Empire ba-2

by Anthony DeCosmo

  With a throaty grumble, the school bus came to life and pulled to the chapel. Vince Caesar, behind the wheel, motioned for the hostages to get in but they stood and gawked, stunned into inaction.

  The chapel’s front doors opened and a trio of Mutants ran out with flintlocks drawn.

  Maddock and Bly nailed all three in a series of bursts, their shots whizzing by the ears of shell-shocked hostages.

  The bullets and the Mutants accomplished what Caesar could not: the children and their chaperon raced for the open doors of the school bus. However, one eleven year old girl did not make it. The last Mutant-the big one with dual swords-grabbed her in a hug and retreated into the church closing the front door behind.

  Nina ordered her team, “Get them on the bus! Do it!”

  With her M4 held high, she entered the building.

  Two rows of pews sat between white walls with a thin aisle down the center. At the far end of the room stood the altar with a low wooden banister ahead of it and podiums to either side.

  Blobs of gore-the remains of the Mutants’ most recent victims-lay scattered about.

  She entered the church in hot pursuit and saw only the eleven-year-old blond girl standing in the middle of the center aisle by herself.

  Her battlefield instincts sensed the attack a fraction of an instant before her eyes saw the flicker of a shadow. The creature struck from above, having sat in ambush on a perch atop the front door.

  One of its two swords swung down as it jumped. Nina held her rifle aloft to block the strike. The Mutant’s double-edged weapon hammered into the composite barrel, saving Nina’s life but bending the rifle and sending her staggering backwards.

  The Mutant landed on the floor in two heavy thumps and quickly slammed shut the front door, locking out any reinforcements

  The vile creature stared along the aisle at Nina and used its massive maw to present a disgustingly wide smile. Its forked tongue slithered along its teeth in anticipation of another kill.

  Nina examined her carbine. The bent barrel turned it from a powerful high-tech weapon into a fancy-looking club.

  The Mutant drew its second sword and charged. Both of the deadly weapons swung at Nina. Her only defense was the broken frame of the M4.

  The little girl dove between the pews as Nina backed away while desperately blocking two clumsy swings by her opponent. The M4 bent and warped even more-its usefulness as a club neared its end.

  To her advantage, the Mutant did not fight like a skilled swordsman. It wielded the blades as if they were sharp clubs. No finesse. No style. Perhaps it had stolen the weapons from some unfortunate soul or alien but did not know how to use the blades properly.

  Skilled or not, the Mutant aimed to split her in halves. It raised both blades high and hacked down. She held the deformed rifle up and blocked both blows in unison. With the swords against the rifle, the monster tried to out-muscle her, pushing to drive her to her knees.

  Nina refused to kneel. The creature’s strength could not bend her to its will.

  Frustrated, the Mutant changed tactics. In a surprisingly quick move, it pulled one sword away from the rifle and thrust at her. She twisted her hip sideways to dodge the stab. The tip of the sword ripped her pistol holster away and opened a gash in her pant leg. A solitary line of blood drizzled from the exposed flesh.

  The Mutant pressed the attack, forcing Nina to retreat several steps. She managed to block one more blow with the broken carbine but the force of the swing knocked the dead rifle from her hands and off through the air.

  Nina hopped backwards to avoid two more crescent strikes from her attacker. It smartly used a third weapon-one big booted leg-to kick her in the gut. She went sprawling and sliding along the floor to the base of the wooden banister near the altar.

  The Mutant grinned again and closed in.

  Nina reached to her utility belt as she staggered to her feet. With a flick of her wrist, a collapsible steel baton extended. She brought it forward barely in time to glance away a strike from one of the swords, but the baton wavered; it would not absorb much punishment.

  The Mutant brought its second sword down in an overhead hack.

  Nina threw herself over the banister.

  Instead of splitting her skull as intended, the sword splintered into the wood of the railing.

  Nina slammed her baton against the Mutant’s wrist as it tried to pull the blade free. She felt its bones there break like dry twigs.

  The Mutant howled in pain, released the sword, and backed off.

  Nina grabbed the weapon.

  It was short and surprisingly light, not from a lack of density but perfectly crafted balance.

  She never trained in fencing or sword fighting, but she did know how to use nightsticks, batons, and bayonets. Nina relied on that training as she went into battle with a new weapon.

  The Mutant regained its composure and raised its remaining sword, but its blade wavered, as if it knew fear.

  Nina attacked. Given their preference for easy prey, Mutants were not accustom to facing determined enemies; they preferred sheep.

  Nina was a wolf.

  It hissed as she sliced its shoulder. It responded, swinging its blade around to take her head off. She ducked and punched the creature’s gut. It felt like hitting a rolled carpet, but she did elicit a grunt of pain from the monster.

  Nina stood again and jabbed toward its oversized mouth. The Mutant stepped off and brought its sword around in time to smash aside the blow.

  They parried and plunged at one another as she chased him up the aisle.

  The little girl peeked from the pews and watched in amazement.

  Swords clanged as they met in mid air. Nina spun and brought a back fist to the creature’s tough jaw. It staggered.

  She used the momentum of her spin to whip her weapon around again. The Mutant raised its sword and blocked the attack.

  Surely, an experienced swordsman could have defeated Nina’s amateurish thrusts and strikes, but her warrior’s instincts kept her on the offensive. In her mind lived a natural battle computer considering moves and counter moves a step ahead of her opponent. Nina excelled as a warrior because of these instincts and the speed at which she calculated every tactic.

  Frustrated and afraid, the Mutant fell back on its own natural weapon: blind aggression. It foolishly raised its sword with both hands with the aim of striking at her like a hammer, to push through any defense with pure strength and determination.

  Nina closed in under the arc of the blow and sliced it in the gut.

  The wounded beast hunched over and tottered forward.

  Nina did not hesitate. She brought the blade again. And again. And again.

  Just as it dropped to the floor, two church windows smashed and both Oliver Maddock and Carl Bly jumped inside.

  They found Nina hovering over the slain body of the Mutant and the little girl gaping in amazement at the woman who had outfought the terrifying brute.

  “Well ain’t you just all that,” Bly quipped.

  “We thought you might need some help,” Maddock added.

  Nina, panting heavily, glanced over at the little girl and winked.

  “We got it covered, right, honey?”

  She stuttered in search of the right words and then burst, “That was awesome!”

  12. New Winnabow

  Trevor stood on the second floor balcony. The August sun had descended below the mountains hours before and a thin vale of clouds obscured the stars. He heard the lapping of the lake water against the pillars of the boathouse dock.

  “I can feel you out there. What are you waiting for?”

  –

  After viewing the scene in the cavern outside of Blacksburg, Trevor and his son had returned to the estate.

  The new Emperor-a title that felt awkward but aptly described the role he had played for five years-increased the number of Internal Security at the estate. Eagle patrol ships cruised overhead while squads of both human and K9 soldiers se
arched for threats.

  Ashley deteriorated into a nervous wreck. Her father-Benjamin Trump-stayed by her side constantly with JB never out of his mother’s or grandfather’s sight.

  Adding to his troubles, Trevor received word of the delay along the coast in North Carolina. He ordered Shepherd to bribe the leaders of New Winnabow with food, clothing, and medicines to allow the army to pass, but they rebuffed every offer.

  Trevor then investigated an alternative route, perhaps even backtracking toward Wilmington for Rt. 133. However, reconnaissance found a pile of destroyed metal where a bridge should have been and a road in impassable condition.

  No, the only feasible path went through New Winnabow and its resident idealists.

  Gordon Knox offered several suggestions, the most polite of which was to fly the New Winnabow council to the countryside retreat The Empire had established outside of Honesdale, Pennsylvania for the insane “survivors” from the town of Jim Thorpe, the ones who lived in the webs of a brood of White-Terrors for a year. Those hostiles actually fed off fear and suffering like milking dairy cows.

  Trevor often thought about the fate of those people. He thought about them whenever anyone suggested a pause in the fighting. Now he thought about them as he considered the pacifists of New Winnabow.

  By the morning of Wednesday, August 26, it became apparent General Shepherd had hit a formidable roadblock, the likes of which none of them had encountered to date.

  He hated leaving the estate with the threat from Blacksburg lurking in the shadows, but the great cause always came first and that cause called him to North Carolina. Intelligence indicated the Hivvans showed signs of reconstituting their strength; some enemy supply columns had made contact with their brethren inside the half-sealed pocket.

  In other words, the clock ticked.

  The people of New Winnabow went about their late afternoon business.

  Farmers tended to crops. Some hunting parties scoured the swamp and woods while others cleaned kills already made. Entertainers prepared for that night’s performance of Taming of the Shrew in the outdoor theater. A doctor bid goodbye to a patient succumbing to illness. A maintenance man re-pointed a brick wall.

  For the residents whose business brought them along Governor’s Road near the edge of town or who returned along Rt. 17 from fishing up in Town Creek, they saw a sight that had become familiar in recent days; the sight of the strange man in the General’s uniform.

  On that particular afternoon, the General stood at the outskirts of town with Chief Robert Parsons and council member Elizabeth Doss, a tall woman with short black hair who represented the northwest district of the colony.

  As they spoke, a woman in her late twenties approached the group. A six-year-old boy with straight dark hair and wide brown eyes accompanied her, nearly dragged along as his mother marched at a determined pace.

  “Father? Is there anything I can help with?” She asked as she neared, but her voice sounded less helpful and more confrontational, as if intending to break up an argument.

  Robert Parsons reacted, “Everything is fine. But since you are here, Sharon, there’s someone I would like you to meet.”

  Sharon reluctantly stepped amidst the small group. The six-year-old boy gaped at the General with a mixture of awe and fear.

  “This is General Jerry Shepherd. General, this is my daughter, Sharon.”

  Shep mustered every ounce of chivalrous charm he could find and funneled it into a warm smile and a polite nod.

  “Greetings, ma’am.”

  She offered no charm. “Why are you still here, General?”

  “Sharon! I apologize General, my daughter can be blunt.”

  “Oh now don’t go apologizing,” Shepherd maintained his smile. “I tend to be blunt, too. I find it speeds things up.”

  Shepherd addressed the woman while her son gazed at the grandfatherly officer. “I’m still here because we’re trying to work out a compromise; a deal that will work for everyone. Seems to me that’s all anybody wants, right?”

  “No,” Sharon shot. “We just want to be left alone. I don’t understand why that’s so difficult. We want to be left in peace.”

  “Peace,” Shepherd rolled that around on his tongue. “I reckon when it comes to other people, all we want is peace, too.”

  A rumble came over the treetops. The ground shook.

  Sharon Parsons sneered at the General a split second before the planes appeared.

  “Peace? Is that what you call this?”

  Two A-10 Thunderbolt jets-big and heavy tank killers-circled the golden field surrounding New Winnabow, and then flew southwest.

  The town stopped and the residents collectively gasped.

  Before the roar of the jets subsided, a new sound grew from the northeast above Route 17. A heavy thump-thump-thump chopped the air.

  A moment later, a pair of Apache attack helicopters appeared overhead. They hovered and examined the scene, then split in different directions to sweep the wilderness around the town.

  “I presume your Emperor is coming,” the elder Parsons remarked calmly.

  Sharon, less calm, growled, “Shall we get out the tapestries?”

  Her son, the six-year-old, held his hands to his ears to block the noise.

  Then a much quieter aircraft appeared; one of the Eagle ships. It hummed and whirred as it drifted in from above. Despite its anti-aerodynamic shape, it moved as if a bird, at one with the sky and having formed some sort of amicable deal with gravity.

  The craft descended to the grassy field. A short ramp slid from the undercarriage and the side door opened. Two green-camouflaged soldiers disembarked first, then Trevor-dressed in a simple gray tunic-emerged with Tyr the Elkhound at his side.

  “Oh my God,” Sharon Parsons chuckled. “He’s just a man. Why look, he walks no more gallantly than the rest of us.”

  This time Shepherd did react.

  “A man who’s pulled half a million people out of slavery or saved them from starving; a man who turned this whole thing around.”

  “Sharon,” Robert Parsons said. “Perhaps you should take Tory and go back to town.”

  Shepherd saw that Parsons, unlike his daughter, had received the message sent by the planes and helicopters.

  Sharon huffed and dragged her son away.

  Shepherd understood how Trevor could be underestimated. With shoulder-length hair and a fit but not exactly muscular physique, from a distance he appeared to be an average guy in his late twenties. What in the old world Shepherd would have thought of as a ‘kid’.

  Up close, the determination in his eyes and a rough edge to his skin-like dented armor-told a different, more rugged story.

  Trevor nodded to Shep and then addressed New Winnabow’s Chief Councilman. “You must be Robert Parsons.”

  “Yes. Yes, and this is Elizabeth Doss, a prominent member of our council.”

  Trevor smiled as friendly a smile as such a worn and battle-weary face could muster.

  “My name is Trevor Stone, but you already know that. And you also know we have some talking to do…”

  …After a brief walk through town, Shepherd followed Trevor, Parsons, and Doss into the main council chambers.

  Having stood for less than a year, the room smelled of fresh wood, particularly pine. Hand crafted tables and chairs-without stain or paint-comprised the furnishings making for a simple yet stately atmosphere. Long afternoon shadows stretched in through windows overlooking the tight streets of The Commons area.

  Shepherd noticed-but did not think their hosts noticed-that Trevor’s dog Tyr no longer accompanied the group.

  In any case, Parsons pointed the conversation in the necessary direction.

  “So are you here to give us an ultimatum, Mr. Stone? Or should I call you something else? Lord Stone?”

  “Trevor will do just fine. I have a feeling an ultimatum wouldn’t do too much good, now would it?”

  “And why do you suppose that?”

  “Be
cause you’re a man of principle.”

  Parsons waved a finger to make a point. “It does not matter if I am or I’m not. The decision as to what we do is not mine alone.”

  Trevor conceded, “It seems to me this is a city of principled people. I admire that.”

  Elizabeth Doss said, “It has served us well, Mr. Stone. Over the years, we’ve watched towns and settlements across North Carolina whither and die from attack, disease, or starvation. We have weathered the storm.”

  Trevor attempted to remain friendly but Shep heard a strain in his voice. “I can’t do that. I can’t watch settlements whither and die. Not if I can stop it.”

  “We’re isolationists,” she explained further. “We ask nothing from our neighbors. We care not what they do as long as they leave us in peace.”

  “You can’t hide from the world,” Stone told them. “You can’t hide from what is happening out there.”

  Parsons led them to seats around a small table. As the four sat, he said, “Tell me, Trevor, how is it you came to be…” Parsons struggled with the title. “ Emperor of this…well, ‘Empire’ of yours. I’m sorry; I have trouble with those words.”

  “It’s okay,” Trevor waved his hand gently. “I’m having a hard time with the titles myself. The word Empire…it’s an old word. And I sure don’t feel like an ‘Emperor.’ No crown and all. But we had to come up with a name and, admittedly, I wanted something that would intimidate our enemies. Maybe I miscalculated how it would sound to our friends. Perhaps we’ll change it down the road.”

  Parsons nodded and rephrased his question, “So how did you go from one of the survivors to such a leader? General Shepherd tells me that you now rule a fair portion of the eastern seaboard. How did that happen?”

  “It all started very small, and grew from there. I had some help…” Trevor stopped and struggled with what he wanted to say. Shepherd felt himself lean forward, perhaps hoping to hear one the secrets; secrets about the woods Trevor often disappeared into, about how he could communicate with dogs and how he carried a library of knowledge in his head.