Ash: Rise of the Republic Read Online Free PDF Page A

followed them
southeast until a heavy ashfall blew in from the north. When the
storm had finally settled, the trail was wiped clean. Now they were
heading east along the highway, hoping to stumble across new
sign.
    The attack was a new puzzle for the grizzled
campaigner. The outlaws he had chased during his career had usually
been more interested in stealing things, especially something as
precious as fuel. The band they had run down earlier that day had
been well equipped, but they were scrawny and malnourished. Five
gallons of diesel could net a savvy negotiator a month’s worth of
provisions in any of the rough thieves’ dens that passed for
settlements in the region. The smoldering truck they had left two
days ago was hauling close to six thousand gallons of the priceless
fluid. He had yet to meet a starving man who would willingly burn
that kind of a fortune.
    Satisfied with the possibility that the next
day might bring answers, he rolled up the map with a characteristic
grunt, pinched out the candle, and stretched out to get some rest
before his watch.
    Four hours later, a soft nudge on his big
toe jolted him awake. He exploded out of his blankets, eyes wild,
bowie knife brandished. His wife Deb stood in front of him at a
safe distance with a mocking smile on her face, her short, curvy,
muscular frame silhouetted by the gentle candle light. Her silver
streaked, chestnut brown hair gleamed in a tight ponytail. A few
unruly tendrils had broken free and formed a golden halo in the
soft light, adding to her dangerous, wild beauty. Still smiling,
she waited for the fury in his eyes turn to recognition, and then
lust.
    “I knew you’d change your mind wench!” He
moved toward her with lecherous intent.
    “Oh put your pants on you dirty old bastard,
it’s time for you to take over. I’m gonna hit the sack.” Her voice
was stern as she brushed aside his advance and slipped into the
warm blankets he had vacated.
    Grumbling, pining for the days when morning
coffee was almost a birthright, the grizzled captain worked the
stiffness out of his old joints. He pulled his ash suit on and
picked up his rifle. He moved silently through the still sleeping
rangers. The bracing cold again spilled past the hatch as he made
his way up to the surface.
    ****
    The ragged men had followed the stranger, as he had
known they would, two days to the southeast. Their way of life was
threatened, they were desperate, and they were shocked to find a
huge gathering of men just like them. Within minutes of meeting the
Chief they had signed up, and the cloaked man had left again to
roam until he stumbled upon the next band of frightened men who
scrambled to escape the tightening noose of civilization.
    They left on a raid the day they arrived.
The big farm was fat with livestock and the early harvest. Its
defenders were soft, grown lazy and complacent under the protection
of the ranger companies. They watched, chilled by the Chief’s
savagery, as he tore through into a knot of trembling farm boys
armed with rusty old carbines. He seemed to wade through them, face
a rictus of hate, a jagged knife in each hand, bare chested and
dripping with the blood of his screaming victims.
    They had attacked in broad daylight, and
they were marching home by noon, packs and wagons fat with rich
loot. It was a strange thing, they thought, that two days earlier
they had been running for their lives, hounded by the law, and now
they marched in the open, triumphant and swaggering like
pirates.
    ****
    The Captain called a halt around noon in a small
grove of dead pines. His troop slipped off their bikes and eagerly
produced canteens and rations, waiting for the ash to settle before
lifting their masks.
    “We’re getting close, they aren’t moving
fast. They have no idea what’s coming.” He said to no one in
particular. They had seen black smoke on the horizon soon after
setting out that morning. The source was a small moonshiner’s cabin
that had been raided in