Fall of the Cities_A Mercedes for Soldier Boy Read online

  Conan ran towards a nearby house, his specific target. The door flew open as he approached, but he swung the axe and the man went down without a chance to lift his machete. Conan raised the pistol in his other hand, shooting a youth trying to load his crossbow. An older man ran down the stairs, swinging a baseball bat at the big axeman coming through the front door. Conan knocked it aside before pulling his opponent past to fall down the steps. As he thundered up onto the landing, a savage grin split his bearded face.

  “No!” A woman screamed as Conan came through the bedroom door. The axeman blocked her knife thrust, clipping the woman with the butt of his pistol. She crumpled against the wall.

  Within moments two of his men crowded in. Conan pointed to the two young women cowering at the far side of the room. “Take very good care of those, because one of them is the key to this place. The traitor wants her as his price for letting us in.” He gestured to the crumpled woman. “Check her out. If she’ll survive, tie her as well.”

  As Conan clattered down the stairs to re-join the fight, he heard screams behind him, while out in the streets pure chaos reigned. Sleepy, half-dressed residents staggered out of their homes to be faced by alert, fully armed opponents. Any carrying weapons were swiftly beaten to the ground or killed. On the barricades around the walls, the fighters realised too late they were caught between two forces. The attackers outside closed quickly, while others erupted from between the buildings inside the defences. Too many defenders died as they hesitated, reluctant to fire into the tangled mass containing friend as well as foe.

  As dawn stained the sky, the victorious attackers worked their way back through the enclave, forcing all the residents out into the widest street. Wounded defenders, unless their names were on a list, were killed. The armed men quickly separated the better looking women from the males and children, questioned them and released about half. The rest waited, their wrists bound and their ankles hobbled by the short rope tied between them. The axeman looked over the cowed residents.

  “I am Conan of the Barbarians, and now you all belong to my empire.” Cries of protest sounded but clubs rose and fell, silencing them. “Forget the democracy bullshit. The Barbarians are a real gang, not a bunch of pussies and fairies. I’ve got five other enclaves and the only vote that counts is mine.” A wide grin split his bearded face and he hooked a thumb at the bound women. “You can have one choice, a sort of vote? These women are for my troops, for their amusement. If you have a useful skill, you can trade your work for one of your women and save her. As long as you work hard and well for me, you keep the woman and my men will leave her alone.” He stroked his bushy beard, running his eyes over the cowed inhabitants. “Choose carefully. If your daughter and wife are hobbled, you can only save one.”

  “What if the woman has a skill?” The speaker flinched from a raised baseball bat.

  “Then she has been released. We already had a list of those. If she doesn’t work hard enough, we can soon put her back in a hobble.” A good few men came forward, claiming valuable expertise. Conan consulted a list and most were allowed to choose a woman, whereupon the gangsters untied her bonds and let her re-join the crowd. The rejected men could only watch in anguish. Once the applicants stopped coming, the axeman crooked a finger at the crowd. “Come out, Arthur. Your turn.”

  This man, Arthur, swaggered out from among the defeated residents, not at all cowed. The Barbarian leader led him down the line of women to those captured in the first house. He gestured to the pair, then handed the man a dog collar and a leash. “Your prize.”

  “Arthur? What does he mean?” The youngest woman glanced from Arthur to Conan. “This man killed Dad.”

  “Not really, Arthur killed him.” Conan raised his voice so everyone could hear. “Your new boyfriend fed the guards on the riverside bowls of hot stew with a little something in it. They dozed off nicely, and never noticed us sneaking in behind your defences. Now he wants his pay.” The Barbarian leader laughed at the crowd. “Your friend even gave me this list so I know all about you, who has what skills.”

  Arthur, the traitor, sneered at the young woman. “You won’t tell me no next time I want a dance, bitch. Now you’re going to do what I want, any time I want it.” He stepped forward, raising the collar butthe young woman fended him off with her bound hands. Conan seized her hair and held her head still while Arthur fastened the leather in place, pulled on the leash and slapped her, hard. “Come on bitch.” He towed the stunned woman up the street, tugging to keep her stumbling as the hobbles tripped her. Armed men beat back a few protesters who tried to go beyond words.

  Conan caught another woman by the arm when she tried to intervene. His eyes narrowed. With a grin he grabbed her long, auburn hair and twisted until he could see the livid bruise on her temple. “You survived.” He tore her nightdress away. “Oh yes, you’ll do nicely. I like a woman with some fire, especially one who can stand a bit of punishment.” He looked up and down the street, at his own men. “Make sure our wounded have a friendly nurse, a pretty one. One Barbarian in four gets to choose a woman, while the rest make sure this lot behave. Cut cards, throw dice, I don’t give a shit as long as three in four stays on duty. I’ll be busy, so don’t fight over choosing or I’ll kill the fucker that started it.” He started up the street, dragging the woman by her hair. “I’ve got a wildcat to tame.”

  *

  The General:

  Within days of the reorganisation of Sutton Park and Conan’s conquest, the General, much closer to Orchard Close and Soldier Boy, paid a debt with someone else’s blood. Eight miles south of Sutton Park, still in the city but across yet another heavily patrolled motorway, a small, peaceful enclave found themselves the targets of a hostile takeover. A horde of gangsters wielding machetes, axes or baseball bats crept up on an old department store. This enclave had only survived so long because of their proximity to the city centre exclusion zone. Less than a quarter of a mile lay between the building and the barbed wire and warning signs around the site of the riot, massacre and the Mayor’s death.Anyone firing an automatic weapon, or any indiscriminate shots straying over the wire, would bring a helicopter gunship with napalm.

  Four men stood on the roof of a burned-out block of flats, inspecting the department store and its defences from a safe distance. None of them had any intention of risking napalm. Two of the men, the Men in Black, or MiB, wore black suits and dark glasses. Both carried automatic weapons, but as status symbols.Theyrarely used them, preferring to hire out their superior weaponry. The other two wore Army-style uniforms, but only the General had gold braid on his peaked cap. All four had a lot more in common with the way Conan ruled his gang than with the Zookeepers, Orchard Close or even the gangs now in charge of Sutton Park. The General knew about the Zoo, vaguely, because a van came round now and then selling meat, but as yet he stayed focussed on the third of the city he wanted to rule.

  One of the MiB raised binoculars, looking across the broken rooftops towards the target and the multi-storey car park next door. “No reaction yet. At least this plan is working better than the last time. We began to wonder if you really were a fucking General.”

  “Armchair General, Branson, but better than most.” The man with gold braid scowled. “If I’d known who the fucking Geek Freeks had as their general, I’d have pulled back sooner. Probably straight after those catapults threw a lot further than expected.”

  The second suited man glanced back, surprised. “You know that little shit?”

  “Too true I know him, Scrooge. We met in quite a few wargames tournaments and we were about evens. Wellington is a sneaky bastard. He specialised in sucking his opponent into traps but I still don’t know how the bastard knew we were coming. Once I saw his ugly face on TV, looking up at the drone, I wasn’t surprised about what happened.” A smile spread across his face. “He’s a lot uglier than last time I saw him. From the look of those scars, Wellington hasn’t always done so well either.”

  “It’s all right f
or you,you’ve got plenty of men to lose or at least you can recruit more. We can’t afford to lose our automatics or the decent rifles.” Branson, leader of the MiB, pointed beyond the target buildings. “We can’t go back into the city centre for more. Even if we dodged the helicopter, any weapons in there now will be rusted or the Army will have picked them up.”

  “We lost four automatics and four fucking rifles, good ones.” Scrooge kicked moodily at the gravel of the roof. “We also lost the men using them, all good shooters.” His lip lifted in a snarl. “I want that black bitch, the one with that fucking rifle.”

  “We lost eleven shooters between good and good enough, and over a hundred and thirty men once the wounded finished dying. Another score and maybe more will never fight again so I reckon you did well.” The other man in military gear spat into the gravel. “On top of that we lost a shitload of weapons, so maybe you should stop whinging. Fucking office ponces.”

  “Shut it Patton. We need their automatic weapons, they need my brain and your lunatics.” Everyone turned to listen to the radio message. “Baker.” The General lifted his binoculars. “They’re nearly in place. Are the Bloodsuckers ready to fight again?”

  “Yeah, getting chewed up just pissed the rest off. Those that have recovered enough are ready to go, and mad enough not to care I’ve taken their firearms away. The fucking lunatics can’t be trusted not to empty a pistol towards the city centre just to show off.” The big, heavily muscled commander of the lunatics grinned, putting a hand on his machete. “I’ve threatened to cut the nuts off any arse who sets fire to the place or smashes up loot. They can beat up who they like, and fuck who they fancy, but we want the people alive and fit to work once they’ve healed up.” Patton laughed at the expressions on the two MiB. “They’ll probably kill a couple by mistake. The survivors will be pleased when they find out they belong to you lot, and the Bloods are leaving. They’ll be good little workers in case you invite the fucking maniacs back for a sleepover.” All four men laughed, then stopped as the radio crackled again. “Alpha.” They all raised their glasses to look at the target again.

  Scrooge raised his voice to call out to the riflemen spaced along the edge of the roof. “Remember, no automatic fire or shooting high. We’re too near the city centre and that helicopter gunship.” Three of the riflemen lifted a hand in acknowledgement. More shooters lay or knelt on the roofs of two nearby office blocks, where they had a clear view of the target.

  Puffs of smoke showed from the top of a car park and the store. The defenders had spotted the machete-wielding attackers as they closed in, and opened fire. Branson lowered his binoculars, briefly. “Mark the smoke, you lot.”

  One of the riflemen laughed. “Sucking. Eggs.” A ripple of laughter ran through the rest. “Charlie” came over the radio and the General raised the mike to his lips.

  “The General here. Shooters execute one, execute one.” The rifles along this roof and nearby began to fire, deliberate aimed shots at the defending riflemen. “Gentlemen?” The General waved towards a small brick structure, the top of the stairway. “Just in case one of their rifles gets lucky.” The four men retired behind the bricks, occasionally looking out with their glasses.

  Within minutes, one of the riflemen called back to them. “Firing suppressed, sir.”

  “The General here. Alpha, Baker, Charlie execute two, execute two. Rifles, shoot any defenders with firearms but try to miss the friendlies.” The General lowered the radio mike and relaxed. “This should be a nice, easy victory to get the Bloodsuckers back in the groove.” He nodded towards the MiB. “The enclave is your payment for the lost weapons. We’ll use your remaining weapons to take over two or three small gangs, to build up my soldiers again. Snipe the leaders, then a burst of automatic fire to convince the rest who the new boss should be.”

  Scrooge glanced at Branson, who nodded for him to speak up. “Then I suppose you’ll be going after that Wellington again. Is that such a good idea?”

  “Not straight away, not until I’ve got the new recruits trained up and all the Bloods fighting fit. Even then I’d like to deal with that Soldier Boy fucker first. It had to be him that convinced the RAF to interfere. More than that, those two blocks of disciplined fighters, the ones firing aimed shots even with handguns, have to be his. The TV pictures were really useful.” His smirk died and the General turned to scowl in the general direction of Orchard Close. “I need a way through those walls around Orchard Close, if his fighters are that disciplined. Once we take him out, we’ve broken the whole alliance wide open. It’ll leave smartarse Welly out on a limb with his nuts swinging in the breeze.” His hand closed into a fist as if crushing something, or someone.

  “Rockets might do it, break those walls.” Branson shrugged at the sour look from the other MiB, Scrooge. “We told you about the SIMS but you wanted to go the other direction. Their missiles are nasty, but if you can get the Bloods in among the fighters, they’ll fall apart. It’s a commune, everybody and nobody in charge. The SIMS fighters are like Orchard Close, using women to make up the numbers.” He paused, turning to look in the same direction as the General. “How will you get to Orchard Close first? We’ll have to get across that water, then break through the GOFS or Geeks to get Soldier Boy.”

  “That’s what I intended, but maybe not if we can get decent rockets. You leave that part to me. Rhys gave me some detailed information on that Orchard Close, about the skills and the women collected there. That’s why I wanted them, even before that flash bastard stole my armour and rifle.” The General stepped out of cover, raising his glasses to inspect the target buildings. “These twats should have knocked down more of the ruins nearby, made a proper killing ground. The Bloods are already inside. We may as well go down now because it’ll be over by the time we get there. We’ll tell the Bloods what good boys they are, grab some decent booze and maybe a woman, and celebrate.” He turned to Branson. “Tomorrow you can tell me about these rockets. While the Bloods heal, I’ll start thinking about those SIMS and that fucking Orchard Close. Some people pick truly stupid gang names. SIMS? A fucking orchard? Pink Panthers? Barbie Girls? Gods of fucking Fire and Steel? At least the Hot Rods are a bunch of car thieves.”

  *

  The Professors:

  Hangaku and the General weren’t the only ones revising a map. Only four miles north of the General, almost halfway to Sutton Park and just south of a heavily patrolled motorway, a group of ex-universitylecturers and students pored over an old map of the city. One of the students, a brawny young man, tapped two areas outlined in red that separated their own enclave from another outlined in green. “We should attack south, Prof, take out these two gangs. We’ve knocked back all our neighbours, but Mart runs are difficult because none of us can shoot. TheseSIMS are our sort of people but they beat back a gang that had automatics, so they must be better fighters.”

  “We are not predators, Chad. There will be no empire building. If we trade a little medical help, or a few seeds or plants, the two gangs may allow us through to trade.” An older man, looking a lot like someone’s slightly batty granddad in his well-worn robe, gave all the younger people a stern look. “Our job, the lecturers, is to teach you. We will also teach our neighbours, but the price will be a modicum of civilised behaviour. When this lunacy ends, our enclave will march out with our heads high, ready to re-establish civilisation again. You and the other students will finish your education before then, and be ready to help us.”

  “If it ever ends. Sorry Prof, but we wonder sometimes.” This young woman looked guilty, glancing down. “We, the student council, just wanted to meet some decent people again, someone who isn’t trying to rob or kill us.” Behind the old man, Prof, some of the other lecturers exchanged glances. They’d all come to the conclusion this wouldn’t end until everyone in the cities had died, but Prof wouldn’t tell the students the bad news. Unfortunately these were bright young people, smart enough to suspect the truth.

  Prof turned to a tall, wil
lowy woman in a flowing dress. “Celeste, the gangs will talk to you because they consider you an easy mark. Try to arrange a convoy to these SIMS, or at least ask the gangs to trade us modern ammunition and hopefully more weapons. How are you doing with negotiating the latest Mart run?”

  “Two gangs are competing to get medical help at the moment, so they are undercutting each other to give us safe passage. They have just been fighting each other so they have a lot of injuries. I’ve already told them we’ll want hard liquor for anaesthetic. Then we can go easy on it, let the casualties suck up a bit of pain so we can keep some spirits for disinfectant.” Celeste had lost much of her innocence since those first brutal days. “We may have to treat some from each gang to stop one of them feeling slighted. How are we for medical supplies?”

  “We are growing more old-fashioned remedies, and some of the medieval wound dressings are better than expected. Adding essential oils from rosemary or lavender has given us anti-bacterial soap, and ashes make lye for scrubbing surfaces. We have trouble keeping the honey for medicinal use.” This tutor smiled at the rolling eyes from some of the students. “There’s comfrey growing wild and plenty ofpotted Aloe vera, and a dozen old wives’ cures from weeds and bushes, but we save the best for our own people. All the new preparations are tested on gangsters, so a few casualties would be handy.”

  “Good enough.” Prof turned back to Celine. “Offer each of them treatment, and try to get two Mart runs out of it. If not, insist on ammunition or propellant. Get them to bring bleach and disinfectant, and any useful drugs in original packaging. Especially bleach, we need it to make more explosives for the trebuchets to throw.” He tapped the map, looking round the group. “We will not try to conquer, but we must be ready to defend our own. To avoid actual fighting, we will make our neighbours just a little bit dependent on us. Everyone try to think of what the gangs need and we can supply, but without making them greedy.” He patted the burly young man on the shoulder. “Meanwhile, Chad, if you want to beat on a gangster or two you could invite them to a rugby match?” As Prof intended, the meeting broke up in smiles.