Beyond Armageddon: Book 01 - Disintegration

by Anthony DeCosmo

  "What are you saying? Look, I’m not really good with doublespeak."

  "Nope, that’s true. I could see that right off. That’s why I like you so much, little lady. That and I got a soft spot for Trevor and I’d like to see him happy but that ain’t in the cards."

  Nina slung her head.

  "Then you know about this memory thing. You know what it means to me and him."

  The Old Man corrected, "Best thing that ever happened. Hell, old Voggoth tried to pull a fast one and it’s come full circle and bit him in the ass. If he hadn’t put that in you, who knows if I’d be able to stop this? Something tells me Trevor would rather see the whole ball o’ wax die off than say goodbye to you."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Like I said, I like you. I damn well respect how much of a soldier you are, too. Lookin’ ahead, I can see some big things for you. Because I like you, I’m gunna do something I’m not supposed to be doin’. Don’t matter none, though. You’ll either be dead or this will be forgotten."

  "What are you talking about? Who are you?"

  The Old Man smiled and said, "Sit by the fire for a spell and I’ll tell you a story."

  31. Contact

  The army approaching from the south—the "Vikings"—spent the night camped on the side of a mountain overlooking the neglected farms around Drums, Pennsylvania. At dawn, they resumed their northbound march along Interstate 81.

  Stonewall split his forces into two brigades and maneuvered to engage the aliens. The General personally led "First Brigade" with Kristy Kaufman and Benny Duda, the 13-year old trumpeter, at his side. Dustin McBride once again commanded "Second Brigade" with the aid of Woody "Bear" Ross and Cassy Simms. Each formation included twenty-five mounted fighters.

  Stonewall spent the first hours of his mission reconnoitering the enemy. When he garnered enough information, he found a safe spot atop a grassy slope, unpacked a heavy transmitter, and radioed his findings.

  Miles away, Eagle One sat silent in a parking lot between the western banks of the Susquehanna and Route 11. Trevor and Dante, in the cockpit, listened to Stonewall’s report.

  "The enemy can be considered humanoid in that they have two arms, two legs, a pair of eyes, and the like, and they are most certainly not barbarians. The 'Viking' name assigned to them is quite misleading. In terms of appearance, they’ve got big, puffy cheeks with wiry hair, a kind of whiskers I suppose. Their heads are mainly bald. Indeed, as I look at them I recall the fancy creatures of a Dr. Seuss book in that their outward appearance is almost peaceful. Alas, I regret to report their nature to be far more militaristic."

  Trevor radioed, "What do you mean?"

  After a patch of static, Stonewall answered, "They wear a battle suit resembling a poncho with a hood and goggles and a kind of rough trousers beneath. Their wardrobe displays a rather interesting attribute in that it changes colors to match surroundings, like a chameleon. These ponchos will turn green when walking through the grass, brown or rusty red in the forest. It was our misfortune to realize this ability when one of my riders found himself ambushed."

  "Okay. I see what you’re saying."

  "This group appears to be the most, um, capable of the forces we’ve faced to date. They use scouts and pickets and guard their flanks. They’ve broken their marching formation into smaller ranks to better conceal their number. Indeed, I invested many hours of scouting before gleaning the most basic information."

  "What about weapons?"

  "Their main armament is a kind of rifle. It fires fairly silently, therefore I suspect no powder cartridge; perhaps a magnetic mechanism that projects a pellet that kills more with speed than size. I suspect their guns to be at least as lethal as our own."

  While Trevor mulled that information, Stonewall emphasized the bad news: "It is my opinion we are facing the best fighters we have seen thus far. They are not going to fall easily into a ruse in that they exhibit a degree of battlefield awareness lacking in the Redcoats."

  "Weaknesses?"

  "I have not spied any air cover. Considering Mr. Dunston was struck by ground fire it is fair to assume they are capable of defending against air attack. Furthermore, I saw no artillery, but there are several carts or wagons pulled by what can best be described as reptilian elephants."

  Trevor asked, "How many?"

  "As I have indicated, they go to great lengths to hide their numbers. My best estimate is somewhere between three and four hundred."

  Trevor sighed. With three armies approaching, he had hoped to outdo enemy quantity with quality. It now seemed that the Vikings alone would pose problem enough.

  He transmitted, "Okay, then, you need to slow them down. Whether we live or die might just depend on how much of a pain in their ass you can be."

  "I will endeavor to be as big a pain as possible."

  The communication ended.

  Dante, sitting in the co-pilot's seat, asked, "Now what?"

  "Now we start our own little war up here."

  "Let me get this straight, buddy. Two thousand Red Hand warriors marching toward us and to stop them we’ve got me, you, and about three hundred K9s? That sum it up?"

  Trevor told Dante, "You’re forgetting something."

  He changed to a different frequency and radioed, "So, sweet heart, you ready?"

  Nina’s voice answered, "Roger that, we’re coming up on you."

  Dante cocked an ear and, after a moment, heard the beating blades of two Apache helicopters.

  "Okay, I get it, we've got the choppers. Still, man, ain’t these odds kind of shitty?"

  Trevor answered him honestly, "Get used to it."

  ---

  "Let us labor with the strength of the Lord! Put your back into it, for Christ’s sake!" Reverend Johnny directed his words at the work party digging trenches, building earth walls, and clearing fields of fire along the summit of a ridge.

  His workers wore t-shirts and heavy-duty boots; jeans and sweat pants, even a few in khaki shorts. Those men and women—some old, some young—once worked as teachers and retail clerks, waitresses and stock boys. Now they were something akin to army engineers.

  Johnny’s ridge served as the first of three defensive lines atop three consecutive wooded mountains separated one by one by small valleys. In front of his position descended a forested slope. To his right and far below ran the lanes of Interstate 81 as that road cut through the mountains south of Wilkes-Barre.

  The Reverend supervised a crew of nearly one hundred laborers and he knew that soon they would trade in their shovels and spades for rifles and mortars.

  Jerry Shepherd's voice came from the radio Johnny carried: "We need to work faster, people, we need time on our side, and it ain’t there yet."

  Reverend Johnny’s answer traveled the airwaves to a camouflage-painted Winnebago parked along the highway in the rear area of the ‘southern front.’

  "We will endeavor to increase our pace, Mr. Shepherd, Lord willing these battlements will stand ready within the hour."

  Shep, inside the mobile command post, did not bother to answer. He knew everyone in his command, including Johnny, understood the challenge ahead. It probably served no good to badger them but, for the time being, Shep could do little more than badger.

  Estimates put the Viking army at less than three hours away. The newly christened General feared his men would not be ready for the fight. However, a piece of good news did arrive when Rhodes, dressed in worn BDUs and a Kevlar helmet, walked into the RV and informed, "The big guns are five minutes away."

  Rhodes referred to a pair of the captured Redcoat artillery pieces.

  "Good. We’ll need em’."

  Shepherd turned his attention to a map drawn on construction paper. It approximated the area he aimed to defend but lacked scale. Shep’s mind saw not the crudely sketched lines but, rather, the force mustered to defend those lines. He mentally counted the assets at his command.

  Assets? Now don’t go foolin’ yourself, Shep. You’ve
got yourself a patchwork of people, half of which might just run at the first gunshot.

  He could not really blame them. Most of the two hundred souls he directed had received some kind of basic training over the summer: marksmanship, weapon maintenance, and rudimentary tactics. That did not change the fact that most had no combat experience and while survival in the face of Armageddon had hardened their skin, shooting at and running from monsters did not compare to the chaos and focused carnage of battle.

  Still, Shep worked with the dealt hand. He knew these people to be brave, for they had survived the end of the world. He knew them to be strong, for the weak had long since perished.

  Instead of dealing with the intangibles, he re-examined the basic equation.

  He knew Stonewall counted fifty riders in his two brigades and currently harassed the enemy flanks. Half of Shep’s remaining force worked under Johnny’s whip atop ‘Alpha’ hill. Most of the other one hundred hurriedly prepared a second line on ‘Bravo’ hill.

  A third hill still waited to be transformed into the final line. Shep understood that victory did not depend on stopping the Vikings at the first line, or the second. It depended on reinforcements from Jon Brewer and Trevor before the Vikings could overrun the third. That, of course, depended in turn on Jon’s ability to win a quick victory.

  So many ifs. So little time.

  ---

  Jon Brewer knew he faced one of the most perplexing assignments given to any military commander in history: defeat a pack of giant robots. He had to do it with one hundred human fighters resembling a ragtag militia armed with carbines, shotguns, and a few alien firearms, two of the captured Redcoat artillery pieces, and a half dozen armored vehicles including Strykers, Bradleys, and an Abrams tank.

  His arsenal also included a full ton of the Redcoats’ explosive powder synthesized from Omar’s salvaged matter transfiguration machine. A little of that powder would be used to operate the artillery. Jon found other uses for the rest of the volatile chemical.

  The field of battle? A 1970’s vintage shopping mall with Bon Ton and Sears anchor stores surrounded by a large parking lot.

  To his advantage, Jon easily discerned the enemy’s approach: the robots would continue along Route 115 descending a mountain road into the valley leading to a major intersection north of the mall where the Cross Valley Expressway, Kidder Street, and Interstate 81 converged.

  He prepared his forward positions on a grassy slope overlooking that intersection. The land there further aided his cause in that Rt. 115 led into the intersection via a long straightaway.

  The first part of Jon’s plan placed abandoned cars on that patch of straight road.

  Boylen—the big Irish guy--rigged those cars with explosives.

  Jon, laying prone on the grassy bank at the intersection, raised his field glasses to survey the car bombs on the road ahead. Boylen sat nearby checking a makeshift detonator board.

  Brewer muttered, "Wow, well, I hope this does the trick."

  Major Tom Prescott's voice broadcast over the radio: "Hey Brewer, you out there?"

  Jon answered the call, "Yeah, Tom, please don’t tell me the roof gave way."

  "Relax; you got the US Army on the job. Both of the guns are up on the mall’s roof and, yeah, they’re holding. But, pardon my French, this was one heck of a job."

  Jon relaxed… a little. The demo charges were in place and the artillery pieces were exactly where he wanted them. Two less things to worry about.

  Nothing left to do now but wait for the 'Roachbots' to make contact.

  ---

  The Red Hands swarmed south on Route 11 like army ants. Several dozen human slaves—shackled—shambled along in the midst of that swarm porting sacks for their masters.

  To the north of Pittston, Route 11 ran on the eastern side of the Susquehanna River. However, as it moved into the quaint downtown stretch of that small town’s Main Street, the route crossed the river via two bridges.

  The northern most of those two bridges crossed to the same intersection where Trevor had first met Reverend Johnny during the battle with The Order’s missionary. The second—a quarter mile south of the first—led to a sedate riverside neighborhood.

  A solitary Humvee with a fifty-caliber machine gun sped along on 11 hurrying north. Dante drove. Wind whipped through Trevor’s shoulder-length hair as he stood in the cupola.

  Trevor heard Dante’s voice crackle in his earpiece, "So, man, what’s this plan again?"

  Dante had asked the question five times and each time he sounded more skeptical.

  "Relax, Miss, we’ve got a couple of Apaches covering us."

  Dante snickered at the insult before reminding, "Right. Me, you, and two helicopters against thousand of these guys. Yeah, I’m relaxed, man."

  "Odds will get better once we get back to West Pittston. Then we’ve got the K9s."

  "You mean, IF we get back, right?"

  Trevor directed Dante to park in a gas station next to dry pumps.

  The minutes ticked away until at 2 p.m. on June 2, the battle began.

  First came the sound: a vibration. The noise of two thousand pale warriors dressed in animal skins jogging forward. They came as if a flood, filling side streets, pouring around trees, trampling bushes, climbing over dead automobiles, crossing porches, and knocking aside trashcans and human bones left in the aftermath of Armageddon.

  The rumble grew to a pounding stampede. Windows on houses shook; cans on vacant store shelves rattled; a plastic number ‘9’ on the gas station marquee fluttered to the ground.

  "Oh Christ."

  Trevor ignored Dante’s curse. His eyes remained transfixed on the approaching surge.

  "Um…Trev..?"

  Just as Dante seemed ready to bolt, Trevor brought the gun to life.

  The heavy weapon fired furiously sending a vibration through Trevor's body and the entire vehicle. Shell casings flew to the pavement and blasts of fire flashed from the barrel.

  Massive rounds tore into the line of Red Hands; a line so thick Trevor could not miss even at one-hundred yards. The shots sent gushes of red gore into the air and cut torsos in two.

  He swayed the gun side to side. The hail of destruction obliterated a porch post. A second later, the roof there collapsed in a cloud of splintering wood and dust.

  The Red Hands did not waver even as the lead row of their army disintegrated. Bows pulled taught. Axes rose above screaming heads. Elongated fingers gripped spears and charged.

  "Trev…Trevor!"

  "Wait!" Trevor shouted into the microphone to be heard above the clatter of the gun.

  More savages fell. He blasted the legs off one, the head off another. Yet they still came! Even with the gore of their brethren splashing on their shoulders and cheeks, the warriors refused to retreat. Indeed, the carnage appeared to encourage their charge.

  "Go! Go! Go!"

  Dante gunned the gas, cranked the wheel, and raced south on the road. An arrow clanged off the bumper of the Humvee; an errant spear rattled the pavement behind.

  The Red Hands raced forward as if their legs might catch the fleeing motor car. However, their attention quickly changed.

  One of the Apache gunships appeared in the sky above the battlefield. It dove fast with bullets ripping from its thirty-millimeter cannon. Warriors literally exploded. Some vainly tossed spears or shot arrows at the chopper but the bulk sought cover in houses and storefronts.

  The attack helicopter veered away after the Humvee had completed its escape.

  With the roar of the machine gun temporarily silenced, Trevor realized how heavy he breathed. He still felt the vibration of the weapon in his bones; his gloved hands felt numb.

  Trevor caught his breath and spied the parking lot of an old lumberyard. He banged on the roof of the speeding Humvee and ordered, "Okay. Stop here and wait for them to catch up."

  Dante's voice quivered as he asked, "We gotta do this again?"

  "Dante, old buddy, we’re going to be doin
g this for a while."

  ---

  "Saddle up!" Stonewall commanded as alien small arms fire rat-tat-tatted against the wooden walls of the living room in the old farmhouse.

  That house faced the western flank of I-81. Stonewall’s cavalry had occupied it an hour earlier to take potshots at the marching Vikings.

  At first, only a handful of alien scouts exchanged fire with the ‘First Brigade.’ Then the better part of a column joined the fray. Garrett decided to withdraw before the enemy brought heavy weapons to bear or rushed his outnumbered skirmishers.

  Kristy Kaufman, wearing a safari outfit complete with Aussie cowboy hat, crept across the grungy room to inform, "Everyone is ready, General."

  Another alien shot zipped through the empty space where a front window used to be and smacked a bookcase against an interior wall. A copy of The Farmer’s Almanac fell to the shaggy rug in two big chunks; balls of dust puffed into the air.

  "We can proclaim this engagement a success," Stonewall said as he stood then walked with Kristy to the rear of the house. "They have halted their forward progress and deployed a number of troops. It shall be some time before they continue their march."

  The two exited the back door where dead farmland stretched toward forest. Benny Duda held Stonewall’s steed as the General climbed on. Kristy hoisted herself to her own saddle.

  "I suppose we’ll be doing this all the live long day, General," she said.

  Stonewall tugged the reigns of his horse and brought the beast around. The rest of his brigade formed ranks as they prepared to dash for the woods.

  "My dear lady, I doubt our friends will fall for such tactics repeatedly. Eventually they will see the nature of our ways. Things will get dangerous then. Very dangerous indeed."

  ---

  Route 11 swung across the Susquehanna River on a traveler’s choice of two bridges. Dante, hidden on the second floor of a home overlooking the river, spied the northernmost of the spans through binoculars and watched as the Red Hands crossed that concrete, featureless overpass en route from Pittston to West Pittston.

  The crossing funneled the wide swarm of marching warriors into tight columns. They proceeded with less vigor and more caution after having suffered a pummeling from both the ground and the sky for miles: dead Red Hands covered Route 11 all the way into Pittston.