Pedestals of Ash Page 4
Deacon Brown was proud of the men defending the wall. For the past few minutes, they had hardly fired a shot at the attackers who seemed to be content just harassing them. Ammunition was always in short supply, and she had preached time and again to conserve the precious commodity. She started to turn and comment to one of the hunters when Atlas put his hand on her shoulder and pointed to the west side of the compound.
The four people on the annex roof watched in fascinated horror as two men suddenly appeared close to the wall, carrying smoking glass bottles of what everyone knew was gasoline. It wasn’t the bombs that caused them all to hold their breath, as the skinnies had tried to implement this technique before with little effect. What caused a sickening fear in Deacon Brown’s stomach was the huge garbage truck barreling at high speed directly at their barricade.
To the leader of the church, everything began to move in slow motion. She watched speechlessly as the two bottles arched through the air, landing just on the other side of the wall. Both bottles shattered on the parking lot surface with an audible whoosh. Flame and black smoke quickly rose into the air. The three men defending that section of the wall naturally ran away from the heat created by the burning liquid spreading across the pavement.
Smokey’s tank was less than 100 feet away when the fires started. Deacon Brown started screaming at her troopers, “Shoot the truck! Shoot the truck!” Each man moved his aim, and a few sparks flew from the steel trash bed, quickly followed by holes in the windshield, surrounded by small spider webs of shattered glass. It was too late. A few more shots sparked and pinged off the heavy steel compartment above the cab, but the effect was minimal. The big vehicle slammed into the makeshift fortification at over 20 miles per hour, creating havoc among the defenders.
It had been a Sunday morning so many months ago when disaster struck the peaceful town of Alpha. Electric power had been sporadic for days, and the constant barrage of frightening headlines from the cable news channels left everyone on edge. Worshippers lined the wooden pews in the main sanctuary, and the overflow was barely managed in the balcony area of The First Bible Church. Toes began to tap, and worshippers began to sway to the sounds of “Abide with Me,” as the widely acclaimed gospel choir filed from behind the congregation to their designated seating behind the podium. The call to worship had just begun, only to be interrupted by what most of the congregation thought was thunder. When the windows of the big church rattled a few moments later, most folks expected the town was going to receive a rare late-summer storm. No one really knew what happened at the chemical plant just north of the city. The choir had just finished a rousing rendition of “Amazing Grace” when a small boy, frightened of the thunder, was overhead asking his father if the town were on fire. Practically every head in the pews turned to look out the window. What they saw was a huge pillar of smoke reaching skyward over the town’s modest skyline. There had been an explosion and now a fire. What no one could have known was that a poison cloud of gas accompanied the disaster, and thousands of their fellow citizens were being killed instantly even as the minister began to read the announcements for the day. The service was in full swing when a woman near the back of the church screamed loudly. Everyone turned to see an injured man, carrying a small child, stumbling toward the altar. The victim’s skin was peeling off of his face, and the girl wasn’t breathing. Before he died, he managed to gasp a warning that the air was poisoned, and everyone was dead. Those were the first people buried by the church’s men, but they were far from the last.
In the beginning, the congregation tried to follow the creed associated with being a Christian organization. As the pastor, Diana’s father had initially welcomed anyone who needed aid following the disaster. This generosity was quickly taken advantage of by a desperate population, and the raids started. It became clear that civilized behavior had turned into “every man for himself.” During one break-in, the pastor had tried to stop the thieves and had been shot and killed. At that point, Diana had taken over. During the subsequent months, the church members were forced to protect themselves, and thus the wall had been erected.
The parking lot had been full of cars, and their frames became the foundation for the wall. Trees were felled, picnic tables were moved, old pews from the warehouse were stacked, and even the lawnmowers were used to reinforce the fortifications. It had worked. The raids had been stopped cold, and everyone felt more secure sleeping in the modern equivalent of a castle surrounded by a thick barricade. At least it had been secure until this moment.
The family sedans and wooden pallets used on the west side of the grounds were no match for the mass times velocity of the speeding garbage truck. The kinetic energy delivered via the front bumper of the heavy rig pushed the cars aside and cut through the barrier like a hot knife through butter. Were it not for a pile of old bricks directly in the truck’s path, the breach would have completely devastated the defenders. As it were, a front wheel of the truck became airborne as it ramped over the brick pile. This not only resulted in a lurching change of speed, but the wheel bounced twice before the truck skidded to a stop. The 12 heavily armed men in the back compartment were violently thrown around inside of their steel box. It took them almost a full minute to untangle themselves, find dropped weapons, and gather their wits enough to start piling out the back. That minute ended up being the difference in the outcome of the battle.
Smokey’s group started pouring into the breach created by the truck. At the same time, the diversionary group rose up and began to advance on the wall in earnest. The defenders quickly overcame their initial shock at the violence of the attack and fought back with desperation. For the first time, their wall of security had been overwhelmed, and every single man knew this might be the end of their way of life.
On the annex roof, Deacon Brown directed the hunters to slow down Smokey’s men by using their lead to plug the gap in the wall. One retired army officer immediately realized the threat and pulled every other man from his section of the wall to focus on holding the breach. Relentless fire poured into Smokey’s men as they attempted to cross into the inner sanctum of the church’s grounds. Smokey used the garbage truck as cover while shooting at the defenders with his AK. A constant chorus of bullets pinging off of the metal trash hauler rose above the thunder of gunfire. He noticed men falling all around him, but didn’t care. His combatants had achieved the initiative and needed to exploit the situation. He violently waved his men forward, while firing at targets himself. It was working. More and more of the attackers made it past the hole and started spreading out into the parking lot. A larger beachhead meant the defenders had more territory to cover. The breach in the wall was only about 10 feet wide, a small space to acquire targets. Attackers successfully penetrating the interior made the defenders’ job increasingly difficult, as anyone shooting at the infiltrators had more and more ground to consider.
Deacon Brown could clearly see they were losing the fight. In another few minutes, her fighters would be completely overrun, and she couldn’t think of anything to stop the intruders. She turned around to pick up another magazine for her rifle and noticed Atlas was no longer on the roof with her. She thought it odd that the big man would leave her side. Two rounds hit the sandbag in front of her, drawing her attention back to the fight.
Unknown to Deacon Brown, Atlas understood the dire situation. He rushed to the bottom of the annex stairs, loping down four at a time and pushed open the back door. There, in a small outbuilding, were several old steam radiators, recently rendered obsolete by a more modern heating system. Originally stored in the building to be sold as scrap, the heavy metal units weighed several hundred pounds each. Atlas lifted one of the radiators, turned toward the breach and began running. As he rounded the corner of the building, his image caused the attackers pause. Here was a massive wall of a man, charging directly at them full speed, wielding a large hunk of bronze and steel like it was a simple shield. Atlas had progressed about five big steps, when the first bullet impa
cted the radiator. He continued his path as more and more of the attackers noticed his advance and directed their fire at him. On the roof, Deacon Brown kept hearing an unusual “ping ping ping” sound coming from below. When Atlas finally came into view, she recognized immediately what he was doing. Shouting at him to stop and come back wouldn’t have done any good. There was no way he could have heard her and probably would have ignored the pleas anyway. The only thing she could think to do was kill as many of the attackers as she could. She shouldered her rifle and began firing at the men closest to her son.
The garbage truck was natural cover for Smokey’s men, and they had inadvertently bunched up around the wheels and body. Atlas made it to within 15 feet of the truck when he launched the radiator into the air, pushing with both hands, and sending it flying toward a group of five men. The target group stared, mesmerized that something so big and heavy could be tossed so far, and almost didn’t move out of the way. One gatecrasher attempting to avoid the flying metal, tripped while scrambling over one of his comrades, and was instantly crushed by the weight of the radiator. Another man was knocked to the pavement, shaking his head as if to get his bearings. And a third was pinned beneath the hunk of metal, his exposed leg bleeding badly. In reality, the man who was killed was the lucky one. Before any of the men gathered their wits, Atlas was among them. The sounds of screaming men and crushing blows could be heard above all else. Three of the attackers were dead or disabled before any of them could react. Smokey started screaming, “Shoot him, goddamnit…Shoot his ass!” Atlas picked up a dropped rifle and began brandishing it as a club. He practically decapitated one attacker before the impact to a second man snapped the stock in half. Finally, a bullet found its mark and struck a massive upper thigh. Atlas didn’t even flinch. He rounded the back of the trash hauler and surprised another man before the second bullet struck him in the shoulder. It seemed to have little effect as Atlas roared a blood-curdling battle cry and attacked another group of three men approaching the opening. His presence so confused and shocked the invaders that one thug shot another of his own comrades trying to raise his weapon at the charging colossus. A third bullet struck Atlas in the chest, but it only seemed to enrage him further. He took two massive steps and picked up an overturned picnic table that had once been part of the barrier, holding it like a toy. Several bullets slammed into the wood, showering the big man with splinters and fragments of lead. He lunged several feet forward, using the table to crush three men against the side of a car.
All during the rampage, the attackers’ attention was focused on the tornado of destruction in their midst. This gave the church’s defenders time to regroup and charge the opening in the wall. Atlas had another man by the neck when Smokey stepped around and began empting the magazine of his AK into the giant’s back. It took several hits, but the Goliath finally staggered before landing on top of the lifeless body he still clutched in his hand.
Deacon Brown was leading the charge to repel the breach when her son hit the pavement. She shouldered her rifle and began firing at Smokey, but missed. Someone yelled, “Let’s get out of here,” and the invaders began to withdraw. The secondary assault quickly petered out when it became clear that the main attack had failed. In less than a minute, Smokey’s men were moving away from the compound, scattering between the surrounding buildings, and looking back over their shoulders. The battlefield fell essentially silent, with only the roaring flames of burning cars and the weak moaning of the wounded drifting across the parking lot. Those sounds were quickly joined by the wailing cries of a mother who had just lost her only son.
Chapter 4 - And now comes the Cav
It was only 322 kilometers from Dallas to Shreveport, Louisiana, across an unchallenging terrain, using Interstate 20 as the primary surface route. For the long column of war machines belonging to the 1st Cav, it might as well have been 1,000 kilometers the way things were going.
For months, the Ironhorse brigade maintained martial law in the Dallas metro area, finally receiving orders worthy of such an elite fighting unit, or at least that’s how Major Owens viewed the situation. The past two months had been a living hell for his men and the country as a whole. They had been ordered to leave their home base at Fort Hood and establish rule of law in Dallas. One of three brigades assigned to the city, they had been both mentally and physically unprepared for the duty.
Now, Major Owens was trying to move his brigade to Shreveport and establish control of the area. The president had finally taken action and adopted a plan to kick-start the country’s economic engine. The plan, as outlined to the major, seemed both logical and reasonable.
Since being in Dallas, they had guarded limited food stores and distributed daily rations to a starving population. At first, their medics had tried to provide basic, humanitarian aid to the civilians, but their supplies had been sapped in a matter of days. The Ironhorse and supporting units were not equipped to support 1.8 million people who had no resources.
The fact that there was practically zero resupply from Fort Hood or elsewhere didn’t help the situation at all. It seemed like everything from bandages to bread to toilet paper was unobtainable. At first, his men had used their tanks and armored personnel carriers to patrol the neighborhoods and establish control. Fuel and spare parts quickly became an issue, and the monstrous machines were soon relegated to fixed position guard duty. Foot patrols were initiated. Tankers don’t like patrolling on foot, and while a significant number of the brigade’s men were infantry, everyone took turns humping through the sweltering summer streets of Dallas. The tactic managed to conserve fuel and reduce wear and tear on machinery. That wear and tear, however, began showing up on the men. Even then, the vehicles had to be started and run to keep parts lubricated and batteries charged. Conditions deteriorated so badly, it became a coveted reward for his men to spend an hour inside of an air-conditioned M1A2 as it performed its charging cycle.
The fact that Mother Green wasn’t prepared for the mission didn’t surprise Major Owens. He had deployed to Iraq in the early days and had witnessed what he jokingly referred to as “disciplined chaos.” Command from on high wasn’t exactly nimble when it came to executing a mission outside of the box. Logistics, command and control, and mission profiles were always the weak links in the chain - each of which made the average trooper’s life more difficult.
Major Owens rubbed his chin, clearing his mind of the past in order to focus on the immediate problem. For the first 40 kilometers east of Dallas, Interstate 20 had been a parking lot, completely inundated with abandoned vehicles. In the days immediately following the collapse, people had run out of gas or simply been trapped on both the east and westbound lanes of the well-traversed thoroughfare. Those with fuel had obviously become desperate and tried to bypass the stalled traffic, traveling on the median, embankments, and frontage roads. The major’s column ran right into a wall-to-wall used car lot of abandoned vehicles, covering not only the asphalt, but also the grassy shoulders. Desperate motorists had used any space available to advance, causing a gridlock like no other. Discarded vehicles were everywhere four wheels could take them, resulting in no clear path through. His lead elements had to snake their way around, or push the blockage out of the way. That took time – a lot of time.
More than once, he had been astounded as his column passed by makeshift homes constructed from mini-vans, pickup trucks, and sedans. Some crafty people ventured into the nearby woods and carried back bundles of branches to prop against the open doors of their vehicles creating lean-tos and expanding their “living” space. Any forested area in close proximity to the interstate was virtually stripped bare of wood. The few open areas they did encounter were dotted with piles of ashes from campfires.
Practically every semi-trailer was occupied. Many had their content strewn behind the large bay door at the rear as desperate people had searched for food or other usable items inside. Owens marveled at the ingenuity the people displayed in creating shelter. One trailer had step
s built from discarded pallets leading up to the back door. A chimney had been cut into the top, and smoke drifted out.
It was the condition of the children that really bothered the major. The young ones were always the worst victims of any war or conflict, and he had grown used to seeing their suffering in combat zones. The hundreds of kids they passed that morning wore filthy rags and gazed at the passing tanks with an empty, trance-like stare. With few exceptions, their stomachs were bloated with the sign of mal-nutrition, and their movements were lethargic, like a slow motion video playback.
The adults were in no better shape physically. More than once, his men used a tank to push a vehicle out of the way, only to discover someone living in it. The occupant was often too weak to move or protest. His men had done what soldiers had always done when moving through a population of displaced, desperate people. They had shared what little rations they had, thrown candy to the children, and tried to help - but it was hopeless and too late. Major Owens quickly lost count of the unburied bodies and bands of turkey vultures they passed.
The next issue had been the intersections and ramps. Every exit with a gas station, country store, or any sign of civilization had attracted the stranded motorists. Some of these pockets of starving people had organized, while others lived in what resembled third world shantytowns. Some of these groups had turned into what his men called “zombies.” The effects of malnutrition, lack of heath care, and general anarchy resulted in animalistic behavior unlike anything the soldiers had ever witnessed. Despite the fact that he and his officers constantly reminded the lead elements of the column that these “people” were their fellow Americans, it was demoralizing to see what had become of the general population.