Beyond Armageddon: Book 01 - Disintegration

by Anthony DeCosmo

  More rounds of mortar fire scored hits in the thick of the alien formation, inflicting heavy casualties to the point that the enemy called off their assault. The platypuses about-faced and backtracked in an orderly manner. The General decided not to let them withdraw so easily.

  "Cease fire, Mr. Ross."

  "Mortar teams, HOLD YOUR FIRE!"

  The General spoke to the boy at his side, "Billy, sound the attack. Second brigade."

  He raised his trumpet and played a series of shaky bars followed by a ‘charge’ melody.

  Ten of the horse-mounted fighters galloped forward and leaped the short ledge into the field. A thin black teenager rode in the lead brandishing a pistol and yelling…

  …they all yelled…

  WOH-WHO-EY! WOH-WHO-EY!

  A rebel yell.

  The screaming, shooting, charging cavalry turned the platypus' orderly retreat into a rout. The terrified aliens dispersed as they ran, separating into small groups.

  Trevor and Nina watched the ‘Second Brigade’ finish off the aliens with small arms, circling and whooping and shouting as they slaughtered. A cloud of dust and the thunderous beat of hooves further demoralized the creatures who did not put up much of a fight.

  The General’s forces re-grouped in the parking lot to the sound of the bugler-with-a-trumpet playing a rough rendition of Bonnie Blue Flag.

  Mr. Ross walked to Trevor and stared silently. The General galloped to that position. Mr. Ross held his mount as he slid from the saddle.

  Ross boomed, "Three cheers for the General!"

  The assembled cavalry whooped:

  "Hoo-rah!

  "Hoo-rah!

  "Hoo-rah!"

  The man in the Civil War era jacket approached Trevor’s trio. He removed his hat, swung it beneath him as he bowed respectfully, and announced, "Garrett McAllister at your service."

  Ross shouted, "Stonewall!"

  The cavalry pumped their fists and cried, "Hoo-rah!"

  General Stonewall McAllister said, "Pleased to make your acquaintance."

  Nina whispered, "He thinks he’s Stonewall Jackson."

  "My lady, I am not deaf nor am I Stonewall Jackson. My name is Garrett McAllister."

  "Thank you," Trevor said. "You got us out of a real pinch."

  Ross’ deep voice told them, "That’s what the General does best."

  "My name is Trevor Stone; these are my friends Nina Forest and Danny Washburn. What brings you to these parts?"

  The General’s own ‘friends’ approached, including the soft speaking but loud-shouting woman wearing the Orvis outdoors getup, the Second Brigade's leader, and, of course, Mr. Ross.

  "Protocol demands I introduce my officers: Kristy Kaufman, whom I believe you have met," she smiled and waved politely. "Dustin McBride," the young black man smirked. "And Mr. Woody Ross." Ross bowed his head but his eyes never left Trevor.

  Washburn pushed forward with one hand holding a bandage to his head.

  "I know you. You’re Woody ‘Bear’ Ross. Linebacker for the ‘Skins."

  Ross said, "We don’t play football n’more."

  These were survivors. Eccentric, sure, but survivors and Trevor already understood they had traveled a long way.

  "General, I am in your debt. Allow me to repay that duty by extending an invitation to you and your troop to visit my homestead. I offer good chow and comfortable quarters."

  McAllister tipped his hat, "You are a gentleman, Sir."

  Nina rolled her eyes.

  "Alas, I am afraid we have pressing matters to which we must attend. Our journey nears its end and I feel we must push through."

  Nina’s annoyance carried in the tone of her voice: "What's that supposed to mean?"

  Garrett studied the three for a moment and then said, "Perhaps you can be of some assistance. For nearly three months, I have searched for a special place. I can see it clearly in my mind…" his eyes glazed over as if having a vision. "I see a lake surrounded by hills and homes. I see a gathering of soldiers preparing for the wars ahead. I see the place where we belong."

  Trevor’s mind raced. The Old Man had told him to search for survivors but never suggested they would come searching for him. No, this was not the Old Man’s doing. This Garrett McAllister either had an incredible sixth sense or constructed the perfect delusion.

  "I know of this place," Trevor said. "A few miles from here, a great estate on the shores of a lake surrounded by mountains, exactly as in your vision. That place belongs to me, General, and it is where we will survive until the time is right to fight."

  General McAllister listened and with each word his eyes grew sharper. Trevor felt those eyes digging through his flesh and staring at the soul inside. At the same time, he saw the longing in McAllister's stare; he searched for something to believe in.

  "I offer a purpose, General, for you and your gallant fighters. Come with me, see for yourself, and if it is to your liking be a part of the army I am forging."

  ---

  "I do not know if I was driven by divinity or derangement, but I have fought all the way from South Carolina to come to this place," were the first words "Stonewall" McAllister said as he stood on the front porch alongside Trevor after having toured the estate. Behind them, music drifted through the mansion from the welcoming party in full swing in the basement.

  "It doesn't matter either way," Trevor answered as the two men—one dressed in the garb of a soldier of the confederacy—watched nightfall over the lake.

  "Given what I see here, I sense that you are driven too, Mr. Stone," McAllister's eyes remained fixed on a trio of Doberman Pinschers trotting by on patrol.

  "Oh, yes, well, a lot of people find the whole K9 thing a bit unsettling at first."

  "As people find my wardrobe rather curious. In both cases, our eccentricities are extensions of who we have become. In your case, these canines serve as your royal guards—the nucleus of what is to be. Not unlike the British Grenadier Guards. In this case, Trevor's Grenadier Guards. Much more flair than merely 'K9s'. Yes, I like that."

  "And you, General?"

  McAllister smiled. The bars of his mustache nearly touched his ears.

  "There is meaning in this uniform that I take to heart. Suffice to say, as long as I survive this new world I will conduct myself with honor, and never shy from battle no matter the odds."

  "The odds will be long, General."

  "True but, Mr. Stone, I present to you twenty-five skilled fighters; skilled if for no other reason than having survived dozens of battles on our march north. On their behalf, I accept your invitation and all the conditions therein. And Sir, I do not say that lightly. One of the meanings of this uniform is loyalty."

  "I am honored. We will prepare quarters for your people in houses near the estate. K9—or should I say, 'Grenadier'—patrols will be extended for added security. We have a quantity of portable generators that Omar will connect to provide electricity to those homes. Speaking of your journey north, I am compiling an encyclopedia of hostile elements. Anita Nehru—Omar's wife—has demonstrated a skill for sketching those creatures to aid with visual identification. I imagine you could help fill the pages of our database with all you've seen."

  Stonewall's smile faded. A choir of crickets sung from the bushes.

  "Beyond the mountains of this lake, you will find a world gone mad. I have seen armies of intelligent lizards in North Carolina using armor and air power. While traveling along the Blue Ridge Mountains of Old Dominion, we fought a pitched battle with primitive tribesmen who faced mortar and carbine fire with spears and arrows yet never hesitated in their assault. I do not know if they were mad or brave. And every where…monsters of unspeakable design."

  "It may be impossible, but we will have to try, General."

  "Impossible? Oh, I say not, Sir. True, during our travels north along the flanks of Interstate 81 we saw many horrors. Yet we found something else, too. We found survivors: hidden villages, campgrounds, isolated farms; places where hu
manity hides from the Apocalypse. They are out there waiting for hope and leadership."

  As he listened, he wondered if he, Trevor Stone—formerly ‘Dick’—could be that resourceful and heroic leader. Certainly, McAllister thought so. What about Nina? Had his mistake at the strip mall reinforced her view of him as unworthy? Or had his plan to blow up the Humvee made her think more of him?

  He tried to forget about it. What did he care what she thought? Right?

  McAllister said, "I best return to the festivities. Your Mr. Corso prepared Country Captain Chicken in our honor; I had better return before Bear devours it all."

  "Good night, General. And welcome."

  McAllister tipped his hat and entered the house; his sword—a museum piece, no doubt—jingled as he walked.

  A moment after the door closed behind Stonewall, it opened again and Lori Brewer joined Trevor on the porch. Dogs patrolled the grounds, the crickets sung, and lake water lapped calmly to shore.

  Trevor considered McAllister's warning about what waited beyond those mountains. Yet he could not help thinking today was a good day.

  Lori did her best to spoil it. "That man has problems, you know."

  "We all have problems."

  "I mean it. What made him run away and hide inside the front of a Civil War general?"

  Trevor ran a hand over his cheek chasing away a mosquito and told her, "One day Stonewall will face his demons. Until then, I need fighters like him. Leaders."

  "And what happens when he faces those demons?"

  "I guess the same thing that happens to anyone when they take a good look at their own soul, to see what’s really living down there."

  Lori asked Trevor; asked him, "And what is that?"

  "I couldn’t say."

  11. Reconnaissance

  Nature celebrated Stonewall's coming to the estate with a bout of 'Indian Summer'. Temperatures rose to the upper sixties, the skies cleared, and the sun shined. Yet at the same time, the march of autumn continued unabated as Oak, Hickory, and Maple leaves completed their metamorphosis to russet, bronze, and scarlet.

  Trevor opened the balcony doors allowing a breeze and the morning sun to enter the 'Command Center' where his de-facto officers gathered four days after Stonewall's arrival.

  On the gigantic desk rested a map of Wilkes-Barre. Trevor pointed to an intersection.

  "There, see? A dental supply company."

  McAllister—dressed in his confederate uniform with the hat politely tucked under his arm--noted in a southern drawl, "For the occasional tooth ache, I suppose?"

  Shep gently pushed the General's scabbard aside and leaned over the map, too.

  Trevor pointed to another part of Wilkes-Barre. "Optical Manufacturing."

  "My wife wears lenses," Jon said. "She'll need a re-supply as will other people, too."

  Shepherd chimed in, "I’m more worried about our stocks of penicillin and antibiotics. Without that stuff a sore throat could turn to worse."

  Trevor said, "About thirty miles off this map is Aventis Pasteur in Swiftwater, a pharmaceutical manufacturing plant. Vaccines, antibiotics…everything. Plus four hospitals in Wilkes-Barre and plenty of doctor offices, clinics and medical labs."

  Jon Brewer tapped the tabletop just beyond the north end of the map.

  "Scranton. Chamberlain Munitions. One of the biggest producers of ammo for the U.S. They do large caliber stuff but will have the materials and tools for smaller calibers, too."

  "I reckon that might be a priority for us," Shepherd said.

  Jon parodied, "I reckon you're right."

  "Not half-bad," the older man conceded with a smile.

  Trevor swept his hand over the map saying, "Interstates 80 and 81, the PA Turnpike, all at our front door. New York and Philly both about three hours away. Tobyhanna Army Depot and Ft. Indiantown Gap; lots of goodies laying around for the taking. But closer to home we've got the Kingston armory and the Marine Tactical Support Wing on Route 11."

  "I see your grand strategy has vision," Stonewall addressed Trevor. "Alas, I fear we lack the necessary…um…divisions to accomplish these goals."

  Trevor rested a hand on the eccentric’s shoulder and glanced around making eye contact with each of the three men.

  "Yes, castles in the sky. Now we have to build the foundation underneath."

  A German Shepherd named "Seth" trotted in to the room passing between two Dobermans guarding the entryway. The dog tilted its head while staring at its Master.

  Trevor translated: "Hostiles, not far from here. And they’ve got prisoners."

  ---

  The warehouse blotted an otherwise isolated stretch of gently rolling hills along a snaking country road. At one point, a tall chain link fence enclosed the entire property. Time, or Armageddon, toppled it. Benjamin Trump would have wept.

  The front of the bland rectangular structure sported two windows flanking a heavy wooden door with a dented white awning above. Around the rear were loading docks for whatever widgets had shipped from and to the place. The sagging roof and flaking sky blue paint suggested the building sat neglected for decades.

  The cement parking lot had shifted and cracked over the years. Grass and ugly weeds competed to grow in those cracks. Piles of old wooden shipping palettes, discarded tires, a rusted-through Volvo commercial truck, and assorted debris of a surprising variety cluttered the lot and created a maze of rubbish.

  Near the front door, four Mutant hover bikes were parked around a tall pillar resembling a glowing, forty-foot replica of the Washington monument. It appeared to be a kind of power station for the vehicles.

  Across the road from the warehouse, the messy parking lot, the Mutant power station, and the toppled fence waited Captain Shepherd and Stonewall McAllister hidden atop one of those forested hills. With a dozen Grenadiers waiting nearby, they observed the progress of two assault teams weaving toward the building through the labyrinth of clutter.

  Trevor led the team on the left including Jon Brewer, Woody "Bear" Ross and the K9s Tyr and Seth. About fifteen yards to the right moved Nina Forest, Sal Corso and Danny Washburn. The two groups paralleled one another as they crept toward the warehouse.

  Experience suggested the captives would suffer a while; Mutants proved a sadistic lot.

  Nina moved her column in unison with Trevor’s. She knew the mission; she had led a hundred similar missions over the years, albeit not against alien hostage-takers.

  She felt a heavy throb of frustration: I'm expected to operate under the command of an unproven kid who looks awkward holding an assault rifle?

  Some piles of junk stood quite tall, casting shadows and creating alternating patches of light and dark, warm and cool. A breeze blew across the lot rousting an eclectic collection of smells living among the junk: decades old dust, animal droppings, oily rags.

  Nina stopped her team and whispered to Sal, "Let’s see how much our leader knows."

  Sal cautioned, "Nina…"

  She knelt next to an overturned bathtub lying atop crushed boxes and raised a tight fist: a tactical hand signal translating to "hold." Sal and Danny recognized the signal and stopped.

  After a moment, Trevor saw her signal. It did not surprise Nina when Trevor halted his group; the hold signal was rather universal.

  For his part, Trevor spied a mean glare in her blue eyes. He guessed her mischief as she flashed a series of more complicated signals. She pointed to Trevor, then at her own eyes with both fingers, then made a walking motion with her fingers, then motioned toward the building.

  In essence, she told him to peek in one of the windows to ascertain the situation.

  Trevor made an okay sign—rather universal in itself--then he surprised her by waving a flat hand over his head.

  Nina bit her lower lip. Sal saw the back of her neck burn red.

  Stone had signaled that he understood and then told her to cover this area.

  He then separated from his group, maneuvered around a burned out Ford Maverick,
and stealthily approached one of the front windows.

  Nina, behind the overturned tub, watched with a crinkle in her brow as he glanced inside the dirty window then, while leaning against the building, found Nina’s eyes—or, rather, her glare—and relayed what he had seen.

  First, he held his hand wide open.

  Hostiles.

  Next, he held up three fingers with his thumb over his pinky meaning the number ‘six.’

  Last, he held his hand to his throat followed by one finger straight up.

  Hostage. One.

  Sal heard Nina growl.

  Forest bent her right arm at the elbow, held the hand perpendicular to her shoulder and waved. Even an elementary school kid knew the motion signaled him to return.

  Trevor took his place at the front of his column and smiled. Her brow crinkled more.

  She pointed at herself then held her hand toward the front of the building in a fist with the thumb on top.

  I’m going to breech.

  Just to piss her off, he traced his finger in the shape of an upside-down 'U', telling her to breech the door. As if she might actually kick in the window.

  With her cheeks burning red, Nina pointed at Trevor, then pushed her finger down and circled it, telling him to take his team to the rear of the warehouse.

  Trevor flashed the "okay" sign, paused for along second, and then swept his hand slowly, palm up, toward the building essentially saying in an age-old motion used by so many New York City doormen, after you…

  Sal whispered, "Are you two done flirting?"

  If looks could kill…

  Trevor led his team to the rear loading docks. Nina waited a moment then--feeling the need for violence—advanced her element to the front door.

  Sal placed the barrel of his shotgun against the door latch. Nina used her fingers to count silently to three at which point Sal pulled the trigger. The blast echoed across the parking lot and out into the wilderness. Slivers of paint and wood exploded. The lock disintegrated, as did a fair measure of the doorframe. Nina kicked open what remained of the limp door and bolted through with Danny Washburn and Sal several paces behind.