“Yes, I have a lot of questions about the direction we are headed in. As a student of history, I know that even the most benevolent dictatorships are still dictatorships. It is dangerous for all parts of our society to be so dependent on one man. Consider that our food supply, fuel and energy resources, health services-why just about everything in our lives funnels through one council with one man at the head of it. That’s simply too much for one person. Besides, what happens-God forbid-if Trevor dies in battle? Who is next in line? What makes us believe that fortune would smile on us with two great leaders in a row?”
Angela, still nodding politely, asked, “So you feel there needs to be some sort of electoral process? Perhaps a new version of the house and senate?”
“That is a grand idea but we need to start small first. Why don’t individual towns and villages elect their Mayors? City councils? Why not elect regional governors instead of having them appointed?”
“The speed and urgency of the war has made it a necessity.”
Evan shook his head in polite disagreement.
“That presents another set of questions. Questions I’m not afraid to ask because, like Trevor Stone, I am focused on saving humanity and rebuilding our civilization.”
“Such as?”
Evan enjoyed the opportunity to explain. “During World War II why didn’t we invade Europe to save the French immediately? Why did we wait until 1944? The reason is that we needed time to mobilize. America needed time to gather supplies, to train soldiers, to get together the necessary components to ensure victory.
“So I ask, why are we in such a hurry now? As important as it is to free enslaved humans and find survivors, it is also important to build our infrastructure, to muster our resources, to plan for contingencies. Right now, we are little more than a loose connection of outposts; small cities and villages scattered across a dangerous wilderness. The bonds between these isolated communities are thin. Just traveling from one place to another is a life-threatening trip.
“Instead of building on what little we have, we rush forward. While this leads to some glorious victories in places like Raleigh, it also saps our strength at home. I worry that we are trading quick results for long-term failure. The retreat last spring is a good example, we’re fortunate to have stopped the Hivvans then, but what about the next alien offensive? I worry we are expanding our boundaries but that we are not strong enough to defend them.”
“What is it you propose?”
“Well, Angela, those decisions are not up to me. That’s the point. I believe we need to build democracy again. History has shown that functioning democracies have always waged just wars better than have dictatorships. I believe a representative government could better handle our domestic issues and would lead to victories in the war that would be lasting. I cannot say the same about what is happening now. I am very concerned for the future.”
Angela pointed out, “You’re a part of that governing council. Doesn’t that make you part of the problem?”
“I would gladly trade my position on the council for free elections. No one person should be above the will of the people. That’s why I publish The New American Press. It is a means of covering all of the topics from all angles. We certainly give Trevor Stone his due for everything he has accomplished. We just hope to encourage him to return to the tradition of freedom we once held so dear.”
Another summer day turned into a summer night.
Evan Godfrey drove his armor-plated Mercedes-Benz sedan along empty boulevards until reaching Kidder Street, once a thriving thoroughfare on the north end of town but badly mauled during the Battle for Wilkes-Barre and then again during the Battle of Five Armies, as evidenced by the rubble of the Wyoming Valley Mall. Four years ago, Jon Brewer detonated that shopping center to destroy an army of insane robots.
He passed a handful of trading posts where torches and portable lights illuminated merchants ready to barter the fruits of scavenger hunts for ration cards, ammunition, or any number of personal services. He saw a couple of horseback riders and several bicycles, but only one other car; gasoline was a luxury.
Those horses and bicycles would soon disappear, as would the merchants. As day turned to night, the threat of nocturnal predators threatened, no matter how thorough the efforts of their K9 guardians.
He arrived at “Tortelli’s Restaurant and Bar,” built from what had once been a Red Lobster.
Instead of seafood, the new establishment specialized in the same thing every local restaurant specialized in: beef dishes, chicken dishes, soup, and the occasional salad when enough greens came in from the farms.
The Tortelli family ran the business. Dad cooked, mom hosted and served, the kids cleaned tables, and the oldest stood behind the bar serving home brewed beers.
Tortelli’s Restaurant and Bar earned official recognition from the council, meaning they redeemed food rations there and they received supplies from government stockpiles.
Evan, who had given his contingent of human bodyguards this night off (and he refused any K9 protection), entered the front door where a chalkboard greeted him. Messages for customers read, “We don’t need any more pots, pans or silverware, thank you,” and “Looking for size 11 sneakers or work boots…also need children’s clothing.”
Shoes-particularly children’s shoes and heavy boots-were some of the most coveted items in the new world. Most people walked around in badly torn, stained, and poor-fitting sneakers or loafers. Even most soldiers made due with casual footwear as opposed to boots.
Evan walked through the candle-lit restaurant to the bar area. The air carried a combination of scents including something burning and something rotting.
He nodded to the bartender who mixed his usual drink. While gin held its constitution over the years, the lack of fizzle in the glass suggested flat tonic water.
Instead of asking for payment, the bartender scribbled a mark in a ledger next to Evan Godfrey’s name. Most customers would pay-through barter-for their drink before the first sip. A precious few earned credit from larger trades, such as a gallon of gasoline, a roll of old-world toilet paper, or services along the lines of landscaping or equipment repair.
Writing Evan’s name was merely a formality. After all, Evan served on the council, the same council that designated Tortelli’s a ration redemption point, which ensured a high level of traffic. Evan’s tab was covered.
He found a quiet booth in the corner and waited several minutes until his appointment arrived: a white man just about six feet tall with thin brown hair, a lanky body, and small, sharp brown eyes. He wore a sport jacket that covered a shoulder holster where a 357 Magnum hung.
“Hello Ray, what took you so long?”
The waitress-Mrs. Tortelli-knew to get the newcomer a glass of homemade beer. Like Evan, the tab made no difference because it paid to have friends in Internal Security.
“Don’t you just get to the point? Yes you do. But you are going to love why I’m late.”
Evan sipped his drink then placed it on a coaster atop the wooden table.
“Now you just have to tell me.”
“I will, I will. But what have you got for me?”
Evan told him, “I’ve got you an appointment with Dr. Davis. Just like I promised.”
“Yeah? Everything?”
“Novocain. Nurses. Everything. They’ll have that tooth taken care of in no time.”
Ray raised a hand to his cheek and said, “Good thing, too. This was starting to drive me nuts. How long is the wait?”
“For most people, about three months and they don’t get Novocain. For my friend? Well, let’s just say the name ‘Ray Roos’ is at the top of their list. Go in whenever you want. Go tomorrow, if you like. You’ll probably be out of there in two hours or less.”
“Isn’t that fantastic? Yes it is,” Ray thanked Evan.
“Now, what have you got for me?”
“I got a shitload for you. Most of it is no problem because it’s general knowled
ge in I.S. But today’s stuff, well, find a creative way to bring it up because it can be traced back to people like me. You know, officers.”
“C’mon now,” Evan pushed. “Don’t leave me hanging.”
“Okay,” Roos leaned forward. “First off, ammo is way low in just about every field office north of Maryland. A couple of H-K handlers refused to go out with the K9s because they didn’t have high-caliber rounds for their big guns. So the friggin’ dogs were doing the sweeps on their own. Now what if they ran into a Hostile One-Fifty Seven or a Goat-Walker? They couldn’t handle those. For Christ’s sake, military units can’t handle those things most of the time.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Evan waved his hand impatiently. “I got the gist of that from the council meeting. Jones won’t discuss half of it when I’m around. Still, you can do better than ‘we’re low on ammo’.”
Roos grinned mischievously.
“Howabout this, then? Howabout K9s ripping each other apart.”
“What did you say?”
“The past few days security at the estate has found five different K9s that seemed to have turned on each other. Ripped each other apart. They found a sixth dog that killed its buddy but it was whacko. They say Trevor couldn’t even get through to it. They had to put it down.”
Evan felt goose bumps bubble along his arms. He could only imagine the nightmare that would ensue if Trevor’s dogs went berserk.
“Well, what? A disease? Rabies?”
“No one is sure, but it’s scaring the I.S. guys around the mansion. It’s like something got into the dogs’ heads or something. No one has actually witnessed it, either, just finding bodies. Really creepy shit.”
“Yeah, really creepy. I’ll see what I can find out. What else you got?”
Roos smiled as if anticipating the joy this news would bring the councilman.
“I got Dubois, Pennsylvania. Maybe seventy miles northeast of Pittsburgh. Small place, sort of a hub for some farms. No electricity, well-water, real stone-age living. Point is, about one-hundred people were there and they just got slaughtered by Red Hands. That’s right, Red Hands. Wanna know the kicker? The follow up teams got a bloody nose and had to call in regular military units to handle it, to handle Red Hands! Those idiots use spears and arrows for Christ’s sake.”
Evan licked his lips. Red Hands-a primitive organized force-hit a human settlement well inside the ‘secure’ boundaries of the lands Trevor had ‘saved.’
“There’s more to it,” Evan said. “I can tell by the way you tap your thumb on the table. You’re just waiting for it to sink in before you hit me with the real punch line.”
“Is that what you think? Of course you do. They found over a thousand Red Hands living north of Dubois in Allegheny National Forest. They had to have been there for a year at least.”
“Jesus,” Evan slouched in the booth. “You know what that means? It means we’re not safe inside our borders. It means we damn well need more resources for Internal Security. I mean, who cares about the Hivvans if primitive Red Hands can take out a settlement way inside our lines?”
“You think I don’t know that? Of course, you know I do. I’m hoping you get the word out because we need help.”
“Maybe you need a new chief.”
Roos tilted his head slightly as he considered that thought and then answered, “Jones is a good guy, but he’s in over his head.”
Evan said, “No shit. He has no law enforcement experience, no background in criminal justice; he wasn’t even a mall security guard. He used to work with computers, for God’s sake. He got that job only because he’s Trevor’s friend.”
“Sometimes he don’t talk like it,” Roos said and that grabbed Evan’s attention.
“What do you mean?”
“I hear him mumbling now and then. Complaining. Every so often he says something loud enough for his guys to hear.”
“What kind of somethings?”
Roos told Evan, “That maybe Trevor is a little too big for his britches. I little too all-powerful and whatnot.”
“Now that is interesting,” Godfrey took note. “That’s very interesting.”
“I think he’s like us; he’s got a lot of questions. And I’ll tell you what, the boys in I.S. love him because he’s always looking out for us and he stands up to Trevor a lot. But he’s overwhelmed and these days he’s been hoppin’ mad over things. Some more resources would go a long way.”
“I’ll do my best,” Evan said.
“Why do you think I’m here? First time I met you, Mr. Godfrey, I could see you were going places. I’ve had this little feeling since day one that you were a horse worth backing. I think you can really help a fellow out.”
Roos raised his beer in salute.
Evan returned the salute with his flat gin and tonic.
“I know we can help each other, Ray. I just know it.”
6. Marching Orders
An hour before dawn, Catherine Nina Brewer slept peacefully in her bed, one arm clasping a raggedy one-eyed teddy bear. Her tiny belly eased up and down as she inhaled and exhaled softly.
Jon watched his daughter sleep and wondered if she would ever understand exactly how wrong the world was.
He could not lie to his child; monsters did exist. Terrible, ferocious monsters. He could never assure her that ‘it’s just a dream’ or ‘things like that aren’t real.’ Every bump in the night could be a horror waiting to pounce; there might really be something nasty hiding under her bed.
Jon stroked her forehead, just to feel his flesh and blood once before leaving.
Like all the children born into this insanity, his daughter accepted that nightmare world. Only four years old, she recognized the whistle of a Devilbat in the sky and could distinguish between the playful bark of a K9 and a howl of warning.
“Pleasant dreams, sweet pea,” he whispered.
Lori stepped to his side and placed an arm on his shoulder. Jon decided he needed more than a touch of her forehead. He leaned his tall frame over and kissed her sleeping cheek.
The two parents walked out into the hall. Lori eased the bedroom door shut.
At first, the Brewers had lived in the mansion with Trevor. When Catherine came along, they moved a few hundred yards away to a Cape Cod style lakeside home. While not huge, it fit their new family just fine.
Two Doberman Pinschers half-slept/half-guarded their living room while additional sentries periodically patrolled by their home on a regular basis. As military Chief of Staff, Jon Brewer certainly sat in the cross hairs of humanity’s enemies.
A pair of over-stuffed duffel bags rested by the front door: his marching orders had come through; it was time to go.
Lori projected a tough front; little ever penetrated her armor and if anything managed to punch through, she reacted with bravado or venomous sarcasm. This time, Jon saw chinks in the armor. He heard her crying in the bathroom last night and she continuously asked questions to which he could only answer, “I don’t know” and she cursed Trevor for sending her husband on what seemed a hopeless mission.
What he saw in her that morning felt even worse: resolve. Jon realized his wife finally resolved herself to the fact of him leaving and everything that entailed. As she walked him to the front door, he understood she thought this might be the last time she ever saw him. And he could not kid himself. Had he seen his daughter for the last time? Was this the final good bye?
The journey ahead felt impossibly long and too fantastic to believe. He felt as if he flew blind into a storm with no real knowledge of the path to follow. He traveled to the frozen wastelands of the north, away from any support with only a handful of men and supplies to find a mystical object now sought by hordes of dangerous aliens.
He stopped between the duffle bags, took a deep breath, and tried to find the right words but speeches were not his strong point.
“Hey, listen, um, what I mean is…” Jon closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and found a better approach: “I love you.
I love you and I love that wonderful little girl sleeping in there. So I’m coming back. I’m going to do this and I’m coming back in one piece.”
Her eyes watered and she threw two powerful arms around him.
“God damn it, you better come home, you hear me?”
“I hear you.”
“I mean it,” Lori repeated. “You come home to me and your little girl. Y ou come home.”
Jon pulled her away with his strong hands on her shoulders.
“Keep a light on for me.”
She nodded and wiped away the moisture from beneath her eyes. He saw her reach deep and find just enough to hold it together as he walked out. When the door closed behind him, he heard the facade collapse.
Trevor walked alongside the Doberman Pinscher, nodding his head as he moved across the front lawn toward the Eagle airship parked on the helipad. Floodlights from the mansion provided circles of illumination in the otherwise dark pre-dawn morning.
“Double the patrols,” Trevor said aloud and formed a mental picture of K9s walking routes around the estate.
With the communication complete, the dog trotted away just as Trevor rendezvoused with Jon Brewer at the rim of the landing pad. A line of soldiers hauling gear slowly boarded the craft up a short ramp and through the open side door.
“What’s wrong?” Jon asked.
“This shit with the K9s. Two more tore themselves to shreds last night. Both were still alive when we found them. Both were…they were unstable. Had to put them down.”
“What is happening?”
“I honestly don’t know. There might be some sort of hostile out there that uses insanity as a weapon or something. But they weren’t eaten or anything. They just mauled each other.”
The running lights on the Eagle clicked on and flashed over the men’s faces. Engines spooled to life with a heavy hum.
Trevor said to Jon, “Listen, don’t worry about the K9s. We’ll figure it out. Probably nothing. Relatively speaking, we’re only talking about a handful and only here around the lake. You worry about your mission.”
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