Slaughter in the Ashes Page 8

  Two more blocks, and he ran into a line of punks. Somebody in the leadership was getting smart, for they had stretched the punks out in a line running south to north, effectively cutting off Ben’s access to the waterfront. Every street and alley was blocked, and the punks were digging in for a long stay, fortifying every position.

  “Interesting,” Ben muttered to the night. “Why would they be doing that now?”

  He thought about that for a moment, then concluded that the gang leaders suspected some Rebels had escaped the mortar attack, but had not been evac-ed from Manhattan. They were attempting to block as many avenues of escape as possible . . . and doing a pretty good job of it.

  Ben cut back east and made his way to what he felt sure was Broadway. A plan was taking shape in his mind.

  He might be blocked from escape, but he sure as hell wasn’t blocked from taking action. But he couldn’t just jump in and start shooting. That would be signing his own death warrant. He had to hole up somewhere out of sight and formulate a plan of attack.

  It was doubtful that the two punks he’d killed would be missed. But when he started head-hunting in earnest, the leaders of the gangs would know they had a situation and come looking for the troublemaker.

  That meant he must behave like a bunny rabbit and have several exit holes.

  He had carefully marked on his map the location of the cache of weapons, ammo, and water. He did not want to leave food, for he knew the rats would find that. A rat might actually enjoy Chase’s hi-energy bars.

  NINE

  Gangs of thugs that had been hiding out in small groups all over the northeast massed and attacked Rebel positions. Ike called in every battalion in the Rebel army. But until reinforcements arrived, he could not worry about whether Ben was dead or alive in the ruins of Manhattan; he had a fight for survival on his hands.

  Ben knew nothing of this. He had no radio and was cut off from the outside world. On the day he awakened in the gray light of his first early morning of isolation, he was hungry, thirsty, pissed off, and ached all over from bruises the falling debris had inflicted on his body.

  Ben ate half of a hi-energy bar and thought longingly of bacon and eggs, home fries, biscuits and oatmeal and a pot of coffee.

  He washed down a couple of aspirin with sips of tepid water and stood up, suppressing a groan as his battered body protested the movement.

  He walked over to what used be a window on the second floor of the building and looked out He could see smoke from hundreds of cook fires, some of the smoke distressingly close to his position.

  Ben packed up his gear and struggled into the pack, then picked up his CAR and his lead pipe club and carefully made his way down the rickety stairs to the ground floor. Just as his boots touched the floor, he froze as a man’s voice reached him. The man appeared to be muttering to himself.

  Jesus! Ben thought. It’s a good thing I’m not a restless sleeper or I’d be dead.

  The man walked into view and in the gloom of the old building, Ben could see that he was armed with an AK-47 and wearing a blue bandanna tied around his head. Ben wondered if those were gang colors, for the two men he’d bashed on the head hours before had been wearing the same color bandannas.

  The man stepped closer and Ben whacked him on the noggin. The punk dropped unconscious to the floor, losing his grip on the AK. The AK bounced and clattered to the floor.

  “Hey, Willie!” The shout came from the outside. “What’s the matter, boy? Did you trip over your dick?”

  Ben slung his CAR, shoved the lead pipe behind his web belt, and picked up the AK, checking it. He tore the ammo pouch off the man and slung it over one shoulder, straightening up just as the doorway filled with men.

  “Goddammit!” one of the punks yelled, the sight before him registering in his brain.

  The gang member didn’t have long to think about it. Ben leveled the AK and pulled the trigger, clearing the archway of all living things.

  Ben whirled around and was out the back door and in the alley before the echoing of the gunfire had died away. He ran up the alley and ducked into another building, silently hoping the building’s other entrances and exits weren’t blocked by debris.

  In the semi-darkness of the building, a man rose up from dirty blankets and said, “What the hell’s going on?”

  Ben butt-stroked him under the chin, scooped up a rucksack by the man’s rifle, and kept on running. He had no idea what was in the canvas rucksack, but hoped it was something he could use. The man fell back in his blankets for an additional and totally unexpected snooze.

  Ben cut to his left and emerged in a courtyard between buildings. He cut to his right and stepped into the gloom and ruins of another building, then paused for a few seconds to catch his breath and look into the heavy rucksack. It was filled with grenades.

  “The gods of war must be smiling on me this day,” Ben muttered. He heard a shout, followed by running feet. Several punks had entered the courtyard. They paused, looking all around, trying to determine who, or what, was causing all the commotion.

  Ben popped the pin on the grenade and chucked it, the mini-bomb landing right in the middle of the knot of punks.

  Ben didn’t wait around to see what carnage he caused; he turned and ran toward a stream of dim light pouring through a blasted hole in the wall. He could see empty street beyond that. He wished he had some thin black wire, and some time, so he could rig up booby traps for the unwashed.

  He also wished for a pot of coffee.

  His wishing abruptly vanished as a huge woman stepped in front of him. The woman was not fat, just big. About six feet tall and a good two hundred pounds.

  “Who the fuck are you?” the woman asked, her extremely bad breath fouling the air. Ben also caught a whiff of body odor that would stop a stampeding ox.

  “Jesus, lady,” he said. “Did your mother forget to introduce you to soap and water?”

  “Haw!” the near-amazon said.

  Ben kissed her with the butt of the AK and the big woman hit the floor. “I really would like to stay and continue this sparkling conversation, lady, but I have pressing matters elsewhere,” Ben muttered.

  The big woman farted in her unconsciousness, and that put wings on Ben’s boots. He headed for the light and, he hoped, a breath of fresh air.

  What he got, standing in the light of the side street, was a half dozen punks. Ben ran into them, knocking several off their feet and sprawling in the dirty alley.

  Ben recovered first, not due to any skill on his part—he just ran into a wall that stopped his forward motion. He spun around and leveled the AK, holding the trigger back and spraying the lead.

  When the magazine emptied, Ben didn’t wait to see how many gang members were out of action permanently; he just took off running into the next building, into an alley, into the next building, changing magazines on the trot. His face was throbbing from the impact against the brick wall and he could feel the blood trickling down his face from several cuts.

  He exited that building and found himself in a brick-walled courtyard of some sort with no way out.

  “Shit!” Ben said, and entered the building he’d just exited. This time he headed, he hoped, for the front of the building and the street, but he couldn’t be sure—his sense of direction was all screwed up from the twisting and turning he’d done.

  Ben slowed when he saw the blown-out shop windows pouring light into the gloom of the interior. Squatting in the stoop of the doorway for a moment, he caught his breath and listened.

  All of the shouting seemed to be coming from his right, several blocks down. He did some fast figuring. He must have traveled, since the evening before, about eight or ten blocks north and two or three blocks west. He pulled out his map and studied it. He was on West Broadway, and the street directly to his left was Canal.

  But why no punks in this area? Why hadn’t they pursued him?

  He thought about that for a moment.

  Then the answer came to him.


  Night People.

  He was in creepie territory.

  “Oh, hell!” Ben muttered.

  He slowly rose to his boots and looked behind him. Nothing there but rubble. He stepped out onto the sidewalk and turned to his left, jogging up the street. If his calculations were correct, he was just south of the SoHo historical district—smack in the middle of creepie country.

  Not a very comfortable situation.

  He crossed Canal and ducked into the ruins of a building. The familiar smell assailed his nostrils. Grimacing, Ben backed out of that building, turned to his left, and kept walking for several blocks. He saw no punks but smelled plenty of creeps.

  He stopped to rest, for his head still throbbed slightly and his body ached form the pounding of the bricks. Once more, he consulted his map. Useless, for the map didn’t list all the smaller streets. Ben wasn’t sure where he was.

  Rested, he continued on north, moving cautiously. After several blocks, the smell of creepies faded and Ben guessed he was once more in punk territory. He slipped into a building and carefully inspected the ground floor, the only floor that remained. It was clear of punks and there was no telltale odor of creeps. Ben sat down on the floor, took a sip of water, rolled a cigarette, and pondered his situation, which was not good, no matter from which side he mentally approached it.

  He was holding the unlit cigarette in one hand, lighter in another, when a voice behind him said, “You’re no punk, mister. I can tell that much. But that doesn’t mean you’re not the enemy. You just sit still and don’t move. You move, and I’ll kill you.”

  A woman’s voice. Not old, not young. “Do I have your permission to light this cigarette?” Ben asked.

  “Yeah. I guess so. But do it slowly.”

  Ben lit up. “I’m going to put this lighter back in my pocket—okay?”

  “All right.”

  The voice moved around to one side and Ben cut his eyes, following her movement. His eyes widened at the sight A very attractive lady stood holding an M-16, and Ben had no doubt she knew how to use it—and would. Black hair cut short, unreadable dark eyes. Maybe five feet, four inches tall. Jeans that fit her very snugly and a man’s shirt that was too large for her. Boots that had seen better days.

  Ben guessed her age at about thirty.

  “You a Rebel?” the woman asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Aren’t you kinda old for a Rebel?”

  Ben laughed and the woman’s eyes narrowed. “There are those in my command who would certainly agree with you, lady. You have a name?”

  “Judy.”

  “I’m Ben Raines.”

  “You’re a liar, mister! Ben Raines runs a whole country down south. Probably lives in a big mansion with servants and all that.”

  Ben chuckled. “Actually, my house is rather average. And I have no servants. Just a person who comes in once a week and cleans up—when I’m home, that is, which isn’t often.”

  “You got some I.D.?” She moved closer.

  “I sure do. Dog tags around my neck.”

  “Take them off and toss them to me.”

  Ben slipped the tags off his neck and tossed them on the floor about two feet in front of the woman. When she bent down to retrieve the tags, Ben jerked the rifle out of her hands and shoved her backward. She landed on her butt on the floor, spitting like a cat.

  “Now just calm down,” Ben told her, grabbing up his dog tags and slipping them around his neck. He moved back a comfortable distance and sat down on an old wooden box. “My name really is Ben Raines. The punks hit us with a surprise attack yesterday. I got cut off from my team and pinned down in a building. Knocked out. I came to about 1800 hours last evening and have been dodging punks even since.” He smiled. “And killing a few whenever possible.”

  The woman slowly nodded. She pulled herself up to a sitting position, her back against what was left of a counter showcase. “How’d you get through the Uglies south of here?”

  “The Uglies?”

  “Most people outside of the zone call them Night People.”

  “Manhattan is the zone, I presume?”

  “Yes.”

  “I walked through the creeps’ territory. But did so very cautiously when I started smelling the bastards.”

  She smiled, and her teeth were startlingly white against her face. “They do stink, don’t they?”

  “You have a last name?”

  “Miller. When my husband got killed several years ago, I went back to my maiden name.”

  Ben held up the M-16, hesitated for a few seconds, then tossed the weapon to her.

  She taught it deftly. “Thanks. You really are Ben Raines?”

  “In person. And wondering how the hell to get off this piece of real estate.”

  She laughed softly. “Forget it, General Raines. As soon as the punks launched their attack on you people ’way south of here, they began shifting people around. There are patrols everywhere. I couldn’t get back to my people because of the patrols.”

  “Your people?”

  “Yes. We hold Central Park and a few blocks all around the area. We have just under two hundred people . . . men, women, and children.”

  Ben dug in his pack for one of the hi-energy bars and tossed it to her. “They don’t taste very good, but they’re packed with all sorts of stuff the doctors say we need to stay alive.”

  Judy tore off the wrapper and took a bite. “Not bad,” she said. “You ever eaten rat, general?”

  “Call me Ben. No, I’ve been spared that.”

  “We have. Gulls, pigeons, you name it. We won’t eat dogs or cats. We draw the line at that. But compared to some of the things we had to eat when we first banded together, this is great.”

  “How have you managed to keep the punks and the creepies out of your area?”

  “We booby-trapped it. We had an ex-army man with us for several years who was some sort of guerrilla fighter. He showed us all about man-trapping and so forth.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “He was killed by the punks just about a year ago. He went out on patrol with a couple of others and the punks ambushed them. Only one made it back and he died the next day.”

  “You going to invite me to your fort?” Ben asked with a smile.

  She looked at him for a moment, then nodded. “Sure. But we can’t go during the day, it’s too risky. It’s jumping with punks out there.”

  “I’m sure you know best.”

  “You people have radios?”

  “Oh, yes. CBs.”

  “That’ll work. I’ve got to get in touch with my people and tell them to hold off shelling the city until we can get you and your bunch out of here.”

  “We’ve wanted to make a run for it for some time. Head down south to the SUSA.” She sighed. “But that’s such a long way. And we’ve got some elderly with us that . . . well, I don’t know if they could stand the trip.”

  “We’ll get you out of these ruins, Judy. Are there any more groups like yours?”

  She shook her head. “No. There used to be dozens of little groups of survivors scattered about. Some made it out, most were killed by the punks or the uglies.”

  “You’re sure? For when I turn my people loose, it’s going to get real grim in a hurry.”

  “Yes. I’m sure.”

  “How about boats, Judy?”

  She smiled and shook her head. “Not a chance, general . . . I mean, Ben. And believe me, we’ve looked.”

  “You people must have moved into the ruins just after we pulled out, several years ago?”

  She shrugged. “I suppose so. We’re from all over. We’ve just got one thing in common.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. Staying alive.”

  TEN

  Several times that day, punk patrols walked past the building where Ben and Judy were hiding. Once a man stuck his head inside, looked around for a few seconds, then left.

  “How many punks on this rock?” Ben aske
d.

  “Thousands. We estimated five or six thousand up until about six months ago. Then they really started pouring in.”

  “That’s our fault, Judy. We put them on the run and began herding them in this direction.”

  “And you’re going to wipe them out?”

  “Right now to the last person, if they don’t surrender.”

  “And you’ll let us become a part of the SUSA?”

  “Sure. Once we’re off this rock, I’ll call in for transports and fly you and your people down south.” He smiled. “What’d you do before the Great War?”

  “I was just out of college. A teacher. One morning I woke up and . . . everything was topsy-turvy. You know what I mean?”

  “Yes. I know exactly what you mean.”

  “My dad used to read your Western books, Ben. He had a whole collection of them.”

  Ben chuckled. “Where was home?”

  “Really not that far from here. Massachusetts. Little town on the Cape. Real pretty place.”

  “No desire to go back and live there?”

  “Not really.” She laughed softly. “I was a real go-getter activist before the Great War. What you used to call in your books a hanky-stomping liberal. I’m afraid I could never fit in again back in that little town.”

  “It’s amazing how many converts I’ve run into since everything collapsed.”

  She smiled. “I’m sure about that. Oh, I sobbed for the poor criminals in prison because of abusive childhoods. I wept for the poor misunderstood wretches imprisoned because of a racist society. I don’t think you would have liked me very much back then, Ben.”

  “Oh, I probably would have just laughed at you.”

  Her smile faded. “Not too much to laugh about now, though, is there?”

  “Not in this part of the country.”

  “Down in the SUSA?”

  “Last report I got said we were getting back to normal. At least as normal as things can get at this time.”

  “There is nothing normal around here.”

  Judy and Ben talked of many things during the long afternoon. Ben noticed that she talked very little of her past, and evaded most questions he posed about it.