Beyond Armageddon: Book 01 - Disintegration

by Anthony DeCosmo

  The remaining two hungry jaw-wolves spotted the human contingent. They left behind the seal-beasts and approached slowly, splitting to flank as they closed.

  Stonewall cried, "To arms I say!"

  Reverend Johnny—riding in the other wagon-- retrieved a weapon from the cargo area. Most of those on horseback dismounted along the road with rifles ready, a few remained in their saddles, perhaps contemplating flight.

  "Fire at will!" Jon ordered.

  A sheet of bullets rained upon the predators. The jaw-wolves cringed but did not retreat as the shots ricocheted off their armor plating and massive teeth.

  Then they attacked from either side.

  Reverend Johnny--a World War II era flamethrower strapped to his back--intercepted the one on the southern flank.

  "Son of man, give the people this message from the LORD: A sword is being sharpened and polished. It is being prepared for terrible slaughter; it will FLASH LIKE LIGHTNING!"

  The creature stopped as the flames licked at its front. A rich chemical smell of burning fuel spewed across the impromptu battlefield.

  Nothing halted the creature on the northern flank as it aimed for Tucker, who spurred his mount and whipped the reigns

  The monster’s inner jaws extended, pinching together the rider and much of the horse. The jaws retracted to the wolf’s mouth where the outer layer of teeth folded over the ensnared man and what remained of his steed. Tucker—alive for a few more moments—cried out from behind the curtain of ivory as the satisfied hunter spirited away its prize.

  Johnny’s flamethrower held the remaining jaw-wolf at bay. Woody Ross produced one of the ping-pong ball grenades taken from the platypus aliens. He activated it with a squeeze and rolled the device beneath the monster's belly.

  The explosion ripped the creature from below where its armor provided no protection. Gore poured to the ground and it collapsed.

  Jon wasted no time. "Quick, saddle up. Hurry. Let's move!"

  Horses spurred to action and whips sent the wagons rolling as fast as they could move to the south, counting one less in their number.

  ---

  Two robed disciples of The Order carried Trevor into a new chamber, this one smaller but no less vile than the lair of the torture-spider. They dropped him, naked and unconscious. Two tendrils slithered over, clasped his wrists, and dragged him against the wall.

  "We will hold him here for a spell," the Bishop said as he brought a companion to view the captive. "Until modifications to the Purification Center are complete."

  The Bishop's companion was an older man but not elderly, dressed in black with a thin body. He and a flock of converts had battled Trevor Stone a few weeks before.

  "That is the one," the Missionary Man said. "I nearly converted him some time ago."

  The Bishop answered, "He will better serve us once the processing is complete."

  "Glory to Voggoth!"

  "Yes, indeed. Nonetheless, this situation amplifies your failure during the initial phase of the invasion. Had you found your target on that first day, this process would not be necessary and our resources could be invested elsewhere."

  The Missionary Man ran one crooked hand across his neck where wounded tentacles hid. "Your Excellency, I searched the location but found no trace of any humans, let alone those of Stone's bloodline or acquaintance. Is there any suggestion as to what forces were at work?"

  The Bishop hovered over Trevor, studying the sleeping man like a researcher watching a lab rat for symptoms.

  "The disappearances remain a mystery."

  "We now know the location of their sanctuary. Allow me to lead a force to overrun their position. No doubt the one we seek is among them."

  "No," the Bishop pulled his emerald eyes from Trevor and glared at the Missionary Man. "Our activities on the Asian continent have already drawn attention; we can not risk such overt action here."

  Again, the Bishop stared at Trevor. He said, "We will continue his ordeal. The pain is already driving him mad. The point will come when his mind is open. Then we will ease his suffering with each concession, one after another, until he eagerly accepts the dominion of Voggoth and delivers his people to The Order."

  "Praise be to Voggoth, your Excellency. Allow me to suggest the immediate termination of the woman. She is dangerous. We suffered many losses in her capture."

  "Fear not, she is under control. Surprisingly simple, in fact. Once activated, the cache gland projected false memories implicating whomever she viewed as leader and then the implant amplified her emotions. One can appreciate the irony."

  "Irony, your Excellency?"

  "Forgive me. Much like your ambition—do not think I have not taken note of it—a sense of what they call 'irony' remains with me since my glorious transformation. As distasteful as I find any remnants of that existence, I do see this 'irony' here: the woman only betrayed him when she finally accepted him as her leader, consciously or not."

  "Is it possible, your Excellency, that she is the second half? The mother?"

  "No, we tested for that. However, she does harbor strong feelings for Mr. Stone, which is why the emotional amplification exceeded expectations. We will observe the effects a while longer. When I am satisfied, we shall terminate her and remove the cache gland. This will allow us direct access to her memories since implantation."

  "You are most wise, Excellency."

  "Glory to Voggoth, brother."

  ---

  The convoy followed the turnpike, traveling over the grasslands, forests, and hills to either side of the highway to remain at least somewhat concealed.

  As night fell, they arrived at Hickory Run State Park and camped in a field. Dinner meant salty beef jerky or freeze-dried meals. They rested in shifts but the lingering image of Tucker dragged off by a jaw-wolf kept most awake.

  Jon Brewer shared a slowly dying fire with Shep and Reverend Johnny; the latter finished a rather long and dramatic tale concerning one of his many battles with The Order.

  "After Voggoth's children burned, those National Guard fellows marched toward Boston despite my warnings. That city was in total chaos. I, as you can see, continued my pursuit south."

  "Seems to me you’ve been fighting these things for a while now," Shepherd said. "But you’re a medical man?"

  "Yes," Johnny held his hands out and stared at his palms. "Before Hell descended upon our world these were the hands of a surgeon. Neurology, my specialty. I returned feeling to limbs where feeling was lost. I knew and understood every working of the human body."

  "Forgive me for asking, Doc, but--"

  "Reverend. I am no longer a Doctor, Captain Shepherd."

  "I see. Well that’s my question, Reverend. How did you go from being ‘Doc’ to being a holy man? What denomination are you?"

  "I am a slave to no denomination. I know all the workings of the body. That is where my faith lay. I see the Lord in the beating of the heart, in the churning of the bowels."

  Jon mumbled, "Oh, now there’s a pretty thought."

  "Scoff not. The body is the manifestation of the Lord for we are created in His image."

  Shep said, "And nothing burns you more than seeing these Order fellas slipping implants in the human body. Is that it?"

  "You are a wise man, Captain Shepherd. Now I preach the purity of the human body: the holiness of it. The followers of Voggoth defile God’s creation. I shall smite them."

  Brewer pushed, "So the healer turns into a soldier. I have to admit, Rev, I'm not exactly buying that one. What really made you put down scalpels and pick up a machine gun?"

  Shepherd leaned forward and rubbed his hands over the embers.

  In an unusually sedate voice, Johnny explained, "I was the head surgeon at Massachusetts General Hospital. On the day of reckoning, the hospital suffered invasion by all manner of monsters. I escaped the carnage of the city and made my way home. I found that one of The Order’s missionaries had converted my gated community, including my wife and my eight year old d
aughter."

  Shepherd mumbled, "Damn."

  "When I…refused…to be one with Voggoth, he sent my wife and my child with knives to kill me. Well…it seems my fear and my desire to live allowed me to…allowed me…"

  Johnny could not say the words so Brewer did: "It wasn’t your fault. They weren’t your family any more. They died when the implants were put in their bodies."

  "Oh, my dear Mr. Brewer, you word it so elegantly. I fear you have not perceived the deeper truth; the truth revealed only after I examined the bodies."

  Shep understood. "You could have removed the implants. They weren’t too far gone."

  Reverend Johnny stared at his surgeon’s hands and squeezed them into clenched fists. The boom returned to his voice.

  "At that moment of ultimate revelation, I went through a metamorphosis, hallelujah. A holy fire burned within and I found my hands were skilled at not only saving life, but destroying it, too. I took that missionary man…that disciple of The Order…and I crucified him on my front lawn. Since that day, I have but one purpose in my existence: to find and destroy every part of The Order. I have pursued and hurt them all the way from New England. I believe—if I may be so vain—they know and fear me."

  The Reverend fixed his eyes on the thinning fire and fell quiet.

  Shep patted the man on the shoulder. "I reckon you’re right, Reverend."

  ---

  Jon's rescue team left Hickory Run State Park before sunrise. They kept the turnpike on their left flank as they traveled south. However, he wanted to avoid the mile-long Lehigh Valley Tunnel that cut through the Blue Mountains at the border of Lehigh and Carbon counties. It seemed too perfect a den for any manner of nightmare.

  Therefore, about an hour after dawn, the caravan turned southwest following Long Run road in hopes of crossing the Lehigh Valley River en route to a country road that—according to the map—would lead them up and across the mountain.

  A hush fell over the convoy as they traveled with thick woodland to either side; perfect ambush country. To Jon's ears, the clop-clop of horse hooves and the squeaks of rolling wagon wheels sounded like thunderous bass drums revealing their presence to the world.

  Yet no ambush came. No creatures shadowed the convoy. The K9s remained calm in the back of his wagon.

  That is when they noticed the sound. Shep first guessed it to be an electrical hum from power lines. Stonewall thought it a waterfall in the distance. Reverend Johnny suggested the steady drone of a big machine.

  As Long Run road bent south along the banks of the Lehigh River, Jon halted the convoy for a morning rest. He decided the noise—louder now—came from the north.

  Brewer shared Shepherd's steed and, along with Stonewall, went off to investigate while leaving Reverend Johnny in charge of the parked convoy.

  They followed a set of railroad tracks running alongside the river. As they moved north, the sound grew into a haunting melody. One so melancholy that, according to Stonewall, "the Devil himself could not stand to live in these parts."

  About one and a half miles north of the parked caravan, as the sound rose to the point of filling the air, the three dismounted and climbed a lightly forested hill.

  As they neared the top, the noise sharpened to their ears: a wailing. A constant wailing. Not from one creature but from many: a chorus forming a continual cry of despair.

  They reached the summit. Stretched before them lay the picturesque town of Jim Thorpe nestled between mountain peaks and named for one of the greatest athletes in history. Before Armageddon, Jim Thorpe had been a tourist attraction of antique shops, bookstores, pubs, and nostalgic train rides.

  Except the shops, the stores, the pubs, and the restored railway station now hid beneath a white, stringy veil stretched over the entire town.

  The noise came from the human residents of Jim Thorpe as they struggled—thousands of them—wiggling and swaying inside tightly wrapped cocoons. Their collective agony produced the cry of torment traveling the wind for miles.

  "Oh my God," Jon stammered.

  Stonewall confessed, "I am at a loss."

  The devils responsible for this Hell walked on six-legs attached to crystal-white bodies as long as locomotives with one big yellow eye around a black pupil.

  Jon stuttered, "I-If these things are feeding on them, w-why are the people alive?"

  "Look at them, Sir," Stonewall spoke. "Those are not arachnids. They are something far more… sinister. One gets the distinct impression that their victims are purposely kept alive."

  "Kept alive?" Shepherd’s voice never sounded so horrified.

  Stonewall removed his hat and held it to his chest. "These vampires may in fact be feeding on their very torment. It seems there is no end to the horrors of our new world."

  Jon took a deep breath and tried to steady the tremble in his hands and voice.

  "Let’s go."

  "Hold on," Shep stopped him. "Ain’t we going to do something?"

  "What can we do?"

  Shep grit his teeth and said, "Drop a few mortar shells in there. Maybe drive them off."

  Jon stared at the living crypt below.

  "There’s nothing we can do here. Maybe someday. But not today."

  ---

  From the pain came the screams filling his mind. Not from his lips, but far deeper: far more personal. The howling continued even though the actual torture to his body waited for The Order to prepare his next ordeal.

  Trevor found tiny lifelines in a memory, or a feeling. For a few precious seconds here and there he could beat back the screams.

  Once he summoned the sense of comfort and safety he had found as a little boy in his mother's arms; the soft fabric of one of her sweaters as she hugged her young son provided a tactile connection to that moment. He heard her assuring, "Everything is all right."

  Yet her voice and the sensory recollection of her hug faded, replaced by the much more recent feel of swarming bugs digging at his skin…ripping…biting—SCREAMS.

  As he lay alone in the chamber in some state several steps removed from sleep, Trevor summoned the sound of running water—a shower, a waterfall, the rhythm of rain on a rooftop—a sound that always gave him a sense of calm.

  The calm shattered in the harsh memory of his legs…his torso…sucked into the torture-spider's mouth; a false sensation of bones pulverized and shredded skin.

  It may feel as if you’re being eaten, but rest assured that is only a feeling.

  Screams again. His mind pulled into madness by the torment of his body.

  Through the mental chaos, he reached for another lifeline: for Ashley, but instead grasped more torment in her disappearance from this Earth, and her disappearance from his heart.

  Where he should have found fond memories of intimacy, he found an empty shell. Had he ever really loved her? If she were still alive, could she love what Armageddon had made him?

  How could anyone love you now? Asked Ashley's voice. You're not human; you're a monster; no different from the aliens you fight.

  This lifeline turned into an anchor, driving him deeper into the pool of madness. The bore bugs on his legs; the working of that monstrous maw; the vitriol from Nina.

  There. For a second. Another ray of light breaking through the clouds of madness.

  Yes, Nina. What have they done to you? Can you still be saved?

  He heard her voice now, muffled as if covered or, perhaps, calling from great distance: I'm still in here! No matter what they do, I'll still be here!

  "She's just a lonely little girl," he managed to speak aloud the words Lori had used to describe Nina Forest. "Just a lonely little girl."

  Like a drowning man at sea, the tide of misery dragged him under again. Screams. A choir of banshees battering down his sanity through the terrible suffering inflicted upon his body: the opposite of mind over matter in a very practical application.

  Trevor Stone lay alone, bound in a tempest of insanity.

  ---

  As they nea
red Allentown, the rescue team found it harder to stay hidden as the wilderness dissipated, replaced by crisscrossing highways, shopping centers, office complexes, and other relics of man’s paved civilization.

  That afternoon they were caught in the open on Route 145 north of Whitehall by a mob of charging ghouls who fell to a volley of automatic rifle fire. The sounds of battle attracted scavengers resembling flying Octopuses. The things gorged on the dead ghouls.

  Jon knew they neared The Order’s facility when they ran into a gathering flock of converts along the riverbank north of Allentown.

  Reverend Johnny tore into the converts picking and choosing targets based on complexion. He saved several of the near-zombies and dispatched a chubby female missionary of Voggoth and her box of slug-like implants.

  After, the exhausted convoy camped at the Lehigh Valley Airport.

  During the night, they fought off several more waves of ghouls, a troll, and a cross between a grizzly bear and a horse.

  Ames broke her arm when a shipping container serving as a battlement toppled. Johnny set the bone in a makeshift splint. Fortunately, Ames could still shoot.

  Time, Jon knew, was not on their side. Did Trevor live? If so, for how much longer? Besides, they could not rest: not with the denizens of Allentown attacking every hour. They needed to find and assault The Order's facility while they had the strength and supplies to do so.

  Shortly after sunrise, he formed a scouting party and, with Reverend Johnny pointing the way as well as Stonewall and Shepherd in tow, found The Order’s base on the grounds of an industrial park. They watched from a rooftop far away.

  Fifteen-foot organic green walls protected a variety of structures inside. Those structures included a pair of strange domes reaching two-stories tall, a number of small square buildings, and one particularly large rectangle.

  Outside the grounds roamed Spider Sentries, robbed figures with swords, and varying numbers of human converts in raggedy civilian clothing filing in and out of the compound.

  Jon lowered his binoculars and muttered, "Wow. So that’s it, huh?"