Beyond Armageddon: Book 02 - Empire

by Anthony DeCosmo

  Stone shook his head. Why now? He finally had time to spend with his son and that damn Old Man summoned him.

  “Jorgie,” Trevor said, still looking out the window. “I have to go for a bit. Why don’t you stay here and finish your drawings?”

  “Uh-huh,” came the mumbled reply.

  He patted his son on his blonde hair then left the den, leaving behind a black Doberman Pincher named “Ajax,” JB’s bodyguard.

  Trevor moved along the first floor of the crowded mansion. One time dining rooms and guest bedrooms now served as meeting chambers and offices; the basement held the primary conference room and nerve center. The Stones kept the second floor as personal space.

  He heard Lori Brewer’s voice from behind a half-open door.

  “What? All riiiggghtty then, if that’s the attitude you’re going to take maybe we’ll just move you into the old warehouse on eleventh street. You know, the one where the Mutants entertained their guests. What’s that? Good. Now you’re being reasonable.”

  Amused, Trevor shook his head as he exited the front door of the mansion. He did not even notice how Tyr had caught up to him. They walked side by side out the front gate, and then swung north. A few steps later and they entered the woods. The white wolf had circled around the grounds to meet them on the north side. Trevor and Tyr followed the beast into the forest.

  Stone saw less and less of the Old Man in recent years. As long as Trevor freed people and killed aliens the Old Man rarely showed his face. The mysterious entity appeared to be most pleased when Trevor did the most killing. Indeed, the thing that looked like an Old Man wanted Stone to purge every non-human creature from the planet. No mercy. No prisoners.

  At the same time, the Old Man often knocked Trevor down a notch. When his forces had cleared Pennsylvania, the Old Man pointed out that there were forty-seven more states to go in the continental U.S.

  When they captured Washington D.C. the Old Man scoffed, “You should leave Washington a ghost town as an epitaph to the morons who had tried to rule from there.”

  As for Ashley and the others who ‘rode the arc,’ Trevor’s mentor said nothing. He either kept a secret or did not know the answer.

  Yes, the Old Man could be quiet when he did not want to share, yet very loud when he had things to say, such as the time he told Trevor he could not be with Nina because she did not share the path he walked. Or when Trevor had announced his grand plan to secure a thermonuclear warhead. The Old Man had been loud with laughter that day.

  The weapon would not detonate. Nor the next one, or the one after that.

  “They aren’t allowed,” the Old Man eventually revealed. “Against the rules. No—what do they call em’?—oh yeah, no wep-uns of mass destruction. You best be thankful for that cause lemme tell you, there’z stuff on the bad guys’ side that makes a nuke look like a water balloon.”

  Stone pushed his way through the brush and tree limbs until he found the Old Man sitting by a campfire with his butt planted on a chunk of red rock.

  “Sit down, Trev. We got to talk shop.”

  Trevor stepped into the glow of the fire light. His K9 companion, Tyr, rested on the ground by that same fire while the wolf took its usual position next to the old timer.

  “What is it?” Trevor said in a short burst like a teenager reluctantly reporting to dad for his daily chores.

  “Oh, no nice little howdy-do? I ‘spose I went and pulled ‘ya away from more pressing matters? Gee-whiz there Trev, please accept my apologies.”

  Trevor did not given an inch. “You didn’t call me out here to talk shit. What is it?”

  The man stiffened his lips and nodded slowly as if to say, ‘so that’s how it’s going to be then? Fine.’ Trevor stared at the entity unfazed.

  Who knew what it really was? Could it be God? Trevor did not think so—the Old Man denied that the first time they met. But he was something. Something extraordinary. Something with incredible power to match his incredible knowledge. On some level, this entity pulled the strings of Armageddon but also stood in humanity’s corner; or so it appeared.

  Nonetheless, Trevor no longer feared the Old Man, no matter what it might truly be. That entity had taken so much from Trevor that he was not afraid of it—he hated it.

  Besides, one thing became apparent from the first day they met. No matter how powerful the entity wearing the cloak of an elderly white human male may be, it needed Trevor.

  “Right then, straight to brass tacks,” the old timer went on. “You got to go get the best of your best people, Trevor. Get em’ and send em up north. I know, I know—I’ll tell you where, hold your jock strap on. But here’s the thing, they gotta get moving real fast like. Got a real chance here to help things along, or get em’ screwed up even worse still.”

  Stone shook his head as if to clear away the double-talk.

  “For Christ’s sake, just tell me what you need to tell me.”

  “Oh, excuse me, Mr. Big-Shit. Lemme just lay those cards all out on the table for ya’. Someone’s gone and broken the rules, so there’s a new element in play now.”

  The ‘rules.’ The first time they met the Old Man informed Trevor there were rules governing Armageddon. What that meant, Stone did not know. Whatever they were, those rules kept the Old Man from revealing too much.

  “A new element in play? What?”

  The Old Man told him, “Lessee…hmmm…what to call ‘em…hmmm…okay then, let’s go and say the ‘runes’ are now in play. Open for the takin’. First come, first served.”

  “The what?” Trevor never heard of the ‘runes’ before.

  “The runes…ya’ goin’ deaf? Maybe I could of called them the ‘gateway’ or the ‘gate’ or the ‘key’ or the ‘multi-dimensional sequential thingamajig.’ But, gosh-darn it, ‘runes’ just seemed like the easy way out.”

  Trevor shook his head again but the confusion remained.

  “So what? What do you want me to do?”

  “So what? Oh, Jimmy Christmas! Well, I suppose it’s not your fault for not knowing. Lemme see if I can clear this up a shade. If you and your boys goes and get the runes you can shut down every last gate on this planet.”

  Trevor’s eyes widened. He knew about the gates. He did not know how many existed but he had destroyed one in Binghamton, New York that first year. Closing them off would mean no more reinforcements for the bad guys.

  “Oh, yeah, hey, look it here the old timer does have something important to say. Don’t that just shake the cat?”

  “So you can tell me this,” Trevor asked. “And it’s not against the rules?”

  “Not now it ain’t. Someone else gone and broke them rules already so it’s fair game. Bad news being that a lot of other folks competing for living space on this rock are getting the message about now, too. They get hold of them runes and they can control the gates for themselves. Here’s a hint, Trevvy—that’d be real bad for you.”

  “So where are the runes, how do I get them?”

  “I’m getting there. Tell your boys to pack a warm set of long johns, hehe. Oh yeah, you going to have to haul ass, too. Now that the rules have been broken on the runes…well, let’s just say the starters’ pistol just went BANG.”

  Trevor asked, “Hold on a sec. Who broke the rules?”

  The Old Man’s eyes grew narrow.

  “Why Trevor, you did.”

  Before he could respond the Old Man added, “I mean to say, you will. I suppose from your point of view it hasn’t happened yet. For me, well I keep telling you time is irrelevant. But the long and the short of it is that you really are going screw things up, Trev.”

  The Old Man smiled.

  “Thought you oughtta know.”

  4. Powwow

  The basement of the estate had undergone significant renovations since the day Richard Trevor Stone stumbled through the front door. No more sports bar theme; no Penn State pennants or billiards table. Instead, a large conference table dominated the room surrounded by wall-mo
unted wide-screen televisions connected to audio/visual equipment.

  For several years now, the basement served as the main conference room for the leaders of humanity’s comeback. Those conferences included either the full council or a smaller, military committee.

  Thursday, August 20th began with a full conference.

  Like the room, the council evolved since its inception four years prior. One key element remained the same, however: Trevor personally selected each participant. Over the years he switched, modified, or otherwise changed individual responsibilities while also expanding the council to include more people, a necessity given his expanding realm.

  Reverend Johnny, the fiery black man who constantly quoted Old Testament scripture served as, “Chief Analyst of Hostile Biotechnology,” a job rooted in understanding one of humanity’s most mysterious—and dangerous—enemies, The Order.

  Despite his title, ‘Reverend’ Johnny had actually been a surgeon in the old world, not a clergyman. Therefore, he originally held the title of “Secretary of Medical and Health Services.” That job now fell to Dr. Maple, a middle-aged man wearing spectacles on a very round head.

  Anita Nehru was “Chief Analyst Hostile Information and Tracking.” Anita and her staff maintained a library of information on alien animals and armies. They distributed field manuals for use by soldiers and Hunter-Killer teams.

  Her husband, Omar, held the position of “Director, Science and Technology” giving him responsibility for everything from power supplies to adapting alien wares to human needs.

  Eva Rheimmer—a gray-haired woman who helped Trevor since the early days with food from her family farm—served as “Secretary of Food and Agriculture.” She monitored farm animals, crop yields, and food distribution, making her department the largest non-military entity. Wherever human beings lived in the new nation, you would find people who reported to Eva.

  People often loved her, particularly when meat and milk arrived in starving villages. Just as often people despised her, such as when she ordered the removal of a community’s grain or livestock for use elsewhere. Such decisions often resulted in protests or riots or even gunfire.

  Food logistics—like all supplies—relied on the railroads and old-fashioned steam locomotives pulled from museums. With coal literally lying around Pennsylvania, fuel was easy to find. Furthermore, tracks crisscrossed the northeast and Mid-Atlantic regions.

  On the other hand, finding experienced conductors and engineers proved difficult. In the end, humanity’s logistical network relied as much on old-world railroad hobbyists as professionals; Armageddon provided a chance for modelers to turn their tabletop dioramas into the real thing.

  One of the newer members of the council was Brett Stanton, a thin, dark-haired fellow with brown eyes and a drawn face. He served as “Director of Industry and Manufacturing.”

  Stanton kept the factories going, including military manufacturing such as the Eagle airships at the Philadelphia shipyard and shells from Chamberlain Munitions in northeast Pennsylvania.

  Brett ‘rode the ark’ outside of Pittsburgh two years earlier. In his previous life, he worked as a systems engineer for PPG. He caught Trevor’s attention by demonstrating a knack for getting the most done with the least materials, a trait as critical to the war effort as a battalion of tanks.

  Every military plan required consultation with Brett Stanton before finalization. Without bullets and guns from his factories, no attack could go forward.

  Evan Godfrey—one of the original council members—remained on board despite his open hostility toward Trevor’s rule.

  Prior to the invasion, Godfrey studied political science and laid the groundwork for a career in office through a network of connections and a resume thick with community service.

  Unfortunately for Evan, Armageddon cast aside the old-world system of buddies, favors, and political theory. Nonetheless, Godfrey helped scrounge supplies, living quarters, and other necessities as the survivors rolled in. At every opportunity, however, he opposed Trevor’s power. Even appointment to the council as the “Secretary of Housing and Needs” could not appease him.

  More specifically, Evan derided Trevor’s system of naming military governors and Mayors in liberated towns. He argued in favor of a representative government and for reinstituting the ideals of democracy and capitalism, an argument Godfrey made time and again in his newspaper, The New American Press.

  It would be easy to remove Godfrey; perhaps just as easy to get rid of him in a more permanent manner. Despite the trouble he caused, Trevor knew Godfrey did an excellent job helping newcomers settle into homes, cutting through red tape to find specialized medicines, and a plethora of similar good deeds.

  Evan Godfrey was a pain Trevor learned to tolerate for the greater good.

  Another pain was Lori Brewer, but for different reasons. She often told Trevor what he did not want to hear, usually about himself. She went by the title of “Chief Administrator.” Her staff tracked and processed liberated/saved people and worked with Evan’s teams to find appropriate housing. Lori kept her finger on the pulse of everything happening in the slowly building nation. Her bull-in-a-china-shop attitude got things done, even if she ruffled a few feathers.

  Her husband, Jon Brewer, acted as “Military Chief of Staff” and coordinated all combat operations. The various Generals reported to him. He held responsibility for organizing and supplying the troops who waged the war to take back the planet.

  He had done an excellent job to date, particularly considering that more than ninety percent of his soldiers had no military training prior to the Apocalypse. Jon’s troops were yesterday’s accountants, store clerks, waitresses, and insurance salesmen. Trevor was often surprised at how well—how naturally—people took to fighting. It reinforced his theory that mankind may be the best of the universe’s warriors, a thought that also scared him.

  Jon built a huge support structure that included training facilities, weapons caches, vehicle pools, air bases, and more. He played the role of de-facto second-in-command, a role he held since the early days of humanity’s counter-attack.

  Dante Jones, Trevor’s best friend in the old days, served as “Chief of Internal Security and Secretary of Justice.” A long title for a simple job. He coordinated security inside the front lines of the war. This meant organizing local police forces and investigators to handle human on human crime. It also meant coordinating Hunter-Killer teams with the military to eliminate hostile predators and other non-earthly animals.

  Like his other good friend—Lori Brewer—Dante often sounded like Trevor’s conscience. Indeed, sometimes he could almost feel Lori on one shoulder and Dante on the other when he faced hard decisions. They swapped the angel and devil costumes depending on circumstance.

  The “Justice” word in Dante’s title added the responsibility of finding and appointing judges and arbitrators to adjudicate cases, sentence criminals and solve disagreements.

  In the new world, people worried most about eating or being eaten, resulting in a greater sense of camaraderie and less disagreements.

  Very few cold-blooded murders occurred while rape occurred at a much lower rate than in the old, ‘civilized’ world. Robbery happened with far more frequency and often in various shades of gray.

  Those guilty of crimes against other people—particularly murder or rape—found no second chances. Hanging returned to many public squares or— in more merciful jurisdictions—the sharp report of a firing squad.

  Defendants received counsel and serious crimes involved a jury of peers. No code of laws for lawyers to twist and bend existed; parole boards and appeals processes mere memories. Each judge set the rules for his courtroom using his or her sensibilities as guide. Dante Jones’ regional supervisors could remove those who demonstrated poor sensibilities while abuses of power ended with adjudicators facing the gallows of their own construction.

  A harsh system for harsh times. Perhaps that harshness deserved credit for low crime rat
es. More likely, the fact that everyone—even the most petite teenage girl—carried a firearm, probably served as the greatest deterrence.

  Whatever the truth, atop that system sat Dante Jones who earned his position due to Trevor’s trust. Dante worked with computers in the old world, not law enforcement. Yet Trevor relied on his judgment and always found him a fair person.

  The last member of Trevor’s council was also the most recent addition.

  Gordon Knox, “Director of Intelligence.”

  To say that Trevor’s forces had saved Gordon would paint the wrong picture. Knox had ruled a small settlement of his own, hidden in the back woods of Maryland and surviving quite fine, thank you very much.

  However, Gordon signed on enthusiastically when he saw the level of organization, the aggressiveness, and the hawkish intent of Stone’s armies.

  In his old life, the Central Intelligence Agency employed Gordon Knox first as a field agent, then a paramilitary soldier (one of the first into Afghanistan during the American invasion), and eventually in middle management.

  Balding with a fluffy mustache, he exhibited a positive attitude for the work.

  Stone loved Knox because he expertly found information, enemy positions, and what—in the old days—they would have called “actionable intelligence.”

  Gordon had quickly organized a new network of spies and reconnaissance. He also used the handful of submarines at their disposal to insert recon teams along the coast and overseas.

  Even then, as they gathered for a big meeting, Gordon coordinated dozens of spies not only behind Hivvan lines, but also in Africa and Europe to explore and understand the nature of the changed world.

  Conversely, Knox loved Trevor because Stone turned him loose. No red tape, no books filled with legalese, no pesky lines of distinction between foreign and domestic spying. Knox was free to do what needed to be done—everything that needed to be done—to protect humanity’s war effort.