Ashes - Standoff In The Ashes Part 8

Something heavy rapped on the door-a billy club, Ben imagined. "Hey, General Tough Boy!" a voice called. "You still alive, old man?"

"Yes," Ben said with a tiieatrical groan. He hoped the groan sounded authentic.

"That's good, you old fart. Bradford wants to talk to you again." That was followed by laughter.

"Yeah, talk," another man said. "You bet."

"You feel up to it?" the first man questioned.

"Do I have a choice?"

More laughter. "Nope, none at all."

"All right."

"Stand away from the door, General a.s.shole."

I'm going to ram that billy club down your throat, you miserable punk, Ben thought. "OK," he whispered. "I'm standing back." Ben lit the slippers and they began to burn brightly.

The key slid into the lock and clicked. Ben smiled.

78.William W. Johnstone When the door began to slowly open toward the hall, Ben slammed into it with everything he had. The edge of the steel door struck the first guard in the face and knocked him backward, blood pouring from his broken nose and smashed lips.

Ben moved swiftly out the door and into the hall and stuck the burning slippers into the second guard's face, jamming the flame into the man's eyes.

The guard dropped his billy club and opened his mouth to scream. Ben jammed the burning slippers into the man's mouth, reached down and scooped up the billy club and whacked him hard in the center of the forehead.

Ben turned and smashed the first guard on the top of the head with the club, then hit him again for insurance. He turned and hit the second guard on the side of the head just as hard as he could. The odor of burning flesh was strong in the hallway. The slippers were still smoking in the man's mouth.

Ben dragged the men, one at a time, into the cell. The first guard was about Ben's size. Ben swiftly undressed the Fed down to his underwear and pulled on his uniform. The shirt was just a tad too small, and thewaist of the britches a bit too large.

Ben went through the pockets of both men, taking everything they had: billfolds, keys, pocket knives. He then straightened up and savagely smashed the club down on the heads of the guards one by one. They weren't dead when he finished, but they would be out of commission for a long time.

Ben quickly tried on a pair of boots that looked as though they might fit him. They were a half size too big, even with the two pairs of socks taken from the feet of both unconscious guards, but they would have to do.

He stepped out into the hall and locked the cell door, 79.79.then stood for a moment, silently savoring his freedom. Then he took a deep breath and moved up the hallway. He was looking for the gun room.

When he found it, he would show these young socialists that an old dog could still bite.

80.Ben walked up the hallway, carrying one of the nightsticks he'd taken from the guards. His boots echoed off the tile. He met no one. He paused at the elevator, then decided not to chance it. He took the stairs down to the first floor and cautiously pushed open the door, peeking out.

The hall was deserted, but he could hear rock music coming from somewhere far down the long hall-a song he was not familiar with. Ben made it a point never to listen to rock music, so he was probably unfamiliar with ninety-nine percent of it. He had not paid any attention to rock music since years before the collapse and the Great War.

He stepped out into the hall, looking at the double doors which led to the outside. They were chained shut.

He walked slowly down the hall toward the sounds of 81.81.the music. It was coming out of the open door to an office. Ben stood for a moment, pressed up against the wall just outside the open door. He listened for the sounds of voices. Nothing.

Got to do it, Ben thought, can't stand out here until I'm discovered.

He looked into the office. One man sitting at a desk, his back to Ben.

Ben recognized him as one of those who had taken great delight in beating the c.r.a.p out of him.

Your turn now, Ben thought, silently stepping into the office and easing up behind the guard.

The man sensed movement behind him and turned. His mouth opened in shock as he recognized Ben. Ben popped him on the noggin with the club and theguard went night-night.

Ben tied him up with the man's belt and a length of electrical cord which he jerked out of a wall socket, then gagged him with his own handkerchief. The guard had been carrying a sidearm in a holster and Ben took that, along with the two full magazines from the guard's belt pouch.

Ben checked the 9mm. Full up. He jacked a round into the slot and quickly checked the office for anything else he might use. Nothing. He fanned the unconscious man's pockets and took his keys and wallet, then took a jacket from a wall hook and slipped out of the office.

He wanted to find Bradford. He had a present for that son of a b.i.t.c.h.

He walked the long hall, looking into each darkened room with an open door. Nothing. When he came to a room with a closed door, he tried the doork.n.o.b. Locked.

82.William W. Johnstone He fumbled with several of the keys he'd taken from the guards until one opened the door. Ben smiled as he looked inside. The armory.

When he again stepped out into the hall, Ben was armed with a CAR and had a rucksack filled with spare magazines and a couple hundred rounds of .223's. He also had half a dozen grenades hooked onto die web belt he'd found in the room.

"Now then, you a.s.sholes," Ben muttered. "Let'sjust see how tough you are."

Ben walked the hall, moving slowly and cautiously. He heard the faint sounds of voices coming from somewhere far down the hall. The CAR was set on full auto. Ben did not realize it, but he was walking along with a smile on his bruised face, curving his swollen lips.

Two guards stepped out of a room. They stood for several seconds, not believing what they were seeing. That was the last diing they saw on this earth. Ben gave them half a mag of .223's. The guards went down.

One flopped for a few seconds, then was still.

"What the h.e.l.l is happening out there!" The voice came from the room the guards had just exited.

"Retribution," Ben muttered, waiting in the hall.

The man stuck his head out of the room. "Oh, s.h.i.t!" he said.

"Right," Ben said, and squeezed the trigger.

Scratch another of Osterman's faithful followers.

Ben walked the hall from end to end. There was no one else to be found ... at least not on that floor.

Ben searched the bodies of the dead and removed everything in their pockets, stowing it in another rucksack he found in the second office.

He stacked all the weapons and ammo he could find in a utility room near the chained entrance. He would go out those doors when the time came.83 83.Ben looked at his left hand. It was still swollen, but much of the swelling was gone. Ben again flexed the fingers on that hand. They worked, albeit stiffly, and there was no sign of anything broken.

He glanced at the nice watch he'd taken from one of the now expired guards. Five o'clock. It would be dark soon. Good. Ben liked the night.

He found the steps leading to the bas.e.m.e.nt and cautiously walked down.

He stood for a moment, looking at die heavy steel. Memories of his beatings were returning to him ... very unpleasant reminiscences. He recalled that there were other prisoners being held in cells in die bas.e.m.e.nt, and he guessed the bas.e.m.e.nt area was soundproofed.

Wouldn't do to have screams reverberating throughout the nuthouse.

Ben tried die door. It was not locked, but it was very heavy. He could hear an angry voice shouting something. He could not make out die words, but he was sure it was Bradford doing the shouting. That was one voice Ben was not likely to forget for a long, long time.

"You d.a.m.ned, right-wing wh.o.r.e!" The words came to Ben more clearly as he made his way up the hall. It was Bradford. "Confess."

The sound of a woman's voice drifted to Ben, but he could not make out any of the words.

"Wh.o.r.e!" Bradford shouted. "Filthy wh.o.r.e of the militia!"

This time Ben could understand the woman's reply. "f.u.c.k you, you goofy b.a.s.t.a.r.d!"

Ben smiled. He liked this woman already. She d.a.m.n sure had Bradford pegged accurately.

"Let's toss her in with the hardcases," someone suggested. "Let diem gang-bang her. We'll watch until she confesses."

84.William W. Johnstone "No," Bradford said firmly. "That wouldn't be punishment. h.e.l.l, she'd enjoy that. She's a militia wh.o.r.e. She was a survivalist, remember."

"I bet she wouldn't enjoy . .."

A generator kicked in about that time, and Ben couldn't understand all the words.

Laughter drifted to Ben as the generator, or whatever it was-air-conditioning unit, perhaps-settled down to a low hum.

"Bet she sure wouldn't enjoy that, for a fact."

"I'd like to watch it!"More laughter.

Ben worked closer. He didn't have to wonder what the perverted b.a.s.t.a.r.ds were laughing about. He felt he knew exactly what it was.

He edged closer and peered into a large room. A naked woman was strung up by the wrists, dangling from an eye-hook set in the ceiling. Her bare feet were just touching the floor. She had angry red welts on her belly and thighs and b.u.t.tocks. Bradford stood beside her, holding a thick leather belt. He looked as though he was enjoying inflicting torture on the woman.

He probably was, Ben thought. The s.a.d.i.s.tic son of a b.i.t.c.h. Ben's first thoughts about Bradford were certainly proving correct: he had pegged him as being twisted.

The woman was blonde, with short-cropped hair, and looked to be in her mid to late thirties. Ben could not help but take in her nakedness since she was dangling without a st.i.tch on. Very lovely woman, he concluded.

Ben stepped into the room and cut the legs out from under Bradford with a short burst from his CAR. Then he turned the muzzles toward the other two and forever put an end to their perversion.

Leaving Bradford groaning and twisting on the floor, 85.85.Ben cut the woman's bonds with a knife he'd taken from one of the guards and gently eased her down.

Still holding her so she would not fall, Ben said, "Can you stand alone?"

"I don't know. Hang onto me a moment longer. Who are you? Are you from the New York Militia?"

"No. Are there still others being held here?"

"Yes, but I don't know who they are. They're in the process of being reindoctrinated."

"This country's really gone to h.e.l.l, hasn't it? Reindoctri-nation centers. Jesus. Are there more like this one?"

"All over the USA. I think I can walk now. My clothes are over there on the floor in the corner. That d.a.m.n Bradford made me strip while he and his s.h.i.tty buddies watched.''

"That doesn't surprise me one little bit. What's your name?"

"Lara. L-a-r-a."

"OK, Lara. Ready to give it a try?"

"Yes."

Ben turned her loose and the woman walked-with as much dignity aspossible, considering her state of undress- over to a corner and began pulling on her clothes.

Ben turned to Bradford. "You are one miserable son of a b.i.t.c.h, Bradford."

"I'm hurt bad, General. You've got to help me."

"General?" Lara paused in her dressing.

"I'm Ben Raines."

Lara's eyes widened, and she leaned against a table for support. "My G.o.d!" she breathed. "Yes. Of course you are. I recognize you now. Your face is so bruised and beat up-"

"Ah, Lara, would you mind continuing dressing? Finish slipping on that bra, maybe? It's a bit disconcerting talking with you while your, ah, you know, are, ah, exposed."

86.William W. Johnstone Lara blushed from her toes to her nose, and quickly slipped on her bra.

"Thank you," Ben said drily. He turned his attention toward Bradford.

"f.u.c.k you, punk."

"You can't leave me like this!" Bradford protested. "My legs are broken."

"Good," Larasaid. "I hope you die, you rotten b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

"Filthy degenerate militia wh.o.r.e!" Bradford spat the words at her.

"You're calling her degenerate, you twisted son of a b.i.t.c.h?" Ben asked.

"My, my."

Lara smiled, but it was a smile that held no humor. "Some of die things they've done to women in here are unspeakable, General. And to men.

They've castrated some militia members. Lobotomized others. All in the name of democracy, of course."

"Sure. Back before the collapse and the Great War, some of us who didn't have our heads up our a.s.ses used to call what Osterman and her ilk advocated cultural n.a.z.ism."

"I've read a few of your writings, General, but to be found widi anything you wrote in one's possession now could mean death. It's cla.s.sified as subversive and highly traitorous."

"I've heard." He smiled. "Well, I've never claimed to be a literary threat to the memory of John Steinbeck. Tell you what-call me Ben, please. OK, Lara. Search those bodies and take everything on diem ...