BEYOND ARMAGEDDON
Book I: Disintegration
By Anthony DeCosmo
1. Best Plans
"While warmer souls command, nay, make their fate,
Thy fate made thee, and forc’d thee to be great."
---Moore
The four Philadelphia Tactical Team officers wore black body armor and Nomex balaclavas. The element leader stood apart from the others by virtue of her icy blue eyes.
"Alpha team, this is Bravo, we’re in DeVos Hall and moving to the theater. No sign tango."
First static, then a reply via her tactical headset: "Roger that, Bravo. We’re in the lobby. Heard something a minute ago. Nina, watch your back."
She moved her team around the bloody remains of the Animal Control Officer and into the Kimmel Theater: a funnel-like multi-media presentation area with stadium seating. Dormant movie screens mounted high on the outer walls behind and above the seats circled the room; a solitary spotlight illuminated the central area at the bottom of the theater, providing the only light inside the seemingly empty chamber.
"Night."
Each of the officers slipped on bulky night vision goggles. As they did, Nina could have sworn she heard a noise.
A grunt…or something...
They split into pairs and searched the descending rows of seats.
From her earpiece, a voice broadcast: "Bravo, we’re en route to your location. We’ll be coming in the upper doors, east side. E-T-A one minute."
"Copy, Alpha, but we might just have our--"
An object flew across the theater. She turned her head to follow the flight of that object but pointed her night goggles directly into the light at the center of the chamber. The night vision overloaded.
Nina cursed her stupidity and yanked off the goggles and balaclava, freeing wavy blond hair tied tight in a short ponytail.
On the floor inside the circle of light at the base of the theater lay the thrown object: a twisted, broken person wearing black body armor.
She turned to her right and scanned the rows of seats seeing only a shadow.
No, two shadows one taller and wider than the first.
With her goggles on again she caught a glimpse. The first shadow sported the elongated snout of a predator and flailed its prey--the second shadow--with all manner of nasty appendages. Still, the view through the night vision offered a grainy green silhouette, no real detail. She did not need more detail to understand that the big thing held the shredded remains of a policeman.
Nina raised her Mp5 and squeezed the trigger. Her partner followed suit.
The shadow jumped straight up, moving fast enough to dodge the deadly fire. Pursuing rounds sparked off the ceiling in a lightning storm while the thing scurried away on all fours…upside down…and disappeared on the far side of the central spotlight.
"What the hell was that?" Her partner—a big guy with an Italian accent--lost his composure.
Not Nina. She remained focused on the mission. Her mind analyzed and evaluated the situation, speedily formulating tactical options and counter-measures.
She spoke into her headset: "Tango! Tango! Listen, something is in here. Some kind… a big animal or something. I’ve got two men tits up."
"What? Is this some sort of--"
"Secure the theater from the outside!"
Her partner gasped, "Are you crazy? We need them in here backing us up!"
"Sal, we can handle this. Look, we have to shoot out the spotlight."
She grabbed Sal by the arm and hauled him up the stairs to the top ring of the theater. Once there Nina raised her weapon and fired at the light until it exploded in a flash of sparks. Those sparks flickered and faded, taking with them the lone obstruction to their night vision.
After a moment, she spied their quarry. The artificial illumination of the goggles revealed a distant, blurry shape hanging from the wall on the far side of the theater.
"Loading." Her weapon needed a fresh magazine.
It sensed the moment of vulnerability and—ignoring gravity--galloped sideways on the wall directly toward the two officers. Toward her.
"It’s coming!"
Thirty yards.
"Merda!" Sal yelled. "I’m jammed!"
Of course, she thought. This one is meant for me…only me…
Nina calmly ejected the spent magazine.
Twenty yards.
Accelerating as it closed for the kill, the blob grew larger and better defined in the grainy image painted by the night vision. Nina saw pumping legs and glints of eyes locked on its next victim. Locked on her.
She yanked a full magazine from her ammo belt.
Ten yards.
She rammed the reload home with a satisfying sharp click.
The creature leapt from the wall as if it were a mountain lion pouncing from a cliff.
Its mouth opened…razor-like appendages reached...
Nina pulled the trigger.
---
"Dick!"
A grating, painful voice—the voice of the Sales Manager—startled Rich from a daze.
"Dick!"
Shoes clickety-clacked across a quiet showroom.
Rich slid off his swivel chair and emerged from his cubicle.
"Yes, Mr. Munroe?"
Mr. Monroe, standing in front of one of the many "No Smoking" signs lining the walls of the auto mall, held half a cigar in one hand and pointed through a drifting cloud of smelly smoke at Rich with the other.
"Have you seen Bobby Weston? Have you?"
Rich had been stuck in his cubicle—an unproductive place, Mr. Munroe would certainly point out—for nearly an hour researching blue book values. Instead of explaining this, he simply told his boss, "No."
"Well there’s a gal here to pick up a car Bobby sold her last week and we can’t have her standing around with nothing to drive. For Christ’s sake, this car is paid for. Let’s get her out the door already."
Of course, the rant served to remind that Bobby Weston had sold a car recently and Rich had not. Yet Richard did not need reminding after weeks of writing checks for flowers, rings, and wedding reception halls. The number next to the word ‘balance’ in his checkbook descended dangerously closer to zero each day while his weekly draw played sourly on his boss’ nerves.
Mr. Munroe jammed the cigar into the corner of his mouth but did not suggest a course of action.
"What do you want me to do?" Rich suppressed a cough as he spoke.
Mr. Munroe’s face twisted, his saggy eyes bulged, and the top of his balding head grew red.
"What do I want you to do? Why I want you to go find this paying-customer’s car keys and get her out of the showroom to make room for the next prospect. You know the one you might sell something to."
Rich sighed and maneuvered around Mr. Munroe. His own shoes clickety-clacked off the showroom floor. He rounded a Trailblazer and there stood the paying customer who needed hustling along.
As he approached the well-dressed young blond woman, he forced a phony smile. Her sweet but strong perfume pushed aside the lingering acrid scent of Mr. Munroe’s cigar.
"Where’s Bobby Weston? I’m waiting for Bobby Weston."
Rich recognized this particular paying customer. His grin, fueled by familiarity, grew genuine. The woman, however, wore a frown. An impatient frown.
"Sheila? Sheila Evans?"
His knowing her name threw the impatient paying customer off balance.
"Yes…?"
Rich thrust a thumb into his chest.
"Richard Stone—Rich…I mean, Dick Stone. We graduated from Lehman High together. You were a cheerleader…I was a on the football tea
m."
Third string free safety he did not add.
"Oh."
"So," he pushed forward, "howya doing?"
"Very good, thank you. And you?"
"Not bad, getting married next month and--"
"Bobby sold me a red Corvette. He told me it would be ready."
"Corvette? Oh yes, nice car in fact--"
"Is my car ready? I’ve got to meet my boyfriend at Milano’s in twenty minutes."
Everyone knew Milano’s restaurant plated fifty-dollar entrées and offered the best wine list in northeastern Pennsylvania.
Rich realized the conversation had been doomed before his first words.
"I’ll call the detailing shop."
"It’s the red one with the premium audio system."
"Yes, I’m sure it is."
---
A silver Malibu with a ‘dealer’ license plate bolted from the Edgar Chevrolet auto mall and stopped at a traffic light where a sign warned in authoritative letters, NO TURN ON RED.
Tractor-trailers, passenger cars, and motorcycles raced by on their way to unknown destinations, all while Rich idled. That, he figured, told the story of his life.
For years he held the uncanny feeling of waiting for some event, some twist of fate. During high school, he thought he waited for graduation. Commencement came and went without any revelations, no unlocked hidden purpose.
Maybe he waited for college? Sure, his business degree would open the world of entrepreneurism and take him on a new adventure to wealth and happiness.
The diploma came. So did a job selling cars.
What did he wait for this time?
Richard’s impending marriage to Ashley promised drastic change but he could not convince himself great revelations would soon follow.
However, as he obeyed the red light it was not his waiting that concerned him. Instead, he worried about Ashley waiting at her house for him; waiting to discuss seating arrangements and centerpieces; waiting for Rich to "show the least bit of interest" in the most important day in her life.
He did not want to think about that. He turned on the car radio.
"…this poor central African nation lacks the resources to launch an investigation in such a remote area. However, there is no denying the similarity between the disappearance of an entire village of nearly fifty people here and disappearances in both Thailand and Norway over the last two days. In each case, the only clues left behind were piles of shed clothing, as if the people had been vaporized into thin air.
"Coverage of these unexplained events has made the jump from the tabloids to newspaper headlines in the European and Asian media. Thus far, U.S. officials have refused comment on the incidents. However, pressure is growing for the President to address--"
Rich switched to a classic rock station, swapping news of the weird for the Rolling Stones. He did not need news of the weird from a radio. He heard weirdness enough from a panicked and over-worked fiancée as she micro-managed every morsel of minutia in planning for the most perfect of wedding days.
The light remained red.
Rich looked left. Rich looked right. The tractor-trailers, passenger cars, SUVs and motorcycles had moved on.
In a daring act, he pressed gently on the accelerator. The car inched forward. He cranked the steering wheel to the right…he spotted the Wilkes-Barre Police car in the hotel parking lot across the street. The cop eyed the dealer-plated Chevrolet, anticipating the imminent violation.
Rich eased off the gas and resigned himself to waiting a while longer.
---
A knot tightened in Richard’s stomach as he closed the car door, a knot born from the sight of Ashley’s father on the porch glider.
Some called him Benjamin. Rich called him "Mr. Trump" or sometimes "Sir."
Richard walked the half-circle driveway in front of the modular home and climbed the unpainted wooden stairs. An early bat swooped overhead, cutting through the June twilight above the duplex-laden suburb.
"Hi, Mr. Trump."
Benjamin Trump, holding a beer in one hand, glanced at the silver watch bound to his thin left arm.
"Runnin’ a bit late, Dick?"
As with everyone else on the planet, Mr. Trump made Rich’s nickname sound more an insult.
"Had to finish up with a customer."
Richard’s explanation carried as much weight as a humbled third grader weaving a tale of dogs and devoured homework.
"Is Ashley ‘round?"
A dumb question. Rich knew better, but in the presence of dad-in-law his speech, tones, and delivery of punch lines were shaky at best. In fairness, not all the fault lay with Benjamin Trump. Whenever alone with Ashley’s dad, Rich kept waiting for the old man to lay it on the line: "I know you’ve been having sex with my daughter."
So, yes, Ashley was around and both Richard and Benjamin Trump knew this to be the case. However, Mr. Trump’s response surprised Dick: "She’s up stairs throwing up."
Trump drank from his Coors Original and stared out at the falling sun.
"Oh."
"Why don’t you sit down, Dick," the statement lacked a question mark.
Richard threw his eyes toward the front door, "Um…"
"It’s okay. She’ll be down when she’s feeling better. Just nerves, you know."
"Yeah," Rich confessed as he cautiously shuffled closer to a wicker chair near the glider. "I get them, too. I mean, not that I’ve thrown up. But there are times when--"
"I like you, Dick. I really do. I don’t say it a lot cause, well, I don’t say that to anybody a lot. I figure you know I like you. No need to go ‘round hugging or anything, right?"
Richard folded his hands on his lap.
"I, um, suppose--"
"But more important my daughter likes you and I want her to be nothing but happy."
Richard tried to return the expected volley, "I love you too. I mean, I love Ashley too and I like you, too. Well, I guess you’re going to be family so--"
"Right. Anyway, I want you to know that if you ever need anything I’ll be right here for you. Me and my wife, we’ll be right here."
He relaxed and replied to his soon-to-be dad-in-law, "I appreciate that."
"But I won’t loan you money."
"What?"
Mr. Trump repeated, "I won’t loan you money. Sure, we’re chipping in on the wedding but you’re responsible for paying the bills, am I clear?"
"Did Ashley suggest that we—or I—might need--"
"You strike me as the dependable type. I know you aren’t ever going to go runnin’ around on my daughter and I know you’ll change a crap-filled diaper when little ones start crawling around. I know your dad, too. He’s a good guy even if he’s from the boonies."
Benjamin Trump meant the rural areas of northeast Pennsylvania as opposed to the neighborhoods, such as Mr. Trump’s, that served as suburbs for the little city of Wilkes-Barre.
Rich tried to slip a word in.
"I will do whatever I can for Ashley."
"But I’m looking at you and thinking here’s the guy who’s going to marry my daughter, he’s got a college degree—okay, community college degree--and he’s selling Chevys. Now that isn’t going to feed the bull dog."
"Bull dog?"
Benjamin Trump cast his stern brown eyes at Richard.
"Are you following me, Dick?"
"Um…no."
"You need to find some ambition."
"Ambition? Sir?"
"You need to brush up that resume, get yourself full of piss and vinegar and go out there knocking on doors. When I was your age, I was helping my dad in the family business. I took that little business and grew it into the fourth largest fence company in Luzerne County. You walk around this valley and you’ll see Trump fences that me and my dad built thirty years ago. That’s because I had the ambition to make something that lasts."
Rich swallowed hard.
"I think Ashley—your daughter—and I are building something that last
s."
"Don’t throw that stuff around me, Dick. I’m not some goofy woman wonderin’ if the fruit cup gets served before the salad."
"No, Sir."
"I’m talking about you providing for your family. I’m talking about you providing for my daughter and little Benjamin and little Carol Anne. You’re gunna have mouths to feed and vacations to the Jersey shore to pay for. What are the chances that selling Chevys is going to get that all done?"
The front door of the house creaked open. Richard nearly cried tears of joy. Mother and daughter drifted onto the porch.
Benjamin Trump acknowledged, "Ashley, Carol Anne."
"Hello," Carol Anne Trump spoke.
"Hi, Mrs., Trump," Rich answered politely but his attention belonged to Ashley.
She wore long dark hair and watched the world through green eyes that could penetrate any heart. Her figure fit oh-so-wonderfully into faded blue jeans and a yellow halter-top. All her proportions had been measured with care by nature and cultivated into a stunning young beauty who had attracted a legion of admirers over the years.
Those penetrating green eyes narrowed to a scowl. Her naturally soft voice hardened with a question that sounded more an accusation.
"Running late?"
"Give the boy a break," Mr. Trump winked at Rich. "He was with a customer."
---
He pulled his hand from Ashley’s leg and rubbed his eyes.
The couple sat at the kitchen table under a solitary cone of light. A constant, electronic buzz came from the hard-working refrigerator but otherwise the room remained silent, as it had for over three hours of reception planning.
Ashley’s seating assignment maneuvers had grown in complexity with each passing minute, rising to a level best appreciated by chess masters and Generals. Richard, conversely, played a spectator’s role with occasional mumbles of ‘sounds good,’ ‘doesn’t matter to me’ and ‘why are most of my relatives at the back of the hall?’
His energy waned. Ashley’s energy waned too, but determination and focus hid her fatigue.
"I think that about does it," she whispered and nodded slowly in approval, as if convinced she had reached the final solution. Such had been her expression the night before and the night before that. By tomorrow, he knew, she would find a hole in her strategy and the slips of paper representing guests and tables would march again.
Beyond Armageddon: Book 01 - Disintegration Page 1