Beyond Armageddon: Book 01 - Disintegration

by Anthony DeCosmo

  Jon announced as the five arrivals filed in, "Trevor, may I present Omar Nehru, his wife Anita, and their children."

  Once again, Jon beamed. Another successfully completed mission that, in this case, began when a patrol caught scent of humans at the nearby Penn State Lehman campus.

  "It's a pleasure to meet you," Trevor extended his hand.

  "I must be thanking you quite much," Omar shook Trevor's hand fast. "If for no other reason than to save us from the ramblings of Mr. Washburn."

  Danny Washburn—a smile forcing its way from beneath the overgrown beard—entered last and waved at the mention of his name.

  Omar continued, "We were considering mass suicide. Living on the Bisquik and cans of the fruit was difficult enough, but we have lived with Mr. Washburn's juvenile puns for nearly two months and that has been making us contemplate such drastic action."

  Washburn said, "Don't let Omar's Quickie Mart accent fool you; it's just a front to keep you guessing. It goes away when he's scared or really pissed."

  Anita stepped forward, cutting off her husband's response before it started.

  "Thank you, Mr. Stone, for having us." Despite a ragged appearance from months of hiding and—apparently--refereeing between Omar and Danny, Anita Nehru came across as a woman of intelligence and grace. "We are all quite hungry and my son has a bad cough."

  Trevor knelt in front of the young boy. Like his mother, the child appeared thin and worn but also like his mother he saw a strength—a dignity—in his eyes.

  Jon said, "Omar here was an Engineering Professor at Penn State."

  Trevor glanced to Jon, then back to the boy and said, "We have some antibiotics in stock that'll fix you right up, little guy." He stood and faced Omar. "Is that true?"

  "Yes, this is true. We came from India five years ago for the position. I am thinking it was a bad decision after all that has happened. Would you be having any cigarettes?"

  Trevor laid a hand on his shoulder. "How are you with solar power arrays?"

  He did not wait for an answer. Trevor told all the newcomers what he had told the police officers from Philadelphia: "I take it Jon filled you in on the way over about how things work around here. We have supplies, security, and medicines but we also have a purpose. This is not a refugee camp, and it's not a democracy, either. If you accept that, then you are welcome to stay."

  Omar and his wife nodded. Trevor turned to Danny who stroked his beard.

  Jon said, "Washburn here is from Washington. He worked for the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms."

  Danny waved his empty Glock. "I brought my own gun. Ran out of bullets, though. I was up here visiting my mother in a nursing home. Anyway, her heart gave out when this all started and I was kind of stranded."

  "Okay, Danny," Trevor repeated his question. "Are you willing to take orders from me?"

  "Well, like your man said, I worked for the Federal Government so I've spent my life taking orders from some pretty big assholes. You can't possibly be worse."

  ---

  Shepherd moved into one of the guest rooms, joining Trevor, Sheila and the Brewers already staying at the main house. Sal claimed one of the apartments above the garage as did Danny Washburn whose appearance changed from grizzly to clean-cut after a shave and a shower. Omar and his family occupied the A-Frame house beyond the northern fence of the estate. The A-Frame's garage had a tiny second-floor apartment that Nina called home. Or, rather, she considered it a place to stay. Omar connected a portable generator to provide electricity for his family and Nina.

  As for Sheila Evans, the more people joined the estate, the more she withdrew.

  The calendar came to October 6th.

  ---

  Trevor Stone, Nina Forest, and Danny Washburn undertook the glamorous mission of siphoning gas from abandoned vehicles. They drove a Humvee filled with fuel containers as well as the obligatory rubber hose. Trevor also brought a healthy dose of fuel stabilizer.

  Despite Nina’s grumbling, their mission bore fruit: nearly fifty gallons of gasoline crammed into the cargo hold of the Hummer even before they arrived at the crowded parking lot of a small strip mall.

  That mall sat dead center in a convoluted starfish-shaped intersection in Shavertown, with each fin a different rural road. In between those fins rested a handful of country homes, a wide-open field, and the modern "Shavertown" high school (home of the "Mountaineers!"). In the distance stretched rolling, forested hills.

  Twenty-plus cars sat dormant in the parking lot. Trevor pitied the poor bastards who, on the day of reckoning, met their fate running errands to the drug store, Radio Shack, or the bank that sat on its own island away from the other shops. Of course, he sympathized with those caught at "Gertrude Hawke Chocolates."

  They parked the Humvee amidst the derelict vehicles and exited, each armed with an assault rifle and an empty gas can.

  Trevor had not brought any K9s; he wanted cargo space for gas containers. Besides, at only three miles from the estate, long-range K9 patrols went through that area every other day.

  The trio crossed the parking lot unfazed by a charred chunk of human body or the skeletal remains of a horse-sized alien animal. Either the smell of death and decay had faded or their noses grew accustomed.

  "This is what saving humanity is all about?" Washburn asked with both hands in the pockets of a denim jacket to keep a cold breeze at bay. While still underweight, Danny no longer looked emaciated after spending most of his first day gorging. "What do you guys do for fun?"

  For the first time, Trevor heard Nina joke and she did it perfectly deadpan.

  "Today’s Tuesday, right? Tuesday is orgy night."

  "It’s Wednesday," Danny sounded unduly optimistic.

  "Oh well, you missed it."

  "Shit. Just my luck."

  Trevor rolled his eyes. He would have been happy to hear Nina make with the sarcasm except he sensed her tone: she belittled. She was not making a joke; she felt it all was a joke.

  Washburn, on the other hand, jumped into the spirit of things right off the bat. Trevor believed Danny a solid addition to the group despite his warped sense of humor.

  Of course, when he thought about "solid additions" he also thought of the opposite. In the last day, Trevor had seen Sheila Evans once: sitting in a dark corner of the dining room eating breakfast. He did not know how she would cope when Sal opened his kitchen in the basement of a nearby Methodist church. She would actually need to leave the mansion in order to eat.

  The three scavengers approached an overturned Dodge Ram truck. Trevor opened a gas can while Washburn prepared the rubber hose.

  Without warning, the under carriage of the vehicle erupted into flames. A crackling sound accompanied a wave of intense heat. Trevor stumbled away from the surprise inferno.

  A burst of weapons fire from his left.

  Nina…Nina is firing toward the strip mall.

  Trevor shook his head to clear the spots from his eyes. Shell casings flew from Nina’s gun; Danny dropped to a knee with a hand on his head where the flash fire had singed his scalp.

  We are under attack.

  He un-slung his M4 and followed Nina’s aim.

  As his mind re-focused, he realized his error: they should have secured the shopping area first. Aliens charged from the stores there. They were organized and armed.

  Trevor’s reeling mind thought of them as platypuses because of big duckbills. They also sported two muscular arms and wobbled on three legs. They would have been humorous looking, like some bad cartoon aliens on Space Ghost…would have been funny if not for balls of plasma spitting from weapons resembling a cross between a musket and a Super Soaker squirt gun.

  He hoisted Danny to his feet with one arm and ordered, "Fall back, fall back!"

  They knew ‘fall back’ did not mean run for the Humvee. The right flank of the platypus-things cut off that avenue of escape.

  Plasma flew over their heads. Nina’s marksmanship knocked down two of the attack
ers but more appeared. There must have been a dozen in the stores.

  They retreated into the bank building through a smashed plate glass window. Nina flipped over a desk for cover.

  "This is just great," she moaned and squeezed a three-round burst toward the enemy.

  The attackers did not pursue into the building. Instead, they formed a line outside, firing pot shots from behind parked cars.

  "I don’t get it," Trevor said. "This area has been empty. The patrols didn’t find anything."

  "Look, your patrols screwed up!" Nina's angry roar bellied her meek demeanor.

  A chaotic hail of enemy bolts blasted into the lobby smashing what remained of the windows and leaving smoking black holes wherever they hit. The heat from the fiery plasma warmed the lobby, threatening to ignite a fire.

  Danny Washburn mumbled curses as he dealt with a second-degree burn on his forehead. However, he could still fight despite the pain.

  Trevor produced a radio from his utility belt. He had to shout above the firefight.

  "Home plate, come in, this is left field!"

  "Oh man," Washburn grinned. "Did you think that one up?"

  "We need assistance!" Trevor radioed. "We’re at the Shavertown mall by the high school! Need immediate assistance! Under fire!"

  Static.

  Nina observed the platypus’ lack of assault with the frustration of a trapped animal awaiting the predator’s pounce: "Why aren’t they moving in? What are they waiting for?"

  Another bolt, then another, whizzed by. A framed picture above the vacant loan officer’s desk fell and shattered.

  "Wait a second," Trevor said. "I've got a bad feeling. Let me check something."

  He crawled toward the far side of the lobby as plasma shots streaked overhead. The windows on that side afforded a view across one ‘fin’ of the intersection toward the large field. At the end of that field stood a tree line…and a row of figures: maybe fifty from what he could see. Nearly a mile away but marching forward. No, wobbling forward.

  "Damn!"

  "What? What is it?" Washburn shouted between bursts of fire.

  "That’s why the patrols didn’t catch their scent!" Trevor explained as he crawled back. "Because they weren’t here yesterday!"

  "What are you saying?" Nina yanked free an expended magazine.

  A bolt of energy exploded the edge of the toppled desk into splinters.

  "These ones are a scouting party!"

  Nina fit a new magazine in her rifle, slapped the bolt closed, popped her head above the barricade, let fly a series of bullets, and then ducked behind their tenuous cover again.

  "And how do you know that?"

  Track lighting crashed to the floor behind the teller stations raising a cloud of dust.

  Trevor told her, "Because the rest of their army is about five minutes away."

  Nina shouted, "Oh, this is just great! I knew this shit would happen! I knew it!"

  Trevor spoke with a commander’s voice: "Cowboy up, soldier! I don’t need fighters who lose it at the first sign of trouble!"

  Her icy blue eyes widened. Nina mumbled something, popped up again, took aim at the scouting party cornering them, and plugged one of the things above its beak.

  Good, Trevor thought. Be angry but don’t be discouraged.

  "Home plate this is left field, do you copy?"

  This time an answer came, but static overwhelmed whatever voice tried to reply.

  "I can’t hear you, home plate, but if you can hear me we are at the Shavertown shopping center across from the high school!"

  The plasma shots from outside stopped. The bank fell quiet except for the crack, twitch, and flutter of debris floating about. The three waited behind the over turned desk…waited…the silence broke with a sound that made Trevor think of an eight ball sinking in the side pocket on a pool table. Something rolled in to the building; sort of a glowing ping-pong ball.

  Washburn gasped, "Oh crap."

  The device rolled at their makeshift barricade. The three bolted in different directions.

  The glowing ball exploded, shattering the desk. Shards of wood rained through the lobby and the concussion shook the entire building. More paintings and community service awards fell from walls. Once-important now-meaningless documents flew around like a ticker tape parade.

  Trevor pushed off a desk chair that had landed on him and realized, yes, his limbs remained although a ripple of splinters in his forearm provided a painful sting.

  Nina avoided the blast by toppling another desk for cover. Washburn jumped behind the teller windows. Both appeared unharmed.

  Trevor dared a glance toward the field. The line of infantry moved slowly but relentlessly. Time favored the bad guys.

  Plasma bolts rained in again. Trevor and Danny joined Nina at the newly overturned desk as the hot streaks of energy searched randomly for targets.

  Trevor knew they needed to escape before the main force arrived. He spied a plan. A long shot, but a shot nonetheless.

  Their besiegers ringed the front of the bank using parked cars for cover, including his Humvee. In fact he could see it, barely, through the smoke of battle.

  "Nina, how good are you at tossing a grenade?"

  During their stay at one of the doomed rescue stations, Shep’s team scored a few anti-personnel grenades, courtesy of the Pennsylvania National Guard. Nina carried one.

  Trevor tapped her shoulder and pointed at the Humvee.

  "Are you nuts? I can’t waste this thing, I only brought one!"

  Two quick enemy bursts flew low over their heads, exploding a teller’s station behind.

  "Do it!" Stone raised his weapon and ordered Washburn: "Suppression fire!"

  Their storm of bullets forced the platypuses into cover. Nina pulled the pin, stood, and heaved the grenade. It looped through the air, rattled across the hatchback of a Honda Accord, and bounced next to the rear wheels of the Humvee.

  One…Two….Three…the grenade detonated. Chunks of car flew away from the explosion. The gasoline containers in the Humvee rocketed skyward, overheated, and blew. Burning fuel—like napalm—rained over the enemy and caused a chain reaction as it splashed on parked cars. Those cars, in turn, exploded spawning curling fireballs of yellow, orange, and black.

  Two of the platypuses evaporated in the explosions, four more wobbled around on fire squealing an ungodly noise. Shock overcame the remaining creatures. They dove to the ground or staggered about, overcome by the noise, the smoke, and the heat.

  As suicidal as it felt, Trevor knew survival hinged on taking the offensive. He stood and mustered his comrades for a forward charge.

  A noise rose above the sharp report of the explosions and the crackle of the fires.

  Trevor halted their charge a step outside the bank.

  WOH-WHO-EY! WOH-WHO-EY!

  A ball of black smoke from the burning cars created a visceral wall at the end of the lot. That smoke parted as a human force came galloping through. Literally galloping on horseback raking the platypuses with pistol and rifle fire. The leader of the cavalry swung a sword and relieved one of the creatures of its head.

  Already confused and disorientated from the explosions, the alien scouts deteriorated into disorganized rabble firing nary a shot as the horse soldiers exterminated them one by one.

  Twenty riders and three wagons followed their leader through the smoke. They dodged and weaved between fireballs and flames as they finished off the creatures. The last soldier of the platypus’ vanguard dropped its rifle and ran for the candy store, suffering a bullet in its back.

  Trevor felt certain the leader of the new arrivals must be an illusion. He rode tall in the saddle with a thick beard and handlebars mustache as well as heavy but well-groomed side burns. He wore a hat made of fur-felt material with a creased crown wrapped by a grosgrain band and a matching jacket with rows of ornate buttons. Both the jacket and the hat were colored in old mist gray, recalling the color of the confederacy during the War Betwee
n the States.

  Other than their leader, the riders dressed in "normal" outfits such as fading leather jackets, vests, overcoats, sweatshirts, jeans, slacks, and more.

  The man in charge gazed at the field and the approaching line of enemy forces.

  "Mister Ross!" He commanded from his mount. "Stand to and deploy the cannon!"

  Mr. Ross, a thick-necked black man with a shaved head and bulldog jowls, dismounted and stood at the edge of the parking lot overlooking the field full of incoming attackers.

  Mr. Ross’ deep voice nearly shook the ground: "You heard the General! Mortar team assemble on my mark!"

  Four people jumped from a wagon: an elderly man, a young woman, a man with a goatee, and a chubby fellow wearing a "Maryland Terrapins" sweatshirt. They produced two light military mortars and ammunition boxes from the wagon.

  "Steady…steady," the ‘General’ encouraged as he viewed the approaching line through field glasses. A young boy, maybe twelve years old and also on horseback, waited in the General’s shadow holding a trumpet.

  "Mr. Ross, range is 100 meters."

  "Range! One! Hun-dred!"

  The mortars fired with a dull ‘thwoop’. Their missiles whistled over the field then fell upon the enemy. Two explosions rocked the approaching force. Several of the aliens bounced into the air like rag dolls tossed by a child. More of that ungodly squealing noise.

  "Do you need medical attention?"

  The question came from a thirty-ish woman on horseback dressed in a rugged navy blue outfit straight from the Orvis catalog with her hair in a meticulously crafted bun. She projected a prim and proper manner. She also carried a high-powered hunting rifle.

  While the sound of exploding mortar shells played in the background, she repeated, "Do you require medical attention?"

  "Um…"

  "Yes," Danny Washburn answered for Trevor. "Yes, in fact, I do. Ouch."

  The woman’s soft voice morphed to a coarse yell: "MEDIC!"

  Two teenage sisters attended to Washburn with ointment and a bandage. Trevor and Nina drifted across the lot through puffs of smoke and around burning debris. Neither could believe the sight before them.