Hatred in the Ashes Read online

  Ben walked around all the slabs stomping at the ground, trying to find some spot that didn’t sound just right. He could find nothing out of the ordinary. “Well, shit!” he said, kicking at what he thought was a small piece of wood lying on the ground. He almost broke his toe on the object, and came very close to losing his balance.

  Ben hopped around on one foot for a moment, cussing. Then it dawned on him what he just might have hit. Ben looked around for something to dig with. He found a piece of board and went to work. He soon had one end of a timber uncovered. It lay under one corner of a rotting piece of plywood. “All right,” Ben said. “I found you.”

  He worked for an hour, scraping off the dirt and uncovering the cache. Using a piece of rope he’d found in the cargo area of the buggy, Ben rigged a hoist for the supplies and then stepped down into the hole.

  He began stripping off the heavy protective covering from the crates. The first several crates contained boxes of field rations. Ben checked the date they’d been manufactured: Years back, but this type had an indefinite shelf life; they were still good. Ben began smiling as he uncovered crate after crate of gear: ammo, grenades, clothing, water, flashlight batteries, first aid kits, tire repair kits . . . just about anything anybody could think of to aid survival.

  But now Ben faced another problem: how to haul what he needed. The cargo area of the homemade dune buggy wasn’t large enough to carry very much. Then Ben had an idea. He stepped out of the hole and carefully checked the tires on the buggy. They were in excellent shape; almost new. Ben didn’t know where the punks had gotten the tires . . . stole them from somebody, he was sure. He shrugged. Their loss, his gain. He checked the rear of the buggy: a trailer hitch.

  Ben had seen a piece of a trailer back in the barn of the place he was hiding out. No tires on it, of course, but with any kind of luck Ben just might be able to find some flattened tires that someone had abandoned and repair them with the kits found in the cache of supplies. Maybe. He put several tire repair kits and a hand pump in the buggy, added a few other things he might need, then rested for a moment.

  He drove back into town and began carefully prowling. The few stores that once carried tires and other automotive supplies would have long ago been looted. Home garages just might produce something.

  He spent the entire morning prowling and came up with four tires and rims that might work. Ben drove back to the home on the edge of town and went to work. Two hours later he had the tires up—they were holding air, and on the trailer. He backed the buggy up and hooked up the small two-wheel trailer. Ready to go.

  Before he got halfway to the airport, one of the old tires blew out. Ben replaced the tire, cussing and muttering under his breath, and continued on. He would have to be constantly on the lookout for tires, for age had taken a toll on the rubber and they wouldn’t stand up to much hard traveling over the really lousy roads.

  Ben loaded up as much as he felt the tires would hold, and headed for a spot in the town he felt none of the punks would be interested in: the university.

  It was a mess. The buildings had been looted, the books destroyed—naturally, that would be the first thing the punks did. Punks would never understand that knowledge was the first step toward great power. Most of those with a bent toward thuggery were afraid of knowledge.

  Ben cleaned out a spot in an old classroom and began prowling the college grounds, inspecting each building. He found a coil of thin cable and clamps and hooks and about fifty feet of rope that was in pretty good shape. There was a small but very good tool kit with the supplies in the emergency cache, so Ben wasn’t looking for tools.

  He found a pocketknife in a pile of debris in one of the dorm rooms, an old portable radio. With new batteries (something he now had plenty of) he might be able to bring in some station and get some news . . . good or bad, depending entirely on whether the station was under restrictive US federal control (now almost exclusively broadcasting hard left-wing propaganda) or in free Rebel territory. There were some restrictions on what might be put on the air in the SUSA, but not when it came to news—then it was one hundred percent truth: no statements edited to the point where context or content was twisted, no slant by commentators.

  Ben continued his prowling of the town, and in a pile of debris on the floor of a home he found a folder containing state and county maps. The paper was brittle, and he had to be careful handling the maps, but they were readable. He found little else he could use. Just after noon, he stopped his searching and made ready to pull out.

  Ben carefully concealed the bunker—still more than three-quarter filled with supplies—and loaded the old trailer. Just as he was about to crank the engine of the buggy, he heard the faint sounds of approaching vehicles.

  Ben quickly pulled into what remained of a small hangar and waited. There was nothing else he could do . . . he was caught in a one way in, one way out, situation. The vehicles were definitely heading in his direction.

  He clicked his CAR off safety and waited.

  Seven

  The six vehicles—three dune buggies, a car, and two pickup trucks—stopped several hundred yards away from Ben’s location. The occupants, two to a vehicle—at least that many, Ben couldn’t be sure at that distance—stayed in their vehicles.

  “Come on, boys,” Ben muttered. “Let me see how many I’m up against.”

  After hiding the buggy Ben had grabbed a rucksack containing full magazines for his CAR and six grenades. He didn’t want to start anything with the vehicles so close together: he wanted one of those pickup trucks.

  The vehicles started forward. Then several veered off, forming a wide circle. Their intention, Ben felt, was to completely surround the area where the buildings were located.

  “They’ve got a strong suspicion I’m here,” Ben whispered. “So come on, boys.” Then he smiled, recalling an often used line from western movies and books. “It’s a good day to die.”

  The punks didn’t want to get too close to the buildings that remained at the old airport, though. As strong as they were in number, they were being very cautious in dealing with Ben. Maybe they want to take me alive for ransom or torture, or both, Ben thought.

  The truth was, the punks were scared of Ben. Stories about him were legend . . . and most of them were true. In battle, Ben offered no quarter and expected none. And it was known worldwide that Ben Raines hated punks and would not hesitate for a second to shoot one.

  Ben waited in what was left of the old hangar with the patience of a born warrior. He had good cover all around him, plenty of ammo, and he was ready for a fight.

  “Come out of there, Raines!” The command was shouted from off to Ben’s left. “If we have to come in and get you, you gonna get bad hurt or die, man.”

  Ben smiled grimly and his eyes changed, hardening and narrowing. He made no reply as he thought: Stop yapping about it and just do it, punk. Let’s get this action started. I have miles to go and things to do.

  One of the punks fired, the bullet slamming into a pile of debris a dozen yards behind Ben. Another of the gang fired, this time from behind Ben. Ben could not tell where that slug came from, or went. He did not move.

  “Maybe he ain’t really here, Slick,” another voice shouted. “We don’t know for sure.”

  “He’s here, Willie,” Slick called. “He couldn’t have gone in the direction Sonny said he did. Sonny forgot about that road bein’ blocked. Raines just tried to pull a fast one, that’s all. But it didn’t work, and we got him in a box.”

  “You wanna open the lid on this box, Slick?” another voice called.

  Slick didn’t reply, and Ben smiled again.

  “That’s what I thought,” the voice called. “Ain’t none of us real anxious to lift the lid on this box.”

  “It’s just one man, Benny,” Slick finally called. “We can take him if we’re careful.”

  “And that’s exactly what I plan on bein,’ ” Benny said. “Real careful.”

  “Come on out of
there, Raines!” Slick shouted. “We got food and water, and you ain’t got nothin’. Don’t play the fool here and get yourself dead. If we have to we’ll blast you out. Think about that.”

  “Blast away, boys,” Ben muttered. “But do something besides run your mouth.”

  The punks all opened up and Ben hit the dusty concrete floor of the hangar and stayed there until the shooting stopped. They must have burned a hundred or so rounds of ammo and accomplished nothing.

  Ben rose to a kneeling position and looked out through the jumble of rubble he was crouched behind. One of the punks was running toward the hangar. Ben took him down, the burst of 5.56 rounds from his CAR turning the punk around twice. He dropped his weapon and fell to the ground, screaming in pain, both hands holding his perforated belly.

  “You bastard!” yet another voice yelled. “You rotten bastard. We’ll get you for that.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Ben whispered. “Same old crap. Stop yapping and come on and do it.”

  “Get him!” Slick yelled. “Open up and keep the bastard pinned down. Move in. Now!”

  The lead started howling and bouncing around and off the piles of rubble in what was left of the hangar. Ben again went belly down on the floor and shifted position, crawling over behind the rusted hulk of an old car. Some of the lead came uncomfortably close and Ben stretched out on the floor, peering out from the rear of the junked vehicle.

  “Go!” Slick shouted.

  Two of the punks jumped out from behind rusted hulks of vehicles and began running toward the hangar. Ben blew a full magazine in their direction. The twenty round burst cut the legs out from under one and stopped the other cold and dead as the lead ripped into his belly and chest.

  The area around the old hangar was silent for a couple of minutes except for the punk with his legs crippled, thrashing around on the ground and screaming in pain.

  Ben waited, a fresh mag in the CAR.

  The screaming stopped, and the day was quiet.

  Slick called, “We got grenades, Raines. We can blast you out, man.”

  “Then do it,” Ben muttered. “I don’t think you’ve got them. But I sure do.”

  No grenades were lobbed in his direction. One of the punks cussed Ben.

  Ben grinned.

  The punk with the ruined legs had ceased his wild howling and now lay on the ground, moaning in agony. “Y’ all got to help me, Slick,” he called, his voice filled with pain. “I’m hurt really bad.”

  “Sorry, Dave,” Slick called. “Can’t do it. Raines would cut us down and then we’d all be in trouble and Raines would get away. Try crawlin.’ ”

  “Man, shit! What are you talkin’ about? Hell, I can’t crawl! Both my legs is busted. I hurt really bad. The bones is all busted. I can feel them grindin’ around when I try to move. Y’all got to come help me.”

  No one answered Dave, and he began cussing his friends.

  When Dave paused for breath, Slick called, “There ain’t no need to feel that way, Dave. We’re all stuck here. Can’t nobody move.”

  Dave had become too weak and out of breath to say anything. He moaned his reply.

  Another punk worked up his courage to make a try for it. With a yell, he jumped from cover, running for the protection of a building to Ben’s left. “I’m comin’ to help you, Dave!” he shouted. “Hang on, buddy.”

  “I bet you won’t make it,” Ben said, lifting his CAR and squeezing the trigger. He gave the punk half a magazine, waist high, and the running man dropped his weapon and tumbled to the ground, face first. He rolled over once, screamed, jerked several times, and then was still.

  “This ain’t worth shit, Slick,” one of his gang called. “I mean, what the hell, man! Raines is cuttin’ us down fast. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Fuck you,” Slick replied. “Get on the CB and call for the boys to come help us.”

  “The CB ain’t worth shit here, Slick. We’re out of range. We’re on our own.”

  “Some of our people will be along. You can count on that, Rollie.”

  “The hell we can!” Rollie called. “They think we’re headed in the other direction, remember? That’s what you told them when we left, ’fore we run into Sonny.”

  “I want Ben Raines,” Slick said. “Think about it, boys. You too, Marcie . . .”

  Marcie? Ben mused.

  “His people will pay a lot of money to get him back,” Slick called. “And if we kill him, the Rebel movement will fall apart. Either way we win. You all know I’m speakin’ the truth.”

  None of the remaining gang members spoke for a moment. When one did speak, it was a female. Marcie, Ben supposed.

  “I guess you’re right, Slick,” she called from Ben’s left. She sounded young. She was behind cover very close to the old hangar, probably hiding behind that pile of junk about twenty or so yards away. “You people helped me when I needed help. I’ll stick with you.”

  “OK, Marcie,” Slick shouted. “Thanks for stickin’. How ’bout the rest of you?”

  The others, one at a time, finally agreed to stay and finish the fight . . . one way or the other. But some of them did so very reluctantly, especially the female.

  Dave had stopped his moaning, and was still. Passed out from the pain, probably, Ben figured. And that was too bad, for the hollering of wounded was always very demoralizing and usually caused enemies to do foolish things.

  “Come on, you assholes!” Ben finally yelled. “Pack of yellow-bellied scum. What’s the matter . . . Eight or ten to one is not good enough odds for you? What a pack of chickenshits! ”

  “Hey, fuck you, Raines!” one of the punks called. “You ain’t so tough.”

  Ben laughed, loud enough for all of them to hear. “Is that the best you can do? Not only are you yellow, you’re all a bunch of dumb asses!” Ben immediately dropped belly down to the floor after saying that, anticipating a hard burst of fire, and he was right: they all opened up, spraying the lead around.

  Ben lay on the floor, listening to the lead bounce around and cringing whenever a round came close. Finally, the firing stopped. Ben slipped to his knees and waited in silence, hoping one of the gang members would get impatient and screw up. He did not have a long wait.

  “Give me some cover fire!” one of the punks yelled. “Right now!”

  Ben slipped to another spot and peeked out through the rubble in time to see a man running toward the hangar. Ben put him down with one short burst. The punk fell to his knees and stayed in that position for a few seconds, the front of his shirt bloody. Then he toppled over on his face, and was still.

  “You boys keep it up,” Ben called in a taunting voice. “I figure in another hour you’ll all be dead or dying. I have the time. I can wait.”

  “Goddamn you, Raines!” Ben recognized the voice of Slick. “We’re gonna get you. You can count on that.”

  Typical punk response, Ben thought. “You’re sure doing a lousy job of it so far, Slick.”

  “Huh? How come you know my name?”

  “I possess all sorts of magical powers, Slick. I learned them while visiting the priests who live in dark caves in the mountains of Tibet. It was there I learned all about the true mysteries of life.”

  After a moment, Slick shouted, “What the hell are you talkin’ ’bout, Raines? You talkin’ goofy, man. You ain’t makin’ no sense a’tall.”

  “He’s needling you, Slick,” Marcie called. “Trying to make you mad enough to do something stupid.”

  The girl’s got some sense, Ben thought. Maybe she isn’t a totally lost cause. Then he cautioned himself: Forget it, Raines. Don’t start getting soft now. This sure as hell isn’t the time or the place for charity.

  Acting on sudden impulse, Ben moved to the rear of the hangar, just in time to spot a shadow of movement behind the rusted hulk of an old pickup truck. He lifted his CAR and waited. A head popped up for a few seconds, and that was all the time that Ben needed. A short burst of 5.56 rounds took the top of the man’s head off, fr
om the eyes up.

  “Bobby?” another voice called. “Answer me, Bobby?”

  “Bobby’s dead,” someone said. “Jesus Christ, man. Raines blowed off the entar top of his head. They’s brains and stuff all over the damn place.”

  “Shit!” Slick hollered.

  “You seem to be losing gang members, Slick,” Ben called. “Unless my addition is wrong, that’s six down so far. Pretty soon it’ll be just you and me—or maybe not, since you don’t seem to have the balls to do anything on your own.”

  “You son of a bitch!” Slick screamed. “You’ll pay hard for that remark, Raines. I’ll hurt you bad for that, you bastard.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah!” Ben taunted him. “All mouth and no balls, that’s you, Slickie Boy. Not a hair in your crack, is there? I had you pegged right, Candy Ass.”

  Slick cussed Ben for a full minute without stopping, calling him some very interesting combinations of names. The other members—those not too hurt to talk—tried to calm him down, but Slick wasn’t having any part of it. “I’ll cut a hole in your belly, Raines, and pull your stinkin’ guts out an inch at a time, you rotten piece of shit. I’ll pull your fingernails and toenails out just to hear you scream. I’ll gouge out your eyes and cut out your tongue. I’ll—”

  “Oh, shut up, you silly asshole!” Ben shouted. “You’re not going to do anything. You don’t have the balls to do anything, you yellow piece of shit.”

  That did it. Slick lost what little control he had left. “Get him!” the gang leader screamed. “Kill that son of a bitch!”

  The remaining gang members left cover and charged the hangar.

  Ben stopped one with a short burst, spinning him around and putting him on the ground on his butt, both the punks’ hands holding his punctured belly.

  Ben missed the second punk clean. The gang member zigged when Ben was sure he was going to zag. But he did succeed in forcing the punk to hit the ground and scramble on his hands and knees like a big bug for cover.

  The third craphead made the front of the hangar and came screaming and firing at where he supposed Ben to be. He was wrong. Ben stepped out from behind cover and gave him a short rip of 5.56 slugs, catching the punk in the side, shoulder, and arm and slamming him into a pile of rubble.