor Chase, he did feel better after he’d eaten.

  He didn’t need a map to tell him where he was. When the attack came they’d been holding the prisoners in the block just south of City Hall Park, in what used to be called Park Row. Pace University would be due east of his location and the old Woolworth Building due west. He might try for the ruins of the old Woolworth Building that night. He tried to remember if Rebel artillery had brought it down years back, but couldn’t recall.

  Ben looked all around him, then stood for a moment, listening. He could hear nothing. Blocks south, the campfires of the punks still winked at him. Ben turned and walked away, picking his way carefully through the debris.

  “Settle down!” Ike roared at the gathering of batt coms who had flown in when word of Ben’s disappearance had been verified. “We’ve all been through this before. And you all know what Ben has said about it—don’t jeopardize a lot of Rebel lives coming after him. If Ben has been taken prisoner, the punks will try to buy their way out of this jam with him. If they don’t contact us within 48 hours . . .” He sighed. “Well, then we’ll have to assume the worst.”

  “We all knew something like this could happen at any time,” Ben’s son Buddy said, standing up. “Father took terrible chances but loved every minute of it. He lived for combat. But he also told both Tina and me, more than once, that his odds for catching a bullet were just as high as anyone else’s, and if that happened, the movement had to go on. Personally, I don’t believe he’s dead. He might be captured or wounded, but I don’t believe he’s dead.”

  Ike cut his eyes to Doctor Chase. “Ben’s team, Lamar?”

  “They’ll all recover. Their wounds were numerous, but none of them life-threatening. I’ll repeat this for any who missed it before—Anna said the last time she saw Ben, he was entering what was left of an old building. Then the mortars really started coming down thick and fast. She said the building took about half a dozen hits. That’s when she got hit, one bullet striking her helmet and knocking her unconscious. The next thing she remembers, she was crossing the Hudson. What I would really like to know is, what happened?”

  “We grossly underestimated the strength of the gangs,” Ike replied. “And more importantly, their ability to fight and to plan. We now know they are massing in three different locations outside this area. If we don’t stop them now, we’ll be the ones in a box. Not a very secure box, one that we could punch through almost at will, but it’s a situation we have to deal with . . . ah, before we can once more tackle Manhattan.”

  There was a low grumble of discontent from the ranks of the batt coms.

  “Be quiet!” Ike shouted, holding up a sheet of paper. “Those are Ben’s orders. Right here!” He waved the sheet of paper. “You all know that Ben spells out every contingency before a battle. Well, here it is. And I’m not about to go against his orders. Now just settle down. Georgi, have your people start laying out mines in the southernmost part of your section, then back up and wait. All we can do is contain the gangs in Manhattan until we deal with the new fronts.”

  The Russian growled something in reply but reluctantly nodded in understanding.

  “The rest of you have your orders,” Ike finished. “Prepare to move out. Dismissed.”

  Ben was hunkered down behind a wall of rubble, waiting for a large patrol of punks to pass by. It was the tenth patrol he’d seen since leaving his original position . . . four blocks back.

  “Damn shore kicked their asses this day,” one punk said, then laughed. “Them Rebels ain’t much, you ask me.”

  “And we got enough food and medicine and guns and ammo to last us for a long, long time,” another said. “Maybe even long enough for us to hold out until the Rebels give up and move on.”

  When pigs fly, Ben thought.

  “An’ enough prime new pussy to las’ us for a long, long time,” another said. “If our leaders will ever get done pumpin’ and hunchin’ an’ wallerin’ it out.”

  “Ah, hell, Royal. Pussy bein’ what it is, that snatch’ll snap right back and tighten up. We’ll get our turn.”

  “Nice thing about it all—” Ben caught the words from the last man in the patrol as they passed “—is the Rebs done us a favor by killin’ off a bunch of them stinkin’ creeps.”

  “That’s about the only favor them assholes ever done for us,” another said.

  The patrol rounded a corner and was gone.

  Killed the men and took the women prisoner, Ben thought. Well now. I don’t know what I can do about that little situation, but I can damn sure raise some hell with the punks.

  All thoughts of escape from Manhattan left Ben as he crouched behind the pile of rubble. He did not realize it, but his lips had curved back in something that resembled a snarl.

  Ben Raines, the ol’ curly wolf of
the Rebels, was about to go on the prowl.

  Ben began once more working his way toward the west. But he wasn’t as interested in reaching the waterfront as he was in reaching a couple of gang members who might be taking an evening stroll among the ruins.

  If he found a couple, he could guarantee them it would be the last stroll they would ever take.

  Before he had gone half a block, Ben almost stepped on an object lying amid the rubble. He knelt down. It was an old piece of half-inch lead pipe, about two feet long. Ben smiled and picked it up, hefting the pipe. It would make a dandy shillelagh to bounce off someone’s noggin.

  And he didn’t have to worry about cracking the skull of a friendly. On this terrain, there were no friendlies.

  Ben heard a low murmuring of voices and stepped back into the darkness of a building stoop and waited.

  Two voices. Two men. Ben smiled as their words grew louder, filled with ugliness and profanity. When they reached his position, he stepped out and busted the closest one across the forehead with the heavy pipe, cracking the man’s skull. The punk dropped as if hit with a pile-driver.

  “What the hell!” the second one managed to say.

  Ben stopped all further conversation by slamming the lead pipe against the side of the punk’s head. He fell in a heap on the littered sidewalk.

  Ben had hit a gold mine. One of the men was carrying a full medic’s pack, and the other was carrying a rucksack filled with grenades. Both were carrying Rebel M-16s, with full magazine pouches and Rebel web belts with two canteens.

  The first man Ben had hit died while Ben was removing the web belt. The second was still alive, but bleeding from the nose, mouth, and ears. Ben dragged both of them into a building and left them.

  Ben now had one hell of a heavy load, actually too much of a load for him. The canteens of water alone probably weighed 25 pounds. But he managed to go two more blocks before deciding he had to stash some of the gear. He hid the two M-16s, four of the canteens and some of the ammo in the ruins of a building and moved on, his load much lighter.