After months of guerrilla fighting, with most of the legitimate military staying out of it, and the new president having to rely on mercenaries to combat Ben Raines, the military put the man out of office and installed Ben Raines as president of the United States.

  Then the plague came scurrying into the homes and lives of the survivors of one holocaust, bringing yet another maelstrom upon the heads of people who were still trying to dig out of the ashes of global war: a ratborne killer disease spread by fleas.

  The United States of America was no more.

  Ben Raines pulled his people back together and headed for safety.

  Over the long bloody years, Ben Raines and his Rebels had fought ignorance and barbarism, the Russian Striganov, the mercenary Hartline, war lords and roaming gangs, and the Libyan terrorist, Khamsin—who now controlled nearly all of what had once been known as South Carolina.

  Now Ben and his people were to face the Night People, on their home turf: New York City. And Ben knew full well that the Canadian mercenary, Monte, with an army that outnumbered his own Rebels, had aligned himself with the Night People, and might be coming at Ben’s Rebels at any moment.

  But Ben and his Rebels had had their backs up against that well-known wall many times before. They were used to it. This time would be no different, for the Rebels all knew—to a person—they could make no real effort toward setting up any really effective, workable, caring form of government until all the crud had been removed from their path. Human and otherwise.

  And the people who leaned toward mindless violent acts against others, who robbed and raped and killed and tortured and ran rampant over others simply because they were strong enough to do so . . . they knew all about Ben Raines and his Rebels. They knew what had happened to others like them when Ben caught up: a bullet or a rope. Justice came down swift with the Rebels.

  Ben looked at the outline of the great gray city in the gloomy twilight of late fall. “There are survivors in there,” he muttered. “Good decent people who for decades before the Great War had to contend with gangs of street punks, robbers, rapists, murderers, thugs, and crapheads.” He was unaware that Holly and several other Rebels had moved to within hearing distance of him. “And now for a decade after that war, a few of those same people have had to live under the shadow of a pack of cannibalistic sub-beings, so vile, so savage, it would be a slur against the animal kingdom to refer to them as animals.” He lifted his eyes to the graying outline of the city vanishing swiftly as night began enveloping it. He wondered how the people in that city managed to control their fear as night slipped around them. And with the night, the creatures would prowl. “Hang on, people. Hang on. We’ll get you out. And that’s a promise.”

  The woman came close to the man. They stood on the observation deck of the building and both shared a smile as their eyes filtered the darkness.

  They could see some of the fires from the Rebel camp.

  “Is it really them, Gene?” she asked.

  “The tunnel people say it is. They say it’s really General Ben Raines and his Rebel army. God! Let it be so.”

  “Shall we have a small celebration with that thought in mind?” an older man asked from behind them.

  Gene turned. Smiled. “Yes, Dad. I think that would be in order.” His smile faded. “And of course we shall have to have a larger celebration when the general and his people link up with us. Correct?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. But perhaps General Raines will take pity on an old man and let bygones be bygones.”

  “I’m sure he will, Father. That was a long time ago.”

  The older man shook his head. “A man like Raines, son, has a long memory. Remember, he was a mercenary for a few years before our . . . incident.”

  “Ben Raines always said he was a soldier of fortune, not a mercenary. He always fought on the side of freedom and democracy and against tyrants and dictators and communists.”

  “I came close to destroying him, son. He’ll remember. I shall gather the wine and cheese and bread and call a few of our friends for the party.” The older man walked away from the couple.

  “I have always been told that General Raines was a compassionate man.” The woman turned to face him.

  “Strong law and order man, Kay. Compassionate . . . yes, to a degree. To the very young and the elderly and the handicapped. I can’t see him harming my father. But . . .” He shrugged his shoulders. “With a man like Ben Raines, you just never know. All we can do is hope.”

  “I wonder if the Night People know he’s here?”

  “They know, Kay. They know. God damn their evil hearts to Hell! They know.”

  “Have you heard when he plans to enter the city?”

  The question was pushed harshly from the throat of a hooded woman, one of a dozen robed and hooded men and women who sat in the semi-gloom of the big room. Two shielded torches were the only light.

  The Judges were in session.

  Dozens of lesser officials of the Night People remained standing.

  “No word yet, Judge. We know only that the Hated One has arrived.”

  “And there is no doubt; it is Ben Raines?”

  “It is Ben Raines. Some of the survivors from Staten Island caught a glimpse of him through binoculars. It is the hated one.”

  Another Judge spoke. “Now we have people not only below us in the tunnels who fight us, and above us in the skyscrapers and apartment houses and in the Park; but now we also have Ben Raines.”

  “Still we outnumber them all,” he was reminded by another Judge.

  “But we will be fighting on three fronts,” yet another Judge spoke, the hood concealing his horribly burned face. “We must get word to Monte.”

  “But how? Ben Raines’s people scan every known frequency. To use the radio would be giving our plans away.”

  The woman settled it. “We must send runners. They can exit through the tunnels that we control. Do it now. We have Ben Raines close; we know he is going to enter the city. This time, he dies!”

  A week passed, and still Ben and his people made no attempt to enter New York City. The Rebels blocked off the subways and secured the bridges. A dozen harbor patrol boats and tugboats were found and patched up. Ike was once more back in the navy.

  The remainder of the Rebels were rested and ready to go. Their weapons had been field-stripped and oiled and checked. Clips had been filled and clip pouches were full. Rations and other gear had been drawn from the supply depot. Maps of the area had been found and duplicated and passed out to squad leaders, who in turn went over and over them with their people.

  Now the Rebels were enduring one of the hardest parts of impending combat: the waiting.

  Ben had gathered his people around him in his CP. Everybody from Ike and Cecil and Dan Gray and the mercenary Colonel West, to company commanders.

  “We go in at dawn,” Ben told them. “Colonel West, you and your people will go into New Jersey and secure Newark Airport so our bigger birds can get in.”

  “Yes, sir,” the mercenary quickly responded.

  “Ike, you and your people will cross over into Bayonne and clear everything up to the George Washington Bridge. There, you will leave a detachment and cross over into Manhattan, eventually linking up with me.”

  “Gotcha, Ben,” the ex-SEAL acknowledged.

  “Cecil, you and your people will cross over into Brooklyn and clear two-seventy-eight for at least six miles. I want it cleared all the way up to and including the Brooklyn Bridge. There, leave a team and come over and join me.”

  “Right, Ben.”

  “Dan, split your Scouts among the three objectives.”

  “Four objectives, sir,” the Englishman replied. “And I shall accompany you into Manhattan.”

  Ben smiled. “Very well. As you wish. Questions, anyone?”

  No one spoke.

  “Then I’ll see you all at dawn, tomorrow. We’ll see what’s left of the Big Apple.”

  Outside the CP, a young CO turned to a buddy. “What the hell’s the Big Apple?”

  “Beats me,” his buddy replied. Both of them had not yet been ten years of age when the Great War erupted. “Maybe they used to grow apples in there.” He jerked his thumb toward the dark outline of the city.

  His friend gave him a very dubious look. He cut his eyes as Ben’s daughter, Tina, a member of Gray’s Scouts, approached. He waved her over and posed the question to her.

  She thought for a moment, then shook her head. “I don’t know, guys. I just know this . . .”

  The young men waited.

  “. . . We’re gonna take a hell of a big bite out of it!”

  Chapter 3

  As was almost always the case, with the exception of the cooks and the guards already on duty, Ben was the first one up in the morning. He had always been a restless man, and age had not tempered that. He dressed in tiger-stripe BDU’s, slipped into harness, and picked up his old Thompson SMG. Ben stepped out of the building and walked to one of the several mess tents.

  This would be the last hot meal for several days—perhaps even weeks. The last meal of any kind for some of his Rebels.

  His tray filled with fried potatoes and beef and gravy and fresh-baked bread, his mug sending up savory steam from what currently passed for coffee—with a lot of chicory in it—Ben sat down at a table and began his breakfast, watching as the mess tent began filling up with yawning troops, all dressed for war. He hid a smile as Little Jersey came rushing into the tent, looking around for him, her eyes finding him, a frown on her face at his slipping away without her noticing. But Ben had been doing that with his bodyguards for years. Ben’s self-appointed guardian filled her tray and sat down at a table a few yards away from her general.

  Rank held no privileges in the Rebel army when it came to eating: colonels stood in line with privates and waited their turn to be served. And this close to the upcoming battle zone, the ranking officers each ate at different mess tents, to lessen the chances of a rocket attack taking them all out together.

  Doctor Holly Allardt walked in, waited to be served, then joined Ben. Although it was common knowledge that Ben was seeing Holly, since arriving on Staten Island, the two had been busy, with little time for social contact. And no time for sexual contact.

  “Doctor Chase told me to go in with your people, Ben. Set up aid stations.” She took a bite of food. “How are we going in? And where?”

  “Boat. We’ll put ashore at Battery Park. The park is about twenty acres, as I recall, and I’m hoping to use it as a staging area.”

  “A place for us to work?”

  Ben shrugged. “We’ll have to play that by ear, Holly. We won’t know until we get there. That’s why Chase is sending along a full MASH.”

  “Ben, do you have any intelligence about these people? What to expect?”

  He shook his head. “Practically nothing, Holly. We’ve been trying to raise those survivors inside the city in hopes they’d have some up-to-date intel for us. Nothing . . .”

  Dan Gray walked in and up to Ben’s table. “Pardon, sir,” the Englishman said. He was dressed in full battle gear. “We’re shoving off now. We’ll establish a CP for you inside the ferry terminal . . . hopefully,” he added.

  “Very good, Dan. Tina going in first wave?”

  “Yes, sir. Her team will be going ashore at the South Ferry and entering the park.”

  “I’ll see you all in a couple of hours, Dan.”

  “Yes, sir.” The ex-SAS man did a smart turnabout and walked out of the mess tent, hollering for his people to gather.

  “Finish your breakfast, Holly,” Ben said, mopping up the last of his gravy with a piece of bread. “We’re shoving off shortly. Dan and his people are sure to take some casualties. We want to be there to treat them.”

  “Aren’t you afraid just a little bit, Ben?” Her eyes searched his face.

  “No.” The question seemed to take him by surprise. “And neither is Cecil or Dan or Ike or a great many of the other Rebels. Probably more are not than are, would be my guess.”

  “That is not a natural reaction, Ben.”

  He met her steady gaze. “I’ve been at war for years, Holly. Most of us have. We had a few peaceful years in the Tri-States; but even there, we were at a constant state of war-readiness. It comes down, Holly, to this is what we do. I’m sorry to have to say this—deeply sorry—but we have made war our careers. And we will continue to fight until the scum and the warlords and the human filth and those who prey on the weak are gone from the face of this land that we still call America.”

  “And then, Ben?”

  “And then I will lead my people—or if I’m dead, someone else will lead them; Buddy, probably, if he’s ready—back to Base Camp One and live in peace. I would do it today, Holly.”

  “Ben Raines dead?” she questioned, with more than a modicum of bitchiness in her tone. “Oh, Ben Raines can’t die. Ben Raines is a god! Oh, I know all about those people in the woods and underground in the forests who worship Ben Raines, who have built shrines and altars to his exalted name. All hail King Raines.”

  “What’s got your panties in a wad, Holly?” Ben fired back.

  “My panties in a wad! What a disgusting thing to say!”

  “Well, par-don me!”

  She jumped up and stood glowering at him. “I’ll see you on the ship, General!”

  “It’s not a ship. It’s a boat!” Ben had raised his voice.

  “Whatever!” she shouted, then stalked out of the mess tent.

  Everybody in the mess tent was very careful to keep their eyes on their food.

  Except one.

  Ben cut his eyes to look at Little Jersey, looking at him. “You ever heard of Sigmund Freud, Jersey?”

  “No, sir.”

  “He was a psychiatrist.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I recall a line from one of his articles. I must have been doing some research on a book at the time. Freud wrote . . . ‘The great question, which I have not been able to answer, despite my thirty years of research into the feminine souls, is: What does a woman want?’”

  Little Jersey, in all seriousness, replied, “Maybe she’s just horny, sir.”

  Ben was still laughing and hoo-hawing and wiping his eyes with a handkerchief as he walked out of the tent.

  Ben looked at the boat with a great deal of trepidation in the glance. “Is this tub seaworthy?” He stepped on board.

  “We’re not going to sea, General,” he was told. “It’s only about five miles over there.”

  Ben looked at him. Under all the grease he recognized one of the men from the motor pool. “Grissom? Is that you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Hell, Grissom, you were born in Iowa! What the hell do you know about boats?”

  “Nothing. But I can get an engine running. Stafford’s the pilot on this thing.”

  “Then I assume we’re ready to shove off?”

  Grissom looked at him. “Yes, sir. Just as soon as I get my butt off this thing! I can’t swim.”

  Shaking his head and grinning amid all the laughter from his heavily equipment-laden Rebels sprawled on the deck, Ben walked forward and climbed up to the bridge just as the lines were cast off.

  Faint colors were beginning to pale the eastern sky, faintly highlighting the skyline of New York City.

  Ben glanced at the man behind the wheel of the big tug. “Just get us there, Stafford.”

  “No sweat, General.” He patted the wheel. “She’s in pretty good shape considering all the neglect. She’ll get you there.”

  Ben sat down in a tall chair beside Stafford and stared through the empty space where glass should have been. A .50-caliber machine gun had been set up forward, its crew ready. He cut his eyes. Two more big tugs were rumbling on the left, two others on the right. Port and starboard, he mentally corrected.

  Holly was right, he reflected. His lack of fear was not a natural thing. He felt excitement, not fear. He was returning to New York City. How long had it been? He counted back. About fourteen years. That was the time his publishing company had put on the party for him . . . well, not just for him. There were several other writers involved. Fourteen years. For sure, he would have to visit the offices, see if anything was left.

  That brought him out of his reverie. What could be left? Rat-chewed manuscripts? Tattered contracts that didn’t go into the last mailing?

  The last mailing. Before fear and panic and horror struck.

  Why did Hilton Logan and the military do it? Why did they keep the fact that New York City still stood a secret? What was their reasoning?

  Unanswered questions. Questions that would forever be unanswered.

  Hilton Logan had been a madman, sure. But that wasn’t enough. There had to be more.

  But Ben felt he would never know.

  When he again lifted his eyes to the open window, New York was on top of him.

  “You were daydreaming, General,” Stafford said. “I didn’t want to bust in. The city hold some fond memories, sir?” He had throttled back the engines; docking was only moments away.

  “Yeah, it does. I used to go with a lady from New York. Back in the seventies.”

  “A looker, General?”

  “Oh, yes.” Esther. Hated that name. Never realized that Ben knew about it. Had her name changed to Rebecca. Esther Hellerstein. Her parents had hated Ben . . . Hate was too strong a word. Disliked him intently. Wanted their daughter to marry a nice Jewish fellow. She probably had.

  Ben wondered if she had made it through the initial germ onslaught.

  Stafford had cut all the inside lights. Ben sat in the darkness and waited until his eyes adjusted to the dimness. He watched as one tug pulled ahead of the others; that would be Dan Gray’s teams. The Scouts almost always went in first. Another tug, a smaller one that Ben had not noticed at first, chugged out of the darkness and was docking off to Ben’s left. Tina and her team would be entering the park. No gunfire yet.