Standoff in the Ashes Page 7

  Ben turned and smashed the first guard on the top of the head with the club, then hit him again for insurance. He turned and hit the second guard on the side of the head just as hard as he could. The odor of burning flesh was strong in the hallway. The slippers were still smoking in the man’s mouth.

  Ben dragged the men, one at a time, into the cell. The first guard was about Ben’s size. Ben swiftly undressed the Fed down to his underwear and pulled on his uniform. The shirt was just a tad too small, and the waist of the britches a bit too large.

  Ben went through the pockets of both men, taking everything they had: billfolds, keys, pocket knives. He then straightened up and savagely smashed the club down on the heads of the guards one by one. They weren’t dead when he finished, but they would be out of commission for a long time.

  Ben quickly tried on a pair of boots that looked as though they might fit him. They were a half size too big, even with the two pairs of socks taken from the feet of both unconscious guards, but they would have to do.

  He stepped out into the hall and locked the cell door, then stood for a moment, silently savoring his freedom. Then he took a deep breath and moved up the hallway.

  He was looking for the gun room. When he found it, he would show these young socialists that an old dog could still bite.

  EIGHT

  Ben walked up the hallway, carrying one of the nightsticks he’d taken from the guards. His boots echoed off the tile. He met no one. He paused at the elevator, then decided not to chance it. He took the stairs down to the first floor and cautiously pushed open the door, peeking out.

  The hall was deserted, but he could hear rock music coming from somewhere far down the long hall—a song he was not familiar with. Ben made it a point never to listen to rock music, so he was probably unfamiliar with ninety-nine percent of it. He had not paid any attention to rock music since years before the collapse and the Great War.

  He stepped out into the hall, looking at the double doors which led to the outside. They were chained shut.

  He walked slowly down the hall toward the sounds of the music. It was coming out of the open door to an office. Ben stood for a moment, pressed up against the wall just outside the open door. He listened for the sounds of voices. Nothing.

  Got to do it, Ben thought, can’t stand out here until I’m discovered.

  He looked into the office. One man sitting at a desk, his back to Ben. Ben recognized him as one of those who had taken great delight in beating the crap out of him.

  Your turn now, Ben thought, silently stepping into the office and easing up behind the guard.

  The man sensed movement behind him and turned. His mouth opened in shock as he recognized Ben. Ben popped him on the noggin with the club and the guard went night-night.

  Ben tied him up with the man’s belt and a length of electrical cord which he jerked out of a wall socket, then gagged him with his own handkerchief. The guard had been carrying a sidearm in a holster and Ben took that, along with the two full magazines from the guard’s belt pouch.

  Ben checked the 9mm. Full up. He jacked a round into the slot and quickly checked the office for anything else he might use. Nothing. He fanned the unconscious man’s pockets and took his keys and wallet, then took a jacket from a wall hook and slipped out of the office.

  He wanted to find Bradford. He had a present for that son of a bitch.

  He walked the long hall, looking into each darkened room with an open door. Nothing. When he came to a room with a closed door, he tried the doorknob. Locked.

  He fumbled with several of the keys he’d taken from the guards until one opened the door. Ben smiled as he looked inside. The armory.

  When he again stepped out into the hall, Ben was armed with a CAR and had a rucksack filled with spare magazines and a couple hundred rounds of .223’s. He also had half a dozen grenades hooked onto the web belt he’d found in the room.

  “Now then, you assholes,” Ben muttered. “Let’s just see how tough you are.”

  Ben walked the hall, moving slowly and cautiously. He heard the faint sounds of voices coming from somewhere far down the hall. The CAR was set on full auto. Ben did not realize it, but he was walking along with a smile on his bruised face, curving his swollen lips.

  Two guards stepped out of a room. They stood for several seconds, not believing what they were seeing. That was the last thing they saw on this earth. Ben gave them half a mag of .223’s. The guards went down. One flopped for a few seconds, then was still.

  “What the hell is happening out there!” The voice came from the room the guards had just exited.

  “Retribution,” Ben muttered, waiting in the hall.

  The man stuck his head out of the room. “Oh, shit!” he said.

  “Right,” Ben said, and squeezed the trigger.

  Scratch another of Osterman’s faithful followers.

  Ben walked the hall from end to end. There was no one else to be found . . . at least not on that floor.

  Ben searched the bodies of the dead and removed everything in their pockets, stowing it in another rucksack he found in the second office. He stacked all the weapons and ammo he could find in a utility room near the chained entrance. He would go out those doors when the time came.

  Ben looked at his left hand. It was still swollen, but much of the swelling was gone. Ben again flexed the fingers on that hand. They worked, albeit stiffly, and there was no sign of anything broken.

  He glanced at the nice watch he’d taken from one of the now expired guards. Five o’clock. It would be dark soon. Good. Ben liked the night.

  He found the steps leading to the basement and cautiously walked down. He stood for a moment, looking at the heavy steel. Memories of his beatings were returning to him . . . very unpleasant reminiscences. He recalled that there were other prisoners being held in cells in the basement, and he guessed the basement area was soundproofed.

  Wouldn’t do to have screams reverberating throughout the nuthouse.

  Ben tried the door. It was not locked, but it was very heavy. He could hear an angry voice shouting something. He could not make out the words, but he was sure it was Bradford doing the shouting. That was one voice Ben was not likely to forget for a long, long time.

  “You damned, right-wing whore!” The words came to Ben more clearly as he made his way up the hall. It was Bradford. “Confess.”

  The sound of a woman’s voice drifted to Ben, but he could not make out any of the words.

  “Whore!” Bradford shouted. “Filthy whore of the militia!”

  This time Ben could understand the woman’s reply. “Fuck you, you goofy bastard!”

  Ben smiled. He liked this woman already. She damn sure had Bradford pegged accurately.

  “Let’s toss her in with the hardcases,” someone suggested. “Let them gang-bang her. We’ll watch until she confesses.”

  “No,” Bradford said firmly. “That wouldn’t be punishment. Hell, she’d enjoy that. She’s a militia whore. She was a survivalist, remember.”

  “I bet she wouldn’t enjoy . . .”

  A generator kicked in about that time, and Ben couldn’t understand all the words.

  Laughter drifted to Ben as the generator, or whatever it was—air-conditioning unit, perhaps—settled down to a low hum.

  “Bet she sure wouldn’t enjoy that, for a fact.”

  “I’d like to watch it!”

  More laughter.

  Ben worked closer. He didn’t have to wonder what the perverted bastards were laughing about. He felt he knew exactly what it was.

  He edged closer and peered into a large room. A naked woman was strung up by the wrists, dangling from an eye-hook set in the ceiling. Her bare feet were just touching the floor. She had angry red welts on her belly and thighs and buttocks. Bradford stood beside her, holding a thick leather belt. He looked as though he was enjoying inflicting torture on the woman.

  He probably was, Ben thought. The sadistic son of a bitch. Ben’s first thoughts about Bradford were certainly proving correct: he had pegged him as being twisted.

  The woman was blonde, with short-cropped hair, and looked to be in her mid to late thirties. Ben could not help but take in her nakedness since she was dangling without a stitch on. Very lovely woman, he concluded.

  Ben stepped into the room and cut the legs out from under Bradford with a short burst from his CAR. Then he turned the muzzles toward the other two and forever put an end to their perversion.

  Leaving Bradford groaning and twisting on the floor, Ben cut the woman’s bonds with a knife he’d taken from one of the guards and gently eased her down.

  Still holding her so she would not fall, Ben said, “Can you stand alone?”

  “I don’t know. Hang onto me a moment longer. Who are you? Are you from the New York Militia?”

  “No. Are there still others being held here?”

  “Yes, but I don’t know who they are. They’re in the process of being reindoctrinated.”

  “This country’s really gone to hell, hasn’t it? Reindoctrination centers. Jesus. Are there more like this one?”

  “All over the USA. I think I can walk now. My clothes are over there on the floor in the corner. That damn Bradford made me strip while he and his shitty buddies watched.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me one little bit. What’s your name?”

  “Lara. L-a-r-a.”

  “OK, Lara. Ready to give it a try?”

  “Yes.”

  Ben turned her loose and the woman walked—with as much dignity as possible, considering her state of undress—over to a corner and began pulling on her clothes.

  Ben turned to Bradford. “You are one miserable son of a bitch, Bradford.”

  “I’m hurt bad, General. You’ve got to help
me.”

  “General?” Lara paused in her dressing.

  “I’m Ben Raines.”

  Lara’s eyes widened, and she leaned against a table for support. “My God!” she breathed. “Yes. Of course you are. I recognize you now. Your face is so bruised and beat up—”

  “Ah, Lara, would you mind continuing dressing? Finish slipping on that bra, maybe? It’s a bit disconcerting talking with you while your, ah, you know, are, ah, exposed.”

  Lara blushed from her toes to her nose, and quickly slipped on her bra.

  “Thank you,” Ben said drily. He turned his attention toward Bradford. “Fuck you, punk.”

  “You can’t leave me like this!” Bradford protested. “My legs are broken.”

  “Good,” Lara said. “I hope you die, you rotten bastard.”

  “Filthy degenerate militia whore!” Bradford spat the words at her.

  “You’re calling her degenerate, you twisted son of a bitch?” Ben asked. “My, my.”

  Lara smiled, but it was a smile that held no humor. “Some of the things they’ve done to women in here are unspeakable, General. And to men. They’ve castrated some militia members. Lobotomized others. All in the name of democracy, of course.”

  “Sure. Back before the collapse and the Great War, some of us who didn’t have our heads up our asses used to call what Osterman and her ilk advocated cultural Nazism.”

  “I’ve read a few of your writings, General, but to be found with anything you wrote in one’s possession now could mean death. It’s classified as subversive and highly traitorous.”

  “I’ve heard.” He smiled. “Well, I’ve never claimed to be a literary threat to the memory of John Steinbeck. Tell you what—call me Ben, please. OK, Lara. Search those bodies and take everything on them . . . everything. Then we’ll see about the other prisoners.”

  “What about me?” Bradford moaned.

  Ben shot him.

  He looked at Lara. She shrugged. “I was going to do that if you didn’t, Gen—Ben. That bastard has ruined the lives of several hundred people.”

  “At first he seemed like sort of a good guy.”

  “He always does . . . did. He told me before the torture started that if I’d go down on him he’d see to it that I didn’t get sent to a reindoctrination camp. I told him I’d rather eat a live tarantula.”

  Ben laughed at that, but that hurt his bruised and swollen face. “They talked about putting you in with some prisoners.”

  “The real hardcases. Criminal types. That would have been . . . unpleasant.”

  “I would imagine. OK. Check the others. I’ll search Bradford.”

  “What about the other guards?”

  “What others? I’ve either killed or put out of commission every guard I found.”

  “How many?”

  “About half a dozen.”

  “Six more, then.”

  “We’ll worry about them as soon as we’re finished here.”

  Lara got nervous about that. “We could be trapped down here, Ben.”

  “No, we won’t. There’s a door at the end of the hall. I saw it. It has to lead out of here. If it’s locked, we can blow it open.”

  Bradford had a wad of cash on him—as had all the others—and several government credit cards.

  “These guys must have just gotten paid,” Lara said, stuffing the money in her jeans pocket—which, Ben had observed, she filled out quite handsomely.

  Ben hid a smile, thinking, I must be getting better. “We can use the money. It’s a long way to our lines.”

  “That’s where we’re going?”

  “You have a better idea? I’m certainly open to suggestions.”

  “The Feds scattered our militia movement.” She grimaced. “Those they didn’t kill or capture. And after this,”—she waved a hand at the bodies of the guards—“they’ll kill us on sight. The Rebel lines sound good to me.”

  Ben nodded his head. “OK. Get that rucksack over there on the table and put all the sidearms and spare mags in it. And their personal possessions.” He looked around at the dead guards. “The boots on that guy,” Ben said, pointing, “look about my size. The ones I have on are too big. Give me a minute.”

  “OK. You get them,” Lara said quickly. “I’ll stand guard. Those half a dozen others still on the loose worry me. Don’t they worry you at all?”

  “Not all that much,” Ben said, bending down and quickly unlacing and jerking the boots off the dead man. “The Rebels are always outnumbered. It’s something we’ve all gotten accustomed to.”

  “You have no idea how inventive these people can be when it comes to torture. They were just getting started on me.” She shuddered in remembrance. “To be honest, I was hoping for a quick death.”

  Ben was trying on the boots. They were a perfect fit with only one pair of socks. He finished lacing them and then stuffed the spare socks in his pocket. “Put that out of your mind. Concentrate on staying alive. Let’s check on those other prisoners . . . ready?”

  “As I’ll ever be.” She picked up the rucksack.

  “Let’s do it, then. As the old line reads, We’ve miles to go.”

  “Who wrote that?”

  “Damned if I can remember.” He grinned at her. “My tastes usually ran to, ‘A bunch of the boys were whooping it up in the Malamute Saloon . . .’”

  A door slammed somewhere in the lower floor.

  “Company,” Ben said. “Now the fun begins.”

  “Fun?”

  “Killing Osterman’s goons.”

  “Tommy?” a voice called.

  “Tommy Bradford,” Lara whispered.

  Ben smiled. “Right here!” he called. He lifted the muzzle of his CAR.

  The bootsteps drew closer.

  NINE

  The guard stuck his head into the interrogation chamber and Ben shot him in the center of the forehead. The man’s M-16 clattered on the concrete floor. Ben hauled the body into the room, which now was beginning to stink of death.

  “Get his rifle and spare mags,” Ben told Lara. “And search him for money and keys.”

  Seconds later, Ben and Lara stepped out into the hall. Ben locked the door behind them. “Let’s find those other prisoners,” he said. “And I want to find the records room of this damn place. I’m going to destroy every file here.”

  “We’ve still got a few guards to deal with,” Lara reminded him.

  “I haven’t forgotten them. I just make a point never to sweat the small shit.”

  She smiled at him. Her teeth were very white and even. “Do you ever get excited about anything, Ben?”

  “Rarely, with one exception.”

  “And that is?”

  Ben cut his eyes to her and grinned. “You really want me to tell you?”

  She laughed and shook her head. “I think I can accurately guess.”

  The first cell they came to, set down a separate wing of the basement, held two men. Ben unlocked the door and said, “I don’t care what you’ve done to get locked in this funny farm. It’s time for a fresh start. When you hear an explosion, that will be your cue to leave. If I see you before then, I’ll shoot you without hesitation. Understood?”

  Ben made the same little speech to every man in every cell, some of whom were in bad shape from beatings. They all understood.

  “Ben Raines,” one of the men whispered to his cellmate. “That’s Ben Raines! Pass the word down the line.”

  Ben and Lara went up the stairs to the ground floor and promptly ran into two of the remaining guards. Lara finished them without changing expression.

  “I just don’t like those people,” she said.

  “Gee, I would never have guessed,” Ben said. “Come on, let’s finish it and get the hell gone from here. We’ve got to find that records room.”

  They ran into no more guards during their search. When they found the records room it was filled with filing cabinets stuffed with hundreds of records on New York State individuals who did not share Madam President Osterman’s views on government. Ben spilled them all on the floor, all over the room, and set them on fire. He smashed the computers, printers, and monitors while Lara stood watch in the hall.

  Ben smashed out the windows so oxygen could feed the flames and stepped out of the room, closing the door. “The fire will be contained in that room for quite a while,” he said. “Let’s prowl some more.”