Disintegration ba-1

by Anthony DeCosmo

  The bombardment pounded on.

  The King’s College School of Business suffered a torrent of raining shells. Glass shattered and melted into crystal teardrops. The Redcoat artillery erased in seconds what had taken months to build.

  The fiery shots broke the golden dome of a grand synagogue. The stone walls beneath warped and chipped while the innards of the temple disassembled into ashes.

  Everything inside the area cordoned by the soldiers felt the downpour. The bombs sent shockwaves but started no fires: the nature of the weaponry did not lend itself to ignition but, rather, evaporated or hammered everything it touched.

  The shells came…and came…and came.

  Stonewall’s trio of raiders led their horses to the basement fallout shelter of the Kirby Health center, a stately old mansion turned office building.

  Garrett intended to stay in the shelter but a blast knocked over a wall and released a horde of those acid-spitting insects into the basement. The men pushed through the thick haze of dust to the outside, barely escaping but losing their horses to the bugs. They faced, however, an even more dangerous environment: a city street covered in a storm of swirling debris, noxious vapors, and collapsing buildings. Visibility shrunk to a few yards.

  The ground shook. Flashes of blue flickered like lightning behind the clouds of dust. The smell-similar to electrical wires overheating-grew thick and heavy.

  Stonewall led his men even as the chaos rang so loud he could not hear his own shouts. His group met Woody Ross’ unit in the remains of a blasted-open foundation.

  They stayed there until a towering college dormitory fell. Car-sized chunks of concrete and steel dropped on their position; one fell on Jennie, killing her instantly.

  Stonewall directed the rest to a manhole cover in the center of River Street. They descended like escaping rats into the dark sewer. The cramped tunnel did not allow for standing room, so they sat together in the sludge. The piping was not large enough to allow passage, trapping them in that one smelly spot for hours, feeling the ground shake around them, and fearing entombment should a shot hit directly above.

  While they hunkered in a makeshift bunker to wait out the storm, the trembling ground and the constant noise forced, pulled, and otherwise attracted a host of predators from their nests, dens, and lairs.

  A cloud of jellyfish things-capable of floating in the air for short periods-charged from their hive inside a deli at the Redcoat perimeter like angry bees swarming. Dozens besieged the Bicentennial Building, engaging sentries on the ground level and floating up and around in a furious frenzy. The Redcoats knocked most from the air quickly, but several broke through to the forward headquarters on a nearby roof.

  The newly promoted commander of the 1 ^ st Regiment ended up on the inside of one of the jellyfish-things gaping at his comrades while his battle armor and skin dissolved.

  Ghouls, rat-things, another stick ogre, and a tangled ball of eels threatened the Redcoat lines. They all died from the aliens’ energy weapons but drained precious ammunition, inflicted casualties, and distracted from the main objective.

  Around noon, an army of carnivorous spider-ants-each rivaling a city bus in size-marched from the south side toward downtown.

  Hovering shuttles spotted the approaching threat and the Redcoats formed to face the menace. One wave of insects approached on Main Street, a second came parallel along Franklin. When they moved to within a block of Public Square, the Redcoats opened fire.

  The first wave of the spider-ants fell to the concentrated, highly charged rifles.

  They kept coming.

  The second wave did not stay at street level. The things crawled sideways on walls and over buildings, circumventing and breaching the Redcoat lines.

  Their huge pinchers sliced several aliens in two and carried others south as dinner for larva. The new-new 1 ^ st Regiment Commander, who held the post for two hours, died in the mandibles of a spider-ant when it surprised his HQ atop a bank building.

  Artillery fire from the alien base camp halted while the foot soldiers dealt with the giant insects. Stonewall took advantage of the pause and vacated their hiding spot for the massive Luzerne County Courthouse along the riverbank.

  By late afternoon, the 1 ^ st Regiment stemmed the spider-ant attack, killing most while the balance retreated to their nest in South Wilkes-Barre. The Redcoats lost nearly thirty killed, worse-than-killed, and injured during the engagement.

  Nevertheless, the artillery bombardment began anew.

  Stonewall’s group made it to the courthouse before that firing restarted. Inside, high in the mammoth rotunda waited a huge spider overlooking all entrances. It managed to sting Pop before they chased it off with small arms fire. Pop shivered violently and died.

  Bird and Simms took aim at the evil-looking shadow.

  Stonewall shouted, "No!" They gawked at him. He explained, "Allow the beast to lurk about. No need to dispatch it quite yet."

  Stonewall smiled despite the presence of dozens of webbed carcasses scattered throughout the silk-ish fibers of the spider’s haunt.

  "When our friends finish destroying the city, they will search for our bodies, enter this hall, find our eight-legged friend, and conclude we could not be hiding here."

  Stonewall did not allow for debate. He led his group into the Sheriff's office where several skeletons-still handcuffed to desks-sat with bony grins.

  Early that evening, the Redcoat artillery barrage halted, leaving several square blocks in ruin. A cloud of smoke hovered above the bombed-out scene creating a literal fog of war floating over piles of dust, rock, melted glass, and a handful of standing pillars and porches.

  Redcoat patrols swept the entire dead zone. At the courthouse, they found the massive arachnid and killed it, but did not bother searching the rest of the building, as Garrett foresaw.

  As the patrol left Stonewall said, "Not quite their usual thoroughness, thankfully."

  Cassy Simms replied, "Maybe they’re tired. And frustrated. You have that effect on people, General."

  Stonewall smiled. "Indeed."

  Night fell. The Redcoats remained entrenched in their positions downtown, but prying human eyes saw gear being packed, equipment stowed, and lazy perimeter patrols.

  Stonewall radioed Shepherd to share his guess that the Redcoats had swallowed their pride and would pull out come morning.

  Too late.

  23. Counter Attack

  The stars and a not-quite-full moon shined down upon a badly mauled Redcoat army entrenched downtown and constantly harassed by predators.

  Perhaps the aliens felt they had accomplished something: several square blocks of city had been leveled and no human mortars, cavalry, or snipers threatened since the bombardment.

  Victory or not, the Redcoats stowed gear, secured checkpoints, and shortened patrols in preparation for withdrawing at first light.

  Jon Brewer's voice transmitted to Shepherd who somehow managed to stay awake and alert at his post in the brewery building: "Okay Shep, Omar made it to us. We're ready to go."

  Trevor's voice joined the radio traffic: "Good. Shep, run it down one last time before we dive in. Every one has got to know where the pieces are."

  Shep eyed the brightly-lit parking lot between two big-box stores where the Redcoats camped. A dark void filled the gap between his position and the alien HQ.

  "Okay, listen up. All four of their regiments are downtown; you know that or we wouldn't be having this conversation. Forgetin’ their checkpoints for now, that leaves their General and his staff with security and a lot of wounded."

  Brewer radioed, "How many do you think are up there?"

  "Combat effective? About twenty between officers, security, and the gun crews but not including the checkpoints or their air ships."

  After a burst of static Trevor said, "If the checkpoints get in on this then things won't go well. As for the air ships, I don't think they're armed. Can their wounded fight? How many?"

  Shep cli
cked on a pen light and checked a pad where he kept notes.

  "Between yesterday and today I saw about fifty carried into the stores. I don't know how many of them are still breathing but I haven't seen them come out. Most of their walking wounded are still with their regiments and weren't evacuated up this way."

  Jon said, "This is it, then."

  Trevor radioed, "Jon, are you good to go? Are you sure?"

  His reply: "Are you two? Once we get ahold of the AA guns it's all on you."

  "Yeah," Trevor answered, "But if you don't get them we won't last ten seconds."

  Shep suffered a long yawn, a symptom of sitting for two days in a cold, dusty old building. He felt the tickle of a sore throat and a touch of stuffiness in his nose. He only hoped it would be a common cold and not some strange alien flu.

  He said, "Seems to me things have broke our way better than we could have hoped, so we either ride our hot streak and finish the job, or turn tail and call ourselves lucky."

  Jon Brewer transmitted, "Guess I'll get started. Hope to see you again soon. If I don't, well, it's been a pleasure."

  The radio went silent; nothing remained to say.

  Shepherd settled against the window and enjoyed his front row seat for the show.

  – Proven fighters comprised most of Jon Brewer's strike team.

  Danny Washburn could handle a gun thanks to government training. Whiskey-despite his age-proved himself during the assault on The Order's base. Ames-the fiery brunette-not only fought bravely during the Allentown expedition but did so wearing a splint on her broken arm (which she still wore). Tolbert was not only physically impressive but had performed well as a rear guard during the extraction from The Order's base.

  Two members of his team did not have combat experience: Omar, who would hang back to avoid the fighting anyway, and Lori Brewer, Jon's wife.

  She insisted she would not allow her husband to commit suicide alone and claimed her shooting skills-thanks to Nina’s tutelage-had improved.

  Jon, reluctantly, included her. However, the mission began a half-hour late because Lori succumbed to a bout of nausea.

  Ten Grenadiers-a mix of Rottweilers and Dobermans-rounded out the group.

  At 2:30 a.m., they emerged from hiding and followed the plan of movement first conceived by Trevor: the hidden paths cut through Northeastern Pennsylvania by railroad companies. Decades ago, those tracks hauled coal out of the valley and supplies in to the anthracite mines. They crisscrossed through the area like a network of above-ground tunnels.

  Jon led them through the pitch-black night surrounded by strange noises and watching eyes. They crossed the Susquehanna on a thin train trestle then through patches of woodland, alongside a stream, and across the boulevard fifty yards from Jerry Shepherd's observation post.

  Their stealthy approach benefited from the Redcoats’ decision to park four of their five flying ships for the night. Jon guessed they lacked fuel or perhaps this was another symptom of the aliens' lack of night fighting experience.

  After crossing the boulevard, the railroad tracks disappeared into a thick patch of dying brush and trees. The cover allowed them to slip directly beneath the Redcoats’ collective noses; so close, they could hear the undecipherable conversations of sentries.

  Nerves and the need for stealth stretched the relatively short trip-a little over a mile- to a ninety-minute creep through a dark nightmare. Nonetheless, they avoided detection.

  Jon balanced his M4 rifle against a tree stump, wiped cold sweat off his forehead, and surveyed his unit. For a moment, he worried their frosted exhales might give away their position.

  Washburn gripped his own M4 tight and flashed a nervous grin.

  Reverend Johnny-who kept watch on things at the estate-had loaned his flamethrower to Tolbert. The sturdy man labored to catch his breath after having hauled the bulky contraption for an hour and a half of walking, jogging, running, and hiding.

  Ames, who carried one of the platypus plasma rifles, fell on her rump and held a free hand to her chest as if feeling for a heart beat. Whiskey fiddled with the canvass bag full of ping-pong ball grenades slung over his shoulder. He also carried a nine-millimeter handgun.

  Jon’s wife tried hard to appear at ease but the. 44 Desert Eagle pistol she carried trembled in her grasp.

  As for Omar, his handgun remained holstered and an unlit cigarette hung from his mouth.

  Meanwhile, the stoic and dependable K9s waited on their haunches as if wondering why the group paused.

  Jon breathed deep and pointed a small flashlight to the west: toward the brewery. He flashed twice and knew the signal would activate the last piece of the puzzle. In a few seconds, Trevor and Nina would pull the camouflage netting off the Apache hidden on the 16 ^ th hole of the municipal golf course.

  Jon, despite the fluttering tickle of fright swirling in his belly, gave his people a thumb up. He locked eyes on Lori and mouthed the words I love you.

  She kissed him quick then drove a fist of encouragement into his arm, as if to say ‘let’s go get them’ but her wide eyes and quivering lips could not hide her fear.

  The group, except for Omar, exited the brush and quietly climbed the grassy slope toward the parking lot. To Jon’s ears, every brushed blade of dead grass, every pebble knocked loose, every breath sounded as loud as gunshots.

  He remained focused on the guardrail at the top of the slope that marked the rim of the lot, fearing the appearance of a curious sentry.

  Jon reached the guardrail first, crouched, and peered over. Twenty yards away hovered the first of the four artillery pieces. Further along-another fifteen yards or so-sat one of the all-important anti-aircraft guns.

  The crews were not with their weapons; the alien gunners huddled along the sides of the old stores. They appeared cold, bored, and tired.

  Perfect.

  Jon and Danny led the silent charge while Lori-as per agreement with her husband-stayed at the guardrail. They moved to the first artillery piece undetected, but the time had come to wake the enemy.

  Whiskey, stumbling along, threw a glowing grenade into a mass of half-sleeping Redcoats near the wall of the electronics store to the right. Jon and Danny fired on alien soldiers loitering to the left near the old home merchandise outlet.

  The exploding ping-pong balls blew apart several tired aliens; more died from gunshots. The ruckus woke the encampment and sent the sounds of battle over the dark valley.

  Tolbert, still struggling with the weight of the flamethrower, unleashed a terrifying wall of flames sending alien soldiers running and generating confusion in the ranks.

  The dogs swept in snarling and snapping. Redcoat armor provided some protection, but K9s managed to drag many to the ground, digging and ripping until finding tender alien flesh.

  They reached and gained control over the two anti-aircraft guns. Tolbert and Ames broke off toward the command post as the half-dressed Redcoat General emerged from his quarters. Ames hit the extraterrestrial square in the chest with a plasma blast.

  One of Whiskey's ping-pong grenades tore apart the aliens’ temporary headquarters and Tolbert sprayed fire from his flamethrower, setting alight several soldiers.

  Energy bolts whizzed near Jon's head from the surrounding shadows, cutting short any thoughts of a victory dance.

  Whiskey pulled a ping-pong grenade and cocked his arm. A blast smacked him and he fell to the pavement.

  Danny Washburn grabbed the grenade from the corpse’s hand and lobbed it into the shadows where it exploded far away from anything.

  Jon spotted a Redcoat firing line forming at the edge of the camp just beyond one of the four, parked flying machines. The enemy had regrouped quicker than expected and prepared to fire a volley.

  Thump-thump-thump.

  The air shook. A wind gusted across the parking lot. A portable light pole tumbled and smashed. Something big hovered above.

  A hailstorm of bullets ripped in to the forming line of Redcoats, obliterating their arm
ored bodies.

  "You guys need a little help down there?"

  Nina’s voice crackled from the rear seat of the Apache to Jon’s radio.

  "Damn straight, Ghost Rider. Tear em’ up!"

  Trevor sat in the forward seat controlling the gunship's armaments. Gunner and pilot both wore night vision goggles.

  Nina swerved the ship around searching for targets.

  "Hold."

  She responded to Trevor’s order and held the craft steady.

  The rapid-fire cannon whirled and bullets flew. Two enemy soldiers and the parked car they hid behind shredded to pieces.

  "Starboard! Starboard!"

  Trevor turned the gun sights to his right at Nina’s warning. A trio of Redcoats stood inside the windows of the electronics outlet, apparently thinking the darkness provided cover.

  The ‘copter’s gun fired again. Glass smashed, parts of the store’s ceiling fell, and the aliens broke apart. Trevor kept firing, strafing the prone Redcoats in the makeshift hospital ward: no prisoners would be taken today.

  Brewer radioed, "There’s a bunch of them in the other building!"

  Nina pulled the helicopter about. The tail rotor knocked over another portable light but she handled the beast with skill, hovering near ground level. Trevor swept the interior until nothing moved.

  "Boss! Check it out!" Tolbert yelled and pointed to the sky over the valley.

  Jon saw what Tolbert saw: a speck of light flying toward the overrun camp: the only one of the Redcoats' planes off the ground that night.

  He frantically waved toward the guardrail. Lori, seeing the signal, escorted Omar to the heart of the camp. The professor had spent a full day smoking cigarettes and observing the big guns from Shepherd’s watch point. While the machines themselves were based on complicated technology, Omar quickly demonstrated that operating the guns posed no challenge.