He sighed and tapped in the correct code. The door buzzed open leading him into a large, rectangular room filled with racks and shelves and cupboards and cabinets full of assault rifles, pistols, shot guns, sniper rifles, collapsible batons, knives of all conceivable types, stun guns, ballistic armor, helmets, and crates of ammunition.
A closet stored a variety of BDUs in a multitude of sizes. A row of drawers held rigs and assault vests and garrison bags and all the other toys that made a survivalist’s life so neat-o.
Trevor, already dressed in gray pants and a black T-shirt, strapped on a thigh rig as well as a utility belt and grabbed a black cap. The day threatened rain, so he added a lightweight army camouflage jacket.
From his gun collection, he chose his preferred weapon: a Colt M4. Trevor’s version sported a scope for distance and a laser-targeting beam perfect for striking those hard-to-hit weak spots on Earth's visitors.
He added a nine-millimeter side arm, a collapsible baton, and a combat knife to make ready for an afternoon drive.
---
Trevor chose the custom-built motor home parked behind the six-car garage. The woodland camouflage paint served notice this vehicle had not rolled off the traditional Winnebago assembly line.
Inside, only the rear bedroom and the bathroom remained unchanged. Modifications had gutted the interior equipping it with gun cabinets, a first aid bunk, wall-mounted map holders, and a docking station for the lap top computer Trevor used to compile a "Hostiles Database."
After starting the engine, Stone hopped from the cabin and walked toward the main house with Tyr at his side. The dog’s tail wagged in anticipation of the day’s work despite an annoying light drizzle falling from fast moving gray clouds.
"I want two patrols plus you and Odin."
As he spoke, Trevor visualized what he wanted: two patrols of three K9s each, and his two Norwegian Elkhounds.
Tyr bolted off to muster the force. Trevor went in the house and found Sheila pacing in the living room.
"C’mon, we’re going out today."
Sheila not only shook her head, but her whole body quivered.
"I don’t want to."
He tried to show compassion—whatever that was—but his hard exhale and stiff lip belied his consternation.
"You can’t stay in here forever. We have to go out there. There are people out there."
"No, no they’re all dead. Everyone is dead. We have to stay here," an annoying pleading crept into her voice.
"Sheila, what if I had thought like that last week? Right now, there have to be more people out there, people who are alive today but won’t be alive tomorrow. If I can find them, and bring them here, then things will get easier for us. It’s what we have to do. We owe them."
She shook her head again. Violently.
"I know you’re afraid--"
"No you don’t! You don’t know!" Tears glinted in her eyes. "You never get afraid! Nothing scares you! You talk about all this like it’s a big game. Devilbats and Mutants and Deadheads. But you haven’t been chased by them and seen your friends killed by them!"
The vision of his parents’ bodies—what he had first thought to be shaggy rugs—blasted to mind.
"Shut up!" He commanded, raising his voice to her for the first time.
She stopped talking.
He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes.
"Okay then, you can stay here. I have to go."
"No…please don’t go!"
"I have to go. If all you want to do is stay inside and you don’t care about anyone out there, then fine."
Her mouth opened then shut.
He called, "Ajax!"
Scrambling, obedient paws hurried along the first floor hallway. Ajax, a stout black Doberman charged with security inside the mansion, bolted into the living room flanked by two more Pinchers.
Trevor commanded, "Protect Sheila."
"Don’t leave me!"
Trevor stormed out.
---
A thick cover of gray clouds hid the sun and cooled the day. Rain fell in a soft drizzle, just enough to add to the gloom.
Trevor drove to Francis Slocum State Park, a sprawling patch of roads and fields carved into a wooded basin dominated by a large pond that had once been perfect for paddleboat rides. Trevor chose the Ranger station and welcome center near the park entrance as the starting point for a reconnaissance sweep.
He left two German Shepherds at the motor home. The balance traveled with him on foot.
First, they surveyed a bedroom community across the road from the park entrance. The dogs immediately sniffed a pair of hostiles wandering the streets--a giant rat and something vaguely humanoid with two heads—both of which he easily dispatched with his M4.
Even though the K9s caught no human scent, he conducted a house-to-house search. He found nothing—no trace—in most homes: either the families had evacuated or scavengers had made off with any remains. Nonetheless, he did find one slaughtered family.
When Trevor first began his quest for survivors, he knew he would find many bodies. That is why he carried a jar of olfactory blocking cream.
He also knew he would find dead children, too. It made sense. Single persons held a survival advantage; they could run without consideration. But how does a mother leave a child behind? How does a family with kids move fast?
Seeing the family—including three young children—did not affect him in any particular manner. No shakes or convulsions; he did not vomit or cry an extra tear. None of it. He did not react at all and that made him wonder if perhaps his mission to slay the monsters meant he was becoming one himself.
Sounds of commotion from the park interrupted his search. He led his patrol of dog-soldiers through a wooded grove and stopped at the ridge of a short but steep hill. From that position, he oversaw a secluded parking lot and beheld a sight he had seen more often in recent weeks: monsters fighting monsters.
In the space below, six of the big-mouthed hover-bike-riding Mutants squared off against two fifteen-foot tall creatures resembling a combination of a walking-stick insect and a bald humanoid.
The Mutants wielded swords, daggers, and clubs, reserving their loud flintlocks for a few choice shots. The Stick-Ogres, as Trevor nicknamed them, swung impromptu clubs made of toppled birch trees.
He observed the battle with the eye of a researcher. He had already classified the Mutants as pack animals and labeled them as ‘semi-intelligent.’ As for the Stick-Ogres, he had never seen more than one of them at a time. His Hostiles Database categorized them as ‘solitary herbivores’ with animal intelligence. Perhaps he needed to make a revision.
More important, Trevor did not know why the two groups fought but it confirmed what he suspected for some time: the destruction of civilization was not the work of one well-organized homogeneous group. Earth’s Armageddon did not resemble Hollywood’s visions in Invasion of the Body Snatchers or Independence Day.
He had personally documented a dozen types of individual predators and twice that number of prey animals that gorged on trees, plants, and Earthly insects. From pack hunters to docile herds to solitary creatures, Trevor’s Hostile Database tracked a variety of newcomers of varying intelligence, habits, and tendencies.
Furthermore, he knew he had yet to see it all. Television and radio reports during those first weeks clearly identified a number of highly organized alien forces. However, those armies did not have the numbers or resources to take the entire planet themselves. At least not initially.
Then again, the television and radio stations flickered off one by one in June and July. By the second week of August, the only station he received on his high-powered antennas came from Lehigh University college radio overrun by summer-session dorm students.
The frat boys and sorority girls had a high old time for quite a while. Trevor had been impressed at how well they could convey the gist of things from audio only. He had especially enjoyed the "Samantha and Randy" show as well as
the "Samantha and JoJo" show and the "Samantha and Andrew" show. The next logical step, the "Samantha, Randy, JoJo, and Andrew" show, had been promised but the broadcasts ceased. Apparently the fun and games—most likely the beer, too—ran out.
In any case, the Stick-Ogres and the Mutants pummeled each other amidst a steady drizzle. A swing of a massive club sent a Mutant crumbling to the pavement. A shot from a flintlock blasted away a chunk of gray shell from a Stick-Ogre’s leg, the accompanying howl of pain echoed over the treetops.
Despite his fascination with the fight, he chose a stealthy withdrawal. After quietly moving his patrol away from the ridge, Trevor drove the RV out of the park and further down the road. He stopped again, this time across from a massive hillside graveyard. At that point, he consulted his maps and realized a familiar place waited a short distance away.
Why had he not checked there yet?
In truth, he felt afraid of what he might find.
Having berated Sheila for cowardliness, could he be cowardly now?
No.
Trevor left two sentries at the motor home, then aligned the other six K9s in marching formation and tramped off through the brush toward a familiar back road. Toward the home of Jon and Lori Brewer.
---
Trevor sent one patrol to scout the tall grass of the back yard while he approached the front with Tyr, Odin, and Seth--a Shepherd named for the Egyptian god of war.
Jon’s Explorer sat in the driveway and he heard Lori’s wind chimes clanging softly in the wet breeze.
Trevor knelt behind the Explorer and dispatched Tyr to the stoop. The dog pushed his nose against the door, sniffed vigorously, and then returned to his master communicating the scent of two or three people inside.
Before Trevor did anything more, the front door burst open. Jon Brewer stormed onto the stoop dressed in work jeans and a plaid shirt. Without any consideration, he raised an army-issued M-16 and practiced his policy of preemption. Three loud slaps smacked the air and bullets riddled the Explorer.
Stone yelled, "Friendly!"
"Bull shit!" Brewer fired another volley.
Again, the shots missed but Jon knew how to handle a weapon. He would find his mark, sooner rather than later.
"Jon! It’s me, Trevor!"
"I don’t know any Trevors!"
The tires on the Explorer exploded flat.
Trevor realized the problem.
"Jon, it’s me! Richard Stone! Dick Stone!"
The gunfire stopped. The rain went tap-tap-tap on the hood of the Explorer.
Lori Brewer’s voice called from inside the home, "Rich? Rich is that you?"
Trevor rested his rifle on the soggy ground and held his empty hands above the hood of the Explorer.
"It’s me," he stood, blinking as drips of rain splashed on his face.
"Jesus Christ, Dick, why didn’t you say something?"
---
"We’re in good shape," Jon Brewer proclaimed as the three sat in his dark living room.
Trevor’s nose found an odor hinting of sewage issues. Just a hint.
Jon spoke confidently of their situation, ignoring the glare from his wife as he droned on.
"I’ve got another case of MREs, and our well is working good. I’ve got two more clips for my rifle and plenty of shells for the .357." He waved a hand in the air as if dismissing Armageddon as a mild inconvenience. "We can hold out indefinitely. Where are you staying?"
Trevor licked his lips.
"I found a little place at Harveys Lake. Kind of cozy. You might like it. Why don’t you come with me and check it out?"
Trevor knew—he knew—Jon would hear none of it.
"Dick, maybe you should just stay here."
"Tell you what. Why don’t the two of you come back and help me load up my junk and bring it here. I have some odds and ends that might be useful."
Lori jumped before her husband could decline the suggestion.
"That sounds great."
Jon shrugged, "Whatever you say, Dick."
---
"Wow," Jon glanced around the cabin. "Nice RV. Where’d you get it?"
"I found it," Trevor admitted.
They bounced and swayed on the country roads. Rain still splashed against the windshield, but the drizzle slowed.
"What about these dogs, Rich?" Lori asked as the canines laid quietly to the rear.
Lori understood what her husband had yet to comprehend. Oh, she did not know the whole story but she understood that the Richard Stone behind the wheel of the motor home differed from the Richard Stone who, in the old days, would acquiesce to her husband’s aggressive demeanor. She knew the old Richard probably would not have survived the Apocalypse.
Something had changed; a paradigm shift. Her husband simply did not see it yet.
Trevor answered, "Oh, there were three big kennels within a couple miles of this place I’m staying at. They all came from those kennels."
The Winnebago eased around the Harveys Lake perimeter road.
Stone asked a question of his own, "So you say your unit got over run?"
Jon grew as solemn as Jon ever gets.
"Yeah. We were hit by, like, a horde of some weird looking things."
Trevor watched the road but he listened carefully.
"Man, I held my ground as long as I could," a nervous laugh. "But it was pretty bad. The command center got destroyed, ammunition ran low; I must have killed a dozen of the things."
"I see."
"So, anyway, I managed to get free. I think everyone else was dead. I grabbed a couple crates of supplies from the depot and threw them in the Explorer."
"Must’ve been quite a trip back," Trevor said.
"Yep. Saw all sorts of weird shit. Nothing I couldn’t handle, though."
Lori made a fake-choking noise and said, "I’m sick of MREs. I didn’t join the army, you know?"
Jon changed the subject.
"So Dick, I got some ideas on things we need to be doing. You stick with me and I’ll get us through this okay."
"That’s my hero," Lori chimed in light heartily even as she sensed the brick wall her husband raced toward.
Lori had known Richard ‘Dick’ Stone nearly her entire life. The man in the driver’s seat of the RV resembled Dick Stone and sounded like Dick Stone. Yet she knew—instinctively knew—he had become something more.
At the same time, she loved her husband dearly, no matter how often he annoyed her. His dominating personality helped keep her headstrong ways in check. In a sense, they were the only two people in the world who could put up with the other.
Sometimes they fought and screamed and she even threw a dish at him once. However, he had never hit her or pushed her around, despite how high he towered above her. She had a sharp enough wit to put him in his place and he was smart enough to keep her wit from hurting his ego.
At the same time, if not for him she would have told off one too many bosses or loan agents or friends over the years. He could make her tone it down a notch…sometimes.
The RV rounded a bend, drove along the iron fence, and swung up the driveway after the gate rolled open.
Lori gasped, "Geez, some place."
Jon said nothing.
The motor home parked next to the mansion. Trevor led the group out, including the K9s. Lori heard Richard tell one of the Elkhounds, "Assembly" before it galloped away.
"Wow, um," Jon stuttered as his eyes darted from sight to sight including the blond girl on the porch peering at the new arrivals from behind a thick pillar.
Trevor said, "I have a few things to pack up to take over to your place: a couple of Humvees, some dirt bikes, several thousand gallons of fuel, an armory, tons of fresh, frozen, and preserved food; oh, and we might want to take the helipad in case we come across any choppers."
Lori smiled. No, she smirked at her friend.
Dozens of K9s assembled on the lawn in rows by breed. Dozens.
Trevor grew deadly serious.
&nbs
p; "Your army is gone."
Jon, his jaw unhinged, gaped at the dogs organized as smartly as U.S. Marines at a Memorial Day parade.
"This is my army."
Trevor pointed at the Rotties.
"Heavy infantry."
He waved a hand toward the Elkhounds.
"Reconnaissance."
Then toward the Dobermans.
"Military police."
"I-I…" Jon stammered. "Wow."
"This is how it is. We were friends but that was the past. Things have changed. A lot. More than you realize. I have a job to do. You can be a part of that. I want you to be a part of that. I need people like you. But there are two things I’m going to ask of you."
Lori spoke because Jon could not manage a coherent word.
"What two things?"
"First, I need to know you’ll follow me. That’s not something you’re used to. That’s not how things used to be with us. But that’s how they have to be now. I need to know that you’ll follow me without question, without debate. This is my world now. I’m in charge."
"And the second thing?"
"Never call me ‘Dick’ again."
8. The South Side Suicide Club
A week into Jon and Lori's move to the estate, Sheila felt the mansion had grown too crowded and retreated to her room. Each day she sat on her bed with knees curled to her chin, crying to the point that tears seemed scarred into her cheeks.
She held fond memories of the "good old days", those first three days after her rescue. Since then, she endured the sting of rejection and paranoia that Trevor would kick her out.
At first, Lori invited Sheila to work in the garden, organize supplies, play cards, or some other outreach program of the day. Eventually, Lori stopped asking. Sheila did not mind. If she stayed quiet and out of sight, maybe they would forget about her.
The lights in Sheila’s room flickered. She tensed. Those flickers came and went but she feared that one day the lights might go dark permanently. She kept them on all the time, even as sunlight filled her room and despite Trevor's warning to conserve power. Those lights meant a lot to her; a fantasy of civilization.
The lights stopped flickering and remained on. Sheila calmed.
Beyond Armageddon: Book 01 - Disintegration Page 10