Daily till dusk, the soldiers of the ALA fought hand-to-hand with the militia of San Francisco. Their battleground: the Shambles, miles of urban ruble and devastation, the carcass of old San Francisco's once-proud downtown. The rusted skeleton of America’s “Queen City” was filled with ancient auto hulks, plastic accouterments of every gaudy hue, and endless streams of useless wires. This was the field of the fraternal battle. The Shambles was too large to defend against a superior army, too dense to penetrate against an army fighting for its life. On this gruesome terrain of broken cement and twisted steel covered in a filigree of glass shards, the amateur antagonists fought each other to an ignoble stalemate.
Both sides were armed with Mosner lasers. The Mosners dated back to 2030, when American gun ownership reached eighty-three percent. These lightweight, self-recharging pistols proved to be one of the great success stories of the industrial age: a Mosner worked forever. However, the handgun’s accuracy was dubious, and, after about five hours’ use, its lethality meager, doing little more than inflicting a nasty surface burn. In addition to the Mosner, each soldier carried a machete. Neither side had access to artillery; the San Franciscans had traditionally shunned militarism, and the Angelenos had left their heavy weapons in the defensive ring around their own vulnerable city-state.
The Shambles’ mounds of helter-skelter debris facilitated human ingenuity. For instance, on this dank, gray September afternoon, three ragamuffin soldiers lay prone on the rusted floor of an ancient car. These citizen soldiers wore black hemp tunics with orange trim, the uniform of the San Francisco Militia. Shots and occasional explosions resounded around them, yet they lay still, faces pressed tightly against the rotten metal. Above all else, they wanted not to be seen. Occasionally they heard the passing voices of enemy soldiers on patrol. At these moments, the three tightened their grips on their Mosners and met each other’s eyes with the shyness of men whose fear had swamped all instincts beyond their personal survival.
#
A half mile away, in a flat rubble meadow amidst the cement forest of the Shambles, less gunfire resounded. Scampering rats, caretakers of this turf, raised their noses to the air. These black-eyed creatures, true masters of the new California, smelled and heard humans. Loud shouts and gunfire began to increase. The rodents bolted.
In the gray mist and the chilling rain, a terrified San Francisco militiaman emerged from the high rubble that encircled the cinderblock meadow. Finding himself in the open, unable to retreat, the man ran desperately toward another opening in the high cement wall. Stumbling through the bowling-ball–sized chunks of refuse, he began to cry. Without aiming, he fired his imprecise Mosner over his shoulder. Soon he found himself in the middle of the meadow.
At this precarious moment, two enemy solders emerged from the high cement barrier. Noticeably taller and burlier, the pursuers were dressed in the gray, blue-trimmed uniforms of the Army of Los Angeles. Shooting errantly and stumbling as badly as their prey, they whooped and hollered as though having a good old time. Ten yards into the meadow, as their panic stricken-quarry scrambled into the rubble, the chasers stop, exhausted. They bent over panting, hands on their knees.
The two soldiers huffed, laughed, and shook their heads. They shared a water bottle. The drizzle intensified slightly, and they raised their faces to be washed. But being in the middle of a meadow was dangerous; their eyes shifted warily around. Soon they turned back toward cover. There they would hide until another easy target came their way or the sky grew dark and they could retreat to the safety of their camp.
Before these two veterans had reached cover, four well-armed San Franciscan soldiers appeared on the edge of the gray meadow. The combatants froze. The leader of the San Franciscans was a tall, broad-shouldered officer with long black hair. His gestures were quick, smooth, and assured. As his jet-black curls streamed in the wind, this different sort of man pushed his followers aside. He pointed his gun at the ALA soldiers and, with a terrible cry, charged, firing round after round at the stunned opposition.
The ALA hunters-turned-prey did not fire a shot. They turned to flee, to follow the man they had pressed. Then the shorter of the two felt a sting in his throat. He touched the hurt spot, saw his hand covered in dark blood. He looked at his sidekick with questioning eyes, then dropped into a dead heap at the feet of his friend. The surviving soldier momentarily hesitated over his fallen friend. As a consequence of his pause, he took a laser burst through his thigh. He turned and hopped away, dragging his right leg behind him.
The longhaired San Franciscan officer knelt and calmly took aim. His followers did not see the distaste in his eyes as he trained his gun on the fleeing cripple. It was not this man’s way to kill from behind, but he knew that his own frightened soldiers took heart each time they saw an enemy fall. And for that reason alone, he knew he must kill the now-harmless nemesis. A burst of fire erupted from his wide-ranging weapon. The fleeing Angeleno took laser bursts in his back, legs, and head. His corpse flew several feet in the air, then dropped to the jagged meadow floor. The shooter, a general, stood, faced his men. The rain and sweat rolled down his wide soot-blackened face. He had broad lips, a wide, thick nose, and a high, bony forehead. His bloodshot blue eyes were filled with a terrible certainty.
"Let's go kill some more," said the marksman, Thurston Wentworth. Mouths agape, the band of men nodded. Wentworth let out a chilling war cry and sprinted off. The men followed, stumbling behind him into the Shambles.
#
Meanwhile, a quarter of a mile south, a band of eight San Franciscans walked cautiously through thick rubble. Nervously quiet, they tramped through the field of glass-covered boulders and rusted metal. The refuse did not quite come up to a man's chest, and a good deal of walking space between the major mounds of cement made the gruesome spot a place where men could stretch their legs yet remain near cover. Forty yards to their west, eight Angelenos drifted shadowlike out of the high, wet cement jumble. The opposing sides froze. They stared apprehensively at each other for several long moments, studying each other’s features and weaponry. Without a word, the evenly matched adversaries came to terms. Each group turned and walked carefully back into the safety of the Shambles’ high mounds of debris.
Such was the nature of this battle.