Beyond Armageddon V: Fusion

by DeCosmo, Anthony

  As impressive the aerial profiles and as ear-splitting the sound, the earthbound men and women who saw the sight knew it to be a formation of desperation.

  “Dasher One to all wings, listen up. Follow I-80 below until we hit our next waypoint for Alpha target. Flight leaders, you know our instructions. Follow them.”

  “What instructions?” Dash Two let his familiarity with this superior officer overcome the need to remain quiet.

  “Billie, you just do what I tell you and be ready to jink, copy that?”

  “Um, copy that Dash One.”

  The attackers followed the interstate westward across Missouri. They flew over the hamlet of Pilot Grove, startling a band of civilian stragglers hurriedly transferring canned goods from an overturned and abandoned Deuce-and-a-half into a wagon pulled by two aging horses. Two of the civvies—carrying burlap sacks—actually fell over onto their rumps from the vibration and wind gust caused by the fast-movers.

  Shortly thereafter, the historic town of Sweet Springs drew the attention of the flyers as a stream of thinning black smoke rose from a reconnaissance Eagle crashed nose-first next to a sagging gazebo in Gusher Park. A trio of gigantic Rat-like creatures—one of the first and most persistent alien monsters to invade Earth—clambered over each other to stick their snouts in the cracked-open transport module.

  Dasher Two—‘Billie’—tapped his thumb against the flight stick nervously. He had flown hundreds of sorties with Dash One, including knocking Screamers out of the sky in support of Stonewall McAllister’s push into South Carolina during the Hivvan war and later the aborted strike on the Witiko’s Stealth Field Generator as the opening salvo of the California campaign. In each case he knew the mission, knew the goal, and understood the stakes.

  Things felt different this time. He could not remember a mission when Dash One kept the details so murky. He did not understand how so many diverse aircraft—including several now miles behind the formation—should be tightly formed and used together in such a fashion.

  But he did know The Order’s main battle force waited outside Kansas City. He knew them well-guarded by anti-air Spooks that would outnumber the strike force exponentially. He knew that all of the F-15s not born with Vulcan cannon received said cannons in wing-mounted weapons pods because fighting spooks with missiles made for losing the economics of this war. Still, he wondered if he carried enough bullets on board for the hell that would great them at Excelsior Springs. Of course he also wondered why the Spooks—not potential ground targets—appeared the priority of this mission.

  And that led to the tapping of his thumb against the stick. A nervous tapping filled with questions as to why they should run a kamikaze mission for no apparent gain.

  “All wings, we’re coming up on Odessa. Bank north, grab some altitude, and proceed toward Alpha target. Take a moment to review Bravo target before things get hairy.”

  Billie did as commanded. He turned his fast-moving F-15 to starboard and remained on his leader’s flank as a loyal wingman should. But the questions refused to yield.

  In the distance he saw the line of puffy white clouds stretched across the horizon turn black; like smoke boiling in the heavens.

  They crossed the Missouri River, whooshed over the waters of the crescent-shaped Cooley Lake, and bore in on the flattened, rotted land that had once been Excelsior Springs, Missouri. The sky turned dark and twisted.

  Each pilot in the formation gasped or closed their eyes or felt a nauseous lurch in his or her belly. No matter how often they came upon The Order’s legions a human soul could not become accustomed to the sight, one akin to kicking over a rock and finding the slimy, squirming bottom-feeders hidden beneath.

  Tendrils of white smoke newly-birthed from egg-shaped mounds tried to hide the army in a sheath of unnatural fog but the job had just begun. In fields to the south of Route 69 assembled row upon row of shell-covered hover tanks with gun barrels of various design. Dozens of slithering turtle-things serviced the vehicles with lines feeding ammunition and energy.

  A little further to the west on the far side of an access road, the boxy industrial buildings of Excelsior Plastics had succumbed to Voggoth’s dominion. The walls of the factory drown beneath a cover of dark metallic roots. Sizzling steam escaped from tubes atop the roof and instead of manufacturing injected moldings the plant now housed legions of once-human monks and the mutation chambers that attached and re-supplied the bio-weapons affixed to the arms of these damned souls.

  Several varieties of Spider Sentries in uncountable numbers massed along Route 69; a hundred armor-plated rolling tubes adorned with glowing missiles waited in the parking lot of a strip mall; thousands of gray-skinned Ogres filled the gaps between with carts full of glowing orbs standing at the ready; a hundred locomotive-like treaded transports carrying surface-to-surface missiles sat at station on the destroyed neighborhoods to the southeast of town; mechanical Commandos in a hundred lines of one-hundred each stood perfectly still in formation on the browned grounds of East Valley Park with all manner of portable weapons on display like a May Day parade in Hell. Dozens of walking turrets formed a protective ring around the mustered army.

  Above it all—standing taller than the planes flew—loomed the Leviathans.

  One straddled the center of town while hundreds of eel-ish things slithered up and down its form like an infestation of maggots cleaning and repairing the vile beast. Two more stood stationary to the northwest on the grounds of Rocky Hollow Park. A fourth knelt on its skyscraper legs four miles west on the cracked and broken tarmac of Clay County airport where car-sized flying mechanical insects inspected its workings in preparation for battle.

  The protective mist crept over it all from the egg-shaped dispensers located at the corners of the encampment, hiding even more of the army that aimed to crush humanity at the Mississippi. In a few hours that veil would be complete, shading all but the Leviathans from The Empire’s sights until the time came to march.

  “Dash One, this is Two, Jesus Christ what do we hit first? We need to slow down here. What approach should we take? I need some direction here!”

  “Billie! Don’t do shit. Stay on course—full throttle—gain some altitude—keep heading at them.”

  The Spooks came. They came from brick-shaped boxes lined with ivy-like pulsating red veins. Each of the two dozen launchers sported four spouts that spat the flying beasts into the air like cannon balls. Flapping wings—more like a cloak over a ball—unfolded after ejection and an unseen force propelled the creatures at tremendous velocity.

  With each launch the boxes deflated a little but before they emptied those launchers filled the skies with the horrible weapons: 50—100—300 balls of destruction rising up and screaming toward the approaching fighters.

  The air waves filled with panicked chatter. The clouds grew angrier. Lightning flashed. Thunder boomed loud enough the pilots could hear the rumble through their radios and above the roar of engines. Wind shear rocked wings.

  “Blow through! Blow through!” Dasher One ordered and despite every natural instinct calling for retreat, the pilots followed his lead and rammed into the cloud of destroyers.

  “They’re everywhere!”

  A sidewinder air-to-air missile launched from under an F-16’s wing, hitting a Spook but making only a splash in the tidal wave crushing down on them.

  “Use your goddamn guns!”

  Vulcan cannons met the living missiles splattering bunches into bits and carving a tunnel through the mob. But not without sacrifice. An F-16 lost a tail and spiraled fast into the army below where its fireball incinerated a column of Ogres. An F-15 took a shot directly in the canopy, exploding its front nose and sending the balance of the craft flat-spinning toward Earth.

  The vanguard of fighters broke through but the Spooks did not give up the hunt. Most changed direction like a grotesque flock of birds to give chase to the fastest fighters. The rest rained down on the slower planes at the rear of the attack group.


  A Prowler suffered a direct hit. The pilot instinctively ejected. Fortunately another of the Spooks blasted him to pieces before he could parachute into the devils below. Two A-10s suffered impacts, one lost a wing and plunged toward the ground, the other absorbed the hit and continued on.

  Their first pass complete, the Spooks turned about and gave chase.

  “All wings! All wings!” Dasher one shouted through grit teeth. “Break off to Bravo target! Hit the burners and break off!”

  Billie stared out his cockpit window. Ahead he saw the rolling black clouds give way to clear sky. Behind, Spooks giving chase. Below, undefended legions of Voggoth’s army. And on his wings a pair of heavy bombs waiting to drop. Perhaps barely enough to scratch the numbers assembled below, but at least some compensation for the losses already suffered.

  “What are you talking about? We’ve got a clear shot!”

  “Billie! Shut the hell up and follow your orders!”

  For a second—a long time in a jet fighter moving hundreds of miles per hour—Billie considered releasing his bomb load. His eyes saw the Leviathans standing at Rocky Hollow Park and he thought about raising his nose and letting momentum and gravity send thousands of pounds of explosives into one of their sick bellies.

  But his loyalty overcame his frustration. He banked southwest. The twin towers of monsters disappeared from his line of sight.

  “All wings, full throttle and hit the deck. I repeat, full throttle and hit the deck. Make time, people. Make time!”

  The attacking planes dropped altitude and gained speed. The swarm of angry spooks gave chase, overtaking and downing an F-117 as the human fighters flew over top the kneeling Leviathan at Clay County airport.

  “Faster—faster…” Billie heard Dasher One mumble over the radio as if his words might will more speed from the engines.

  Blue sky replaced churning clouds. Sunbeams of an early June day replaced flashes of lightning. But the death struggle continued. The Spooks gained ground as they bellowed a horrid cry as if killing provided relief from an existence of agony.

  Eight miles away from Alpha target, two Spooks hit another Prowler. The broken plane crashed hard into the grounds of the Shoal Creek Golf Course north of Pleasant Valley.

  At 12 miles one of the F-111 Aardvarks fell victim to the pursuit. The cockpit assembly drifted on parachutes down into a vacant housing development on the north side of Kansas City.

  At 15 miles the first Spook ran out of energy. Its body grew crusty and tired; the flapping wings—perhaps more like the flaps of a kite—stiffened. It fell. At 17 miles more died and dropped one after another. The pursuit shrank from a swarm to a flock to a handful.

  “Approaching bravo target,” Dasher One radioed. “Targets identified as farms along the coast of Wyandotte lake.”

  “That’s it? That’s it?” Billie could no longer hide his frustration. They had lost several planes—good pilots—and passed on a chance to drop a few bombs on Voggoth’s main army. Not much, but something.

  “Farms? We did all this to hit some goddamn farms? Whose dumb-ass idea was this? We had their friggin’ army under our wings. We could have done some damage.”

  Dasher One first greeted Billie’s protests with a chuckle. And then an assurance.

  “Relax Billie, we just kicked their ass, they just don’t know it yet…”

  The black heavens above Voggoth’s army rolled and bucked like an inverted ocean tide. Licks of lightning bounced among the clouds but no rain came; only the energy of a storm that refused to break.

  Something moved among the storm clouds.

  Another bolt of lightning erupted through the heights. The flash illuminated three deadly beasts descending from the clouds with wingspans greater than 180 feet and bellies full of death. The thunderclap that followed sounded one part roar and one part laughter.

  The monsters descended upon Voggoth’s legions to the droning roar of Pratt & Whitney turbofans making some 17,000 pounds of thrust. A hydraulic hum followed by a heavy clang announced the opening of bomb bay doors.

  The B-52’s wore icons on their noses and came with names: “Memphis Belle IV,” “In Harm’s Way”, and “Lady Ashley”.

  With the anti-air Spooks pulled en masse to the southwest and new ones yet to be birthed in the launchers, Voggoth’s army could only watch the mighty planes approach.

  The B-52s had served little purpose in The Empire until that moment. Precision strikes and air-to-air capability held sway against the Hivvans and The Cooperative, while the sheer volume of Spook support kept the Stratofortresses away from Voggoth’s minions.

  Now, with the Chrysaor still undergoing repairs and Imperial air forces dwindled to nearly nothing, the gigantic man-made monsters found one more mission in a history of missions stretching back to the 1950s.

  The bombs fell. One after another after another after another. They fell like rain and hit the ground like earthquakes—180,000 pounds of ordnance pounded the tightly-packed ranks of The Order’s great army.

  Shell tanks splintered into pieces. Armored missile launchers broke and scattered like smashed toys. Muscle-bound ogres disintegrated into chunks of gore. Mechanical commandos shattered to shards. Monks and Spider sentries vaporized by the hundreds.

  The Leviathans proved too tall a target to place under the bombardier’s sights—except for the one at Clay Count airport. The one kneeling for repairs.

  A trail of bombs walked across the tarmac destroying dozens of blister-like support buildings until reaching the gargantuan. The barrage fell onto the creature’s skin and into the top of its skyward-facing mouth. The slug-like body burst and oozed. Tendons supporting the main frame unraveled. The legs fell away from the whole. The entirety of the thing broke into gigantic pieces.

  The storm grew to a frenzy both in the clouds and on the ground. The sound of the bombardment spread for miles, shaking the lonely landscape of Missouri and collapsing unstable structures as far away as Kansas City.

  The Order’s army tasted Hell served by mankind. Different than Voggoth’s own brand. Less vicious. Colder, perhaps; more detached. But just as effective.

  When the last bomb dropped, the B-52s banked away and flew east with impunity. The army of Voggoth lay cut in half.

  The storm raged on.

  17. Maze

  The air felt damp and smelled of rot. Bindings on her wrists and ankles kept Nina secure to the hard surface; a table or the like. The black ceiling above appeared featureless save for red and green lines that could have been wiring—or veins.

  She heard the voices again.

  “The first implant is complete, your Excellency.”

  “Did you take care to conceal it?”

  “While dormant it appears as nothing more than a common skin blemish. Even when activated it will remain small.”

  “Very well. And the second phase?”

  “The processors are encoding the appropriate memories based on our scan of the subject female’s brain chemistry. The supplemental memory unit will be available for implant in a short time. Prior to implantation, we will suppress all recollections since her capture and route chemical paths to those memories through the supplemental unit.”

  “We must accelerate the process! If we do not return her to the crash site soon they will cease their search and the opportunity will pass. We already failed to neutralize the surrogate’s female carrier on the first day of hostilities and her location is no longer known to us. In the same day our assassination attempt of the surrogate’s genetic predecessor failed and he has avoided our detection since that time. She represents our last hope at disrupting human resistance before it can coalesce.”

  “I understand, your Excellency.”

  Then it stood over Nina and glared at her through emerald eyes on a face covered in decaying skin.

  “Do not fear, my child. Soon we will purge these unpleasant hours from your mind and return you to your human compatriots. You have a duty to perform for the blessed Voggoth.”<
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  The Bishop glared at an underling as he moved away from the blob-like Chariot transport and walked—nearly glided—across the pavement of the parking lot. The young Missionary man who met him bowed and they spoke, but Nina could not hear the conversation as she watched the Bishop’s arrival through binoculars.

  She felt her heart thump faster and a wave of anger build in her bones.

  Next to her along the berm lay Carl Bly with his own pair of binoculars eyeing the new arrival. The two hid at the fringe of a ring of vacant cookie-cutter duplexes to the west.

  “Man, I think that’s the first time I ever saw one of those Order guys looking pissed off. Whoever he is, he’s not happy. I guess a couple of B-52s can pretty much ruin anybody’s shit.”

  Nina’s team received news of yesterday’s strike via radio, the same radio call wherein she had requested—again—for transports to be sent to Clinton, Missouri. Her team directed any survivors they came across to that small town.

  Command’s answer? Vague. A sort of ‘we’ll see what we can do’. At the very least Nina hoped they could air drop supplies to the survivors but even that remained uncertain.

  But thoughts of survivors, air strikes, and supplies held little importance at that moment. She remained focused on the creature dressed in clergy garb with emerald eyes and a robe underneath which things squirmed.

  She recognized him.

  Not a memory passed from Trevor’s consciousness to hers. Not a falsehood planted by Voggoth’s henchmen. A real memory. One originally suppressed during her captivity. This memory belonged to Nina, like those other memories from The Order’s prison where they had infected her with their implants.

  Bly spoke unaware of Nina’s silent rage, “Cap, this was a good idea on paper. Doesn’t look like they’ve got a lot of security around. But this place is huge. We don’t have enough C-4 to bring it all down.”