Beyond Armageddon: Book 01 - Disintegration

by Anthony DeCosmo

"Yes, that is it," the Reverend answered.

  Shep asked Brewer, "The question is, do you got a plan?"

  "Yes, in fact, I’ve got a plan. Well, sort of an outline of a plan…kind of."

  Johnny: "Will it deliver destruction unto our enemies?"

  "Or destruction unto us, I suppose."

  "The Order are an arrogant bunch," Reverend Johnny knew. "They believe they can do whatever you can do, better. Think of it this way: if you pinch them, they will pinch you back but harder. If you kick them, they will kick you harder."

  Jon nodded. "I see."

  "That makes one of you," Shepherd said. "So what have you got up your sleeve?"

  "I plan to pinch them. And then dare them to pinch me back."

  Stonewall asked, "We’re going to—what’s the word?—‘goose’ them?"

  "Mr. Brewer," Reverend Johnny warned, "Have I fully conveyed the magnitude of the monstrosities that will be unleashed upon us?"

  "On us, Reverend Johnny? No, no. On you. After all, they know you, right?"

  Reverend Johnny swallowed hard and said, "May the Lord have mercy on my soul."

  19. Release

  Jon’s forces stayed hidden as a 'Chariot' eased into the air from the courtyard within The Order’s outpost, and soared away to the west. He could not imagine a less aerodynamic airship.

  Essentially a big square, The Order's facility covered an area equal to four football fields. One large gate remained open on the north side to accommodate the influx of new recruits.

  Inside that square waited two strange domes, several small buildings, and a main structure resembling a large shoebox with veins running through its green walls.

  The fortress sat in the center of a massive parking lot. To the north, across from the open gate, stretched three hundred yards of dead cars and pavement followed by trees and grassland.

  To the east and south lay nearly a square mile of empty blacktop so wide open that any attacking force from that direction would be dangerously exposed.

  To the west, another fifty yards of parking lot then a grassy patch followed by squat, 1980’s vintage office buildings.

  A sour, rotting odor emanated from the walls of The Order’s compound, cast about by blasts of a sharp, cold wind as if the facility caused a storm to brew, yet the white clouds in the afternoon sky suggested otherwise.

  Three spider sentries patrolled outside the smelly walls and one inside. Nearly two dozen robbed figures roamed the grounds within the battlements; the Reverend identified them as ‘monks’, the lowliest of The Order’s ranks armed with small swords.

  Behind the tree line to the north, Reverend Johnny checked his watch and announced, "The appointed hour has arrived, my friends," to Stonewall McAllister, Sanchez, and Simms.

  With a helping hand from above, Johnny hauled himself on to the back of Stonewall’s horse while struggling with a heavy M240-B machine gun.

  Stonewall remarked, "Your hands must be endowed with incredible strength."

  "The Lord is my strength. Your hands smell like gasoline."

  "Indeed."

  "Let us begin this work in the name of the Father and deliver vengeance unto--"

  "Tallyho!" Stonewall cut the sermon short.

  The three horses galloped from cover screaming and whooping as they swerved between abandoned cars and trucks.

  Sanchez and Simms fired shots from rifles in the direction of the compound. Stonewall deposited Reverend Johnny among the dead cars of the parking lot.

  "But God will smash the heads of His enemies," the Reverend shouted as he rested the heavy weapon on its tripod atop the hood of a compact car. "Crushing the skulls of those who love their guilty ways!"

  A heavy rat-tat-tat-tat and a rain of jingling shell casings broke the calm afternoon. Johnny took aim at a Spider Sentry near the main gate more than one-hundred yards away. His machine gun—chattering and shaking fiercely--blew apart tires, windshields, and skipped bullets across the pavement.

  The Sentry counter-attacked, marching forward on its creepy legs and firing the Gatling-like gun embedded in its faceplate. Streams of hard spores aimed first at the Reverend and then at the other riders who galloped amidst the dozens of dead cars. Those projectiles struck Simms' horse, killing it and sending her tumbling to the pavement behind a burned-out mini van.

  Stonewall harshly spurred his steed, tugged the reigns, and came about to her rescue. Shaken but unhurt, Simms climbed aboard his horse.

  Sanchez closed on the Sentry and slapped its round head with rifle fire. Then Johnny found his mark as a bullet tore through a leg joint; the sentry wobbled in search of balance. The Reverend finished the creature off with one last burst.

  "Feel my wrath, non-believer!"

  A strange alarm erupted within the compound; it sounded like someone trying to speak through a mouth full of cotton balls.

  As Sanchez incinerated another Spider Sentry with a firebomb, The Order’s main line of defense prepared to engage.

  The domes inside the compound rose into the air…ten feet…twenty feet…forty feet…sixty feet high. They resembled building-sized mushrooms. Tendrils drooped from the undercarriage of the caps. A massive red and black eye hovered from a thick tether.

  The dome—the mushroom cap above the dangling eye and the bush of tendrils—vibrated and then spun, releasing its own ordnance: a hundred flat discs—like saw blades—flew out from the monstrosity in a swarm of deadly Frisbees.

  Stonewall, with Simms on his horse, ducked behind a toppled commercial delivery truck. He heard the sharp discs smack into the opposite side: thwang-thump; thwang-thump.

  Sanchez galloped for the cover of an old Ford pickup with massive ‘monster truck’ tires. His horse made it. Sanchez’s body made it. His head did not.

  Johnny—not in the creatures' initial target zone--ran into clear view of the two mushroom-like Guardians, some one hundred and fifty yards away inside the compound. He locked onto the solitary, massive eye of the lead monster.

  "I will make my arrows drunk with blood, and my sword will devour flesh – the blood of the slaughtered and the captives, and the heads of the enemy leaders!"

  He let the machinegun rip, hitting the lead Guardian: it was too big to miss. However, such relatively small projectiles did little damage.

  The stems of both the Guardians coiled tight like springs compressing. Johnny dropped his heavy weapon and ran away from the compound as if the devil spit fire on his ass. Stonewall turned his horse and retreated with Simms still sharing the ride.

  The first Guardian created the necessary energy and literally sprung through the air.

  If it were not so huge…if it were not so hideous in appearance… then perhaps it would have looked humorous; like a person in a potato sack race leaping toward the finish.

  And oh, did it leap.

  The Guardian ‘jumped’ through the open gate and crashed to the ground a few yards shy of where the Reverend recently stood. Its stem, which had grown a sort of pedestal at the bottom, crushed several parked cars and sent another pin wheeling through the air. The impact caused an earthquake to ripple across the lot. Reverend Johnny stumbled and fell…

  …Jon Brewer watched from a damaged office building on the western flank. He said to Shep, who stood at his side, "Can you handle that thing?"

  "Practiced for half an hour this ‘morn," Shep tipped his head. "Want me to go get?"

  "Haul ass."

  "Seems to me there ain’t any other way to go on these babies…"

  …The Revered staggered to his feet and looked up at the massive red eye as it stooped to study its victim. Tendrils reached toward the man.

  Jerry Shepherd rode to the rescue on one of the mutant hovercraft bikes. Shepherd zipped in, slowed, used one free arm to hoist Reverend Johnny on board, and swooped from the Guardian's shadow.

  The second Guardian leapt from the compound and landed next to the first. The impact, again, shook the earth; more cars tumbled away like kicked matchbox racers.


  The eyes of the two mushroom-like monsters searched for targets. They watched as the hovercraft and horse—carrying humans--disappeared into the tree line.

  The Guardians bent their "stems" again.

  Something flew overhead: mortar rounds from behind the trees lobbed toward the outpost. The shells fell in front of the gate and exploded not with shrapnel but in white smoke.

  The stems of the Guardians released, propelling them forward. The gigantic figures hurled through the air and somehow landed without tumbling at the north end of the parking lot.

  Both domes whirled and flung deadly discs into the trees. Sliced evergreen branches fell like rain but the pine trees absorbed the volley.

  Their attack frustrated, the Guardians bent their stalks again, waited for energy to build, then hurdled the tree line and landed in a field of dying grass and shrubs.

  Reverend Johnny, on the far side of that field, dismounted Shep's hovercraft and steadied his stance as the ground shook. When the tremor calmed, he stared across the field directly at the two large red eyes.

  He lit a torch.

  A smell of gasoline permeated the field.

  Johnny quoted Two Kings: "If I am a man of God, let fire come down from heaven and destroy you and your fifty men!"

  He dropped the torch.

  An inferno erupted, fed by fuel and dry brush.

  The Guardians were nearly as flammable; their massive frames charred in chutes of fire.

  ---

  Jon Brewer and Boylen, riding hoverbikes, stopped at the wall of white smoke dropped from the mortars. The main gate waited on the other side of that smoky veil. Wind—seemingly growing in force—chipped away at the wall of white fast.

  Behind them, beyond the tree line, rose two great pillars of black smoke announcing Reverend Johnny's success.

  So far, so good. Trevor would be proud.

  Jon pulled a radio from his belt and transmitted, "Whiskey, get up here!"

  Brewer lifted the hinged seat of the hovercraft and surveyed the ping-pong sized grenades filling the storage compartment.

  He asked Boylen, "You ready?"

  Boylen brandished one of the plasma rifles scavenged from the platypus soldiers. "Aye."

  Shepherd, also on a hoverbike, zipped to their side.

  "The Rev took care of business." A gust of wind sent wisps of smoke trailing into the sky. Holes appeared in the white screen. "Reckon we’d better get moving."

  The three rode through the smoke and entered the open gate, stopping inside the compound on one end of the courtyard. Robed figures—Monks--drew swords and raced to intercept. They retreated as Shep fired a burst from his assault rifle.

  Across the courtyard, against the southern wall, sat the main building with a big sealed membrane: The Order’s equivalent of a door. Two spider sentries defended that door.

  Jon dismounted his ride but kept a hand on the control panel.

  Shep fired pot shots at scurrying monks and told Jon, "Do it fast before they realize there's only three of us!"

  Brewer pushed a switch next to the handlebars of the craft and the rider-less hoverbike drove off like a cruise missile. The spider sentries opened fire but to no avail; the bike covered the distance in a flash and crashed into the door.

  The platypus’ grenades exploded en masse tearing apart the spider sentries and sending chunks of the building's front flying across the compound.

  The clatter of a horse-drawn wagon at speed came from behind. Whiskey—the older man originally from Stonewall's group—worked the reigns furiously. The wooden wagon bounced as much as rolled, nearly throwing Gruder and the Grenadiers who rode in the back.

  Jon shared Shep's ride and followed Boylen to the blasted-open entrance, as did the wagon. As they neared, two monks—human faces overrun with green blotches—came out from within brandishing thin swords.

  Boylen drove his hover bike directly into one, sending it sprawling with a body full of smashed bones. The Irishman avoided a jab by the second monk and blasted Voggoth's minion with his plasma gun.

  Jon and Shep dismounted just as the wagon clattered to a stop among the ruins of the destroyed membrane. The cadre of K9s onboard leapt out, led by Tyr and Odin.

  The ground shook. Jon spun around and saw another of The Order's defenses approach. This one stood ten feet tall, wore a cone-shaped shell of emerald and red, and moved on two thick gray legs. In some warped way, it resembled a walking Christmas tree, complete with a shiny gold star on top. In this case, the shiny star crackled with electricity.

  Gruder—in the wagon—lit and threw a Molotov cocktail. The bottle smashed on the armor plating and spread fire giving the creature an amber glow but was otherwise ineffective.

  A bolt of jagged lightning shot from the top of the cone-creature. Gruder jumped from the wagon for cover. The bolt caught him in mid-air. His body charred black instantly and broke into pieces when he hit the ground.

  Boylen knelt near the front entrance and fired his plasma rifle at the beast. It responded with a bolt of lightning that slammed next to Boylen, stunning him for a moment.

  Suddenly a stream of fire engulfed the cone-creature's legs. It wobbled frantically and then the shiny orb that shot lightning exploded in a fury of sparks. The cone toppled and Reverend Johnny—flamethrower in hand and Stonewall on horseback at his side—yelled, "I told you, they don't like a hot foot!"

  Stonewall spurred his horse to the entrance where Jon asked, "Status?"

  "Ms. Simms, Ames, and Mr. Tolbert are prepared to cover our retreat. Alas, Mr. Sanchez has fallen in battle."

  "Hold here," Jon said. "We're going in."

  "Like the rock of Gibraltar!" Johnny cried.

  The Reverend, Stonewall, and Whiskey stood in a ring around the hole in the building.

  Jon, Shep, and Boylen started in but the K9s moved quicker: Tyr, Odin, and the six other dogs poured through the gaping hole. Jon hoped their noses could overcome the horrid stink of the place and lock on to Trevor.

  It felt as if they had entered a living creature, not a building. The corridors seemed more like arteries filled with humid, heavy air. A steady hum reverberated all around. Jon worried the building would gobble them up.

  Light came from small orbs placed sporadically. Not bright, but enough to see.

  The hall split into four directions. Monks approached from each. Bullets killed two; one ran away, the fourth fell to K9 teeth after skewering a Husky.

  Tyr barked and Jon sensibly followed the dog's lead to a large spherical chamber with doors—membranes—spaced along the walls.

  The Elkhound approached one, sniffed, left for another, stiffed, then scratched frantically.

  "There! Boylen, punch through it!"

  Plasma rifle in hand, the big Irishman took aim at the door.

  "Move outta there, dog," he ordered and Tyr backed off as the blast hit. A circle of flames spread across the membrane and sliced open a small slit. "There's your hole."

  "Let me give it a shot." Shepherd went to work carving with a hunting knife.

  Pellets hit the wall near Jon's head.

  A spider sentry approached. The drill bit on its face shot forward like a harpoon. Before it could pierce Jon's chest, a blast from Boylen's alien rifle disintegrated the round head and stole the power behind the shot.

  "Ugly bastard, ain't it?"

  "I'm through!" Shepherd shouted.

  Before any of the people could enter, Try, Odin, and two Rottweilers bound inside the cell. Jon heard them bark and growl. The remaining Siberian Huskies stayed outside forming a loose perimeter of sorts.

  "I'll hold here," Shep said as he raised an M4 and struck down a charging monk.

  Jon went through the slit cut in the door and Boylen followed.

  They entered a large, dome-shaped room shrouded in darkness save for a solitary light high in the ceiling. Trevor lay atop what looked like a wide, flat tree trunk made of green roots. The K9s circled him, barking angrily with their snouts aim
ed toward the shadows overhead.

  "Boylen, cover me."

  "Aye."

  Jon approached Trevor, slinging his rifle and pulling out a sharp knife when he spied the ropes—or something like ropes—binding his naked friend to the surface.

  Boylen warned, "Somethin' moving up there."

  Trevor lay with his eyes wide open staring up. Jon could not tell if he were alive or dead until he saw the slow rise of his chest.

  A brilliant flash lit the room and an explosion of heat erupted. Jon instinctively covered his head as he felt a mass fall from above. A black mass of tangled legs.

  The torture-spider missed Jon by a foot as it collapsed to the floor; a big burning hole punched in its abdomen by Boylen's plasma rifle. The creature—attached to the ceiling by a pulsating thick tube--rolled and kicked, searching for balance. The Grenadiers moved in, tearing and biting with incredible ferocity.

  "It almost had ya'," Boylen said. "Tried to slip down right on top of your 'ead."

  He turned to Trevor again and hacked his binds. A shudder of pain echoed around the room with each cut and a sick puss oozed from the tendrils as Jon sliced them.

  "Trevor? It's me, Jon. Can you hear me?"

  Trevor did not move. He did not react.

  Boylen helped Brewer move Trevor from the table and through the cut membrane.

  "We've got what we came for," Jon said. "Let's get out of here."

  Shepherd corrected, "We got one more to find."

  Bangs and booms from the battle outside reached their ears. Jon felt the clock ticking.

  "She put him here."

  "I'm not arguing with you," Shepherd said.

  Odin ran to the men and barked. Apparently, he had--yet again--found her scent.

  ---

  Nina paced under the solitary glowing orb lighting the small chamber. Her fists flexed closed and open. Her eyes darted around as if looking for something to fight.

  Anger. Hatred. They burned in her but she found it difficult to remember why. Emotional energy without purpose, but the intensity of that energy took a physical toll: her muscles felt weak, her breath short, her thoughts unfocused.

  She smelled something burning and spied a glowing spot on the door to her chamber. The glow turned into smoke and then a small hole formed. A knife poked through the hole and cut the membrane. A black and gray dog jumped through the opening. Jerry Shepherd and Jon Brewer followed.