by Lars Teeney
Suddenly, the snow and gray, cloud-covered sky gave way to the darkness of night, and the sight of a trash-strewn alley took shape before his eyes. He found that he laid against a dumpster and not a tree. Craig looked at his shirt and found it wet with blood. He clutched something in his hand. When he looked down, he saw that he held a broken beer bottle, red with blood. A white, windowless van screeched to a halt, next to him in the alley. Men jumped out from the sides.
“Stay away from—me...” Craig tried to protest, but he had no strength to move.
“That’s him! Quick, load him up before L.O.V.E. responds!” the Young Man from the bar ordered frantically. Craig felt the sensation of being lifted by his arms and legs and placed inside the vehicle. He heard the doors slam shut, and the felt the momentum of the van speeding off into the slums.
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Craig awoke from his nightmare in a cold sweat. The same dream had been reoccurring for years and they did not fail to materialize tonight. Craig glanced at the time displayed on his retinal H.U.D., Three A.M., it read, being mid-Atlantic time. Craig rubbed his face and pulled his fingers through the hair on his head. He lifted himself out of his bunk and stumbled to the wash basin in the bathroom. He splashed cold water on his face.
“Thanks, Graham Wynham, you fuck,” he mumbled. Craig thought he was too worked up to go back to sleep, so he decided to head to the ship’s gym to work off the angst.
⍟ ⍟ ⍟
MOTHER OF ALL THE LIVING
Jaspar Wynham thought about how he had gone so long with an assumed identity. Years, had it been? He had enlisted with the New Megiddo Holy Army and later went through L.O.V.E. Ranger training, all while maintaining the deep cover that his father, Graham Wynham, had arranged for him. Then, during his time as an Apostate, he had been known by the call sign, Pride-Swarm. All of these identities and time periods seemed so long ago to him. Japsar had gotten used to going by his given name again, and had filled the role well of head of Wynham Industries. He walked along the deck with his mother, Elsa Wynham. They had linked arms, and were conversating about the past and of Graham Wynham. Elsa had suggested that the two of them take in the view of the fleet approaching New York City.
“We’ll be docking soon, mother,” Japsar announced.
“I know, son, I have made this voyage countless times with the Neo Railraod fleet,” Elsa corrected her son.
“Apologies, I keep forgetting. But, what a sight it is to behold. I can only imagine what the Manhattan skyline had looked like in its hayday!” Jaspar remarked.
“I have heard stories passed down through the Wynham family, mainly from your great grandfather, Warren Wynham, of the glory of the United States of America. Of course, Warren thought New York was a morally-corrupt place. But, I think you are aware of all of this,” she said, while shading her eyes from the sun overhead. Her remarkable bone structure was emphasized by the shadow that was cast over her face. Elsa was dressed in the occasion with her finest outfit, clad in a long-sleeved tunic that flared out at the waist and wrists but form-fitting everywhere else. The was a low-plunging neckline, which was balanced by a high collar in the back. The tunic was paired with tight black trousers and knee high boots.
“Sure, I am aware, but according to dad he also helped subvert the old democracy with President Schrubb. We have sacrificed much to undo what our family was resposible for. I mean dad—” Jaspar trailed off when he mentioned his father.
“Yes, son, your father gave up much to stop the regime—too much—he didn’t have to sacrifice our family and his life—there—there could have been another way,” Elsa lamented. She turned to the watch the city skyline.
“Yes, well, it happened and there’s no changing it,” he said.
“I know, son,” she replied. They were silent for a moment before Greta joined them on deck, all packed and ready to disembark. Her son, Amerigo, was tucked nicely into the M.I.D.W.I.F.E. She prepared to be transferred back to the battleship, North Carolina.
“Hello Elsa—Jaspar. I don’t know about you all, but I am looking forward to walking on solid ground,” Greta greeted them.
“Hello, Greta—yes we are!” Jaspar returned the greeting.
“I am looking forward to getting the last of this batch of refugees across the sea. They have been waiting in these camps for months, and we didn’t have room on our last voyage,” Elsa explained.
“Fortunately, the fleet is empty. You should be able to load them all in,” Greta estimated, “It is funny to be back to New Meg—America. I certainly hope we don’t run into much resistance,” Greta added.Nooneanswered her. Jaspar gave thoughts to wanting a normal life and family of his own. He woundered if there would ever be ‘normalcy’ again, but, more importantly, he pondered the definition of ‘mormalcy’.
The ships began mooring procedures as the fleet entered the port. Much work had been done to the shoreline of Manhattan Island since the fall of the Regime. The Neo Railroad had employed many of the refugees to help with a dredging effort, and construction of impoved sea walls, to protect the island from the sea level. A larger port had been constructed to accomedate most of the fleet. Some of the waterfront sky-towers had been refurbished for the purpose of housing refugees and providing workspaces for the Neo Railroad officials. Further down the deck Meriwether caught up with his mother and brother.
Craig a Briuis soon joined the group, with his Claymore strapped to the back of his hiking pack. He was dressed in a black great coat, and dark fatigues and strudy boots. He gave Greta a nod and offered a slight wave of the hand to the rest.
“Now that everyone is gathered, I just thought I would announce that once reach land fall and I leaving for the West Coast,” Craig said.
“Not even going to linger for a bit?” Greta asked.
“Unfortunately, I need to assess just how expansive the Chinese invasion really is. I don’t have time to waste here—and it seems you have it under control in the East,” he said.
“Well, good luck, Craig. You never did tell me that story about my father helping you!” Jaspar exclaimed while shaking Craig’s hand.
“Oh, that story. It would have bored you honestly. Maybe I’ll tell you when I’m back in New York, someday,” Craig offered.
“Fair enough. Take care,” Jaspar bade him.
“Mister a Briuis, good fortunes on your mission!” Elsa smiled and turned to her son, “It is about time we prepared the disembarkation procedures, excuse us all!” With that Elsa, Jaspar, and Meriwether took their leave to assist with the offboarding of crew, and the refueling and resupply efforts.
“Hey, Greta, when you see Evan again, you tell him I said ‘hello’. Tell him he better be taking care of my sword, and that I won’t tolerate him slacking off on his swordplay!” Craig jested.
“I will! But why don’t you stick around for a while and tell him yourself when he comes?” Greta asked.
“Ah! No time, lass. I must be off! Take care of Amerigo there! I have a feeling he has a great future ahead of him,” Craig offered, then he was off to the gangplank, to disembark.
⍟ ⍟ ⍟
Soon, Elsa, Jaspar, and Meriwether had coordinated with Neo Railroad offcials on shore to facilitate the logisitcs of offloading cargo and onboarding refugees. Jaspar consulted with Apostate militia officers to provide a secure perimeter for the fleet in case of a ‘Remnant Regime’ attack. Meriwether was overseeing the masses of longshoremen, who labored to clear crates of supplies. Elsa had gone to check on the state of refugees within the sky-towers and tent cities that had been their homes for the last three months. Elsa had been accompanied by several Apostate milita guards, and they proceeded to enter the squalor and teaming refuse of the tent cities. The people who dwelt here had been fed well, but the conditions suffered due to inadequate drainage and lack of running water. There was the stench of disease in the air. Despite this the people did not seem desperate but they
yearned for better conditions. The paid work detail had helped keep the men occupied and their families, fed, but there had been instances of crime and conflict.
Elsa strolled through the crowds of people who had gathered to see her in person, and the people had taken up the habit of referring to Elsa as “Momma Wynham”. Elsa wished they hadn’t decided to call her this, but, never-the-less, she appreciated the favor of the people.
“Momma Wynham!” the people chanted, “Momma Wynham! Momma Wynham!” they continued. She walked onward, deeper into the refugee camp. Elsa would rub the heads of young children and shake the hands of grateful mothers and old women. She also accepted the wet kisses of old men upon the back of her hand. It was all part of the role she had taken up as the ‘Liberator’ and ‘Head of the Exodus’. Elsa began instructing the first batch of refugees to gather their things and queue up near the piers, to board the remaining Bilsby passenger liners. Elsa’s entourage reached the front entrance to one of the sky-towers as many of the refugees from the surrounding area began to file out toward the port. From the corner of her eye, she spied a hunched-over group of figures, arranged in a circle. She surmissed that they must be old or sick refugees who needed assistance to move. Elsa made her way over to the huddle of covered figures, and as she approached she could hear that the group were babbling nonsense. Her interest was piqued. She reached down and placed a hand on a figure’s back.
“Hello all! We have begun to load up the passenger liners and are requesting that you make your way to the piers. If you require assistance please—” Elsa stopped mid-sentence when the babbling reached a crescendo. It grew louder, then all the figured rose up and tossed off their blankets and cloaks. Most were men, a few were woman, Their eyes rolled back into their heads, and hands raised to the sky, they yelled in tongues.Elsa pinged her sons and Greta aboard the North Carolina.
“Everyone! The babbling in tongues—several refugees—it’s like when the Bilsby Princess blew up! Get ready for an attack!” Elsa screamed via her neural implant. One of the possessed refugees turned to face Elsa.
“The Reverend will usher in the return of the Proxy Messiah!” the possessed-looking man screamed. Then he was silent, like he was concentrating on something. Suddenly, high above the scene, in the nearby sky-tower, explosions. All detonations occurred in a cascading order on the same level of the building, violently pushing the facades of each face out, colliding with neighboring buildings. Then another set of explosions rang out, at lower levels of the structure. Elsa started running, yelling for her detail to rush to the peir, as she hurried along she urged straggling refugees to run for their lives. Elsa couldn’t help but push her way through the crowd. The rush of the crowd became more frantic as yet more explosion errupted out of the building behind them. The first of the debris rained down upon the surging mob of refugees, glass cut bodies, and steel girders smashed legs and claimed lives, concrete chunks depressed skulls and split bone. Elsa thought that the blasts reminded her of a controlled demolition. The torrent of the crowd picked up speed, and soon bodies were trampled as a stampede began as the strongest in the crowd disregarded the safety of the weaker and older in the crowd.
Elsa got swept up in the current of the crowd and she peered back over her sholder. The sky-tower got shorter story-by story with every second, and debris cloud loomed up over the fleeing refugees to cover the sky and block out the sun, like some monumental sandstorm in a concrete desert, black in tone. It threatened to consume all, and lumbered forward overhead. She screamed and tried to push forward through the mass of refugees, but she got no where and soon all went dark as the all-consuming cloud swallowed the mob like a an avalanche.
⍟ ⍟ ⍟
“Mom! Mom! Answer me! Damnit, answer me!” Merriwether screamed through the sub-neural-network. He received no response from Elsa. He began to sob and he worked himself up to go to the debris field to dig her out and save her. As he started off, he was grabbed from behind, by Jaspar, who tried to calm his brother.
“Merriwether! No! We can’t! If she was caught in that blast then she is gone! We have to look to the defenses!” he yelled and shook Merriwether, attempting to coax the shock from him. He stared at Jaspar with blank eyes for a moment, tears running down his face. Merriwether wiped his the tears away and tried to compose himself.
“I promise you, little brother, once this is done we will search for our mother!” Jaspar proclaimed, as he grasped his brother’s head and pressed his forward to Merriwether’s brow.
“Okay! Okay! I’m ready! Let’s do this!” Merriwether grit his teeth and growled. Jaspar nodded approvingly.
“Greta! Greta!” Jaspar pinged her, and waited for her reply.
“Jaspar! What the hell is going on? I just saw a building on the waterfront blow up and collapse!” she asked frantically.
“I know! My mother was caught in the blast along with hundreds of refugees! Listen, I think we’re about to be attacked. You better get the battleships to combat readiness!” Jaspar suggested.
“Right! I began those procedures when I saw the building go down. I’ll provide fire support from here,” she confirmed.
“Good! Good, thanks!” Japsar closed the channel, and he gestured for his brother to organize the militia infantry into a perimeter. Jaspar rushed toward the A.P.C.s that were parked near the massive queue of panicked refugees. He wanted nothing more than to collapse into the fetal position and grieve for the loss of his mother, but he knew that it would help no one, and right now thousands of lives were depending on him. Jaspar barked out orders left and right, as men and drivers scrambled to fulfill his commands. Soon, an effective defensive line was prepared, awaiting a potential assault, as the fearful refugees shuffled along the peir, offering up tearful pleas and prayers to God alike.
⍟ ⍟ ⍟
Greta had reached the bridge of the North Carolina, and she linked her neural implant to the [North-Carolina] network. From there her senses were expanded a thousand fold, as she took in visual data from long-range sensors and recieved live feeds from scout drones that the crew had launched from the bow of the ship, which had taken to the air and fanned out in all directions over the city. The ensigns on the bridge waited patiently for her orders. Greta stood engrossed in the footage that was being streamed to her retinal H.U.D., anticipating any intelligence of value. Then, she saw it, armored columns moving down the narrow avenues of Manhattan, apporaching the port in the south of the island. Greta was shocked to see this many ‘Remnant Regime’ tanks, A.P.C.s and infantry advancing in good order. She surmissed that they had been working for quite a while to infiltrate the Neo Railroad, cooridating a terror attack with their assault. She dreaded thinking about what else they had planned.
“Pride-Swarm, Rip-Torn! This is Gale-Whirlwind! Multiple enemy armored columns inbound from the north! You’re advised to reposition your lines for the attack!” Greta announced, calling out to Jaspar and Merriwether. The Apostates still used their codenames during combat.
“Affrimative! Redelpoying now!” Pride-Swarm replied. Greta, going by Gale-Whirlwind, ordered the battleships of the Apostate fleet to form a firing line, aimed further inland, in anticipation of the attack force to show itself. Greta knew that the stakes were high in this engagement. The ‘Remnant Regime’ forces would surely murder the refugees in revenge for the destruction of their capital.
⍟ ⍟ ⍟
Before the destruction of New Megiddo City a year ago, Vice-Deacon Paulus had the foresight to flee from the capital when events had spiraled out of control at the Born Again Gathering. The Vice-Deacon and his detail had barely made it beyond the city limits when the hydrogen bomb detonation had scoured New Megiddo City off of the map. When he saw this he took it as a sign from God that he was the chosen leader to continue the fight against the Apostates. Now, here he was, leading the righteous warriors of Christ to reap vengeance against the traitors and heathens. Vice-Deacon Paulus felt more powerful than ever, riding in, and commanding an armo
red tank column. He was acting as tank commander of a Martyr tank, toward the rear of the lines, of course. After all, a person as important as he, the chosen of God, should not lead from the front and needlessly be put in harm’s way.
“Holiness! We have reached the rubble fields caused by the detonation that we detected earlier. We think they are trying to cause obstructions by destorying buildings to halt our advance. I advice caution as they may have rigged all the buildings around the port to blow! What are you orders?” the tank’s pilot reported and awaited orders.
“Nonsense! We cannot afford to let them escape. Can our tanks clear the rubble fields?” the Vice-Deacon asked.
“Yessir, I believe they can,” the pilot confirmed.
“Then, charge ahead! We attack with everything and we drive them into the sea!” the Vice-Deacon exclaimed, “I believe that the explosion was an omen from God! He is expressing his fury at the Apostates!” he professed.
“Yessir, whatever you say,” the pilot acknowledged. He pressed his foot to the excelerator and the tank surged ahead, tackling the tangled steel and piled concrete chunks. The order was relayed throughout the force, and all vehicles began to climb the debris piles. The Rangers and Regular soldiers climbed up behind the cover of the armor. Soon, the Maryr tanks swept over the apex and were now visible to Apostate lines. The Apostate infantry opened fire with small arms of all types, targeting the tanks, with little to no effect. The tanks advanced. Several fired a volley with their main guns. The shells ripped into Apostate lines, dispatching scores of militiamen. The ‘Remnant Regime’ Martyr tanks took up position on the high ground provided by the destroyed building, raining fire down upon the defenders. Some targeted the Bilsby passenger liners, blowing gaping holes open, where cabins once where. ‘Remnant Regime’ Rangers, clad in their ballistic armor poured out from behind the armored cover, taking potshots at the Apostate infantry with their ‘Zealot’ rifles. Regulars also charged forth, intermixed with their Ranger coouterparts, though, not as well equipped.