Pedestals of Ash (39 page)

Powell stood and began
surveying
the area. He noticed at least three different calibers of brass
,
lying around the street
,
and there must have been at least 200
spent
cartridges. The agent drew his pistol and opened a small gate leading to the front yard of the
home. As he approached the
porch, the story of what happened here became clear. The front door had been boarded up with several cross members of 2x4 lumber. That door and every window facing the street were peppered with dozens of small bullet holes. One window in particular appeared to have been the focal point of the attack. As Powell waded through the
knee-high
weeds in the yard, he could see t
he window frame had been severe
ly eaten away by incoming lead. The agent stopped and ducked his head around the glassless opening, making sure no one was home. When his action didn’t draw any response, he gradually
advanced
to peek inside.

The wall directly behind the wi
n
dow was completely destroyed. Shredded sections of drywall, strips of
wallpaper,
and splinted wood gave evidence to the volume of incoming fire. Pink insulation had been blown all over the room. Someone had tipped over a large metal filing cabinet under the
windowsill
to use as
cover
. A heavy
,
wooden
desk appeared to have hastily joined it as additional reinforcement. Lying behind the makeshift bullet stop was the remains of the defender. Scattered yellowish-white bones were still partially covered by a plaid shirt and overalls. The carpet was stained with a faded red pool that time and the elements had
faded to a
distressed
pink color. The floor was littered with colorful shotgun shell casings and dozens of pistol rounds. The skull had a large bullet hole in one side.

Powell turned and
returned
to the waiting lieutenant, shaking his head. “There’s no one left here
,
LT. That poor bastard put up one hell of a fight though. He died defending his home
,
and from what I can tell, he didn’t go down easy.”

The young officer agreed, “Yes, sir – I count four blood trails. The amount of brass lying around here tells me this went on for a while.” Both men stood and stared at the scene for a few moments before Powell whispered, “We need to get going.”

Without comment, the officer waved his command forward. Powell stood in the street and watched as the soldiers passed by. He smiled as one private stopped and came to attention in front of the house. Staring directly at the window, the soldier threw a crisp salute, held it for precisely three
seconds,
and then snapped his hand back to his side before trotting off to catch up.

Smokey stood on the top courthouse step, his hands behind his back with his chin jutting out. Anyone observing him might have sarcastically compared his posture to Napoleon marshaling his forces before a campaign. While none of the hundred or so men gathered around the square would have had the guts to say that
out loud
, it would have been difficult not to make the association.

Smokey was suffering from two conditions that were absolutely dangerous to any leade
r. First, he was out of patience
and wanted results, regardless of how realistic the situation was. The second problem with the man’s mental state was paranoia. Smokey was convinced that hundreds of people were flocking to his
archrival
in Alpha, Deacon Brown. His con
viction was centered on the observation
that his men were encountering less and less “unaligned” people in the town. No matter how hard his men tried to explain, there was no convincing Smokey that there simply weren’t that many people left
in the city,
and the ones that were
not in the church complex
had become very adept at hiding.

Smokey’s state of mind wasn’t uncommon for megalomaniacs. Practically every dictatorial leader from Alexander the Great to Adolf Hitler had suffered from similar conditions at one point in time. Fortunately, Smokey’s scale of influence was limited to a few dozen hardened criminals controlling part of a small western town, but the man had aspirations.

As he stood there
motionless, Smokey was in fact daydreaming about attacking the Beltron ranch and
then annexing
that little town down the road
as part of his domain
. His mind raced with terms like consolidation, power
base,
and loyalty. He had already mentally achieved victory in the upcoming battle and was off on futuristic conquests to expand his realm. Hawk
approached
his boss, having no idea he was interrupting the creation of an empire. “Hey chief, the men are about ready. Anything you want to add or say?”

Smokey flashed just a touch of annoyance at the interruption. “No, I’ve nothing to add. They all know that failure is not an option this time. Let’s get moving.”

The word was quickly passed to the waiting lieutenants who started forming the men up. In a few minutes, over 100 armed men were moving in two columns toward Deacon Brown’s church. One group of attackers was led by Smokey, the other by Hawk.

Nick
’s
attention was immediately drawn to movement several blocks away. A line of men was moving down the street
,
and he brought up
his
rifle to get a better view
through the optic. The man h
eading the c
olumn could be easily identified by his
perfectly bald
scalp and
scruffy
goatee
. Nick could
also
tell his arm
s were heavily tattooed. His ensemble included
a dirty
,
white wife
-
beater sleeveless shirt, brown leather
belt,
and blue jeans. Some sort of work boots rounded out his attire. The leader carried an AR15 rifle on a traditional shoulder sling
,
and Nick counted five magazines
,
shoved in various spots on the man’s belt. There was no canteen or other visible sign of hydration, no blow out bag.
When the man turned to
examine
his
column’s
progress
, Nick noticed a long-blade, hunting knife in a sheath on his hip.

Nick observed
the next three men in line and found the level of their equipment lacking even more so than the leader. Clearly, no thought had been given to a prolonged fight. There wasn’t a single bottle of water or medical kit in sight. He was also surprised at the casual way that the column moved through the city streets. Apparently these guys had operated with such impunity for so long they didn’t even consider
that
someone might actually attack them. Nick’s eyes changed to those of the predator. He would make them pay for their over
-
confidence.

After watching the approaching enemy to verify their route, Nick hurried back into the store and briefed the small group of men gather
ed
there. He quickly barked instructions
,
and everyone scrambled to get into position. He made it absolutely clear – no one was to fire until he initiated the ambush. Nick picked up the statue of Mary and carried it down the street
, strategically staging the figurine
in front of the shop. He had picked the perfect spot upon their arrival. There was an intersection that was absolutely clear of any vehicles just
down from the storefront. Unknown
circumstances had seen to it that no one was driving in this area when the gas cloud had killed thousands. The rare open area could be seen from all four directions
,
and Nick placed the statue directly in the middle of the crossing. The smiling woman looked odd sitting there, her brightly painted
clothing
and crown in
sharp
contrast to the black pavement surrounding her. After one last glance
around, he hurried back to the t-s
hirt store. He couldn’t help but notice the sign on the front of the
building, which
read, “Mary’s Embroidery and Silkscreen.”

Nick glanced around at the men in the
storefront
one last time. Like any commander of men about to do battle, he had a long wish list. He wished he had the time to train them on this, that or the other. He wished he could have found a slightly more protected position. The list could go on and on and Nick stopped the mental process almost immediately. Th
e time for organization and instruction was over;
the outcome would soon be determined. There was never enough time to prepare for a fight.

Th
e men waiting in the t-s
hirt shop watched as the first few of their enemy passed by. Several of
the Christian soldiers
looked up at Nick with questioning expressions, but the big Green Beret paid them no attention. He
only
risked a slight head movement to the right in order to verify the progress of the column.

Hawk saw the statue first and stopped walking immediately. He had passed down this street several times and knew it hadn’t been there before. This
thoroughfare
was his favorite approach to the church because there was less clutter to walk around and less chance his men would be distracted or get out of line.

His first reaction to the statue was one of caution. He carefully glanced all around but didn’t see anything out of place. What he didn’t notice was the long column of
curious
men behind him had started to bunch up right in front of Nick’s position
,
and that had been the intent all along.

Everyone in the store heard Nick’s safety click off
,
and several of them jumped when his rifle began shooting at the gathering men on the street. It took a few seconds, but eventually,
10
rifles began
slamming
rounds into the surprised skinnies.

Hawk’s initial reaction when the shooting started was to duck behind a nearby car. He knew almost instantly that his column had walked into
an
ambush, but
he couldn’t think clearly enough to react appropriately.
He glanced back and saw
that
at least 12 of his men were lying on the street
, motionless.
The rate of fire coming from the storefront across the street was almost constant and appeared to be working its way back along the line. Hawk raised his weapon and started firing at the dark windows without
acquiring
any specific target. That proved to be a mistake as his action drew
attention to his hiding place,
and rifle rounds began impacting all around him. He ducked around the corner building
,
being chased all along by thumping lead
,
tearing into the concrete structure. When he had safely made it
to cover
, he leaned against the wall
,
breathing deeply in and out. He had to think of something and do so quickly. He
scanned
the immediate area
and
identified
two of his men standing nearby with frightened
expression
s on their faces. He pointed to the closest man and ordered him to inform Smokey’s group that they had been ambushed. He forgot to tell the man to ask for help.

There is no small unit tactic more devastating than an ambush. In addition to the extreme loss of life inflicted on the victims, the effects of the action include confusion and demoralization. Nick gave his men almost a minute of firing into the enemy column and then stopped the attack. Anyone caught in their kill zone was either dead, injured or behind cover by then. Any additional shooting would only waste precious ammunition. As suddenly as it had started, the shooting stopped
,
and the men from the church hu
stled out the back door of the t-s
hirt shop. It was time to go.

Smokey was four blocks away and moving his line of men on a parallel route with Hawk. When the shooting started
,
his first thought was that Hawk had started his attack to
o early. When the sound of gunfire ceased
, he was puzzled and stopped his colu
mn. Like Hawk’s formation, halt
ing their forward progress caused his men to bunch up and gather together.

Nick wasn’t sure how the ambushed men would react and wanted to swing a wide arch around them on the way back to the church. He and his men were moving rapidly down a street and rounded a corner
,
running right into Smokey’s column. Nick overcame the surprise first and opened fire on the 20 or so men in the middle of the block. His men followed his lead a second later
,
and by the time they had broken contact and moved on, another
bunch o
f
men were dead or dying on the ground.

Nick hadn’t considered a second group of skinnies and didn’t want to be caught out in the open with such a small force. While his men had gotten the better of the second encounter, breaking off the fight caused them to flee in the wrong direction.

Agent Powell was five blocks away to the north of the ambush site. Whe
n the shooting had begun
, the army troopers around him had all reacted immediately and sought cover. In a few moments, it became clear that there were no incoming rounds
,
and everyone waited
for
the
Secret Service
man to determine a course of action. Powell’s goal was to find the president
,
and so far
,
they hadn’t encountered a single living soul. Aft
er a quick conference with the l
ieutenant and top sergeant, orders were issued to move cautiously in the direction of the
gunfire
. Where there was shooting, there were people pulling the trigger. The short duration of the fight led Powell to visualize another incident like the home they had just passed. In reality, he didn’t care about the who or the why of the
gunfire
. He wanted to interrogate someone to see if his boss had been spotted.

Bishop and the p
res
ident were just exit
ing the ice cream shop
,
when the gunfire erupted some
nine
blocks away. Like everyone else, he initially ducked back into the doorway
,
but quickly realized the fighting was some distance off. Bishop’s decision how to react was probably the most difficult of anyone’s. His first thought was that the church was under attack. He wanted to go and help the congregation, but felt stewardship of the man traveling with him. The last thing he wanted was
to
bumble into a full-fledged battle with a man
whose
experience with a weapon consisted of shooting a single rabbit. When the second round of shooting began, it was clear to Bishop that the fighting had moved closer to his location. This posed a real
dilemma,
as he was not in a good defensive position and had little chance of surviving an encounter with a superior force. The fact that the president wasn’t very nimble didn’t help things one single bit. In the end, Bishop decided to move off at an angle away from the last sounds of battle, but still in the general direction of the church. Along the route, he hoped to find some
place better to hide and defend. The
C
ommander
in
C
hief was clearly concerned about the sounds of fighting so close by and simply nodded when Bishop explained his plan.

The duo had moved a few blocks when Bishop turned to find his partner missing yet again. “Jesus Henry Wilson Montgomery Christ,” he mumbled
, “where has he wandered off to now?
” Backtracking quickly, he found the president
, mesmerized by t
he wall of a building. There on the whitewashed plywood were hundreds of pictures and notes. Some were stapled while others had been glued or taped. Bishop looked around to make sure they were alone
,
before
read
ing
one of the messages
:

Looking for Carrie Perkins, Junior at Alpha State. 5’4”, blond hair, green eyes. If you see her, please let her know her father is in Alpha
,
and I’m sleeping in my car at Woodridge and Elm
…G
od bless and thank you.

Bishop hadn’t seen anything like the display since the news coverage of 9-11. Evidently
,
some survivors of the gas cloud had been looking for family members. Carrie’s father must have driven to Alpha from somewhere. He hoped the man had found his daughter.

The chief executive
was clearly touched by the collection on the wall. He didn’t seem to be able to pull himself away. Bishop waited until he was about to jump out of his boots
,
and finally couldn’t take it anymore. “Sir, I don’t mean to be cold, but we have to get moving. We can’t stay out here like this.”

The expression on the man’s face was one of bitter sadness. He looked at Bishop and nodded his understanding. As they walked away from the display, Bishop notic
ed he looked back several times as if committing the image to memory.

They hadn’t traveled
far when Bishop heard the rhythmic pounding of
running footsteps. In a blur, Bishop pivoted, grabbed the president
,
and roughly pushed him into a doorway.
Bishop squeezed into the entrance
with him, jus
t as two men rounded
the corner. Both of them were looking over their shoulders,
as if
they were be
ing chased by a crazed T-Rex, searching for a meal
. For a moment, it looked like they were going to pass by without even noticing the two travelers, but one fellow was out of wind and stopped right in the middle of the street to catch his breath. The exhausted runner stood bent over, his hands resting on his knees while drawing in several lungs full of air. His buddy stopped a few feet away to wait on his out of shape friend. It was pure chance that he glanced up and looked straight at Bishop and the president.

Bishop now understood why Sarah referred to these men as
g
houlish.
Their hair was uncut and filthy, resulting in shoulder-length manes that made their heads appear misshapen.
Their facial hair was in no better condition, which added to the effect. The untrimmed beards made the dark circles under their eyes even more prominent,
sunken,
and hollow. Their foreheads had been darkened by the sun and
were streaked with dirt and swea
t. The skin at the corner of their eyes was wrinkled with deep crevices, probably a combination of sun and unwashed skin as well. Bishop could see the one man’s hands clearly. His fingernails were long and dirty black, resembling the claws of a bird. The combined effect was similar to what Bishop had seen soldiers do with camouflage face paint, but dark - almost evil looking. To a young girl being hunted by these guys, they no doubt did appear as ghouls.

Bishop doubted either man would’ve been first prize at his high school prom, even when bathing
and
haircuts were commonplace. Now, given Deacon Brown’s church controlled the water supply in the area, they more closely resembled pictures of Neanderthals he had seen in museums. “
No
,” thought Bishop, “
that would be insulting the Neanderthals.
” Bishop couldn’t help himself and mentally
compared
the two hairy beasts to images of Sasquatch. “
No
,” he thought again, “
I doubt Bigfoot smells this bad.
” These two what-ever-they-were had weapons though, and Bishop focused his attention there.

At first, the breathless man just squinted at them, probably trying to determine
who they were. His
friend followed his gaze
,
and now both of them were trying to figure it out. Finally,
out of breath and unable to carry on normal conversation,
they looked at
each other with a gesture of “
D
o you know them?”
It took both men a second to conclude they weren’t looking at co-workers. Bishop noticed one of the men had on a soiled orange shirt with the faded letters “County Jail” still barely readable. The man raised his rifle
, and Bishop dropped him before the weapon
ever reached the man’s shoulder. Bishop started
menacingly
walking toward the second man, rifle pointed directly at his chest. “Move on,” he said in a cold voice. The guy kept glancing back and forth between Bishop and his now dead friend. Bishop repeated his message, “Move on.”

Anyone could clearly see the anger starting to boil
up in the man. He searched for the words and stammered, “…
B
ut...but…
I can’t believe…
you
shot my…”
before his voice trailed away.