Survival in the Ashes

Book 12: Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

Genres: Action & Adventure; Sci-fi Action & Adventure; Post-Apocalyptic sci-fi; Dystopian; Military Sci-Fi; Military Thrillers; Military Fantasy

Synopsis

Bloodthirsty mercenaries and fanatical assassins stand between a post-apocalyptic army and freedom—from a USA Today –bestselling author. Ben Raines and his freedom-fighting guerrillas are camped along the banks of what was once the Mississippi River, plotting strategy and readying weapons. A massive pack of heavily armed troops looms on the horizon, marching straight for the Rebels. They are the insidious mercenaries of Kenny Par and Lan Viller, and by midday only the Mississippi separates Raines from the ten thousand blood-hungry warriors all sworn to turn the Rebels' dream into a hellish nightmare. Just as Ben formulates a brilliant battle plan, a Rebel scout reports that the fanatical assassins of Sister Volenta's Ninth Order are approaching from Ben's back. The Rebels will soon be surrounded by freedom's deadliest foes, and a defeat for Raines would mean the end of the Rebel dream. But victory, if he can pull it off, could be the beginning of a new America. Twelfth in the long-running series!

Release date: December 1, 2008

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 324

Sample

Ben Raines and his army of Rebels had fought many battles over the decade since the world exploded in germ and nuclear war, bringing an end to civilization as people had come to know it. But as Ben and his Rebels drove toward St. Louis, after waging war in the Northwest against the racist forces of Malone, Ben was thinking that this upcoming battle could well be the greatest and most decisive battle of his decade-long career against anarchy and for the restoration of civilization.

On the east side of I-55, massing in great numbers, were the mercenary forces of Kenny Parr, the terrorist forces of Khamsin—the Hot Wind—and the mercenary armies of Lan Villar. Very conservative estimates placed their numbers at ten thousand strong.

Behind Ben Raines and his Rebels, coming up from the west, were the forces of Sister Voleta, Ashley, and a ragtag assortment of human crud, all of whom had but one thought in mind: to destroy Ben Raines and turn the world into an outlaw haven.

The clanking of the engine pulled Ben out of his musings. “What the hell’s wrong with this thing?” he asked his driver, Cooper, as the four-wheel-drive vehicle bucked to a halt, smoke wafting from under the hood. Those inside quickly evacuated the vehicle, grabbing equipment as they exited.

“Blew an engine,” Cooper said. “Damn, this thing was supposed to have been rebuilt.” He lifted his mic. “This is Cooper. Bring the other vehicle up. The Eagle’s been grounded.”

Rebels quickly extinguished the fire under the hood and the equipment was off-loaded just as a nine-passenger, four-wheel-drive wagon pulled up. It looked enormous sitting next to the disabled Blazer.

“When and where did you find this boat?” Ben asked, inspecting the big wagon.

“Two weeks ago,” Dan Gray said, walking up. “I’ve had people working on it at every stop since then. You need more room. It’s armorplated and the glass is bulletproof. The engine is the largest we could find. Four fifty something or another. You’ll have a lot more room in this, General.”

Ben looked at his watch. “Hell, we’re close enough. Let’s break for lunch, Dan. Dismount the people and tell them to find shelter. This is where we make our stand.”

They were a few miles south of St. Louis proper. Cecil was in command of the battalions in St. Louis ... or what was left of the city. General Striganov and his people were digging in between the city and Ben and West’s position. Ike was north of the city, digging in.

Ben walked to the communication’s van and stuck his head inside. “What’s the latest word?”

“Hostile forces still pulling in and setting up on the east side of the river, General,” she told him. “They’re facing us along a thirty-mile stretch. Latest estimates are about eight thousand ... with more expected. They have artillery, but no tanks as yet.”

“Lan Villar is confirmed?”

“That’s ten-four, sir. Our scouts report that Khamsin and Kenny Parr have been spotted as well.”

Ben nodded and thanked her. He walked away, chewing on a sandwich and washing it down with water from his canteen.

“Traffic coming up from the south, sir,” a Rebel pointed out.

Ben turned, squinted his eyes, and smiled. The unmistakable rattle of many VW engines reached his ears. To the rear of the VW column, a shiny black hearse was rolling stately along.

Ben walked out onto Highway 61/67 and waited until the strange convoy drew abreast of him. A familiar face looked out at him from the lead VW van.

“For a peace-loving hippie, Thermopolis,” Ben said, “you certainly pop up in the most violent of places.”

“We were listening to your radio transmissions, Ben,” the aging hippie said. “Actually it was Emil who convinced us that we should lend a hand in this fight. It concerns us all.”

“What command do you want to fight under, Therm?”

“Doesn’t make me the slightest bit of difference.”

“Well, I’ve got the short battalion, so you can stay here with us.” He smiled. “You feel like putting up with Emil?”

“I’ve been putting up with him for five hundred miles, Ben.”

“We’ve had some additions since I saw you last. Some outlaw bikers have joined up. They’re called the Wolfpack; headed by a man called Leadfoot. Another group of female bikers is with them. Wanda and her Sisters of Lesbos.”

Themopolis stared at him and finally shook his head. “Ben Raines, you attract the strangest goddamn bunch of people I have ever seen in all my life. And I was a hippie in New Orleans for ten years!”

Ben laughed and looked inside the VW van. “Hello, Rosebud.”

Therm’s wife returned the smile. “Hello, General Raines.”

“What’d you do with the children?” Ben asked.

“Took them to Base Camp One and left them. We felt they’d be safe there.” Thermopolis smiled. “Even though by the time we return, their heads will be pumped full of patriotism and duty and all that crap. We may never be able to deprogram them.”

“You’re a fraud, There Ben told him. ”You’re just as much a hardass as I am. The only difference between us is that you need a haircut.”

Thermopolis laughed and put the VW in gear. “In your opinion,” he said, and drove off toward the staging area.

As the van passed by him, Ben caught a glimpse of blond hair in the back seat. He gritted his teeth. Jerre. He nodded his head at her. She returned the curt nod.

As the caravan of hippies passed, Ben nodded and spoke to Zipper and Fly, Santo and Swallow, Whistler and Wren, Wenceslaus and Zelotes, Adder and Ima, Udder and Ura, Willow and the others who made up the large commune.

The platoon of Rebels who had been assigned to the commune passed by and they waved and yelled at the general. Ben tossed them a left-handed mock salute and waited for Emil Hite to pass by. At least Ben hoped he would pass by and not stop.

The black hearse stopped and Emil jumped out. The little con artist who professed to be the earthbound voice of the Great God Blomm drew himself up and saluted.

“Lafayette, we are here!” he shouted.

Ben sighed and eyeballed the little man. Emil had discarded his flowing robes and changed into tiger-stripe BDUs, black beret, and high-heeled cowboy boots. He was a bit unsteady on his feet.

Buddy and Tina, Ben’s kids, walked up, both of them smiling. Colonel Dan Gray, CO of the Scouts, stood by them, his little dog, Chester, by his boots. Dan struggled to hide his smile.

With some assistance, Emil climbed up on the hood of the hearse.

“Oh, no!” Ben muttered.

Emil started to slide off the hood and waved his arms frantically, finally regaining his balance. “We have traveled many a hard and dangerous mile to reach you, General Raines. Through fog and rain and gloom of night . . .”

Ben tuned him out as best he could, hoping that the speech would be a short one. For all his theatrics, Emil and his followers had proved to be some tough fighters; they would stand against terrible odds.

Emil finally wound down and managed to get off the hood of the hearse without busting his butt.

“Good to have you with us, Emil,” Ben said. And Ben was telling the truth. Ben liked the little con artist, for Emil could always be counted on to provide some comic relief when the situation got grim. “Follow Thermopolis and his people and dig in.”

“At your orders, sir!” Emil shouted, saluting. “My people will fight to the death . . .”

“Emil!”

“. . . We shall fight on the beaches and the hedgerows. . .”

Ben groaned.

“... We shall fight in the streets and from the bunkers. . .”

Even the little dog, Chester, was looking at Emil very strangely.

“Right, Emil,” Ben said. “I appreciate your coming up here . . .”

“And when ammunition is no more, we shall fight with entrenching tools and clubs . . .”

“Thank you, Emil. Your loyalty is very nearly overwhelming.”

“We shall never surrender and ever with liberty and justice . . .” Emil looked confused for a moment. “I said that wrong.”

Ben patted the man on the shoulder. “It’s all right, Emil. I understand.”

With Emil gone, Ben turned to Dan Gray. “Have there been any shots exchanged, Dan?”

“Negative, General. Both sides appear to be too busy digging in.”

“So it’s shaping up to be an artillery battle.”

“At first, yes. But that will change very quickly as those on the east side of the river learn we have them outgunned.”

“We’re going to have to keep a sharp eye on our rear and our flanks. Voleta and Ashley will be coming up hard and fast.”

“I’ve set up posts stretching from Hannibal in the north to Salem in the south. They’re dug in and well concealed alongside every road capable of sustaining heavy traffic.”

“Good. All right, Dan. Let’s go see how our people are doing.”

Dan took the lead and assigned Scouts to the rear of the short column, with Ben and his personal team in the center, Cooper at the wheel of the big wagon.

Everyone who could use a shovel was busy filling sandbags, digging bunkers, and finding heavy timbers to add support. Tanks and artillery were being positioned and fortified. Along the river, working unseen, Rebels were quietly occupying empty warehouses and other buildings and setting up heavy machine gun positions, fortifying their positions with sandbags and railroad ties.

Ben and his teams moved into General Striganov’s sector. The Russian had dug his people in deep and quickly. Striganov handed Ben powerful binoculars and moved them toward a window of his CP, located close to the river. “Take a look, General.”

The activity across the river jumped into the lenses. “Jesus!” Ben said. “It looks like the staging area in England before D-Day.”

“My thoughts exactly,” the Russian agreed with a smile. “I, too, have seen old newsclips of the storming of the beaches.”

Ben turned to Corrie. “Tell Ike to send his demolition people north and south, Corrie. Blow the bridges that are still standing from Quincy to Cape Girardeau. We’ll make the bastards come across the river if they want us. After you’ve done that, bump Base Camp One and have all PUFFs readied and flown up here. Land them at that strip we cleared at Saint Clair.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ben and his teams drove into the ruins of St. Louis, using Interstate 55, picking their way along.

Cecil and the mercenary, West, had deployed their troops south to north within the city, from Weber Road in the south to Hall Street in the north.

St. Louis was a study in desolation and ruin. Time and fire and assorted vandals and crud and punks and Night People had turned the city into a wasteland. The suburbs of the city, where Ben had his people to the south, and Ike to the north, were bad enough, but inside the city itself, it was ruin . . . most of it by human hand.

Cecil Jefferys and Ike McGowan met Ben at Carondelet Park and the men shook hands.

“They’re dug in tight across the river,” Cecil said.

“I’ve seen. All right, so we’ve lost the element of surprise. I’m passing the word up and down the line, personally. Let’s get all our artillery and heavy mortars in place and the enemy’s positions spotted and coordinated. When can you have that done?”

“By 1800 hours.”

“Same here,” Ike said.

“Approximately the same time Georgi and West gave me.” Ben handrolled a cigarette and was thoughtful for a moment. “Cec, you and West were the first ones to arrive. When do the troops across the river roll out for breakfast?”

“Between 0530 and 0600 hours, Ben. It’s been that way ever since we got here.”

Ben nodded. “All right. At 0600 hours, tomorrow morning, I want all of us to open up with everything we’ve got in artillery. Willie Peter, HE, Napalm—in that order.” He looked at Dan. “Do you know where their supply depots are located?”

“Yes. I have them pinpointed. But they’re too far back for anything except our heaviest artillery to effectively strike.”

“Drop the other boot, Dan.”

“Our one fifty-five’s and eight-inchers are not in place; they’re not even here yet. And won’t be for another thirty-six hours.”

“Roads getting that bad?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That may be a blessing in disguise,” Ben said, grinding out the butt of his cigarette under his boot heel. “They may think the shorter range artillery is all we have and not move their depots.” He lifted a map and studied it. “Corrie, bump the convoy and tell them to take one-forty-one at Arnold and then cut east on Interstate Two-seventy, take that on into the city. Dan, have your Scouts meet them there and escort them to here.” He punched the map. “Just west of Interstate fifty-five. Have them spread out north to south and get in place doubletime.”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right, Ike. Let’s go see what you’ve got cooking in your sector.”

Ike rode with Ben in the big wagon. “What’d you do with Thermopolis and Emil?”

“Kept them with me. Therm will look after Emil. How far up did you have to stretch your people?”

“I’ve got a few all the way up to where the Missouri makes its final turn before turning south and flowing into the Muddy.”

“That’s stretching it pretty thin. How’s Lambert Field?”

“Shitty. I’ve got a crew out there now trying to clear two runways. They say it’ll be several days at best.”

“Then I’ll let the order stand putting the PUFFs down at that strip in Saint Clair.”

“At least for a time. Ben?”

Ben met his eyes.

“St. Louis is full of creepies.”

“It doesn’t surprise me,” Ben said. “This whole operation started out as a cluster-fuck.”

Lan Villar and Kenny Parr were supposed to have been several hundred miles from St. Louis. Instead, Cecil found them digging in on the east side of the river when he pulled in from Base Camp One. Original estimates placed the enemy’s strength at about five to six thousand. As it turned out, they were over ten thousand strong.

“Have they tried any crap with your people?” Ben asked.

“No. They’ve pulled back into the city proper and left us alone.”

“Corrie, make a note to keep our people out of the downtown area unless they go in force.”

“Yes, sir.”

They reached Ike’s sector and got out. “I want all the bridges blown simultaneously, Ike. No surprises for us.”

“That’s ten-four, Ben. My teams have already moved out.”

“How about survivors?”

“None,” Ike said it flatly. “It looks like they split a long time ago.”

“When we leave here, we’ll destroy the city.”

Defeat never entered Ben’s mind, and all the Rebels knew it and adopted the same attitude. That was just one of the reasons they were practically indefeatable. That, and the fact that they knew they were right and just kept on coming.

“That’s ten-four, Ben.” He stuck a piece of home-manufactured gum in his mouth. “You seen Jerre?”

“Briefly. How did you know she was here?”

“A little birdie told me.”

“My kids have big mouths.”

“Actually it was Cecil. She brought the twins down to Base Camp One for safekeeping. He said they have their mother’s good looks and your eyes.” He chewed and grinned at Ben.

Ben met his longtime friend’s eyes and returned the smile. “Corrie, make a note to have Jerre assigned to Ike’s command.”

Ben did not assign Jerre to Ike—he had no intention of doing so—but he did have his friend sputtering for a few moments. Ben had made up his mind to try and make friends with Jerre, if at all possible, and to not be so mean to her as before—as Corrie, Jersey, and Beth had said he had been. Personally, Ben thought he had been cool and aloof rather than mean, but perhaps women looked at it differently.

He went looking for her, and found her helping to set up an aide station on Telegraph Road, just south of I-255. Ben stood in the door, watching her, until she felt eyes on her and turned slowly.

Ben felt a tug at his heart. She was one of those women who would be beautiful as long as she lived. He had all sorts of things he had to say to her; things like, “Let’s be friends,” for starters.

It all died in his throat.

She stared at him for a moment. “Something, General Raines?”

Ben shook his head. “It’s nothing, Jerre. I just wanted to tell you to be careful, kid.” He backed out of the building and walked away.

The other people in the room discreetly averted their eyes and tried very hard not to listen.

Jerre walked to the door and stood watching as Ben walked away. There were a lot of things she would have liked to say to him, such as, “Ben, why can’t we be friends?” But the words hung in her throat. She sighed and shook her head, walking back into the room and helping the others unfold cots, to be used when the wounded began arriving.

Ben walked up Telegraph Road, past the Interstate, and turned toward the river, making his way through the National Cemetery, located between the old VA hospital and Jefferson Barracks Park. A dozen Rebels trailed along behind and beside him. At the bluff overlooking the river, Ben cut his eyes south, to the Jefferson Barracks Bridge. Ike had anticipated Ben’s move and had his divers wire the bridge early that morning, in the predawn hours.

Ben did not like to destroy bridges, for he knew with each bridge he destroyed, another vital link spanning rivers would be forever gone . . . forever at least in his lifetime, and more than likely never to be rebuilt.

Leadfoot, the commander of the outlaw biker Rebels, walked down to join Ben by the river. The outlaw bikers were the newest additions to Ben’s Rebel Army, joining up only a few weeks past.

“You know this Lan Villar, General?” Beerbelly asked.

“I know him. He’s pure scum. But very, very intelligent and very, very dangerous. So is Kenny Parr. You know about the Hot Wind, Khamsin. We’re looking at possibly ten thousand troops just across that river.”

“And a couple more thousand comin’ at us from the rear.”

“That is correct.”

“And when we kick these asses, they’ll be more comin’ out of the woodwork at us.”

“That’s right. It’s been that way for over a decade. No reason to think it won’t continue.”

“When I was outlawin’, I kept thinkin’: why don’t Ben Raines just carve out a pretty good section of country, secure it, and forget about the rest? But that wouldn’t work, would it, General?”

“No. It’d be just as bad, or worse, as it is now. We’d be in a constant state of readiness and swamped with refugees pouring in. Eventually we’d be overwhelmed from the outside.”

“How come Base Camp One is never attacked, General?”

Ben smiled. “Because that is the one place where I have allowed nuclear weapons to be set up. Our one fifty-five’s and eight-inchers have nuclear capabilities and we have the warheads. I will always have a secure zone, Beerbelly.”

The secure zone, known as Base Camp One, now encompassed a half-dozen parishes in North Louisiana, with a standing army of more than two thousand men and women, not counting the doctors, scientists, technicians, and others who kept the factories and hospitals and labs going twenty-four hours a day. Not even Khamsin, Ashley, Voleta, or Lan Villar entertained any illusions about attacking Base Camp One. All enemies of the Rebels knew it would be suicide to attempt that.

True, those who hated Ben Raines and the Rebels’s way of life wanted the Rebels destroyed, but they also wanted their advancements and technology and factories intact. That would not happen if by some dark miracle they managed to overrun the standing troops at the base camp. Ben had given orders to destroy it all before allowing it to fall into enemy hands.

Base Camp One was probably the most secure place on the face of the earth.

Since Ben had expanded the perimeters of the secure zone, Base Camp One now extended from the Arkansas line down to approximately forty miles south of Monore, then east to the Mississippi River. There were, in addition to the factories and labs, wildlife refuges, petting zoos, both collective and individual farms, open markets, schools and universities, vo-techs, hospitals, and all the other vestiges of a normal society.

But on closer inspection, there were some not-so-subtle differences that would have caused many liberals to immediately pull out their hankies and start stomping on them.

There were no free rides in any of the Rebel communities. If a person was able to work, they worked, or they were kicked out. No exceptions. In the schools, children were not only taught the three R’s—and taught it well, in addition to fine arts—they were also taught values, respect for other people and their property, and for God’s lesser creatures. Many Rebels were strictly vegetarian in their diets, but that was by no means a mandatory requirement. But there were humane ways to raise livestock, and those who chose the Rebel way of life understood that and behaved accordingly.

Trapping and hunting for sport was forbidden in any zone the Rebels controlled. The laying out of any type of ground poison was not allowed. Deer herds were controlled by the careful reintroduction of the animals’ natural predators. It was not uncommon now to see wolves and panthers once more roaming free in the designated wilderness areas, as God had intended. If the wolves and panthers ventured outside the designated areas and became a hazard to humans or to livestock, which occasionally did happen, game wardens went after them—taking the offending predator alive if possible—and moving them out of the controlled zone.

If one tree was cut down, another was planted. Land could not be cleared without providing windbreaks of timber to prevent topsoil from blowing away.

It was not a society that everyone could live in. Those who kept statistics on such matters agreed that perhaps one in five could live in a Rebel-controlled zone.

There was absolutely no crime. It was not tolerated. Walk onto someone else’s property with less than friendly intent, and there would, in most cases, be a funeral the next day. The selling of drugs called for the death penalty. Killing someone while driving drunk meant a long prison sentence, at very hard labor, without exception. No plea-bargaining, no deals, no lesser sentencing based on social standing. The laws were black and white in Rebel country, without benefit of a gray area. There were no bars or honky-tonks in any Rebel-controlled zone. But if a person wanted to get riproaring drunk in their home, that was their business. Just don’t get behind the wheel of a vehicle after doing so.

Abuse a child in a Rebel zone, and the offending party or parties faced the very real possibility of that child being taken from them and placed with couples who would care for it.

There were very few lawyers in any Rebel-controlled zone; or it should be said there were very few practicing attorneys. Many who were lawyers back when civilization was the norm—more or less—before the Great War, were now farmers and soldiers and mechanics and so forth. And those who did maintain some sort of legal practice—just to keep their hand in it, for there certainly wasn’t much call for them—soon learned that in Rebel-controlled zones there were very few legal niceties.

The first rule to surviving was: Don’t cross Ben Raines.

Standing by the river, Ben looked at Beerbelly. “You and Wanda and the other bikers could have left us at any time over the past few weeks. To tell you the truth, I’m pleasantly surprised you didn’t.”

Beerbelly smiled. “To tell you the truth, General, it sorta surprises me too. How pleasant it is is up for grabs. But look at it this way: sooner or later, the Rebels are gonna win. It’s just a matter of time. It might be months, it might be years; but you’re going to win. You and your bunch is gonna have bodies swingin’ in the wind from California to New York. There used to be a western sayin’ about seein’ the gunfighters’ graveyards.” He met Ben’s eyes. “I’ve se. . .