Blood and Asphalt: a Post- 'ATS Story' story.

Chapter 6

Three days there, three days back from Occupied LA to Seattle. The old train rocked on the rails as Jodee stared out the window at the blasted, grey landscape. The pollution was strangling the life out of NoCal, Mount Shasta looking naked without any vegetation. She, for that matter, felt naked and vulnerable. Her arms were wrapped around the baby, a swaddled pink ball. No rifle, no swords, no knives, no mass of bodyguards to help her. The only things she had were a handful of nuyen, a minuscule .38, and an excited-looking fifteen year old on his first trip outside of Chris' sight. She sighed, eyes staring far beyond what she saw on the other side of the dirty, rattling glass.

She rocked the baby, the rhythm taking her back to a blizzard and a forest last year. Steps through the snow, haphazard. Bullets whizzing through the trees. A veteran beside her yanked the trigger of a large machinegun, sending an explosion of empty brass flying from the ejection port, back behind them at the forces giving chase. She was hauling Chris haphazardly- he said once that walking on his bad leg was like having a pegleg that hurt. She watched him struggle, face hidden behind a scarf as he and his men advanced. She saw those eyes, those grey eyes, unwilling to give an inch of ground. Resenting being a burden. The hatamoto were bulletstoppers at that point, barely trained and half panicking. The actual fighters whipped them along. She remembered half pulling her hero along, desperate and terrified. His wife -instead of helping him- coolly took to a knee every few steps and fired a few rounds to cover their escape.

The baby burped and vomited all over her shoulder. Sighing, she took him to the bathroom. Her companion was at a loss of what to do. By the time she had returned, nothing had changed. He was still confused if vigilant, trying to appear inconspicuous alongside his 'wife'. She shook her head- she was the First. He was...what? The Seventh? Eighth? His training and youth made him stand out like a sore thumb. She gave him a quick slap upside the head, grumbled a few words of warning. Hopefully, they would return before the offensive.


DE

[edit on 8-4-2005 by worldwatcher]

The return of this epic series at long last! Depending on the amount of support I receive, I will either update it daily, weekly, monthly, or not at all. AT any rate, I really love this series. If you're new, check out the original, it's in my sig. [EDIT: Posting replies is acceptable, but if you want to show the love, U2Us make my heart smile as well.]

Chapter 7

One Week Hence

The Last Round was rebel bar, plain and simple. Dirty and dark, it was run out of the basement of a set of low-rise student apartments in what had been the historic West Adams district of South Central. The railway was gone now, shelled out of existence. In fact, most of South Central was now shelled out ruins. The corporate armies staked out most of the San Fernando Valley as theirs, turning most of the Santa Monica Freeway into a demilitarized zone. Walls and fences, soldiers and armor patrolled it. Everything south of that was mostly rubble, shelled into the ground and still largely prone to occasional retaliatory mortar or artillery attacks. Across the asphalt, the occasional shot rang out from the ruins. Rebel sharpshooters regularly struck out as best they could, fighting sniper wars and trying to outrun artillery strikes. Incursions from corporate forces were rare however, as racial and gang rivalries were all but forgotten at the sight of the black-clad troops. The rubble came alive with fire, and the only real change to the landscape were more burnt-out wrecks and bodies, stripped naked with an hour by the various scavengers in the ruins.

There was an impromptu truce between the ganglords ruling sections of the rubble, the smugglers running supplies into Free LA, and the rebels. The smugglers kept everyone fed, so as long as they were reasonable, they had 'immunity', enforced by both sides. The bangers ruled their petty kingdoms as they saw fit, warred with one another, but generally didn't have trouble with the rebels. The rebels -largely led by DE- were made up of equal parts former students, idealistic survivors of the constant gang wars, and veterans of the insurrection. They didn't care if the gangers killed each other, as long as they kept everything civil. The root of the truce was simple- no side really had any quarrel with the other. They had one common enemy, and kept out of each other's business. The odd rivalry or skirmish came up, simmered.

Tonight, the Last Round was packed with men and women, cheering and drinking either Mexican beer or the savage local moonshine. The news was playing and replaying the previous night's events, claiming it to be the the largest terrorist incident in recent memory. Fear-mongering on CNN and Fox and the talking heads speculated on the origins of the man caught on video. Authorities claimed ignorance.

They lied.

The footage played again, beginning with a camera panning the crowds of glassy-eyed corporate supporters, who were prepared to cheer on the patriotic bull# spewed by the local bureaucrats. A local mall opening. Smiling faces, ignoring the shades of Stalingrad not ten miles away. Then, shots rang out. Contrails from captured rocket launchers whipped through the air, slammed into APC's and armor gathered at the event. Explosions, screams, gunfire. Men and women with katanas leaping from the crowd, blades shining in the sunlight. A message, broadcast over a bloodied microphone clutched by a tall man. His bodyguards surrounded him, TV crews locking in on the man's scarred face.

"Return America to the people. Corporate scum, your end is nigh. You can't hide from the people you've betrayed, we're all around you. And we're pissed off."

Young men and women with bloodied swords hustled him offstage, and suddenly the resistance fighters faded. The crowd was panicking, surging in all directions as security forces converged on the area. By the time the mercenaries arrived, however, the only thing to be found were bullet ridden compatriots, a few dead bystanders, and the better part of Santa Monica's city council hacked to pieces. Close-up shots of the gore for a desensitized public.

Deus smiled. He still had trouble looking at himself on a screen. The patrons around him cheered, slapped his back. It was a good night, but he had to get home to the wife. Gothique might have been his mate, but she still knew the difference between social obligations and merry making. He gestured to Jodee, and Chris departed into the night with his Keshik along the choked and wreckage-strewn Exposition Street.



Anyways, good to be writing again. Thanks for the support, everyone.

DE

[edit on 10-8-2005 by DeusEx]

Awesome as usual deus. hopefully people respond after all one never knows when a guest writer might throw in a different point of view for a chapter or three.

Love it DX... how can I endorse your story ?

..keep it coming...

Aweosme story deus... love it love it. You're a truly great writer.

Aweosme story deus... love it love it. You're a truly great writer.

Jodee paced along, scanning the rubble with weary eyes. She followed the group of rebels, weaving among the burnt out wrecks and scarred concrete. She had barely been smuggled back into LA when she was tapped for the mission in Santa Monica. Now, she walked along the rubble-strewn Crenshaw Boulevard, considered a warzone even before the coup. Now, it was dead silent at night. Nominally still a gang neighborhood, they knew better to provoke the band, but Jodee knew that the borders of Free LA were porous. A corporate sniper could be out there, hiding behind that tagged spire of brick, or under some rubble.

She been there, during the strike. Leapt on stage right beside Chris, killed the Mayor herself. Watched him address the crowd. Watched him stand there, proud and strong, men dying below him, delivering a threat to the uncaring, inhuman monsters who had leveled half a city. Watched him stand there, in a moment of triumph, as his leadership dealt a huge blow to their oppressors. Almost all of his men made it out unscathed, using surprise to their advantage. She was proud of him. More than that, she was proud of herself and her soldiers. Chris had selected her of all people to be by his side during the assault from the crowd, going so far as to pick her up from the train station himself.

"You did great today, Jodee. Thanks," Chris called back over his his shoulder to Jodee. She smiled, nodded.

"I learned to swim while I was drowning, Deus."

She only ever referred to him in public by his moniker, and only by his first name in her mind. He nodded at her statement, and she knew he had faced his own trial by fire. She watched Chris from the back of the protective circle around him. He limped along, hand resting on his sword. The young girl beside him - Rachel, age seventeen, old friend, the Third- seemed a little giddy, but it was to be expected. Victory and a walk with the leader.

"Lead Sergeant, do you know the history of this area?"

He rarely used her title unless he wanted to teach a lesson. She loved the sound of it, none the less. Intrepid told her that he once bore the title, before the Hour of the Wolf. After that, he wasn't promoted, he survived. So, she smiled, listened to his limp's characteristic cadence, and prepared for a lesson.

"Nossir."

"Crenshaw was always a gang-infested hellhole. But, during the War, Los Angeles as a whole sided with Bouchard. Most of the west coast followed suit. But as the fighting raged on, Bouchard realized that the tide would turn. Too much money, better troops, more people on the other side. He knew he was going to lose, so he fortified this area as best he could in the final months. He made truces, bribed people. As he started losing, however, he lost support. Corporations had big money in the Valley."

Everyone nodded. It was a cautionary tale, historic. Chris looked up to Bouchard, had even met the martyr once.

"The Valley rose up. We gave them another Stalingrad, pushed them out of South Central. Hundreds of thousands died, from the shelling or the fighting. In one brief, shining moment, every banger, illegal, housewife and plumber stood as one, forgetting old rivalries to push out those who attacked. Policemen stood back to back with Crips. Children lobbed molotovs onto hummers. For one glorious battle, man and woman stood side by side regardless of color, creed, or past. They pushed back the foe."

Jodee smiled and remembered one of the many books she had read him.

"And the night went down, and the sun smiled out far over the summer sea,
And the Spanish fleet with broken sides lay round us all in a ring;
But they dared not touch us again, for they feared that we still could sting,
So they watched what the end would be.
And we had not fought them in vain,
But in perilous plight were we,
Seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain,
And half of the rest of us maimed for life
In the crash of the cannonades and the desperate strife."

"Tennyson," Chris called out behind him, "Excellent, Jodee."

She blushed, held her head high. Praise brought envious stares. He continued, hands moving in circles, palms up.

"We drove them out, and now we are one of the main strongholds of Free America, despite the petty fighting. Unfortunately, with Bouchard's heroic death at the Battle of Manhattan, the ideological base of the rebellion was gone. The freed South formed the Confederate states. New York Island is free, but basically ruins. Middle America could be considered free, if it wasn't a radioactive wasteland thanks to foreign complicity. Aside from that...well, we have a lot of work to do. Here and Seattle are our best bets."

They stopped at the Adams Wall, a thirty foot tall barricade of rubble and barbed wire that had been the site of a fierce last stand. Now, the site once venerated as a historic battleground was tagged and further pockmarked, a division of turfs. Chris titled his hat to it in passing, turning on Adams towards home.


Enjoy, everyone.

DE

Another great Chapter DX... cant wait to see whats coming next !!!

Great story! Keep up the excellent work, omae!

Chapter 9

The next day, the ganglord was waiting for Chris. Big Mark and three very large, menacing bangers sat across from Gothique, Jodee, and Intrepid. Chris nodded politely, peering into the shadows. His keshik stood at the ready. The entire scene was lit by a single, bare sixty watt bulb hanging from the ceiling. The table was from a bombed out kitchen, the chairs from a school auditorium. The walls were bare. Chris looked over the gang members silently before taking a seat.

"Good morning, let's start this off."

"Word. What chu got to offer us?"

Chris spoke in a quiet aside to Intrepid.

"Who is this one, again?"

The older man leaned in.

"Big Mark, Baldwin Vario East Side Bolen Parque gang."

"You know who I am, Big Mark. Please, introduce me to your...friends."

The big man stared across the table evenly, shifting in the steel chair.

"You first, vato."

"Fine. That's Gothique, my wife."

The purple-haired woman beside him inclined her head slightly. She looked weary, beat, but duty came first. Her eyes narrowed, the shoulder holster crossing over her simple black T-shirt creaking as she leaned back.

"Intrepid here is my right hand man. I believe you two know each other already."

The older, burly man nodded slowly as the bangers looked to him with respect, nodding to themselves.

"Jodee is the leader of my personal guard."

She didn't move, hand resting on the bloodstained green wrapping of her sword. Big Mark nodded quietly, do-rag flopping. "That's Carlos, Anjel on his right, and Tyrell."

The bangers nodded in turn. Two of them were short and wiry, but the black man -Tyrell- dwarfed even Intrepid. Deus tried to memorize the names and faces.

"Now, Intrepid tells me we can help each other out. Lay it out for me."

"We need guns, we need soldatos, we mother#in' EVERYTHING. Now, what do you need from us, homes? I don't see what we got that you don't already have."

"I want a free West Coast. Real government. None of this bull# where people are hiding in ruins."

"So? We don't got that."

"No, but you can help me get it. I'm proposing an alliance, Mark."

Mark looked at him evenly across his table, as Carlos snickered.

"Why should we do that? Why should I send mi vatos to die for you when the Miltons are right next door?"

Intrepid grumbled. He was getting too old to dance around like that.

"You know what? We need to learn more about the # you're involved in before we help you."

"Same here, ese. Man, I don't even have a #in' reason why I'm here. I have my own war to fight."

He stood to leave, gesturing to his friends. Deus raised a hand.

"You're here because your war with the 18th Street Miltons isn't going anywhere. It hasn't gone anywhere in months. It's a stalemate, and you know the only way you're going to break that before the Miltons recruit more or they get better toys from the smugglers is reaching out."

Mark stopped, and his men looked to him. Anger flared.

"Don't go for your guns, all you'll do is get your men dead and your gang without a leader. What'll the Miltons do then, eh? Now, you have two choices- you can go home, get your homeboys and we can start feuding, or you can sit down and we can make arrangements like civilized people."

The three bangers were standing, staring at their leader. A quick conversation in Spanish ensued, with loud protests from Carlos in particular. Finally, the four sat back down.

Deus nodded. Gothique produced a map, addressed them. They looked surprised, a little bemused, but they listened none the less.

"Let's get started then. We need intelligence on your rivals, and the corpies."

The map was old, creased. The legend said 'Los Angeles County', and a series of children's markers were in the middle of the folded paper. The four of them looked over it briefly. Carlos, ever mouthy, spoke up.

"What we get for this, homes? Guns? Drugs?"

"Well, do you expect us to magically know where your enemies are? We fight the guys across the DMZ for a living," barked Intrepid. Jodee was glowering now. She leaned down, whispered into Chris's ear.

"Sir, remember how we recovered that coke? Give it to them. We don't have any use for it."

He nodded, smiled at her. Another rebel faction had been smuggling drugs to 'aid the cause' and were shut down in an extremely permanent manner. He knew what she was getting at- let them peddle poison, and the rebels would be seen as the good guys.

"Well, we happen to have...run across several kilos of coc aine. Nine solid, to be exact. You can have those, agreed?"

"Si."

The four of them leant over the maps, started making notations as Gothique and Intrepid started jotting down notes.

Finally another good chapter !!

ther is only one GREAT thing missing in your story ....ME !!