Colonel Bryer fired two more rockets. One struck a black rider in the head. The explosion surprised him. The headless rider tumbled towards the earth, his horse kicked and screamed behind him. The two crashed into a car far below.
“Go for their heads,” he said into his helmet communicator.
Colonel Bryer’s pilots obeyed his orders. Rockets went clean through a few enemy heads. Bafflement swept him. Some pilots found their mark, and the horses and headless riders fell to the earth. He fired more rockets, and dropped two more. All the while he mouthed a prayer.
Colonel Bryer wanted the leader. His fist tightened on the control stick. He jerked left and right and made the F-22 jink. Armored horse mounted horrors jabbed spears and swung wicked swords at his jet, missing the cockpit. The pulled trigger buzzed against his forefinger. His 20mm cannon burped flames and high-powered shells, enemy heads exploded in red sprays.
Wrath suffered no one. He pulled the reins on his pale beast. The Hell steed snorted compliance. Blood trickled from its wide nostrils. The master sent his steed’s muscular frame towards the jet with the name Col. Cecil Bryer stenciled on the side in black letters.
Rockets and cannon tracer rounds ripped the air around Wrath. Some burst against his body. Undaunted, he hefted his sword. Bryer’s helmeted head turned up in Wrath’s direction. Wrath drove down his rusted blade.
The blood-splattered sword crashed into the cockpit. Cecil’s head split open like a pomegranate. The fighter jet exploded, engulfing them both in flames and metal. Only Wrath escaped the destruction.
The other jets began to scatter as Wrath’s horsemen tore into the fighters. More explosions split the air as jets tumbled to the ground below. Parachutes fluffed out amongst the devastated skyline as pilots bailed out from shattered jets. The horsemen cut them down.
The air attack failed.
16
President Wallace sat in a large control room forty stories beneath the White House. The frantic air battle played over a fifty-inch high definition screen. CNN gave reports from the ground. He also received mixed reports from generals nowhere near the chaotic battle. He muted the close circuit flat screen to silence the unsteady generals who tried to fill him in on the fight. He closed his eyes and massaged his temples with his thumbs as the CNN reporter gave detailed accounts on the battle.
“Oh my God.” The CNN reporter’s voice cracked over the surround sound speakers.
President Wallace leaned forward. A fiery fighter wing crashed into the reporter and her camera operator. White noise filled the screen. He unmuted the speakers on the close circuit television.
“What are the Marines doing, general?”
“They’re moving in, sir. The next phase of the battle is about to begin,” General Atkinson said.
“The Air Force got wiped out, general. This new phase better impress me.” Wallace ran a shaky hand over his forehead speckled with sweat. A slow burn grew in his stomach. “What are your chances to stop the invasion?”
General Atkinson licked his dry lips. “We’ll go in and secure the situation, sir.”
“Don’t word screw me, Atkinson. What are you going to do?”
“Take back the city, sir.”
Wrath landed his warhorse amongst the fire and smoke engulfed wreckage. Destroyed fighter jets burned. Dead pilots hung out shattered cockpits. The monster surveyed the grim scene like a conquering general. He swung one massive leg to the ground to dismount his steed.
The warhorse stamped the earth. Blood dripped from its wet muzzle. Wrath lumbered forward with sword in hand, the smoke and fire enhanced his horror. The tanks and men a mile out from the city kept a steady pace. Death screams curdled up around him like black dandelions as the living inhaled their last breaths.
An Air Force drone swooped down from the black skies and buzzed the horrible nine-foot giant. The drone banked a hard right. Its engine gave off a gentle purr as the craft neared the cathedral, turned, and shot toward the dark clouds and vanished.
A powerful horn blared and Hell’s Cathedral shook. Bone powder fell over the battlements. From the cathedral’s pallid walls, rose a rhythmic chant. Voices by the thousands echoed from beyond the cathedral’s dark interior. The chant grew into a rumble as the black iron gates drew open.
Soldiers marched out from Hell’s Cathedral dressed in black Roman armor trimmed in red. They carried black standards mounted on black poles with various Roman numerals stitched in red against the material. Rounded Roman helmets covered their heads and black metal masks hid their faces.
The enemy marched over the drawbridge in rank, five across, one thousand deep. Wrath turned to face the Black Army. He pointed his weapon at the Marines headed to the city.
Three miles away from the failed air battle, Marine commanders commandeered buildings and turned the tall structures into observation posts. Marines arrived at the combat zone for the next attack into Los Angeles.
General Wells and his team stood on the rooftop of a commandeered building. He lifted his field glasses to his stoic face to scrutinize the scene no less than three miles away from him. The massive armored thing stood in the street surrounded by the wreckage he created. The general’s heart thumped hard in his chest. The tanks rolled ahead. His Marines continued to work their way up a street cleared by the tanks.
Behind the gigantic horror stood soldiers in rank, all adorned in black armor. Huge black flags furled and snapped above their heads. He lowered the glasses.
“Frank, check this out.” He handed the glasses to a full bird colonel next to him.
Colonel Frank Andrews took the glasses and placed them to his eyes. He scanned the area before him. He squinted against the smoke. He jerked his head back. “What the hell are those? They resemble Roman troops in full armor and shield. Thousands.”
“They are troops,” General Wells said with a dry voice.
President Wallace faced a screen with General Wells’s blood drained face displayed in high definition vibrancy. “What’s going on out there, general?”
The general turned away from the screen for a second, his large Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “A Marine division is entering the city, sir. We’ll achieve control soon.”
President Raymond Wallace rubbed his chin. Rough stubble pricked his fingertips. Hope flickered in his heart. “Be safe.”
“Yes, sir,” he said.
President Wallace, seated in an overstuffed leather chair, faced his staff. They returned his gaze with weary and fearful eyes. “If they can’t stop them what do we do? Do we meet for terms?”
Jones shook her head. “No. No terms, sir. They would kill us for sure. We need to find out what they want, and why they choose us to land on.” She lifted a small remote control from the table and pressed a button.
The flat screen flicked off from General Wells’s tight face to a colorless film taken by the Predator. All fell silent as the UAV hovered over the giant whose large head lifted to face the camera for a brief moment. Wrath’s face played over the video with a pale, grainy quality. His fire red eyes contemplated the drone before he lost interest and returned to his task.
“What are they?”
“I can’t find a solid explanation for who or what they are, Mr. President,” Jones said.
“They are not humans and those things destroyed our Air Force, Patricia. And they are still coming.”
Presidential Advisor Patricia Jones blinked her brown eyes. “We can find a way to stop them. I’m confident we can.”
“I hope so, Patricia. We may not be here much longer.”
Patricia froze Wrath’s face on the screen. “Let’s find out what the Marines can do, Mr. President.”
“You don’t sound too optimistic, Patricia.”
“If the Marines fail, sir. We better start praying.”
17
The Marines began their attack into the city as battered survivors fled Los Angeles on foot. Black acrid smoke rose from Los Angeles in scattered billows, building
s and wreckage burned. The Marines made their way through the rubble as tanks punched holes into areas too difficult to pass.
From a distance, Wrath studied their approach with dead eyes. He waited two miles away from the most professional warriors in the world.
General Wells raised his field glasses to his hazel eyes. The monster stood dead center in the street like a gunslinger as the Marines pushed ahead. The enemy troops advanced in a long gruesome line from the other side. They picked their way through masonry and rebar to meet the Marines.
His stomach flinched at the sight. They carried swords, pole arms, and battleaxes. Black Roman armor covered their bodies. Metal masks in various styles hid their true visages. The front row hefted long convex Roman shields decorated with red pentagrams drawn on their shield bosses. Others toted standards with the same mark. The pentagrams sent chills down his back.
The Black Army marched out the cathedral in disciplined rows. A long dreadful horn blast blared from the cathedral and within seconds archers dressed in Roman armor filled the battlements.
“Frank, get my Hummer up here.”
“Sir?”
“Bring me my Humvee dammit.”
Colonel Andrews got on his radio and spoke a few words. Soon the general’s up-armored Hummer rolled forward joined by Recon Marines in five other up-armored Hummers. Two Apache helicopters hovered above the Hummers like wasps.
General Wells placed a hand on his colonel’s shoulder. “I’m going to fight with my boys. I will report to the president myself after our victory. You are next in line, Frank. Do me proud.”
Colonel Frank Andrews saluted his general. The slender Wells left the building and boarded his up-armored Hummer. The general’s driver sped off up the street to reach the other Marines.
Enthusiastic cheers exploded around General Wells as he rolled up to his men. He adjusted the Kevlar helmet on his head and prepared his mind for battle. A silver .45 caliber pistol sat on his right hip. He thought about how Patton traveled with his troops. His Marines followed the tanks up a wide avenue littered with detritus from the invasion.
Hell’s army approached the Marines. No other explanation would ever sweeten over what his eyes showed him. He crossed himself as radio chatter burst over the Hummer speakers.
The general patted his driver on the shoulder who stopped the truck. He stepped out into the tepid air. His eyes fell upon the massive tower. He lifted his head towards the black skies to behold the cathedral in its entirety. Wells did not enjoy what graced his eyes.
A gigantic iron pentagram crowned the tower. Tiny white things situated around the rusted pentagram like sea monkeys. The hairs on his arms bristled as he took a deep breath laced with burnt air. He snatched up the radio handset and depressed the side button.
“All units halt. Order the tanks and Apaches to light them up,” Wells said.
His troops stopped their movement and took cover positions. The guns on the M60 and M1A1 Abrams tanks erupted. Salvos streaked into Los Angeles. The Apache helicopters raced ahead. Rockets and gun cannons fired into the enemy.
Colorful tracer rounds streaked into the city. Red and orange fireballs rolled up into the air. The destruction created a bright fireworks display. Thunderous booms from thirty tanks and rockets from Apaches helicopters filled the darkened city. Explosions lit the distance as rounds demolished part of the Los Angeles downtown area.
The general stepped from his vehicle and raised his binoculars to his eyes. Smoke and fire along with white flashes from phosphorus rounds erupted into the air. He wanted a good long barrage to make the invaders question their decision to tangle with his Marines. He glanced at his Timex as the fire continued. He counted down ten minutes and ordered a ceasefire.
General Wells surveyed the area with detachment. Downtown Los Angeles smoldered in fire and black noxious billows. Thick black clouds smeared with oil rolled into the sky above the city. Not one enemy moved downtown. The soldiers from Hell along with their leader vanished.
Wells ordered the Marines to advance, climbed back into his Hummer. The driver continued their journey towards Hell’s Cathedral.
The troops worked their way further into the city. The Marines picked through buildings, wrecked vehicles, and stepped over dead civilians burnt beyond recognition. Partial walls stood, pock marked from shrapnel, an incredible heat baked off the debris as fires roared and sputtered.
General Wells wrinkled his nose. Burnt flesh created a sweet, roasted aroma he hated. Sweat gathered underneath his body armor from the heat. The tanks continued to make holes for the troops to maneuver through as he ordered his Hummer to pull to the side after a mile into the city and fifty yards from where Wrath once stood.
Lance Corporal Patrick Riley led his team to a street covered with craters. The buildings, now husks, stood blackened and battered. A few remained intact with shattered windows and scarred walls.
So many bodies covered the ground, some strewn out in whole, and others blown into horrible bloody pieces. Yet, not one demon body lay on the ground. The foul odor made him want to retch as he led his Marines into the rubble, flames, and smoke.
The stench made him think about summer barbecues. He would never lick his lips at a barbecue again. His stomach twisted and a bitter lump churned up into his throat.
Riley’s radioman knelt and placed the handset to his mouth. “I say again, no bodies. No enemy bodies, over.”
Riley kicked over burnt masonry in hopes to discover one dead enemy. A scream arose from his left. White fear blasted down his body as a Roman soldier dashed from a building and loped off his head with a battleax.
Sporadic gunfire echoed from the east, the noise grew into explosions. Inhuman voices hit the air with a single shout. Enemy soldiers adorned in their retched armor charged from the buildings and attacked the Marines with horrendous brutality.
Wells’s protection platoons surrounded his Hummer and shot at the armored soldiers headed their way. His eyes beheld Marines speared, axed and hacked open by ancient weapons. Heads rolled across the ground, intestine spilled from eviscerated Marines. Gunfire and screams erupted around him in surreal madness. The general pulled out his pistol and fired at undead Romans who attacked. His bullets penetrated their bodies yet none fell to their deaths.
The enemy struck with a frightful ferocity. His sergeant grabbed him by the arm and shoved him into the Hummer’s rear seat.
Wrath appeared from nowhere. He stood in the street, his fleshless finger pointed at the Marines. His soldiers surged ahead with greater bloodlust. Bullets struck the nine-foot monster’s bone armor and glanced off. Bullets tore into the armor Wrath’s soldiers wore, and they continued to fight through the lead storm.
Horror registered on the Marines faces. Wrath’s heart hardened as his soldiers cut through the fighting Marines. Blood flowed into the streets, and one tank fired a round.
An explosion erupted near General Wells’s Hummer. The truck lifted from the ground and slammed into a wall. Superheated shrapnel hit the area like large buckshot. Dazed and bloodied, the general kicked open the back door and crawled from the damaged Hummer. He snatched an M4 carbine from a dead Marine’s hands and stood his ground.
His men did the same. They let loose more bullets against the enemy who fought with swords, battleaxes, and spears. Bodies filled the street, yet the Marines continued their fight despite the horrible losses.
The general reloaded his weapon as child-like screams rose from above him. The monsters once suspended in midair started to drop upon his Marines like misshapen wasps. Their mouths filled with razor sharp teeth worked in a rabid frenzy. The Screamers drove down into the Marines and tore away body parts. One Marine ran pass the general soaked in blood, his skin hung in wide swaths from his bones.
General Wells said a prayer as he continued to fire his weapon. He emptied his rifle, ejected the spent magazine, and slapped in a fresh one. His Marines fought to the death.
A Screamer swooped down next to him like a
mosquito and sank bladed teeth into his left shoulder. Bones crunched, white pain ripped through his body. A howl escaped his mouth. He shot the monster’s bulbous eye. The Screamer’s eye burst open, splashing Wells’s face with yellow curd. The beast tore the flesh from the general’s shoulder.
Despite the enormous pain and the blood loss from the ripped shoulder, Wells stood his ground. Behind him, more Marines plunged into battle. The Roman soldiers turned on the tanks, tore open the hatches, and dove inside the armor. Screams echoed from within the metal behemoths.
Sudden pain seared Wells’s ankles. He collapsed to his knees, his face crashed into the debris-covered ground.
General Wells turned on his back. Two Screamers ate away at his feet. Their scorpion tails plunged into his body, pumping him with poison until all the flesh below his waist numbed. He screamed at the fresh horror his eyes fell upon. He expected pain to flash through his body, instead he witnessed black wrist-sized stingers armed with wicked points stab into his thighs.
Another Screamer hung over him and used its bony-clawed hands to press down on his chest.
General Wells gazed into the things huge lifeless eyes, foul breath puffed upon his face along with saliva. An appendage dropped from between its thin legs and worked its way up his left pant leg. His eyes glanced down as the snake like arm poked a hole in his pants at the knee. The general began to struggle and the Screamer’s pressure increased on his chest. The slender third arm, hot and wet, slid between his thighs. He grunted and squeezed his muscles together to deny access to no avail. The monster’s third leg slid home. He screamed from the pain and blacked out.
Angels of War (Angels of War Trilogy Book 1) Page 7