Beyond Armageddon IV: Schism

by DeCosmo, Anthony

  Soldiers of a different creed waited for the General outside the chopper.

  They wore heavy gray uniforms with red sashes, many with an added wool coat. They carried swords and carbines and heavy packs on their back. Several sat in saddles atop gorgeous stallions. They all sported rough stubble on their cheeks; a sign of life in the cavalry, life always on the move in the wilderness.

  Shepherd admired the men and envied their work. To be out in the wilderness… living off the land for weeks at a time…with only their guts, guns and brotherhood to face the unknown…yes, Shep admitted he most certainly had a little cowboy in him.

  A short man with a thin mustache, narrow eyes, and an upturned cowboy hat greeted Shep. Something dangled from the man’s lips, perhaps a small cigar or maybe a kind of homemade cigarette. A feint trace of breathing embers glowed at the tip.

  "Corp-o-ral Law-rence Brown, sir," the horse soldier made a lazy salute that matched his lazy words. "Captain McBride is waitin’ for ya, over on Pearl Street."

  Shep did not know the difference between Pearl Street and any other street in Boulder, but Corporal Brown’s knowledge suggested the area had been thoroughly scouted.

  "Well then, I reckon I should get on over to Pearl Street."

  Shepherd had served two years in Philadelphia’s mounted patrol, so he knew what to do with the horse presented to him.

  He and an escort of a dozen riders galloped through the empty streets of Boulder. The sight at ground level matched the vision from the helicopter: many homes destroyed by fire, others crushed by explosions or blunt damage dealt by marauding devils. The cold air kept an inch of snow intact over most of the ground, but the late morning sun melted away isolated patches, revealing either muddy ground or warped pavement.

  It did not take long for the entourage to reach the historic district of Boulder, a stretch that once attracted shoppers and architecture buffs. The colonists had made the walking mall area the center of their new community.

  The Corporal led Shepherd to a corner building built with red and white sandstone and brick as well as tattered old awnings lining one side and smashed plate glass windows lining the other.

  Several more soldiers loitered in front, one of whom Jerry Shepherd recognized: Captain Dustin McBride of the 1st Cavalry Brigade, also known as "Stonewall’s Brigade."

  While Stonewall carried on the fight with the rest of his division in Oregon, the 1st Brigade had been left behind for several weeks of well-earned rest and reconstitution. Unfortunately for them, they had been nearest when a unit was needed to check on the residents of Boulder.

  Shepherd reigned in his ride and dismounted. His boots crunched on the snow.

  "General, sir."

  "Well look at you," Shep eyed the man head to toe. "Growin’ a beard, Dustin?"

  A beard—little more than a thick goatee—sprouted from the black man’s face. It made him appear slightly older, but in truth Dustin remained a young man, even after ten years of warfare. He had joined Stonewall’s army during the first months of the new world, leaving behind a street life with gangs in Washington D.C., for a leader’s role in the fight to save humanity. That fight had cost Dustin his right ear during the battle for Wilkes-Barre.

  McBride smiled. "Just a little peach fuzz, man." But the smile changed fast to a frown. "Think you’d better see this, General."

  Dustin led him inside the historic National State Bank building, circa 1899.

  Piles of bodies--some covered and others not--lay around the lobby. Any antique furniture or historic ornaments had long ago been looted or lost, making the interior feel open and bare.

  "I think they used this place as a town hall type of thing," McBride explained. "They must’ve decided to make, well, a sort of last stand here."

  Shep nodded as he took note of the bodies, discarded small arms, and the carcasses of several K9s.

  Dustin said, "We found fifty dead in here, another thirty or so up and down Pearl Street. I think they used this whole section as sort of their downtown. Anyway, there’s a couple of bigger buildings nearby that were, like, factories for stuff."

  "What’d they do here?"

  Shep knew that everyone who lived under the protection of The Empire contributed in some fashion. The colonists, despite their isolation, did something that generated Continental Dollars which, in turn, kept fuel, ammunition, and even mail coming their way.

  "Textiles. They made wool coats and stuff like that. There’s some sheep farms on the outskirts of town. They got wiped out, too. I also think they did a lot of scavenging. There was a company up here that did a lot of wireless stuff before ‘all this’. I think they were selling the leftovers back to the army."

  Shep stroked a finger across his gray mustache.

  "Okay. Wiped out by what?"

  Dustin McBride motioned toward a heavy tarp and said, "Agarn."

  Corporal Brown responded to that nickname. He pulled away the covering, revealing three bodies. Each corpse wore heavy animal hides but even through the winter clothing Shepherd spied pale skin, elongated fingers, and bodies lacking any hair.

  "Red Hands."

  Shepherd knew the Red Hands to be a primitive tribe that could breed and spread fast, lived as one with nature, hated technology, and fought bravely despite using primitive weapons.

  Still…

  "You’re telling me Red Hands wiped out this colony? With bows and arrows?"

  "Looks that way, yeah."

  "How many colonists here?"

  McBride answered, "The info I’ve got says about three hundred. Far as I can tell, we’ve found about three hundred dead bodies so far, too."

  "They were armed, right?"

  Corporal Brown, a smoke still dangling from his mouth, answered, "Piss-tols, ri-fulls, a couple o’ Jav-lins, even got one of them pinballs ‘case a Shadow came callin’. They used to come ‘round here back in the day, or so I heard."

  Shepherd grunted. The Red Hands existed like cockroaches, as soon as The Empire thought they stamped them out a new band appeared somewhere. Red Hands moved through the wilderness expertly, usually staying out of sight for as long as they wanted to stay out of sight.

  "What a sec," Shep jumped. "Three hundred people with guns wiped out by Red Hands? How the Hell many Red Hands would it take to do that?"

  Corporal Brown—"Agarn"--answered, "A shitload or two."

  2. California

  A lonely Humvee pulling a trailer halted on Interstate 5. Overhead, a clear sky waited for the sun to climb the green foothills that cast shadows across the highway.

  Garrett "Stonewall" McAllister stepped out onto the pavement and loitered behind the open door, glancing first left and then right as if searching for spying eyes.

  "General, we’re going to be late," said Benny Duda who also exited the vehicle.

  "Please, Benjamin, you know I have an image to protect."

  Garrett looked first at the soldier sitting at the driver’s wheel then the one standing in the cupola behind a .50 caliber machine gun. Neither dared meet the General’s glare.

  "Yessir, I understand. We do have a time table, though."

  Stonewall grunted then walked to the horse trailer. The sound of his boots clicking and his sword jingling bounced between the foothills.

  They retrieved two horses--both saddled and ready--and detached the trailer. A moment later, the two riders trotted along the Interstate as it hooked east then south again with the Humvee coasting obediently behind.

  Two miles later they arrived at the entrance to a small town situated amidst forests and high desert plains. The volcanic rock of Mt. Shasta dominated the eastern horizon, its flat peak covered in snow. Stonewall eyed it as he brought his horse to a halt.

  Duda’s voice pulled his attention to the task at hand: "General?"

  Unlike the encounter at Crater Lake two days prior, Garrett did not want to come across as intimidating or eccentric. Today called for diplomacy, for the ground on which he stood separated two armie
s. Duda appeared to have remembered this strategy and had already dismounted. Stonewall joined him. The Humvee, meanwhile, came to a complete stop several yards behind. The soldier in the cupola moved to the passenger's seat, far away from the gun.

  The road sloped down through an archway that featured an illustration of Mt. Shasta along with the town's name of "Weed." Under that arch gathered a line of five men dressed in black coveralls and jackets with shield-shaped patches. Their collars flaunted insignias of rank. They displayed expressions ranging from frightened eyes to stern jaws of determination with a variety of blends in between.

  Stonewall sympathized with those frightened eyes; The Empire had arrived at California’s door after a year of anticipation.

  At the same time, he feared that those stern jaws meant a stubborn pride that The Cooperative’s militia officers would translate into a conflict he very much wanted to avoid.

  Stonewall glanced toward an old gas station situated away from the meeting. There he saw a group of California’s front line fighters mulling about. Among them he saw that same collection of frightened eyes and stern jaws, but much more intense. After all, these men would do the fighting and dying should conflict come.

  I would like it very much if these men would join my ranks so we could fight the Earth's enemies together.

  Alas, those men gathered in the shadow of the problem. A ship towered over the station from its landing spot on the far side. Colored silver and black, it stood three stories tall on rows of landing gear and stretched fifty yards long. Its name reflected the general design: Stingray.

  The extraterrestrial machine sat silent but it spoke of stealth, energy weapons, speed, and maneuverability. It spoke of the battle to come in the skies over the Golden State.

  One of The Cooperative’s officers approached. The man displayed extra girth that appeared the work of time, not gluttony and he appeared well-groomed, almost painstakingly so. What remained of his gray hair fluttered in a chilled breeze.

  He wore a silver star on his collar and a patch on his breast displayed the image of two outstretched hands meant to show unity but, to Stonewall's eyes, they appeared to arm wrestle. One of those hands shined silver, the other a politically correct brownish shade representing the diverse skin colors among the human part in The Cooperative’s equation.

  Stonewall raised his arm in a textbook salute and said, "General Stonewall McAllister, Second Mechanized Division of Virginia."

  The other man did not return the salute. Instead, he gaped the way most people gaped at Stonewall when first meeting the man in the Old Mist uniform.

  "Exactly what war is it you’re fighting, son?"

  Garrett, who had recently passed forty years of age, held his temper.

  "Ah, you might believe that I endeavor to fight the War Between the States. However, I have not come here to discuss my choice of wardrobe. We have urgent matters to resolve."

  The other man sneered, "The only thing that needs to happen is that you and your followers need to stay out of my state."

  Stonewall saw that the man standing across from him wore one of those stern, stubborn jaws. He realized that any threats he might conjure would fail to impress and, for obvious reasons, Stonewall had not brought along Captain Kaufman’s Chrysaor to drop from the sky. Besides, while much smaller than a dreadnought, Stingray attack cruisers did not lack teeth.

  He did, however, find something to say.

  "Well, if you choose not to talk perhaps your Masters will. Are any of your leash-holders about?"

  He threw in a wry smile but maintained his gentlemanly disposition, not an easy task for a man with a handlebars mustache and thick sideburns.

  The gray-haired officer frowned, but before he could respond a sound grabbed the attention of everyone at the Weed city gate: two quick bursts that could have been a high-pressure air hose hissing.

  All eyes shot to the gas station. An object moved over there somewhere behind the crowd of soldiers. That object shot into the air a dozen then fifty feet and flew forward, glinting silver in the sun then descended to the gathering. Two more quick bursts sounded, this time close enough so all could see the blasts of vapor from the jetpack.

  The object—a humanoid very much like a man—landed standing with a thud that sent a gentle tremor amongst the group.

  Stonewall studied the newcomer; it marked the first time he had seen one in person.

  Two eyes and a pointed nose, a mouth with thinner lips than a man's and ears without lobes, but otherwise a close match to humanity in appearance including two legs and opposable thumbs with ten total fingers on two hands.

  The alien would have stood only as tall and wide as Garrett himself, if not for his equipment that gave him more bulk, including an open-faced helmet with a curved visor that, Stonewall knew, served a myriad of functions. Patches of bright silver armor protected his arms and thighs while knee-high heavy boots with various metallic fixtures—no doubt to aid landing—covered his lower legs.

  All the apparatus combined to give the alien added size: an illusion of greater presence.

  While this race’s natural skin tones varied from gray to dull yellow, silver served as their predominant color as found in the trimmings of their battle gear as well as a silver cosmetic rubbed on their cheeks, necks, and other exposed areas.

  As the newcomer stared at Stonewall with an intense glare, the pupils in the alien's eyes morphed from green to a soft red.

  The true power of California joined the discussion.

  The Witiko.

  ---

  Trevor Stone flipped another page in the binder and read yet another column of text and numbers. Scribbled notes in Omar Nehru's nearly illegible hand writing marred the margins.

  Those columns dealt with industrial output from both the ‘matter makers’ stolen from the alien Hivvans as well as traditional manufacturing. Omar’s notes drew attention to looming shortages in rubber and plastics.

  However, the definition of ‘shortage’ changed over the years. Not too long ago, shortages meant starvation, disease, or forced a halt in the war effort. Nowadays, shortages meant inconvenience and rationing.

  Expansion across what had once been the continental United States resulted in greater access to natural resources. Perhaps more important, over the last four years the nature of the war had changed. With only remnants of the Grand Army of the Hivvan Republic remaining in isolated outposts in the Caribbean, The Empire faced mainly alien wildlife and human warlords and little in the way of organized military forces during the push west.

  Of course, the 'liberation' of North America still left vast tracks of land—including several metropolitan areas—filled with dangerous predators, keeping the K9/paramilitary "Hunter-Killer" teams busy. Travel between population centers remained dangerous.

  At the same time, Trevor appreciated the growing stockpiles of fuel, munitions, and equipment that resulted from the reduction in all-out warfare. Of course, those stockpiles would soon be called upon to tackle California.

  That unpleasant thought caused him to snap shut the binder and slam it on the table next to the easy chair, startling the black and gray Norwegian Elkhound sleeping at his feet. Tyr raised his head, eyed his Master, and then slept again. The dog had aged from vibrant hunter and fighter to a tired veteran whose role as the Emperor’s personal K9 became more a symbol than a true bodyguard.

  Trevor rubbed his eyes and glanced around the chamber. The VIP stateroom offered significantly more space than the typical quarters of a dreadnought, but still felt cramped due to the slanted, low ceiling and lack of windows. The decorator had attempted to hide the dull gray walls behind paintings of famous historical battles (Gettysburg, El Alamein, Five Armies, etc.,) and fine furniture such as a sofa and coffee table. Regardless, the dressing could not chase away a claustrophobic feel.

  Part of that feel came from the constant low hum carrying through the ship. It did not matter if you walked the catwalks above the building-sized anti-gravity
generators, stood in one of the VT&L launch pad standby rooms at the stern of the craft or, for that matter, sat reading in the Emperor’s personal quarters, the hum remained constant. Even the crews on the fixed-wing flight deck could hear that hum when not engaged in take off and landing operations.

  He stood and walked through a tight archway, leaving behind the main room for the master bedroom: a queen-sized bed flanked by nightstands. In there, the art work was more personal, such as pictures from JB’s kindergarten graduation and a snapshot of the Atlantic Ocean taken from Trevor’s summer beach house in New Jersey.

  A suitcase rested at the end of the bed. He sighed, zipped it open, and unpacked despite knowing his stay aboard the Excalibur would be short.

  He carried his shaving kit into the bathroom, writing a mental note to remember to cut away the stubble on his cheeks in the morning. He had already cut away a few inches of hair and indulged in a ‘professional’ manicure.

  While not quite qualifying as sacrifices, he found such trivialities annoying. However, he knew the Witiko to be a vain people. He knew their ways held influence over the Governor and his cabinet. Investing in extra grooming might pay dividends at the bargaining table.

  Bargaining table?

  Trevor stopped in front of the bathroom mirror, rewound that thought, and played it again.

  What bargaining table?

  There would be no bargaining. That had been and would continue to be the story of his rule. The Old Man never said anything about bargaining, but said plenty about fighting, killing, and sacrifice.

  Trevor found his eyes in the mirror.

  Who you kidding?

  The other Trevor—the one who had led an invasion army to an alien world in a parallel universe—never needed an old man to learn how to kill. It had been his nature.