"Woooweeeeee! Woooweeeeee!"
33. Last Stand
Trevor Stone watched the day begin from atop the second mountain knowing that in this new world each new day brought another fight for survival.
He sighed and took stock of his forces: one-hundred survivors from the first mountain’s defense line, another fifty who had been in reserve, and forty remaining from Stonewall’s cavalry. Forty more followed Jon Brewer from the eastern front to the southern one, but the majority of those fighters had suffered injuries during the Roachbot encounter.
The sum of the equation totaled two hundred and thirty-less than a quarter being trained, pre-Armageddon military-plus fifty K9s. Trevor left the remainder of his surviving dogs back on Route 11 to hunt Red Hand stragglers.
Overall, he felt Shep had done a fine job preparing the ground for war. Nonetheless, Trevor had other preparations to make.
It had not taken him long to realize the Vikings held the advantage in every way except terrain. They outnumbered the humans (Stonewall’s reconnaissance suggested three hundred aliens occupied the first hill), the quality of their soldiers exceeded Trevor’s own, and the Vikings showed no signs of ammunition shortage, unlike his own dwindling supply of ordnance.
Yes, he would make a last stand in those mountains. If the second defense line fell then they would retreat to the third, and there they would hold to the grand conclusion. However, Trevor would not let humanity die. He had sent Omar to the estate to form an escape party. If all else failed, the eccentric engineer would round up everyone who remained-including Anita Nehru and Lori Brewer-and run.
Trevor watched a beautiful new day dawn and wondered if he would ever see another.
– Three deuce and a half trucks, the Abrams tank atop a flat bed, and one Bradley fighting vehicle comprised the convoy which parked on the shoulder of I-81 far behind the front lines and beyond the estimated range of the Viking catapults.
The drivers disembarked from their cabs. Most wore camouflage jackets to chase away the morning chill but soon the day would warm considerably.
Tolbert commanded the convoy and while the tank may have been the most striking of the vehicles, the supplies inside the cargo trucks were the most important.
He radioed, "Base this is Hungry Hippo, you guys awake?"
After a moment, he received an answer: "Ah, roger that, Hippo-who thought that one up? What can we do for you?"
"For me? Brother, I got the goodies you crave. Send some strong backs down here."
Blam.
The grenade detonated on Tolbert’s left. Its crystal-like shrapnel tore one of the drivers to shreds. More hit Tolbert’s leg, knocking him to the ground.
Thwoosh…bam!
The Bradley erupted into flames from an anti-armor projectile.
Tolbert, on the hard pavement of the Interstate, saw six hooded alien fighters-a commando unit, no doubt-emerge from the heavy brush on the far side of the highway. They rushed forward with their guns shooting.
The human drivers scrambled behind the trucks and returned fire with pistols. One panicked but lucky shot felled a commando.
Tolbert crawled under a supply truck and grabbed his radio.
"Jesus Christ! They were waiting for us!"
"Say again, who is this?"
"This is Hungry-screw it; this is Tolbert with the supplies. We’re getting ambushed here! Need help!"
"Roger that," came a female voice. "Death from above."
Tolbert glanced north and saw an Apache chopper rise from the Wyoming Valley river basin. It drifted across the skyline toward the mountainside highway.
He glanced around and realized only one of the drivers remained alive: a teenage boy dressed up like a soldier standing on the side of the road looking shell-shocked.
"Get out of here!" Tolbert yelled.
The shout shook the kid from his trance. He ran wildly toward the dense woods. Either the aliens did not see or did not care; the kid disappeared into the forest.
Tolbert propped himself against a truck tire and stayed hidden as he heard the enemy race frantically around the convoy, perhaps searching for him.
The thump-thump of helicopter blades grew louder.
Tolbert, emboldened by the arrival of air cover, peered around the front end of the truck in time to see the commandos disappear into the brush from whence they had come.
Shrapnel in his leg sent sharp pain from his knee to his neck, but he managed to stand.
He hobbled into the clear, waved to Nina’s approaching chopper, and pointed toward the brush. The Apache veered in that direction.
Tolbert noticed an open rear gate on one of the trucks. He limped over and surveyed the cargo inside. The crates of precious ammunition remained intact.
"Hold on a sec, what do we have here?"
A humming silver box with a flickering electronic display caught his eye.
"Oh shit."
The silver boxes in the army trucks and under the Abrams exploded in a brilliant red flash, vaporizing the supplies, the tank, and Tolbert.
– "Oh, now that’s just friggin’ great," Jon Brewer stormed around the small clearing in knee-deep damp grass. "They sneak into our rear area, take out our supply column, blow the piss out of the Abrams, then get away without a scratch? Wow, just great."
"Another convoy?" Shep floated the idea in a hushed tone so as to keep the conversation within the confines of the small meadow away from the ears of the front line defenders.
"There’s nothing left," Trevor shared the grim news.
Jon said, "Wow, we’re in bad shape then. Some of the guys got pistols, hunting rifles, and shotguns. The army guys have carbines. There are few of the Redcoat and platypus rifles but they're running dry. I don’t see how this is going to get things done."
Shepherd said, "There has to be more than that."
Brewer answered, "A couple of shoulder-fired anti-tank missiles, a grenade here and there, Johnny has got a few toys left and Stonewall’s guys got swords but…but…"
Sharp reports of gunfire blasted into the clearing.
"They’re coming again," Shep stated the obvious.
The three jogged from the meadow, up a short rise, and approached the trenches and barricades of the second mountain. The cleared field of fire in front of the lines showed no sign of attackers, but the clap of shots reverberated through the dense woodland.
Reverend Johnny frantically dispatched groups to his left and right while K9s raced behind the battlements, yapping an alert.
"Hurry now! Run like the devil is biting at your ass!"
Johnny faced Trevor and told him, "The fiends are striking at our flanks. If not for the acute noses of our canine companions they would have overrun us on either end!"
Trevor translated and realized that the Grenadiers had sniffed out a sneak attack.
"Jon, take the right. Shep, take the left. Johnny, you keep hold right here."
"Like the rock of Gibraltar!"
Trevor followed Shep toward the eastern flank. The roar of battle intensified.
The eastern edge of the summit ended in a sharp bluff that dropped to a valley of rocks. The human lines anchored against that precipice. The Vikings stormed toward them.
Bullets answered but not in a quantity equal to the task. The Vikings made it half way across the clearing and appeared poised to overrun the position. If they did, the aliens could sweep into the rear area and effectively strangle the ragtag army.
"Keep shooting! Keep shooting!"
Trevor followed the advice Shepherd yelled to the defenders. He leaned against a Maple tree and fired a trio of shots into the approaching force. The added bullets from his gun seemed little more than extra pebbles thrown into a tidal surge.
Something whizzed near his head. A chunk of bark exploded from the tree. Trevor dropped to the ground pinned by heavy enemy fire that…suddenly…stopped.
A sound like a buzz saw played over a bullhorn filled his ears. Another sound followed almost
immediately: A yell. No, a cheer.
Trevor pulled his head from the ground. The forward ranks of the enemy army lay in ruins in the open field.
A shadow flashed over those bodies.
Two metallic birds of prey swept over the killing ground, cannons dealing destruction to anything that dared move in the open.
Trevor raced forward and pumped his fist at the enemy then toward the choppers.
That’s my girl!
Exuberance turned to horror.
Two contrails streaked from the southern side of the field. The rockets at the front of those contrails slammed into Bragg’s helicopter and then Nina’s. The former banked right and headed northwest, smoke blowing from its side. The latter fell fast as its rear rotor shattered.
He watched helplessly as Nina’s chopper descended toward the killing ground between the lines. A rumble in the earth announced the crash and a ball of smoke curled to the heavens.
Trevor ran. As he pushed through the forest, his radio broadcast chatter between commanders: "We’ve got a chopper down on the highway. Stonewall, check it out."
"I am already en route."
"Oh Christ! Second chopper went down in the field. Shit, that’s Nina. Who’s over there?"
"I can see her. Bird's on fire. Someone better get over there before they do!"
Trevor’s legs drove like pistons. Low hanging branches and early summer brush scraped against his bare arms and cheeks.
"Bragg is okay, but his chopper is done. How’s Nina?"
"They’re right on her! Someone better move! Now!"
The ball of smoke where her Apache had fallen grew larger as he ran closer. Soon he heard an exchange of gunfire and smelled the oily scent of burning aviation fuel.
Trevor stopped on the human side of the killing zone. Ahead of him in a field of cut brush lay the wreckage of Nina’s attack helicopter. The entire rear third of the machine had crumpled, the cockpit torn open. Viking warriors braved human fire to inspect the wreck.
"Trevor."
He turned to the sound of her voice.
Nina, dressed in a green flight suit and wearing patches of black soot on her face, stood behind friendly lines.
"You-you’re okay?"
All the air leapt from his lungs. He placed both hands on his knees.
"I’m okay. Thanks to this guy."
Evan stood next to her, a rifle in hand.
"Evan?" Trevor tried to grasp what had happened. "You pulled her out of there?"
Trevor realized the surprise in his tone probably insulted Godfrey, so he stood straighter and spoke in a firm voice, "Well done, Evan."
Godfrey shrugged and walked away.
– The Vikings came again a half-hour later, but not as aggressively. Instead of charging toward the battlements, they took position on their side of the killing ground and fired bursts.
A Viking or two fell, so did a human or two.
That low-intensity attack lasted twenty minutes before the invaders withdrew.
Early in the afternoon the aliens did the same, this time sending raiders toward the defenses but they quickly retreated after drawing fire.
The Vikings lobbed their strange artillery shells against the human fortifications, but the thick cover of the trees smothered the effect. Human mortar shells proved equally ineffective.
More attacks came mid and late afternoon.
Trevor, Shep, and Brewer hurried forces from place to place in anticipation of a heavy assault that never materialized; only mild skirmishes.
After another meager attack, Shep observed, "Seems to me they’re bleedin’ us dry."
Trevor and Brewer stood alongside him under a sagging Maple tree. From there they watched Viking scouts fire potshots before backing off.
Brewer agreed, "Wow, yeah, they took out that supply convoy now they’re making us waste all our ammo."
Shepherd asked, "So what we gunna do about it?"
Trevor studied the ground ahead: a cleared killing zone gently sloping to the south into the woods where the aliens mustered.
Behind him, more woods followed by another slope as mountain number two descended northward into a small, thin valley of golden grass on either side of a shallow stream. On the far side of that stream, mountain number three rose on a densely forested and rocky hillside. Atop that mountain waited the last line of trenches and barricades.
"I have an idea," Trevor told them. "Let’s run away."
– "Here they come…steady…steady," Trevor encouraged the troops manning the bulwarks.
A first, then a second, then a storm of alien shots sprayed toward the emplacements. Human rifles answered the challenge but that answer lacked the fury of previous exchanges.
Jon Brewer’s voice came over Trevor’s radio: "They’re hitting us here, too. This is it."
Trevor nodded to himself as he watched a wave of Viking attackers flow into and across the open ground. The enemy’s ponchos morphed from gray to a near honey-color as they crossed the killing zone under the golden rays of an evening sun.
Stone glanced at the handful of men and women lining the trenches. Most of those who had volunteered to stay behind were pre-doomsday soldiers but a few wore tattered civilian clothes instead of army-issued fatigues.
The balance of his force had already retreated to the last mountain. He knew for his plan to have maximum effect, the enemy needed to remain oblivious to this fact.
"Shep," Trevor transmitted. "What about you?"
Shepherd’s radioed reply came with a melody of gunshots playing as background music.
"Oh yeah, they’re coming. I reckon the whole bunch of em’ are-hey! Hold fast! Gotta go Trev, waitin’ on your order."
Alien pellets bounced off the tree limbs above Trevor’s head. Scattered rifle and pistol rounds blasted a reply.
A Viking soldier clutched his chest and fell to the ground. His comrades swarmed around the body with a determination Trevor had not seen in the previous skirmishes that day.
Yes. This is it.
A scream grabbed his attention.
A chubby woman wearing a plaid shirt stumbled from behind a cut tree that served as a barricade. She clutched her right eye with one hand while a hunting rifle dangled absently from the other. Blood poured from the wound as she staggered and screamed. Confused and disorientated, she accidentally wobbled forward into the field. Before anyone could retrieve her, Viking slugs finished the job.
When they reached the halfway point in their march across the tree stumps and chopped brush, the Vikings hollered and sprinted forward.
Trevor raised his radio and ordered, "Fall back! Fall back!"
The enemy intensified their fire as they closed for the kill. One, two, three and more of the defenders took hits first in the front then in their backs as they turned.
Stone lobbed a grenade into the vanguard of his foe. The detonation knocked two of the warriors to the ground but the rest of the mob paid the blast no mind.
"Go! Go! Go!" he encouraged his followers as they withdrew from the ramparts.
Trevor waited as long as he dare, but when the aliens climbed the downed trees and piled rocks serving as the second line of defense, he could wait no more. He joined the flight to the rear; racing alongside his soldiers just as he knew Shep and Jon raced alongside the men and women who manned the flanks.
Not satisfied with merely overrunning the position, the aliens pursued.
The dense forest provided some cover, but more soldiers fell victim to the attackers. Trevor and the others kept running, leaving behind the injured and their pleads for help.
The retreating mob crested the hill and then stumbled and hopped down the other side. Thick forest gave way to brush and then tall grass as the descent smoothed to a gentler grade.
The Vikings still pursued, closing the gap between predators and prey.
"Faster! Faster!"
Trevor saw one middle-aged man stumble and roll. A sickening crack from his leg meant he would not get up ag
ain.
A woman on his right staggered but found her balance; a soldier to his left leapt over a boulder only to be hit square in the back by an alien round.
The brush thinned into a field of grass. The mountainside became a small valley. Human feet splashed through the shallow stream there. The plop and ping of projectiles left no doubt the pursuers remained close.
Trevor shouted encouragement as he reached the northern bank where another grassy slope beckoned. His legs wobbled wearily. Could he possibly climb fast enough to escape?
Despite his fatigue, he rallied his troops forward. Patches of dirt burst into the air as enemy slugs hit the slope ahead.
The humans chugged up the mountain, trying to reach the relative cover of the tree line.
More screams as slower runners were thinned from the retreating ranks.
Trevor heard the splash of Viking boots in the stream. He heard their cry…
No, not their cry.
Woh-who-ey!..woh-who-ey!
Stonewall’s brigades slammed into the Viking front on both flanks like a vice. The cavalry bore down on the foot soldiers caught in the wide-open terrain of the small valley. While only three dozen in number, the sudden appearance of the imposing mounted soldiers and their devilish rebel yell decapitated the alien offensive.
Horse hoofs splashed through the stream. Carbines fired and swords swung. The bones of trampled aliens snapped under the strong legs of galloping steeds. Stonewall himself swooped in and lopped off a poncho’d head.
The tip of the aliens’ spear lost cohesion and splintered into small groups while the mass of the Viking force-their confidence battered- halted their charge.
Stonewall holstered his sword and pulled a revolver. He squeezed off shot after shot as he maneuvered his ride halfway up the slope in pursuit of fleeing aliens. The gallant General cornered another foe against a tree, raised his gun, and… click.
"Oh dear heavens…"
The Viking confidently raised his rifle for an easy kill.
Thwump.
A thrown knife plunged into the chest of the enemy fighter who groaned and fell.
Stonewall turned to see Kristy Kaufman on horseback.
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