As dawn rose above New Winnabow, Trevor’s army came from those woods.
First a few…then more. Trotting forward at a steady pace neither rushed nor slow.
The mass of K9 Grenadiers swarmed from the forest and into those golden fields. Their paws stamped and flattened the grass. Breath from panting snouts sent clouds of frost into the sky like steam rising from machines.
Killing machines.
They came.
Not dozens. Not hundreds.
More.
As they descended the slope, their pace hastened.
Unseen behind them, the will of Trevor Stone. The dogs served as his hand. More personal than his human armies; as if his soul descended upon the peaceful village standing in the way of his campaign to rid his world of alien invaders.
Row upon row upon row pouring across the grassy field. Snarling, charging, growling; the mass of invaders smashed into the town like a tidal surge. Their columns streamed down every passage and every street and through every open door as if they were a deluge of water filling all avenues.
The first group of defending militia did not fire their weapons; they turned to run. The dogs dragged them down from behind, arms and hands and throats torn and ripped and crushed in the jaws of the merciless beasts.
Trevor could feel their fear. He heard their cries for mercy but the beasts knew no mercy; they only knew the commands of their master. He saw fathers torn to shreds in front of their children; mothers gored by the demonic legion.
Still they came, smashing through windows and knocking open doors. Every death another red stain on Trevor Stone's hands. He felt it so vividly he might as well be standing among the horde. The sounds of destruction and the hollers for help; the smell of the morning dew. All very real to him even though he had been hundreds of miles away at the time of the assault.
Trevor saw the truth in the eyes of the dead there; the truth of how far he would go in the name of victory. Those dead eyes stared at him in contempt for the man who called himself a liberator but chose to conquer that day.
That hatred for him stuck in his conscience; the fear the people of New Winnabow had known as the K9 corps ravaged their town took root in Trevor's heart. He saw his face in the mirror of his mind and cringed at what evil lurked there. He saw…
…Nina Forest; but no, not her. The imposter. He saw her bound to a bed by straps tied with his hands. He felt an angry, dark lust explode inside his soul, one part violent and jealous of all he had lost, another desperate to taste even a poor copy of the only woman he loved.
He had taken her but not in passion and with no trace of romance. He had taken her in anger; revenge toward the powers steering his fate.
To pervert the act of making love into something more akin to assault, more possession or abuse, made Trevor feel sick and diseased; unworthy to ever feel love again. It seemed a blasphemy to all he had shared with the real Nina.
And he saw that same alternate Nina cowering in the face of his rage as he projected his battlefield failure on to her because the ego of a dictator allowed no room for self-doubt.
Reel after reel of his miseries, of his failures as a person, of his guilt; re-wound and played over and over again. Not memories, but a reenactment of each horrible moment. Everything very real, from the smoky smell of a smoldering Red Hand campfire inside the room where he found the body of Sheila Evans to the emptiness in his heart—an ache as brutal as any injury—as he told Nina goodbye.
Each wound tore repeatedly with no respite, no forgiveness, no chance for redemption.
Trevor Stone was in Hell.
---
Brad Gannon walked through the damp, cramped passageway dimly lit by sporadic glowing globes imbedded in the green walls. As usual, the place felt more like an organic artery than a constructed building. The scent of the sea water seeped through the walls giving the entire place a salty smell, like the inside of a fish factory.
The first time he visited one of The Order's facilities had been in Japan. As he recalled, just prior to the invasion his agent landed the up-and-coming actor a role in a Japanese commercial, the added exposure perfectly timed to coincide with the release of his breakout movie, a summer action-flick. Gannon found himself on the far side of the Pacific in a crowded Tokyo hotel when the bad things came calling.
Suddenly the swarm of press and awe-struck Japanese teenagers disappeared. Suddenly the limousines and translators at his beck and call were nowhere to be found.
He knew something to be horribly wrong but did not realize it to be a global phenomenon until he tuned CNN International on the hotel TV. That's when broadcasters speaking in English clued him in on alien invasion forces and monsters.
Still, it did not seem real until his hotel caught fire and he was chased into the streets with the rest of the tourists. That's when he saw a Leviathan for the first time, moving through downtown. At that moment, Brad Gannon realized the world had become a very different place and he soon came to believe that that new place would belong to Voggoth.
During his days of commercials, soft porn straight-to-DVD flicks, and soap opera fill-ins, Brad Gannon learned that being a successful actor did not mean being a good actor; it meant being in the right place at the right time. It meant surviving things such as auditions, contract negotiations, and studio management changes. He saw talented kids end up working at fast food restaurants and hacks given parts in tent-pole movies. Talent, Gannon saw, contributed only a small part to the greater equation.
Those experiences proved an epiphany for the young, struggling actor, and his fortunes changed as a result. Yes, he continued to strive to be a great thespian, but he also strived to know who would be at which cocktail party, which executive had an axe to grind with which director, or how to get a screen writer a meeting with a producer in exchange for a part written in to the film for Brad Gannon.
At that moment when he spied the Leviathan towering above the twin tops of the 800-foot tall Metropolitan Government building in Shinjuku, Brad Gannon felt certain that his efforts in playing the Hollywood game had become irrelevant, that he was now nothing more than a face in the crowd running for his life before the next blast of supersonic wind could tear him apart along with the rest of what remained of Tokyo. Indeed, he remembered laughing hysterically as he fled, knowing he had become an extra in a real-life Japanese monster flick.
Not until Spider Sentries and sword-wielding 'monks' attacked the shelter in Yokosuka did Gannon realize his skills might yet have some application. That is when he met one of the missionaries of The Order. Gannon convinced the odd fellow that he could help the man—or, whatever he was—coax the refugees from behind the barricades.
Using a combination of his acting skills and his pre-end-of-the-world status as a celebrity, Gannon managed to do just that. Dozens of Japanese men, women, and children were carted off for parasitic implantation while Gannon survived, intact. He felt he deserved an award for that performance, considering he performed for a Japanese audience but spoke only English.
Gannon did not see himself as a traitor, a sell-out, or a puppet of propaganda. He saw himself as a survivor. One without a Voggoth implant because he proved more useful than the typical drone.
He now found that usefulness to be a curse. His role as an intermediary between The Order, the Witiko, and President Godfrey resulted in constant shuttle trips from the mainland to the base, usually in one of the radar-evading Stingrays. And like his other recent trips, he found himself confronting his leash-holders with Godfrey's demands.
Gannon moved along the organic hall followed by two robbed monks, creatures that had once been human. They were armed with unsophisticated swords as well as growths on their wrists capable of firing some type of lethal pellet.
Gannon knew that when the day came that he angered his masters or lost his usefulness, he might just receive one of those implants and join the ranks of the monks. Or worse. He had long ago vowed to do whatever necessary to avoid that day.
/> "Greetings, Mr. Gannon."
The voice belonged to Gannon's contact. At first glance, he resembled a man, perhaps even a priest based on the black clothes he wore. He had a thin frame but broad shoulders; the skin on his face drew tight around his jawbone and his wide eyes seemed afire with life. Old, perhaps, but not elderly.
Gannon first met this agent of Voggoth upon his return to the Americas. Apparently the 'Missionary' suffered a setback on the east coast during the early years of the invasion only to be re-assigned to California.
They had worked together, in secret, after Gannon earned a public position with the California resistance. When the gateways closed and the tide of battle appeared destined to turn against the Witiko, the Missionary ordered Gannon to change from spying to public relations. The result? The California Cooperative.
While not as effective as a complete Witiko victory, The Cooperative—the Missionary often said—still served Voggoth.
Gannon left behind his escort and followed the Missionary along a side corridor into a half-circle room with closed skin-like shutters. Protrusions from the wall served as seats but Gannon did not sit; not when he saw what waited in that room.
The actor bowed his head and addressed the other, "Your Excellency, I was under the impression you would have departed by now."
Another human form, this one dressed in an ornate robe of red and gold. The splendor of his garb contrasted with his decaying, flaking skin. Patches of green covered his throat. While his eyes may have once been human, now they appeared as emerald balls with pulsing red veins.
"Mr. Gannon," the Bishop replied. "I leave today for other commitments. However, I am quite pleased to see you one last time."
Gannon felt the hair on his arms stand straight. As much as he had come to accept the Missionary, the Spider-Sentries, and the living machines that were not really alive, the presence of the Bishop caused him a cold sweat.
"I serve, you know, at your pleasure."
The Missionary steered the conversation, "What brings you here again so soon?"
Gannon licked his lips. "The um, President, that is, Evan, asked me to relay a message."
Brad knew that his associates would translate the phrase 'message' to 'demand.' The Bishop—as he always did—stood patiently and watched but the Missionary—as he almost always did—showed more reaction.
"What is it this time? We have already begun cleansing operations. After all we have done for him, he had best remember that he serves Voggoth."
Gannon coughed. He knew President Evan Godfrey did not, in any manner, work on behalf of Voggoth. Godfrey had never even met one of The Order's ambassadors. To Godfrey, Voggoth remained just another alien invader and a convenient ally against Trevor Stone.
While Gannon did not feel compelled to recap all that, he did feel the need to remind, "Evan Godfrey does not think he serves Voggoth at all."
The Bishop spoke in a soft, almost sympathetic voice, "No, his kind never do."
"Well, yeah, but the point is the President would like you to, well, he requests you finish up what you're doing and get it over with. I mean, he'd feel a lot better with Trevor Stone dead."
"How dare he dictate to us," the Missionary pounced in a manner Gannon felt sure was for the Bishop's benefit. Despite how inhuman these creatures had become, they still maintained a trace of human weaknesses. Ambition, in the case of the Missionary. He certainly served Voggoth, but made sure his service was noticed.
Gannon said, "Well, now, from his point of view you gained a lot. He's just asking that you finish it up. For his sake, you know?"
The Bishop said, "We have only had access to Stone for a week. More time is required for blessed Voggoth to be satisfied."
Gannon paused and cocked his head. In the silence, the steady hum—almost a breathing sound—of the complex filled the room. "Wait a sec. I mean, you've had him since day one. That's, like, six or seven weeks now."
The Bishop enlightened, "Do you think we were prepared for this? In short order we arranged for the necessary pieces in the plan to deliver Mr. Godfrey into power. Do you know how great a sacrifice this was? Hundreds of Voggoth's children slaughtered in order to cover the truth. We asked only that Stone be given over to us, intact, for the greater glory of Voggoth."
Gannon remembered those negotiations. He remembered how Godfrey insisted that Stone could not merely disappear; his body—a body—needed to be seen by the public.
"Yep. I mean, yes, your Excellency, I am aware of this."
The Bishop appeared agitated. Whatever lurked beneath his robe squirmed. Gannon gulped. He did not want to know what waited behind those covers.
"Yes, we received Stone and before the tranquilizer dart wore off we put him into stasis…to wait until we were ready."
"I don't get it. Ready?" Gannon glanced around the room but thought of the entire complex. "You've had this place out here for months. You weren't ready for Stone?"
"This facility, yes, but not what we needed for Stone's arrival."
The Bishop turned away from Gannon and glided toward the shuttered windows. Those membranes pulled away, revealing the room to be an observation area looking down on a much larger chamber.
Gannon hesitantly followed to the plastic-like windows.
Over the years, Gannon witnessed many iterations of The Order's machines. He once viewed a field of gestating Lesser Guardians, first mistaking them for massive fungi before knowing their true purpose. He once met with a contact in Japan at an implant growth and processing assembly line.
Still, in all his experience he learned little about the technology used by his masters. The equipment, the walls, and the apparatus that served Voggoth appeared to be alive; organic. Yet what little human intuition remained in Gannon's beaten mind told him that Voggoth's machines were very much not alive. They were, it seemed, the antithesis of life. A mockery of it.
The machine filling the large room below resembled a miniature mountain of blob, its surface broken by ribbed lines that could have been spines of a kind. The entire assembly of fleshy material pulsated like a disfigured heart.
At the very top worked a disturbing sight; an image that told Gannon this machine served a special purpose. At first, his eyes thought he saw a giant spider stuck in the taffy-like top of the machine. Then he came to realize that the struggling, thin appendages that worked up and down were not a separate being, but a part of the greater whole. Those thin appendages might be typing away furiously on a keyboard hidden in the muck; or maybe they weaved some unseen silk inside the mound. Regardless, their fast work made them resemble some kind of big insect drowning in sticky quicksand: up and down, up and down, squirming and tangling then untangling without pause.
Gannon's face twisted in revulsion, despite all he had seen and done before.
"Behold," the Missionary proclaimed, suggesting that he did so as much to impress the Bishop, "the greatness of Voggoth has created what others might only imagine. An inspirational testament to his superior status in the universe."
Gannon's eyes moved from the pumping, churning appendages at the top of the machine and cast down. There he saw a pair of monks standing idly, like robots lacking instruction. Between them, at the base of the giant mound-like machine, lay Trevor Stone.
The former Emperor wore black pants and boots, but his shirt had been removed. A tangle of slimy hoses wrapped around his body. A smaller patch of fibrous tendrils held tight over his eyes like a badly frayed blindfold. Tentacle-straps secured his wrists and ankles.
The man screamed a forlorn holler echoing through the chamber.
Gannon gasped. "What…I mean, what are you doing to him? Torturing him?"
The Bishop closed his eyes and smiled in appreciation of Stone's agony.
"I attempted to purify Trevor Stone a long time ago. We subjected him to a great deal of physical distress," Voggoth's Bishop spoke as if visiting a fond memory. "You see, there is debate within The Order as to the greater weakness of your kind: is
it your attachments and emotions, or is it--as I first believed—your physical form? In our first encounter, I subjected Stone to a great deal of physical duress, an attempt to weaken his mind by breaking his spirit with pain. I felt certain we had succeeded, but somehow he overcame the therapy and his mind survived. A failure, and when he escaped, Voggoth was displeased."
"You did all you could," the Missionary consoled.
The Bishop went on, "Do you know what Mr. Stone is? He is a pure strain of what you might call human life, second only to his son. His line can be traced throughout the history of your species, all the way back to the first DNA strand that sparked the growth of men, your animals, your entire ecosystem. As such, he is a symbol of great importance."
"Um, okay, so what is it you're doing? Studying him?"
As the Bishop replied, his emerald eyes grew wide. Not for the first time, Gannon saw the darkness that existed inside the creatures of The Order. Gannon knew that at any moment, if he did not play his role perfectly, he could be eclipsed by that darkness.
"Yes, studying him, in a fashion. We could not destroy him with physical harm, but now we are destroying him without causing a single injury to his flesh. We are tearing him apart from the inside out, Mr. Gannon. Creating the physical likeness that we left to fool your people was an easy task compared to this magnificent machine. It required weeks to grow."
The Missionary chimed in, "How splendid!"
"Years ago, when Stone failed to succumb to physical duress, there were those who suggested his success proved the superiority of your form of life; those who suggested he had earned some kind of victory for your race. But now look at Trevor Stone! He is in agony!"
"How? What?"
"That is the beauty of this machine. We have done nothing but take memories and experiences from his mind and allow him to re-live them, while also warping his perception of time. For you and I, seconds have passed. For Mr. Stone, a day? Two days? These are not phantasms; not deceits. His life. His failures. The times that broke his spirit, or caused him to question his very existence. Voggoth has turned his emotions and attachments against him, and in his brilliance he has illustrated the weakness of your strain of so-called 'life.'"
Beyond Armageddon IV: Schism Page 33