1. Offensive

“All the world will be your enemy, Prince with a Thousand Enemies, and whenever they catch you, they will kill you. But first they must catch you: digger, listener, runner, prince with the swift warning. Be cunning, full of tricks, and your people will never be destroyed.”

– Richard Adams, Watership Down

A pair of A-10 Thunderbolts flew through a mid-May sky; their airframes dressed gray save for colorful, predatory faces painted on their nose cones. The heavily-armored jets emitted a deep rumble as they followed Route 96 below with the tranquil waters of Lake Pueblo off their starboard wing tips.

“Razorback, you are clear to engage.”

“Roger that, Pueblo.”

The landscape morphed from flat to rough to jagged. Ahead, the Wet Mountains of southern Colorado stood like castle battlements with few passages. The A-10s targeted one of those few passages in an attempt to plug the leak in The Empire’s dam of defenses.

“Know your targets, Razorback, things are FUBAR once you’re past Wetmore.”

“Copy that, Pueblo. Tallyho.”

The armor-killing planes shaved altitude as the battle came in to view. Erupting ordnance sent dirt, rock, and body parts—organic and otherwise—flailing through the air in a sort of morbid dust storm of horrors. Instead of individual claps, booms, and bangs, a cacophony of destruction raged like continual thunder.

On one side—to the east—the pilots saw a half-circle of 20 armored vehicles, some no more than melted scrap, others firing desperate volleys as they grudgingly gave ground.

Emplacements made from concrete and sandbags held tenuous positions along the mountain ledges and to either side of 96. Short-range artillery lobbed out from those stations, as did sniper fire and mortars. Squads of fragile, bloodied infantry scurried between the cover of fallen trees, blasted buildings, and dead tanks. They did not advance; they did not retreat. Instead, the foot soldiers bolted from spot to spot in a function more of survival than tactics.

Opposite the human defenses came an army of monsters under storm clouds spewing lightning and thunder.

Shiny rolling balls announced Voggoth’s assault. Barely larger than a beach ball, the things sped forward at 100 miles per hour bouncing over obstacles en route to targets. Well-placed sniper shots disabled some and mortar explosions consumed others, but many found their marks. One hit a sandbag bunker. It exploded in a flash of white, burning away the protective shield and microwaving the soldiers hiding behind. Another whacked into an Abrams tank melting the machine’s gun barrel and cooking the crew.

The crystal spheres came from a large, plate-like, coral-red platform of tubes and spikes that floated close to the ground like a hovercraft. Alongside the platform marched a protective ring of walking orbs resembling Daddy Longlegs spiders standing eight-feet tall and firing pellet guns that could shred body armor.

Behind this artillery platform and its escort came a collection of The Order’s infantry. Hundreds of assimilated humans wearing monks robes and firing alien bullets from growths on their forearms mixed with dozens of muscle-bound, gray-skinned, tall humanoids swinging slings made from chains to launch bowling-ball-sized explosive blobs. Many of the former fell to bloody shreds from mortar and artillery strikes while the latter shrugged off the shrapnel and kept advancing through the pass, struck down only by direct hits.

A line of carts—car-sized and rolling on a dozen tiny wheels—followed Voggoth’s army carrying ammunition that resembled slimy seeds and glowing globes. Hard shell-like roofs kept the re-supply wagons safe from all but the most precisely-aimed strikes.

The A-10s targeted the centerpiece—the platform of tubes that launched the rolling artillery balls—and let fly a stream of Maverick air-to-surface missiles complemented by a healthy dose of rounds from their Avenger Gatling Guns…

General Cassy Simms sat among the brush atop one of the mountain crests overlooking 96 from the north. Despite the open ground around her and an easy avenue of retreat behind, Simms felt penned in. That feeling came from the storm clouds above crackling with electricity and seemingly ready to burst.

Humanity had come to know that when the forces of Voggoth gathered in number the atmosphere boiled. Were the storms the result of some kind of bio-electric discharge from Voggoth’s largest war machines? Did the force of The Order’s anti-life machinations clash with the world of the living in a manner similar to anti-matter and matter colliding? Did God anger at the sight of such abominations on His Earth? Or perhaps the thunderheads served Voggoth’s purpose by disrupting the air space overhead.

Not even The Empire’s smartest minds or most spiritual philosophers understood why the storms came. They only knew that they came when Voggoth’s legions mustered. They did not bring rain, they did not usher in a new weather front. They merely gathered and roared as mightily as the battles that raged whenever The Order’s warriors marched.

Simms refused to allow the storms to unnerve her. She was, after all, a professional soldier, at least in terms of the post-Armageddon world. Still, unlike the Duass, the Hivvans, or the Redcoats, the soldiers of The Order seemed different, as if death at The Order’s hands would be far worse than falling to one of the other invading forces.

Simms shrugged those thoughts away and watched the A-10s strike. Spider Sentries disintegrated and missiles destroyed the coral-red platform. The jet engines then whined as the attackers banked away from the wall of mountain.

As the lead elements of Voggoth’s attack shattered, General Simms turned her attention to the west. From her elevated observation point she could glimpse through the spires of the mountain tops. Back there, between the walls of rock, hovered a thick, white mist hugging reaching out from the Wet Mountain Valley. That mist stumped guidance systems, distorted heat signatures, and hid The Orders’ muster zone.

Beneath that artificial mist Voggoth’s legions gathered for another push through the Rockies, a push thwarted several times before by weather as much as resistance. Simms knew that this time their battlefield was one of three that day, each aiming to hold off the easterly tide of The Order.

She heard a scream. A chorus of screams. And then from that mist flew a flock of four Spooks wailing as they searched for targets, each one resembling a ball wrapped in a large spoiled sheet that fluttered like a kite or a cape.

She radioed, “Razorback, this is Hawkeye, watch your six; Spooks closing fast.” The Spooks flew at the fleeing aircraft, their howls disappearing into the greater song of artillery firing and explosives detonating around the mountain pass.

In desperation, the planes dropped flares and chaff despite knowing that neither radar nor heat drew Voggoth’s anti-air defenders. Nonetheless, two of the pursuers followed the decoys, exploding in mid-air harmlessly. One of the A-10s, however, did not escape. The missile—seemingly a living missile despite Voggoth’s minions lacking any real life—impacted the tail assembly and shattered the rear half of the jet.

Cassy Simms shook her head in silent prayer for another dead comrade, then turned her eyes to the mountain pass favored by the enemy. She saw more Spider Sentries advancing from the mist in a long line, another coral-red platform preparing to shoot more rolling shells, she saw more of the monks who had once been human, and more of the lumbering gray Ogres.

Worst of all, she heard the approach of the mightiest of Voggoth’s weapons. Or more specifically, she felt it. The mountain peak trembled, small rocks cascaded away.

The Leviathan stood a thousand feet tall on two appendages describable only as legs. The main body appeared slug-like but facing upwards and held in place by bands of thick tendons. Wisps of protective mist slipped away as it rose from and left behind the valley, carefully moving through the tight confines of the pass.

Simms stayed on her belly and slithered backward down the slope toward more protective cover. The Leviathan passed her position for the heart of the battle.

She wiped sweat from her forehead and radioed, “Hawkeye to Command, do you copy?”

“We copy, Hawkeye, what do you see?”

“They’re still coming, sir,”

General Fink listened to Simms’ report.

“It’s a—it’s a Leviathan. Battle group Center has deployed their Leviathan.”

Fink tried to calm the shake from Simms’ voice, “It’s okay, Cassy. That’s what we wanted, to draw it out. Good job.”

“Copy that, Command. Good luck. Hawkeye out.”

Fink returned the transmitter to the technician who sat at a folding table inside a timber-built barn that served as an ad hoc command center on the south side of Wetmore.

The General walked between shuffling soldiers and climbed to the loft on a creaking wooden ladder.

Trevor Stone stood up there dressed in simple green BDU pants, a black top, and a baseball cap jammed over shoulder-length hair. The Emperor had cast away the ornate trappings of his position much in the same way he had cast away the bulk of the bureaucracy after his return to power. Things had simplified on that day ten months ago. After much blood, that is.

Stone’s eyes fixed tight to the lenses of powerful field glasses as he stared out the hayloft door. From there he saw the flashes and blasts of battle raging two miles away.

“Simms just eyeballed their Leviathan,” Fink relayed with none of the jokes, Looney Tunes references, or Mel Blanc inspired voices that served as his calling card. Times had changed. Trevor Stone had changed.

“Our guns ready?”

“Yes.”

He considered reminding Trevor that Woody “Bear” Ross commanded those guns, but that would serve only to re-emphasize the point that Ross now commanded a mobile artillery unit instead of serving as the Excalibur’s first officer. That, in turn, would conjure unpleasant images of The Empire’s flagship full of holes, burning, and limping away from the battlefield last year, barely reaching the Pittsburgh shipyards where she remained out of action.

Fink strolled closer to a portable table on which rested several maps and papers. Those maps and papers showed the positions and plans of Trevor Stone’s last chance at defending the Rocky Mountain passes. If Voggoth broke through this time, then it would become a race to the Mississippi, the next and essentially last great barrier between the advancing hordes and the population centers of the East.

Trevor had spoken confidently about this plan, all while dispatching General Jon Brewer east to build a defensive line along the Mississippi.

Stone interrupted Fink’s thoughts, “Any news from Kaufman?”

Casey Fink answered, “She’s engaged a small advanced force outside of Cimarron. So far her boppers and the infantry there are holding the line.”

Stone let the glasses drop, pinched his nose, and joined Fink at the folding table.

As he had done ever since his return, Trevor spoke in a tone that lacked any real emotion but felt heavy with concentration: “You did a hell of a job helping Rhodes transfer 3rd Mech down to Rye last night.”

“Thank you, sir,” Fink acknowledged as he thought about the troops of both his Third Corp and General Rhodes’ 2nd Corp who squared off against one of a trio of forces punching through the Rockies that day.

General Rhodes’ 3rd Mechanized Division had been pulled from the main lines during the night and moved south into a new position, hopefully without The Order’s spies catching wind. That new position could be used to slice into the heart of Voggoth’s main force if the primary stages of the plan failed to turn the tide.

Fink touched the map at Cimarron, New Mexico, one of the other two places where Voggoth tried to push through the Rockies. If all went according to plan, Kristy Kaufman’s Chrysaor and a handful of troops would hold the line in New Mexico against The Order’s Battle group South while Trevor dealt a crushing defeat to Voggoth’s Battle group Center.

But little had gone according to plan since Voggoth’s invasion from the Pacific Ocean, starting with the loss of California last summer, The Order’s breakout into Nevada and Arizona during the Fall, and fighting through the Rockies between blizzards all winter long.

Trevor added his finger to the map as well, this time touching the evacuated city of Denver far to the north where the northernmost flank of the fight prepared to play out.

“Hoth should be in position by now,” Trevor said.

The Phillipan resembled a massive flying rectangle with a flat-top flight deck in front of a tower-like structure covering the rear third of the gigantic ship. Anti-gravity generators kept the steel beast afloat while thrust came from a series of engine baffles to aft.

With Denver off his port side, General William Hoth’s Dreadnought drifted over and between the Rocky Mountains. His target—the battering ram of Voggoth’s Battle group North—stood as tall as a skyscraper stretching up from the protective mist shrouding The Order’s mustering forces, like a dorsal fin exposing a shark. A few scattered gray clouds—surprisingly few for a force estimated so large—swirled overhead, spoiling an otherwise blue sky.

Hoth occupied the command module onboard the crescent-shaped bridge of his battleship. From there he accessed computer screens, monitors, and communications to gather information and control every ship function. Whoever stood in that module became the “Brain” of an Imperial Dreadnought.

The heavy-set General with the stoic voice relayed his work to the crew, “Proceeding to firing range. Charging the belly boppers to eighty percent.”

Ahead waited the Leviathan, unfazed by the approaching war machine.

Hoth delegated one duty to his XO. “Contact Command, tell them we’ve spotted Battle group North’s Leviathan. We will engage the target in less than two minutes”

“Good,” Trevor said in reaction to the message from the Phillipan. “They’ve shown most of their cards so far.”

“Kaufman has yet to engage Battle group South’s Leviathan.”

“She will,” Stone answered. “Voggoth is getting greedy, trying to punch through three spots at once. Trying to spread us too thin so we can’t stop him.” Trevor returned to the view of the battlefield from the hayloft. Even from a few miles away he could see the lumbering giant coming through the mountain pass. “But if we can beat him decisively here, we can roll him back on the other two fronts.”

While Stone spoke confidently, Fink knew that the opposite of that scenario also held true. If Voggoth broke through at Wetmore, then the sparse number of ground troops in Denver to the north and Cimarron, New Mexico to the South would make the line untenable.

Stone grew transfixed by the far away cloud of battle and the gargantuan beast, its lower half invisible behind a horizon of rooftops and foothills. It appeared to Fink that the sight mesmerized Stone. As if maybe he saw more there than what met the eye.

Trevor spoke in a steady, quiet voice, “I used to think mankind was so good at making war that it was scary. Then I see Voggoth’s beasts, and I realize we don’t know shit.”

Fink offered a meek, “Yes, sir,” although he did not think Trevor heard because the Leviathan’s battle cry began; a sound that whined and built like an air raid siren. Fink gasped, “Oh shit, it’s gonna fire. Shit, shit, and it’s not in position yet. It’s not out of the pass all the way.”

Trevor spoke again, still hypnotized by the battle and the insane walking skyscraper.

“You know the difference between us and Voggoth?”

Fink stepped to Stone’s shoulder. The sound of the Leviathan grew louder still as the gigantic creature sucked in air. Fink knew the barn lay beyond the immediate blast zone but not completely out of danger.

Trevor appeared unconcerned. Or, at least, distracted by his thoughts.

“The difference is that when we make our smart bombs and build our jet planes we use words like ‘area of affect’ and ‘yield’ and ‘operational radius.’ All so sterile. So—so detached.”

Fink watched the Leviathan stoop, as if trying to get a better look at the tiny little creatures daring to block its path. As it bent, the massive hole that lived at the top of the giant swung down like the barrel of God’s gun taking aim.

“But Voggoth’s gunsmiths use words like ‘pain’ and ‘terror’ and ‘suffering’. You’ve got to hand it to them, they’ve boiled war to its essence. You have to admire their honesty.”

There came no noise from the blast of wind exhaled by the mighty Leviathan because that wind moved faster than sound. From the top of the loft Fink and Stone watched a storm of dirt and dust blow away tanks, artillery, and pieces of what used to be soldiers.

That supersonic blast of air twisted out of the mountain passage, through the center of the defensive line, and across the jagged land between the battlefield and the command center. The sound caught up to and overtook the slowing gust, reaching their ears in a beastly howl.

Fink shoved Trevor to the hay-covered floor. The lethal blast of wind dissipated fast but still hit the barn with hurricane force. Chunks of roof tore away, the map table flipped and rolled; the barn doors exploded in toppling gear and sending the staff diving for cover.

It passed.

Something metal and squeaky swayed back and forth at the rear of the barn. Static broadcast from radios. A cloud of hay, dust, and papers floated about. Soldiers emerged from under chairs and tables with soft groans and sharp cusses. The barn grew brighter with half the roof blown away.

Fink had fallen atop Stone in order to protect him from debris, but Trevor quickly broke free and returned to his view of the battle.

A wide swatch of smashed, toppled, and otherwise obliterated landscape lay between the south side of Wetmore and the battlefield, as if an F5 tornado had roared through. That battlefield had been cut in half—a north side and a south side—nothing between. Nothing where the Leviathan’s weapon had struck.

Sharp reports and blasts broke the quiet as what remained of The Empire’s front lines regained their composure and faced swarms of infantry pouring forward around the giant’s legs.

Fink knew this to be the pattern. It could nearly be called a game, something like rock-paper-scissors. Wherever The Empire formed defensive lines, along came the Leviathans to blast through. Fortresses? Trenches? Caves? Mountains? It did not matter. Anything in the direct path of the supersonic winds would be tossed aside.

Then the hordes would come.

With a great deal of effort, the full force of a dreadnought could destroy a Leviathan if that Leviathan could be directly engaged. And the Empire’s ground forces with proper support could hold off the tide of Voggoth’s insane foot soldiers. But the combination of the two? Deadly, as proven multiple times since last Summer, especially considering that Voggoth had found ways to deal with the dreadnoughts.

Of more immediate concern, today—at the centermost of the day’s war zones—no dreadnought waited. Today Trevor Stone prepared a different plan, one born either from desperation or invention, Fink could not be sure which. Then again, had not all of Stone’s tactics over the years been the same?

“Is it in position? Damn it, Fink, get on the radio with Simms!”

But Fink did not need to get on the radio. As the staff officers on the ground floor of the barn re-assembled their gear they eavesdropped on a conversation between Simms’ observation point and Woody “Bear” Ross’ fleet of MLRS vehicles.

“Hawkeye to Thor, do you copy?”

Ross’ deep voice answered, “Copy, Hawkeye.”

“Target is in position. Repeat, target is in position.”

Fink hurried to Trevor’s side to watch the plan unfold. A veil of debris clouded their view of the battlefield, but the monstrous towering beast could be easily discerned as it stepped across the threshold of mountain pass to open terrain.

Artillery flashed around its feet blasting apart formations of Voggoth’s Ogres and Monks and Spider Sentries. More crystal rolling cruise missiles launched from another of those coral-red hovercraft platforms. More of Trevor’s forces suffered but they gave as good as they got.

Yet Fink knew it did not matter. Any moment the Leviathan would suck in more air then aim another deadly blast at one side of the line or the other. Then repeat until the path lay bare.

“Get your reserve units ready to roll forward,” Trevor told Fink in reference to the twin columns of tanks and mobile infantry waiting on the far side of Wetmore. “And Rhodes, too.”

Fink reminded, “General Rhodes has been ready for hours. Just waiting for the go-word.”

Another noise trumped the chorus of destruction playing at the gateway to the Rockies. This time that noise did not come from Voggoth’s massive war-beast but from one of the many war-beasts at mankind’s disposal.

They came like a rainstorm of smoke and metal, line upon line of rockets fired a dozen miles away by Woody “Bear” Ross’s formation of mobile M270 MLRS vehicles, expending the last stores of their available munitions.

Fink shivered at the sight of nearly 100 rockets streaking toward the pre-designated target area on Highway 96 just outside the mountain pass where the Leviathan now stood, having walked right onto the planned bulls eye.

“C’mon…” Stone mumbled an urge that, to Fink’s ears, sounded one-part prayer.

The Leviathan did not lack defenses. As the bombardment closed, pores along the upper torso of the machine-creature ejected small cubes that detonated around the beast causing ripples of concussion. Some of the rockets shattered and burst prematurely, others were sent tumbling off-course. But for every rocket destroyed or deflected, three punched through.

Blasts of orange, yellow, and black smoke tore across the Leviathan’s midsection. One after another they hit until the monstrous creature burned. Trevor’s grin grew wider with each impact. But would it be enough?

Between the debris cloud still floating after the wind storm, the plumes of rocket fuel, and the puffs of smoke coming from exploding rockets, the view of the battlefield from the command post became even more obstructed. But even through the smoke Trevor and Fink spied vile liquids spraying out from wounds, they saw the tendons wrapping the beast’s torso spring undone like the cables of a suspension bridge pushed beyond cohesion.

It fell in two pieces as the midsection could no longer support the weight. Two massive pieces of war machine tumbled to Earth crushing hundreds of Voggoth’s foot soldiers. An earthquake shuddered across the landscape.

Trevor shouted, “Get Rhodes going! Get him going, now!”

Phillip Rhodes had come to Trevor’s post-Apocalypse lakeside estate 11 years ago with the group of U.S. soldiers who survived Armageddon on the run with Thomas Prescott.

During that first year Rhodes participated in the attack on the extraterrestrial Gateway outside of Binghamton, New York only to break his collar bone on the return trip when his Humvee rolled in a snow storm. Four years later it had been Rhodes’ unit that stumbled upon the strange cave outside of Blacksburg, Virginia where Trevor Stone’s half-brother dwelt.

For a brief time last summer Philip Rhodes commanded the vaunted 2nd Mechanized Unit of Virginia, known as “Stonewall’s Brigades”. When Thomas Prescott died during Voggoth’s invasion at Long Beach, Rhodes received another instant promotion to the leader of the decimated Second Corps.

Despite the haughty rank and long title, Generals Rhodes fought on the front lines, riding along with the 3rd Mechanized Division as it struck at the heart of the enemy. More specifically, his formation held the key to turning the tide of a war that had been deteriorating for months.

Essentially, he was tasked with saving The Empire, if it could even be called that anymore. The word did not roll as smoothly off the tongue when retreating.

Still, as he rode north in a Humvee as part of a snake-like band of infantry and light armor weaving between the crumbling rock walls hiding Highway 165, General Philip Rhodes believed his mission would be successful. The plan—Trevor’s plan—made perfect sense.

Voggoth marched his forces with a simple but effective strategy: engage and destroy humanity’s armies. He left his lesser minions—the Mutants and Wraiths and Roachbots—to infest cities and eradicate stragglers. But his main forces—his Leviathans and Spider Sentries and Chariots—sought to engage mankind’s organized forces.

And that is why The Order rigidly followed Highway 96 through the mountains and into battle against the main human army encamped at Wetmore. As such, Voggoth had ignored Highway 165 that sprouted away from 96 in the middle of the Wet Mountains. Highway 165 had become difficult to pass, anyhow, due to years of neglect. Landslides had turned it from a modern road into little more than a rocky path.

While heavy armor would have difficulty negotiating the downed boulders and debris cluttering the tight roadway, Humvees and infantry could push through. Rhodes’ strike from 96 would cut the alien force in two once the Leviathan fell. At that point, armored reserves hiding near Wetmore would attack the head of Voggoth’s column. Between the two attacks they would slice up and liquidate the enemy.

Of course, Rhodes knew his fight to be one of three that day. He knew that the Phillipan and the Chrysaor moved to intercept the other two prongs of The Order’s push east. And therein lay Voggoth’s mistake. With his heaviest weapons—three Leviathans—split between three different battle groups, The Empire could deal a decisive blow to the center and roll back the entire front. If they could draw out and knock down that walking battering ram.

The order to advance meant that part one of the plan had succeeded. While a tough fight remained, victory now appeared plausible with the Leviathan toppled.

A gamble, true, but all their victories since the invaders came had been the results of gambles and it seemed to General Rhodes that Trevor Stone rarely rolled snake eyes.

“Boppers charged to eighty percent,” Hoth echoed the display on his Weapons Status monitor for the benefit of the XO and crew. “Target in range. Preparing to fire.”

Beyond the windows and far out past the tip of the flight deck, loomed the incredibly large biomechanical monster known as a Leviathan. Near the top of its skyscraper-sized form hovered a patch of gray and black thunderheads, seemingly the remains of a storm long gone. Far below swirled a thick white mist pumped by The Order’s machines to hide the other components of Battle group North that threatened Denver.

Hoth knew the first Leviathan had fallen at Wetmore. He knew Rhodes launched a surprise attack. He knew it meant he had to keep his end of the deal. Those who knew Hoth understood that the General always kept his end of the deal. Ever since his days playing football for Army, the career-officer lived by the military code.

Indeed, on that fateful day last summer when Trevor Stone returned from the dead, the General had been prepared to blast the Excalibur from the sky because those had been his orders from the recognized chain of authority. That chain had changed that day, to the relief of all, but perhaps no more so than to William Hoth.

Indeed, while Hoth would never let his feelings show, he had found a great deal of satisfaction in watching the returned Emperor’s purge of the Senate, governors, and Internal Security. Not so much the public executions—they felt a tad gruesome—more so the eradication of the bureaucracy. In an instant, a library’s worth of post-Armageddon laws, regulations, and procedures vanished.

The remaining politicos served more as administrators implementing Trevor’s will, and no one complained because the results of Godfrey’s folly were on full display as Voggoth marched east. Voggoth’s invasion served a scary reminder and the people ran for Trevor’s protection yet again, as if he might be a messiah who could work his magic twice.

In fact, that magic appeared ready to work again. Success at Wetmore seemed the most unlikely of the chips that needed to fall and fall they had. Now Hoth had to do his job.

The Phillipan drifted into position. The mighty Leviathan did not move or react in any way, to the point that Hoth wondered if the beast had been activated. No matter, he felt no shame in shooting a big fish in a proverbial barrel.

“Firing main batteries.”

Two blobs of energy soared from the forward guns of the Phillipan. The energy bursts crackled and bubbled as they cut through the sky beneath the gray, churning clouds and above the ocean-like veil of mist. The entire dreadnought shimmied and bucked.

The energy blasts hit the ungodly war machine dead center. In an instant the creature shattered and crumbled into a shower of flakes and shards.

Silence fell across the bridge crew when there should be cheers.

The XO stood nearby and said with more hope than proclamation, “We did it, sir.”

Hoth mumbled aloud, “Is there anything down there? Anything at all?” He then announced to the bridge crew, “We’re turning about and setting course for Wetmore. Brace for maximum speed.”

“Sir, what is it?”

Hoth answered his XO, “A decoy.”

The line of soldiers stretched ahead of Rhodes’ lightly-armored Humvee. With all the rock slides and debris to either side, he felt more as if they marched through a big trench than a road.

He took note of his troops. They looked dusty and grimy and tired, their graying uniforms nearly matched the complexion of the stony, shadowed passage they traveled. Yet he knew his boys were in their best spirits since he had taken command. For the first time since the California War, Third Mechanized attacked instead of retreated.

Most of his troops were citizen soldiers molded from necessity, not recruitment drives. Their ages ranged from under 16 to over 60. Their equipment—even the graying uniforms—appeared only the least bit standardized. Most carried M16s or similar models such as M4s or AR15s, a few sported AK-47s while fewer still dealt with semi-automatic hunting rifles. All wore Kevlar helmets and some form of body armor in conditions ranging from pristine to threadbare.

Most important, each of those soldiers realized the stakes. Each was prepared to fight because they believed in Trevor Stone, the man who had saved them when the world seemed over, the man who had traveled across dimensions, the man who had returned from the dead.

They marched forward under the command of General Rhodes, but they marched for Trevor. He would lead them to victory again.

As he considered all this, Rhodes felt his morale rise. Then the screams started.

The driver instinctively stopped when a commotion rolled through the ranks. Heads turned skyward. Rhodes opened the passenger door and followed their gaze.

Up into the sky—toward the swirling storm clouds—rose black dots, one after another sent flying among the forward ranks.

No, not black dots. People. Arms flailing, a few letting loose horrified screams, but most already dead.

Another one went, this time only a few dozen yards ahead of Rhodes’ position. He heard a blast of vapor and saw the soldier go flying into the sky, dozens of feet, hundreds of feet, a thousand feet—lifeless arms and limbs shaking and waving. Then gravity took hold and the body plummeted to earth where it landed in a crowd of panicking infantry.

“Bouncers! Fucking bouncers!”

The column halted. Everyone stepped back, almost in unison.

“Sonofabitch,” Rhodes growled at his driver and anyone who would hear. “Bouncer mines. Why didn’t the dogs sniff em’ out? Christ this is going to slow things down.”

FFLLOOOOOOPP!

FFLLOOOOOOPP!

Another man, then another next to him, exploded skyward as a camouflaged packet of highly pressurized gas exploded from the ground beneath. One of the men screamed. The other—like most—could not because the force from the gas expulsion shattered his spinal cord or brain instantaneously.

“Get the dogs up! Get em’ up now!”

One of Rhodes staffers inside the car frantically called forward the K9 bomb sniffers, but Rhodes knew that if this breed of mines could be easily sniffed they would have been sniffed when the recon teams had gone through before dawn. Voggoth had changed the scent. That meant planning. That meant The Order had anticipated this move. That meant—

Something flickered ahead. Shadows and light danced on the walls of rock surrounding the road. More screams. Fire.

Two amber comets of flame roared a dozen feet overhead the army, each ball of fire dripping burning fuel that fell on the people below like napalm. Shouts of ‘Incoming!’ stated the blatantly obvious while men and women scrambled for cover.

Rhodes watched the pair of flying comets of fire come closer and closer. He could see two dark spots on the burning round balls that might be eyes and a shadowy maw smiling or screaming, all surrounded by a mane of golden yellow inferno.

“General! Take cover!”

The command Humvee quickly emptied as two grunts, a radio technician, the driver and the General hurried for a depression in the dead grass between the cracked pavement of the road and the rising wall of rock.

SWOOSH!

An anti-tank missile intercepted one of the weapons, exploding it in a howl. The dying creature’s remains showered fire and destruction onto the fleeing soldiers below.

The remaining ball of fire streaked past Rhodes. Its wake killed a dozen men within the General’s view and caught his Humvee on fire. It burned for ten seconds before the fuel tank exploded.

“Get me a goddamn radio!”

The radio technician who served in Rhodes’ entourage panicked, “I’ve got nothin’ but static, sir! I think the damn things are jamming us!”

The General barked an order but no one seemed capable of complying. “We’ve got to let command know—they were waiting for us. Sonofabitches were waiting for us!”

Cassy Simms remained at her observation post, first confirming the destruction of the Leviathan then reporting on remaining enemy strength. She hoped the armored reinforcements from Wetmore and Rhodes’ strike up from Rye would come soon because the flow of forces from beneath the mist continued at an alarming rate; more than anticipated.

Ogres and Spider Sentries by the hundreds, thousands of converted humans, and three more of the rolling artillery platforms all covered by the low-flying blob-like ships known as Chariots. It added up to much more than she would have expected from one Battle group.

An incoming transmission asked, “Hawkeye, this is command, any news from Rhodes?”

Simms found it surprising that Fink would ask her about Rhodes, let alone use the General’s name on-air.

“No, Command, negative.”

“Let us know, Hawkeye. We’re having some comm problems.”

Just minutes ago, she had cheered as the volley of rockets blew the Leviathan into pieces. Now a feeling built in the pit of her stomach—an ache. And the thunderstorms above, they grew fiercer.

The ground shook. Small rocks cascaded away from her position.

She turned her attention west again, glimpsing through the mountains to the valley where the mist swirled. The valley where Voggoth had grown and nurtured his army.

A massive shadow rose, parting and pushing the mist aside. Taller—taller—taller until the top tickled the clouds.

A Leviathan.

And then another, a few giant paces behind. Two Leviathans like twin towers rising from hiding spots beneath the mist. They had no faces, no mouths other than the massive maw that served to suck in then expel air. Yet to Cassy Simms those faceless monsters appeared to smile.

“C-command, c-command this is Hawkeye—“

She stopped her transmission when more came from the mist. A screaming flock of Spooks rising together so fast and so tightly packed that for a moment it seemed as if a curtain rose.

Counter-battery fire.

Trevor did not need the binoculars to understand what unfolded on the battlefield. The Leviathans were plain to see, walking one after another through the mountain pass toward his defenses, toward the reserve armor they had committed to the fight before realizing that fight had already been lost. Now those tanks and APCs would be sacrificial lambs.

He had trouble considering it fully because the chorus of a sky filled with screaming Spooks bore into his mind. It almost sounded like a laugh. Voggoth’s laugh. The flock nearly blocked out the sun as it sped eastward in search of Ross’ line of artillery.

“Sir…?”

Casey Fink’s incomplete question asked so much.

Why didn’t this work?

How could you lead us into disaster like this?

What are we to do now?

Are you really the same Trevor Stone?

No, he was not the same Trevor Stone as prior to his phony assassination; prior to suffering a lifetime of torments in a matter of weeks while under the power of The Order. Before that time he had suspected that mankind’s defeat would lead to the end of the human race. Much to his regret, while imprisoned by The Order’s torture machine, Trevor learned that a worse fate awaited his species: If Voggoth triumphed, they would be twisted and mutated into that monster’s minions.

Trevor had witnessed the Feranites warped from a race who shared a special bond with nature into the exact opposite; a species of mechanical slaves far removed from all things natural. It seemed Voggoth valued both destruction and irony.

Bits of organic machines and streaks of flaming aviation fuel fell from the sky and burned among the remains of Wetmore. Trevor heard the roar of jet fighters and the hollers of The Order’s ‘Spooks’ colliding in the airspace above.

He cast his eyes upward through one of the many holes in the barn roof and sure enough contrails and starbursts of smoke filled what remained of the blue sky as the storm came over the mountains.

“Brilliant, you know,” he said aloud in a detached musing.

“Sir?”

“It’s brilliant, the way Voggoth fights up there. Reminds me of Hitler during World War II. The Nazis didn’t have much of a Navy to stand up to the British, so they built U-Boats by the bushel. Cheap U-Boats. Not to take control of the seas, but to deny England from having total control of those seas. Voggoth deploys hundreds of these things that probably cost him the same as pennies to make. Sure, we wipe them out by the handful, but it just takes one to knock down an F-15. He goes out and grows more tomorrow, we can’t replace an F-15 for months, if ever.”

Fink stood silent in a mixture of shock and confusion.

Trevor returned his attention to the disintegrating front lines. On some level he had been certain that victory would come today, that all the defeats of the past year were minor events. That he needed only a combination of the right terrain, a good plan, and a little luck.

All those stars had aligned, but yet he lost. Voggoth had out maneuvered him. Voggoth had out-thought him. And now Voggoth would out-fight him.

“Sir, shall I give the order to withdraw?”

“We can’t withdraw, Casey,” Trevor spoke plainly. “Our forces are engaged. We have no reserves to fight a delaying action. Our boys are either going to die fighting or get shot in the back running. Voggoth won’t allow an orderly retreat.”

And for that, Trevor felt compelled to tip his hat toward the sinister mind of Voggoth. That devil had conceived and hatched a plan to draw Trevor’s forces into the open and force a climactic battle. Certainly Jon Brewer’s units mustering on the Mississippi would provide some small challenge, but without the men who would be slaughtered here, today, then the Mississippi would prove little more than a speed bump.

“Um, sir,” Fink sounded embarrassed as he corrected his boss. “I didn’t mean the whole army, sir.”

“Oh? You mean us? Me? The headquarters unit? I guess so,” Trevor conceded but his eyes leered longingly at the battlefield. This was not supposed to happen. This day was to turn the tide. Those reserve tank units were supposed to surprise the vanguard of Voggoth’s ground troops after the Leviathan had fallen and Rhodes’ infantry columns were supposed to slice and dice the belly of the beastly army. That had been the script.

Blasts of tank cannon fired; explosions shook the ground; fireballs of pilots and wings and gore dropped from the sky.

A small part of Trevor—very small and very isolated—wondered if it would be so bad to simply stay in the ruined barn and let The Order’s forces swarm over. It seemed now that day would come, either there at Wetmore, in a few weeks at the Mississippi, or in the Appalachian mountains or at some last stand along the Atlantic coast.

Of course he could not. He would fight. And if he had nearly no army at the end of that day, he would fight on his own from the mountains and caves or cross the sea and join the outposts of humanity in Europe and Africa to muster forces anew.

“Sir..?”

“Yes, of course, let’s go.”

He glanced at his tanks once more. They rolled forward in a line past blasted buildings and across the wasteland swept clear by the Leviathan’s supersonic blast. Their treads creaked and squeaked and diesel engines rumbled and the stench of exhaust floated behind like a foul wake of tainted air. And forward they went into the shadows of the two advancing Leviathan’s no doubt knowing their fate was sealed but doing it anyway because—like Trevor—no alternative remained.

The headquarters unit hastily packed what remained of their gear and followed Trevor as he retreated through the rear of barn. Out back on the far end of a tattered field and protected by a dirt berm sat one of The Empire’s “Eagle” Transports. Those machines had come to Earth from the invaders known initially as the Redcoats then eventually as the Centurians. Humanity had captured several, reverse-engineered the design, added improvements, and now called them their own.

With alien-designed anti-gravity generators providing lift and clean-burning hydrogen fuel to generate thrust, what the boxy Eagles lacked in aesthetics they more than made up for in efficiency.

Soldiers and technicians surrounded the Eagle on all sides working to secure heavy trucks, Humvees, a water buffalo, and portable generators. A palatable aura of panic emanated from the men and women wearing various shades of battle dress uniform. A column of infantry onboard a collection of army trucks and SUVs raced toward the front passing the small encampment on a dusty road.

Trevor and General Fink descended the berm. Far overhead a burning Tomcat barrel rolled in a graceful arc after a ‘Spook’ rammed its rear thrusters.

The two arrived at the transport, walked the short entry ramp, and opened the sliding door with the push of a button. Several of the headquarters techs and soldiers joined them, still more waited behind for the anticipated Blackhawk chopper that planned to spirit them away, if air traffic control could navigate it into the hot zone.

One side of the rectangular passenger compartment offered rows of seats for safe travel, the other side presented an array of communications gear and data banks. A display of exotic weapons—including a Civil War era sword that once belonged to General ‘Stonewall’ McAllister—garnished a small stretch of wall. Its blade glinted silver with a hint of fading crimson.

“Rick,” General Fink called through the open bulkhead that led toward the pointy cockpit, “we’re cleared to go.”

Rick Hauser—Trevor’s personal pilot for years—did not listen to General Fink. Instead, the blond-haired man with glasses walked into the passenger compartment with a red face and gasped, “Sir, it’s the Phillipan. She’s here!”

“What? Hoth is supposed to be up in Denver!”

Unlike Casey, Trevor did not question the reason but, instead, grasped on to one last offered straw. He hurried to the communications array where a technician sat.

“Get the Phillipan on the horn. Rick, how far out is she?”

“Five minutes.”

Trevor turned to Fink and ordered, “Contact the ground commanders. Order a full retreat.”

“Sir?”

“Casey—the Phillipan can bail us out. She can fight a holding action.”

“One dreadnought? Hold off Voggoth’s whole army?”

While victory remained impossible, this last chance at survival infused Trevor with new enthusiasm.

“I gave you an order. Get on it. And find a way to get in touch with Rhodes.”

Casey gulped and sought a second communications port.

“Sir, I’ve got General Hoth,” the comm officer presented Trevor with a headset.

“Hoth, can you read me?”

“Yes, sir. The Denver army was a decoy. I think they loaded up everything on you.”

“That’s right. Good thinking for high-tailing it here. But you may wish you hadn’t.”

“What do you need, Trevor?”

“I need you to pull our asses out of a bad spot, General. They caught us by surprise. They caught me by surprise. Our forces are committed. No reserves; nothing that could put up a rear guard action. We can’t win this fight and we can’t get out of it, either. I need you to hold the line while the army—well, while the ground forces escape.”

No reply immediately came. No doubt Hoth soaked in the full meaning. And as General Hoth had done all his life, he accepted the order without question.

“Understood, sir.”

No words of bravado. No quote for the history books.

Casey Fink interrupted, “The forward armor units are fully engaged. I’m still trying to raise Rhodes. I have this feeling his communications are being jammed.”

Trevor nodded then returned his attention to the Phillipan.

“Good luck, General. To you and your crew.”

“To you too, Trevor. We’ll buy you as much time as we can.”

The massive air ship pivoted slowly like a sumo wrestler stomping into position for a big strike. Below—in the shadow of the mighty flying beast—the armored spearhead of Trevor’s attack force switched gears from forward to reverse. Ahead at the mouth of the mountain pass, the first of the two advancing Leviathan’s stood straight and tall to skyscraper height.

Twin blasts of energy fired from the Phillipan’s bow. They burned the flesh of Voggoth’s ungodly war machine like a laser scalpel slicing across a patient. Thousands of gallons of puss-like yellow bile sprayed out. But the beast did not fall.

A new wave of the hideous Spooks birthed from the mist-covered valley screamed up through the swirling storm clouds, arched across the heavens as bolts of lightning flashed and thunder boomed, then plunged into the upper deck of the dreadnought.

Anti-air Gatling guns fired defensive volleys. A dozen—two dozen—nearly three dozen of the vile missiles fell apart. But nearly the same number crashed into the target. Explosions peppered the flight deck and cracked the closed hangar doors. More pummeled the tower to aft, shaking Hoth onboard his bridge and giving life to flash fires and hull breaches.

In addition to the ship’s main batteries, a swarm of smaller gun ports to the underside rained missiles, smart munitions, gravity bombs, and artillery-caliber shells toward the enemy.

One of Voggoth’s hovering coral-red platforms shattered in the fury of the storm. A Chariot flyer suffered a direct hit, spewed smoke, then fell like a rock and rolled down a mountainside. An uncountable number of formerly-human monks disintegrated in the fire.

But still they came, pouring through the pass.

A terrible noise arose from the lead Leviathan: a sound like an air raid siren building louder and louder as it swallowed air from the sky. The turbulence from the vortex shook the Phillipan side to side but she did not retreat. Instead, the energy banks of the ship’s main batteries raced to beat the Leviathan to firing power.

The monstrosity ceased pulling in its deadly wind and began to stoop to obliterate the retreating rows of armor and vehicles.

The Phillipan fired again, this time at lower power but practically into the maw of the stooping beast. The blasts of energy tore at the monster’s top half and—through good fortune or great aim—severed several key tendons on the towering beast’s frame. The air pressure building to lethal force inside the monster worked against it. An explosion of air followed the explosion of the Phillipan’s attack, detonating long before Voggoth’s pet could aim at the fleeing humans.

Instead, the wind radiated out at a higher altitude, blasting into the Phillipan at less than supersonic speeds but at a force to be envied by hurricanes.

Hull plates already damaged from the bombardment of Spooks tore away; the cracked hangar doors ripped apart; radar and communications antennas atop the tower broke like matchsticks; and the entire dreadnought spun around 180 degrees and listed like a ship on stormy waters.

The badly wounded Leviathan wobbled like a drunken buffoon. A flight of missiles launched from the airship’s underside raced on plumes of smoky fire across the sky and into the bleeding belly of the foe. Explosions that otherwise could not harm the thick hide of the Leviathan aggravated the grievous tear across its body.

Another deluge of ‘Spooks’ hurried to the rescue, smashing into the tower section of the dreadnought with one hitting the closed blast screens of the bridge’s observation windows. The impact sent a wave of heat through the brain of the ship.

The ‘belly boppers’ remained fully operational and from them came the knockout punch. The blasts hammered the Leviathan one last time.

It stumbled then fell as it died the death of an imploding skyscraper. Hundreds of lesser minions died beneath the collapsing weight. An earthquake rattled Colorado and the beast came to rest not far from the fallen body of the first mighty Leviathan.

The third giant came to a halt in the mountain pass, hesitant to face the floating city blocking the path. Around its monstrous feet raced forward thousands more of Voggoth’s legions. More spider sentries. More Chariot aircraft. More hovering gun platforms. More ogres and monks and other things born from nightmares.

The Phillipan held.

When the mission had first begun, General Rhodes felt the tight confines of the mountain road seemed a hidden passage toward the enemy’s exposed underbelly. Now those high rocky walls that kept most of the afternoon daylight away felt more a trap.

The majority of his force stretched behind him in rows of infantry and light vehicles, a half-mile snake of humanity. At the head of that snake chaos ruled. Infantry darted between fallen boulders as well as the ditches and depressions to either side of the highway. Those soldiers dodged rapid-fire pellets coming from a handful of advancing Spider Sentries.

A trio of Humvees moved to support the human soldiers, one launching a TOW missile that obliterated an enemy into a gob of goo.

Several K9s moved around the battlefield accompanied by military handlers. The dogs sniffed and barked as they searched for bouncer mines. Voggoth had draped the hidden presents in a new scent, but once the dogs managed to get a whiff of some of the expended mines they could lock on to the ones that remained hidden. And there were plenty. Every few minutes groups of sappers rushed forward amidst the crossfire to spray the hidden cushions of compressed air with a type of acid that melted away the casing and released the tightly-held contents with an ear-splitting pop.

Rhodes peeked from behind a cluster of boulders and used his binoculars to spy the front line. He watched two of his men fall, one dying instantly the other begging for the mercy of a medic. He saw another Spider Sentry succumb to 50-caliber rounds. It appeared his men might just break through.

“Sir, look at this!”

Rhodes’ driver—who now had nothing to drive—pointed to an approaching K9. The dog dropped a small, dead creature on the side of the road in view of the General.

The K9’s handler—a thin man with tired eyes—told the General in an emotionless tone, “We’re finding bunches of these things.”

Rhodes eyed the creature while the sounds of explosions and ricocheting rounds roared around the canyon road. It resembled a two-legged green pineapple. Two protrusions similar to insect antenna rose from the top of a featureless head.

“Christ, I’ll bet a week’s pay that’s what’s jamming us. Can you get through, corporal?”

The radio man tested his set again. Static.

“No, sir. Must be more of them.”

As if he had not already had enough such signs, Rhodes saw this as yet another indicator that The Order expected his line of attack from Rye. Yet still, despite the obstacles in their way, the jammed communications, and the bouncer mines, his forward units made progress albeit with a casualty rate approaching 30%.

General Rhodes hoisted himself atop one of the boulders and used his binoculars to survey the front. He saw another Spider Sentry go down and his Humvees roll forward flanked by infantry. The path appeared clear.

Before he could complete that thought another line of Spider Sentries complemented by a bunch of those muscle-bound Ogre things appeared in the distance. The former fired more of their pellet-rounds and the latter launched explosive balls with big slings, resembling some kind of mutant Olympic athletes competing for the gold.

One such explosive hit a Humvee. It relieved Rhodes to see the crew get clear before the vehicle burst. Nonetheless, their advance slowed again as small arms fire and grenades exchanged with the enemy’s weird weapons.

“Jesus Christ, these things keep coming at us piecemeal.”

A stretcher hurried by carrying a heavily-medicated middle aged woman missing an arm.

Rhodes jumped from the boulder.

“Corporal, we need to get a message to command. I got this feeling there is more going on out there than we know. If we can’t radio them, we’re going to have to send a runner.”

“INCOMING!”

The small gathering of the general and his staff swiveled around and saw the amber glow of another burning comet-thing come roaring over the highway. The flames from its burning mane fell upon the front lines sending soldiers racing for cover.

Two energy blasts met the rampaging thing in mid-flight, exploding it like a sun gone rogue. A cheer rose from the ranks. General Rhodes backtracked the path of those well-timed blasts. Behind him—moving up from the south—came an Eagle transport.

The approaching ship fired another round of energy weapons from the turret under its nose cone. The weapon smashed into the spider sentries at the front line and gave the soldiers fighting there a moment’s reprieve. Then the ship descended to the road where it came to a rest slightly tilted on rocks obstructing its starboard landing gears.

“Seems someone else had the same idea,” Rhodes mused as he hurried to the craft.

The side door open and there stood Trevor Stone who looked more like a post-Apocalyptic survivalist than an Emperor.

“General Rhodes, pull your men back. Fast.”

“Sir, we’re making some progress. Slow stuff, but progress all the same.”

“No you’re not. Voggoth is sucking you in. They burned us, General. They burned me. The only reason you’re making any progress is because they want you to keep at it until they can bring the rest of their forces to bear. We’ve already wiped out two Leviathans but they’ve got a third one out there still.”

That last sentence—the idea of three Leviathans assembled in one battle group—ended any discussion. Rhodes’ eyes grew vacant with a type of visceral fear known only to those who have seen a Leviathan in action.

“Corporal, send word to all commands. Pull back, full speed. Do it.”

The corporal moved off to summon runners.

“You can ride with me if you like, General.”

“No sir, thanks all the same. I need to make sure we get out of this.”

“I understand,” Stone said. “Fall back to Rye and then start east. We’re all headed for the Mississippi now, but it’s a mess. The Phillipan is holding them off but we’re not going to get much separation. I don’t know how long the rail lines will hold. Don’t get cut off, General.”

“I’ll do my best, sir.”

General William Hoth stood inside the ‘brain’ of the Phillipan. With the blast doors closed, artificial light flickered across the crescent-shaped bridge. With no view, the room felt isolated and alone. A bunker mentality, perhaps.

A round black scorch mark on the bulkhead protecting the bridge windows served as one reminder that much more existed—and threatened—from beyond that room. A second indicator came in the form of banks of flashing lights on the various duty stations around the bridge.

The technicians fielded incoming communications from weapons ports, engineering, medics, and damage control teams.

Hoth knew it all from his position, but even the advanced interfaces, displays, and intuitive controls could not keep the information deluge from overloading his attention. He allowed the bridge techs to dispatch the appropriate assistance to the various parts of the vessel while he concentrated on the tactical situation.

Besides, it served no purpose to focus on damage to any systems other than weapons. Hoth knew that sooner or later that damage would drown the ship’s ability to fight; to stay aloft. He needed to concentrate not on saving the Phillipan, but in causing as much harm to the enemy as possible.

Distant rumbles and faint tremors spoke of another strike by the storm of Spooks or from the guns of the blob-ish Chariot ships buzzing around the mighty dreadnought. Like piranha, they bit in small bites but in great number.

Incoming data told Hoth that only a handful of The Empire’s jet planes remained in the local air space, most of those fighting for their own survival and not capable of giving his vessel any sort of cover. But that same data told Hoth that The Order had given full priority to that airspace, and not the ground below.

Images from cameras mounted on the superstructure showed a growing line of separation between the retreating tanks, APCs, and trucks of the human army and the slithering, rolling, and hovering machines of destruction from Voggoth’s realm. Indeed, the toppled bodies of the two dead Leviathans created a barrier of sorts at the mouth of the mountain pass.

As he surveyed the ground below he spotted one of the coral-like platforms maneuver through that barrier. Hoth tapped a touch screen and a missile shot from the Phillipan’s undercarriage, twisted, turned, and then slammed into the artillery platform. The blast knocked the vehicle sideways and birthed a fire in its belly.

The radar warned of another wave of Spooks. It seemed The Order had prepared well for this battle.

An order from one of the bridge crew to a damage control team caught Hoth’s attention as a copy of the message flashed across his screen. He quickly pushed the ‘countermand’ icon.

“Sir! We need that team in engineering: main thrusters are off-line!”

Hoth re-routed the damage control party with a series of inputs that fed a broadcast to the computerized announcement system. Somewhere far below on one of the lower levels that small team of mechanics and engineers received new instructions to forget engineering and move toward the bow; toward the energy pools and firing mechanisms that fed the ‘bopper’ guns.

The general never felt compelled to explain any of his orders. Nonetheless, he felt it important—and fair to his crew—to paint a clear picture of the situation.

He spoke from the ‘brain’ module loud enough for all to hear, “We don’t need engines anymore. We need weapons and the anti-grav generators. All maintenance teams and services are to be held ready until they’re needed for those two systems. Our boys on the ground are counting on us to hold the line for a while. We’re not going anywhere.”

His crew did not gasp. The helmsman did not panic. The weapons officers and technicians remained focused on their consoles. A shake passed through the bridge as if to punctuate the point yet they took it in stride.

That pleased William Hoth, who had spent his entire life—both pre-and post-Armageddon—following orders and fighting. It seemed no small measure of his discipline and his focus had rubbed off on those who followed him.

No one saw, but for the briefest of moments a very warm and genuine smile of pride for his people flashed on the general’s face. While it would be the last battle of his military career, he also knew it would be the finest.

The Phillipan held a while longer.

Onboard Eagle One as it flew away from the battle, General Casey and Trevor monitored radio messages from the front.

Rhodes had managed to break off his attack and appeared destined to escape with nearly half of his force intact. Getting them from Rye to the Mississippi would prove a greater trick.

The main forces around Wetmore faired even better, in terms of their retreat. Hoth succeeded in blocking the onslaught by making a massive choke point in the Rockies formed in part by a wall of dead invaders. The remaining Leviathan had retreated west in order to avoid the Phillipan’s main batteries. Nonetheless, the day remained a defeat; just not the final defeat.

The video feed offered a telescopic look at the burning dreadnought. Even on the grainy image Trevor saw the deformed engine baffles, scorch marks along the sides, and flakes of bulkhead peeling away from the constant burst of explosions across the vessel. No doubt several infernos burned unchecked within the hull of the great ship.

“She’s still afloat, sir,” Casey said. Trevor thought he detected a hint of hope in the general’s voice. “We’ve disengaged, sir.”

“For now, yes,” Trevor answered. “But The Order is going to break through before this day is done. And then it’s going to become a race east. With the shape we’re in it might take a week to get behind the lines at the Mississippi. I’ll bet Voggoth won’t let us go quietly, either. He’ll be harassing us all the way trying to keep us from re-forming defense lines.”

“How much time do you think we have?”

Trevor answered, “That depends on Hoth.”

Late that afternoon, a Spook-guided missile, three times normal size, knocked out the Phillipan’s top side main batteries. A storm of ground-based anti-air fire managed to penetrate the hull and rupture several important power nodes a short while later.

An orange glow of fire burning across the flight deck complimented the orange glow of twilight as the sun set to the west. The flames from the giant air ship lit the landscape around Wetmore in a surreal amber glow.

By this point all smart munitions had been exhausted, leaving anti-air shells and handfuls of gravity bombs in the dreadnought’s arsenal. The Order sensed the weakness and made one last push through the pass.

It took two more hours to finish the job completely. Chunks of hull the size of buildings fell from the ship; gaping holes grew in the superstructure; and eventually the tower collapsed upon itself rupturing the bridge and tilting the entire burning ship on its axis.

Then the grav-generators failed one by one. The front third of the vessel split and fell to Earth where it crushed more than a hundred enemy troops. The rear section crumbled as the structural stress became too much even for the SteelPlus spine of the ship.

Eventually all power—even the self-contained back up units on the generators themselves—failed. The pieces fell and joined the mountain of debris between the pass through the Rockies and what remained of Wetmore, Colorado.

The Order’s soldiers—including the remaining, giant Leviathan—marched tentatively from the cover of the mountains and into the open. No enemy forces remained to oppose them.

The race for the Mississippi began.

2. Something Blue

Nina stared across the tiny bar into a wide mirror mounted above rows of liquor bottles. She saw a mystery there. A mystery hiding behind her blue eyes.

The clink and clang of glassware, the shuffle of dress shoes, and the gentle chatter of a few dozen guests filled the small reception hall. Many of those guests dressed in black military tunics, a few wore BDUs of various shades, a handful sported suits and ties and skirts and dresses.

For one of the few times in her life, Nina belonged to that last group. Years after finding the mysterious black dress hanging in her closet she finally found an occasion to wear it.

No, that was not quite right. Judging by a decade-old videotape provided by Ashley, she had worn this dress once before, at a New Year’s Eve party held that first year after the invasion; during that year she could not remember.

Nonetheless, unlike that forgotten party where she—or some version of herself—had snuggled close to Trevor Stone and professed her love for him, this tie she kept her curly blond hair bound in a tight ponytail. She wore the dress, it seemed, but did not yet understand it.

The rear door opened, disturbing her bout of introspection, and in walked Jerry Shepherd wearing a cowboy hat atop his general’s uniform. Rough white stubble adorned his cheeks and his eyes had never appeared older.

Shep paused a step inside the door to stoop and pat the head of Odin, Nina’s aging black and gray Norwegian elkhound who inspected each new arrival with his acute canine senses.

Nina moved away from the bar and intercepted her mentor. The clinging of glassware, the shuffle of shoes, and the gentle chatter continued uninterrupted as the guests milled about waiting for the next set of songs to play.

“Shep, hey,” Nina greeted. She loved him as a daughter loved a father, but many daughters come to know, with time, that their fathers are not always honest. The videotape sent to Nina last summer had not revealed the whole truth of her missing year, but it had revealed many lies.

“Nina, my God you look terrific,” he inspected her first then glanced around at the low-ceilinged rectangular room. “I reckon I missed the whole shindig?”

“Sh—sh—Shep! Woohoo!”

The boisterous voice came from Denise who shuffled across the vacant dance floor wearing a short white bridal dress with a glass of red wine balanced precariously in one hand.

“Why now here is quite the sight,” Shep removed his hat and planted a quick peck on the newlywed’s cheek. “Lookit you. Congratulations honey. Where’s Jake? I owe him a handshake.”

Denise slurred, “He’s over—well he’s over there somewhere. Anyway, Shep, I’m sooo glad you came for the reception.”

All three of the participants in the conversation knew that statement to be a lie but it sounded much better than the truth. General Shepherd had not traveled to Annapolis for the wedding, he just happened to be there that weekend because his 1st Corps—particularly the 1st Mechanized Division—had been pulled from the lines due to casualties and a lack of combat readiness. Or put another way, they had suffered quite a beating while fighting Voggoth.

1st Mech alone had suffered nearly seventy-percent casualties. A fighting force once numbering 10,000 men, three brigades, and numerous support units had been cut to ribbons by The Order’s hordes. Their vacation had come as a result of combat ineffectiveness.

“Can’t stick around for long, though,” he shot Nina a glance that served as a message.

Denise, of course, did not need to hear whatever grim message Shep brought. Perhaps she sensed what was to come and moved away to greet other partygoers.

Shep watched her go.

Nina put words in his mouth, “I know, I know, she’s too young to be getting married.”

“She’s eighteen, right?”

“Seventeen. But listen, the way things are going we don’t really have a lot of time to wait. I’m just saying, I want her to be happy; to have what I never had.”

What I lost.

Shep replaced the cowboy hat on his head. “I’m figurin’ that seventeen these days isn’t quite what it used to be. Besides…” he narrowed his eyes and watched Denise wiggle between tables, “after all she’s been through, she deserves at least one day like this.”

Nina whispered, “It’s bad news, isn’t it?”

Shep breathed deep and then answered in a slow exhale, “The Phillipan and Hoth are gone. The Order broke through at Wetmore the day before yesterday. Whole damn front is collapsing.”

Nina cast her eyes toward the floor in both sorrow and a soldier’s prayer. She had worked often under the command of General William Hoth. She had respected him; liked him. Now—like General Prescott last summer—Hoth’s experience and cunning were lost and the war grew that much more hopeless.

At that moment she felt silly—guilty—for wearing a party dress.

She muttered, “There wasn’t anything specific on the news.”

“Yeah, well, I figure Trevor is tellin’ the news boys not to panic. Probably not a bad idea; it’s bad enough as it is.”

Nina shook her head slowly in disgust. It had not been that long ago when The Empire appeared unstoppable. With a fleet of dreadnoughts, a capable even if somewhat rough around the edges military, and a streamlined bureaucracy that avoided the missteps and poor communication of the pre-Armageddon government.

Then Evan Godfrey and his political hacks had taken over. The Emperor himself had been thought assassinated. And a grand ‘peace treaty’ left them vulnerable.

As bad as things appeared to be, it could have been worse. While investigating Trevor’s apparent assassination Nina unknowingly led Jon Brewer and a dreadnought to a hidden base of The Order’s floating off the east coast. There they had found the beginnings of a second invasion force; one that certainly would have hit the east coast simultaneously with the western invasion. The war would have been over in days.

“What happens now?”

General Shepherd told her, “Everything out West is lost. We’re retreating toward the Mississippi. It’s not pretty, Nina. The Order is nipping at our heels trying to get us before we can get behind the defenses Brewer is building. And it’s slow going, too. We’re stopping, fighting rearguard, then going again. But it seems ol’ Hoth slowed them down enough. From what Jon says, it looks like Voggoth is going to have to set up camp and do some farming before he can hit the Mississippi.”

Nina knew the slang term ‘farming’. It described how The Order replenished their ranks. Most of Voggoth’s war machines straddled a blurry line between creature and machine. While they were not alive by any reasonable measure, they still needed to ‘grow’.

Nina asked the obvious question, “When are you guys shipping out ?”

“Some of my advanced teams are boarding trains already. I’m expectin’ to bug out in a couple of days. You too, I’d guess.”

Nina’s eyes fixed on him with a determined stare. She answered, “Good,” because that was her way: she wanted to fight.

Shepherd’s attention diverted as he spied the groom across the empty dance floor. Jake, a young man with black hair and a Middle Eastern complexion, wore the gray pants and white shirt of a cadet, but soon those clothes would be turned in for soldier’s BDUs. A lot sooner than should be expected, but with the enemy closing in the luxury of academies, parades, and graduation ceremonies could no longer be afforded.

“Let me go say hi to the kid,” Shep touched Nina on the shoulder as he made to leave. “Or should I say, your son in law?”

She replied with a half-hearted smirk. The general strolled away and Nina returned to the bar where a goblet of merlot—and that mirror—waited. In the background the DJ made an announcement about some request or another.

Nina eyed herself in the reflecting glass again. The troubles of the future were legion, but her mind kept drifting to a forgotten past.

Snapshots of those missing days came from the videotape and photographs given to her by Ashley. On that video tape she had confessed her love for Trevor, and him for her. So why had they not remained together? Why had he let her go?

One idea haunted her in the middle of the night. Had she betrayed Trevor during that year? She knew she had been under the influence of The Order during that time. She also knew that Trevor had been taken captive by Voggoth’s forces some time that first year.

No matter how hard she gazed at her reflection, Nina could not find the answer.

Crazy, I’m crazy for feeling so lonely. I’m crazy, crazy for feeling so blue…

The song eased tenderly from the DJ’s speakers. And as the melody caressed her ears, something switched on inside the cold warrior’s heart. A feeling of warmth, like a toasty blanket draped over her shoulders on a chilly winter night.

It felt—it felt familiar.

Couples formed on the dance floor and swayed.

“May I have this dance, miss?”

Nina stumbled from the bar stool, chased by a ghost. She did not know if the specter’s voice came from her memories or some residual image imparted to her when the Old Man had built a bridge between her mind and Trevor’s.

She felt her cheeks blush, her body wobble. She found some kind of comfort in Patsy Cline’s crooning voice, but confusion, too.

Tears tried to swell but she held them at bay. Nonetheless, she needed to retreat. For one of the few times in her life Nina Forest ran away, this time for the sanctuary of the ladies’ room at the end of a short corridor adjacent to the dance hall.

She entered the empty, tight confines of the two-stall/two-sink lavatory. Dirty tile lined the floor and the walls wore a grungy white plaster. Volunteers culled from a pool of Denise and Jake’s friends had thoroughly cleaned the reception hall but no amount of elbow grease could completely scrape away a decade of neglect.

She placed her hands on one of the two ancient porcelain sinks and pointed her eyes at the drain; she did not want to see herself in the mirror.

The wooden door swung open and in strode Denise in her bridal gown with that glass of red wine—apparently re-filled—dangling in her hand.

“Heyya, hi-ya, ho-ya, Mom.”

The newlywed did not notice her mother’s state of mind. Instead, the young girl wiggled her way into one of the two vacant stalls and—after struggling to fit her dress in with her one free hand—closed the door behind. Nina heard the sound of undergarments shuffling off.

The interruption served to break Nina’s downward spiral and she dared a look into the mirror. She could still hear the sound of Patsy Cline’s “Crazy,” but could not be sure if the song played in the dance hall outside or in her memories.

Regardless, that warm feeling faded. Yet another of the little memory land mines laced through her subconscious ever since that entity resembling an old man had built that bridge between her and Trevor, an act of incredible intimacy she had submitted to in order to pull Trevor from a state of mental chaos.

“No,” she mumbled aloud, chastising herself for not being honest.

“Huh? You say somethin’, Mom?”

Nina replied to the closed stall door, “I didn’t say anything.”

The truth, she knew, was that she had agreed to open her heart and mind to Trevor for far more personal reasons. She respected him, true. She would execute whatever order he commanded, also true. Yet, she felt more. Exactly what, she did not know. But something more.

There, in the wilderness, Trevor had needed her. The Order’s machines of torture had destabilized his mind by playing over and over again all his feelings of regret and loss and guilt.

From what Nina had come to understand, Voggoth had delivered to Trevor a life time of torments in a manner of weeks. Time, it seemed, was all in the mind and Voggoth had stretched minutes into days, hours into years.

The door to the ladies’ room opened again. Nina diverted her eyes from the mirror and to the sink as if caught in the act of something embarrassing.

A middle-aged woman strolled in with a big purse slung around her shoulder. Nina caught a glimpse of the woman in the mirror before looking away. Her hair hung in spaghetti strings, her eyes appeared sleepless and red. Nina figured the woman to be intoxicated: she would not be the only one in the reception hall in such condition.

“Oh, hello there,” the woman greeted but stayed a pace behind Nina and pulled a tube of lipstick from her oversized purse while staring at the neighboring mirror.

“Um, hello,” Nina stumbled.

The woman wore a simple dress that appeared two or three sizes too big for her thin frame, as if she had been the victim of sudden weight loss.

“Wonderful party.”

“Yes,” Nina pulled a tissue from a box on the sink top and ran it under a stream of water in an effort to find something for her hands to do. If she stalled long enough, perhaps the new arrival would leave.

“There’s nothing quite like a marriage, isn’t that right?”

“I suppose so,” Nina answered and then admitted, “I never married, myself.”

“That’s too bad, honey,” the woman consoled. “As for myself, well, I married twice. I can tell you that the wedding is a lot better than the marriage,” she added a quick chuckle. Nina hoped Denise—who remained quiet in the stall—had not heard that remark.

Nina stole another glance at the newcomer via the mirror. She did not recognize the woman and did not recall seeing her at the church ceremony. The woman, however, spoke in a tone of familiarity with an occasional nervous chuckle placed between words.

Nina finished soaking the tissue, looked at it, then dabbed at the corner of her eyes where those tears had tried to escape.

The woman shared, “My first husband, he died during the invasion.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, he was a jerk. My second husband—well, he was murdered last year. Isn’t that something? To survive the whole Armageddon thing only to be murdered by his own kind.”

The woman finished replenishing her lipstick and returned the tube into her purse.

“That’s a shame,” Nina gave the woman another glance in the mirror and saw the stranger’s eyes staring back.

“But of all the people I’ve lost in this whole damned war, it was the death of my father that bothers me the most. I mean, a girl can always find another husband, right?”

“I—I suppose so.”

“My father was a great man. A real, honest-to-God leader. He had it all figured out.”

Nina felt the hair on the back of her neck stand firm. A tingle. A warning.

“But you know what happened to him? He was murdered, too,” the woman spoke faster. Her eyes grew taut. Nina thought she saw a shake in the stranger’s shoulders.

“Maybe you know his name? Maybe you’ve heard of him?” the woman’s voice grew acidic. Her last words came laced in bitterness. “His name was Robert Parsons—of New Winnabow.”

The newcomer’s hand had remained in her purse after replacing the lipstick tube. Now she pulled that hand out again—with a gun.

Nina whirled around as Sharon Parsons leveled a .38 caliber revolver from her purse. Her left hand slammed into Sharon’s right wrist, pushing the gun away as it discharged while Nina’s right hand drove forward in deadly palm-heel strike that impacted with lethal force into the bridge of Sharon’s nose.

The woman who had once been Evan Godfrey’s wife—the woman who had sworn revenge against whoever had assassinated her father at New Winnabow nearly six years before—fell limp and dead to the grungy tile floor of the dance hall bathroom.

Nina stared at the dead body for a moment with her breath heaving in and out.

Then she noticed a thin stream of red oozing across the tile, coming from beneath the closed stall door; the door with a bullet hole from the errant shot.

Nina’s heart exploded. She ripped open the stall door pulling the rusty lock free of its screws. Denise sat there, on the toilet, with a large red stain across her chest and shock on her face.

She also held in her hand the stem of a glass, all that remained of her red wine. The bullet had missed the girl but hit her beverage, sending the rare vintage splashing across the tile.

Mother and daughter gazed at one another with wide eyes for several long seconds. Behind them the door burst open and Shep—his side arm drawn—led a group to the sound of the gunshot.

Denise began to laugh, and then cry, and then she fell into her mother’s arms.

3. The Horror at Red Rock

Omar Nehru stood at his bedroom window holding a simmering cigarette and watching the first rays of dawn glitter off Harveys Lake. A pair of tree swallows darted out from shore, zigzagged over the lazy water, and returned inland toward the forested slopes surrounding the basin. Omar admired their blue-black coat and wondered what spring game they played.

He watched the day begin from the A-frame home situated a few yards north of the main estate, the place where a small band of survivors had weathered the early storm of the invasion some eleven years before.

Even after the arrival of Stonewall’s brigades and Tom Prescott’s band of roving soldiers the lake kept that isolated feel. Now—so many changes and so many years later—the center of The Empire bustled with activity.

Although Trevor remained far away at the front lines, the estate had regained its mantle as the heart of humanity’s fight for survival. Many of the functions the illfated President Evan Godfrey had transferred to Washington DC during his temporary reign returned to the estate. As a result, trucks and cars and helicopters constantly buzzed the area. The two lane perimeter road often grew congested with traffic.

He found it hard to believe so much time had passed; that the fledgling band of survivors had grown into a nation.

From survivors to conquerors. From an extended family to an Empire. Over the course of those years the changes felt gradual, to the point he hardly noticed.

Through it all he maintained a sort of detachment, even when traveling to Atlanta to bring the captured Hivvan matter-makers on line; even when investigating the strange structure in the Ohio countryside that had facilitated Trevor’s disappearance four years ago.

Omar relied on fronts to maintain that detachment, including a finely honed sense of sarcasm and a forced accent to comply with the stereotype of his Indian heritage. Yet those fronts could not help him now. As he watched the birds play and the sun flicker, Omar felt a sense of doom falling like a shroud over everything. It pierced his well-cultivated detachment and brought an ache to his heart.

Omar raised the cigarette to his lips and inhaled a deep drag.

More than a decade ago he came to Trevor’s estate with a six-year-old son, an eleven-year-old daughter, and Anita, his wife.

His boy now worked with a logistics and transportation company supporting garrison units along the northern border. According to last week’s letter, he operated from the ghost city of Toronto. Omar found small comfort in his son serving away from the front lines, but also knew that eventually everyone would face Voggoth’s onslaught.

His daughter worked as a pharmacist/nurse at a hospital outside of Virginia Beach. Last time they had spoken on the phone, his daughter told him that she saw surprisingly few wounded come through her ward. Omar did not tell her that the reason so few wounded reached the rear area was because the troops retreated too fast to save them.

Omar tasted another puff of tobacco to sooth his nerves. Post-Armageddon cigarettes were far cruder than the old world’s, but also more direct in delivering their effects.

My family. What has happened to us?

Of course he had always known that his children would leave home someday. The pain of watching them make off for a new life without you is a hardship for which every parent prepares but it still comes as a bitter pill. But that pain was meant to be shared with the one woman he had ever loved, his beautiful wife, Anita.

He turned his eyes to the King sized bed. The sheets on one-half of that bed were asunder from a night of tossing and turning. On the other side the sheets remained neatly tucked, having been unused for the third night in five.

It seemed to Omar he no longer shared his home with his wife. She had found a new home. Or an obsession. An obsession that threatened to devour not only her time and attention, but her sanity.

For a long time now Anita Nehru no longer lived at the A-frame house along the coast of Harveys Lake. For a long time now Anita Nehru lived in Hell.

Anita Nehru walked in sluggish strides along a catwalk enclosed in heavy glass. A line of containment pens the size of small gymnasiums stretched below, all with transparent ceilings.

One pen held a large predator known as a Shellsquid. A study of the radiation damage done to the creature’s stem cells suggested it came from the same world as the Duass. At the moment the creature rested silently in one corner with its tentacles withdrawn inside what resembled a conical shell.

Anita paused and stared at the predator with a blank gaze. Bags carried under her eyes. The white lab coat she wore smelled from two days’ worth of sweat and wear. Her once-striking long black hair hung in tangled strands.

She moved on—zombie-like—to the next pen. This one presented the biggest puzzle in all of the Red Rock Research Facility. The creature in Large Specimen Containment Area Number Three had been in custody for several years.

Not so long ago, this fifteen-foot tall Stick Ogre resembled a horrific combination of a walking-stick insect and a bald humanoid. Stick Ogres fed primarily on various tree leaves and fruit and their excrement proved not only highly pungent, but highly fertile.

While quite capable of defending their nesting areas—even using small trees as clubs—Stick Ogres usually remained quiet and reclusive.

That had changed in the blink of an eye last year.

The creature in Large Specimen Containment Area Number Three roared and slammed its large body into the walls of its cell, almost continuously. Even the thick safety glass and soundproofing could not muffle its raucous hollers.

It no longer resembled that combination of insect and humanoid. The once slender but tall animal had become wide and lined with blood-red muscles, as if it were a body that had shred its skin. The face had morphed into a devil’s skull complete with a trio of bony horns and eyes seemingly changed from organic to mechanical. Deadly talons sprouted like daggers from paws at the end of its arms and legs. Sharp metal spines—metal!—protruded along its back.

It had not been fed in a long time; the last keeper who tried lost an arm, tranquilizers had no effect, and security refused to enter the cage with anything less than lethal intentions.

As far as she could tell, this metamorphosis occurred instantaneously early last July to all Stick Ogres. In fact, her research teams tracked instant transformations in nearly three dozen different types of invading entities. Some of those had been docile prior, a few predators. All had changed into deadly beasts with a rabid disposition.

Both type A and type B Giant Sloths had morphed into iron-plated beasties capable of spitting fire with a kind of flame thrower protruding from their mouths. Two of those were in containment up on Sub-Level 6.

Reports suggested that a similar fate had befallen all of the alien invaders known as “The Tribe of the Red Hand,” or Feranites, resulting in a new race of robotic soldiers joining Voggoth’s legions.

As in the case of the Stick Ogre, security cameras captured the instant evolution of the Sloths on tape. The original animals had grown completely still, then vibrated, and then their new selves grew out of their flesh as if each living cell changed, one by one, into the new entity.

This was no natural evolution like a caterpillar changing into a butterfly, but some kind of biological alchemy. Eyes replaced by artificial lenses, blood, bones, and hair into grease, metal, and wires.

The creature below stopped its rage for a moment; something it rarely did.

Anita leaned against the glass. The surface felt cool. Her sleep-deprived mind worked the pieces of the equation over and over.

According to radiation levels found inside the stem cells of the Stick Ogres and the Sloths, those creatures came to Earth from the same point of origin as the Feranites. But not anymore. They no longer had stem cells. They no longer had any living matter within their frames. Like statues or rock formations, the creatures were made of molecules but not of living tissue. They could be destroyed, but not killed; not exactly.

So how can they thrash about? How can they roar? Why can they walk and attack?

Her thoughts fell away as she realized that the demonic thing in the cell below stared up at her, as if studying her.

She backed away from the glass and stumbled. Her arms and hands fidgeted—as they almost always did anymore—in a sign of nerves.

The creature roared and ran headlong into a wall. She felt the impact as a distant tremor.

Anita closed her eyes tight and let the blackness provide some measure of peace. But it was an illusion. Peace would not come to Anita Nehru; not as long as these mysteries gripped her in obsession. Not as long as she felt an answer lay within her grasp if only she pressed a little harder.

Trevor had assigned her to Red Rock despite her lack of formal scientific training. Her gift did not come from hard core research, but from an ability to take raw data and turn it into usable information. Indeed, her initial contribution to the small band of survivors had been to create sketches of hostiles from fragmented information.

She had demonstrated patience and commitment and resilience. Now those traits conspired to trap her in Red Rock. Her patience kept her searching for answers when others would give up. Her commitment would not allow her to run from this chamber of horrors as long as her dungeons might reveal something that could change the war; her resilience kept her brave in the face of the horrors in that place.

Anita forced herself along the enclosed catwalk until she reached the exit door. A swipe of her keycard opened the heavy portal and she moved into a sterile hallway. When the door slid shut behind she leaned against it and inhaled a deep breath.

She regained her composure as best as could be expected from a person who had not slept in two days. Off she staggered, avoiding the elevators and choosing one of the many stairwells as if extra exercise might return a bounce to her step.

It did not. By the time she reached Sub-Level 2 her legs felt ready to collapse. That resilient part of her psyche that kept her going finally admitted that a nap—even if only an hour—was required…

Anita fell asleep slumped against a hard desktop. A solitary lamp cast a fuzzy white light over papers, books, photographs, and piles of notes.

The dream came again. In it she drifted through a charred battlefield. Dead human soldiers lay strewn across a blackened Earth. Trees stripped bare stood on the horizon like zombie claws reaching from the grave. Tiny fires flickered giving the landscape a Hellish glow.

One of the bodies belonged to her son. His empty eyes stared at nothing; his jaw lay wide open suggesting he died screaming.

As bad as the sight of seeing her child dead, the true terror of the dream came from Anita feeling a sense of responsibility. A sense of failure for not finding the answers.

She knew the questions well enough. She knew that the invaders had come from eight different points of origin. She knew that organized armies of various technological abilities as well as aliens ranging from prey animals to predators had also come to her Earth, where initially they had wreaked havoc upon the population but now lived—the animals at least—as part of Earth’s ecosystem.

She also knew that seven of those invaders shared a basic DNA structure with humanity. They were, she rationalized, built with the same building blocks even if their outward appearance varied greatly.

One race, however, stood apart from the rest. They did not share the same building blocks as the other creatures. Voggoth’s warriors—the ‘grown’ entities that served as his war machines—exhibit the traits of simple, archaea organisms, not unlike bacteria. Furthermore, the minions of his race—the ones many had come to think of as the ‘soulless ones’ –had no DNA. No biology at all. They existed as things, different from rocks, concrete, and iron only in their behavior.

Those war machines of simple design and those soulless creatures that appeared to live but, in reality, did not all came from the same point of origin. From wherever it was this Voggoth lived.

And now those creatures marched across her country in a seemingly unstoppable tide. As she walked through her dream she saw the results of that march; results that had played out across California, the Pacific Northwest, the deserts of Nevada and New Mexico, the Rocky Mountains, and now the Great Plains. For the moment, the dead body of her son existed only as a phantom harbinger of what might be. If only she could unlock the answers.

In her dream, Anita began to cry. She held her faced in her hands. In the past, this is where she would wake up, the burden of responsibility too great to allow sleep. On this occasion, the dream played differently.

When she removed her hands from atop crying eyes, she saw the bodies of the dead soldiers again. This time, however, they were not human despite still wearing the body armor and battle dress uniforms of The Empire’s fighters. This time she saw the oval heads and oversized maws of Mutants lying on the battlefield in human garb, including her son.

She gasped but before shock could chase her from the nightmare, Anita saw something more. She saw another of the Mutant creatures, this one not dead but standing among the cadavers with its bulky arms raised toward the sky as if praising whatever devil he considered a God.

It finished giving praise and found her eyes.

And spoke.

“The Universe is empty.”

Anita Nehru woke; her arms flailed across the desk in impulsive defensive strikes knocking over a stack of books and sending an empty coffee mug rolling across the floor. Her breath changed from a quick cry to deep and heavy gasps. After a moment she rubbed her baggy eyes with the palms of her hands.

In and out her breath calmed with each cycle, but a constant shaking remained, along with one very strong impulse.

Anita opened the lower desk drawer. Inside she found a jumbled pile of note books, some plain old tablets, others made with fancy bindings or leather covers. The presentation did not matter, only that each of the notebooks offered sheet after sheet of paper begging to be filled with her thoughts.

All but one of the notebooks was full from start to finish in handwriting, some in cursive, some in print; some neat and proper but the majority jagged and rough; yet all from her hand.

Anita wrote a description of her dream. A description that was repeated dozens of times throughout the notebooks. And as she wrote about the new twist to this dream, an idea formed.

She wrote faster. Her pen ran dry of ink. She threw it across the room and yanked another from the top drawer, mixing red ink now with blue. Faster and faster she wrote. Her tired eyes grew wide with crazed fascination.

I will only be sure after I look into their eyes. The answer is there.

The Mutant stood in a room about half the size of a racquetball court but with a lower ceiling. Anita Nehru sat face-to-face with the thing, separated by six inches of safety glass leaning forward with her arms fidgeting. Her tired eyes alternated between fast blinks and bouts of wide-open stare.

A technician flanked her; a short fellow with chubby cheeks and wire-rimmed spectacles wearing a white lab coat. After nearly an hour of sitting next to her doing nothing, the technician inhaled deliberately and summoned the courage to ask, “Um, Mrs., Nehru, what is it you wanted to see the specimen for?”

She spoke, but instead of responding to his question she asked herself, “Why are these things from Region 8 so different? These Mutants, the Wraiths, even those Roachbot-things. How could the Stick-Ogre change from purely organic into some kind of mix? It’s not possible. When I look at these things under a microscope—their dead molecules look familiar—a shadow of something else. I should know—I should see it…”

“W-what’s that, Mrs. Nehru?”

“Most of the species are similar to us. DNA. Carbon-based life. But not Voggoth. And not these things that come from his world. Or does he even have a world? I look at this thing and I see something—an answer is here. It knows the answer.”

Anita’s fists clenched and unclenched. Her face grew red. She stood and paced in front of the glass, watched by the creature’s tiny eyes situated on its nearly egg-shaped skull.

“What happened to the Feranites? What happened to the animals from their world?”

Images from her dreams of dead soldiers and charred battlefields played in her mind.

The Universe is empty.

“What are you? Damn it! What are you?”

A child of Voggoth.

At that moment Anita saw the eyes of a human being on the face of the Mutant. She saw an abomination.

Her left hand slammed down on an oversized yellow button.

“Mrs. Nehru!”

A dozen nozzles situated throughout the holding cell sprayed a fine vapor into the chamber. A light panel above the observation wall flashed WARNING: CHAMBER STERILIZATION SEQUENCE ACTIVATED and a sharp klaxon burst to life.

Her hand slammed down again, this time on a red button. The vapor ignited in a contained fireball of orange and yellow that engulfed the creature, charring the body first black and then to ashes.

Bits of burning flesh lay on the floor of the smoke-filled room. The glass grew very hot causing an aroma similar to singed wiring to drift through the observation area.

“I KNOW WHAT YOU ARE!” she shouted at the pile of remains.

“Mrs. Nehru! Anita! What are you doing?”

She held ultimate authority over Red Rock, but her behavior now moved beyond the eccentric and into unreasonable.

Yet the force of his protest fell apart when she grabbed his collar and screamed into his red face, “Don’t you see? It’s all a deception! We never had a chance! All of our guns and tanks would never be enough!”

“What are you talking about?”

“The universe!” She shouted. “The universe is empty! And I know why!”

Omar followed Lori Brewer around what had once been a garage housing Ferraris but now served as his personal laboratory. Since the earliest days of the post-Armageddon struggle, Omar worked in this shop to understand the technologies brought to Earth by the invaders.

Over the years he had grown accustomed to interruptions. Sometimes General Jon Brewer, occasionally Gordon Knox, and often-times Trevor Stone. On this day Lori Brewer—the Imperial Administrator—visited his habitat. As usual during these interruptions, the accent in Omar’s voice grew more pronounced the longer she lingered.

“I do not know what it is you are wanting me to be saying.”

The short-haired brunette stopped at a glass case displaying a de-constructed Chaktaw rail gun. A half dozen assistants in various combinations of lab coats, overalls, and casual dress tinkered with items at work benches and tables around the garage.

She explained to him again, “My job is allocating resources. And then people make things from those resources. And then I have to make sure that those ‘things’ get put on trains or in trucks and make their way to where they are needed. So here’s the point, Omar. You get a lot of resources. You get technical people. You get lab equipment. I spend a lot of Continental dollars on your storage depots, on your personnel, on the recovery teams, even on the power you use. The question is, what am I getting for it?”

She gave him an opening and Omar replied from what he perceived as a position of strength: “What do you get from my humble efforts? Let us see here—hmmm—have you noticed those really big fancy ships with aircraft upon them? What do we call them…”

Lori tapped her foot and rolled her eyes but allowed Omar to vent.

“Oh, yes, the Dreadnoughts. And then there are the active camouflage suits if I am recalling correctly, and the Eagle transports that have been known to pitch into the effort.”

“Omar,” her patience ran out. It usually did. “What have you done for me lately? Our resources are running out. The matter-makers down in Atlanta are running full-bore for bullets and fuel. In a few weeks those facilities may be in The Order’s bombing range. Meanwhile, I’ve got the Excalibur over in Pittsburgh that isn’t back in the game yet because we don’t have the people or the parts to finish its repairs. I’ve got to start making some decisions on what gives us the most hope of staying alive. I hate to say this but—“

One of Omar’s assistants cut dared cut in to the conversation, “Dr. Nehru?”

Both Omar and Lori shouted with dueling aggravation, “What?”

The man held a phone. “Phone call. It’s Red Rock. They say it’s an emergency.”

Omar’s cigarette dangled from his half-open mouth. As he reached for the phone his expression turned into one of dread, like a soldier’s parent receiving a phone call from the army in the middle of the night.

“Yes, this is Dr. Nehru. This is about my wife, isn’t it?” as Lori listened to his side of the conversation she found it amazing how clear and plain his English became. “When did this happen? Is she okay? Of course I will be there as quickly as possible.”

He hung up.

“Omar, what is it?”

“It’s Anita. They say she has gone mad.”

The white and black Internal Security helicopter circled the Red Rock facility on its way to the landing pad. Through the windows Omar spied the 1960s-era remains of the topside Air Force base including an old tower complete with a radar dome. The main building—constructed of sturdy but nearly featureless concrete—served as the tip of a structural iceberg.

The chopper landed with a soft thud. The rear passenger door opened a split second after the skids hit the ground. Omar hurried out with his lab coat billowing in the rotor-wind. Lori Brewer struggled to keep pace.

The Colonel who ran security at the Red Rock facility met Omar on the tree-lined path leading away from the landing pad.

“Dr. Nehru?”

As he answered, “Yes, of course,” Lori realized that no trace of Omar’s Indian accent remained. “What has happened to my wife?”

The group walked through a side door into a small lobby. Groups of workers and soldiers stood around with their eyes fixed on Omar as if he held a solution to a problem.

“We’re not sure, exactly, sir,” the Colonel said. “She began acting erratically, first when she disposed of a specimen for no apparent reason. According to the technician who was with her, she appeared to calm down after that and said something about going to her office. An hour later we received a security alert from the primary containment cell block.”

The Colonel guided them along a corridor. Lori noticed the security cameras and warning signs that suggested they had moved to a more sensitive area of the facility.

She asked, “The containment blocks?”

“Yes Ma’am. We’ve got about three dozen specimens contained on the lower levels for biological study and weapons testing.”

“Yes, yes, but what about Anita? What has happened?”

They stopped at a freight elevator flanked by a pair of well-armed guards.

The Colonel said, “She started moving through the cell blocks down there and euthanizing the specimens.”

“She just started killing off the things?” Lori asked. “For no reason?”

“Not that we can tell, ma’am.”

“So what is the problem? She decided to destroy the specimens. Is this such a big deal? Is she not in charge here?” Omar may have lost his ethnic accent but he found another accent, one of defensiveness.

The doors to the elevator opened. The Colonel motioned them inside and pushed a button for Sub-Level 6.

He said, “You have to understand, doctor, your wife oversaw most of these things. She knew how hard it was to get them. They were a gold mine of information to her.”

Lori broke in, “Did anyone try and talk to her?”

“That’s the problem, ma’am.” The elevator hummed and descended into the bowels of the facility. “Security and some of the techs tried to intercede. She grabbed a pistol from a weapons locker and forced every one out.”

“No, no, there is a mistake,” Omar said. “Anita is a peaceful woman!”

The doors to the elevator slid open to a large, white, round room filled with monitors and sealed doors. A group of security guards, workers, and researchers stood in the area like a bunch of high school kids forced outside by a fire alarm.

The Colonel said, “As far as we can tell she’s exterminated every specimen in one whole cell block. We shut the bulkheads down so she can’t get out. With that gun—well, I didn’t want her to hurt anyone or for us to have to hurt her. Then she asked for you, Dr. Nehru.”

“For me?”

“Actually she asked for The Emperor first. We told her he was far away at the front. Then she insisted to see you.”

They stopped near one of the closed doors. It resembled a submarine bulkhead except larger and painted white.

“You’re not going in there alone,” Lori jumped.

“Yes I am.”

The glow of spinning red warning lights bounced across the walls in a slow parade of flashes. Big glass panels—like giant aquariums—lined one wall of the long, wide hall. The other side of that hall contained lockers and monitoring devices and scientific equipment.

Omar walked through the patches of light and dark created by the lack of main power in that section. The hair on the back of his neck stood straight. To calm his nerves he fumbled for a cigarette which he hurried to light.

He had toured Red Rock with his wife once before. In his nightmares he often saw an ‘incident’ inside the high-tech dungeon. He thought of Skip Beetles and Crawling Tube worms slipping free of their bonds and running roughshod through the underground levels. In all those nightmares, however, he never imagined his wife to be the monster running loose.

He passed the first of the containment cells. Beyond the glass doors he saw a burned pile of ashes. The smell of charred flesh—of some kind or another—lingered.

“Anita?” He realized his call sounded more a whisper. “Anita? It’s me, Omar.”

He spied a shadow move behind an overturned table. He could not tell—not at first—if that shadow belonged to his wife or one of the horrors inhabiting that vile place.

“Omar—Omar?” Her voice suggested she did not trust her ears.

He jogged to her. Anita Nehru lay with her knees pulled to her chin and propped against a side wall below a fire extinguisher. She had positioned herself just inside a rim of darkness as if hiding from all she had done.

“I’m here, Anita.”

He snuffed his cigarette on the floor and knelt. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he saw deep bags under her eyes and her hair bundled in tangled mess. She lazily held a pistol in one hand. In the other she clasped a bundle of notes and papers.

“It’s you. You came.”

“Of course.”

She smiled briefly then her eyes stared beyond him at some sight visible only to her eyes. He easily removed the pistol from hand and slid it out of reach.

“I want to go home, Omar. I want to leave this place.”

“Yes, of course. This we shall do. Come along, right now.”

She appeared ready to move but stopped as she remembered something. Her eyes glanced around at the now-dead containment cells. Then she became conscious of the notes in her grasp.

“Wait, Omar, listen to me. I did all this—I did it all for a reason.”

“I am sure. But let’s talk of this when we get home.”

She grabbed his arm and said, “Listen, Omar, I understand now. Do you hear me? Trevor has to know. He has to know that we never had a chance. All of the guns and the armies won’t be enough, Omar. We never had a chance!”

“Anita, come home with me.”

“All these years down here—these things have gotten inside my head. I’ve studied them under a microscope, in the lab—most of them are just animals like what we have here on Earth—just a little different in how they look. That’s not important. But the others—I have watched them one little piece at a time. It’s been like a puzzle—coming together. No—more like coming into focus. I can’t explain it, but I know now. I know why the others are so different.”

“I’m sure they are,” he reached under her shoulder as if to lift her to her feet.

She burst with a shout that caused him to lose his balance and fall backward onto the floor.

“GODDAMN IT you have to hear me, Omar! You MUST listen to me. Trevor MUST listen. You have to tell him. I can’t go—not like this—but you have to. You must tell him!”

“Calm down. We will send a message to him.”

“NO!” Then calmer, “No. You will go to the front and tell him yourself, Omar. You will tell him what I have learned.”

She stared at him with hard eyes for a long moment, and then collapsed into sobs as the weight of her work, of her life in the dungeon, of the truth she had learned, came falling hard on her shoulders.

He whispered in her ear, “What has this place done to you?”

“I know, Omar,” she answered by telling him exactly what the horrors at Red Rock had finally taught her. “I know why the universe is empty.”

4. Spoilsport

In the world before Armageddon, Wichita, Kansas earned the nickname “Air Capital of the World” due to the volume of aircraft manufactured in the vicinity as well as McConnell Air Force Base, one-time home to the 22nd Air Refueling Wing.

A small military contingent of Kansas National Guard and Air Force Combat Controllers kept McConnell operating during that first summer of the initial invasion. They flew re-supply sorties across the country, even topping the tank on Air Force One in late July. Eventually they lost contact with the President after his return to Cheyenne Mountain and the orders—as convoluted as they were—ceased.

Eventually those who survived faded into the countryside.

Then The Empire and Trevor Stone swept west, returning life to the Great Plains, reopening the old Union Pacific rail stations, and pumping new life into McConnell AFB.

The new normal, however, lasted only a few years.

As Trevor Stone exited Eagle One and walked the tarmac on the afternoon of Tuesday, May 19th, he knew Wichita was dying again. He could see it in the panicked expressions of the soldiers and civilian workers hustling from shuttle buses to commuter jets. He could hear it in the constant roar of outgoing aircraft filled with evacuating equipment and personnel.

This scene of panic at the air base repeated across Wichita. With rail transportation seized for military use, the civilian population became refugees. Horses and carts and the few cars that could find gasoline formed a snaking line out of the city.

Many of those civilians belonged to the ‘groupies’ who traveled with the military formations. These were the spouses and children, friends and relatives of the warriors. Now those loved ones were abandoned as the soldiers and airmen left via rail or plane and their families resorted to more perilous modes of escape. As a result, the desertion rate among the armed forces spiked.

Just as victory after victory during the early days birthed a seemingly insurmountable momentum, defeat after defeat accelerated the downward spiral.

Trevor led his entourage—two Rottweilers, four heavily-armed soldiers, and Rick Hauser his personal pilot—toward a cluster of buildings including a four-story structure that served as a temporary headquarters. This HQ was a part of a cluster of refurbished buildings that stood in contrast to a neighborhood of the base’s facilities that had been destroyed a decade before and not included in the remodeling plan for McConnell.

Another jet roared along the runway and took to the sky as the group approached a side entrance. Trevor thought he heard panic in the sound of those engines.

They moved from the simmering mid-May heat into the cool confines of the building and headed upstairs to the second floor observation lounge where a wide table, metal cabinets, and folding chairs had replaced soft furniture.

General Casey Fink stood at the table surrounded by his staff and representatives from smaller units. Trevor, dressed in grungy BDU pants, a black shirt, and a dirty black baseball cap over hair that had not seen shampoo in the better part of a week, grabbed everyone’s attention as he walked up to the table where the very fluid “Kansas” front was displayed on a large map.

“We have some serious problems. I just got back from Great Bend. Enemy scouts have been spotted in that area as recently as this morning. I’m thinking The Order is pushing hard on the north flank to try and cut off the tracks at Peabody.”

Everyone understood that Trevor’s point revolved around the evacuation of heavy equipment and army units via the railroads, some of which had already been bombed. The only remaining intact routes ran in a north and northeast direction out of Wichita.

General Fink scratched his head and then timidly—a rare thing for Casey Fink—told Trevor, “2nd Armor is fifty percent loaded. General Rothchild and her command staff have set up shop over at the rail yard. I dispatched a pair of anti-air units for added protection.”

Trevor ran a hand over the rather thick stubble on his cheeks before finding his nose and pinching. Before he could burst into an angry reminder about the need for speed General Fink added, “We’ve got a strong garrison at Newton. They’ll cover the lines as long as we need. I’m more worried about the Chrysaor.”

“She’s out of action for a couple of days,” he told Fink. “No dry-dock, but she’s pulled back for weapons repair. Seems the air fight over Amarillo did more damage than we thought.”

Trevor stared at the maps of Kansas, Missouri, and Wichita. Markers represented friendly units as well as enemy positions.

“We have time, sir,” Casey said in a cautious tone.

“I know. That’s what worries me.”

On the map he saw markers indicating The Order’s legions, but felt greater concern over what he could not see. This sense of paranoia had grown acute in the four days since Voggoth outwitted him at the battle near Wetmore.

Trevor removed his baseball cap. Dirty hair fell over his ears. Outside, the roar of jet engines announced another flight trying to escape.

“We haven’t been moving fast enough, but they haven’t caught us, either.”

“They’ve had to do some farming,” said Fink. “Recon spotted a half-dozen fields just across the Colorado border.”

“A half-dozen? That’s nothing, you know that. Voggoth has got something up his sleeve.”

“Maybe he knows where we’re going. Maybe he wants to wait and set up shop closer to where the real battle is going to happen. You know, the Mississippi.”

The thought had occurred to Trevor.

“Maybe, yeah. But why let us make it to the barricades? He could hurt us bad right now, but he’s holding off. We’re too busy running to fight, and he still has enough firepower to kick us harder in the ass than he’s been doing. But he hasn’t. Just nitpicks. Bombing runs and a few shock troops here and there. It’s as if he wants us to make it to the Mississippi. Like he’s…”

Casey followed, “Like he’s stalling for time before finishing us off.”

Trevor nodded but his eyes remained on the map.

“Yeah, that about sums it up.”

“But why?”

“I don’t know. That’s what scares me.”

One of Trevor’s K9 bodyguards sitting by the door growled and stood. Everyone at the table turned and eyed the dog.

Rick Hauser spoke aloud what everyone thought: “Oh shit.”

A sound other than engines and shouts filtered in through the glass windows of the observation lounge: the base’s air raid klaxon springing to life in a wail of warning.

Casey Fink’s dry sense of humor surfaced for the first time in days: “Sounds like another nitpick.”

Trevor pointed through the big windows and said, “Here they come.”

A plume of exhaust on the distant perimeter of the base announced the launching of a Patriot missile. More plumes joined the first and reached into the white clouds drifting overhead. Explosions rocked the heavens; the flashes created lightning in a peaceful sky.

Voggoth’s bombers dipped below the clouds and flew toward the heart of McConnell. Like all of The Order’s weapons of war, these things appeared one part machine, one part animal. In this case the bodies resembled hammerhead sharks but without eyes and several times the size. The gray bodies ended not in a fin but in a point. Openings like gills lined the rear quarter from which slipped streams of white air like a kind of jet engine. Atop the bodies stretched a mechanical frame supporting pinkish fixed wings made from a fleshy material.

The phalanx of 12 flying abominations made no sound as they swooped over the target at speeds approaching 300 miles per hour.

Casey said, “Christ, they’re going straight for the air strip.”

As the lead flyer reached a point above one of the main runways, its entire body bulged like a water balloon filled from a fire hose—and then the entire flying contraption popped into pieces. Flakes of the outer skin and the wings fluttered in the wind while a payload of spherical ordnance—hundreds of black balls—fell from the sky having been released from the innards of the disintegrating thing.

As they fell, the group of balls spread like shotgun shot. Each impacted and exploded in a blast of concussion. Trevor saw waves of energy ripple through the air. The windows in the lounge bent and wobbled.

Several hit the runway tearing up concrete and creating impassable holes. Another clipped the wing off a Learjet. Another hit a supply truck flipping it over and causing it to burst into flames.

More of Voggoth’s suicide bombers arrived. A Patriot missile exploded one before it reached its target, sending its body as well as its explosive cargo raining down on a tree line just outside the base.

“Where the is the goddamn CAP?”

Rick Hauser, leaning over a radio technician, answered with one ear still stuck in a headset, “They got hit by Spooks ten miles out. They’re still tangled up out there. That’s why these things got through.”

A series of large explosions came across the tarmac directly for their building. The first few ripped through a group of pallets holding freight destined for air transport. They erupted, crates went flying, and several personnel were thrown around.

The last bomb hit 50 paces away. The blast shattered all the windows in the room.

Everyone in the room dove for cover. The dogs whimpered as the blast and shattering windows overloaded their sensitive ears.

Rick Hauser grabbed his shoulder. “Sir, we need to get downstairs to better cover!”

Trevor took a knee before standing. More claps of detonating bombs echoed in through the smashed windows. The air raid siren continued to blare.

“We have to go,” Hauser repeated and before Trevor could react he felt a second hand on his other shoulder, this one belonging to Casey Fink. Between the two men they managed to ‘encourage’ Trevor into the stairwell. The building trembled again and again as they hurried for the basement shelter.

Thirty minutes later the last of The Order’s warped kamikaze bombers dropped its load over McConnell. The side door to the communications room burst open as the air raid siren faded. Trevor, Fink, Hauser and the rest emerged from the partially-scarred building to survey the damage.

Smoke rose across the air strip and from many of the perimeter buildings and hangers. Two large cargo jets lay in pieces across the runway. Several smaller aircraft—all in various states of loading and preparation—had suffered substantial damage. A pool of aviation fuel burned steadily around the remains of a busted tank.

“Ah, Christ, this is bad,” Fink shook his head.

Trevor blocked out the screams of the injured scattered around the tarmac and told Casey, “You need to get this air strip up and running again. Fast.”

As terrible as the damage appeared, the first question revolved around the runways. How badly had they been hit? Trevor spied about a dozen craters pot marking the base’s air strips.

The second question involved aircraft. Two major planes lost, several more would require significant repair. But most of the reinforced hangers appeared intact. They should be; they had been designed with the B1-B Lance Bomber in mind back in the early 80s. While the B1s had been transferred away long before the invasion, the facilities to protect those Cold War aircraft remained and had certainly protected several aircraft from this strike.

“Sir,” Fink struggled with a way to phrase what he wanted to say. “Sir, I, well I’ll get on this. But if we’re in bombing range now that means they could hit us with anything. I think, well, I think you need to get out of the hot zone.”

Trevor did not respond as something caught his eye. More specifically, a flash of white fur moving between some of the left over dead buildings a hundred yards away. There he saw a familiar sight, albeit one he had seen less and less this past year.

A white wolf.

He mumbled, “I have to—I have to go,” and started along a path that led beyond the communications center toward the stretch of abandoned and burned buildings. Soldiers tried to follow, but Trevor raised a hand and Hauser reinforced the order by shaking his head. Hauser had come to know that on occasion The Emperor left to convene with unknown forces; a truth rarely spoken aloud but one the inner circle accepted.

The Rottweilers, however, remained in escort, following their master amid the cluster of buildings that had been destroyed a decade before when the alien forces first came to Earth. He led them through a blasted door frame and followed the wolf as it moved across what had once been an ornate reception area but only broken furniture and decaying walls remained.

Trevor followed down a corridor and into a wide round conference room. Rows of auditorium chairs arranged in a half circle faced toward an open area; no doubt a one-time briefing room for mission planning or training. The only light filtered in through a bank of partially broken but not completely smashed windows on the east wall that looked out upon a thick tangle of bushes and small trees.

The wolf sat at the feet of the Old Man who wore a black vest over a plain white shirt and a pair of faded blue jeans while sitting casually upon a dilapidated table that appeared far too weak to hold any weight. As Trevor had come to know, however, the mystical old man with the wrinkled cheeks, thin messy hair, and gray stubble did not exist in his world; not as he might think. Stone guessed him to be projection of a kind, for he left no footprints nor did his footfalls make any sound.

It had been the Old Man who eleven years prior had met Richard Stone in the woods outside his home and warned of his mission to survive, fight, and sacrifice for the good of mankind. It had been the Old Man who broke Trevor’s heart with the news that he and Nina Forest could not be together and the horrifying revelation that Stone’s mission revolved around one thing: murdering all the alien creatures on his planet.

Trevor suspected his hand in many things, including helping Trevor return from a parallel Earth and, before that, cluing humanity in on the existence of the runes; strange pillars that shut off alien reinforcements and provided a means to return the invaders to their home worlds.

Indeed, it seemed to Trevor that his benefactor had gone to great lengths to overcome several obstacles—apparently unfair ones—placed in humanity’s path by Voggoth.

Still, just last year the Old Man had happily suggested that Trevor and The Empire appeared certain to win on this Earth; one of many parallel Earths where each of the major species faced an onslaught. Things changed drastically since then. The Old Man rarely visited and did little more than bark encouragement at Trevor before dismissing him.

Unlike times past, the sight of the Old Man did not encourage Trevor or fill him with questions. Instead, he found himself annoyed at having been called away for what would certainly be pointless dialogue while a score of his soldiers lay dying on the airfield.

“Hey, Trevor! About time we had a little powwow, dontchya think?”

The Old Man’s seemingly jovial tone came as a surprise. Trevor approached between the rows of neglected seats while the Rottweilers remained behind guarding the door.

“What do you want now?”

In years past he would have craved a chance to pick the Old Man’s brain, despite being told on numerous occasions not to ask questions. Then, in the years since his return from that alternate Earth, Trevor had found comfort with the old-timer because he might be—whatever his true nature—the only entity in the universe that could understand Trevor’s plight.

“Now is that a way to go talkin’ to your ol’ pal? C’mon now, Trevvy, let’s sit down and you can tell me all ‘bout your plans to finish up the job you got here.”

Trevor stopped midway and cocked his head to one side.

“Huh? Finish up the job? What are you talkin’ about?”

“You gone crazy or sometin’ since the last time we chatted? Why I’m talkin’ ‘bout you kickin’ all the alien interlopers off this rock. Or have you decided to take an early re-tire-mint?”

The Old Man might well have suggested Trevor fly to the moon. Talk of kicking the aliens off the Earth sounded equally as out of place, considering the situation. After the invasion of California by The Order’s war machines, thoughts of victory had turned to thoughts of survival. Surely the Old Man knew as much?

“I think you’ve finally started to go senile. Do you know what’s happening out there?”

The Old Man had always known the situation, as if he watched the whole play unfold from some astrological balcony. Sometimes he knew the situation better than Trevor.

“What’s that, Trevvy? A little setback gotchya down?”

“Set back? Set back? Oh, my God, you’ve gone off the deep end.”

“Now, wait now, I hear what you’re saying. Okay,” the Old Man smiled, but it seemed an unsure smile. “You do have some problems, Trev. Better check your flanks. You got company comin’. Now I’m not supposed to be sharin’ that bit of info,” the mysterious entity winked, “but you and me have been known to push the old envelope of them rules now and again, right?”

“What are you—what are you saying? Does Voggoth have more forces coming at us?”

“Voggoth? You worryin’ your head about Voggoth? Sounds like you got those priorities of yours all messed up,” Trevor sensed a tone of desperation in the Old Man’s voice; something he had not heard since the time the Old Man had found out that Trevor loved Nina Forest. “He might have thrown a few monkey wrenches into things before and whatnot, but with all the shit you’ve got going he ain’t nothing but a footnote. You need to be watching out for the real problems maybe—hmmm…,” the Old Man leaned forward to whisper a secret he should not share, “…the Geryons and the Centurians. Maybe even them Chaktaw fellas, if you get my meaning.”

“What? Listen, I don’t know how long you’ve been napping but right now Voggoth is the only thing I’m worried about. He’s got—“

“Voggoth ain’t nothing! He’s insignificant! A token force! Just here to watch and keep us on our collective toes!” The sound of the Old Man shouting—a hysterical shout—knocked Trevor off balance. He had never seen such a reaction from his benefactor. This appeared more like…

Trevor’s expression corkscrewed from befuddlement to fear then to understanding.

“I can’t believe it. Holy shit, I really don’t believe it.”

“What? Now you listen, Trevvy, I don’t have time for whatever bird-brained idea that might be scheming in that noggin’ of yours.”

“I get it now. I see,” and Trevor did. And it frightened him. It also angered him. He directed his anger at the Old Man. “You’re in denial. You refuse to see what Voggoth is doing here, is that it? What’s wrong, this wasn’t part of the agreement?” Trevor sneered, “Just a token force. Just to observe. Just to keep us on our toes. Bullshit.”

“Watch it, now. Listen here. You can’t understand. Your little brain—“

“It’s you who doesn’t understand. You can’t believe it, can you? You can’t believe that Voggoth would break those precious rules of yours and send a full-blown army to wipe us out. I’ll bet he did the same to the Feranites, too, didn’t he?”

The Old Man’s virtual eyes widened at the mention of the Feranites, a race originally nicknamed by humanity as the Tribe of the Red Hand. While in the clutches of The Order’s torture machine, Trevor’s mind had traveled to the alternate Earth where the Feranites battled for survival. They lost.

He pushed the Old Man, “You keep talking about the rules of this little game you dragged my people into, but those rules don’t mean shit. Voggoth is here, Old Man. Why I’ll bet he’s right here, on this Earth, overseeing the whole party; I’ll bet that is against those rules of yours, too. He’s going to wipe us out unless you and your buddies do something to help.”

The Old Man did not say a word. He sort of gaped at Trevor like a lost puppy. That filled Trevor with another idea. A very unsettling one.

“Of course,” Trevor paced the aisle as he went on. “Let me guess, they aren’t talking to you anymore. How would you put it? Hmmm… Okay, let’s try this: they ain’t takin’ your calls n’more, are they? This is the Duass, we’re not home right now please leave a message and we’ll get back to you. Beeeepp.”

“Don’t push Trev. You don’t know—”

Outside the base’s air raid siren churned to life again. The screaming klaxon caused a pause in the conversation and it also gave Trevor another surge of anger.

He continued with a fierce edge in his voice, “You know why they won’t talk to you anymore? Because they don’t mind you losing, that’s why. So what if Voggoth is doing more than he’s supposed to on this planet. Why, I’ll bet they don’t even know what he’s doing here—they don’t want to know. They refuse to look. Deny it, even, like people who hear someone screaming for help but don’t want to be involved so they block it out. You’re being blocked out, Old Man.”

“Stop it, now.”

“As long as it’s not them, it’s all good. Why I’ll bet he’s whispered in their ear something like, ‘the humans have been breakin’ the rules so I’ll just even the odds a bit’ or ‘hey, Mr. Hivvan, just turn the other way while I do this and I promise to help you out on your world, too.’ That leaves you out in the cold, Old Man. It’d be funny, but I’m stuck in the freezer with you.”

The sound of bombs thudding to the ground echoed from the air field and in through the broken windows of the empty building. A shard of glass fell and shattered on the dirty floor.

“Where’s the smart old guy who I once thought might be God? Boy, was I an idiot. You aren’t any god. You’re just another human being like me and old Voggoth is playing the spoilsport in this little game of yours.”

The Old Man said nothing.

“Because of your arrogance every human being on this Earth is going to be wiped out.”

The Old Man sounded almost conciliatory in his tone, “There’s more to it than that, Trev, why there’s a whole bunch o’ universes out there and—“

“I don’t care.”

A bomb exploded much closer this time. Pieces of plaster fell from the ceiling; the walls rattled.

Trevor’s words came with a hefty force. The force of billions of dead people; the victims of this game the Old Man and his cronies played.

“Listen to what’s going on out there! I don’t care about you or the other parallel worlds or whatever the stupid-ass big picture is. I care about my people. Here. Now. That’s what it boils down to, you hear me? If you can help me it’s time to speak up, otherwise I’m done listening to you. I’m done with your cryptic messages, winks, nods and half-assed metaphors. If you got a trick up your sleeve then lay it out. If you don’t, stop wasting my time. Thing is, I think you’re all alone now. I think the others have abandoned you. But don’t worry, once we’re out of the way then whoever is left—well, they’ll all abandon someone else. Maybe it’ll be the Chaktaw next time. Maybe their Old Man or Old Woman or whatever will be on the outside looking in. And when the Chaktaw are done, the Centurians will be next, then the Witiko, then whoever. I don’t give a shit.”

A flash splashed through the lonely window on that side of the building. Trevor saw a dust cloud of debris drift by.

“Trev, listen, I know you’re upset and all,” a hint of pleading crept into the entity’s voice. “But look, you got to get this situation under control. Where’s the old Trevor who took it to em’ when they all ganged up on you?”

The Old Man referred to the Battle of Five Armies when three groups of alien warriors converged on the fledgling community of survivors during that first year. Trevor figured Voggoth orchestrated that, too; a more subtle attempt to destroy humanity’s resistance before it really got going. But they had won the day with a bold bayonet charge after their ammunition ran dry. That day became a turning point.

It seemed long ago. Simpler. A brave strike at the heart of the enemy with an unexpected move.

The Old Man took advantage of the brief silence to add, “You got to go for the throat, Trev. You gotta swing an Ali knockout punch—bam!” Yet it was obvious the Old Man had no idea what kind of knockout punch should or even could be thrown.

Trevor shook his head and a sardonic grin flashed across his face. He grabbed hold of a memory from one of the Old Man’s earliest speeches, twisted those words and spat them back at the mysterious entity.

“Yeah, that’s it. Shoot the exhaust port, is that it? Blow up the Death Star with one lucky shot and we’ll be all right as rain, right? Kill off the mother creature and all the little nasties will wither and die. Just like in Hollywood, right? Let’s wrap this thing up in the last five minutes.”

The Old Man’s expression drooped as if kicked in the gut.

Trevor went on, “You told me once this was a slug fest. That there’s no magic bullet. No one-shot. And you were right. And now Voggoth is out-slugging us. He may have broken all those dumb rules and I don’t care if you don’t want to hear it, but it’s true. He’s here and in force.”

For added emphasis, a large crash followed another nearby boom. Trevor heard something collapse in the distance; maybe a wall, maybe an entire building.

“He’s here in full force. He’s been behind this all along. The other races—they’ve been proxies. Pawns. They failed here on my Earth so Voggoth has come to my world to do the job himself and he’s conned your buddies into looking the other way because when we—when you—lose, things get easier for them. Or so they think.”

But it was Trevor who did the thinking; repeating his thoughts from a moment before: A brave strike at the heart of the enemy with an unexpected move.

He chewed on that while the old man rattled on as if he had already forgotten the rest of the conversation. “Yes sir, Trevvy, you got some work to be doing. Mind your flanks. Lots of your folks are begging to die for you. Say, maybe you should start arming the little ones. No reason grade schoolers can’t pick up a rifle for the cause!”

The rain of bombs quieted as the attack slowed.

Trevor Stone turned his back to the Old Man and walked away thinking of a brave strike at the heart of the enemy but, as he pictured the maps and markers that told the strategic tale, he could not possibly see where Voggoth might be vulnerable. Or how to strike a blow of any kind.

“Take it to em’, Trev! Give em’ hell!”

Jon Brewer did not like the situation at all. Before his Eagle transport even landed on the ruined tarmac at McConnell, he could already envision Trevor’s disapproving stare and if there was one thing Brewer did not need any more of, it was Trevor’s disapproval.

Trevor would want to know why Jon had forsaken his defensive preparations along the Mississippi to fly to Kansas. He would want to know why he had risked coming to an area under constant bombardment, the most recent of which had barely ended.

In answer to his own question, Jon glanced across the aisle. There, in the parallel row of seats in the Eagle’s passenger compartment, sat Omar Nehru. As he had since arriving in Missouri earlier that day, Omar smoked a cigarette and sat staring straight ahead. Whatever message Anita had given to Omar to relay to Trevor—a message he refused to share with anyone else—it had changed the man. He appeared shell-shocked. Afraid.

Omar’s history with Trevor and Jon Brewer could be traced to the first few months post-invasion. Therefore, when Omar Nehru arrived on the front lines looking for Trevor and insisting to see him personally, Jon Brewer listened.

Still, Trevor would not approve. He would not trust Jon’s judgment. That had not always been the case.

Up until last year Jon Brewer served as Trevor’s surrogate; Jon’s word equaled Trevor’s wishes. Jon Brewer—one of the first to join the estate along with his wife—held the role of second-in-command. He still held that position but more due to expediency than confidence.

Jon’s thoughts returned to last summer when everyone thought Trevor dead. A vote by the council resulted in Jon inheriting Trevor’s position although he later realized that Evan Godfrey and Dante Jones had manipulated the vote for that result.

And why did they do that, Jon?

And therein lay the dagger that remained stuck in Jon Brewer’s heart.

The entire plan had hinged one thing: Evan Godfrey saw Jon as an easy target for manipulation.

He was right, wasn’t he?

Yes.

Jon Brewer could command armies in the field, lead expeditions to the Arctic North, and turn a desperate battle against insane robots into a victory. But he could not lead a nation. In fact, he feared the very idea of such responsibility.

When Evan and Dante—supposedly Jon’s friend— proposed an easy way to escape that responsibility, Jon grasped it like a drowning man thrown a life preserver. He told himself it all sounded sensible. He told himself he considered Evan’s proposal intelligently and concluded that, yes, The Empire needed institutions and bureaucracy to survive and grow.

He had then handed it all over to Evan Godfrey, telling himself it to be a grand gesture to willingly give away power for the betterment of the people.

You ran away. Just like you ran away when your Guard unit was overrun during the invasion.

Eventually Jon Brewer realized his mistake and sided with those seeking to expose Evan’s conspiracy. This resulted in saving both Trevor and his son as well as the destruction of a gestating invasion force off the eastern seaboard.

In the end, however, it came down to one thing: I let Trevor down.

Jon felt certain that if it had not been for The Order’s surprise invasion Trevor would have shuffled his Generals. But he was too busy breaking up the Senate and re-organizing it to his liking; finding and executing those involved with the conspiracy; and gutting Internal Security in order to rebuild it as another extension of Trevor’s will, much like the military.

He had not the time for upsetting the military hierarchy, not with California turned into a giant graveyard. And that is why Jon remained number two. Yet he still had trouble looking Trevor in the eye.

The transport landed in a parking lot not far from Eagle One. Jon exited with Omar and an armed escort. They weaved through throngs of medics, engineers, and makeshift stretchers carting wounded to emergency triage areas. A few of the soldiers stopped to salute, but most appeared too busy to notice the general and his snappy black uniform with gold insignia.

Jon led Omar to the wounded and charred communications center. In they went and up to the second floor where they found Trevor studying maps on the main table. As they entered they heard Casey Fink ask The Emperor, “I don’t understand. What is it you’re looking for?”

“The heart of the enemy,” Trevor answered without taking his eyes from the map.

The commotion of Jon’s group entering finally stole Trevor’s attention.

“Jon? What the hell are you doing here?”

Exactly the reaction Brewer expected but before he could convey his well-rehearsed response, Omar pushed to the front of the group.

“I insisted he bring me. I need to speak with you.”

Trevor appeared both annoyed and confused.

“I don’t have time, Omar. We’re kind of busy out here,” and returned his attention to the map in a manner that suggested both Omar’s dismissal and Trevor’s obsession over an idea.

Omar spoke as forcefully as anyone had ever heard, “I have to tell you something, Trevor. My wife told me to tell you. It’s a message from her.”

“Omar, I have to figure out—“

“YOU WILL LISTEN!”

A quiet settled over the room. A stunned quiet.

Trevor stood straight and the glare in his eyes demanded explanation.

Omar glared back.

“You put my wife in that hole. You told her to understand these things. Well she understands now, Trevor. She is not the woman she used to be. She never will be again. I blame you for that. So you will listen to the message she has sent because I think it is why you wanted her there in the first place. She understands now, Trevor, and you must, too.”

Trevor licked his lips and considered.

“Okay, Omar, I’m listening. What is it she understands?”

“She understands why the universe is empty.”

Trevor’s eyes narrowed. Omar did not waver.

“Clear this room,” The Emperor commanded.

5. Déjà vu

Eagle airships create very little sound even when descending. Nonetheless, Ashley plainly heard the arrival of the transport because it came moments before dawn’s first light, disturbing the gentle chatter of the day’s first songbirds.

The sound caused her to sit up in bed not because it woke her—she had already been awake—but because the arrival of Eagle One to the lakeside mansion came as a surprise. She had not expected Trevor’s return for quite some time. Well, in honesty, based on the reports in the media and whispers overheard, she wondered if Trevor would ever return from the front.

Unlike other returning soldiers, Trevor would not receive a romantic homecoming from his ‘wife’. Ashley walked by his side and played her role in the grand scheme of The Empire, but it had been years since she had shared her bed with him, having moved to one of the guestrooms quite some time ago.

Nonetheless, she grabbed a thick white robe and walked along the hall to the main staircase. As she neared the bottom, the front door opened and Trevor hurried in flanked by his Rottweiler bodyguards; their spiked silver collars glinted in the dim light.

“Trevor? Is something wrong?”

“Where is JB? Is he awake?”

“What? Jorgie? At this hour? The sun isn’t even up yet.”

“Ashley, I need to speak to him.”

The voice of the couple’s son carried out from a dark spot further along the first floor hallway.

“I am here, Father.”

Ashley finished her descent of the stairs and stood next to Trevor in the hall. JB—who had turned nine years old on the same day Voggoth’s armies blasted through the Rockies—revealed himself in the gentle light of a lonely lamp. He wore racing car pajamas and clutched a soft little stuffed animal—Bunny—wrapped in a small blanket.

A tremble in the boy’s body suggested Jorgie felt frightened.

Ashley took backseat to Trevor on all things, except her child. When she had awoke from the strange green goo that had transported her through time along with thousands of other people to ‘ride the ark’ like life boats escaping the initial storm of the invasion, Ashley had come to know that very little in the world belonged to her, including the man she once loved.

But JB did belong to her. She did not care what the doctors said. She did not understand the significance of JB’s body containing a massive amount of neurotransmitters—many of an unidentifiable configuration—nor did she care. She understood him to be special the way all mothers thought their child special.

The voice of the dangerous stranger who had invaded their home six years ago replayed in Ashley’s mind: “You and Trevor here. You started this. You caused Armageddon.”

That cause, according to the man eventually revealed as Trevor’s half-brother, had been the conception of their son.

Regardless, the boy belonged to her. She had earned that ownership during years of care and comfort while JB’s father raced off fighting the war and even traveling to another dimension.

She would not sit idly by. She answered Jorgie before Trevor could say a word, “What are you doing up so early? Are you feeling okay?”

“I am afraid, Mommy.”

To his credit, JB found his mother’s eyes first. Something had happened last summer. Certainly the boy still admired his father’s leadership. He still re-enacted battles with toy soldiers. But JB had come to realize that his father did not truly love his mother. That ‘mommy’ lived all alone.

What a terrible revelation that must have been for the boy.

“What are you afraid of, sweetie?” Ashley glided to JB and knelt in front of him.

“I don’t know. Bad dreams. I think—I think I am afraid of Father. Of what he’s planning.”

Ashley whipped about and glared at Trevor who cocked his head to one side in an expression of curiosity like a dog hearing a new sound.

“What is it I’m planning, buddy?”

The boy struggled with something. His lips opened and closed, but he did not have an answer. “I don’t know.”

Trevor took a step closer to his son.

“I have to talk to you, Jorgie. There’s something I need to know.”

Ashley felt herself become a non-factor in the conversation, a position to which she had grown accustomed over the years. This was her life; a bit player on Trevor’s grand stage. She needed to deliver her lines to the public or press with aplomb, then stand aside and let the star work his show.

“Last year—when the bad guys had me—they brought you to that island, too.”

Jorgie closed his eyes and nodded.

“They tried to put you in the same machine I was in. But something happened.”

“Don’t Trevor. Don’t scare him. He doesn’t need to re-live that.”

He ignored her and pushed, “You did something. I’ve only heard about it second-hand, I never asked you directly. Not really. Not like I am now.”

“I don’t want to think about that,” Jorgie opened his eyes and insisted, but it did not sound as if he might be afraid. It sounded more like he felt it inappropriate to discuss.

“You have to, Jorgie. I must know. It’s important.”

Something did surface in the boy’s memories. He turned to his mother and said, “They were bad men, Mommy. The Missionary man said he went looking for you back when I was in your belly. Back when the war first started.”

This confused Ashley. She answered, “I don’t—I don’t remember anything like that.”

“You were gone,” Trevor reminded. “He must have went looking for you right away. Something saved you. Something took you away on the ark. When I got to your house there was nothing. But—but at my parent’s house,” Ashley saw Trevor’s mind return to the early days of the invasion. After a pause he continued, “There were a couple of Deadheads waiting for me. They killed my parents. If it hadn’t been for the dogs, I would’ve been killed. Deadheads come from Voggoth’s realm. That son of a bitch tried to take us out right off the bat. I’m guessing that was pretty much against the rules.”

“What do you mean—rules?”

Trevor brushed her aside and spoke to JB, “But what happened then? What happened when they plugged you into the machine?”

His eyes gazed at something far away; perhaps the memories of that horrible day last summer.

He told his parents in an angry growl, “They weren’t supposed to do that. I don’t think Voggoth knew. I think he was angry with them for doing it.”

Ashley glanced at Trevor as if demanding an explanation. He offered none. She returned her attention to Jorgie and asked, “What do you mean by that? What happened while you were there, Jorgie?”

“They’re all dead,” JB said with a stiff lip.

“You killed them all?”

The son corrected his father, “I suppose so. But Father, they were dead before I got there. They are all empty. Everything about them is empty.”

“And when they put you in the machine..?” Trevor led.

“I filled it,” JB said and Ashley saw a hint of anger; of revenge in the boy’s face. Her child had found satisfaction in whatever he had done to The Order.

“You filled it?” She asked. “What does that mean?”

Trevor answered in another riddle, “Life over death. Or—life conquered the emptiness.”

“Yes—yes that is it, Father. When I touched the machine of Voggoth I felt as if there was much more to me. I felt—I felt something powerful inside. I do not understand. But I found it easy to control his machine. It as was as lifeless as—as…” Jorgie held his stuffed animal aloft. “As lifeless as Bunny.” He quickly added, “But I love Bunny.”

Ashley felt a knot of in her stomach. It spun and turn and grew larger and larger with each passing second.

She told Trevor, “I don’t know what this has to do with anything. Jorgie is a special boy. We’ve known that for years. He’s been through enough already. Let him be.”

Trevor stood alongside his son and placed an arm on his shoulder.

“You are special, JB. And I love you.”

“I love you, too, Father.”

Something in the way Trevor stared at Jorgie made Ashley uneasy. She felt urged to speak. To defend.

“No, Trevor. Leave my son out of all this.”

“I can’t,” Trevor’s answer came fast and Ashley felt the entire house spin.

“You leave him alone!”

JB retreated into the darkness of the hallway.

“He may be the answer, Ashley. If he is why all this started, then maybe he is the key.”

Ashley stood nose to nose with Trevor and glared but despite the mask of defiance she felt a sense of inevitability creep into the fear. From the day Dr. Maple had told them about JB’s unique chemistry she feared this end. Perhaps that is why she had forbid any further tests.

“He is our son, Trevor. You will not put him in the middle of all this.”

Trevor took hold of Ashley’s shoulders.

“Ashley—he is the middle of all this.”

General Jon Brewer removed his cap and ran the sleeve of his uniform across his sweaty forehead.

I’m going to ring the neck of the guy who decided to make these uniforms black.

Admittedly the sweat dripping from his crew cut came as much from the task at hand as the warm May afternoon. Of course the overheated, cracked blacktop that comprised the Poplar Street Bridge reflected much of the mid-day sun giving the long deck girder span a frying pan feel.

The engineering company working the bridge coped by rolling up sleeves or simply removing their shirts. A few managed to sneak quick dips into the waters of the Mississippi.

Jon did not begrudge any of it. The men carried out a difficult task under a hot sun preparing last-ditch defenses while knowing Voggoth’s coming onslaught would probably be the end of the line for many of them.

General Brewer crossed the empty eight lanes of the roadway from the south side to the north railing and glanced over. Several soldiers worked on ropes to affix brackets where charges would eventually be placed. They also pre-wired the bridge so that, when the time came, detonation would be easy.

A Chinook dual-rotor helicopter flew overhead on its way east; somewhere below on one of the concrete supports an officer barked an order; far off to his right a crane lifted an artillery piece into position along the railroad tracks on the outskirts of East St. Louis. Yet it was another sound that grabbed the general’s attention. This sound came from the docks in front of the Jefferson National Expansion Memorial; a cozy park from which sprouted the trademark St. Louis arch. That icon still stood, but much of the foliage in the park had long ago burned to cinders.

The sound of laughter, chatter, and gentle music came from the decks of the red and white Tom Sawyer riverboat a couple of hundred feet north of his position. Jon squinted and saw a party there complete with fancy dress and champagne glasses. Nearly a dozen people enjoyed the afternoon while the soldiers toiled. A subtle smell of grilled meat carried in the air tempting his nose with a barbecue aroma.

Jon could have been angry at the partygoers, but as he watched he came to understand the nature of their celebration. He had seen similar parties in the last few months and, considering the mood permeating The Empire, he expected to see many more now that Voggoth raced across the Great Plains unchecked.

“Sir?”

The voice from pulled Jon’s attention away from the riverboat to a young officer with a freckled face wearing a uniform with a patch depicting a hand holding an axe. This symbol Jon recognized immediately as belonging to the 1st Mechanized Division. As for the face, he recognized that immediately, too.

“Benny! Hey, welcome to St. Louis.”

“Yes sir,” Captain Benny Duda replied.

“Relax, Benny, it’s me.”

“Yes, sir.”

Jon should have known better. Benny Duda had been no more than twelve when he had ridden north as Stonewall McAllister’s bugle boy (with a trumpet). He served by Stonewall’s side until the general’s death during the last days of the California War.

The sounds of celebration found their way to Benny’s ears. He looked around the general and shot a nasty look in that direction.

“A party?”

Jon distracted Benny with a question. “First Mech back in the line?”

“Not all the way yet. 4th Brigade is unloading right now. 5th brigade is, well, not much of a brigade anymore even with the new recruits. Captain Bass’ mobile artillery is trucking in and should be here in a couple of days.”

The unmistakable sound of a champagne cork carried across the open space between the bridge and the riverboat. Even the soldiers working on the span gave the group a quick glance before carrying on.

“What the hell—” Benny led but Jon kept him focused: “Captain, do you understand your orders?”

“I think so.”

“We’re taking down most of the bridges on the Mississippi, but leaving the ones here in St. Louis intact. Our little way of taking some initiative away from the enemy; make this place look like the easiest way to get across. When Shep and the rest of 1st Corps gets out here we’ll be able to better position your boys, but for now you need to dig into the city. We’ve spent the last month building up some set positions, artillery emplacements and clearing kill zones to the north and south, but St. Louis here is one big trap for Voggoth.”

Duda asked, “A ghost town, right?”

Jon knew what Duda meant. Unlike many of the eastern and southern cities leveled by organized armies during the invasion, St. Louis had suffered through predators and strange monsters. Or, rather, alien animals. Most of the people had been chased away or killed during the first year of attack leaving.

Of course there was another type of ghost city, too. Places like Oklahoma City, Cincinnati, and Seattle. Places overrun by Voggoth’s legions and the entire population killed in grisly fashion but, when The Empire had come calling, those monsters had disappeared in the same manner in which many thousands of people vanished during the initial weeks of the invasion some eleven years prior.

Jon answered Benny, “Pretty much, yeah.”

“Then it should be easy to dig in. But sir, a Leviathan can level a city like this in five minutes.”

Jon pointed out, “The Nazis leveled Stalingrad with Stukas before they moved in. Soldier, bombed-out buildings make great foxholes. Now look, I’ve got to head to the estate for a big meeting. General Fink is organizing the withdrawal to these lines. His HQ is at McConnell Air Force base in Wichita but he’ll be pulling back before the end of the week.”

“How long ‘til we get hit here?”

A distant sound of glass breaking—just a soft tink—floated through the air from the riverboat. The music still played a soft rock song from the 70s. Sad Eyes or something like that.

Benny tried glancing over Jon’s shoulder but Brewer kept the younger man focused on the conversation. “Am I some kind of fortune teller? Why don’t you go ask Voggoth when he plans to knock on our door?”

“Of course, sir. I mean, um, of course not. I mean, you’re not a fortune teller. Sorry.”

Jon softened. He had not meant to be so hard but he did not want Benny worrying about the morbid party on that riverboat.

He remembered playing touch football with Benny back in Pennsylvania during that first post-Armageddon Thanksgiving. Of the group that played that day, Tolbert had died during the Battle of Five Armies less than a year later, Dustin McBride had disappeared—presumed dead—while leading his cavalry unit in pursuit of errant Red Hands, Dante Jones had killed himself in the face of Trevor’s return last summer, and now it appeared Anita Nehru had gone insane.

Benny, for his part, scored the winning touchdown that Thanksgiving by faking out Ross, a former NFL linebacker.

Just a kid.

“Sir?”

“Huh? Oh. It seems they’ve slowed down. They could probably get here in two weeks or so if they wanted, but it seems as if they might just take a little longer.”

Duda asked the question on many of the top brass’ minds, “Why would they slow down? We’re kind of in a bad spot.”

Jon ignored the question. “While I’m back in Pennsylvania you’ve got to oversee the set up here. Dig in, watch the skies, and get ready for what’s to come. I’m guessing that Shep will get back here first and take over operational command of this sector through First Corp.”

“Okay,” but Benny’s attention slipped again over Jon’s shoulder, toward the old style riverboat at rest in port. “Um—sir?”

Benny moved around Jon with his eyes focused on the riverboat. No more voices or laughter, just recorded music.

Jon closed his eyes and remembered a sign he had read on a front porch in Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania long ago:

“Here hangs the South Side Suicide Club,

We couldn’t take it no more.

So we dressed in our best, stood straight and abreast,

And kicked away stools numberin’ four.”

“Sir, I think they’re all—they’re all…”

Jon turned around and shared the view with Benny Duda.

The party goers lay strewn along the decks of the riverboat, dressed in their best with a few still holding the spiked champagne glasses that had served as the final act of the celebration. A large banner strung across the bow said to the world, “Goodbye!” with a yellow smiley face punctuating the message.

Lori Brewer held her nine-year-old daughter’s hand as the pair left the cafeteria in the church basement and walked the perimeter road toward the estate. A few scattered gray clouds moved overhead threatening to sprinkle but nothing yet materialized.

As she neared the main gate she saw several usual sights: K9s walking the grounds, heavily armed human sentries, and support personnel in uniforms ranging from suits to tactical BDUs walking to and fro.

She saw something very unusual, too.

Just north of the main entrance to the estate ran a driveway that traveled a short distance to both the A-frame house where the Nehrus lived and the garage on their property which included an apartment overhead.

At the end of that driveway stood a blonde woman sporting a ponytail drooping to her shoulder blades and wearing a black beret over a green BDU/black tank top ensemble, not to mention a sword strapped to her leg.

Nina Forest? Here?

Lori bypassed the estate.

“Mom? Where we going?”

Lori ignored her daughter’s protest and approached the visitor from behind.

“Nin—I mean, Captain Forest?”

Nina turned around and a smile tugged at the corners of her lips, taking Lori by surprise.

“Mrs. Brewer? Hey, hello.”

The events of the previous summer had drawn the two together for a brief time as Lori’s husband, Jon, came to Nina’s rescue. Yet it was the events of a decade ago that Lori missed most of all. She and Nina were friends in the early days. Then The Order’s implant stole those memories away.

“I was hoping I’d run into you.”

“You were?”

“Yes.” Nina gave her attention to the dark haired nine year old for a moment. “Hello, there, how old are you?”

“I’m nine years old!”

Lori remembered her manners and made introductions.

“This is my daughter Catherine. Cathy, this is Captain Forest.”

The captain bent over and told the girl, “Nina.”

“Nina?” Lori’s daughter jumped. “Hey! I’m Nina, too”

Lori shuffled uncomfortably.

“My middle name is Nina! Catherine Nina Brewer!”

Nina Forest considered that revelation with an air of suspicion and turned to Lori saying, “What a coincidence.”

“Um, Cathy, why don’t you head on up to the mansion. Go find a good book to read in the den or something. I’ll catch up.”

But Catherine’s attention focused on the sword strapped to Nina’s leg. Her eyes traced the weapon up and down.

“Cathy? Are you listening to me?”

“Oh, right. Okay, Mom.” zzz

The nine year old walked away turning around twice to study the blond woman with the pony tail and black beret before finally moving through the open main gates. Nina and Lori watched her go.

As Catherine left ear shot, Lori asked, “What brings you to the estate?”

“General Shepherd is on his way to the front so I’m hitching a ride with him. After the meeting tomorrow we’re both going to head west.”

Lori sensed that something weighed on Nina’s mind and she desperately wished she could share everything she knew. A promise made years ago kept her silent.

Nina said, “Listen, I never got a chance to tell you ‘thank you’. Sometimes I’m not so good with that.”

Lori felt a strong sense of déjà vu and stumbled, “Um—for what?”

“For a bunch of things. For helping me adopt my daughter way back when. You pulled the strings on that. You and Jim Brock, that is. And also for last year. Things move so fast and all that, well, look I’m just saying that you kind of came to the rescue.”

A car drove by. The two women turned and walked together toward the estate.

Lori said, “You were the one who did the rescuing. If it weren’t for you and Gordon, hell, we never would have found out.”

Nina asked, “How is he?”

Lori shook her head as she answered, “He still can’t use his legs. They don’t think he ever will. A few months ago he returned to work but he sort of stays in one of the houses here on the lake and refuses to go out. I don’t know. A guy like that—”

“You’re thinking maybe he would have been happier if that bullet had killed him.”

“Maybe,” Lori said.

“Tell me something,” Nina switched subjects as they passed two sentries and entered the grounds of the estate. “You and I were friends once, weren’t we?”

That stopped Lori in her tracks.

Nina went on, “It’s okay. I don’t remember everything from that year. Not at all. But there are pieces coming back to me. And I’ve seen some old photographs and stuff.”

“Oh, well, I guess—“

“And your daughter’s middle name is Nina.”

Lori stuck her lip out and threw her eyes to the sky contemplating her next move. She could nearly see her husband shaking his head and telling her to ‘keep your nose out of it!”

As usual, she ignored him.

“Oh, screw it. Yeah, we were friends. Good friends. After you lost your memories, well, after that the whole war thing was really picking up and you were moved away from the estate and out to fight battles and all that. We didn’t see each other much after that.”

“Thank you for being straight with me.”

“You deserve it.”

Nina gazed at the activity across the estate grounds: Dogs walking patrol routes, a courier with a box under his arm bounding through the front door, and a Humvee with a mounted machine gun creeping along the sloped driveway.

She asked, “What was it like around here, back in those days?”

Lori considered for a moment and then said, “Well, there were less people, of course, but still a lot always going on. There’s always been a feeling of excitement around here. Well, except for those few months last year when this place was empty because Evan moved everything down to DC Anyway, since the beginning the mansion and the lake have always felt like the center of it all. Lots of energy but without the bull. You were a big part of that in the early days.” Her eyes wavered as she admitted, “But back then that energy felt, well, optimistic. Nowadays it feels—it feels desperate.”

Lori saw Nina hesitate, perhaps summoning courage, before asking, “How is—how is The Emperor doing these days?”

Lori felt another powerful blast of déjà vu and quickly traced it to the conversations she had had with Nina during those first few months at the estate, a time when Lori had correctly guessed that Nina Forest was falling in love with Trevor Stone, even if she did not know it..

“Trevor? I’ll admit it he is a little different nowadays. I think he’s more…” and Lori chose her word carefully, “lonely. That’s because of how things are going out on the front. And how things went, well, after he got back last summer.”

Those things, Lori knew, included rooting out the conspirators, public hangings, and a brutal purge of the political system. As far as she knew, a dozen bodies still hung from the rotunda in the now-closed Capital building in DC For a while, things had been brutal. She saw firsthand the dark side of Trevor Stone.

Lori focused again and added, “You did a job bringing him back.”

“Oh, well, I—look—I just did what I had to do. I suppose.”

Lori wondered exactly how Nina had brought Trevor back. His mind had been a mess of nightmares and grief. In one of his few confessional moments since his return, Trevor had hinted to Lori about a supernatural bond formed between himself and Nina, one that had taken much of the weight of guilt and sorrow from his spirit and given it to Nina, a willing gesture on her part to lift a measure of his burden.

That, Lori thought, is what people in love do for one another.

Whatever she had done, it relieved Trevor enough to pull him from the madness, although his anger and determination returned more powerful than ever.

She wondered, as she watched Nina fidget nervously, how much Nina knew. Or how much did she feel?

Lori said, “You should go say hello to him.”

Nina did not reply, but her eyes wandered in a sure sign of increasing nerves. At that moment Lori realized she would need to try some of her old tricks again.

“Hey, look, this conference tomorrow is important. I’ve got to make some decisions on equipment transfers and personnel. I’d like your input on all that.”

“Me? I’m not really good at that sort of thing. I’m just a soldier.”

“That’s the type of input I need. Someone who has been on the front lines. Besides, you were in on all the big meetings back in the old days. I’d like you to be there.”

Nina’s eyes widened and she gasped, “Me? In a meeting with the counsel? Listen, I don’t think I’m the right—“

“Nonsense,” Lori interrupted. “As the Chief Administrator I am requesting your presence. Tell Shep I suggested it and I’ll bet he’ll think it’s a good idea. Besides, there isn’t much of a council left. It’s sort of Trevor’s extended group of friends and advisers. You’re a part of that group, I think.”

“I—I don’t know what to say. Or, what to say at the meeting.”

“Just be there. At some point, I just know Trevor will want to talk to you.”

Trevor sat with Ashley in the soft glow of the living room fireplace. While one couch remained, much of the room had been transformed into makeshift workspace including a pair of desks against one wall, cabinets, and a long table under the front windows.

Still, with the lights down and the workers long-since departed, the room took on a cozy feel, especially with those desks, cabinets, and tables relegated to shadows.

The tears were the final stage, preceded by pleading and defiance. In the end, Trevor Stone saw that she realized he planned to take away the only thing in this miserable world that belonged to her. The only person Ashley loved who loved her back.

The time for argument passed, so did the time for protests; she lacked the energy to continue fighting.

Outside, the last rays of sunset faded like a dying fire. A vehicle motor revved as it traveled the driveway. The sound of scattered voices—handlers commanding K9s and sentries conversing—seeped through the front windows as muffled background noise.

“I’m sorry,” he said for what might have been the fiftieth time that evening, but this time the apology encompassed a greater wrong. “I’m sorry things turned out this way.”

“Me—me too,” she sobbed. “What happened? How come the old world seems like a faded dream? I don’t even know if it’s real any more. Was it real? Any of it?”

For the first time in a long while he slipped an arm around Ashley’s shoulder and pulled her close.

“It was real. But I know what you mean about it seeming a dream. Sometimes I have trouble remembering what my folks looked like. That bothers me.”

“Do you remember—you remember making the plans for the wedding? I thought it was important.”

He chuckled and told her, “I remember. And it was important. Back then. I guess our definition of ‘important’ has changed a bit.”

“I kept moving those seating charts around. It must’ve drove you nuts.”

“No, no,” he did not sound convincing. “I was right there with you.”

“Oh, you liar.” She actually flashed a brief smile.

“Say, you remember that time we went on a picnic up to Francis Slocum State Park?”

Ashley nodded. “How could I forget? That was Memorial Day.”

“Perfect day, it seemed. Then that storm rolled in and we didn’t even notice. Next thing you know—”

She picked up, “We were too busy staring into each other’s eyes,” she used the right mix of melodrama in her tone, “to notice that everyone else at the park went running for their cars. By time we did the rain was coming down in sheets. Oh, geez, that was horrible!”

“Nah, it was fun. Something to remember, right?”

“Well you know me, I had to have everything perfect. Best plans, you know?”

“I know.”

“I changed,” she admitted. “I’ve gotten used to the idea that things don’t go as planned.”

He sighed and, after a silence of several seconds, spoke to Ashley in a whisper, “I’m sorry, Ashley. I’m sorry we didn’t get that wedding. I’m sorry we didn’t get that house and the picket fence your dad would’ve built for half-price.”

She snickered at that and cuddled a little closer.

He went on, “I never asked for any of this. Never wanted it.”

“I know. I mean, when I really think about all that has happened I don’t really blame you. You’ve done the best you could. Better than my dad ever would have thought, right?”

This time he snickered.

“You too,” he told her honestly. “You were dealt a bad hand, Ashley, but you rose up. I don’t say this a lot. I don’t think I’ve ever said it. But Ashley, I’m proud of you. I admire you, too. You deserve better. I’m sorry I was never able to give that to you.”

She quietly told him, “And now you’re going to take away the only thing that matters to me.” But no argument remained in her voice; she merely spoke the truth.

Ashley gently pulled free of his hug, sat straight on the couch, and studied him for several long seconds. He returned her gaze and for a moment he saw beautiful Ashley Trump of a decade ago whom he had somehow convinced to fall in love with him. She had been his dream. In return, he had put her through a nightmare.

She spoke without any acid in her tone, but with strength.

“I know you wouldn’t do this unless you thought it would work. Whether it does work or doesn’t, either way the end is coming soon, isn’t it?”

He nodded.

Ashley told him, “I won’t be here when you get back. It doesn’t matter, not really. The TV cameras are pretty much gone. I don’t think appearances are important anymore. So you don’t need me by your side. It’s all in your hands now, Trevor. You, your Generals, and I guess our son, too. If he’s not here, there’s no reason for me to be.”

Trevor bowed his head and accepted her words.

Ashley finished, “Point is, there’s a life out there somewhere; my life. I need to find it, in what little time I have left.”

6. Intelligence

Ashley stood at the bottom of what used to be the stairs to a small cottage on the rim of the lake. A wooden ramp covered those stairs now, offering a gentle slope from the quaint porch to the blacktop driveway alongside the small, one-story home.

In her hand she held a bound, blue booklet that bore the logo of an open hand with an eye at the center. The title printed below the symbol offered a cryptic clue as to the contents: Imperial Intelligence Summary Report: Voggoth Prime.

Ashley knew from her tear-filled discussions with Trevor that the report detailed the location of The Order’s primary base of operations on Earth, half a world away.

She took her eyes from the report and looked at the cottage entrance again. Behind her a car drove around the lake perimeter road causing a small breeze of wind to offer slight relief from the humid morning air.

Ashley grunted with resolve and climbed the ramp. She knocked on the metal-framed screen door. A few seconds later the heavier white-wood interior door opened and an older gentleman in casual dress greeted her. She noticed that one of the man’s hands had been replaced by a plastic prosthetic, no doubt a wound suffered while in service to Intelligence.

“I’m here to see Gordon.”

“He is not taking any visitors,” the man answered in a voice lacking any emotion, any concern. He could have been a robot.

She held the booklet up and said, “It’s about the report he sent over. Tell him there is a big problem with it.”

The man’s eyes widened as if Ashley had just insulted his mother.

“Wait here,” the man closed the door.

If any other servant in The Empire had tried to dismiss Ashley so casually, she probably would have exploded. But she knew that the man served Gordon Knox.

The door opened again, this time all the way. Ashley walked in.

A hallway ran the length of the cottage from the front to a rear kitchen. Wide archways to either side of the hall opened to other rooms, all coated with hardwood floors. She saw very little furniture and no mirrors. The air smelled stale.

“He’s in his study,” the servant directed and Ashley found her way.

She came upon Gordon in one of the rooms at the back of the house. A big, sliding glass door offered access to a wood deck overlooking a yard surrounded by tall pine trees. Inside, computers and printers, video screens and a HAM radio with a glitzy LCD display, formed a ring around the center of the room. A simple ceiling fan revolved slowly above it all.

Gordon Knox sat in his wheelchair near the sliding glass door his eyes staring outside.

Ashley paused.

“May I come in?”

Without turning Gordon replied, “Yes. Of course. What will we be reading today?”

Ashley said, “Tomorrow is our reading day, remember? And besides,” she walked to his side, “you know we haven’t finished Heart of Darkness yet.”

“Ah, yes, we haven’t even met Kurtz, yet, have we?”

“So you have read it before,” she smiled as if she had won a bet.

He finally turned. “I admit it, yes. But it sounds different when you read it. It sounds—better. Of course you don’t have to, you know. I’m more than capable of reading. The eyes, at least, still work just fine.”

“I enjoy our time together.”

“Yes,” he mused. “I suppose this monster isn’t quite so scary anymore.”

She swallowed hard and insisted, “You are not—you never were—a monster.”

“Yes, I was,” he corrected with no malice. “That’s why you were always afraid of me. That’s why you turned to me last summer. You needed a monster.”

“I was never afraid of you.”

He ignored her. “I suppose that is one good thing to come out of this,” he patted his hands on the wheelchair rails. “You’re not afraid anymore. Thank you for visiting with me and reading to me each week. It’s a bright spot in what has been a very bad year.”

“I enjoy it too.”

“So why are you here, if not to read to me? It’s not the report. There’s nothing wrong with it.” His voice suggested he found it amusing she would say as much.

She looked at the booklet in her hand then at him again.

“It’s missing something.”

“What?” He took the book and paged through. “It’s all here. Everything we know about Voggoth’s position. The temple, the Urals—years of strength estimates. Do you know how many agents we lost? Do you know how many of our European friends we lost? No, it’s all here. It’s—”

“It’s missing you.”

Her statement puzzled Gordon.

She did not wait. She pushed, “I’m not letting you send couriers over with your intelligence reports. That’s not enough. There’s a meeting today and you need to be there.”

His faced glowed red. His hands pulled into fists.

“I told you before, I can do my job from here. Besides—besides I don’t think—I don’t want people to see me—it’s better if I stay in the shadows.”

“That was good enough for a while. But it’s not good enough anymore. The end is coming, Gordon. This meeting may be the last one we ever have. Trevor needs more than your reports, he needs your insights. He needs your thoughts. He needs that more than ever.”

Gordon shot, “Well that’s not what I do anymore.” He pushed the joystick on his motorized chair and wheeled into the center of his ring of equipment. “I work from here. This is my nerve center. From here I can communicate with the field offices, with agents, with ships and military posts. I analyze the data as it comes in. My reports are the best they have ever been. And they will have to be enough.”

“Who is afraid now, Gordon?”

He turned to her, still red-faced.

“Don’t try that reverse psychology bullshit on me. Do you really think I’m that stupid? You think you can guilt me into something?”

“Okay, fine,” she returned his stare and, surprisingly, he blinked. She was, after all, the one person who could give him pause.

“You have a job to do Gordon, just like Trevor has a job. You think he wanted all this? No. But he’s done it, because it’s been his responsibility.”

“Ashley, I serve Trevor from here.”

“And I could have served him as nanny to his son. But what have I done for the past decade, Gordon? I’ve been his figurehead wife. The smiling face for all The Empire to see. I’ve been on his arm for every official reception, for every press conference. Look! There is Ashley Stone. How beautiful a first lady she is! How devoted to her family!”

Ashley’s breath grew rapid. She shook a finger at him saying, “But you know the truth, Gordon. It is has been a lonely, miserable life for me. I have no husband. There has been no love between us for years. He has his duty, I have mine. I could have sat around crying day in and day out or hid away in the attic of the mansion but I didn’t. I did what I had to do!”

He did not respond, but the color drained from his face. In his expression she saw something she rarely saw from anyone: empathy.

“Do you think I’m going to let you shirk your responsibility to Trevor because you’re embarrassed to be in a wheelchair? Do you think when the others see you they think you’re weaker because of it? Don’t be an ass, Gordon. They know how you got in that chair. Of all the friends Trevor ever had you were one of the few to put it all on the line for him.”

He hung his head.

“If you don’t see it that way, that’s your problem. I know you hate it. But right now you have to set all of that aside. Right now you have a job to do. After all these years my responsibility to Trevor is over. But you still have more to do. Now you get your ass over to that meeting and be there for your friend. He needs you.”

She walked closer to him, knelt in front, and said, “We’re all counting on you, Gordon. And if you’re there for Trevor this last time, then maybe we just might have a fighting chance.”

Did the key really exist? Trevor could not be sure. Of course he could not be sure what ‘real’ was, either. Regardless, twice in his life Voggoth’s minions took him prisoner and twice they failed to discover the key. Perhaps more telling, during his trip to a parallel Earth the key had disappeared from his neck.

He wondered if, perhaps, the key the Old Man had given him was actually a product of his mind. Then again, Nina had seen it when he had shown her his secret. Of course, she only saw it after he produced it. Maybe the thought of the key made it real; or, rather, it became real when he needed it. Or….

Trevor shook his head and gave up the idea of solving that particular riddle.

Regardless, the secret key opened an equally secret door hidden behind a cabinet inside the utility closet in the mansion’s basement. That tiny door opened to a tight staircase descending into darkness. The modern feel of the finished basement disappeared replaced with earthen walls. The stairs ended at a small, damp room. A gentle hum radiated in the darkness.

Trevor moved through the lightless chamber aided by memory and habit until he found and ignited a small lamp atop an ancient wooden table. An oily burning smell added to the aroma of damp rot.

The soft glow of the lamp illuminated the room’s only other object: a decaying wood and iron chest that could have come straight from the set of a pirate movie.

He walked to the chest, stooped, and opened the lid. A blue and gray glow radiated out, filling the chamber in light.

Trevor retreated a step from the chest and waited. A sphere floated up, hovering above the chest like a buoy floating on water. As his eyes grew accustomed to the light Trevor saw—through the orb’s clear membrane skin—the image of a double helix—of DNA.

“One more time, I suppose,” and as he spoke he stopped to think. He had visited the orb on his first night in the mansion. It imparted knowledge and skills from a library of genetic memories. In the years since, he periodically returned to recharge from the data bank by standing within a few paces of the object as it delivered bursts of knowledge. Sort of like warming his hands near an open fire.

The glowing sphere taught Trevor how to shoot like a soldier, how to fly an Apache helicopter, how to repair electrical wiring, plumbing, and drive a main battle tank. All skills taken from dead human souls whose memories had been stored by the floating sphere.

“That’s not exactly true, now is it?” Trevor spoke to the sphere. It did not react. The humming continued. It glowed with the same intensity. “A collection of human memories, sure. But a few alien ones, too.”

Indeed, Trevor knew how to fly Centurian shuttles and understood the workings of the Witiko device, certainly due to this sphere’s library of knowledge. He had also found that Fromm—the Chaktaw leader on that parallel Earth—knew how to fly Geryon dirigibles, no doubt a gift from his bank of genetic memories, albeit Chaktaw ones with—apparently—some Geryon sprinkled in.

“A collection of human memories—and alien,” he repeated aloud to fully grasp the idea.

Those memories—or the people who had bequeathed those memories to him—were a tremendous weight of responsibility that nearly drown his humanity, leaving no room for anything other than the mission; an end that justified any means.

The Old Man had said at their first meeting that Trevor was a link in a chain. It appears that chain was, in fact, a chain of DNA stretching back to the dawn of man on one end and his son on the other. In fact…

“The conception of my son started all this; started Armageddon,” Trevor reasoned in the glowing sphere. “Sort of like the starter pistol to get things going, right? At the same time, you enter the picture. A coincidence? Somehow I doubt it.”

Of course Trevor had not known of JB’s conception at the time of the invasion. Ashley disappeared before she could tell him. His son’s birth had been delayed by more than a year due to his mother ‘riding the ark.’

“But that didn’t matter, did it? JB was the right genetic code. The reunion of an original strand of DNA the Old Man and his pals slipped into the primordial soup here on Earth. From there it dissipated and worked its way through the human race from the cave man days until me and Ashley conceived JB. Some kind of pure line of the genetic code. So being the father of the reincarnated original son earned me the privilege of becoming my race’s champion? What then does that make Jorgie?” He pointed at the humming ball of light and suggested, “What if you come from JB, too? You’re a ball of DNA, right? Maybe all that time that his genetic code was floating around the gene pool it started soaking up all those memories and knowledge and whatever. Then the Old Man and his buddies sort of pulled out a little bit of JB when he was conceived and made you? What about that? Could that be the truth?”

The ball hummed and hovered. Trevor could feel the energy radiating from it. He could sense the ideas and thoughts and power trying to seep into his mind. It wanted to teach. That, after all, was its purpose. It’s only purpose. Much like Trevor’s single-minded purpose demanding he survive, fight, and sacrifice.

“So where did it all start?”

Trevor remembered fragments from the conversation between Gods he overheard when plugged into The Order’s machine. They had discussed a ‘root cosmos’. No doubt an original universe in which the original versions of the Duass, the Feranites, the Geryons, the Hivvans and the rest—as well as humanity—had sprung. After all, Trevor had learned more than four years ago that humanity truly belonged on Sirius, if not for the powers behind Armageddon who had transplanted mankind to this Earth, just as they had transplanted each of the other races to other Earths across a series of parallel universes.

“Wait a second. Wait just one second.”

He smiled to himself as an idea came to mind. He felt certain he had discovered another piece of the mystery, one that could explain why his personal library of genetic memories included skills from alien races. Trevor took that idea and filed it away for another day.

“Ah, shit, enough of this,” Trevor muttered as he realized he needed to get this over with in order to attend the upcoming meeting. “Okay then—give it to me…”

He stepped closer to the glowing sphere. The feeling of energy grew as if the ball might be a fire and he stepped closer to the flames; closer to the raging heat.

“C’mon—give it to me…”

The memories came in bunches, but not in a recognizable manner. Images floated through his mind. He saw an ancient catapult pulled taut. He heard the battle cry of Zulu warriors. He felt the cold in the bloody snow at Stalingrad.

Trevor did not know which specific memories or skills entered his mind. They would rise to the surface when needed.

“I want more. Give it all to me.”

The energy crackled around him in a cocoon of static and fire. The ball glowed more intently. He closed his eyes and the images poured into his mind. A cloud of deadly mustard gas floating over a trench. A wall of water 150 meters high crashing into the Minoan ports on the north side of Crete. A Prussian general leading columns of Fusiliers toward Waterloo.

“More.”

Trevor held his hands just above the orb. The membrane pulsated and rolled like churning sea water. His hands shook as the energy tried to repel his reach.

It came. All of it in a line of images, sounds, and ideas. Trevor saw concepts on blackboards and computer chips from the inside out, weapons factories, and rockets carrying the first satellites to orbit. Shouts of victory, screams of pain, tears of anguish—one after another.

But he needed more. He needed it all.

He already stood closer to the sphere than ever before. Now, he took the final step.

Trevor grunted and plunged his hands into the orb. The membrane bent then popped in a flash. Tendrils of energy wrapped around his arms up to his elbows. He cried out as the power deluged his mind. The energy crackled across his entire shaking body. The sphere warped oblong, then round again, then its surface splashed and kicked in a turbulent storm.

Trevor no longer felt grounded in that sub-basement room. His eyes snapped shut and his mind floated through time even as the pain shocked his brain like a thousand electric eels swimming in his mind.

Colonial minutemen marching to battle—Shogun warriors fighting for honor—Genghis Khan’s hordes sweeping across the steppes—and—and…

—ancient Hivvan tribesmen first mastering the use of a crossbow like weapon and using it to down a giant shaggy beast terrorizing their village—a Witiko scientist test-firing a powerful rocket across a jagged red landscape boiling under a red giant—a Chaktaw trainer subduing a monstrous Jaw-Wolf with an electric rod—warring tribes of duck-billed Duass battling through the night in a swamp filled with spilled blood—formations of Centurian soldiers marching in neat order under the heat of two suns…

The library of genetic memories flashed and unloaded. The beautiful sphere of blue and gray withered and crumbled into grains of black sand which fell into the open chest below. Trevor stood there, his hands clutching at nothing, shaking as the last impulses of energy bounced around inside his body and mind like ricocheting bullets.

And then the flood came, of information and memories, languages and skills, images and thoughts. The collection overwhelmed his senses and he fell to the soft floor of the secret room.

7. Exposition

“Whiles trembling horror did his conscience daunt,

And hellish anguish did his soul assail.”

–Spenser

The door to the utility closet under the stairs in the mansion basement swung open and Trevor stumbled out. He pushed the door shut behind and fell forward catching the conference table with one hand in order to remain upright.

“Trevor?”

The voice came from the basement stairs. Trevor barely mustered the strength to remain balanced against the table, let alone strike a more dignified pose.

Lori Brewer approached him with wide, curious eyes.

“Where’d you come from? I checked all around down here including the armory,” she referred to the heavy door leading to a stockpile of weapons and munitions. She added with a wise-ass tone, “Don’t tell me, you came out of the closet.”

The buzzing in his brain faded slowly and he found enough strength to stand. Sort of.

He noticed she held her official Imperial Administrator notebook. It kind of clashed with her otherwise casual outfit. Nonetheless, Trevor felt a twinge of panic. Exactly how long had he been out? Had he overslept the meeting?

Trevor glanced at his watch. The hands had frozen at 10:03 a.m., just about the exact moment he sunk his fingers into the mystical orb. That energy had nearly fried his brain. Apparently it had fried his watch.

He looked to Lori and spoke,”Welche zeit es ist?”

She shook her head, and asked, “What did you say? Have you been drinking?”

Lori examined his skull for a head wound. He raised a hand to his forehead, held it there as if checking for a fever, and then moved it to the back of his neck and massaged.

Let’s try this again.

“Okay, um, what time is it? Did you understand me?”

Lori did.

“Well, you don’t look injured. Just hung over or something.”

“Lori, what time is it? Did I miss the meeting?”

“Miss it? Oh no, it’s about quarter of twelve. I came early because I wanted to talk to you.”

Trevor stood straight, breathed deep, and took a few practice steps. The room did not spin quite as much.

“You? Early?” He cracked despite standing on wobbly legs. “Now that’s something.”

She followed as he walked in an effort to clear his head and gain control over his body.

“Yeah, well look, it’s not a big deal but I invited a guest to the meeting.”

Trevor still concentrated mainly on finding his balance, but he did hear her.

“A guest?”

They did laps around the conference table.

“A consultant. I wanted someone who could give us a little more insight into things going on at the front. Are you sure you’re okay?”

Trevor knew that the meeting would include several Generals as well as himself, all people who fought on the front lines. Therefore, her statement sounded off. Furthermore, the hesitation in her voice made him suspicious.

“What? Lori, listen, this is a—a—” he stopped and put a hand on the back of a chair at the empty table, breathed deep again, and then continued walking and talking with her following a step behind. “This is an important meeting, not some damn focus group. It’s not for outsiders.”

“I know that,” she sounded offended. No, actually it sounded as if she had forced the tone of offense. “This person has been in these meetings before, just not for a while. I’m telling you, it’s not a big deal.”

Trevor stopped so abruptly that Lori nearly walked into him.

“Lori. Who did you invite to the meeting?”

“Well, Captain—I invited Captain Forest to the meeting.”

Trevor slowly turned to face his old friend. His eyes widened.

“You’re joking, right? That’s a bad joke.”

“Look, Trevor, she’s hitching a ride with Shep so she’s in town. I bumped in to her yesterday and she was, well, scoping out the estate. Sort of visiting her old stomping grounds.”

“Lori,” Trevor pinched his nose. “I don’t need this right now.”

Her eyes drooped a little, then narrowed, and her head tilted in the slightest. This served as her counselor’s face, and it meant she was either prepared to listen or preparing to preach.

“Oh, really,” and as she usually did, Lori Brewer opted for preaching. “Maybe it’s exactly what you need right now.”

“I’m not in the mood to be lectured.”

“Tough shit. You spent three years bending my ear about how you were so afraid of yourself; of what you could become,” she struck a sensitive nerve. “Look at what’s happened in the last year, Trevor. The executions, the purges—what’s left of the Senate is just your rubber stamp now. There are no voices of dissent.”

He growled at her, “The treacherous bastards got what they deserved. It was bad enough what they did to me, but they let it happen to my son, too. They fell for that give peace a chance shit and now we’re on the verge of being wiped out. Hell, I had no choice but to weed out the traitors. Get out from behind your desk, administrator, and take a good look at what’s coming at us and then maybe you’ll know why we can’t afford distractions or political bullshit.”

She shot back, “I told you once, a long time ago, that if you plan to save humanity you had better start showing some humanity yourself. The only person in this whole world who managed to bring that out in you since all this started was Nina. You need to see her again.”

“Don’t preach to me.”

“All righty, then, how about this—you owe her,” Lori added a new element to the argument. “I see ‘thank you’ is not a word you’re good with, is it?”

His eyes burned into her but she pushed, “She didn’t need to go into the wilderness after you. She chose to. Not out of duty or loyalty to ‘The Emperor’, but for Trevor Stone. I don’t know everything that happened out there but something big did happen. She sacrificed for you, Trevor. She pulled you from the brink. Whatever it was that went on, I think it’s made her start asking questions about that first year again. She remembers something. I don’t know how much, and I don’t know how she knows it. But there are memories and feelings bouncing around in her head that she can’t explain, she only knows that they all tie together here and with you. It doesn’t take much, you know, to stimulate memories. A smell, a sight, a sound like a song—things may be coming back to her, I don’t care how impossible that might seem.”

He had worried that perhaps Nina learned more during their connection via the Old Man. That maybe his memories of their love slipped into her mind, perhaps ignited her emotions. He did not think it possible for her to ever truly remember that first year on her own, but if the bridge she had used to stabilize his emotional state worked in both directions then possibly some of his memories went into her head.

Part of him wished she would remember. Her memory loss had been a convenience to make their separation more palatable. The Old Man had insisted that he could not be with her, that she did not walk the same path. So when she forgot, he did not pursue even though he desperately wanted to.

Trevor’s anger toward Lori wavered. His eyes found the floor.

“It’s not that easy, Lori. You know how I feel about her. That hasn’t changed in all these years. Nina has a daughter. She has a life. And I have my duty. The truth is, even if she could remember everything—even if she had never lost those memories—we still could not be together.”

Lori did not argue the point. Instead, she threw in a new consideration.

“I think we all know that his is going to be the last meeting. When it’s over, we’re all going our separate ways. And I know things don’t look good. The point is, Trevor, you may never see her again. Do you want to miss this chance?”

He kept his eyes down. Lori slipped her arms around her friend’s shoulders and gave him a squeeze.

“Besides, she’s the best soldier you’ve got. What did you say she was once? Oh yeah, your sword. And that’s stayed true all these years. For the big jobs you turned to her, like she is an extension of your power kind of like the K9s. That’s why I think you owe it to her. Besides, she used to be in on these meetings, way back when. She’s a part of the original group.”

“Okay, okay,” he answered, although he realized he never really had a choice. With Lori Brewer, most seldom did.

Gordon came last, his arrival announced by the electric hum from the lift chair installed on the stairway after his injury. As far as Trevor could remember, this was only the third time Gordon used it.

He watched as the Intelligence Director move from the lift to his wheelchair with the help of Lori Brewer. Trevor otherwise kept his attention focused on a file folder open at his place at the head of the table.

In the past, the meetings in the conference room at the estate included Trevor’s advisory council. The events of last year had decimated the ranks of that council. Dr. Maple had died in a cemetery outside of Wilkes-Barre while serving as an unwilling investigator into the circumstances of the assassination. Trevor had impaled Evan Godfrey on the White House lawn with Stonewall McAllister’s sword. Moments later, Dante Jones had taken his own life. Most recently, Anita Nehru’s psychological condition made her unfit for service.

Of course, Reverend Johnny had been gone for four years although Trevor often thought he heard Johnny’s voice echoing in the room like a ghost reciting Bible passages.

The meeting on the afternoon of Thursday, May 21, included a less formal congregation but no less an important one. Jon Brewer sat to Trevor’s right. His wife, Lori, sat further down the table sandwiched between General Jerry Shepherd and Lori’s guest, Nina Forest, who wore an expression of a wide-eyed child beholding the wonders of FAO Schwartz.

Brett Stanton and Eva Rheimmer sat next to one another. The former’s eyes had grown more sunken and his hair thinner, possibly a result of Brett re-igniting his love-affair with alcohol.

As for Eva, her body had grown frail-looking from years of hard work on the farm and, no doubt, the stress of coordinating food distribution to a struggling—and now constricting—nation.

Omar sat in a quiet corner of the table with a full ashtray in front of his place. Gordon Knox occupied the foot of the long table in his powered wheelchair.

“Okay, then, let’s get this started,” Trevor pulled his eyes from the papers and did what he usually did: he looked each member of his audience directly in the eye—save for Nina. “Jon and Shep, break it down for us. The quick version. I think we all know the outlook.”

Jon Brewer stood to his full height of over six feet yet he appeared weak and unnerved in the presence of Trevor. He consulted a map mounted on a portable board.

“Preparations to defend the Mississippi are more than sixty percent complete with the anticipation that The Order will follow a similar vein of attack as they have since invading California.”

Trevor explained, “Simply put, they want to kill off our armies. No fancy stuff. They’ll go to where we are encamped.”

“Right,” Jon continued. “To be safe, we’re demolishing just about all river crossings and fortifying the major cities along the way including those to the west of the river like St. Louis. It seems Voggoth’s troops prefer to fight in the open. We made the decision to turn several key cities into hard points. We anticipate this will steer them into the open terrain. At that point we’ll be relying on artillery and defending the east banks of the river.”

Lori Brewer added, “The military has kept open several key arteries across the river to facilitate evacuations of the civilian population.”

“Those refugees could be a real problem,” Trevor said more callously than he intended. “We’re trying to get 1st Corp up to the front while these evacuees are clogging the roads.”

“Trevor,” Lori said, “you’ve already commandeered just about all the rail lines for the army. These people are using the only thing they have left to travel on; the roads.”

Brett Stanton, who served as Director of Industry and Manufacturing, eyed the map and said, “Doesn’t look like we’re making great time pulling back. No, now wait, I’m not trying to be critical, but it looks like The Order could be kicking our butts harder than they’ve been.”

“We might have an answer why,” Shep joined the conversation. His recently-acquired cowboy hat rested on the table in front of him. He told the others news that Trevor and Jon Brewer already knew. “I reckon we’ve got a few more players comin’ to the party. Two days ago our border outpost at Laredo, Texas reported a column of them Redcoats—I’m sorry, we call them Centurians these days, right? As I was sayin’, a nice big bunch of them came across the Rio Grande and are headin’ north on Interstate 35. So far we’ve seen a good dozen heavy artillery pieces and what we think is their version of armored vehicles carrying infantry. The column is about a mile long.”

Jon Brewer said, “Centurians from the south and someone else from the North. Yesterday we lost contact with our garrison at Winnipeg, so a small airborne relief force flew up there from Minneapolis. They ran into these.”

Jon produced a pair of photographs from his pile of stuff and threw the first one onto the center of the table. People leaned forward to see.

The first photograph showed a relatively tight shot of an airship floating through the heavens near the U.S.-Canadian border. More precisely, the airship featured one large zeppelin with two smaller dirigibles attached to either side, making a three-headed flying monster with a big propeller at the back.

The airship wore a rusty color with a sharp gray lightning icon surrounded by a circle on the main fuselage. A big, rectangular gondola with a bank of forward-facing windows served as the obvious bridge area but lines in that undercarriage suggested a modular nature.

Antennas and radio dishes and obvious gun emplacements—resembling miniature howitzers—stuck out from various places all across the ship. At the bow sat an assembly resembling a mix between a transmitter and cannon.

“It’s a Geryon battleship,” Trevor told them. “If you think it’s nothing but a big Hindenburg we can knock down easy, you’re in for a nasty surprise. It can protect itself well against anti-air fire and fighters. That main gun could level this mansion in a couple of seconds. Better yet, from the undercarriage it deploys the Steel Guard; robotic soldiers controlled via virtual reality from technicians onboard the ship.”

Jon threw the second photograph on top of the first. This one showed three of the Battleships.

“Our scouts counted the three and then ran for their lives.”

Trevor said, “From what our Intel says, it seems the Geryon Reich was well-established in Asia before we closed off the Gateways. I must admit, I’m kind of surprised they only sent three, though.”

Trevor glanced around the table again, looking each guest in the eye. When he came to Nina their eyes locked for several seconds until separated by Gordon Knox’s voice.

“There’s more,” Gordon offered a photograph of his own. “Since I decided to come all the way over, I thought I’d bring something special. You know how I love to be dramatic. Maybe someone can tell me what these are…”

Trevor stood and moved around the table to get closer to the photograph. He ended up peering over Nina’s shoulder at the picture. For a moment, his eyes stared at the photograph but his mind drifted somewhere else.

“They’re beautiful,” Lori Brewer said.

“They scare the hell outta me,” Shep admitted.

Trevor’s eyes focused on the photograph. He saw a trio of large, seagoing vessels pulling into a dilapidated port. The ships appeared a blend of clipper and ark with golden sales unfurled from vertical tubes rising from brown and red hulls.

Gordon said to Omar, “Your boys need to be congratulated. The work they did to get the SR-71 airworthy has paid off.”

Omar’s mood did not lighten. He sat silent.

“What are you sayin’, Gordon?” Shep asked.

“With the state of things we needed a new intelligence gathering tool. Some of you might not know it, but Omar’s group pulled a Blackbird out of mothballs and got her running again. I just received these shots this morning. They come from the Port of Oakland taken seventy-two hours ago.”

Trevor recognized the ships from his experiences on that other Earth.

“Chaktaw,” he said. “Chaktaw sailing vessels. Voggoth is certainly pulling out all the stops.”

Cross-talk erupted. Trevor, for his part, considered his words carefully as he returned to the head of the table.

“That’s why Voggoth isn’t hitting us hard right now.”

“Wow,” Jon Brewer said. “He’s just waiting for all his friends to get here. More reinforcements. Instead of the Battle of Five Armies, this time it’s going to be the Battle of Six Armies, that is if the Grenadiers can even help this time.”

A new voice entered the conversation, one that sounded timid and shy as if not meaning to be heard. “No big deal,” Nina mumbled in reference to the photographs.

Everyone stopped and gaped at her, even Trevor. Nina blushed.

“What did you say?” He asked.

Nina nearly shriveled into her seat. The thirty-four-year-old woman looked more a bashful teenager called on in class.

“Um, look, I’m just saying it just doesn’t seem like that big of a deal.”

“Not a big deal?” Eva Rheimmer did not suffer what she thought to be foolishness. “My dear, that’s three new armies to contend with. We’re already in a tough spot.”

“Let her speak,” Trevor said. “Go ahead, Captain. What’s on your mind?”

“Well, sir, unless there’s more to them than these pictures, then there’s, well, I’m just saying there’s not a whole lot of them. Not when you look at what The Order is throwing at us. Listen, if I were these Geryons and Redcoats and whatever, I’d think it’s kind of a waste of time for me to send a couple hundred troops and a few ships here and there all the way across the world to pile on.”

“Pile on?” Trevor asked not so much for clarification, but because it struck a chord with him. “What do you mean?”

“Look, we’re in bad shape. The Order doesn’t need these reinforcements, he grows his own wherever and so far he’s got us on the run. It’s like they’re here just to get in on the action. You know, to claim some of the glory for themselves.”

Trevor listened to her and kept staring right at Nina Forest with a glazed expression. She turned a greater shade of red.

Instead of ridiculing her, he said, “You’re right. Shit yeah, you’re right. That’s exactly what they’re doing. They’re piling on.”

“Trevor,” Gordon Knox broke in. “No one appreciates Captain Forest’s observations more so than I but let’s be real. These alien governments are tight on forces as it is. They wouldn’t send what little they’ve got off to do battle with us for no reason.”

“You’re wrong, Gordon,” Trevor nodded his head as the answer formed clearly in his mind. “That’s exactly what they’re doing. Voggoth will wait until these guys get into position, then he’s going to pummel the crap out of us. When he’s done he’ll let these guys—the Chaktaw, the Centurians, and the Geryons—go marching right across the Mississippi to finish us off. The same way Eisenhower let De Gaulle and the Free French spearhead the liberation of Paris; more a symbol than a necessity.”

“Okay,” Shep glanced at the others around the table and then to Trevor and said, “Seems to me you know something that the rest of us don’t.”

Silence fell over the room. All of the attendees stared at Trevor, waiting for answers.

Trevor thought, this time, the reply, ‘I just picked it up’ won’t feed the bulldog.

“You’re right, Shep. Truth is, I still don’t know the whole picture, but I think I can make some educated guesses now. Lori told me a little while ago that this is probably the last meeting. I think she’s right. That means maybe the time has come to tell you what I know. I think that would be fair and if there’s any harm in it, well, I don’t think it matters much at this point.”

He felt an eagerness on behalf of his people to hear the truth. He could also sense apprehension. They wanted to know, but they also feared knowing.

“I wish I could tell you the why. I don’t know that for sure yet, although I have my suspicions. But I can tell you what. And it starts like this: eleven years ago the invasion began. Alien animals and alien armies from eight different points of origin. Four years ago we learned something new, something we have not shared with the general public. My trip across dimensions showed that there are also eight different parallel universes with eight different Earths, each one serving as an arena of battle. The difference is that on each of those Earths a different species plays the home team. Here it’s us. Where I went it was the Chaktaw and human beings were a part of the invading force.”

As the only one at the table who had not previously heard any of it, Nina’s eyes widened with each revelation.

Brett Stanton cut in, “Now hold on now, you told us that mankind was originally from Sirius in these other universes. Am I remembering that right?”

“Yes, and we would have been from Sirius here, too, but our life form—our DNA—was transplanted to this Earth millions of years ago.”

Omar spoke for the first time, “My Anita told me that all of the life on this planet is theorized to have come from an original strand of DNA. Evolution created man just as it created timber wolves and trout. But all from an original source.”

Trevor agreed. “Yes. I think that’s why animals came through, too. It’s as if all life from each of the races is being judged but that each version of the DNA developed only one sentient species; one race for each ecosystem at the top of the food chain, I suppose.”

“Judged?” the idea offended Lori. “Judged by whom?”

“That’s a good question,” Trevor did something he rarely did anymore; he smiled in an attempt to lighten the mood. It did not work. They greeted his smile with a collection of gazes ranging from blank to shocked.

“Near as I can guess, all of these universes—including ours—are secondary. Maybe that’s not the right word. What I mean is, somewhere there is a core universe, or cosmos. One where humanity and all the other races evolved over billions of years. That’s who I think is behind this. They set the stage and wrote the rules.”

“So we’re just—we’re not—” Nina’s expression suggested amazed and sad together. “We’re not important. Just tools or pawns. Machines?” And she looked to him with the expression of a child searching for assurance.

Trevor saw the damage that idea did to Nina, a woman who often questioned her humanity. Trevor could imagine the thoughts going through her mind; thoughts of self-loathing, of smallness. When he had first met her, she felt life held nothing for her other than fighting. With time she learned otherwise, only to forget again.

“No. No I don’t believe that at all,” Trevor told everyone in the room but his eyes held on Nina. “You raised a daughter. Is she just a tool? Of course not. What about you, Lori? Is Catherine a machine? I know—I know I’m not,” but he wondered. “We are living, thinking beings who had lives before all this turned our world to Hell. We’re not fighting because we want to, we’re fighting because we have to.”

Eva Rheimmer asked in a bitter tone, “You said something about rules?”

“I don’t have a handbook, Eva. But look at our nukes. They don’t work. The beings who pulled all this together had the power to do that. Something at the sub-atomic level, I’ll bet. Same with bio weapons. I don’t think weapons of mass destruction are allowed. The folks behind this want a slug fest.”

Lori wondered, “Are they—are they Gods? Our God?”

“No,” Trevor felt sure of that. “Highly-evolved beings is my guess. What looks like magic to us is probably just incredibly advanced technology. They probably don’t even look like humans anymore, or Chaktaw or Geryons. We’re what they were a couple of eons ago.”

Omar, his accent completely gone, joined the discussion once more. “Before our world changed, there were theorists hypothesizing about an eventual technological singularity; a moment when our computers and machines became so advanced and so intertwined with people that it would change the nature of our existence. That mankind would become something unrecognizable, perhaps outgrowing our bodies, perhaps transcending the physical laws of the universe as we understand them.”

Trevor thought of the Old Man and how he seemed a projection. “Maybe even things like—things like time will become irrelevant.”

“Now hold on here,” Shepherd leaned forward. “Who said we had to fight in all this? If this is some kind of game, I’m sick of playin’. I’ve watched a lot of good people get cut down and the idea that this is sport doesn’t sit good with me.”

“It’s not that easy,” Trevor answered while most of the table nodded in agreement with Shep. “I don’t think ‘sport’ is the right way to characterize it. A challenge. A demonstration. A contest, maybe. Point is, we haven’t got a choice. Once they made us a part of this we had to win.”

Lori stubbornly asked, “And why is that?”

“The Feranites. The Red Hands.”

“Huh?”

“They lost. I saw it when The Order had me the last time. They’re gone now. Actually, they’re worse than gone. Voggoth turned them into something horrible. I think you could say that they’re in Hell, now. All of them across all the universes.”

Jon listened patiently without saying a word, he did not mind going unnoticed by Trevor these days. Yet he had to ask, “Wow, but is Voggoth on some Earth somewhere defending his turf? From what we’ve heard before, he’s not quite like the others.”

Trevor shook his head. “Nope. He is something different, isn’t he? For some reason he’s getting a pass in all this, as if they think of him as something superior. I’m guessing the others kind of see him as a sort of judge or referee.”

Nina jumped, “So he’s covering for them, is that it? Those bastards couldn’t beat us so now he’s doing the job. But if he punches through at the Mississippi they’ll march in and take all the credit, right?”

“I suppose so, yeah.”

Lori Brewer spat, “Who are these things to put us through this? What right have they got?”

Knox laughed but without much humor and pointed out, “Who were the Romans and their gladiatorial games? What about the Aztecs who if they had no one to go to war with would divide up their tribes and fight one another then execute the losers in sacrifice. Or better yet, what about World War I? That wasn’t about anything other than the nations in Europe finally getting sick of each other and wanting to figure out who the better guy was. As insane as all this may seem, it has historical precedent in our own civilization. Guess it isn’t as funny when you’re on this side of the glass.”

“We’re not talking about normal human beings,” Lori protested. “Right, Trevor? The powers behind this are supposed to be more evolved. I’m hearing this is about arrogance and pride. A bunch of pseudo-Gods flexing their beer muscles. They’re supposed to be better.”

That struck a chord with Trevor. He chewed on the idea for several seconds while cross talk created a chaotic atmosphere in the basement.

“Excuse me, now hold on,” Brett Stanton broke the verbal gridlock. Trevor noticed that the man stared directly at him. “Just taking a step back, here—now hold on but it seems to me that you’ve been at the center of this from day one. Mind if I ask what makes you so special?”

“Genetics,” Trevor answered honestly, although that answer confused everyone at the table. “Remember I said that they seeded Earth with the original strand of our basic DNA? Well think of that as a code. Or, I guess, pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that were scattered throughout the evolution of man. It ended up that I had most of those pieces in me. For some reason, that made me Johnny on the spot. Ashley had the last remaining pieces in her blood. Together we re-assembled that jigsaw puzzle, every last piece.”

Lori gasped, “Your son? JB?”

Trevor nodded.

Eva Rheimmer asked, “I don’t understand. What is so special about your son?”

“He was the starter’s pistol for the invasion. I don’t know how, but as soon as he was conceived it signaled the beginning. Of course, I didn’t even know I had a son until Ashley reappeared.”

Shep jumped in, “Hold on. Now there’s a good question. What about those ark-riders? Who made them disappear just as things were heating up? And why?”

“I have no clue,” Trevor admitted.

“There is one clue,” Omar added to the conversation. “When you were abducted to that other Earth, the structure that took you left behind a residual radiation matching the type of radiation left behind in places of mass disappearances.”

“That’s right,” Lori recalled that particular briefing. “So there’s a connection.”

Gordon cleared his throat. “Not only that, but it’s the same residual radiation being left behind in the cities where Voggoth’s creatures have been disappearing as of late. Not the most settling of connections.”

“That structure actually belonged to a type of entity named ‘the Nyx.’” Trevor said for the benefit of those who had forgotten his report after returning from the alternate Earth. “I don’t know how that fits. But I believe Voggoth helped those people on the other Earth get me to their side so that I could help them beat the Chaktaw, who were the home team, if you will. At the same time, that hurt things back here. He kind of tried to kill two birds with—well—with one Stone.”

Shep ignored the quip and pressed another question: “Okay, then, how about this. What’s up with you and those K9s?”

That question reminded Jon of another; one that had bugged him for eleven years. “And where’d you learn to do all the shit you ‘just picked up’? The Richard Stone I knew in the old days could sell Chevys but could not fly an attack helicopter.”

Jon’s tone produced a laugh around the table. Trevor shared the chuckle. It felt good to slip in a moment of levity. Yet as he spoke he worried that the answers would show him to be a fraud. Would these people who had followed him all these years still see him in the same light once the magician’s tricks were revealed?

He answered the second question first.

“I can’t quiet explain it, but I was given the gift of memories. It seems it was their way of balancing things. Trust me, I didn’t want it. But I can fly an attack chopper because I have the memories of a pilot who could. Same with guns and engineering and all that. I don’t know everything, and I’m not perfect at it, either. Still,” Trevor gripped his hands in fists, “You can’t imagine the confidence that gives you—the—the…”

“The power?” Lori finished the thought.

“Yeah. Knowledge really is power.”

“Well I’ll bet that comes in handy,” Brett remarked in a light tone.

Trevor froze; his eyes remained open but stared at something no one else could see. He remembered the images of the infantryman who gave him the skills to use an assault rifle; he remembered breathing that soldier’s last breath. He remembered the rich man who had built the estate and feeling that man’s heart attack as the pressure built in his chest.

“It—it comes with a price,” he told them. The good humor evaporated. “It comes with a responsibility. Most of those memories—maybe all of them—come from people who died. I can feel their dying thoughts.”

Jon shot, “Human memories? Okay, that’s cool. Then why have you been able to figure out a few of those alien devices, like the Eagles?”

Trevor slowly shook his head as he replied, “That’s a good question. I think—I think if I knew the answer it might be useful. But I don’t. Not yet. I think—I think that’s connected to JB somehow, too. I don’t know…” and Trevor faded into a trance again as he tried to unlock that particular mystery.

Shep gained Trevor’s attention by repeating his question, “And the dogs?”

He sighed, shrugged, and said, “I don’t know for sure. I can guess, though. I think—I think…” Trevor paced around the table with his hands in front as if trying to sculpt the answer out of thin air. “Let me put it to you this way. I don’t think nature is as passive as we might think. Maybe nature—our world, if you will—maybe there’s a certain amount of interconnectivity…”

“Um, I’m not quite following you on this one,” Shep said with one of his wise eyes half-cocked like Mr. Spock spying something illogical. “Are you saying God has a hand in this?”

“No, no I don’t think so. Maybe some people might see it that way, I guess that’s sort of in the eye of the beholder. But we know that nature adapts. Usually that happens over the course of decades or centuries. I think the Grenadiers are something along that line; a reaction to the invaders—especially Voggoth—coming to our world.”

Trevor glanced around the room. They wanted more.

“I said I’m not sure. But look, every living thing on Earth came from an original strand of DNA, that makes us all connected on some level. Biologists and whatnot always talk about a balanced environment and when something gets out of whack, there’s a correction. When the other aliens came with their animals, it was like a virus invading a body, especially when Voggoth came. Newcomers from outside the ecosystem knocked things out of balance. Look at the storms that pop up whenever there are a lot of The Order’s creatures around. Like those storms, I think the dogs are nature’s answer; nature’s antibodies. Because I carry such a pure form of the original DNA in my body, I developed a strong connection to them. But we’ve all seen how well-trained they are, straight from birth.”

“That’s the truth,” Shep agreed. “They follow commands from day one as if they were the best trained dogs I ever saw. Maybe they’re a little bit in all our heads, but you just got a stronger dose of it. Is that what you’re saying?”

Trevor said, “Even before the invasion dogs came in all kinds of breeds perfectly fit to meet the needs of mankind. There’s a reason they are known as man’s best friend. But since the invasion that connection grew exponentially. So yeah, that’s what I’m saying. I think you can trace it back to nature. From what I can tell, each of the races on each of the Earth’s developed similar helpers from their environments. Look, that’s what I got so far, I’m sorry it’s not clearer.”

Silence around table. A few glances amongst one another such as Lori eyeing Jon and Eva sharing a look with Brett. Gordon just sat in his wheelchair and watched it all unfold. He did not appear phased by the revelations. Trevor figured Gordon was blessed with some internal mechanism allowing him to categorize and file information in certain ways that fit his job description.

Jon Brewer spoke, “So what do we do now? If I’m following you, you’re saying that this Voggoth isn’t supposed to be doing what he’s doing; that this isn’t his fight. I admit, if not for him we’d have everything under control I think.”

“Sir,” Nina Forest volunteered. “I don’t know but listen, when it comes to war there really aren’t any rules. Not in my book. What I’m saying is, we have to find a way to win. Screw the rules.”

He appreciated her defiance; it gave energy to the room. Trevor nodded in complete agreement.

“That’s right. That’s what I have planned. We’ve been doing things their way since day one and just when it seems we got this thing licked, The Order goes and changes the playing field. So yeah, it’s time we take a different approach. I’m going to break the rules.”

Shep said, “I look up and down the front lines and I don’t see any chance of that.”

“Nina,” Trevor said, “Tell him what I’m thinking.”

That surprised everyone at the table, but she knew.

With a smile, Captain Nina Forest told Shep and the rest, “You won’t find a chance of it on the front lines because, listen, that’s playing by the rules still. He’s just saying that it’s time to break those rules and hit them where it counts.”

Trevor added, “Yes, but I’m not thinking about all of them. Just one guy in particular.”

Eva Rheimmer asked, “What does that mean?”

Trevor turned his attention to the foot of the table.

“Gordon?”

The Intelligence Director read from the report Ashley had forced him to make in person.

“My agents have identified The Order’s original base of operations on the west side of the Ural Mountains. Our European friends have confirmed this information and we have every reason to believe it is still operational.”

Trevor said softly, “Voggoth. The heart of the enemy. Command and Control. Maybe even more importantly, the guy who set the table for this game. If I were a nerd—and you know I’m not; at least not anymore—then I might think of him as the Dungeon Master.”

Shep had no idea. “The what?”

“Sorry, I forgot,” Trevor smiled at the older man. “You never even watched Star Trek.”

“No, now wait, this Dungeon Master as you call him,” Brett Stanton’s tone suggested familiarity with the subject, “is sticking his hand in the game a little more directly than he should. Am I following you?”

Trevor answered with a nod.

“Excuse me,” Omar broke in with a cynical tone, “Voggoth is on the other side of the world. We can’t even get to Colorado anymore, how are we to launch an assault in Russia?”

A chorus of voices tried to answer.

“We still have the Chrysaor,” said Jon Brewer.

“My team could hit it,” Nina volunteered.

“Time to put that navy to use,” Shep suggested.

“Whoa, hold on,” Trevor raised a hand. “We need all of that to defend the Mississippi. Our best chance to survive is to stop The Order on the battlefield. It’s not a great chance, but it’s the best one. My plan is to try and re-shuffle the deck. I don’t know exactly what is going to happen, but we have to change the status quo; we have to break those rules.”

Brett put a finger in his ear and wiggled, saying, “Now maybe I heard you wrong. No, wait, I’m sure you just said that we got to try and knock out this Voggoth fella. How do you expect to do that without an army?”

Trevor sat and crossed his hands in front of him on the table top. His eyes found Lori Brewer’s. She had known him since childhood; since the days when he had gone by the name Richard. She could read him like a book.

The answer dawned on her and she said it aloud with a tremor of shock, “Your son?”

His silence served as answer enough.

Eva Rheimmer questioned. “I don’t understand.”

Jon Brewer did.

“At The Order’s base last year, JB managed to gain control over their facility. He is the reason Trevor escaped. I’m guessing it has something to do with the—what did you call it?—the jigsaw puzzle that he is.”

“My son is very special. He is a symbol, I think, of all the life that comes from our original strand of DNA. The purest sample. We know that The Order is not alive. They are the antithesis of life. When he came in contact with The Order’s machines all hell broke loose.”

Shepherd tried to guess, “Are you saying that maybe Jorgie might be able to hijack their armies like they say he did at that off-shore base? ‘Cause from where I’m sitting, that would be a good time.”

Trevor smirked at Shep’s tone but also shook his head.

“I don’t think so. It’s not that easy. There’s no silver bullet that’s going to turn this around. It’s going to take more than a bayonet charge to save our asses this time.”

Lori asked, “So you’re going to Europe to make your way to Voggoth’s place?”

“Yes,” Trevor said. “Me and my son.”

“But you haven’t told us why.” Lori complained.

“Yes, I did. I’m going to re-shuffle the deck. If JB is the ultimate expression of life and Voggoth is the antithesis of the same…”

Omar gasped, “Matter and anti-matter. You think this could destroy Voggoth?”

“No, not really,” Trevor admitted to them and to himself that his plan contained more questions than answers. “But we know he’s totally different from the other life forms involved in this. What I hope—I guess I’m hoping to get a reaction. Knock him off balance—or send a signal that can’t be ignored—something.”

“A signal that can’t be ignored?” Eva asked. “What does that mean?”

“I have reason to believe that the beings who orchestrated Armageddon are not aware of exactly how involved Voggoth is here, that it would be against the rules. Maybe they don’t want to know because they don’t mind us getting creamed. But if I can make them see then that might force Voggoth to back off here.”

“And we were winning until he jumped in with both feet,” Jon said.

Nina pounced, “What do you want us to do? Should some of us come with you?”

Trevor felt a charge shiver through his spine. The idea of Nina coming with him—to be so close to her again. Maybe—maybe…

“No,” and he saw her eyes falter with disappointment and rejection. He wanted to tell her that he desired her to come, but he felt this a suicide mission and besides, Nina’s talents could best serve humanity doing what she did best. “You have an important job here. You all do. You have to hold off The Order. As long as we’re alive and fighting we have a chance. Once we’re overrun we all die, no matter what I manage to do on the other side of the world.”

Jon asked, “How do you figure that?”

“If this is a challenge, well, to put it in the best way, I guess, don’t think of it as a football game with a scoreboard and a clock. Think of it as ski jumping or gymnastics with judges and score cards. Less objective, more subjective. If the judges start to think we’re beaten then they’ll pull the plug on us. That’s what happened to the Feranites.”

Lori asked, “But what is it you’re planning to do? And why?”

Trevor answered, “I’m going to hit the heart of the enemy. All this time we keep thinking about the Chaktaw, the Hivvans, the Duass and the rest as the people we need to be fighting. But that’s playing by the rules. To win this we have to go around those rules. I’m going after Voggoth.”

“Pardon me,” Shep said, “but like Brett said, don’t you think you’ll need an army for that?”

Gordon’s voice joined the fray from the foot of the table: “Our European friends have been waiting a long time, Trevor. We’ve been shipping them weapons and supplies, but I still don’t think they’ll be happy when you show up without firepower. Maybe you should take the Chrysaor, at least. We can tough it out without her for a while.”

“You’ll need it more,” Trevor answered. “You have to hold out. Don’t let Voggoth hand them a victory. As long as we’re still fighting on a large scale there’s hope. Besides, I don’t want to attract attention to this trip. I’m hoping to fly under the radar.”

Trevor could see questions boiling beneath the surface of each of the attendees, but the time for those questions had passed. He slowly and deliberately worked his way around the table, making eye contact with each of them.

As they had during those early days, during the protracted war against the Hivvans, during the invasion of California, they looked to Trevor for hope, for strength, and for direction. Apparently seeing the wires and the trap doors did not completely diminish the magician’s magic. Maybe there was more to Trevor Stone than the gifts.

He saw his good friend Lori Brewer whom he had known since childhood. At times he felt her to be the only conscience he had. He glanced at Jerry Shepherd and remembered convincing him and his small band of police officers to join the estate.

Trevor turned to Jon Brewer. Twice Jon had held the reins of power and twice he had dropped the ball. Yet on the battlefield he knew Jon to be a valiant soldier and a brilliant strategist. He trusted Jon to fight to the death on the Mississippi.

Trevor took a moment to put his hand on Jon’s shoulder and look at his friend. Jon returned the stare and saw confidence in Trevor’s expression. Trust. The time had come for The Emperor to show faith in his general again.

Trevor then found Gordon’s eyes at the far end of the table. As he expected, those eyes glared back big and strong. Of course, Gordon’s strength would falter when he moved away from the table on wheels instead of legs, but something or someone had given Gordon the courage to return to the conference table. Trevor hoped that courage would last.

Eva Rheimmer and Brett Stanton sat side by side. Of all the people at the table Trevor thought those two to be the least appreciated. Eva predated all the others; Trevor had made contact with her and her husband before the end of that first summer. He had convinced them to share food from their farm in exchange for K9 protection. That deal planted the initial seed of success.

As for Brett, the years had proven him to be a logistical and manufacturing genius. The dreadnoughts would never have grown from blue prints to flying battleships without his work. Indeed, their armies would have run dry of materials long before ousting the Hivvans if not for Stanton.

Trevor turned his gaze to Omar who sat quiet with a sagging, half-ash cigarette dangling from his lips. From the first matter-maker recovered in the hills of northeastern Pennsylvania to the anti-gravity catapults on the dreadnought flight decks, Omar turned alien technology into human weapons. His contributions were now only matched by his sacrifice, for Anita Nehru would never be the same.

At last he found the blue eyes of Nina Forest. Once, a long time ago, he thought those eyes cold. Were they still icy? He could not say. She did not remember what they shared but he remembered; remembered all too well. The pain of losing her made him more the monster. How many times over the years could he have used her compassion? After the slaughter at New Winnabow, the revelations of another Earth, the discovery of the Presidential redoubt in the heart of Cheyenne Mountain—times of regret, of shock, of horror—but he had had nowhere to turn.

He moved his eyes away. A feeling of guilt or maybe bashfulness overcame him. As if he felt a crush on a school girl who could never know.

Trevor pushed those thoughts from his mind in favor of something he had meant to say a long time ago.

“We’ve been together for a long time, haven’t we? We’ve come a long way, too. Everyone at this table has reason to be proud of what we’ve accomplished this far. We’re all that’s left. Along the way—along the way we lost some good friends,” Trevor considered and said with a chuckle in his voice, “and some not-so-good ones, too.”

Flashes of uncomfortable smiles.

“I have been honored by your trust in me. The truth is that you people have often been my strength. I hate that we will be apart for the end of this, but you all have jobs to do and I know you will do them with excellence. I have faith in you. As for me, I was told from the beginning that I have a path to walk. I suppose that my end was meant to come the same way it began; alone.”

8. Fond Farewells

The Eagle airship waited on the launch pad. Trevor exited the mansion and stepped across the grounds flanked by a Rottweiler escort. Rick Hauser loitered alongside the ship’s entry ramp. High overhead the sun began its descent behind the estate. In another hour it would disappear on the far side of the western mountain wall of the lake.

A lot of thoughts played in Trevor’s mind. He had laid it all out for his friends and yet he knew so little about the big picture. Perhaps that had been the trap since day one. As long as Trevor Stone played his part in the game then the greater powers had nothing to fear.

To hell with that.

“Sir! Do you have a comment on the course of the war?”

The shout came from one of three reporters who pushed themselves just inside the main gate. A pair of human guards held M16s to keep them back while several K9s—Dobermans and Trevor’s escort—formed a second wall of protection and flashed their canine teeth.

Up until six months ago the front gates of the estate were continually mobbed by a dozen or more reporters and cameramen. How times had changed.

One good side effect of Voggoth’s invasion.

Most of the reporters either served at the front as soldiers or served at the front as battlefield reporters. Either way, the 24-hour news cycle that had returned to The Empire in recent years had receded.

“Yes, I have a comment,” Trevor changed his trajectory and stood behind the row of protective K9s. “Those who are able to fight need to answer the call again, just as they did in the early days of the invasion. This is a desperate battle and no one can sit it out. I urge all persons of all ages and of all medical conditions to report to military centers in their regions and volunteer for duty.”

“Are you off to the front? Where are you going?” A reporter asked.

Trevor answered, “I’m going to visit an old friend.”

He turned away as the reporters scrambled to decode his answer. However, Trevor found himself more befuddled than the reporters when he saw that someone had moved to block his path to the Eagle.

She stood there on the green lawn of the estate in fatigues and a black top with her trusty M4 on her shoulder and a black beret on her head. Despite the new head gear, Trevor recognized Nina’s telltale golden ponytail dangling to her shoulder blades. He also recognized the black and gray Norwegian elkhound at her side because that dog had belonged to Richard Stone in the old world.

He walked away from the reporters not sure if his gait appeared as wobbly as it felt. He heard the guards push the trio of questioners away, out of earshot.

“Captain Forest?”

“Hello, um, sir.”

Odin, her dog, trotted to Trevor with his head lowered obediently. The beast appeared old and shaggy and his white undercoat shed in bushels. He knelt and patted his old elkhound between the ears. Nina, for her part, took notice of the body language of familiarity between the two.

She said, “I wanted to, well, I wanted to see you before I left. Or, I guess, well, before you left, too.”

“Oh,” he gave Odin another good pat then stood. “Well I’m—I’m glad you did.”

The two walked side by side along the grounds leaving the front yard in favor of the quieter north side.

He stumbled, “I don’t know if I ever really thanked you, um, for last year. You came and found me. And all. I mean, thank you.”

Trevor knew his voice trembled with nerves. He did not know that Nina heard that tremble not as nerves, but as discomfort. She nearly ran away at the sound in fear that he did not want to talk to her; that whatever she had done to make him disavow their love a decade ago was so horrible that he could not bear her presence.

Nonetheless, she stayed. An act of courage on par with anything she dared on the battlefield.

“It was my duty,” she said with a stiff resolve meant to sound soldierly. But that resolve faded. “And I wanted to,” she admitted.

They entered the shade of maples and oaks along the northern side of the mansion. Ahead lay the barn where the original pack of Grenadiers had lived and bred.

Trevor listened to her words and wished he could believe that he heard a tone of affection. But that was impossible. She did not remember what she had meant to him. She could not. That life had been stolen from her by The Order’s Bishop.

So he stepped carefully with his response, the way a nerdy teenage boy may worry that his every word to the class beauty might reveal his secret crush and cause embarrassment of a high-school apocalyptic scale.

“Through all of this you have been an excellent—an excellent warrior, Nina.”

She felt him choose his words carefully, like a master tactician moving the right pieces in order to not expose others.

He continued, “I have a great deal of respect for you. I always have.”

A breeze sent a whirlwind of decaying leaves spinning in the damp shadows beneath the trees.

She removed her beret and replied, “Sir, I—I’ve always tried my best. I’m just saying, it’s because of you. You always—I always wanted to do right by you.”

She hoped he heard an apology for whatever she had done a decade before; whatever she had done to keep him from seeking her again after The Order had stolen her memories.

They stopped near the old shooting range. Frayed clothesline still ran on pulleys and held paper targets that fluttered in the breeze. A pair of Grenadiers marched out from the K9 barn and headed off on patrol.

He wished he could take her by the shoulders, look into those blue eyes, and confess. But what good would that do? The Nina he had known and loved no longer existed.

A small helicopter swooped overhead unseen above the budding branches.

Nina struggled to keep from bursting. She stood close to him now and she realized that for years all she really wanted was to be close to him. Why had it taken her this long to understand that she loved him? He was a man with a single purpose, just as she seemed to have only one purpose. It consumed him just as her instincts drove her to battle. Yet Nina felt certain she could find more with him. It pained her—a horrid, aching pain—that apparently she had once known that greater purpose and had done something to lose it.

Trevor said, “I’ve always been able to count on you, Nina. You’ve done some of the most difficult, and nastiest, jobs in this war. I often times think of you as my sword,” he paused and grimaced as the words sounded sour to him. “I don’t mean as a thing—an object—I mean, I mean as one of the few—one of the few people I could count on no matter what. You’ve always been sturdy and true.”

She heard praise for his best soldier. She also heard an undercurrent of emotion. She feared he might say something like why did you betray me? We had something together and you screwed it up! Why?

Regardless, she refused to walk away. She had to make him know that she regretted any past misdeed. She turned and faced him with the same bravery in which she faced the nearly indestructible Shadow in Wilmington or the flying spawn from a hideous Hostile 157. Indeed, to Nina Forest affairs of the heart proved more frightening than any beast conjured in that new world.

She found her eyes locked onto his; held captive by the intensity of his stare. In those eyes she saw something—a sadness of loss—a longing. Yes, there had once been something more with this man and the memories of it scarred him.

He spoke softly, “What you did for me last summer was more than a person should be asked to do. I don’t know how it has affected you, but you know there’s more to all this than meets the eye.”

Trevor could not help but be fixated by her gaze. He wondered if he had pursued her after the removal of that implant if he could have duplicated the events that led to their union. Doing so would have been against the will of the Old Man and his ilk, but as the armies of Voggoth marched across the Great Plains he wondered if that would have been preferable; if perhaps winning this war would eventually hinge on breaking those rules.

On disobeying Gods.

Trevor’s hand rose, with no conscious thought; he felt detached from it. Perhaps the ghost of a former self seized control. That hand reached to her cheek.

“You risked a lot,” he whispered.

Nina felt his touch. She sensed warmth there and it unlocked a sensation from years ago; another memory that might have been his or might have been hers but it felt real all the same: a comfortableness in another’s soul. A feeling of sameness, of trust, of devotion.

She saw that sadness in his eyes again and felt ashamed. He had loved her once; this came through with an unmistakable energy. But she had betrayed him or hurt him or both. Intentional or not, the removal of her memories had only made it easier on her. She wished she had never seen that tape. She wished she had no recollection of all she had lost.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered an apology for what she could not remember.

Trevor withdrew his hand, embarrassed he had done something unprofessional. He unfairly placed her in an awkward position. He had no business doing that. Whatever the past, this woman was not the Nina Forest he had loved.

Still loved.

He had no right to treat her as such. He could only imagine the confusion she felt. The Emperor—the man whom she followed without question—touching her like a husband to a wife; a man to his lover. He felt guilty again. It seemed no matter what he said or did it could only compound his agony and confuse her.

“No,” he volleyed, “I’m sorry. I should not have done that.”

“It’s okay,” she grabbed his retreating hand with both of hers. “It was—it was nice. This is strange for me to say. Look, I mean, I don’t know how to put this but I’ve always, well, felt close to you. I always did my job because I didn’t want to let you down.”

His fingers trembled in her grasp. For the first time since the early days he felt a surge of confidence; confidence in his humanity. A strength that could lift him above the doubt and guilt and regret. A strong shoulder to support the weight of the world.

He stuttered, “T-tell me, Nina. Last summer—when you helped me—what did you—what did you…”

She understood.

“I felt your pain. Your fear. Whoever he was, he allowed me to take some of that from you. He said it was the only way to save you.”

“And you did.”

“I owed you,” she smiled, a little. “You did the same for me once.”

He cocked his head and narrowed his eyes.

She answered the question expressed in his gaze, “Ohio. When my team was ambushed. You came all the way out there to bring me back. I’m just saying, I owed you for that.”

He admitted freely, “I couldn’t abandon you. After all you’ve meant to us—to me.”

Nina felt her heart race. There, in a simple sentence, all her suspicions confirmed.

After all you’ve meant—to me.

He slipped his hands free of her grasp. He had said too much.

“Nina, things are coming to a head now. You’ve got a soldier’s instincts, what do you feel?”

“From what you said in the meeting this morning it sounds like things don’t look good. I’m just saying, if The Order doesn’t break through at the Mississippi this next time, then they’ll just keep coming until they do.”

He put his hands on her shoulders.

“Then go after them, Nina. This is your last mission. Hit them where it hurts. They need to farm; hit their farms. They set up forward operating bases; take out their command and control. Hurt them, Nina.”

“I will,” she promised.

Trevor then leaned in close; so very, very close. She felt his breath against her cheek. She swore she could hear his heartbeat.

He spoke in a not-so-subtle code. On the surface they could each pretend he spoke of all humanity, but in reality they both knew the truth to be much more personal: “Nina, they’re the ones who stole from us. Make them pay for that. Hunt them down and hurt them. For me—and for you. For what we lost. For what they took.”

Then she felt his lips against her forehead. A gentle, light kiss.

That warm feeling returned stronger than ever. It wrapped around her in a blanket. She felt needed and loved. Without any consideration she found her arms wrapping around his waist, her face burying into his chest, and his strong hug embracing her. And with it came a power she had never known.

I love you.

When he released and stepped back, awkwardly, she found a different emotion: acute anger. For she realized now what she had once had with Trevor Stone, a feeling more powerful than any weapon she ever wielded; more intense than any firefight.

And they had taken it from her, those architects of Armageddon.

…they’re the ones who stole from us. Make them pay for that. Hunt them down and hurt them.

And she would.

They will pay.

Trevor glanced around the estate grounds. He saw no spying eyes.

She replaced the beret on her head. A soldier again.

“Good luck to you,” he offered from two full paces away.

She replied, “You, too.”

“I have to go,” he said, reluctantly. “I have to—I have to go visit an old friend. Something I have to do. That’s sort of been the story in all this,” he tried to send another message. “There have been things I’ve had to do. And things I have been forced to give up.”

She figured that whatever wrong she had done to him had been beyond the point of forgiveness. She had been one of those things he had been forced to give up because she had done something to deserve abandonment. She could not blame him; not if she had betrayed him.

“I—I understand.”

“No, you don’t,” he corrected but lightheartedly. “Maybe someday you will. Maybe someday—when all this is over—it will be clear. I don’t know if that will make things better or worse. I guess we’ll see. In any case, let me say it again: thank you, for saving me.”

Nina closed her eyes and conjured that feeling of warmth and being wanted. No matter what The Order had taken from her, at some point in the past she had been a complete person.

No, Trevor, thank you for saving me.

“Mother,” Jorgie Benjamin Stone stood at the doorway to his room with his grandfather at his side and looked in at Ashley, “I won’t need all of that. Father said we’ll be traveling light.”

Ashley had already stacked a small suitcase full of underwear, socks, and tshirts. The second suitcase—for pants, sweatshirts, and jeans—would come next.

Her frustration boiled over.

“Well maybe your father is wrong, did you ever think of that? Did that ever cross your mind? Father isn’t always right, you know. He—he makes mistakes. He’s been known to be wrong. Maybe just once mother knows what’s best.”

Benjamin Trump—elderly and thinning—tried to intercede, “Oh, now Ashley the boy didn’t mean anything by that.”

JB’s reply came not in words but in a bear hug against his mother’s legs. She silenced her tirade and returned his hug. A lump grew in her throat. A big hole opened in her chest.

Grandpa, who had already said his goodbyes to JB over a game of catch, bowed his head and walked away.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” she apologized.

She realized her son cried. Honest-to-god tears. Deep sobs. His shoulders raised and lowered. His arms clutched tight around her legs.

For a moment he shed the trappings of the mysterious child with the evolved brain chemistry and the supernatural insights. For a moment there stood nothing more than a nine-year-old boy about to leave his mother, possibly forever.

“Mommy,” he pleaded, “I love you, Mommy. I love you!”

“I know, I know,” she stroked his hair. “Listen, JB, I won’t let Trevor take you. You don’t have to go.”

The child answered through sobs, “Yes, I do have to go. Father is right. It is the only way. But I love you, Mommy. I hope you know that. I love you so much!”

He buried his head into her again and cried. She felt damp streaks from his eyes run along her pant leg.

“I love you too, honey. I always have. You’re my son.”

“Yes,” he agreed as if it might be a revelation. “I’m your son. I came from you, too.”

Ashley grabbed his hands and knelt in front of her boy. She searched his red eyes and spoke strongly to her son. Her words held a mother’s power; a power gentle enough to sculpt the heart of a child and strong enough to change the universe.

“That’s right, Jorgie, you remember that. You are a very special boy, but you’re also my son.” She held his hands up in her own, pressing her flesh to his. “A human boy. No matter what happens—no matter what else you may be—remember that. Remember our time together. Remember what it is like to be happy and sad; to love your parents, to play catch with grandpa. Don’t you ever forget, do you hear me?”

“I won’t, Mommy.”

“Promise me.”

Jorgie—tears still flowing—stepped to the bed, grabbed his stuffed bunny wrapped in its tiny blanked, and answered his mother.

“I promise.”

Clouds rolled in over the horizon and spoiled another brilliant May sunset. The cover overhead draped the hillside graveyard in early shadows. A gust signaling an approaching thunderstorm—still far off—blew between the rows of stone markers carrying dried leaves and tiny buds in a mix of old and new.

Hauser managed to land Eagle One with his usual skill across one of the cemetery roads with the landing gear touching down between headstones. The pilot waited behind as Trevor strolled among the tombs searching each name one after another until he found his old friend.

Dante Thomas Jones.

Trevor removed the baseball cap from his head and knelt first to one knee, then to both. He stared at the letters etched in stone.

He could not forget that Dante Jones had played a pivotal role in the plot against him. Nor could he forget, however, that Dante Jones had been his friend for many years going back to the days before the old world ended.

Forgiveness? No. Not possible. Dante had known as much when he purposely aimed his pistol to miss Trevor during their confrontation atop the White House. He had known as much when he had turned that pistol to his own temple, an act of responsibility as much as escape.

“I miss you, my old friend,” and his hand touched the cold marker. “I thought I’d come and see you before I go. I may not be back. Ah, hell, I probably won’t be back. I guess I should be honest with you. I guess…” Trevor’s thoughts trailed off to memories of the last decade.

“I guess I wasn’t always honest with you. Not completely. Maybe that’s part of the reason you listened to Evan. I made you my Internal Security Director because I wanted you close, because I trusted your instincts. That’s what I told you, wasn’t it? Part of that is true, I think. But if I’m going to confess, part of the reason is just because you were my friend and I wanted to give you something to do and I could keep an eye on you if I kept you close. Maybe I didn’t think you capable of succeeding in this new world without me around to keep watch over you. But I didn’t, did I? The bigger we grew the more I expected from you and I wasn’t around to help out when it got tough.”

An early evening bat whizzed overhead in search of prey. Trevor watched it fly off until its shadowy body blended with the darkening sky.

“I’ll bet that was tough for you. Well, not in the beginning. Early on it was all easy. All black and white. You had a bunch of guys and started doing your patrols and watching out for any criminals that might have been among the ranks of the survivors. Easy stuff early on. Then as we grew—well, that’s when things got hard. I wasn’t much of a help either, was I?”

Trevor recalled chewing out Dante on more than one occasion. He remembered the creation of the Senate and how that body held influence over I.S. Legal influence that Trevor had sanctioned.

“You were caught in the middle sometimes. Okay, a lot of times. Maybe all the time, right? But I didn’t have the time to worry about it, Dante. Too much to do. Too many big things to pay attention to. That’s why I always told you how much I hated all the politicians, the procedures, the bullshit. It clouds things. Evan knew that. He played it well. He played you well.”

Trevor removed his hand from the gravestone and stood.

“I can’t forgive you, Dante, even if I do miss you. I’m sorry. Maybe I am a bit of a monster. Sometimes I feel trapped, kind of like you must’ve felt. I have to do what I have to do. I mean,” Trevor gripped his hands into fists and looked at them, “I have nothing other than this war. Over the years, I’ve come to learn something. It’s not nice. It’s not heroic. It’s actually something to be ashamed of, I think. What I’ve come to learn, Dante, is that maybe when the existence of your entire race is at stake, then maybe the ends do justify the means. Because I’ll tell you something, Dante, I will do anything to finish this. Anything.”

That thought stung.

“Even sacrifice my son. Do you know how scary that is? To know that I’m capable of anything if I think it serves the cause? Does that make me a fanatic? A dictator? That’s what the Old Man warned me about when he said my soul was damned. I can do these things but they haunt me all the same. If JB dies, it will rip my heart apart. But if I think it could save our people, then I’ll do it. I hope that doesn’t happen. I pray it doesn’t. But damn if I won’t do it.”

The tombstone did not answer.

“Hell, I don’t even know exactly what I’m doing. I just have a feeling, you know? A feeling that I have to shake things up and that he can do it.”

Another breeze blew through. Far away a soft rumble of thunder carried over the hillside cemetery.

“I have to get going. I think if you were here you’d wish me luck. I believe that. On some level you thought you were doing something that was right. You thought I had gone too far or become too powerful.”

Trevor thought about his rage-filled purges of Internal Security and the Senate upon his return. He thought about arrests and executions and instant justice dispensed in the name of exposing the guilty, punishing traitors, and streamlining The Empire to face the invasion in the West.

“Maybe you had a point after all, right? Well it won’t matter if I fail. If somehow we survive all this, then I’ll ask for forgiveness. Until then, I have to do this. I don’t think I have any choice.”

A new dawn came. The sun reached skyward from behind a horizon of ocean water. Seagulls cawed and cackled around the docks, the buildings, and the artificial reefs of overturned ships.

Most of the Naval Yard at Norfolk served as little more than a museum in the years since Armageddon. With ground wars in the south against the Hivvans and then west against California, Trevor and The Empire held little need for naval vessels. A cruel irony considering the U.S. Navy weathered the Armageddon storm better than the other military branches.

Parts of the Norfolk docks did come back on line to support and supply coastal patrols as well as long range reconnaissance and intelligence ships. The former group included The Empire’s new Barracuda-class attack subs: small, fast, and deadly. The latter group comprised a handful of nuclear powered submarines and a few surface ships used to deliver spies and arms to points around the globe.

Activity at Norfolk peaked prior to the California invasion. Gordon Knox’s intelligence apparatus kept ships coming and going constantly, particularly to Europe to support organized survivors there as well as the Caribbean where Hivvan remnants held sway over several islands.

The Order’s invasion changed Norfolk once more. As Trevor and his son Jorgie exited Eagle One on the open pavement between warehouses near a line of impressive docks, they thought the place deserted.

To the north Trevor saw dead sea warriors listing in their berths, victims in the first year of Armageddon left to rust and wither.

The bow of the cruiser USS Leyte Golf sat crumbled against its moorings as if some great force had knocked it sideways. The Destroyer USS Porter suffered a similar fate Most of its stern had been torn away land its lower decks flooded.

A brilliant white Snowy Egret perched on the tilted deck like an arrogant Admiral stubbornly refusing the loss of his ship. As Trevor stepped across the pavement the bird found The Emperor and watched him with a gaze Trevor imagined to be judgmental.

Further away the scene appeared even grimmer. Rusted hulls spoke of capsized behemoths, at least one an aircraft carrier. Trevor wondered how many brave souls lay entombed inside.

But the docks in front of Trevor and JB differed from the rest of the base. One of the southern berths hosted the frigate USS Nicholas with a crew onboard.

Two Barracuda subs stood ready at the docks, their black and gray hulls gave them an eerie, predatory appearance complimented by the hammerhead bow where two portals—like eyes—sat half in and half out of the water. A lethal-looking spine ran the length of the ship much like Jules Verne’s Nautilus from 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea.

However, Trevor and his son were not there to ride aboard either the Nicholas or the Barracudas. Their journey required something with greater range than the attack subs and a lower profile than a frigate.

The vessel that fit the bill waited in the harbor waters at the end of the main pier. In comparison to the much smaller barracudas, the USS Newport News Los Angeles-class submarine played the part of the seasoned warrior, a capable and deadly monster sporting an intimidating conning tower above a cylinder-like hull.

Not only had the Newport News won accolades in the old world, but it had already achieved legendary status as the vessel that conveyed Jon Brewer and his strike team to the arctic north to secure the ruins and turn the war to humanity’s favor. It was an elder statesman of the sea that had found fresh purpose in a new world.

Trevor and his son stopped at the edge of the pier and gazed at their waiting ride. He held a leather duffle bag in one hand. Jorgie dressed in khaki shorts and a navy blue shirt and hauled a pre-end-of-the-world The Transformers backpack complete with cartoon robots morphing into cars and planes. He also held bunny—wrapped in his protective blanket—tight to his chest.

Behind them came Rick Hauser—Trevor’s personal pilot—a blond haired man with glasses who still looked young despite being in his mid-thirties. He carried two more bags and another backpack, all heavily loaded.

“You don’t need to do this, Rick. You’ve earned a rest.”

“A rest? No, sir,” Hauser answered as he set down the heavy bags. “With you gone I’d be pretty bored. That’s what happened last year. So with all due respect, I’d just assume come with you. If you’ll have me.”

Trevor placed hand on Hauser’s shoulder in a sign of appreciation.

A navy officer wearing a captain’s uniform approached the group. He removed his cap revealing gray hair with a growing bald spot on top.

Trevor extended his free hand and asked, “Captain Farway?”

“Yes, sir,” the man offered a sincere and strong grip. “It is an honor to finally serve alongside you, Emperor.”

“Trevor. That’s about the only name I’ve been comfortable with in all this.” he replied with a shade of a grin.

Trevor held members of the old world’s military in high esteem, particularly those who had lived through action. Captain Farway’s perils at sea during the first year had reached Trevor via Jon Brewer, who had rode with Farway to Greenland six years ago. In addition, Farway had leant his services to help destroy The Order’s hidden base in the Atlantic last year, a move that might have saved The Empire. At least temporarily.

Trevor continued, “If I remember correctly, we met a few years ago during a symposium on naval organization and deployment.”

“Yes, sir, I remember. First meeting I ever had with the brass that was clear and to the point,” Farway smirked then looked to the bags. “Are all your things here?”

“Yes, Captain. What’s our time table?”

Farway replaced his cap and answered, “We’ve stripped down pretty good for speed and should make good time. I hope to get you there sometime late on Wednesday.”

Trevor calculated—five days to cross the Atlantic.

“Father, will we be under water the whole way?”

Farway answered, “That’s right, little guy. But don’t you worry; it’ll be a smooth ride.”

Hauser muttered, “Underwater—the whole—way?”

Captain Farway glanced at the pilot and answered with a grin, “That’s right. Say, you’re not claustrophobic, are you?”

Trevor answered fast, “No, no of course not. No.”

“Father, why are you sweating?”

“Say, can I help you with those things?” Farway volunteered but did not wait for an answer. He grabbed Trevor’s duffle bag as well as one of the bags from Hauser. The pilot and the navy man walked forward on the dock.

A seagull swooped low in search of food but found nothing and swooped into the sky even faster.

Trevor and Jorgie waited behind.

“Are you ready, buddy?”

JB nodded with forced enthusiasm.

Trevor held his hand down and open. The child reached up and grasped it. Trevor closed his fingers and JB’s hand nearly disappeared inside. Together father and son walked across the dock toward the Newport News.

The Snowy Egret watched from its perch aboard the destroyed USS Porter as the new arrivals worked their way inside the submarine. Soon thereafter the remaining topside sailors disappeared below and the hatches closed. The smaller attack subs—the Barracudas—powered to life and took positions alongside the larger vessel as it sailed away from its moorings. All three boats cut gentle wakes disturbing an otherwise peaceful harbor.

As the trio neared the horizon, the smaller Barracudas broke off their escort and the USS Newport News slipped beneath the waters as if to hide from the world.

The Snowy Egret could not appreciate the beauty in the sight of the war machines heading off into a rising sun, but it captured the entire scene with its mechanical eyes; recording the view on an internal storage device that was one part circuitry and one part biological mass.

9. The Last Mission

Nina Forest stood in the observation lounge inside the Communications Center on the grounds of McConnell Air Force Base. The windows—shattered six days prior during Trevor’s visit to the center—remained open. A smoky breeze blew inside from what remained of the base.

Most of the papers and equipment of value to Casey Fink’s Headquarters Unit evacuated two days before. One big map pinned to a wall remained the exception, but it held no markers for The Order to interpret upon their arrival which was expected to occur within twenty-four hours.

The conference table sported a big crack through the middle but maintained enough strength to bear the weight of Nina’s gear: a backpack, utility belt, ballistic armor, a Kevlar helmet, her sword, and more.

She heard scattered shouts from outside where her team gathered. The engine of a Blackhawk helicopter spooled to life at the same time as a formation of human fighter jets roared overhead on their way west to meet the vanguard of Voggoth’s army.

As had been the case all her life, the trappings of battle—machine engines, shouts, chaos, the smell of fire—did not disturb Nina Forest. She felt at home among them. The only place, in the entire world, where she felt at home. Except for those few moments with Trevor before she had left the estate. That had felt like home, too, even better. More personal.

She knew the time had come, however, to cast that aside. She did her best to focus on the mission. The helicopter downstairs waited for her. She had memorized the appropriate command codes and evaluated areas of operation. She would lead her team behind the lines with the goal of hurting The Order’s armies, weakening them before they reached the Mississippi.

Of course Voggoth was in no hurry to engage The Empire’s defenses. Apparently he waited for his alien cohorts to arrive so they could take credit for his victory. She wished The Empire maintained the offensive capability to launch a counter-attack because Voggoth’s hesitation provided a perfect opportunity for a kill shot.

Alas, their losses in the Rockies greatly diminished offensive firepower. They would have to be content with an aggressive defense, like those fighter jets overhead, attacks by the Chrysaor after her repairs finished, and Nina’s Dark Wolves.

What did I do to make Trevor leave me? Did I betray him?

Nina shook her head as if trying to shake free the question. She could not afford to dwell on this. But at the same time, she could not help herself. She had always suspected more happened during that missing year. Since last summer—since receiving the video tape—the question as to why they separated ate at her soul each and every day.

Three days had passed since she spoke with Trevor at the estate; three days since he had embraced her. In that embrace she had felt a wave of warmth and regret from him. She saw clearly that he still cared for her; longed for her the way she wanted desperately to be with him. Yet something held him back.

Whatever I did, it wounded him so deeply that he denies his feelings; he rejects me even though he still loves me. My God, what did I do?

In frustration, Nina reached to her head and yanked off the black beret and slapped it against her thigh.

“Ain’t it ‘bout time you hit the road?”

Nina swung around and saw General Jerry Shepherd standing in the stairwell door.

He took one step into the room, removed his cowboy hat, and asked in a fatherly tone, “You okay, Nina? What’s wrong?”

Her lips moved but she suppressed the urge to ask. She had grilled him often over the years. Each time he evaded her questions. Each time—she now knew—he lied. Apparently the depth of her sin against Trevor required no one speak of it.

“Yeah, yeah I’m okay,” and she began fitting on her gear starting with the short sword which she strapped to her leg, then Interceptor body armor. “Just, you know, going over the whole thing again.”

Nina fit on a shoulder holster holding a MAC-11 machine pistol

“Not much to go over,” Shepherd stood next to her and leant a hand as she struggled into the heavy backpack. “You’re getting dropped behind the lines and then you hit targets of opportunity.”

She did not react to him. Instead, she checked the clip in her Colt M4 and slammed it back into place with more force than required, then jammed her beret into a pocket in favor of a Kevlar helmet. Her ponytail still managed to peak out behind.

She buckled the last piece into place: a thigh rig holding a powerful semi-automatic Desert Eagle handgun.

“I guess I’m ready,” and she stormed out of the room in big steps. The arsenal of firepower on her person jingled and clinked as she walked.

Her obvious anger took Shepherd by surprise. He put on his Stetson again and followed.

Clouds of black, oily smoke drifted across the distant horizon to the northwest of the base. Nina heard the thud and crack of far off explosions. A trio of Apache attack choppers buzzed across the tarmac hugging the ground as they hurried to join the rearguard action taking place along the railway tracks outside of Colwich.

The runways of McConnell had taken multiple poundings from enemy hammerhead bombers. The first serious hit had come on the day of Trevor’s visit last Tuesday. By Thursday—when Trevor held the ‘last’ meeting at the estate—General Casey gave up on trying to keep the runways operational. Several heavy cargo planes were left to die and the remaining supplies and materials moved out via helicopters and ground transportation.

On Friday—while Trevor and JB boarded the Newport News—General Casey Fink pulled out his HQ unit and made for Kansas City.

The first artillery bombardment from The Order’s warped batteries came yesterday—Saturday—chasing away the last of the garrison. Now the base made one last contribution to the war effort by serving as a transfer point for the Dark Wolves.

A UH-60 Blackhawk sat between bomb craters with its rotors spinning. This particular transport wore extra external fuel pods. Nina spied the other three members of her Dark Wolves commando team onboard as well as several K9s waiting patiently for their Captain. An Eagle transport parked on the other side of the Communications Center stood ready to spirit away General Shepherd.

Nina left the building and walked across the pavement, careful to avoid a piece of metal remaining from one of the many burned out airplanes.

“Nina! Whoa, hold up a sec,” and she stopped at the sound of Shep’s voice.

The wind from the rotors blew around debris and dust causing her to lower goggles strapped to her helmet.

Shep approached Nina, squinted in the wind, and examined her as if searching for injury. She returned his gaze with a stiff lip and narrow eyes.

Shep spoke in a voice barely loud enough to reach above the rotors, “This is it, you know. The final battle. Win or lose, it ends here.”

Nina answered in a soft shout, “I know.”

“I’ve always been proud of you, Nina. I guess it’s no secret that I think of you as that daughter I never had. I’m sorry if I was tough on you in the old days. You know, during your training and all. But I always knew you could be the best so I felt I had to push you. I figured that was the only way to get through that stubborn noggin’ of yours.”

Nina knew Shep to be right: this was the last mission. Odds were pretty good that she would never see him again. Despite plenty of self-confidence, Nina knew she would be operating far away from any support with only air drops and radio messages as assistance. In addition to The Order’s marching army, she would have to contend with all manner of hostile predators as well as groups of Mutants, Wraiths, and Roachbots swarming the countryside slaughtering stragglers and mopping up human resistance in the wake of Voggoth’s offensive.

All that lay in front of her and she knew this was probably the last time she would see Shep, a man who had been like a father to her for years. Could she just fly away, angry with him? No, but she could not pretend that she still believed the lies.

She burst loud enough that he could hear pleading in her words above the racing rotors, “What did I do? Shep! What did I do to chase him away?”

“What are you talkin’ about?”

“Trevor and I—we were—we were together. I saw it, Shep. Look, I have pictures. I know it with all my heart. But something happened—“

“Now, now, Nina, that’s not—“

“Something happened and he didn’t want me anymore. Oh, god, Shep, what did I do that he didn’t want me anymore? I can’t live without knowing. It’s eating me up inside. I think I betrayed him, or something. Did I betray Trevor? Is that why he couldn’t stand to be with me anymore? How did I lose him? I have to know!”

She saw Shep struggle with a great weight but she would not release him. Not now. The time for lies had passed.

“Ah, hell, I suppose it don’t matter none no more. If it does, I guess I’ll just have to live with whatever trouble it brings,” and he took hold of her shoulders and settled into the role of a father comforting his daughter. “When you were under the spell of that implant, yeah, they used you to get to Trevor.”

She felt a painful sting of tears. Her heart beat as if it might explode. All her worst fears seemed realized.

“But listen, Nina, all that happened before you and Trevor got together. Do you hear me? Before. That wasn’t your fault, you hear? Trevor saved you from them. He made sure we got you outta there. He didn’t blame you. He never did.”

“I don’t—I don’t understand. Help me, Shep. Please.”

“You two were something else. And it did this old man’s heart good to see you with him. I don’t know much about that type of thing; I was never one for romance and all. But you two were the real deal. I think—I think maybe he’s the only one in the world who really knew you. And I’m gonna guess that the same goes for you to him. You went through a change, Nina. Not too much, understand. You were as good a soldier as ever—maybe better—with him there for you.”

Her eyes left his and darted back and forth as if reading words floating in the air.

“Then I—then you discovered the memory thing. I forgot all that, didn’t I?”

“That’s right, yep. No one saw it coming. When Johnny and Maple had to cut that cancer outta your head it took away an entire year of your life with it. I’m sorry, Nina.”

“But that—that doesn’t explain why—it doesn’t explain why we didn’t try again. I have to believe that I would want to—that he would—“

“It killed him, Nina. It killed him for you to forget. But there was something more. We were all told—we were told never to say anything to you. That it’d be treason to tell you about any of it.”

The pleading returned, “Why? That doesn’t make sense! Why?”

“You heard him at the meeting, Nina. There’s something more going on to all this. It ain’t no secret that Trevor has a line to someone higher up the chain of command, if you get my meaning.”

Nina did. She remembered the Old Man in the cabin, the one whose footsteps made no sound; whose touch created a bridge between her mind and Trevor’s.

She remembered asking that mysterious Old Man what Trevor needed to ease the pain; that maybe she should go get Trevor’s wife, Ashley.

“That ain’t gunna do the trick, missy. Trev, here—well, he’s with who he had to be with; more like a job than anythin’ else. Truth is, you exactly what he needs, Nina Forest.”

As she recalled the words of that strange Old Man, Shepherd gave them meaning.

“I don’t know what all happened, Nina, but from what I can gather, something he couldn’t control sort of got in the way. I’m guessing it has to do with finding Ashley and their kid a few months later, but whatever the reason I’m telling you he never stopped—well—it killed him to lose you. You hear me? I don’t think he ever had a choice.”

All the loose ends tied together for Nina Forest. Trevor still loved her, that’s why he had traveled into hostile territory to save her; that’s why the alternate Nina from another Earth had used her as bait to lure him. That’s why Nina needed to be the one to save The Emperor from himself after The Order turned all his grief against him.

Nina realized that even Ashley had known this, that’s why she had insisted on Nina being the one to solve the mystery behind the assassination; why she had requested Nina to track Trevor through the wilderness. The Old Man had known it, too—what had he said to her when he had first walked into the room?

“Oh, now, that’s right. You don’t remember a lick, do ya? Probably for the best and all. Yep, definitely for the best. We had a talk once, you and me, about our friend here.”

“Of course,” she said aloud to herself. “He knew me. I must have met him before I lost my memories—he probably told me why…”

“What’s that?”

“Nothing. It’s not important now.”

A voice joined the conversation. A shout actually.

“Captain!” Vince Caesar—loaded with gear and helmets and goggles—cupped his hands and yelled from alongside the helicopter. “Is there a problem?”

She waved at him. The type of aggravated wave that told Caesar to get back into the helicopter and wait until Hell freezes over if that’s what it took. He did just that.

“Nina, I’m sorry,” Shep consoled.

“It’s okay,” she actually smiled. “It’s good—it’s good to know. I have to go now.”

“I reckon so, yeah. But, listen here, Nina Forest, you give them hell. Do you hear? If this is it then let’s go out with a bang.”

The obsession of not-knowing faded faster than she thought possible. What came, instead, was a feeling of anger. Anger at the powers of Armageddon for stealing a chance at happiness from her. At putting her and Trevor through so much. At cheating her from what was rightfully hers.

She glanced at Shepherd. Her eyes narrowed to slits. Her body shivered ever-so-slightly and a hint of devilish red glared in her cheeks.

“Hell, Shep? They have no idea. But I’m going to show them, Shep. I’m going to teach it to them.”

She quickly placed a hand on his cheek in a silent goodbye, swiveled around sharply, and marched to the Blackhawk. A moment later the helicopter rose from the destroyed tarmac of McConnell Air Force Base and flew off to the west.

Jerry Shepherd watched her go.

10. Decapitation

Anita Nehru sat in a small chair gazing out a second floor window. Glare from the midday sun cast her in an angelic light. Her dark hair fell lovingly on her shoulders; its luster had returned in the seven days since leaving the Red Rock facility.

A sandwich and a bowl of soup waited for her attention, but her focus remained on something outside.

“You must eat your lunch before it is no longer hot,” Omar encouraged from across the bedroom as he fit a silver watch around his wrist.

“I’m watching the birds.”

Anita raised her hand slowly in an almost mechanical movement, and then traced a solitary finger on the window as if touching something beyond the glass.

“I see. Well I cannot stay. I am going over to talk with Mr. Jon Brewer and his wife. There are things to discuss.”

“You should see these birds, Omar. They are very big.”

He huffed and crossed the room to her. The hardwood floor creaked with his footsteps. When he arrived at his wife’s side he bent over and pecked her cheek.

“Have you taken the pills the doctor gave to you?”

“Yes—no, no,” her eyes did not waver from the window.

“Then you will do that. Before the nurse comes today. Please, Anita. You must.”

“Look at the birds, Omar.”

Omar reluctantly glanced outside. Two big, black birds circled over and over again above the mansion grounds.

“Yes, I see them. They are probably hawks. Very pretty,” but his tone suggested frustration, not awe. “Perhaps you should move away from the window and have your lunch, Anita. You have been sitting there since you woke up hours ago.”

“It’s a lovely view.”

“You will do as you choose, I suppose. But please Anita, take your medication. And eat some lunch.”

“I’m watching the birds. They just keep flying round and round.”

Omar reached the bedroom door, grabbed the knob, and sighed.

“That is what birds do, Anita. They fly.”

“Round and round?”

“Yes. Round and round.”

“Over the same spot?”

He did not answer.

She finally turned away from the window, looked him in the eyes, and said, “For three hours?”

Omar sighed again.

“I must go. I will be back soon.”

He exited the room. Anita watched the door close behind him and then she returned her eyes to the circling birds and traced a finger along the window again.

“Round and round, birdies. Round and round.”

The Greater Pittsburgh International Airport had actually died prior to the end of world, giving way to a shiny new airport in the early 90s. Allegheny County had struggled to find the best use for all that land, including tearing down the main terminal to make way for a cargo center. But it was not until after the end of the world that the old airport truly returned to life.

Brett Stanton resuscitated the old airport when he brought the dreadnought program to that stretch of wide open empty land. However, by Monday, May 25, eleven years after the invasion that program had stalled. Instead of building new dreadnoughts and super cargo carriers, the shipyards at the old Pittsburgh airport served as a triage center for the gigantic wounded warriors.

The Excalibur sat in dry dock. Or, rather, hovered. The rectangular monster lingered above what used to be the main runways of the airport. A series of gantries lined the massive ship from bow to stern and all along the sides. Hoses and walkways extended from those gantries to carry supplies and work crews on and off the ship. Temporary anti-gravity generators—big glowing cases each the size and shape of a football field—augmented the ship’s partially-operating onboard gravity generators, keeping the mammoth afloat.

Most of the ship hid behind those gantries, otherwise the wounds to The Empire’s flagship would be visible: holes in the superstructure, destroyed engine baffles, a massive gash along its topside runway, and an undercarriage riddled with blast holes.

Stanton wondered how the thing remained afloat, let alone managed to fly its way home to Pittsburgh after suffering so many injuries during a battle months ago.

Adjacent to the Excalibur and its circle of scaffolding floated another ship, this one not quite as long and not quite as wide but huge nonetheless. The Hercules presented an oval profile with a flat bottom, like an elongated domed stadium. Unlike its well-armed compatriot, the Hercules was big and empty by design. The vessel served as a gigantic warehouse, capable of transporting large amounts of materials. Even troops could utilize the huge carrier for short durations, although it was not designed to take large numbers of passengers over long distances.

Some gantries surrounded the Hercules, too, but not nearly as many. It did, however, sport two dozen of the temporary anti-gravity generators.

Brett Stanton stood behind the tinted windows in his second-story office and studied the scene while holding a phone to his ear. He saw trucks, tankers, carts, and workers scrambling around the base although in much smaller numbers than before Voggoth’s west coast invasion.

“Now wait, General,” he spoke into the line. “This is still going to take some time. What we’re scavenging from the Hercules isn’t going to fill all the holes—so to speak—in your ship. I’m mostly thinking about those generators. Your baby has first generation anti-gravs and they run with a different polarization than the Herc’s. We’re going to try and make them fit with a little elbow grease and grit, if you catch my meaning.”

Stanton listened, listened some more, and then replied, “I understand that, Jon, but now wait, just hold on, I can only do one or two miracles a day. Considering that this time last week we couldn’t even find replacement parts I think we’ve done a decent job fitting square pegs into round holes. Just don’t tell Omar. He’ll blow his top at us taking liberties with his designs. What’s that? Oh, well, soften the blow for him when he gets there, will you?”

Stanton listened again before saying, “I’m going over to the works right now to see for myself. We’ve already started loading ordnance and filling the fuel tanks for your fighters. Worst comes to worst she can be one heck of a weapons platform and flight deck. Give me a few more days and we’ll have it worked out—if you think so, yes—okay, I’ll see you out here this afternoon.”

Stanton hung up the receiver and gazed across the tarmac at the two air ships.

“One of these days I’m going to catch a break. But not today.”

The Director slid open a drawer in a metallic desk and found a flask. Even he could not be sure exactly what the stuff was, but he knew it came from a bunch of hillbillies living in the Appalachians, therefore it must be good.

He removed the black cap, took a deep swig, and then re-sealed the bottle and returned it to its hiding place.

“Now that’s what I call aviation fuel.”

A moment later he exited the building alongside a middle-aged woman and one very fat man, two of his advisors. They carried blueprints and books while struggling to keep pace with their boss. The trio commandeered a golf cart and buzzed across the open space toward the ships.

“What did the general say?” the woman asked.

“Can he send us more workers?” the man asked.

“Put that to him yourself. He’s coming out this way later.”

A line of black marked the difference between the open pavement under the May sun and nearly a mile’s worth of shade beneath the docked ships.

“Now there’s something you don’t see every day,” Stanton switched his attention from his driving to the sky just before that sky disappeared behind the airship.

The fat man said, “Geez yeah. They kinda look like hawks.”

The woman said, “I didn’t think they traveled in flocks.”

The older man with the prosthetic hand led Ashley along the hall of the lakeside cottage to the rear room that served as Gordon’s nerve center.

“Thank you, Charles,” she said to Gordon’s assistant and he smiled in return as a sign of welcome.

One of the computer printers ran furiously; line after line of type coming off the inkjet at maximum speed. Voices on two different radios filled the room with conflicting sounds, one seemingly the local Internal Security band and the other a news broadcast decrying something about the military abandoning Little Rock.

To her surprise, Gordon did not sit amidst the chaos. Instead, he waited in his wheelchair by the sliding glass door staring at something outside.

“Gordon?”

He answered without turning, “Hello, Ashley. Please, come in.”

His expression appeared different than last Thursday morning when she confronted him over presenting his intelligence reports in person. On that morning he had stared into his backyard looking at something that was not there. This time, something specific held his attention.

“Anything wrong?”

“No, not really,” and turned to face here. “Take a look at this fantastic bird. I’m not sure exactly what it is.”

Ashley—who carried a paperback book in one hand—walked to his side and tried to follow his view.

Before she could say anything, Gordon complained, “Damn. It’s gone. Marvelous creature. Some kind of hawk I think. It was sitting out there in one of the higher branches just staring at the house for a good fifteen minutes.”

“I didn’t know you were a member of the Audubon Society.”

He flashed a grimace—or was it a smile—something—it was hard to tell with Gordon.

“Tell me, Miss Ashley, did you come all the way over here to cause me grief?”

“Yes. And lots of it,” she placed a hand on his shoulder and they shared a chuckle. She the waved toward the equipment going mad in the center of the room. “Something big going on?”

“Preparations. All the pieces are moving into place for that glorious last stand. Except for General Brewer, of course. He’s still tying up some loose ends before he heads out. You know, it won’t be long and we’ll have this lake practically to ourselves.”

“That will be a change. For us, at least. You and I, Gordon, we joined on a little later than the rest of them. I understand things were a lot quieter back when there was only a handful of them. Say, you never told me, what were you up to before you hooked up with Trevor?”

He shook his head. “Not today, Miss Ashley. I wouldn’t want to spoil our afternoon. What have you got there?”

She held a paperback aloft. He read the cover and said, “Conrad, Heart of Darkness. Yes, we still have some more reading to do, don’t we? Charles is putting together a late lunch; shall we wait or get started?”

She pulled a folding chair from a lonely corner of the room to his side and joined him in the light by the sliding glass door.

“I’ve done enough waiting,” she answered. “I think we should dive right in.”

“We should tough it out, is that it? My thoughts exactly.”

Ashley opened the story to a bookmarker.

“Okay, here we go, page fifty-six,” she cleared her throat. “You can’t judge Mr. Kurtz as you would an ordinary man…”

Two hundred years ago the legendary explorers Lewis and Clark camped on the grounds of what is now Riverfront Park during their trip across Kansas. A different type of camp returned to the shores of the Missouri River there; one much larger and more chaotic.

The area served as a muster zone for retreating elements of General Casey Fink’s Third Corp as well as advanced units from General Jerry Shepherd’s 1st Corp. The former disembarked from rail cars via the tracks a few hundred feet to the west of the park on the far side of a destroyed highway. In fact, destruction ruled the outer perimeter of the base camp: an industrial facility of a kind had once operated there but all that remained were a few huge cisterns and the massive parking lot that now hosted hundreds of tents.

Shep had not wanted to move any of 1st Corp this far west. They belonged at the Mississippi. But developments on the ground demanded action.

He stood under a canvas cover discussing that situation with a collection of officers. These included General Casey Fink, whom Brewer and Trevor had left in charge of operations for the last week; General Cassy Simms of 2nd Mechanized; Captain Benny Duda who had been overseeing the deployment of his 1st Mechanized units around St. Louis; and Woody “Bear” Ross who had commanded a mobile artillery unit during the Wetmore battle but now sought a new assignment.

“Here’s what we got, folks,” General Shepherd leaned over a folding table and explained the predicament to the officers involved. Outside—in the bright mid-morning sun—Jeeps and squads of soldiers hurried to and fro giving the gathering of brass little attention. “It seems General Rhodes has got himself into a mess. The garrison at Newton got overrun before his boys could pass through.”

Shep traced lines on a map.

“The bulk of his boys had to abandon their train at Halstead. With the shit Voggoth pulled on us yesterday, that puts them behind enemy lines. That’s about four thousand soldiers plus an entire mobile artillery brigade that was on flatbeds taking a train ride.”

The markers on the map designated The Order’s positions. Casey verbalized what those markers showed: “Last night The Order’s advanced forces skirted Wichita and broke North right up Interstate 135. On top of that, they dropped airborne units supported by concentrated aerial bombardment on Newton.”

Shepherd said, “Long and the short of it, folks, is that Rhodes is getting pinched into a pocket. Those are four thousand soldiers we could use at the Mississippi, so I’m not fond of the idea of leaving them in a pickle like that.”

Murmurs of agreement. None of the gathered officers relished the idea of being surrounded by The Order and each of them knew General Rhodes personally.

Casey Fink reported, “Bragg’s First Tactical Support Wing has gone into full operation; about one hundred sorties have been flown since last night focused mainly on…” he touched spots on the map, “enemy formations on 135. But you know how it is once Voggoth gets any type of bridgehead anywhere. It’s like trying to stamp out roaches with half a can of Raid.”

Cassy Simms volunteered, “Stonewall’s brigades can do it, sir. We can punch through and open a hole for Rhodes.”

Shepherd, his eyes on the map, answered, “I figured you’d say that, Cassy, but all your units aren’t up to the front yet. I think we’re going to have to mix and match brigades and units from just about everyone here, then see what we can get done.” He traced a line on the map and mused, “Ain’t it funny how things turn? Seems to me I recollect a situation like this a few years back, except then it was a bunch of Hivvans in a bag and we were the ones doing the trapping.”

Benny Duda—the young officer who had started his post-Armageddon military career as Stonewall McAllister’s bugler—spoke with acid in his tone, “Speaking of New Winnabow and all that, where is Trevor? Where is Brewer?”

Shepherd stood straight and glared at Duda. “You mean to say General Brewer, right?”

“Where’s he at?”

“After he gave you your orders, Captain, he headed back to the estate for a big get together. He’s expected out this way soon but right about now he’s trying his damnedest to hustle up some reinforcements for us. And to tell you straight, it isn’t your place to go asking about General Brewer like that.”

Duda’s freckle face remained stone cold. He said, “And Trevor? I thought he had taken to leading from the front these days.”

“Whoa, easy there, partner, Trevor is opening up a whole new front in this war and like I said, he don’t report to you, son.”

“I just think it’s funny that he high-tailed it back east after his plan at the Rockies went FUBAR. Just a thought.”

General Shepherd glanced around at the gathered officers and realized that there were still two camps among the officer corp: those whom Trevor had recruited to the estate, and those who had come there with Stonewall McAllister. Tension between the two camps flared now and then, but this was the first time in a long while that he found himself faced with such an obvious dividing line.

Indeed, Stonewall McAllister would never have sanctioned such division, but with his death easy to blame on Trevor’s overly aggressive actions in California that division had been greatly agitated.

He felt eyes turn to him. How would he handle the confrontation? Push too hard and Ross as well as Simms might come to Duda’s defense. Show weakness and command might break down.

Shepherd carefully removed his hat and set it atop the map.

“I’m going to give you that one, Benny, because I know how much Garrett meant to you. But so help me to God if I hear you say anything along those lines again, I’m going to drop you.”

Benny appeared ready to speak. His lips moved.

Woody “Bear” Ross growled, “Benny—shut it.”

The line that Shepherd could see so clearly a second before faded.

Casey jumped in, “What we need right now are SITREPS from each of you on your unit’s operational readiness. You’ve got two hours to report back here. Think about how close those units are and how quickly they can be assembled here.”

Shepherd kept his eyes locked on Benny Duda’s. The kid finally glanced away as Shep spoke, “We have to hit hard and fast. I’m not so much worried about arty but armor and vehicles are priority. Now let’s move.”

“Sir,” Ross interrupted as the briefing dispersed, “I haven’t got a unit. Still waiting on the Excalibur, sir.”

It seemed to Shep that Ross emphasized sir so as to emphasize his loyalty. He must have seen that line, too.

“You do now,” Casey Fink put a hand on one of Ross’ strong shoulders. “Marty Blue’s staff car was hit by an air strike this morning. 4th Mech is yours. Welcome to 3rd Corp, General Ross.”

Shepherd replaced the cowboy hat on his head and approached a water cooler on one end of the open tent. Ross and Casey began discussing the particulars of his new assignment with all sorts of paperwork to review; Duda sort of sulked, Cassy Simms examined the map.

Far overhead in the clear blue sky of mid-morning, a black and brown bird made its final circle over the camp. The Humvees and ambulances and squads of marching infantry and forklifts pushing along supply crates took no notice of the airborne voyeur.

No one watched as it stopped circling and flew toward the wooded picnic and camping area a few hundred feet to the southeast along the river bank. The strange, large bird dove toward hard and furious, its wings pulled taut against its body.

Faster and faster it fell not like a bird, but a missile. Its beak sunk into its skull in a mechanical, contracting motion. Its neck puffed thicker as if reinforced from within. And still it fell toward the Earth at a speed surpassing the natural pull of gravity.

Feathers—first one, then another, then in clumps—flaked away and fluttered in the wind. The ground came closer and closer; the creature continued to gain speed faster and faster.

What remained of its beak broke away revealing a shiny metal stake that glinted in the sunlight. The feathers fell off in fistfuls until—as it crashed through the tree tops—nothing remained of its avian costume. Instead, a cone-shaped metal vessel broke tree limbs and burrowed into the ground between two thick roots blasting dirt in a quiet explosion. Only its top end—a metal cylinder lined with pulsing emerald veins—remained above the surface.

The head of the cylinder rotated a half-turn and a small iris opened in its center. A second later, a sack exploded out in a gush from the container as if it were a dashboard airbag deploying in a crashing vehicle. The contents inside the brown and gray sack writhed and squirmed as the proper activation and growing sequence gave them mass and purpose.

Red lights glowed from inside the sack. Those lights pushed against their confinement like a horrific litter demanding to be born.

Jon Brewer exited the front of the mansion with his wife, Lori, at his side. He carried a briefcase and walked with the intention of boarding an Eagle transport waiting on the nearby landing pad. Around them, several K9s patrolled the grounds, guards stood ready at the main gate, a well-armed Humvee eased along the drive way, and Omar Nehru marched to meet them.

“What is this? I thought we were meeting?”

“Change of plans, Omar. You’ve got to come with me out to Pittsburgh.”

The group congregated on the lawn.

“Pittsburgh? I cannot be going to Pittsburgh. What of Anita?”

Lori assured, “I’ll keep an eye on her and we’ll put a nurse in the house twenty-four hours. I promise.”

“I don’t want promises,” Omar objected. “I am not going to Pittsburgh!”

“Look, Omar,” Jon struggled to keep understanding in his voice. “Brett pulled the Hercules in. He’s scavenging engine parts and anti-grav generators from it to shoehorn into the Excalibur.”

Omar angrily shot, “I have told Mr. Stanton not to do this on a number of occasions! The Excalibur’s anti-gravity generators were first-generation. The Hercules has a different type of generator! The two are not compatible and could create a dangerous electromagnetic feedback across the entire system!”

Jon insisted, “Brett says he’s worked that out. But I need you to eyeball it to see if he’s right.”

Omar threw his eyes to the heavens in frustration. The first thing he noticed was that the birds Anita watched all morning had flown off. He did not know why, but that bothered him. Perhaps because it meant Anita had lost a source of entertainment.

Lori broke in, “Listen, Omar, I’ve got to have you give Stanton’s work the okay before I release about five tons worth of supplies and a couple hundred personnel for duty on the Excalibur. Otherwise those supplies will go somewhere else.”

One of the K9 sentries barked. The sound grabbed their attention.

The animal—a German Shepherd—stood on the far side of the Eagle transport facing the northern fence and the thick woods beyond. As they watched, a second then a third dog joined the first, all three staring north.

Two human handlers walking the grounds as well as the guards at the main entrance also took notice. The Humvee that gently rolled up and down the driveway halted and the gunner in the copula swung his .50 caliber northward.

“What is wrong with them?” Lori asked.

The dogs kept barking. Very agitated.

A sound rose above the barks. A hum. An electronic hum growing louder and louder.

“What is that?” Jon reached to his wife’s shoulder. “Look, get inside. You too, Omar…”

Lights flickered in the woods; red and yellow lights as if a mob of flashlights worked in the forest, sending flashes between the trees.

The humming grew louder—louder…the dogs barked.

“Security!”

Jon’s call brought the two policemen-like guards from the front gate to their side. The pair of handlers also drew weapons. The soldier in the Humvee pulled the bolt on his heavy machine gun. More dogs came from across the grounds to face the northern fence.

Jon’s touch on his wife’s shoulder turned into a strong grip.

“Inside. Now.”

The lights grew brighter and took form; spheres of light—spheres of red and yellow…

“Run!”

They came from the forest like bullets, flying over the fence and onto the estate grounds: a dozen softball-sized suns with flames of red and yellow dancing on their surface. Each generated a screaming hum that sounded like alarms announcing their arrival.

A red one slammed into the nose cone of the waiting Eagle transport. It exploded with the force of an artillery shell breaking apart the cabin and throwing the mortally-wounded pilot onto the lawn along with a shower of metal and glass and burning circuitry.

The handlers pulled pistols and shot at the attackers. Human guards let fly 3-round bursts from automatic rifles, the dogs yapped and jumped—one collided with a yellow ball that popped like a water balloon. The dog disintegrated into patches of fur and bones as the instantly-corrosive acid contents of the weapon covered the K9’s body. The gunner onboard the Humvee joined the fray with a fierce volley of high caliber bullets…

Ashley snapped the paperback shut and leapt to her feet as Gordon directed his motorized wheelchair into the center of his information hub.

The voice on the Internal Security band made no mistake: something attacked the estate; an observation further confirmed by the pop-pop-pop of distant gunfire.

“…repeat, this is front gate, we need back up! Man down! Man down! Oh, Christ—“

“Front gate, this is control, tactical team en route to your location. All lake personnel go to Alert 1 and lock down. Repeat, Alert 1 and lockdown…”

“Gordon—what should we do?”

”We wait here and tough it out, Miss Ashley.” As he spoke, Charles—the man with the prosthetic hand—walked into the room with several items clutched to his chest.

With his good hand he set an automatic pistol on Gordon’s lap, then shoved an identical one into Ashley’s hand. She dropped the book.

For his part, Charles carried an HK Mp5 machine pistol strapped around his shoulders with his good hand on the grip and his plastic hand balancing the barrel.

Ashley protested, “Gordon, Trevor took me target shooting a couple of times but I really don’t know how to—“

He grabbed the Glock from her hand, pulled the slide loading a round, and returned it to her. She stared at the pistol, dumbfound.

“Point and shoot. And remember to stay calm.”

A humming sound came through the walls from somewhere outside.

Gordon spoke to the growing noise, “Me, too? I’m flattered.”

He rolled to the doorway so as to see down the hall. Charles took station by the closed front door.

“What? What do you mean?”

“I can’t use my legs but the bastards still think I’m important enough to assassinate.”

“That—that makes you—happy?”

His answer came in the form of a big, nasty grin.

Brett Stanton stood at the base of one of the tall gantries that helped secure the Excalibur. His two assistants—the woman and the fat man—waited on his flanks while he consulted a third: a bearded black man wearing technician’s garb with a ‘supervisor’ badge.

Around them more technicians, mechanics, engineers, and security guards walked about, some boarding the caged elevators of the gantry and climbing up to the massive battleship and the super cargo carrier floating overhead.

The supervisor complained, “Mr. Stanton, I can do it but I’d feel a lot better if someone who was involved in the design phase was here to oversee the project. I mean, I hook up the wrong power conduit and that could cause the grav generators to repel.”

“Yes, yep, now I know, and that would start ripping things apart one expensive piece at a time. I’m working on getting Omar Nehru out here to take a gander at this stuff, but that’s not going to happen for a few hours. We don’t have a few hours.”

The woman at Stanton’s side gasped, “What the hell are those?”

Brett Stanton whipped his head around toward the east side of the base. There he saw a line of lights weaving around and over old buildings and hangers. The lights shined red and a sparkling blue that—for a brief instant—he thought quite beautiful.

Stanton yelled in a throaty voice, “Security breach!”

Someone on the gantry heard his holler and activated the general alarm. Klaxons sprung to life above, below, and onboard the Excalibur as well as the Hercules.

The lights kept coming from behind the buildings. A dozen—two dozen—three dozen—Stanton lost count as they swarmed from the airport perimeter onto the tarmac heading directly for their position.

“Get clear!” Brett shouted then grabbed hold of the woman and the fat man by their shoulders and shoved them toward the small cart they had used to traverse the airport grounds.

The fat man resisted and bolted for the perceived safety inside the scaffolds and fencing of the gantry. The woman obeyed and dropped a cluster of rolled blueprints as she scrambled for the cart.

Stanton heard the sound the attackers made: a hum gaining in volume like reactors going critical.

He stepped on the accelerator pedal and the cart moved away from the gantry making best-speed to escape the shadow of the floating behemoths for the sunlit open pavement of the runways.

“Hurry—hurry!” the woman screamed but it was too late. The line of red and blue spheres reached them—and missed.

The balls passed overhead like errant pitches. He felt a breeze as dozens of the things flew by but, at the same time, he also felt both heat and a discharge like static electricity from the things.

The swarm of attacking orbs continued above them like some kind of airborne stampede.

Then came the first explosion. Red balls hit the underside of the Hercules in a series of shots similar to artillery blasts.

The woman shouted the most obvious line Brett Stanton had heard in his life: “My God, they’re trying to take out the ships!”

A trio of the blue balls slammed into one of the temporary anti-grav generators affixed to the Hercules’ bottom. A storm of energy flashed like a hundred bolts of lightning and snaked across the bottom of the vessel like electronic worms digging into the belly of the ship.

What the hell are these things?

More red spheres—more blue—making for a combination of large explosions and electromagnetic bursts, most hitting the Hercules, a few hitting specific spots on the Excalibur.

Over the buzz of his golf cart as it sped away—over the hum of the attacking spheres—Brett heard another sound that made his heart skip a beat: a groan. A metallic groan. The sound of a gantry bearing more weight than originally intended.

“Hurry—hurry—oh, my god, hurry…” Stanton did not need her encouragement; that groan provided all the urgency required.

The red balls exploded one after another and apparently well-targeted. A line delivering aviation fuel to the Excalibur ruptured. The explosion followed the fuel hose down to the ground and obliterated a tanker truck as well as a dozen personnel within twenty yards.

A hull plate ripped from the Hercules’ body. As it dropped it careened into another support tower and cut through an elevator shaft. The car inside fell.

Another support tower moaned, only this time the sound did not stop.

Brett Stanton and his assistant reached the halfway point between the dry dock and his office building when the Hercules broke free of its moorings and listed to starboard, slipping sideways and raising its port side into the starboard side of the Excalibur from underneath. The impact of such heavy mass shoved the dreadnought and sent two supporting gantries tumbling like tinker toys. The sound of iron and metal falling into rubbish heaps produced a series of clings, clangs, and crashes that could be heard for miles. More explosions followed on the ground but the worst was yet to come.

Blasts from red orbs and electromagnetic pulses from blue ones destabilized fuel cells and ordnance catches. A line of yellow flames burst from the port side of the Excalibur ejecting equipment, bulkheads, and personnel.

The remaining gantries fell as the Excalibur dipped and pounded into the Earth below; ripping up pavement in a tidal wave of concrete and dirt. The super-strong SteelPlus hull bent and warped. A quarter-mile wide gash opened along the tilted flight deck; flash fires larger than city blocks erupted one after another; bolts of electricity—like lightning strikes—erupted and coated the entire superstructure in a volatile electromagnetic bath that lit the fuse of a powder-keg combination of aviation fuel, power cells, and ordnance.

The Excalibur, the Hercules, all the buildings, vehicles, and structures on the airport grounds; Brett Stanton and his passenger; the wild woodlands around the base; and the cluster of homes in a suburb five miles from the facility’s outer fence, were all consumed by a pressure wave larger than any manmade explosion short of a nuclear detonation.

The blast swept out in all directions via a wall of concussion. A mushroom-shaped cloud of blue and orange reached thousands of meters into the sky, the tremor rattled windows as far off as Akron, Ohio.

Shepherd stood outside the tent and took off his hat as if to bath in the sunlight.

The staging area at Riverfront Park buzzed with activity: trucks, tankers, and Humvees weaved through throngs of tents, temporary camps, and portable toilets. A line of raggedy soldiers stood at a water buffalo parked near a pile of industrial rubble. A handler encouraged along a group of Grenadiers. Four men half in and half out of dirty uniforms sat at a folding table playing cards and smoking. The whistle of a steam train came from just beyond the big cisterns to the west.

He wished he could think of all the activity as an organized encampment. Instead, Shepherd saw the staging area for what it was: the chaos that comes when mixing retreating soldiers with both their supply lines and with incoming units being rushed forward to fill holes.

Pop. Pop.

The crowd silenced. Heads turned trying to find the source.

Rat-tat-tat: assault rifle fire.

Screams.

A flash of light then smoke followed by the boom of a small explosion.

General Shepherd fixed his hat in place and retreated a step toward the tent.

Suddenly the crowd between his position and the southeastern edge of camp—near the trees along the river bank—scattered like sheep running from charging wolves.

Someone shouted, “Incoming! We’ve got incoming!”

In the mid-morning light Shepherd spied balls of red sweeping at the fleeing soldiers like miniature cruise missiles shaped to resemble tiny suns. Their round bodies gave off licks of flames; maybe plasma.

He saw one impact a parked cargo van. The vehicle erupted in a powerful explosion that sent it into the air, upside down, and crashing to the pavement once again.

At this point several soldiers found their weapons and fired at the flying line of a dozen balls of red. One hit. The sphere exploded anyway throwing troops into the air like lifeless rag dolls.

The line of attackers flew toward his command tent. Shepherd saw them coming a moment too late.

He tried to dart inside but stumbled, falling forward to the pavement of what had once been a gigantic parking lot. Two of the red spheres flew directly over his head; he felt an intense heat as they passed.

Inside the tent, Simms and Duda dove for cover beneath the map table; Casey Fink and Bear Ross tried to run off.

The first of the orbs hit a storage locker at the rim of the tent. The explosion tore away the stakes and sent the tent flying off and up into the morning sky. The map table overturned; Duda and Simms tumbled over and over across the pavement.

The second impacted just beyond the tent, a pace behind General Fink and Ross. The blast sent chunks of pavement into the air along with the two men. Ross landed atop a pallet of supply crates; the sleeve of his black uniform caught fire.

Fink landed straight on the pavement, face down and motionless.

Another sphere hit an APC punching a hole in its side. Yet another dive-bombed into a crowd of men standing around a portable kitchen. Shepherd saw legs and arms tossed off as well as blobs of gore.

More explosions all around the camp. Shepherd scrambled to his feet and raced first to Woody Ross who rolled on the ground trying to douse the flames on his arm.

Shep used his hat to help snuff the fire. With a quick glance he saw Ross’ arm to be badly burned and one of his ankles twisted in an unnatural way, but nothing mortal.

He turned around and saw Cassy Simms kneeling next to Casey Fink. She rolled him over. His eyes remained open but lifeless.

“Here comes another one!”

Charles followed the sound and fired a burst from his MP5 just as one of the yellow balls flew in through a window at the front of the house. It popped from the shots and spilled sizzling acid across the hardwood. The droplets bubbled and disappeared leaving behind black holes in the floor.

“Backyard!” Ashley yelled.

Two of the yellow orbs swung into the backyard from the side of the house and raced toward the sliding glass window. The first hit, spraying its lethal cargo on the window which melted open a few square feet like ice hit with a blowtorch.

Gordon—in his wheelchair near his array of radios and computers—leveled his pistol and fired through the hole in the glass meeting the second flying ball before it entered the home. The resulting splash dissolved most of the rest of the sliding glass doors.

More machine pistol shots from the front of the house.

“I’m almost out,” Charles jogged up the hallway in search of another clip.

“Try the kitchen,” Gordon motioned toward the room across the hall from his nerve center. “I keep spare clips in the cookie jar.”

Charles pulled the lid off a Snoopy cookie jar and found what he needed. But before he could slam a new magazine home, a sight from outside the kitchen window grabbed his attention. His eyes widened and he threw himself to the ground.

“Incoming!”

Another yellow sphere smashed through the kitchens window and popped, spreading acid on the sink, floor, and Charles’ prosthetic hand.

“Are you okay?” She knelt near Charles as all went quiet inside and outside the home.

He nodded.

Ashley stood again. Gordon maneuvered his wheelchair into the hallway.

“I think that about does it.”

Another loud hum came from outside and then the front door exploded in with a wave of burning acid that splashed on the hallway floor. A second later another yellow orb flew inside the cottage and right up the hall directly at Gordon and his wheelchair.

He raised his pistol.

The orb locked onto target and increased speed—halfway down the hall…

Gordon Knox pulled the trigger on his automatic.

Click.

“Gordon!” Ashley screamed but Charles reached out with his good hand and stopped her from interfering.

The droning hum from the assassin filled the hallway. Its yellow light danced on the walls.

Knox growled, “Come and get me.”

In a swift, fluid motion Gordon threw off his pistol, reached down to a pouch just behind the right wheel of his chair, whipped out a Mossberg shotgun, pulled the forearm slide, and fired a slug five feet from the orb.

It exploded midair. The acidic contents splashed onto the ceiling, onto the walls to either side and onto the floor just an inch shy of Gordon’s foot. He eyed the sizzling drops meant for him with contempt.

“You missed, asshole.”

Yellow and red lights flashed across the estate lawn and the humming of the spheres drown out all but the highest-pitched screams.

A red ball impacted the side of the mansion; a gap tore in the stone wall and a cloud of dust billowed forth. Another detonated in the sky as a .50 millimeter round from the Humvee founds its mark.

Lori and Jon ran for the front door of the mansion as a red ball whizzed within inches of their heads, over shot, and blasted away dirt on the far side of the lawn.

One hit the Humvee and its gunner straight-on. The entire vehicle detonated in blast of black and orange and red ejecting the soldier in the cupola in several big chunks.

The concussion of the exploding Humvee knocked both of the Brewers from their feet.

Omar scrambled toward the front gate with the guard there trying to provide cover; he succeeded in blasting one red orb from the sky while a yellow one hit the fence dissolving iron posts into globs of black goo.

Jon rolled over and came to his knees, then ducked to avoid a yellow acid-ball which hit the ground next to his wife just as she scrambled to her feet. It splashed a wave of acid over her. Lori’s clothes sizzled and her lips cried out with an agonizing moan before the poison dissolved her lungs.

Jon’s shout boomed across the grounds. He stumbled forward to his wife’s side but what remained did not move. Smoke rose from the burnt grass and the tattered mess of flesh and bones.

The general slumped to his knees in front of those remains and gaped at them in an expression of disbelief. Behind him the last red ball smashed into the front porch of the mansion and exploded while the last yellow sphere fell amongst a trio of barking canines, killing two.

Jon did not see any of that. All he saw—all he felt—all he cared for at that moment was the loss of the woman he loved. So quick and so permanent; no last words and no chance for contemplation. In an instant the assassins had taken his Lori from him.

His hands clamped onto his forehead, his mouth hung open, his eyes closed, and his body rocked back and forth.

11. Crash Dive

Trevor sat across from Captain Farway. The two men shared a cup of early morning coffee—or something similar to coffee—inside the Captain’s quarters. Those quarters allowed more space than the cramped rooms with multiple bunks provided for the crew, but all things were relative.

Trevor had politely refused Farway when the Captain had offered those quarters for the trip. Instead, Trevor shared a berth with his son in a tiny cabin a short way down the corridor.

Farway noted the glazed look in the Emperor’s eye and the drops of sweat on his brow.

“Fifth day out and you’re still not used to it?”

“Never, um, never knew I was, well, sorta claustrophobic.”

Farway chuckled and ran a hand over his thinning scalp, saying, “Imagine what it was like in the old days. This boat is a hotel compared to the W-W two subs.”

Indeed, the submarine moved under the water easily and with only the most subtle of motions. The journey across the Atlantic had, so far, been an easy one. If all went well they would make landfall in France later that night.

Trevor ran a hand over his forehead again. He did not feel queasy. Not quite. The Dramamine helped in that regard. He felt—caged. Yes. Trapped. Ever since they had closed that top hatch behind him, JB, and Hauser, Trevor felt trapped; no room to maneuver.

Jorgie handled it much better. He spent most of the trip taking tours of the boat. The sailors onboard viewed him as a kind of mascot, but with an added sense of wonder. After all, no secrets remained onboard a sub. The entire crew understood that Trevor and his nine-year-old boy planned not only to cross the Atlantic, but to march all the way across Europe.

The effect appeared multiplied on the Newport News’ sailors because most of them were well-seasoned, tracing their careers not only over the eleven years since Armageddon, but many years before the end-of-the-world.

On the first day of the trip, Trevor noticed something odd about the crew in that their physical appearances matched so much that it could have been a boat manned by siblings. He found a tactful way of asking the Captain about that and the answer was surprisingly simple. The men on the Newport News had now spent over a decade together, eating exactly the same food, breathing the same filtered air, and living in the same dim light. Their environment chipped away at their differences, like a generation of family living in the same house.

Trevor raised the cup of warm drink to his lips and considered the situation. They might make it to Europe before tonight. That pleased him. It also pleased him that JB still slept in their quarters. His boy needed the rest although the difference between morning, noon, and night held little meaning inside the undersea coffin.

Farway sensed Trevor’s mind planning and assured, “We’ll have you at the rendezvous point in time for dinner.”

“Dinner? Right now it should be breakfast, but I don’t feel like that,” Trevor closed his eyes, pinched his nose, and tried to come to terms with his biological clock. “Right now it feels like the middle of the night. Between being locked up down here and the different time zone I think I’m all screwed up. I shouldn’t even be out of my berth yet, but I couldn’t sleep any more. Is there such thing as sub lag?”

He un-pinched his nose, opened his eyes, and flashed a quick smile. Captain Farway, however, did not smile. He glanced over Trevor’s shoulder with an expression of concern.

Trevor swiveled in his chair. Jorgie stood at the open hatch dressed in his pajamas, holding his wrapped stuffed bunny, and staring at the men through wide, red eyes.

“JB? Buddy? What is it?”

“It’s coming, Father,” the boy’s body quivered. His sense of fear radiated through the room. That feeling of being trapped shivered along Trevor’s spine. “It’s coming for us.”

“What? Huh? JB, what are you talking about?”

The squawk box burst, “Captain Farway to the con.”

Trevor stared at his son. JB stood motionless just outside the open portal. Captain Farway pushed the ‘answer’ button.

“Farway here, go ahead.”

“Sonar contact to aft, sir. Closing fast.”

“Can you identify the contact?”

“Negative, sir.”

Farway ordered, “Call GQ, I’m on my way,” and he stood. So did Trevor.

For a split second JB blocked their exit.

“It’s here, Father. And we’ve nowhere to run.”

For the first time in five days’ worth of uneventful travel underneath the Atlantic Ocean, the bridge of the Newport News came alive. The helmsmen scanned their computer monitors keenly and gripped their steering controls with sweaty palms; the Chief of the Boat paced anxiously between sonar and fire control stations; the Executive Officer shoved a stick of ancient chewing gum in his mouth and worked his jaw as if biting on nails; and the rest stood in a pensive silence waiting for what would come next.

To Trevor’s eye the bridge appeared a strange combination of his expectations. On one hand valves, piping, cramped corners, and the periscope fit with his memories of World War II submarine epics such as Run Silent, Run Deep: a movie he and his father watched several times in the old world.

On the other hand, modern monitors, a vast array of blinking buttons and flashing lights, and the hum of electronics seemed more akin to Star Trek.

In any case, Trevor and his son stood near the Control & Attack Center and watched patiently, Jorgie having quickly changed from pajamas to shorts and a t-shirt but still held his wrapped bunny.

Captain Farway hovered at the center of the high tech bridge and tried to understand the situation.

“Chief, break it down for me.”

The Chief of the Boat—a broad shouldered fellow with the jaw of a Marine—answered while looming over the sonar operator’s shoulder, “Contact at two hundred yards and closing fast. Looks to be at fifty knots. Damn, that’s fast.”

“Target info?”

“A little bigger than a torpedo, sir, which is what its sonar profile resembles. Also hearing something secondary—engines of some type—maybe a type of jet propulsion like a Barracuda’s mag-drive.”

The Executive Officer—a thin man who could have appeared at home working in a bank or at an accounting firm—added, “We’re at thirty-five knots and it’s gaining. Helm, prepare for evasive maneuvers.”

“Aye.”

Farway: “Chief. Get on the horn with the engine room and make sure we’ve got everything she can give.”

“Aye, sir. Already did. We’re exceeding the safeties.”

The Executive officer mumbled, “And it’s still closing. One hundred and fifty yards.”

The Captain ordered, “Helm, wiggle our tail. Planesman, drop us another fifty feet hard then trim her out. Launch counter-measures.”

“Helm, aye sir.”

“Aye. Depth down fifty, thirty degree dive.”

Weapons officer: “Drones away.”

XO: “Grab hold.”

The nose of the sub seemed to fall nearly straight down by Trevor’s estimate while at the same time sliding from port to starboard and back again. He felt his heart thump faster and harder. Pencils, coffee mugs, and notebooks tumbled from perches; a few shouts of injury and frustration echoed through the corridors outside the control room.

After a several seconds the boat leveled again with what sounded like a groan of relief.

XO: “Sonar?”

Chief—looking over the Sonar operator’s shoulder: “Fifty yards—shit, it’s accelerating—and it matched our depth. Damn. Negative on the counter-measures. Whatever it is it’s locked on to us.”

“Torpedo room, load tubes one and two. XO, get me a firing solution—“

Chief: “Too late!”

The Executive Officer shouted, “Sound collision!”

The collision alarm echoed through the ship. JB held bunny in one arm and, with the other, clutched his father.

A voice from behind them in the corridor asked, “What’s going on?”

Trevor saw Rick Hauser standing in the passageway. The flat hair on the back of his head suggested he just woke up.

“I’m not sure,” Trevor told the pilot. “Looks like something is tracking us.”

“Me and you, Father,” Jorgie corrected. “It’s coming for me and you.”

Trevor knelt and placed his hands on JB’s shoulders.

“What do you know, Jorgie? What makes you say that?”

“I don’t know,” the kid admitted bashfully. “I sense it, I guess. I can feel it. Like—like he’s watching us. Looking for us…”

“Who?”

“Voggoth.”

Captain Farway’s voice sounded the slightest bit panicked: “Stand by for collision! All hands, brace for impact!”

Trevor wrapped both arms around his son and pushed them into a corner in the hall just outside the bridge. Hauser grabbed an overhead railing.

“Jorgie, whatever happens—hey buddy, I love you.”

“I love you too, Father.”

A sound like a gigantic gong banging carried through the vessel. At the same time, the entire boat felt shoved from behind, and up; a solid impact to the rear end of the vessel.

Lights flickered. Warning chimes sounded. Men fell from chairs. Curses and shouts. Trevor protected JB as the two of them were pushed first away from and then into the wall. Hauser fell over but managed to break his fall on the hard steel floor.

Then nothing. The submarine leveled. Sailors returned to their work stations.

Trevor waited for two seconds—three—four—he expected an explosion or a wall of water to pour through the ship. But nothing came.

XO: “Status report, all stations.”

“Contact lost,” the sonar operator said but everyone knew why.

The Chief moved between several stations and reported, “Helm operational. Nav on line. We’ve got power and propulsion, still on course and coming back up on thirty-knots. Depth holding.”

A voice came over the intercom, “Con, this is engineering. We’ve got a situation.”

Farway responded personally: “Go ahead engineering.”

“Sir, we’ve got an impact down here. A foreign object has penetrated the hull on the starboard side near the stern.”

“Are you taking on water?”

The XO actually answered first as he examined a gauge at the damage control station: “Slight drop in air pressure but nothing major. Hull integrity appears intact.”

“No water, Cap,” the engineer responded over the com system. “But it looks like—I dunno—some kind of torpedo head or something. But, well, not quite metal. Not sure, sir.”

JB pulled free of his father’s grasp and stepped fast toward the center of the bridge.

“Captain! Captain! Get them away from it! Get them away!”

The boy’s interruption surprised Farway. Before he could react, however, the engineer’s voice returned over the intercom.

“Captain, something is happening.”

The XO muttered: “Timed detonation. It’s gunna blow. Shit.”

“Engineering? What is going on?”

“Get them away!”

“Con, engineering, sir, the thing has opened up. It’s some kind of capsule. Movement!”

A sound came over the open microphone from the engineering room. Some kind of moan—and gurgle. Something—something sickening.

From the intercom: “What the fuck? What the hell is that?”

JB squeezed his head in his hands as if shutting out noise, closed his eyes, and pleaded: “Get away! Get away! Get away!”

Farway: “Report!”

“Con! We’ve been boarded! Oh shit…”

“Get away!”

Farway: “Engineering, get out of there!”

“Jesus Christ it’s got eyes—look at all the fucking eyes…”

XO: “All hands, intruder alert. Crackerjack, repeat crackerjack.”

“…the eyes—they’re in my head—I want to go home—please let me go…”

The voice on the other end of the line changed from human words into gurgles and gasps—and sobs. Then silence.

Captain Farway stared at the intercom for a long moment, his mouth agape and his hands shivering.

It was JB who broke his trance. Tears ran along the young boys cheek as he warned, “Captain. It will be coming up here soon.”

Farway blinked fast and then commanded, “XO, seal aft compartment.”

The Executive Officer ordered over the intercom, “All hands, intruder alert, crackerjack,” came the code word for boarders in engineering. “Seal aft compartment, all decks.”

Farway turned to the Chief of the Boat and told him, “Chief, open up the weapons lockers and allocate side arms. Form up a security detail.”

The sturdy Marine-like jaw of the Chief hesitated in the slightest; a very human hesitation.

He gulped, “Aye.”

It occurred to Trevor that the crew of the Newport News had seen very little of the horrors of the post-Armageddon war. Certainly they fought their share of sea battles but their duties on the world’s oceans never brought them face to face with Crawling Tube Worms or Jaw-Wolves.

Whatever penetrated the hull in engineering came from one of the darker nightmares of the post Armageddon world. Yet whatever had come aboard, Trevor felt powerless. He was merely a passenger and knew nothing of submarines or how to combat a threat onboard. The feeling of being trapped threatened to overwhelm him. He longed for the tactical options and maneuverability of open land, or high mountains, or even a desolate city.

The XO spoke over the intercom, “Seal all water tight doors. Prepare to repel boarders.”

Trevor watched the Chief of the Boat open a locker on the far side of the control room. From it he pulled several automatic pistols with holsters as well as a pair of Benelli Super 90 shotguns.

Sailors shut the water tight bulkheads to the control room, sealing the bridge crew inside.

“Captain,” the Executive Officer communicated, “All aft compartment hatches closed. Crewmen report hearing activity in the engine room of an unknown source or type.”

“Keep those doors closed,” Farway ordered. “Maybe we can contain whatever it is in the engine room.”

The XO said, “We’ve still got full power and helm control, sir. Whatever is going on, it doesn’t seem interested in our systems.”

Captain Farway let his crew work and stepped close to Trevor.

“Whatever this is, I’m guessing it’s not just random that it found us.”

“No,” Trevor agreed. “I’d say our friend Voggoth knows we’re onboard.”

“Sir…,” Farway backed off whatever thought had occurred to him.

“Go ahead, Captain.”

“It’s just that, Trevor, if whatever is down there is one of The Order’s pets—and after what I heard your son did to them on that island last year—I mean, is it possible that he could…”

Trevor, sweat oozing along his cheeks, finished Farway’s idea, “Is it possible my son could do that again? Not a bad thought. One problem though. If I’m right, then Voggoth sent something to kill me and my son. He would not send something that JB could influence. He either found it or grew it specifically for this mission.”

Farway asked, “If they were able to find us, why not just blow up the sub? Not that I’m not grateful, you understand.”

“That’s not The Order’s style, Captain. They don’t like it neat and clean. They like messes,” Trevor’s thoughts drifted off to Leviathans and Bore-Bugs and Torture Spiders. “To Voggoth—to him the whole point is suffering. Captain, I’m guessing that we might all be wishing that it had been a big explosion that did us in. I’ve got the feeling that would be a lot more pleasant than whatever it is that broke in to your engine room.”

“Sir!” the Executive Officer interrupted. “Mess reports something breaking out from the aft compartment. The water tight hatch on deck four is failing!”

“Sir,” the Chief competed for Farway’s attention. He held one of the shotguns. “I’ve put together a security detail.”

Trevor asked, “Is that the heaviest weapons you’ve got onboard?”

The Chief handed a pistol in a holster to Captain Farway as he answered, “Aye.”

Farway buckled the side arm to his hip and added, “Fire fights aren’t our specialty, unless we’re using torpedoes. Chief, seal all compartments behind you. And Chief, good luck.”

The Chief of the Boat swallowed hard, nodded, and replied, “Thanks, sir.”

He then opened one of the bulkheads outside of which waited a group of a half dozen sailors with pistols and shot guns. The men moved off after shutting the water-tight door.

Farway closed his eyes and ran a shaky hand across his forehead, no doubt facing the real possibility that this would be his last command. If the water tight hatches could not keep the invader sealed, then that left their fate in the hands of small arms and Trevor did not like those odds.

Captain Farway said, “Whatever it is you’re up to, it’s got Voggoth pretty scared.”

“What’s that? Oh. I think he’d love to see the end of me and JB here no matter what.”

“Probably true, Trevor. But his focus has been fighting us in Colorado and the west so far and from what we can tell your boy here and Jon Brewer took out his only outpost in the Atlantic last year.”

“You were a big part of that, Captain.”

“The point is, he’s gone through a lot of trouble to track you down way out here when he should be happy that you’ve skedaddled just as things were coming to a head on land, right?”

“And?”

“So you’ve got him frightened, that’s what. Whatever it is you’re thinking about doing, he’s made it a priority to stop you. What I’m saying is you’re on to something. Maybe something more important than you realize.”

“A shot in the dark, Captain. If this were football, I’d call it a Hail Mary pass.”

“As a former Navy wide receiver, I appreciate the analogy,” Captain Farway answered. “But I think we got to make sure you get to where you want to go. Especially now. With this thing on my boat I’m starting to see how important your little side trip must be.”

A series of sounds—muffled pop-pop-pops and a pair of louder blasts—seeped through the metal between decks.

On the other side of the control room, the Executive Officer tried to get someone to report: “Mess Hall—anyone on Deck Four—report in. Security detail, what is your status?”

More pops. Another blast. They felt more like vibrations than outright sounds.

The Captain ordered, “XO, take us up. Surface. I repeat, surface.”

The planesman answered from his station at the dive controls, “Surface, aye.”

JB shook his head and in a frustrated voice warned, “It will follow us. Even if we swim away it will come.”

Trevor felt a flutter in his stomach as the submarine rose in the water.

Farway knelt and told the nine year old, “Not if it thinks you’re still onboard. Not if it thinks it succeeded in killing you.”

“Captain, what are you doing?”

“I’m getting you off my boat, Trevor,” Farway explained and then turned to his Executive Officer: “Paul, as soon as we get on the surface break out the RIBs.”

“Captain?”

“You’re taking Trevor and his son here the rest of the way. But haul ass. There are a lot of bulkheads for this thing to get through before it reaches us, but that doesn’t mean we’ve got all day.”

A loud splash marked their arrival on the surface of the Atlantic Ocean. The entire boat bobbed and wobbled. The sound of breakers cutting across the bow created a soft whoosh.

“Captain,” Trevor steadied his legs as the tremble in the decks subsided. “Where are you going with this?”

“To the bottom, Trevor,” he admitted with a sense of determination. “If the Newport News is going to be my tomb, then that damn thing is coming with us. And if it is tied in to Voggoth then he’ll think you’re dead. That might just buy you some time.”

“There has to be another way. You’ve got a lot of men on this boat.”

“A nice chunk of them were in the engine room and the decks below. If that thing is loose, I’m guessing there aren’t a whole lot left. The guys up here will be coming with you. As for me, well, it’s been a good career but since the world went to hell my biggest contribution to the war has been playing taxi. Now maybe I can do something a little more important.”

“Captain…”

Farway ignored Trevor and ordered, “Bridge crew, abandon ship. Planesman, rig for crash dive then get up on the weather deck. XO, break out those RIBs and anything else you can grab then get the hell out of here.”

Captain Farway stood atop the sail—or conning tower—and watched the two rigid-hulled inflatable boats speed away from the Newport News as fast as their small engines could carry them. He took solace in noting the calm seas. With a little luck the boats would make landfall at the rendezvous point about a day later than originally scheduled, depending on how well the men paddled once their fuel ran dry.

The career naval officer gazed at a morning sun hanging above the eastern horizon where it shared the sky with a crescent-shaped band of powdery white clouds. He filled his lungs with the salty but fresh air; always a shock after breathing the stale, super-scrubbed oxygen of his boat.

“A beautiful morning,” he spoke to no one.

The Captain vacated the sail, closed the hatch behind, and returned to the empty bridge. The lights still blinked, monitors still monitored, and the computers continued their routines and software programs all aimed at keeping the Newport News operating at peak efficiency. He wondered exactly how long the sub could manage without a human crew. It scared him—or saddened him—that the answer might be ‘a long time.’

BONG.

Something hammered against the stern bulkhead. The heavy metal there dented—a little.

Farway hurried to the helm and wound the boat’s engines to all ahead full. He then moved fast to the dive station. Out of habit he activated the ‘dive’ alarm. It echoed through an empty boat.

BONG—creak…

A second impact. The water tight door bent further.

Captain Farway grabbed hold of an overhead rail with one hand while working the controls with the other. The forward ballast tanks flooded fast and the nose of the Newport News tilted down—down—down. The hull moaned. The sound of water whooshing by outside created a roar through the control room. Debris fell and rolled and smashed. Momentum built.

Above and behind him, the bulkhead bent and ripped off its hinges with one final push from the invader. Ignoring gravity, the assassin literally poured into the control room and clung to the tilted floor like a blob of muddy water—a horrible thing of eyes and mouths and tendrils. A terrible rotting smell accompanied it and Farway—already forced to turn away from the sickening sight—felt his stomach knot further from the malicious odor.

It made a noise—a gurgling—crying noise as it filled the aft half of the compartment. Inside its rippling skin writhed forms that might be the faces and souls of those already consumed.

Farway reached to activate the rear ballast tanks but hesitated. The sight—the smell—too much for his mind to comprehend.

The monstrosity poured across the bridge leaving an acidic, slimy trail behind as it clung to the sloping floor. A dozen mouths worked open at the sight of fresh prey.

Captain Farway hung precariously with one hand still holding a rail and his feet propped under a console. He produced his side arm, put the barrel under his chin, and pulled the trigger a moment before enveloped by a worse fate.

The black hull of the Newport News sunk into the lightless depths of the Atlantic, making for the bottom at top speed.

12. March of the Grenadiers

“Boy Pullen: You afeared of the Zulus then, Quartermaster?

QSM Bloomfield: One Zulu is only one man—and I’m afeared of no one man—but the Zulu, they come in the thousands—like a black wave of death—in the thousands…”

–From the movie, Zulu Dawn

General Jerry Shepherd sighed a huff of frustration and leaned over and into the tank’s open hatch. He saw a cramped compartment with tiny stools, a computerized work station, and an array of pedals, periscopes, joysticks, and levers. In other words, a chaotic jumble of technology shoved together into a tiny hole made to fit a crew of four in a space that would be cramped for two.

A drop of sweat fell from his cheek and splashed on the metal floor below.

“What are you doing down there?”

Captain William Rheimmer—son of council member Eva Rheimmer—had himself twisted in an ungodly fashion as he accessed a maintenance panel in a corner of the crew cab.

“There’s a problem with hydraulics,” the young officer answered.

“Captain, you’ve got an entire column of some dozen tanks held up for one bum system and we are less than two miles from Highway 135,” as if to accentuate that point, a distant sound like thunder—but they knew it not to be thunder—rumbled across the fields of golden grain surrounding the halted tank column. “You see, we’re at what they call the stagin’ area, Captain and we’ve got about another hour until we got to hit them.”

Shepherd projected confidence but he kept a myriad of doubts to himself.

The first doubt had to do with General Rhodes’ ability to break free from the ring of encirclement. His’ 3rd Mechanized division remained trapped in Halstead after abandoning their transport train. The last communiqué indicated a dire shortage of ammunition but a surplus of wounded.

The second doubt worried Shepherd to an even greater extent. Three days had passed since The Order decapitated a fair number of high ranking Imperial officers. Before that strike, forging a relief force from a collection of widely dispersed units seemed a difficult task. Now it appeared impossible.

After the destruction wrought at Kansas City, Pittsburgh, and Harveys Lake, Shepherd managed to re-route elements of the 10th brigade from Rheimmer’s 3rd Armored Division of New Jersey to Kansas City as well as pieces of the re-named “Stonewall’s Calvary Brigade”, the centerpiece of what remained of the 2nd Mechanized Division of Virginia.

He knew it would not be enough. He needed that extra piece in place to the north, air support, and a hell of a lot of luck; all items The Empire appeared desperately short of in recent weeks.

One other concern loomed in the back of Shep’s mind where he hid it away so as to not face it. The Order had executed a rather effective decapitation strike against The Empire’s leadership. A reasonable man would assume they also tried to hit Trevor Stone on his way to Europe.

Point was—to Shep’s way of thinking—just hours after that strike, K9s all across The Empire deserted their posts, ignoring the call of handlers. The vast majority of the dogs—Trevor’s ‘Grenadiers’ as dubbed by Stonewall McAllister years before—no longer followed commands.

That had never happened before. Even when Trevor went to another universe—even when Trevor had been thought killed but was really imprisoned by The Order—even during those times the dogs remained loyal and in tune with their masters; better trained from birth than any dog had any right to be.

At the final meeting exactly one week ago, Trevor suggested his power over the K9s came from nature itself; a sort of built-in defense against the invaders. Shepherd did not know about that, but he trusted his eyes. The K9s helped save mankind from day one and even though the war grew into battles between planes and tanks, the grenadiers still served a valuable role in security, hunting, reconnaissance, and rescue.

To lose them—now…

“Sir, did you hear me?”

“What? Huh?”

“General Shepherd, take a look at this.”

Shep removed his cowboy hat, carefully lowered himself down the open hatch into the cramped quarters next to the very German-looking kid who had grown up working on Eva Rheimmer’s farm.

“Look at this,” and Rheimmer pointed toward a mess of liquid and tubes behind an open panel. “I think I need a whole new unit.”

Shepherd repeated a saying he had heard at one time or another from just about every old-world veteran serving in the post-Armageddon army: “Haven’t you heard, Captain, this is the new army.”

“Sir?”

“Abandon this bucket of bolts. There ain’t any replacement parts coming. We’re out here all alone with one job to do and we’ve got to do it fast then haul-ass away before we get stomped. We can’t hold up for one tank.”

Shep sounded convincing despite knowing how desperately they needed each and every piece of equipment, particularly armor.

A sound of galloping horses pulled the general’s attention away from the discussion of tank repair. He raised his head and shoulders out the hatch. To the west the amber fields continued on toward the horizon where the Interstate waited along with an entrenched enemy army. Artillery and small arms fire carried over the distance to his ears.

The fields also stretched to the east but the treads of a dozen tanks, several up-armored Humvees hauling short-range artillery, and a trio of APCs had torn scars across that otherwise serene landscape. Men sat in the shade of their vehicles eating protein bars, swigging canteens, and grabbing a few minutes of sleep.

Five riders approached with General Cassy Simms leading the way. Shep had sent her north to Newton City-County airport to make contact with one of the key elements of that haphazard relief force gathering to try and save Rhodes.

“General, sir,” Cassy pulled her mount to a stop alongside the injured tank.

“Cassy. What say you? Was the airport usable?”

She answered, “Yes, General, the airport is still in good shape,” but he could tell by how she refused to look directly at him that good news would not be the order of the day.

“And..?”

“And, well, the Chinooks ferried in the 12th Engineering Brigade.”

Shep—looking one part prairie dog with his head and shoulders poking from the open hatch—gaped at General Simms. Her horse neighed. An explosion far off to the west drifted across the open fields.

She said, “About two hundred men on the tarmac with land mines, a mobile bridge-builder, one reinforced earthmover, and a bunch of Hummers.”

“12th—Engineering—brigade…”

“Apparently they flew more than a dozen sorties to get all the equipment in. They had to hang the earthmover and the bridge from a special winch underneath the Shit-Hooks.”

General Shepherd narrowed his eyes and his mouth turned down at the edges.

He repeated again, “12th goddamn Engineering brigade? Engineering? Who the hell screwed the pooch on this one? That was supposed to be elements of 13th brigade! How the hell did they eff this up?”

But Shepherd knew the answer. Woody Ross had recently been named commander of the 4th Mechanized Division, parent unit to the both the 12th Engineering and 13th Mechanized Brigades. Ross, in turn, had been a part of the even larger 3rd Corps, which was now commander-less with the death of Casey Fink during The Order’s raid three days before.

Confusion. Misinterpreted orders. Incomplete communications. The type of things that occur when you have a sudden and unexpected change in leadership. The type of things The Order hoped for when they sent their assassins.

Shepherd pulled himself into a sitting position atop the cupola. He wiped the sweat from his brow with his black uniform sleeve and replaced his cowboy hat.

Cassy’s news signed General Rhodes’ death warrant. The Order’s main force complete with Leviathan would hit the Newtown area before the end of the day. Just as bad, in order to buy time to muster a relief force, The Empire had thrown dozens of sorties at Voggoth’s approaching army. It had worked; the enemy slowed their advance, but at the cost of at least a dozen fixed-wing aircraft, not to mention valuable ordnance and aviation fuel.

Combined with Shep’s column of armor, Cassy’s cavalry, and an eclectic collection of helicopter gunships waiting for the strike, the added light artillery and infantry units from the 13th brigade might have been enough to punch a hole in the enemy’s eastern lines running north to south along Highway 135 and free the 4,000 men under Rhodes’ command.

Not now. A communication mix-up caused by holes in the chain of command turned his desperate counter-attack into a suicide mission and no matter how much he wished otherwise, Shepherd saw no choice other to abandon the trapped men to their fate.

“Pull your cavalry back,” he ordered Simms. “Send word for those Shit-Hooks to turn around and pick up the Engineering brigade. Hell, might as well have them mine the airport while they’re there.”

“But, sir, what about General Rhodes?”

“Cassy, what do you want to do? Try and take on that pocket with what we’ve got? I’ve got shit here. Even with the 13th it was a crap shoot. Without them it’s not possible. I’m not going to throw away these boys for nothing. Phil is—well, General Rhodes is a lost cause.”

“Sir…”

“Cassy, don’t make me go sayin’ it again because it tasted pretty damn bad the first time.”

“No, sir,” her voice rose to a near shout, “Look.” And she pointed to the east.

He looked first to his column of vehicles. He saw the men waking from their naps, dropping their canteens and chow, and moving away from the cool shadows of their rides into the sunbaked fields to behold something further behind.

To General Jerry Shepherd, it appeared as if the horizon actually moved; like ripples in water as a wave curls toward the beach. That wave kept coming, pouring over the trampled fields, secondary roads, and farm house ruins strewn about the plains.

He kept his eyes east and climbed from the cupola until standing on the deck of the disabled Abrams tank. Captain Rheimmer poked his head out.

“What’s going on?”

For a moment Jerry Shepherd worried that The Order managed to deploy one of their pseudo-biological weapons to their rear; that his rescue mission had become a trap. His heart raced. The sweat already pouring from his forehead due to the heat doubled.

The swarm came without end. A tremble shook the ground and did not stop. A drone filled the air as the stampede closed.

Soldiers climbed aboard their armored vehicles; some drew their weapons but no one fired as they realized what approached.

Shepherd’s mouth fell open. He yanked off his hat and held it against his chest. In a moment of total awe he gasped, “Oh—oh God.”

They came seemingly without end, a gigantic horde of dogs: the Grenadier warriors who had saved Trevor’s life in the early days, done his bidding at New Winnabow, and now marched as one great army, side by side, packed in columns. Forget individual breeds; that did not matter. Claws and fangs rumbling forward as if one horrible beast.

The march of the Grenadiers reached the armored column and gently parted in the right places to flow around the men and machines. Shepherd watched them pass and realized that of all the onlookers, Cassy Simms’ horses appeared most at ease.

Nature’s attempt to protect its own.

Those words from Trevor’s attempt at an explanation forced their way into Shepherd’s thoughts, cutting through the wonder—and yes—the fear. He felt as if he stood in front of a tornado, or watched a volcano erupt, or felt the ground shake from an Earthquake.

Only nature can do something this big. Trevor had sent the K9s to enforce his will at New Winnabow, but now nature sent a hundred thousand canines to do its bidding.

The constant pounding of paws into the ground generated clouds of dust and created a roar that made it nearly impossible to speak, but Shep heard General Simms’ panicked cry, “What is going on! What is this?”

General Jerry Shepherd saw it clearly at that point. The K9s served as nature’s antibodies. Never in history had Earth’s ecosystem been invaded by an outside force. Indeed, not only an outside force but one led by Voggoth and his Order, the antithesis of life.

Nature moved to counter the threat; a threat to the entire body of the planet. Somehow these Grenadiers—these antibodies—connected to Trevor via the genetic chain on which he served as a link.

Throughout history, dogs demonstrated sensitivity to human feelings, as evident in breeds ranging from care dogs to seeing eye dogs to guard dogs. Armageddon had grown that sensitivity to the point that the dogs were born better trained than ever thought possible.

And what have the K9s sensed of late from their human masters?

Desperation. Fear. All of it focused on Voggoth’s advancing legions.

One last great mustering of power. The war would be humanity’s to win or lose, but the fantastic Grenadiers offered one final contribution. The only type of contribution they could make in a conflict that had grown into air power and armor and artillery: a deluge aimed at The Order’s lines surrounding General Rhodes’ trapped unit.

They continued to come, stretching from horizon in the east to horizon in the west. Easily a hundred thousand four-legged warriors.

“Cassy!”

General Simms kept her glazed eyes on the Grenadier army as its tail end passed.

“General Simms!”

“What? Huh?”

“Get to your cavalry. Saddle up. I’m going to call in air support and give Rhodes the heads up. We have to move. Now!”

“What are you talking about? What’s going on?”

For the first time in days, General Shepherd smiled in a cocky grin. He thought of their old departed friend Stonewall McAllister and answered in words that might have come from that gallant gentleman’s vocabulary. “We’ve got a battle to fight, General. And it’s going to be glorious.”

A line of twenty alien turrets stood alongside Highway 135 mirroring the telephone poles sharing that stretch of road. They reached as tall as a street light and resembled the upper half of the letter ‘S’ in design with steel-like ribs lining their frames. The outer surface mixed black metal and red flesh. Coils and tubes wrapped around each turret rising from a belt of white-glowing energy sacks. Mounds of dirt surrounded the base of each turret, a tribute to how recently they had burrowed into the ground.

Behind this line rose a trio of hastily-grown structures resembling dead trees with trunks and limbs several feet in diameter. Holes like honeycombs encircled their ‘trunks’, iron pipes created a sort of exoskeleton around the entire structure, and morbid seed-shaped growths hung from the branches.

Thus stood the eastern most mark of Voggoth’s advance and the outer ring of encirclement around the 13th Mechanized Division.

The Grenadiers—the ocean of K9s stretching back to the horizon—poured across the fields of Kansas toward that line. The ground shook; a rumble filled the air.

At 500 yards, a light at the top of one turret, then another, then all blinked on and a muffled, moaning alarm echoed along the perimeter.

The turrets went into action firing short, sharp bursts of energy like shiny daggers cutting overtop the plains and slicing into the attackers. The bolts cut dogs in two, tore off legs, and decapitated more. But the great mob kept coming.

The tree-like dispenser buildings activated. From the honeycombs rolled dozens of balls that stopped, sprouted legs, and grew into the Spider Sentries encountered wherever The Order lurked. The Daddy-long-legs-like creatures grew twin rows of tiny gun barrels on the round orbs that served as heads as well as a pointed ‘nose’ attached to a rope-like skewer for close-combat.

From the seed-like sacks on the ‘limbs’ of the dispensers drooped large green bulbs easily mistaken for discolored bees nests or the rotting remains of Gypsy Moth cocoons.

The bulbs hit the ground where they shimmied and curled open with a soft crackle. Vile liquid dripped in long, stringy strands as greenish spheres birthed from the sickly wombs.

From each of the spheres lying among the dead grass of the field sprouted a trio of sharp and boney protrusions. They hinged at an unseen joint and returned to the ground, stabbing into the brown land. At the center of each rose a glowing yellow orb alongside a fleshy cylinder sitting on a tendon-like shoulder.

The Heavy Duty Spider Sentries –as classified by The Empire—joined their base-model brethren and filled the gaps between the turrets. While the latter met the canine army with lethal rapid-fire pellet guns, the Heavy Duty versions launched more powerful shot from their shoulder-mounted weapons. The blasts could penetrate the skin of armored vehicles so when they hit K9 bodies those bodies vanished in splashes of gore.

Grenadiers fell, were cut to shreds, and disintegrated into blobs of fir and bone, but the attack did not waver; the line kept coming as more and more dogs stepped over and around wounded and dead comrades with no sense of fear, no falter in their pace.

Voggoth’s turrets glowed red; the Spider Sentries rocked back and forth on their spindly legs. The wave of dogs came to the highway and swept beyond.

One by one the turrets pulled free of the ground and walked on four short legs in retreat, firing as they staggered back. Dogs scrambled onto their bases chewing and gnawing at the tubes and coils until causing fatal malfunctions. One—two—ten fell over like toppling towers.

The Spiders—heavy duty and otherwise—stammered backwards. Dead dog bodies piled up in front of them like sandbags along a river but the Grenadiers kept coming! Relentless! Fearless!

They grabbed onto legs and bit. The nose cones of the Spider Sentries—like spears on a hose—darted out and impaled dogs one after another but they still came; they piled on and over one another searching for an opening to wound the vile monsters. Sentries toppled and disappeared beneath the mob.

Despite killing thousands of K9s, The Order’s line of defense splintered and was swallowed like a rotting beachside boardwalk in a tsunami…

On the northern flank of the Grenadier army, Cassy Simms and 100 of her best riders moved into the bedroom communities south of Newtown. They occupied the burned out duplexes, toppled colonials, and overgrown cul-de-sacs where they dismounted and dug in with machine guns and short-range mortars.

Voggoth’s version of airborne commandos—who had dropped into Newtown during The Order’s move to encircle Rhodes’ unit—marched south intending to hit the attacking K9s and slow their advance. They looked like skeletons of bronze with pulsating innards resembling a combination of clockworks and biological organs. Their solitary round eyes glowed red and they moved on two metallic legs with a combination foot and rubber wheel at the bottom.

The commandos fired from metal tubes mounted on their forearms. A few of their number sported small shoulder-mounted bazookas. During their assault on Newton they had glided to Earth via black bat wings but had since discarded them.

Two hundred of the warped commandos marched into the ruins unaware of the cavalry until they were caught in a well-orchestrated cross fire. Carbine rounds and well-placed pistol shots felled the metallic fighters; mortar shells and fragmentation grenades destroyed more.

The alien beings communicated in voices coming from unseen mouths in a language of static and screeches. Moving fast and agile thanks to the wheels incorporated into their metal feet, the commandos moved between cover, lobbed explosive charges, and returned small arms fire with the same.

Cassy’s fighters eliminated nearly one-third of the unsuspecting enemy in the initial exchange, but the rest found refuge among the ruins and settled into a static battle line. Cassy knew hundreds more enemy reinforcements would come from Newton; she only hoped to buy time…

A rail line ran southwest away from Newtown and, eight miles later, reached the small town of Sedgwick, Kansas. This line—about two miles behind Highway 135—served as the second perimeter of defense and the inner-most ring of containment trapping General Rhodes. The Order situated units all along the line and had established their version of a Forward Operating Base around the Hillside Cemetery on the eastern fringes of town.

Originally, Shep planned to form all his forces into one sharp instrument to punch a hole through the enemy lines that stretched between Newtown and Sedgwick. Things had changed with the Grenadiers’ arrival.

For his first move he had sent Cassy Simms north to the outskirts of Newton to hold off the rather effective enemy commandos and their support units stationed there. He knew she could not delay them forever, but if she could bog them down for a short time the new plan should work, especially considering the size of the hole the K9s aimed to punch in the pocket.

Shepherd led his column south and then west toward Sedgwick on Route 588. Like Cassy Simms to the north, he aimed to draw off a threat to the Grenadiers’ flank and buy time for Rhodes—trapped at Halstead seven miles west of the rail line—to fight his way east to the dogs.

This revised plan paid immediate dividends. Shep’s armor caught The Order in the middle of organizing a counter-attack toward the Grenadiers. Abrams tanks directed by William Rheimmer smashed into a column of the van-sized, six-legged robots known as Roachbots.

Powered by harvested human brains and well-armed for mobile combat, the Roachbots exhibited one trait that made them both more dangerous and less predictable: insanity.

The creatures wore tubular metal frames, a pair of red eyes that mimicked LED displays, and a mouth-like speaker on a front face plate to either side of which rested Gatling guns mounted on swiveling round bases providing a wide firing arc.

In addition to the standard drones, the Roachbot column included Mortarbots. These silver walking mechanical artillery pieces resembled 18th century cannon wobbling along on a pair of metal legs with their barrels pointing skyward. A face plate similar to those found on a drone was affixed to the bottom of the automatons.

In any case, a column of fifty of the things moved north on Hoover road from the tightly packed bubble-like structures The Order had grown on the grounds of Hillside Cemetery. The robots were just passing through the flattened remains of a housing development when the human tanks locked on and fired from a nearby field.

Shepherd directed his Humvees and infantry—a few with Javelin anti-tank weapons—to a tree line east and northeast of the cemetery and kept Rheimmer’s armor in the open blasting away.

Roachbots—Shep knew—could do serious damage to the K9 advance. They were too tough to bite and could kill from range.

The drones on the road turned east and advanced on the Abrams getting close enough for Shepherd to hear their trademark call in a synthesized growl: A-hehehehe. Meanwhile, the Mortarbots stood off and lobbed explosive shells into the attacking armor.

Shepherd—onboard an APC—used his binoculars to spy both the elevated cemetery and the town of Sedgwick beyond. While the forces there accounted for only a small fraction of Voggoth’s advancing army, The Order had certainly planned its encirclement of Rhodes well.

A giant mushroom-shaped guardian rose from the grounds of the cemetery. One ugly eye drooped from the cap of the creature and surveyed the puny beings daring to attack its base.

The dome on the guardian shook, vibrated, and then spewed a volley of hundreds of sharp disc-shaped projectiles like circular saw blades thrown as Frisbees. Some of those blades flew into the trees aiming for the infantry but the branches provided significant cover. Other blades hit the tanks in the field where some stuck into armor but did no serious damage.

A moment later the top of the mushroom—the cap—exploded with two fireballs as an A-10 Warthog swooped from the heavens and struck. What the missiles failed to finish the A-10’s guns did: the plane strafed the Guardian with thousands of rounds ripping its hide to pieces and sending it toppling.

Shepherd smiled but, at the same time, he saw more Roachbots, a variety of Spider Sentries, and the gray-skinned muscle-bound Ogres forming up on Rt. 588 in Sedgwick…

General Rhodes’ men mustered on the Halstead High School athletic field that happened to be ringed by a strangely blue-colored track. For more than three days, now, the high school and that field served as their base of operations after they had fortified Halstead from threats on all sides.

However, word came that it was time to make their escape. The sounds of battle to the northeast at Newton, to the southeast at Sedgwick, and directly to the east provided motivation to get moving, as did any glance to the west of town. General Rhodes saw black storm clouds gathering there. A sure sign that The Order’s main force—Leviathan and all—approached.

His forces packed up and drove east in an assortment of vehicles ranging from military Humvees and armored cars to an old school bus as well as deuce-and-a-half trucks. While he abandoned much of his heavy equipment, Rhodes did manage to evacuate all of his wounded.

The ragtag column headed east along CR-576, leaving behind nearly 200 freshly dug graves on the high school’s west lawn…

The army of Grenadiers hit the enemy defenses along the rail line like a wave crashing into rocks. Turrets and spider sentries, the assimilated humans known as monks, as well as a pair of towering mushroom-shaped Guardians met the assault. Air support in the form of Screamers launched from points west and the floating blobs known as Chariots provided additional support for the enemy position.

Hastily deployed bouncer mines east of the tracks broke up the initial surge but the K9s kept coming. They died at the rate of 100 every minute, but refused to yield…

In the suburbs of Newton, the half-robot/half animal commandos were reinforced by a trio of eight-foot-tall creatures wearing hooded cloaks and blasting liquid fire from arms that sported round baffles.

Simms recognized the creatures from the report filed by Nina Forest and Gordon Knox after their adventure in Mexico last year. The robotic creatures received the official designation of Erasers. They moved slow and fired even slower but their heavy blasters could eradicate all but the most hardened bunkers.

The Erasers tore apart her front lines with a series of energy streams. However, an AC-130 circled the battlefield in the burned-out suburbs for ten minutes and managed to destroy two of the three hooded robots before the plane suffered enough damage to chase it away.

By midafternoon the cavalry’s hard points were broken and casualties hit 30%. Cassy had to order a retreat for the legendary Stonewall’s brigades, but she knew they had accomplished their task.

Despite dozens of sorties from Apache attack helicopters and A-10 Warthog armor-killers, General Shepherd lost half of his armored vehicles and a third of his personnel before pulling back under the cover of a fuel-air bomb that obliterated The Order’s base at the cemetery.

As the afternoon changed to evening, General Rhodes’ escaping columns crossed Highway 135 after passing through the ranks of the westward-swarming K9 army.

Just before nightfall the Grenadiers finished off the last of the ground-based defenders along the rail line as well as a legion of enemy reinforcements from Newton and Sedgwick. By then only 10,000 of the fierce dogs remained, but General Rhodes’ men had made it safely out of the pocket and both relief forces retreated unmolested.

Yet still, the K9s did not stop. They continued to march, beyond the ability of Shepherd or the military to track their movement. The retreating humans only knew that all through the night the sounds of battle could be heard to the west and, come the next morning, The Order had not yet returned to their previous line at 135. Something had given them pause; slowed them; wounded them.

So ended the march of the Grenadiers.

Humanity stood alone.

13. Camelot

Trevor, Rick Hauser, and two other sailors grabbed oars and rowed vigorously as their boat rode breakers in to shore. When the oars hit bottom, all eight men aboard jumped over the side and splashed into the cool surf, leaving JB and his well-wrapped Bunny stuffed animal alone in the RIB.

The second boat and its eight men—including the former Executive Officer of the Newport News—followed suit. A minute later the bows hit beach and Trevor helped his son hop from rubber boat to shore.

Ahead of them lay unknown land shrouded in the darkness of midnight. Only a small flashing beacon lying further up the beach provided any source of light outside of the spotlights on the rim of the boats.

The waves rolled in to shore one after another filling the air with a gentle but constant roar. A very cool breeze with salt water vapor carried across the beach belying the summer season.

“Welcome to France,” the XO muttered as his men mustered on the shoreline. “Wasn’t there supposed to be a welcoming party?”

Rick Hauser moved several paces ahead of the rest and reached the flashing beacon on the sand. He held the small device in his hand and switched it off.

Trevor said, “We’re more than a day late. Maybe they didn’t stick around.”

“Father, are we in the correct place?”

The XO had spent the last 36 hours consulting his compass and maps. His computations resulted in several course corrections during their journey from dying sub to coastline. He answered Jorgie with sureness in his voice, “You are at the beautiful beach resort of Soulac-sur-Mer. Besides, I don’t think it’s an accident that this beacon was here.”

The sailors stood in a tight group in what would have been the open space of the beach, but the complete darkness surrounding them created the illusion of isolation and cover.

That illusion shattered as a pair of bright spotlights burst upon them. Trevor raised his hand over his eyes, effectively blinded. He did hear the cock of several pistol slides among the sailors.

“Everyone stay calm,” he told the crewmen. “If they were bad guys we’d be dead by now.”

He heard the crunch of footsteps crossing the beach from the spotlights to his position. Slowly Trevor pulled away his hand and squinted in the light. He saw a line of silhouettes approach; human silhouettes. He noted weapons among the strangers: FAMAS military assault rifles.

The person in front waved a hand in the air and the spotlights changed their aim so as to illuminate the beach, but not blind.

Trevor took stock of the welcoming committee: four people standing twenty yards back beside a pair of vehicles—some kind of light military cars—parked along the remains of a sidewalk comprised of warped wooden planks. Closer, across from Trevor, stood a trio of men with their weapons pointing toward the sand.

The leader of the group stood over six feet tall, although not quite as imposing as Jon Brewer. He was lanky but his forearms and legs struck Trevor as well-toned. He had thin but not balding black hair, stubble beneath a sharp nose, and wore round glasses with a sport strap securing them to his head. He dressed in a black, zippered sweatshirt with red shoulder stripes and the brand name ‘Ducati’ embroidered where a chest pocket should be and covered his lower half in leather pants that featured a variety of zip pockets as well as strategically-placed padding.

The man in front sort of sneered at Trevor’s wet and tired group, turned to his closest comrade and sarcastically muttered, “The Normandy landings were more impressive, I would think.”

Trevor snipped, “My grandfather fought at Normandy.”

His words surprised the men. The leader’s eyes widened and his mouth nearly dropped, but he quickly regained his composure and replaced his surprise with what appeared to be his natural expression: a sneer.

He said to Trevor, “I thought you were going to bring an army.”

Trevor glanced at his son and then answered the man, “I did.”

Again, they appeared surprised.

“You were supposed to be here yesterday.”

“We almost didn’t make it at all. But that’s another story. My name is Trevor Stone. Thank you for meeting us.”

The leader took great pains to sound neither friendly nor antagonistic: “My name is Armand.”

Jorgie jumped, “Hello, Armand. It is very nice to meet you.”

“I was told I would meet Alexander,” Trevor said.

“Well you got me, instead. How lucky am I? We will shelter in what is left of the beach houses for tonight and then take a helicopter out in the morning. It is relatively safe in this area except for the bats. They will eat you if they get a chance. I do not like bats. So we had better get under cover for now. Follow us.”

Trevor addressed his crew, “Okay, you heard them.”

The sailors glanced nervously at one another.

Rick Hauser spoke for them all when he said, “Heard them? Not really. You, that guy, even your son, you were all speaking French.”

The Fennec Eurocopter’s blades blew waves across the grassy field. Trevor kept his head low and jogged away from the transport while holding JB by the hand. He, in turn, clutched his wrapped up Bunny tight, afraid the raggedy stuffed animal might blow away in the wind.

Hauser and two seamen from the Newport News followed Trevor who, in turn, followed Armand. He led them a short distance to a dirt road that ran between the grass and a gentle, forested hill. Two fuel trucks sat idle on the road. Several men—most older—wearing caps, jeans, and work shirts took hold of a hose and dragged it toward the waiting helicopter.

Trevor eyed the men as if hoping his glare would cause them to hurry; the Executive Officer and ten more of the crew waited to be ferried to where Trevor had just arrived: the small town of Murol located in the south central French administrative region of Auvergne (not that such designations meant anything anymore). Regardless, he did not appreciate his party being split.

The men struggling with the fuel hose returned Trevor’s glare with what might have been contempt. A glare from Trevor Stone in Europe did not mean nearly as much as a glare from Trevor Stone in North America. For the first time since his trip across dimensions, Trevor felt out of his element.

Dampness carried on the mid-morning air. Gray clouds combated patches of blue sky for control of the heavens.

To the southwest he spied rows of small buildings between rows of decorative trees. The precise spacing between the structures suggested either a planned community or a more commercial purpose but in the post-Armageddon world the buildings worked as an ammunition dump and motor pool.

In addition to piles of crates draped beneath camouflage netting, Trevor noticed a pair of Leopard 2 main battle tanks under tents; one lacked treads the other lacked a main gun. Both sported well-worn Danish insignia. A couple of sour-looking mechanics stopped their work on the armor to stare across the field at Trevor’s entourage.

Raised woodlands blocked his view to the east and the field stretched on to the south. From the west came two vehicles. At first Trevor thought them to be Hummers but the Renault badge on the front grille said otherwise. The lead vehicle lacked a roof but did have a sturdy-looking roll bar between rows of seats.

Both cars came to a halt behind the fuel trucks, kicking up a small cloud of brown dust in the process.

The man driving the second car wore plain clothing and a dark-colored trilby hat. He sat and waited like a taxi cab driver.

From the lead vehicle emerged another man who eyed Trevor with a mix of awe and curiosity. This man stood average height with strong shoulders and the hint of a pot belly. He wore sandy blond hair combed across but without much thought to style. His clothes consisted of a dark leather jacket over an even blacker shirt and brown pants hiding all but the tips of work boots. He held a clipboard under one arm and Trevor thought the concentration of his stare suggested an analytical mind.

Armand approached the newcomer and whispered in his ear. For a moment the man’s stare left Trevor and focused on Armand. He nodded to the Frenchmen and then walked to Trevor.

“Welcome to Europe, Mister Stone,” the man spoke English with a hint of midlands cadence but he tried hard to hide any accent. “My name is Alexander,” and the man offered his hand without losing grip of his clipboard.

Trevor returned the grasp. Alexander sported large hands and Trevor felt strength there, but at the same time Alexander did not try to impress with his grip. No test of power; no test of egos. Instead, Trevor immediately sensed a mildness to Alexander. He could sense immediately that here was a sturdy leader, one with both patience and strength.

“Armand tells me that you did not arrive as planned.”

“No,” Trevor answered and he recalled the conning tower of the Newport News slipping beneath the Atlantic on its final dive. “We ran into—difficulties. I am grateful for the ride, Alexander, but I do not like leaving so many of my men behind at the beach. Armand refused to radio for a second transport.”

“With good reason. The Duass have deployed technology that allows them to hone-in on radio transmissions. You would have been just as likely to find a missile coming your way as a second helicopter. But I am surprised you did not know of this. They developed the weapon last summer. I know I forwarded a written report to your government.”

Trevor thought about last summer. He thought about President Evan Godfrey. If Godfrey had even bothered to read the report he probably discarded it, given that he cared little about the world outside of America.

Regardless, this bit of information suggested that the Duass occupying large sections of Europe were better equipped than the force The Empire had encountered in Ohio. Yet another sign that the gateways which brought the invaders to Earth did not always hit their targets, leaving some of the extraterrestrial forces separate from their main bodies.

Seeing no reason to recap all that, Trevor gave Alexander a succinct yet honest answer, “I did not read that report. I was unavailable at the time it came through.”

Armand, in rough English, asked bitterly, “Too important to bother with our little reports. More important things, yes?”

Trevor answered, “I was dead.”

Alexander said, “Oh. I see.” But of course he did not. “And is this your son?”

Jorgie volunteered, “Hello, Mr. Alexander. I read a lot about you over the years and what you were doing over here. I really liked your raid into Algiers two years ago. That was brave. And the Italian Alpine soldiers? I would really like to meet some of them after what they did in Zurich.”

Jorgie turned to his surprised father and explained, “Mr. Knox reads me the intelligence reports when you are not around, Father.”

A chuckle by Armand partially disrupted the conversation. Apparently the man knew enough English to follow along.

“We should get going,” Alexander changed the course of the conversation. “There are people waiting to meet you.”

They loaded into the Renault Sherpas with Armand taking the lead vehicle’s driver’s seat, Alexander in the passenger’s side, Trevor and JB in the rear. Hauser and the two crewmen boarded the second car.

After a quick U-turn the cars drove a dirt road heading northwest until it connected with a paved one. At that point they turned north and traveled toward the center of the small village.

Murol lived in the elevated region of France referred to as Massif Central, an area shaped by substantial volcanic activity an eon prior that left its mark in the form of mountains and plateaus rippling across the landscape like frozen, angry waves. Clumps of thin forests blanketed many of the slopes but sharp cliff faces and stone peaks held their share of the high ground as well, making for a diverse and dramatic collection of terrain.

Murol might have once been a sleepy tourist village, but on that day it buzzed with life.

As they approached an intersection on the edge of town, Trevor glanced to his right and saw a collection of tents complete with tin pots cooking over camp fires, drying laundry hanging from rope strung between metal poles, and a parked water buffalo where a line waited with jugs in hand.

Among the tents loitered people wearing a variety of clothing ranging from well-worn coveralls to bright-colored sun dresses. Men and women, old and young, white, black, and brown. Some carried side arms, some carried buckets or shovels, one middle aged woman struggled with a pile of stacked books and her hurrying gait made Trevor think of a school teacher late for class.

To his left he saw an old farmhouse and barn from the outside of which hung a white sheet with a big red cross stenciled upon it. An old-style Peugeot ambulance sat outside the main entrance. A large dumpster around the side appeared full of bloody linens and old furniture. A man and a woman—both dressed in dirty white—stood near that dumpster smoking some kind of cigarettes.

Trevor glanced at a street sign and saw that they crossed over Rue Pierre Celeirol as they followed Rue de Jassaguet. The open fields and view of the imposing mountains disappeared, replaced by quaint shops, homes, and hostels along a tight street that wormed its way through the village.

The convoy slowed to weave around a series of vendor carts selling less-than-fresh fruit and questionable meats to a boisterous crowd. Trevor made eye contact with a chubby, older woman who reflected his stare with tired but resolute eyes. He saw dirt caked beneath her fingertips and a strawberry scar on her cheek.

The Sherpas continued on. Trevor noticed that no one else traveled by car, but he did see an old man pulling a donkey laden with sacks along a side street as well as several people riding bicycles.

Jorgie tugged at his father’s sleeve. When he held his dad’s attention, the boy pointed to a three-story building with a blue awning announcing it as the Hotel le Parc.

The hotel had turned in its ‘visitors welcome’ matt in exchange for status as an army barracks. An anti-aircraft gun sat atop the roof, the tennis courts now served as parking spaces for an AMX armored Infantry Fighting Vehicle with a 20mm cannon as well another Sherpa with an anti-tank gun mounted on its roof.

Several soldiers congregated on the terrace in a variety of camouflage outfits including what Trevor recognized—through his bank of genetic memories—to be the old pattern Swiss Leibermuster. Other emblems on shoulders and chests suggested fighters from Denmark, Spain, and the Netherlands.

The terrace looked over a shaded park. In that shade lurked several pickup trucks, a pair of cargo containers, and piles of supplies. Trevor saw crates of bullets and artillery shells, fuel drums, stacks of tires, and boxes of canned rations. He knew that some of those items—particularly the tires and fuel—had traveled across the Atlantic from Omar’s Hivvan matter-makers.

The convoy kept driving through the crowded streets. A pungent aroma mixing smoldering fire with filth and petrol vapors lingered over the entire village. It smelled to Trevor like too many people crowded into a small spot with too little sanitation and too few supplies, but a palpable feeling of excitement carried in the air, as if the carnival arrived in town.

They left the village along a road rising up a gentle slope to the north where forest and grassland claimed the scenery again.

Armand spoke to Alexander in what Trevor thought to be French, but the meanings of the words came through so clear to his library-mind that such a trivial thing as language did not matter. “Looks like the damn Italians are here.”

Armand—sitting behind the driver’s wheel in the front left of the car—glanced to a path on the west side of the road. There Trevor saw a line of horse riders, the leader wearing a wool sport snap hat with a bandolier across a peasant’s shirt. He eyed the convoy as they zoomed past as if both envying and disapproving of motored transport.

A chopping sound diverted Trevor and JB’s attention to the right. They swung their heads around and watched a green Eurocopter 135 transport displaying the stylized iron cross of the Bundeswehr fly in.

Alexander gave the helicopter a look and then returned his attention to the papers on his clipboard noting, “And the Germans, too.”

Trevor eyed the helicopter’s flight to the north as it flew parallel to the road they traveled. That road climbed a steep basalt outcropping as it snaked through light woodlands toward an impressive sight that overlooked the town and everything else for miles: the Château de Murol.

The castle’s large curtain walls had suffered greatly with age, but still stood although a layer of creeping ivory climbed the gray and brown stone.

It lacked the glitz and shine of a Hollywood scripted castle but Trevor found the gritty realism even more awe-inspiring. The Château de Murol stood defiantly for all the world—and all the invaders—to see. Weathered, bruised, but still ready to fight. Like the people of his Empire; like the people of Murol.

The road swept around, pushed through a patch of woods where Trevor spied a Harrier jump jet hidden under green netting, and emerged at a medieval gatehouse and a steep stone stairway. A machine gun behind sandbags covered the approach. Trevor also noticed a man with a sniper rifle at one of the higher windows on the curtain wall as well as a cluster of rectangular box-like structures atop the primary castle tower that he suspected to be anti-air missiles.

“Very impressive,” Trevor complimented.

Armand spoke in French, “What did you think? Did you think we were sitting around with our thumbs up our asses waiting for you Americans to ride in and save the day?”

“I am not an American, and you are no longer French,” Trevor corrected in the land’s native tongue. “Countries do not mean anything anymore.”

Armand snorted in either disgust or amusement.

The cars stopped and the passengers disembarked under the staring eyes of several sentries whose expressions suggested thoughts along the lines of “this is it?”

Alexander said, “Trevor, why don’t you come with me. The rest of your people can relax in the dining tent. I have to believe they’re hungry.”

At that moment Trevor’s stomach groaned and he realized he had eaten only canned rations over the last 36 hours or so. Still, he knew eating would have to wait, at least for him.

“That sounds good.”

“No! I want to go see, Father.”

Trevor placed a hand on his son’s shoulder. The boy looked at his dad through those determined blue eyes of his.

“If it’s okay with you, Alexander, I’d like to have my son come with us. I think he deserves as much.”

Alexander glanced at Armand who shrugged either to say he did not understand what Trevor meant or he did not care. Whatever the case, Alexander nodded to the boy and the group ascended the stairs leaving Hauser and the two sailors in the care of the garrison.

The first stretch of stairs led into the gatehouse. Inside loitered a group of soldiers of various ethnic shades in a collection of helmets, berets, boots, sneakers, BDUs and jeans. Folding tables hosted radios and CCT monitors; a weapons rack offered a collection of rifles and shotguns.

Another set of open-air stone stairs climbed along the curtain wall. Small puddles on the steps spoke of rain earlier.

At the top of the stairs came the entrance to the courtyard above which loomed an ornamental lintel depicting knights in armor as well as a pair of griffins prancing above a coat-of-arms. Jorgie caused the procession to halt as he studied the crude bas-relief with wide eyes of wonderment. His father tugged his arm encouraging him onward.

A few militia men lurked in the courtyard among crates of supplies. A mess of replica shields, swords, and helmets were piled into one corner, certainly remains from the days when the Château drew tourists instead of warriors.

They crossed the courtyard and entered a wood-trimmed doorway a little small for the average modern man but perhaps just the right size for the knights of the dark ages. The interior offered cool, musty air as might be found in a cellar. A handful of windows allowed enough sunlight to prove they remained above surface.

Alexander led them underneath a stone arch and into a long rectangular room with a sloped ceiling three stories overhead. Light entered through high windows located on either side.

Two of the best-dressed soldiers in the place stood to either side of that entrance arch. Trevor immediately recognized the insignia of the British Royal Marines: a lion atop a crown, a globe, and banner with the words Per Mare Per Terram.

The soldiers closed ranks and blocked entrance.

Alexander explained, “No weapons.”

Armand, knowing the rule, un-slung his FAMAS, a side arm, a big knife, and a pair of anti-personnel grenades. Trevor came unarmed; Alexander handed over a revolver. The soldiers let them pass.

A long oval table hosted eleven persons in garb ranging from formal dress to military tunics to the clothes of farmers. Yet the way they sat formal and rigid—their icy stares at the newcomer—the confidence in their eyes—Trevor knew they may wear different dress, but all were cut from the same cloth.

Alexander turned to Trevor and told him, “Welcome to Camelot.”

No trumpets. No applause. No cheers.

Stares. Judging eyes. One tapped his thumb on a table top. Another absently stroked her hair.

They waited for Trevor to speak. He turned first to Alexander who remained by his side. Armand moved to one wall and casually leaned with a smirk that suggested he enjoyed the moment of awkwardness.

“English,” Alexander told him. “English is the language we use in groups.”

“Do you know why?” Armand asked but he answered his own question: “Because for years in most of our countries we got to know English as a second language so that we could sell you cars and wine and take money from your annoying tourists every summer.”

It was Jorgie who spoke to the group first, ignoring Armand’s venom.

“Hello!” And he waved with his arm that did not clutch Bunny. “This is a really neat castle you have here. Is it really the Camelot castle from the days of King Arthur?”

Trevor nearly did not recognize his son’s voice, not with all the enthusiasm and ordinary-kid awe in his tone. Such things did not come from JB’s lips. In an instant, Trevor understood that his boy—his nine year old son—had taken the lead in breaking the ice.

And it worked.

“Um, well, no,” answered an elderly man with a white beard wearing a sport jacket. “That was in England, and no one really knows exactly where. Besides, we have many of these places. Camelot is no longer one castle or building, but an idea.”

“My name is Jorgie,” the boy spoke directly to this man with the white beard and balding head. “What is yours?”

Alexander answered for the man, “You are addressing Sir Hadwin. He represents the survivors in England. The southern stretch of the British Isles, that is.”

“I thought that would have been you,” Trevor said to Alexander.

A young woman—perhaps mid-twenties—with short red hair, freckles, and fiery green eyes answered with—surprising for her looks—a gentleness in her voice, “Alexander did represent that territory at one time, but we elected him to lead.”

Alexander provided a verbal nameplate for the speaker: “Lady Tarah, of—”

Trevor cut Alexander off with a smile, “Ireland, of course.”

Alexander nodded and returned the smile, albeit not so heartily.

One of the other men at the table—a strong-looking fellow with shoulder-length blond hair—broke up the cordial conversation. “Where are the giant flying air ships? Where are your panzer brigades and jet air craft? I see only a man and a boy here. This is not what we expected.”

Alexander: “Sir Tobias, representing a confederation of clans in Austria and refugees from the Czech Republic.”

Trevor met the man’s glaring eyes and replied, “Things changed drastically for us last summer. We had—well—the enemy has hit us with surprising strength. All of our resources are committed to the battle.”

“So what are you saying?”

Armand, from his position along the wall, gave that answer, “It means this is all we get, a father and his son. We have been waiting around for the Americans all this time and they have made us more empty promises.”

“That’s not fair,” a defense came from a middle aged athletic-looking woman with a muscular build and deep voice. “We have been receiving supplies from the Americans for several years as well as technical advisors and intelligence.”

“Lady Verena,” Alexander whispered. “Of Switzerland.”

Armand protested, “I have been saying for years that we should not wait for them. That we should have been doing more. But you kept telling me to wait. Well what has it gotten us? Now we cannot fight back like we could have last year. Wasted time!”

One of the women at the table—a lovely girl with shiny black hair that stretched all the way down to her waist—waved for Armand to approach her. He did and as she spoke quietly to him she stroked his arm in a gesture of familiarity and warmth. He nodded his head, as if relenting in some fashion, then returned to his position against the wall.

Trevor asked Alexander, “What is he talking about?”

“Of course, you do not know,” Alexander answered. “Most of our radios had to be shut down and apparently you were—um—dead last year.”

A stocky man with a complexion that suggested a hint of Caribbean in his background offered an explanation, “Last year the group which calls themselves The Order launched a major offensive against our villages in central Europe. They, and the Duass, wiped out an armored division we had been building for years. Many of the spare parts and fuel you sent us were destroyed in this offensive.”

“That is Sir Jef, representing Belgium and survivors in parts of the lowlands.”

A young man—maybe twenty-one at best—but with the build of a football player, chimed in, “Those tanks were planned to be a critical part of the offensive we were supposed to launch when you sent one of those air ships over here. We had an opportunity to take back areas of the continent from the enemy, but we were told to wait for your reinforcements.”

“Lukas is correct,” broke in a tall man of middle age with a shaved head, “the Americans made promises and we waited—for what?”

Armand jumped, “Same old thing. Wait around to see what the Americans want to do. I say we do not need them. We never have.” A disapproving glance from the woman with the long black hair stopped Armand’s rant. He seemed to slump against the wall as if trying to disappear.

Trevor asked, “What happened?”

“They hit us very hard,” the man with the shaved head explained in an accent Trevor identified as Scandinavian, perhaps Norwegian. “We had taken back much of the countryside and some cities from the Duass. We developed communications links with survivors in eastern Europe, Spain, and even Turkey.”

Alexander continued, “Then they came at us. Very violent. Very fast. The Order led the way with the Duass mopping up pockets of resistance. They hit areas where our population gathered in significant numbers—slaughtered civilians without regard.”

“The worst,” Lady Verena of Switzerland added her deep voice, “was that they found and hit our largest military concentrations. We had two operational air bases and nearly a dozen jet fighters combat ready. Both gone in the first day of the assault.”

“Our armor and heavy infantry units suffered the brunt of the attack,” Alexander said.

Armand spit on the floor with disgust and in French boasted, “We made them pay a high price.”

“But not enough,” Jef of Belgium spoke in English but obviously understood Armand. “We have been set back five years! All in no more than three weeks of fighting. Now we are like caged animals.”

“What?” Trevor asked. “What does that mean? Caged?”

Armand moved away from his position against the wall and strolled toward Trevor in a gait he could think of only as a slink. A cocky and angry slink.

“You want to know, American? Those dumb ducks have occupied the big cities and placed road blocks all through France and Europe. They have cut off our lines of communication. It took us days to get all of the knights here to meet you. My cavalry brought them here at great risk. I lost ten of my best men in the Ruhr valley and two of Sir Hadwin’s escort ships were blown to pieces crossing the channel.”

Alexander said, “We were forming up, becoming a nation until last summer. Now we are back to small groups of survivors holding out in the mountains, the forests—piecemeal.”

Armand stopped in front of Trevor, jabbed a finger into his chest, and growled, “For what? Huh? Tell me, American.”

“I told you, I’m not an American,” Trevor kept his calm. “If you keep thinking like that, you’re more piecemeal than you know.”

“What I know? What I know is that you sat over there on the other side of the ocean and told us what to do but it was not what was best for us, it was best for you. Well to hell with you. We never needed you. We still—“

“Armand!”

The shout stopped his words in mid-sentence. That shout came from the woman with long, black hair who rose to her feet to accentuate her command.

Armand did not look at her; he kept his eyes on Trevor who could feel snorts of breath from his sharp nose like a dragon puffing when it would prefer to blow flames. Nonetheless, Armand retreated a step.

The woman with the dark hair walked slowly—gracefully—from the table to where Trevor and JB stood. She smiled warmly.

“My name is Cai. It is a pleasure to meet you, Emperor.”

And she bowed her head in the slightest; a sincere show of respect.

Trevor did not know what to say.

Jorgie spoke instead, “Where are your people from, Lady Cai?”

She knelt before the boy and studied him the way a mother might examine her newborn; searching for the answers of life in his eyes with both warmth and wonder.

“I represent the people of Wales. It is a beautiful place. I wish you would come and visit there with me some day.”

“I would like that.”

“Please excuse our selfishness, Master Jorgie. In our haste to share our troubles, we have neglected to ask about your people. I sense things are not well where you come from.”

Jorgie admitted, “Bad things are happening. People are dying.”

While Cai remained on a knee studying JB, Trevor shared with the room in a humble voice, “From what you tell me, I believe the attack against your positions was a prelude to what is happening in North America. The Order launched a full-scale invasion on our western coast. They had planned an invasion on the east as well, but we managed to stop that before it started. Point is, they hit you hard enough to knock you back into place before they came after us full bore. Now my military is on the verge of breaking. We’ve lost tens of thousands of soldiers and as many civilians. The Order hit you good to slow you down and is now intent on destroying us.”

An Italian man with a prickly beard and wearing a sport snap cap asked, “What is it that makes you think you are the first priority of this Order?”

“Simple. We’re further along than you folks. This time last year we had secured the heart of North America and were prepared to hit alien positions in Mexico. Our industry was running great thanks to some alien technology, we no longer had major shortages of anything, and we had developed the means to project power anywhere on the globe. To put it bluntly, we were winning. None of the alien races could stop us; not since we shut down the gateways a few years ago.”

“That’s what you told us,” Sir Kaarle—the man with the shaved head—of Scandinavia countered, “but then The Order attacks us with an entire army. Right now there are large formations of Voggoth’s forces supporting the Duass and penning us in.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, Trevor,” Alexander confirmed. “That is so.”

“There is a lot we don’t know,” Lady Cai—still sharing smiles with JB—interrupted. “And you’re here to tell us a great deal. Is that not true?”

Her hand reached out and touched JB’s cheek. She closed her eyes as if bathing in the child’s essence.

Armand stepped forward and in French asked her, “What is it, Cai? What is it with this boy?”

Trevor asked in English, “I don’t understand.”

Alexander shared, “Lady Cai—she—I’m not sure how to explain this…”

“I feel things,” she did the explaining for herself. “I have a very natural—oh, what would I call it? Sensitivity.”

Trevor—the man who spoke to dogs, periodically met with a mysterious old man in the woods, and had magically gained access to a library of genetic memories—asked in a skeptical tone, “What do you mean? A, like, psychic or something?”

“Father!”

Cai found that amusing. She exhaled a soft, comforting laugh.

“Nothing so exotic. Sometimes I feel things. Call it an understanding of people. Of things.”

“She sells herself short,” Armand said although the sneer in his voice showed that he did not like having to explain to the American. “She has had dreams of things to do, things to come. And she can tell a good heart from a bad one.”

Trevor remembered Stonewall McAllister. A vision had led him to the lakeside estate during that first year.

Cai jumped, “And Armand, what would you say if I tell you these two have good hearts? Would you stop projecting your frustrations onto them? Would you treat them as honored guests?”

Armand fidgeted but held his tongue.

The Lady then removed her hand from Jorgie’s cheek and addressed the boy in a soft one, “You are a very special child. But you know that, don’t you?”

He nodded. His eyes held the same fascination for her as she did for him; the same wonder.

She said, “I have thought about you before.”

Trevor asked, “You knew he would be coming?”

She corrected, “I knew he should come. Not that he would.”

“Trevor,” Alexander tried to move the conversation in a more purpose-orientated direction. “You say your army is in a battle for its life. You say you do not have the forces to spare to help us right now. To be blunt, why is it you came here? Why did you need to see us?”

Trevor realized his next words would cause a stir, but he had no choice other than to say them.

“Because if The Empire falls, all of humanity loses.”

Grumbles and snaps in a variety of languages circulated the room. Armand appeared ready to burst.

“It is not always about America!”

“We survived without you, we will keep on surviving!”

Alexander stepped forward and raised his hands to calm the commotion. The ‘knights’ quieted but the scowls and narrowed eyes suggested they did not calm.

Trevor sidestepped Alexander and addressed the gathering, “This is not about America, or Europe, or Asia or whatever. It is about our species, and that means a lot more than you might think.”

“If you are destroyed,” Sir Jef observed, “then we will remain in hiding until our strength returns. We spent years stockpiling fuel and raw materials. What we imported from you has been a great help, yes, but we will continue on. We will survive.”

“No, you will not,” but it was not Trevor’s voice that said those words. It was Jorgie’s.

A hush fell over the room. Lady Cai appeared quite pleased with JB. She touched his cheek again briefly, then rose to her feet and addressed the group.

“You keep calling him arrogant, but I think we have enough arrogance in this room ourselves. We still use names that have no meaning any more: England, Wales, Germany, Ireland. Pride can be a source of strength, but not vanity. Set that aside and listen to him. I am sure we can teach Mr. Stone a few things. But I am equally sure he has come here to share with us important information.”

Alexander asked, “What is it you expect from us?”

Trevor slowly surveyed the room, making eye contact with each of the knights and when he came to Armand he offered the answer that that man craved as surely as Nina Forest craved it.

“I expect you to fight.”

14. Scorched Earth

The southern half of the National Beef processing plant existed only as ruins: a few standing exterior walls resembling cheap sets on a stage play, jumbles of felled steel beams, collapsed walkways, and melted machinery. Like Air Force bases and bivouacked armies, The Order saw food production facilities as targets for their bombers and artillery. And while the processing plant had never reached its pre-Armageddon levels of output, it had distributed thousands of tons of meat products for The Empire’s population prior to its most recent evacuation.

In contrast to the southern half, the northern half of the plant remained fairly intact albeit open to the elements. From the shadows there came Nina Forest running through the beams of dawn’s first light between debris piles and darting behind an overturned, rusted conveyor belt just as a large explosion sent shrapnel and dirt flying all into the air.

She did not stop, however, and neither did Vince Caesar who paralleled her charge a dozen yards to her left as they advanced toward Route 400 on the southeastern edge of Dodge City, Kansas.

Working in unison, the two sprinted from what would have been the outer wall of the meat plant and across what had once been the employee parking lot.

Two more explosions tried to halt their progress. One sent the remains of a Volkswagen spinning over Nina’s head, another caused an ancient light poll to bend then topple.

Nina leapt over a heap of metal and rubber that might have once been a Chevy S-10 pickup and raced toward a jackknifed 18-wheeler so fast that her momentum only stopped when she slammed shoulder-first into the toppled truck’s roof. Another explosion—just six feet in front of her—let fly a lethal halo of metal and rock.

She huffed several deep breaths, nearly gagging in the process: the stench of spoiled meat loitered over the entire complex making her stomach churn.

Her black BDU’s showed the signs of four days’ worth of guerrilla fighting behind enemy lines; mud and blood stains and a frayed utility belt. The glimmer of the sword strapped to her thigh seemed dulled through overuse.

She fit her black beret a tighter on her head and then looked over to Vince. He huffed, too, while kneeling in the cover of a rusting dumpster.

Next she glanced around the front grille of the dead truck and took stock of the opposition. The enemy supply convoy stood still on Route 400—also known as East Trail Street—exactly as the ambush plan anticipated. The explosives had turned the lead vehicle into a jumble of wires, veins, muscles, and wheels while digging a deep trench across the pavement.

The second vehicle had done as anticipated, too, in swerving into the field to the south in order to circumvent the disabled leader. The landmines there blasted four of the eight wheels off the boat-like truck and left it sideways with its contents of various sized spheres spilling out.

Three vehicles remained, two of which were more of the greenish canoe-like transports with eight wood-looking (but not) wheels.

The third—the one in the middle—presented the greatest challenge. This escort car wore shell-like armor and rode on a cushion of air very close to the ground. On top rested a circular turret with a small barrel that fired high-velocity rounds capable of ripping open the best ballistic armor. To the rear of the tank-sized craft swiveled a tube that delivered explosive shells at the attackers.

Six of the robed monks with their swords and forearm-mounted pellet guns took cover to either side of the escort tank while one of the gray-skinned Ogre fellows stood blazingly in the open, prepared to take on all who dared.

The turret saw Nina peaking and opened fire. She pulled her head back just as a series of shots ricocheted off the MACK grille.

She closed her eyes and drew a tactical map in her mind from memory. She saw the lot of broken cars between her and the road. She knew they needed to keep the enemy’s attention for Carl Bly’s sake; any moment he would reveal his position in the tree line to the convoy’s southeast and would be easy prey for the turret should his Javelin miss.

Nina heard the sound of Oliver Maddock’s high-powered sniper rifle firing from somewhere among the ruins. She knew if he pulled the trigger he most certainly found a kill. But she also knew those high-powered rounds would not pierce the belly of the Ogre from distance, so he must have killed a monk.

Any thoughts of pity or hesitation in killing The Order’s monks had faded years before. By the time assimilated humans were equipped with the arm-mounted pellet guns they had passed the point of salvation. The long-departed Reverend Johnny—an expert of Voggoth’s machinations—had taught as much.

Reverend Johnny—he pulled the implant from me…

Nina felt a little light headed. Perhaps due to the stench of rotting beef.

She shook away the cobwebs and turned toward Vince. He waited for instructions. She needed him to circle further to the east: a couple of cargo trailers over there could provide cover.

Nina used hand signals. She pointed toward Vince and then used her fingers to make a walking motion…

Nina pointed to Trevor, then at her own eyes with both fingers, then made a walking motion with her fingers, then motioned toward the building.

In essence, she told Trevor to peek in one of the windows to ascertain the situation.

Trevor made an okay sign then surprised her by waving a flat hand over his head.

Nina bit her lower lip.

Stone had signaled that he understood and then told her to cover this area…

Vince gaped at Nina. She held her hand in the air halfway through a series of hand signals but distracted by—by what? A memory? A memory of something that happened a long time ago. Something during that first year.

Nina closed her eyes and tried to remember but the ghosts vanished as quickly as they came. The act of giving Vince hand signals had served as a prompt to summon those recollections from the recesses of her mind, but whether those memories belonged to her or had escaped to her mind during its connection to Trevor, she did not know.

The sound of another high-powered rifle shot brought her into focus again. She finished relaying orders to Vince and he moved off to his left, working through the remains of abandoned cars. Nina acted to draw the enemy’s attention.

She loaded a round in to her M203 launcher mounted under the M4’s barrel, stepped around the grill of the overturned truck, and delivered a grenade at the enemy convoy. It hit between the Ogre and the tank. The gray-skinned creature flinched and wobbled as the shrapnel dug into its back, but it did not fall.

The tank’s turret locked on and fired at Nina. The pellets tore into the engine compartment of the truck. She fired one more shot that missed high and then retreated to cover again.

Then came the really big explosion and the turret stopped firing.

But the sniper rifle fired—and fired—and fired.

Nina came around the truck with her weapon raised. The shell-covered tank burned blue and green smoke into the partly cloudy sky, the result of a well-placed Javelin shot from Carl Bly’s anti-tank weapon fired from his ambush position on the far side of the convoy.

Nina could have sworn she heard a cry of agony escape from the burning vehicle, but she could not be sure. Regardless, the monks scattered from the blaze, two already on fire and done for. Caesar—advancing parallel to Nina—dropped two more as they ran blindly in his direction. Maddock’s sniper rifle finished off the remaining monks from distance.

The Ogre stood alone with only its sheer strength as a weapon.

Nina and Vince Caesar approached it from opposite sides. The monster alternated attention between the two.

A sniper rifle round hit the thing’s chest. It staggered and a piece of gray about the size of a dollar bill fell from its body, but so did the splintered bullet.

Nina whistled.

Odin and two more elkhounds came from their hiding places in the parking lot.

Two thousand years prior, the Vikings used Norwegian elkhounds to hunt moose and bear the same way Nina now used them to hunt the Ogre. They ran at the beast, barked, and dodged its swings and kicks. Not attacking, but distracting.

Vince fired at its head, causing the thing to whiplash.

“Save your ammunition,” she ordered because she knew they would not get another supply drop for two days. “I’ve got this.”

Nina dropped her assault rifle and pulled her sword. The Ogre gave her a glance but the K9s kept its attention diverted. Caesar stepped closer, pulled the Mac-11 machine pistol he wore—like Nina—in a shoulder holster, and readied to offer her support if needed.

The dogs and Nina worked in concert. She ran in, they barked and backed off just as the monster punched at them, and she slashed the creature across the knee with her blade. It appeared Ogres were more susceptible to edged weapons than bullets.

It growled and stepped toward her but Odin bound in front of it and the old dog nipped its arm, then escaped before the creature could retaliate.

With its attention elsewhere again Nina stepped in, hacked, and opened a wound on its back from neck to ass. A red liquid that tried hard to mimic blood oozed from the wound and dripped on the road. The Ogre howled and turned to her.

The dogs ripped its lower legs from behind. It stomped and missed.

Nina swung again aiming high to decapitate the eight-foot-tall humanoid. Her blade hit true, but stuck in its throat like an axe into a tree.

It gurgled and stammered. She struggled to hold on to her blade as it remained lodged in the creature’s throat. The Ogre grabbed the sword with its large hands and, with a grunt, pulled it free, shoving it toward her with great strength.

Nina—her weapon in hand—fell backwards to the ground but turned the topple into a roll and ended facing her foe from one knee.

The Ogre stood defiantly for a moment—then the phony-blood poured from its throat, down its chest, and to the ground. Even the brave K9s backed away from the foul-smelling bile. The muscle-bound monster dropped to the ground dead—or whatever passed for death among Voggoth’s children.

Nina recovered her assault rifle while commanding, “Vince, sweep around the back side and cover Carl as he comes in,” she then faced the meat packing plant and waved her arm. Oliver Maddock emerged from a hiding place.

Vince circled around the burning tank and crinkled his nose at the sour roasting smell emanating from the destroyed vehicle. The dogs sniffed at the corpses and when one of the once-human monks twitched they tore out its throat.

Nina approached the rear-most supply vehicle and used her sword to lift a skin-like canvas covering the top of the canoe-shaped vehicle with eight wheels. Underneath the tarp she found a nest of gray balls of various sizes. She knew these to be ammunition for the coral-like artillery platforms, the Ogres’ slings, and various forms of Voggoth’s heavy guns.

“Tres funk, Captain,” Maddock spoke in Welsh slang with a light heart as he approached Nina and the convoy. “Of course, Carl won’t shut his cakehole all day about hittin’ the bastard right-on like that.”

Nina did not care if Carl Bly boasted or what Oliver Maddock thought about it, she just knew they had taken out another of The Order’s convoys. She only wished she could convince herself that it made a difference.

“Arty balls over here,” she said as Carl approached the last remaining cargo-hauler forward of the burning tank. “What you got?”

He peaked under the canvas and his nose curled.

“Seeds,” he answered. “Smells like more goddamn nest seeds. I think The Order is movin’ their farms east.”

“Then that’s our next target,” Nina answered as the remaining two members—including a smiling Carl Bly—joined her alongside the road. “I’m just sayin’, I want to start hitting things that make the bastards say ‘ouch’. We’ve got bridges, patrols, and a couple of these convoys. I want something bigger.”

She gave each man a good look in the eye and then ordered, “Vince, Carl, burn the bitches. Then we’ll break down the gear and hump outta here.”

While Nina, Oliver, and the dogs retreated toward their hideaway in the meat plant, Oliver and Carl Bly tossed small canisters into each of the remaining vehicles.

“Fire in the hole!” Bly warned.

Nina walked backwards to watch the show. She whispered an imitation of a howl that might just come from the wolf’s head with ruby eyes patched on her shoulder.

“Aaaawwooooo…”

The canisters exploded turning the remaining vehicles into fireballs. A horrible screeching sound came from the transport hauling Voggoth’s seeds. The second vehicle ripped apart as its contents caught fire and detonated. Smoke from the burning convoy rose a thousand feet into the morning sky, mixing black soot with gray cloud…

The Dark Wolves found a garage with several four-wheel all-terrain vehicles and siphoned gas from nearby cars. They used a couple of towed wooden carts to carry the three elkhounds that comprised the non-human contingent of their SpecOps team and equipment.

They traveled northeast for the first part of the day along a route that, according to Vince Caesar, followed the Santa Fe trail of Old West days.

In order to avoid the searching eyes of a flying Chariot the team hid in a farm house’s tornado cellar for an hour, taking that time to have an early lunch of tinned rations and dried meat. Later that afternoon a column of Voggoth’s monks backed by Spider Sentries blocked Route 50 around Spearville.

Nina, in response, moved her unit south and across a stretch of fields and rolling hills. They made slow progress and, due to several more Chariots scouring the area, abandoned their vehicles and moved on foot, lugging their equipment on their backs.

Just before sunset the Dark Wolves sheltered inside the Immaculate Heart of Mary Church at Windhorst. Nina spied a keystone dated May 4, 1912 and marveled at how the magnificent stone and brick building had survived not only time, but Armageddon, The Empire, and now Voggoth’s great march east seemingly without a scratch.

A little before midnight the K9s raised the alarm as a group of five human refugees sought shelter in the church, too. Nina noted that they were escaping west, not east. When the refugees told them why, Nina knew she had found their next target and hurriedly rigged a transmitter to contact air command…

Nina stood in a patch of warped, dying woods and watched the target through binoculars. It sat in the center of what had once been nine holes of fairways and sand traps. But now the greens of the Kinsley Country Club were cracked and brown not merely from negligence, but from the infection of Voggoth’s machines.

Most of the sky above remained blue, but overhead of the large structure at the middle of the club’s grounds a thunderhead of black churned to life.

The Order’s building stood 30 feet high and covered an area of 50 square yards. To Nina’s eye, it resembled a bronze and black snow globe held in a greenish base lined with bony ribs and covered in strands of yellow like a fishnet.

Cords slithered away from the centerpiece in a circular pattern resembling roots from a diseased tree. Rows of white fungi-like growths bubbled out from those roots, pulsating as if the sacs breathed, although Nina knew that to be a hideous irony.

She counted hundreds of Voggoth’s offspring squirming and growing across this farm. The entire field smelled of decay. Flies swarmed like deranged bees trying to pollinate the dead.

As she viewed those incubators she saw not only artificial flesh and gore but materials resembling iron and steel: a stark reminder that the biology of The Order’s machines defied any attempt to classify it as natural or alive.

Using her field glasses, Nina surveyed a pair of domes planted in the ground just outside the ring of growths. She knew these to be guardians that would rise up to face any ground threat. Further off, a tree-like dispenser unit sat ready to launch Spider Sentries at the first alarm.

None of those defenses mattered to Captain Forest because she saw the opportunity to truly hurt The Order. In a few days this farm would hatch Ogres and maybe artillery platform components, and perhaps worse.

Nina dropped her binoculars, glanced down to her left at Vince Caesar and pointed forward. Vince knelt behind a small camera-like device mounted on short tripod legs. He put his eye to the lens and followed his Captain’s direction. Coded pulses of laser light shot out from the targeting device and bounced off the big ball at the center of the farm.

Nina spoke into a transmitter, “Angel Eyes, this is Wolf. We have painted the target…”

Five miles back and high in the sky an F-15 barrel-rolled as it descended through a layer of misty-white clouds. The bombs beneath its wings glinted in the sun for a moment before the craft leveled and steadied course.

The female pilot waited for a target lock indication from the onboard LANTIRN system. When she heard that tone, she released a set of PAVEWAY II precision-guided bombs from weapons pods beneath the wings. The smart bombs glided away with their guidance systems locked on to the laser signal…

Nina dropped to the ground for cover as she saw the bombs fall at their target, which they hit perfectly. The center of The Order’s farm disintegrated in an explosion that began in golden flames and morphed into a cloud of brown and black. The thunderclap of the strike reverberated across the country club grounds and to the surrounding Kansas plains. The impact tremor caused a gray, dead tree not far from Nina’s position to crash over.

As the remaining pieces of the main structure collapsed into a pile, the buds on the tendrils bulged and rocked as if something trapped within tried to escape the embryos. Muffled cries—some animal-like, others closer to mechanical whirs—called from the field of dead.

Nina brought the binoculars to her eyes and delighted in the death throes of Voggoth’s children.

A shower of soil and biomass fell over the wasteland as the explosion faded. As Nina watched, she spied something amazing. There—surrounded by the brown earth and sickly tendrils of the dying farm—a bachelor’s button with its blue, starburst-like flower stubbornly refusing to yield its piece of land despite the encroachment of The Order’s sinister vines to either side.

A kernel of life surviving in the midst of death incarnate.

The roar of the F-15 swooping low to survey its handiwork drew Nina’s eyes to the sky. The plane’s wings rocked quick in a secret salute to its spotters and then banked hard and climbed. Nina saw missiles under its wings—the cockpit—the pilot steering her aircraft…

“You guys need a little help down there?”

Nina radioed Jon Brewer who responded, “Damn straight, Ghost Rider. Tear em’ up!”

Trevor sat in the forward seat controlling the gunship’s armaments. Gunner and pilot both wore night vision goggles.

Nina swerved the ship around searching for targets.

“Hold.”

She responded to Trevor’s order and held the craft steady.

The rapid-fire cannon whirled and bullets flew. Two enemy soldiers and the parked car they hid behind shredded to pieces.

“Starboard! Starboard!”

Trevor turned the gun sights to his right at Nina’s warning. A trio of Redcoats stood inside the windows of the electronics outlet, apparently thinking the darkness provided cover.

The ‘copter’s gun fired again. Glass smashed, parts of the store’s ceiling fell, and the aliens broke apart…

The F-15 fired its afterburners and sped east hurrying to return to friendly skies.

“Nina! Captain!”

“What? Huh?”

Nina shook away her trance and saw Vince packing up his targeting gear.

“I said, Voggoth’s boys are getting agitated over there. We should bug out before they figure the bomber must’ve had a spotter.”

“Yeah. Okay, um, yeah,” she regained her composure. “Move out to the south then hook east. Move it!”

Nina and her team withdrew from the Kinsley Country Club without incident, moving a mile south before following Country Road 30 east for about five miles. There they stumbled upon a dented but still working Dodge Ram with a cab on the back. Two badly-picked at corpses lay on the road alongside the truck, including one with a hunting rifle in his or her hand.

The canines and gear rode in the back, the Dark Wolves crammed into the crew cab up front, and they traveled north all afternoon with the occasional stop to take cover.

Early that evening one of the blob-like Chariots spotted the Dodge and opened fire with The Order’s equivalent of a machine gun. The team attempted to evade the airship on the streets of the tiny hamlet of Lewis, Kansas. The Chariot gave up the chase when Vince Caesar—behind the wheel—worked his way among the silos and cargo trailers of a cattle feed storage and distribution center.

After abandoning their car for lack of fuel the Dark Wolves proceeded north on foot. That night the team camped at the edge of Coon Creek outside of Garfield. Vince built a small fire and they boiled jerky in tin cups to try and moisten the meat. It did not work. They ate it anyway.

As dinner finished Nina sat against a tree and stared out at the field and the sparkling heavens above. She had never taken much interest in astronomy but could knew how to find the big dipper, the North Star, and a few others not because she held an interest in the universe, but because such points could serve as navigation aids.

On that night, however, she tried to see something more up there. She scanned the lights scattered on that black tapestry. She tried to comprehend that many of the armies who invaded her planet eleven years ago came from some of those stars. She wondered why the idea of alien invaders had not knocked her off balance during those first days when even the most veteran soldiers struggled with the idea of fighting monsters and extraterrestrials.

A cool breeze billowed across the field causing the rows of knee-high grass to bend and sway. Behind her the men sat around a dim fire and talked about the mission, what might be happening on the front lines, and sentiments for back home.

She heard Bly make a joke about how he should have been an accountant instead of a soldier. Caesar replied that he could not imagine being anything else. Maddock said he had a dream one night about being born a circus clown to which Bly offered a series of remarks that led to good-natured insults and a laughter.

Nina wondered about her dreams. She rarely had them. Or, at least, rarely remembered them. Often times she woke with emotions fresh in her mind but no idea about the substance of her sleeping fantasies.

She closed her eyes. The breeze draped over her. Her mind drifted…

“And where would we have lived?” Trevor asked.

“Hmmm,” she smiled. “Well, Philly of course.”

“Because that’s where you worked?”

“Well, I mean, I was a cop, you were—“

“A car salesman. I know, I know.”

“Philly is a great place. Lots of things to do. We could go to the zoo. Catch a Phillies game. Stroll through the museum.”

“Now that’s a funny image,” he laughed. “You and I, strolling through the zoo. After all we’ve seen I think a couple of giraffes would be kind of anti-climactic.”

“This is a different world,” Nina whispered. “A world where I’m not a soldier, and you’re not a leader. It’s a dream world. We’re we could just be together. No responsibilities.”

He put his hand on her cheek.

“That’s a lovely world. A wonderful dream.”

She wrung her hands.

“And after tomorrow, you get to dream it. I won’t remember enough to want to dream.”

“Memories make us who we are. Take them away, and you change the person…”

Nina’s eyes snapped open. A feeling of warmth mixed in her heart with frustration; frustration that something important was stripped from her.

Her words—spoken seemingly by another woman—replayed, “This is a different world. A world where I’m not a soldier, and you’re not a leader. It’s a dream world. We’re we could just be together.”

Nina checked herself and considered. Could it be true? As far back as she could remember she had only wished to be a fighter. It encompassed all she was. Her reflexes, her eye for battle, her instincts—all smaller parts of the greater sum of a soldier. And she had never considered any other possibility. Sure, she had faked her way through school and kept her true self hidden, but never had she denied the fabric of her person.

Now she wondered—is there more?

Nina shook her head.

Now is not the time to think of these things.

For a soldier, confusion could prove deadly and she found more confusion in her heart than ever before.

She pushed hard. She pushed hard to kick any doubts—no, not doubts. Hope. Hope for being more. For having more in her life the way Denise had given her more. Having a daughter had not made her any less of a soldier. In fact, she accomplished more in the years with Denise than in all the time before. Denise gave her a reason to fight other than instinct. A real purpose.

“Hey, Captain,” Carl Bly’s voice pulled Nina from her thoughts. She appreciated the interruption.

“Yes, Carl,” she answered sarcastically, “You made a hell of a shot with that Javelin the other day. Now shut up about it.”

Oliver Maddock found that very funny.

Nina knew Carl had not been bragging again, but it felt like the right moment for a joke. She had one or two such moments a month.

She stood, walked to the dying fire, and sat next to them.

“Shit, Cap, I was just wondering where we’re headed.”

They knew she had received a list of possible targets during a radio transmission earlier. Their choice of missions remained entirely at her discretion with the occasional intel reports from command serving only as suggestions.

“We’re heading further north. Seems Voggoth has got an implant camp out at Fort Larned. I want to hit them.”

“Whew,” Carl reacted. “Implants? Won’t that have some heavy stuff guarding it?”

“No,” Nina shook her head. “Nothing to it. They grab a bunch of unarmed folks and march them up there to get a slug slipped in. Probably light infantry. Easy target if we do it right and along the way, well, I’m just saying we can save a lot of people who would otherwise be monks.”

“Love it,” Caesar grinned.

They grew silent as the soldiers contemplated the next mission.

A thought popped in to Nina’s mind. A question, actually. She could not be sure from where it came, but it slipped out of her lips and around the fire before she could stop.

“What do you guys miss from before all this?”

They stared, confused at the question.

Vince asked, “What, well, what do you mean?”

“You know,” Nina felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment but she suspected the dim light hid her blushing, “what do you miss from before the invasion and stuff. You know—all this.”

The other Dark Wolves knew the expression ‘all this’, but never once had their Captain shown any interest in life before Armageddon.

The way the men gaped at her—well it made Nina wish for a Stumphide to come charging from the forest and cause a firefight to break out.

“That was a long time ago,” Bly said. “Not sure I can even remember what that was like.”

“The mountains back home,” Oliver Maddock answered in a different tone; softer. In the orange flicker of the fire, Nina saw his eyes glaze over. “We rock-climbed Snowdown—that’s the biggest bloody mountain in all of Wales—a couple o’ times before I joined up.”

“Who was ‘we’?” Nina asked.

Maddock shrugged. “Just a girl—well, she was a little younger than me but we grew up together outside of Cardiff. Gentle creature; foxy one she was; far too good for the likes of me.”

Bly joked, “Now how come you never went talking about no girl before. Afraid I’d swim over there and steal her away?”

Maddock smiled through a fog of lost memories as he answered, “Never anythin’ serious, you hear? I ‘spose I always hoped it would be. She had this way ‘bout her. She could look at you and it was like she was lookin’ right through ya’. You know what I’m sayin’? Last time I saw Cai we spent the day down along Three Cliffs Bay before I shipped ‘cross the pound to hang out with you trogs.”

“Best move you ever made, limy,” Carl Bly slapped Oliver on the back.

“Yeah, well, the shit hit the fan and that’s ‘bout the end of that story, mun.”

“What about you, Captain?” Vince asked and he studied Nina close, as if hoping to peel away another layer of his mysterious leader. “What do you miss?”

Nina shook her head. For a split second the answer ‘pineapple’ came to her mind but she could not fathom why.

“I don’t know. I honestly—I honestly don’t know.”

“Captain was born for this shit,” Bly grinned. “Hell, yeah, if it weren’t for all this, she’d be bored to hell.”

A few chuckles broke out. Nina flashed a timid smile.

Fort Larned sat on flat ground five miles west of Larned, Kansas and just south of Route 156. An access road cut from 156 through a tree line then across fifty yards of grassland to the fort’s buildings which were arranged in a square shape around a large courtyard. Light woodlands brushed against the eastern and western perimeter while the south offered wide open plains and a clear field of vision for the defenders.

Nina, Vince Caesar, and the three elkhounds hid in cover to the west; Bly and Maddock to the east.

Nina spied one Spider Sentry walking on its spindly legs across the courtyard and one of the muscle-bound gray-skinned Ogres. Unlike the one guarding the convoy, this Ogre carried a giant iron mace with a spiked cube at the end.

Most of the facility’s garrison consisted of monks dressed in various shades of cloth stitched to resemble robes. Nina expected they wore lethal pellet-guns on their forearms but she saw each wielding The Order’s weapon of choice: swords, although their blades lacked any sense of style or even a true hilt; merely thin, sharp poles.

In any case, she stopped counting monks at 20 because a more important count grabbed her attention: people.

They came in a variety of shapes and sizes. Through her binoculars she saw several elderly men wearing clothes that gave them away as farmers, a teenage boy in ripped jeans, a soldier in green BDUs with his arm in a sling, a young couple with a daughter no more than eight clinging to her parents. The monks herded the group out from the barracks toward a bent flag pole at the center of the courtyard.

Nina watched one of the assimilated monks shove a middle-aged woman. She spotted a couple of young black boys try and slip around a corner only to be turned back by the Ogre.

She counted 20 human beings congregating in the middle of the place. Nina heard sobs, pleas for mercy, and moans of agony.

Her binoculars fixed on one of the two larger buildings on the north side; the Company Officers Quarters. The stately white rails along the front porch were now covered in wiry vines that grew like a cancer upon the vintage 1800s structure. The openings where doors and windows had once been now appeared more like cave entrances laced in a thick buildup of slimy green mold.

Implant incubator, she thought. And she knew the people in the courtyard would be sent inside that chamber of horrors in small groups.

The Order did not need such assembly lines; implants could worm their way into the hide of victims easily enough, but these assembly lines both improved the odds of successful implantation and allowed for faster processing of prisoners.

However, Nina found it odd that she saw only 20 people preparing for implantation. That seemed a small catch for an implant center. It struck her that Voggoth appeared most focused on destruction as part of his push east, not assimilation. This contradicted their contact with The Order during those first years. In those days The Order would kill, yes, but they preferred to capture and control, as if implanting and mutating humanity better served Voggoth.

“Do not fear, my children!”

The voice came from a woman wearing a dark robe and gliding among the hostages. “Be comforted, friends, for you will soon be one with the living God.”

Cries of ‘no’ and ‘please’ and ‘I’ll do whatever you want. just let me go!’ rang out.

Nina used binoculars to eye the speaker: a middle aged woman with a drawn face and thin long fingers. She spoke in a booming voice that made Nina think of radio preachers from the pre-war days dictating the gospel across late night air waves.

“Do not fear! Soon you will know the touch of Voggoth!”

Nina heard more voices, just below that of the missionary woman. She could not quite understand those voices—she concentrated and closed her eyes—a memory from long ago came to the front of her mind; something from a long time ago…

“I can’t hold it steady! We’re leaking hydraulic fluid!”

“Goddamn it, I knew you’d get me killed you dumb bitch!”

“Merede! Scott! Shut your ass or I swear on Mary’s name I’ll choke the hell out of you with my bare hands!”

“Scott, Sal, quiet! Nina, we gotta find somewhere to set her down. I’m thinkin’ just about anythin’ flat will do. Wait—look, to the right here—there’s a pad on that hospital roof.”

“Shep, I don’t think we can—“

“Just try, Nina. I reckon’ that and prayin’ is about all we have left.”

Helicopter blades—a gunning engine—shouts and grunts…

“You missed! Goddamn—“

“I can’t control it—power is almost—almost gone.”

“Nina! The parking garage. Aim for it!”

A horrid metallic screech. Glass splintering. A cry of pain. A scraping sound…

She tried to refocus on the woman preaching the virtues of Voggoth to a terrified crowd of human prisoners. Instead, she felt pressure on her throat—on her wrists—and heard voices in the dark…

“She is quite strong. She will do nicely.”

“But your Excellency, she is very dangerous. She destroyed many of Voggoth’s children before we could capture her. The male would be easier to—“

“No. He is too weak and shallow-minded. This operation requires much more complex thinking capability in order for the new implant to remain hidden. As for her strength, this is an asset. They will accept her without question.”

“You desire the new procedure? The prototype? Is it not too soon?”

“Yes, the new prototype. It has passed the test on parallel battlefields with other races; it will work here, too. Humans are, in the important ways, identical to the other inferior species. Now do as I command. Then make preparations to return her to the city, somewhere near the crash site.”

“And the male—I shall prepare him for the standard drone implant.”

“No! If they count him among our number in the future, then they will suspect her. As much as it pains me to deny Voggoth another child, terminate him.”

“It will take time, Excellency, to prepare phase two of the process. The memory reconstruction alone will take several hours and—wait, your Excellency, she is conscious.”

“It matters not. She will not remember. Or rather, she will remember only that which we give to her. Proceed. Hello, my child, do not fear for you will serve Voggoth in a most special way…”

Nina’s attention returned to the historic fort, the humans inside, and most especially the missionary who preached the blasphemous word of Voggoth.

She spoke to the trio of K9s, “Odin, Mallow, Campion—decoy!” And she pointed to the north.

As Grenadiers are apt to do, they followed her orders as if they could do more than listen; as if they could read her mind. The black and gray dogs bound away from the cover of the tree line and into daylight. They curved north as they ran, barking when they reached the perimeter of the fort.

The Spider Sentry opened fire; six of the monks—with their pseudo-swords drawn—pursued as the dogs bolted north behind the historical buildings on the western perimeter, just skirting the forest as they ran.

A few hundred yards to the east, Bly and Maddock left their hiding place in the woods. Bly toted an M249 machine gun and dropped on his belly at the northeast corner of the Fort, just to the east of the implant building and opposite the side where the dogs had drawn attention.

At the same time, Maddock moved to the southeast corner with his PSG1 sniper rifle.

The dogs continued to run and the Spider Sentry and monks gave chase in an almost comical fashion. Instead of cutting them off they followed the K9s movements precisely, as if stuck on a path.

Nina Forest and Vince Caesar left cover and advanced from the west coming up behind the pursuing Spider Sentries and monks. Both fired grenades from the M203 launchers under their M4 barrels.

Nina’s grenade landed amidst the monks. A thud of an explosion launched black smoke, discarded swords, and chunks of mutated human bodies against the outer walls of the historic buildings.

Caesar’s grenade hit the spider sentry with brilliant accuracy, severing its rear-most legs and causing the ‘head’ to fall and roll while firing pellets at an insane pace directly into the sky.

The three remaining monks among the pursuit group turned to face the new threat. But so did the K9s, who reversed course and set upon the robed villains from behind. Despite their forearm-mounted firearms, the monks were torn to pieces in a few moments.

As Nina and Vince rounded the corner of one of the stone buildings, the monks in the courtyard opened fire forcing the commandos behind the wall for cover. The corralled humans fled to the south, some entering the barracks others making for the open field.

“Blasphemers! Feel the wrath of the living god!”

Voggoth’s priestess produced two fleshy balls slightly larger than softballs. She threw the objects and they rolled across the dusty courtyard. As they did, the balls expanded in mass, not unlike a cartoon snowball growing larger as it cascades down a slope.

The objects grew to the size of very large beach balls and stopped rolling. Thin appendages pushed through the surface of the balls into the air, bent at some sort of joint, and reached to the ground lifting the round center into the air. Two more Spider Sentries joined the fight.

Instantly, the first one disintegrated as Carl Bly raked the courtyard with light machine gun fire from the northeast. Puss oozed from the ‘face’ of the Sentry and it dropped into a lifeless mess.

The remaining monks—more than a dozen—alternated their attention from corner to corner of the fort. They fired at every human they could see, soldier or civilian; striking down several of the fleeing captives in the process. Meanwhile, the Ogre roared and charged at Carl Bly’s position.

Maddock opened fire with his sniper rifle. In an instant he emptied an entire clip of five bullets, killing three monks in the process.

Nina and Vince poked around the corner of the building and joined the firefight with bullets and anti-personnel grenades. More of the monks died.

The remaining Spider Sentry advanced on Nina’s position. The nose cone on its ‘face’ darted out like a skewer on a hose and slammed into the stone wall of a building, cutting loose a large chunk of rock.

“We need to fall back,” Vince said.

Nina answered with action, not words.

She jumped out from around the building, rolled to a kneel, and launched her M203 directly at the Spider Sentry. The grenade flew wide, arced into the courtyard, and exploded harmlessly a few yards in front of the implant factory.

The monster launched its skewer and fired pellets at the same time. The sharp cone pierced the ground next her feet. The tiny bullets peppered the ground all around her.

Vince followed Nina’s lead. His grenade—as it had with the first Spider—hit true. The ball at the center of the legs broke apart into goo.

On the northeast side, the gray-skinned Ogre charged at Carl Bly’s machine gun. The soldier gave his attention to this threat, hitting the muscle-bound fiend square on in the chest with a series of 5.56 rounds in rapid succession. While the bullets bounced off the creature’s chest, the impacts caused pain and slowed its approach.

Click.

The M249 ran dry. The barrel sizzled with heat.

The wounded Ogre raised its heavy black mace above its head…

Bly pulled his Desert Eagle side arm and fired four shots into the Ogre’s knees. The flesh there exploded. The creature—dazed, exhausted and surprised—dropped its mace and fell to one knee directly in front of the machine gun. It sort of hovered there, not quite ready to die but lacking focus.

Bly calmly pulled a new ammunition box from his kit and slipped it into place on the 249. The whole time the half-dead Ogre swayed side to side with its eyes glazed. Bly smiled at the disabled monster and winked just as he slipped the ammo box into place.

Then he unleashed a firestorm of bullets at nearly point-blank range into the Ogre’s face. It tore the beast apart. Bly then returned his attention to the battle on the courtyard where the last remaining monk fell to Vince Caesar’s assault rifle.

“Carl,” Nina commanded as Bly stepped into the courtyard, “Burn that hole down,” and she pointed to the implant center. “Vince, Oliver, get those civvies back here. We don’t want them running away blind and ending up Jaw-Wolf feed after all we went through to save them.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You will kneel before the great Voggoth.”

The priestess—wounded from a sniper round—hobbled in retreat from Nina.

Nina switched out the clip on her M4.

“Feel his wrath!”

Squirming tentacles burst from the once-human woman’s neck; grayish appendages on which rode an acid-smell.

Nina filled the priestess with bullets in a series of three-round bursts…

Smoke rose from the burning implant center and drifted into the afternoon sky. It filled the area around Fort Larned with a foul, bitter stench.

The Dark Wolves moved the survivors a hundred yards east of the Fort where they waited in a clearing surrounded by trees.

The plume of smoke rising from The Order’s torched facility not only gave Nina a sense of satisfaction, it also served a more useful purpose: a beacon.

Nina heard high-pitched jet engines and glanced up. A C-141 Starlifter passed over their position. From the big plane dropped a pallet of supplies. A heavy parachute opened and while the cargo plane turned away and headed for home, the supplies drifted in the afternoon sunshine until coming to rest with uncanny accuracy among the group of survivors and soldiers.

Nina stood at the perimeter of the group watching The Order’s facility burn. Filthy embers from the inferno drifted to adjacent buildings and the flames spread. She hated to see such a historical place—a place where soldiers like her had offered travelers on the Santa Fe trail protection and shelter—burn, but that place had been infected by Voggoth. It needed to be purged.

She turned and watched as the other members of her team encouraged the raggedy band of survivors to pull aid kits and food stuffs from the supply crate. At the same time, the soldiers found and removed ammunition and rations from the cache.

With her gun hanging loosely in her tired arms, Nina stepped closer to the group. She saw two people sitting together apart from the rest and showing no interest in the supplies. Nina recognized them. They were the young couple with the little girl.

Nina shot her eyes around the clearing from person to person in a frantic search for the daughter, but she was nowhere to be found.

She stared at the young couple who sat beneath the shade of a hickory tree. The woman had long but very dirty hair and blood splashed on her arms. The man appeared even worse; wounds from monk pellets peppered his shoulders and arms. None appeared lethal, but all appeared painful.

Yet it seemed he did not even notice the injuries. His mouth worked open but no sound came, his eyes cringed and his fingers flexed into fists, open again, then closed one after another. She saw tears streaming down his cheek.

In his grief, the man fell into the woman’s lap. To Nina, the woman appeared shell-shocked and sad but strong. She kept her own heartache at bay and held the man in her lap, stroking his hair gently and whispering something—some attempt at comfort—into his ear.

The sight amazed Nina. Such strength, but such compassion. She wondered—she wondered if she…

“I am tired of this game! I don’t want to be the leader anymore. I don’t want to have peoples’ lives depending on what I say. I don’t want to fight anymore. I want to go hide and cry myself to sleep. I don’t want to be strong and sure and none of that shit ANYMORE!”

Nina said nothing. What could she say?

“There’s your great leader, Nina. I’m not the man you think I am. I’m Richard Stone. I sell Chevrolets. I live at home with my parents. I don’t know who this Trevor guy is. I don’t think I like him very much.”

Nina forced an arm around him. He tried to pull free, but she would not let go. She tugged him close. He started to push free again but instead began to sob.

“Let it out—you can—you can let it all out with me. You can try and chase me away, but I’m not going away.”

He buried his face in her lap.

Nina stroked his head and told her lover, “I know Trevor Stone. He’s got a tough job, but he does the best he can; better than anyone else could do. I know it used to be a lonely job but that’s not true anymore. Trevor Stone is never alone as long as I’m here. As for this Richard Stone guy, I’ve seen him from time to time. And you know what? I love him, too. So I don’t care who is here next to me, Trevor or Richard. You don’t have to hide from me. But when you need me to, I’ll hide with you—in the dark.”

Without thought, without planning, Nina found that, yes, she could give comfort to another human being. She could do more than kill; she could deliver mercy, too…

Nina felt the world spin. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to find mental balance. Instead, she heard voices from a past she should not remember; she felt the satisfaction in holding Trevor in her lap and shepherding him through a night of misery. She felt the chill of a December evening as she stood on a balcony in that black dress and he gave her their new world; the world they were trying to remake.

Why now? Why am I remembering all this now?

The bridge to Trevor’s mind through that old man—had that given her Trevor’s memories of them being together or had that power somehow unlocked hidden secrets that survived the removal of the implant? Or was it more? That old man—he was no old man; he was something of much higher power. Being so close to something so powerful—could that be the reason?

“Enough.”

She spoke aloud to herself.

They took control from me when they stole my memories. And now they are returning but I refuse to let them control me. I will not be distracted. I have a mission.

She opened her eyes again and surveyed the ragtag group of survivors rummaging through the supply crate. Vince Caesar approached her with a sealed envelope that had been mixed in with the supplies.

“I think your buddy Gordon Knox sent us something,” Caesar said.

She opened the envelope and found a map and aerial photos.

One of the survivors from the fort approached. It was the man in BDUs with his arm in a sling. The rank on his shoulder said ‘corporal’.

“Excuse me, Captain; can I join up with you? I still have some fight left in me.”

He held his arm in a sling yet Nina wondered if he might not be a better choice than her; at least his mind remained focused on fighting.

No, I will not let these memories rule me. They were taken from me by force, now I will control their return. I am in control!

Vince jumped, “What about the rest of the them, Cap? We’ve got quite a haul here. We can’t take them with us but if we just let em’ hike away they’re going to come to a bad way.”

Nina ran a hand across her forehead both to wipe off sweat and to express frustration.

“Look, corporal, I need you to do something.”

“Anything you want, Captain.”

“Lead these people out of here. Take them to…” she glanced at the map sent to her by Intel and searched for a place where she might be able to send any survivors they might come across. “Take them to here—Clinton, Missouri.”

“What’s there?” The corporal asked.

“I don’t know. But it’s close enough to the front lines that maybe command can send in some choppers or something. Just stay as far away from KC as you can.”

“Nina,” Vince said, “the front lines, I think, are moving east every day.”

“Well it’s something, Vince.”

The corporal pointed out, “Captain, I’ve got a bum arm and there’s nothing but civvies here.”

“Listen, corporal, just about everyone was a civvie before all this. They’ll make do,” Nina considered, nodded to herself, and then called, “Odin, Campion, Mallow!”

The three dogs hurried to her position.

Nina placed a hand on the corporal’s shoulder, looked at the K9s, and instructed, “Protect. Follow.”

“Captain?”

“They’ll listen to you, just keep it simple. They won’t let anything sneak up on you.”

Nina knelt to the ground in front of Odin: the one consistent friend she’s had through all this. She patted him on the head and he licked her nose in affectionate response. It occurred to her that the elkhound probably had a better chance at survival than her.

Then she stood. The three K9s shuffled over to the corporal’s side.

Caesar asked, “What about us, Cap? They give us something fun to do?”

Nina glanced at the proposed target on the map and smiled.

It might be our last mission—but it’s going to be good.

15. Hammer and Anvil

“J’ai pris les armes pour la liberté de tous.”

–Inscription on a statue of Vercingetorix in Clermont-Ferrand, France

Trevor bit into the final chunk of bread and savored the taste. The bread ranked as the best part of the meal, although the stew certainly stuck to his ribs despite only a few morsels of meat—probably pork—in a bowl of broth and old vegetables.

To his surprise, Jorgie did not complain or wrinkle his nose. Something in the broth (which hinted of red wine) captured the boy’s taste.

Hauser ate, too, but his not-so-well-hidden expressions of disdain indicated he certainly would have preferred more traditional cuisine. Back home old-world fair such as burgers, chicken breast, and cheese made a strong return after the liberation of the Midwest.

After two days in Europe, Trevor came to know that the majority of their diet consisted of seafood for those villages near the ocean or lakes and produce for the rest, such as vegetables and baked goods made from wheat and flour. Meat from cattle in the Murol area remained a rare luxury because there existed little excess crops for the creation of livestock feed and the trade routes to other fiefdoms had been greatly diminished after Voggoth’s European offensive last summer.

Wine, however, could be found. Apparently there were some sacrifices up with which the French would not put.

The trio of visitors sat at a wooden table in a café at the village center. Plastic plants decorated tadelakt walls on the inside while natural ivory grew on black metal latticework erected between the dining area and the side walk. The tables remained beneath shade but out beyond the reach of the protective awning a sunny day bloomed. Horses, bicycles, and pedestrians traveled the tiny street outside.

The tables inside were mainly full. Customers wore garb ranging from a variety of military clothes to borderline rags. A handful of waiters tried to keep pace with demand, but food came slow and what came did not usually match the quality of Trevor’s stew and bread. Nonetheless, the café maintained an aura of propriety. Conversations remained hushed; proper table manners observed; servers treated customers with politeness and received the same.

Armand sat with them. His bowl and bread held his full attention.

Jorgie drank a metal goblet of milk; another rarity but the woman running the café insisted growing boys needed calcium. As JB finished—careful to drain every drop from the cup—he asked Armand a question. In French.

“Pardon me, Mister Armand, but I have a question I would like to ask.”

Armand spoke something that sounded like ‘yes?’ through a chewing mouth.

“I appreciate your looking after us,” Trevor listened to Jorgie’s words; all very polite and chosen to emphasize respect. “But do you not speak for the people of France in Camelot?”

Armand licked his lips and answered Jorgie in the warmest tone Trevor had heard from the man since landing.

“Lady Theresa speaks for what remains of my country. I am a warrior, not a politician.”

Hauser continued eating without interruption. He had grown accustomed to not understanding a damn thing anybody said.

“Have you seen many battles?”

Trevor spotted a glint behind Armand’s glasses; a sparkle.

“Young Jorgie, I have seen a hundred battles and slaughtered a thousand enemies.”

This time JB’s eyes sparkled.

“I would love to hear the stories some time. Will you tell them to me? My father has told me many stories of the war.”

“Maybe little boys should not hear such things.”

Trevor broke in, “Were you a soldier before the invasion?”

“I was fifteen then,” Armand answered. “Snowboarding in the mountains—water skiing—motocross—those were the things I did. Other than the television I do not think I saw a gun until the ducks and the other things came here.”

Jorgie said, “Mr. Armand, but you seem very comfortable with all of it. I mean that as a compliment.”

“I am comfortable with it. The first time I fired a gun I shot one of the big bats right in the head while it was flying.”

Trevor asked, “Do you think it was a lucky shot?”

Armand hesitated. His eyes glanced down and he bit his lower lip as if the answer might be embarrassing.

“No. No it was not luck. As your boy said, I felt very comfortable with it.”

Trevor smiled. A little.

Armand sneered, “What are you laughing at?”

“I’m not laughing. It’s just that, well, I think I know someone just like you back home. And for some reason, that gives me great comfort.”

“Hello! Armand! You’re wanted!”

The voice came from a young man wearing a BMW shirt and leather pants similar to Armand’s. He stood at the open driver’s door of a small sedan idling at the curb.

“That’s it,” Armand pushed away from the table. “You had better come with me now. I am guessing that Camelot has reached a decision on your request.”

Trevor stood as well, then JB. Hauser—not understanding the words—lagged behind as he struggled with the last drops of stew.

“And what do you want them to decide?” Trevor asked.

“I want them to do what I have always wanted them to do. I want to fight.”

For the third straight day Trevor returned to the Château de Murol. This time, however, he would learn if the previous two days’ worth of persuasion would pay dividends. The Europeans—the collection of enclaves calling themselves Camelot—would have acted more readily last year, before The Order and The Duass hit them with a pre-emptive strike. Everything rested on whether or not he, and JB to some extent, adequately conveyed the notion that they either fought now or would find themselves voted into oblivion by the Gods. The same fate as the Feranites.

While Hauser stayed behind in the guard shack, Trevor and JB climbed the stone steps with Armand, up and into the courtyard where they nearly collided with the mass of men and women exiting the door to the meeting chamber. Lady Cai was there, too.

Armand hurried to her. The two conversed in French. Trevor caught a few words that sounded like ‘convinced’, ‘instinct,’ and ‘good luck.’ Then Cai pressed her hands against Armand’s chest and gave him a kiss. Armand grasped her hips and pulled her close as if wanting to be enveloped by her essence.

Jorgie watched, fascinated by the display of such intense affection.

Of course, it would amaze him, Trevor considered. He never saw that type of affection between me and his mother.

When their embrace ended, Armand led Trevor and JB into the meeting room. Cai made eye contact with Jorgie before they moved out of sight and smiled sweetly at the boy.

Inside they found the meeting room deserted save for Alexander who worked his way around the empty table gathering papers that, no doubt, had served as part of his presentation to Camelot.

Armand remained near the entranceway. Trevor and Jorgie walked to the table and approached Alexander.

“I was married three times,” Alexander volunteered as he collected the discarded papers. Trevor sensed tension lingering in the room.

“Three times? I expect they were all lucky women.”

“Yes, yes they were. After each divorce, that is. My second wife nagged me nearly to death. Do you know what she nagged me most about? She told me that I thought about things too much. She said I needed to be more spontaneous and not so, oh, what would be the word? Pragmatic, maybe. Something like that. She threw around a lot of words that she did not fully understand.”

Trevor, still with a light tone in his voice, asked, “So why would such a smart man marry a woman like that?”

Alexander paused with the stack of papers cradled in one arm and said, “Why she was beautiful, of course.”

“Of course,” Trevor nodded.

“Anyway,” Alexander returned to gathering papers. “The point is that sometimes I wonder if she was not right. Maybe I am thinking about this too much. Ask Armand over there. He will tell you that sometimes you have to trust your gut. Maybe I should listen to him more.”

“You think breaking out now is a bad idea?” Trevor guessed.

“No. Well, yes. But I am in favor of it. I think I am wondering too much about what you have told us. Other worlds—the different races—parallel Earths—evolved super-beings and all of that. It can really set a mind to thinking. That is, if you can sort out the confusion.”

“I understand. Believe me.”

“I suppose you do,” Alexander finished gathering the papers and carefully slipped them into a small briefcase. “Point is, the group has voted to do as you request. I believe some chose so because they feel a sense of obligation for the material aid you sent to us over the years. Others are simply tired of hiding in these little villages. Many just want to fight because they would rather die on their feet. But they all know the stakes. First we have to get past the checkpoints the Duass have established to pen us in and break apart our lines of communication. Then an entire army from The Order waits.”

“I understand.”

“Trevor, the group trusted me to serve as the spokesperson and as a leader, of sorts. Over the years I have sacrificed many people so that others could live. I have made many hard decisions that will haunt me until I die. I sit in the responsibility seat. I did not ask for it, but as my third wife once told me, you get what you deserve. I believed her because I soon came to realize that she was punishment for something I must have done in a previous life. On the other hand, I do not know if my position here is a blessing or a curse. I suspect the latter.”

“Alexander, I—“

The Englishman held a hand up and Trevor stopped speaking.

“I want you to tell me, again, face-to-face that you are confident this will work. Convince me, one more time.”

Alexander waited. Trevor returned his gaze and told the truth.

“I don’t know that this will work, Alexander. I only know that if we do nothing then all of your people, and mine, will die. Or worse. We’re running out of time and any hope of victory has now shifted from my Empire to your Camelot.”

Silence. Alexander remained fixed on Trevor’s eyes, until JB tugged at his sleeve.

“My father is telling the truth, Mr. Alexander.”

Alexander closed his eyes, considered, and then opened them again. He first nodded to Trevor, then walked toward Armand.

“Prepare the cavalry.”

Trevor thought of Stonewall McAllister and his gallant horsemen galloping through a cloud of smoke to rescue him, Nina, and Danny Washburn when the Duass had trapped them in a bank building a few miles from the estate during that first year.

Trevor mumbled, “We have cavalry where I come from, too.”

Alexander glanced at Trevor then to Armand. The two Europeans shared a silent communication. Nearly a laugh.

Armand faced Trevor.

“Not like this you don’t.”

Armand’s war horses roared to life filling the garage with a chorus of mechanical screams and the smell of sizzling oil and smoky exhaust. Among the drab gray walls and naked fluorescent lights of the gritty pen, skins of red, black, yellow, and blue glistened.

The steeds wore badges: Kawasaki, BMW, Yamaha, and Triumph.

Riders wore racing gear complete with body armor branded Fox, Thor, Fly and more. They hurried in the call to arms with stops first at the armory at the rear of the chamber and then to their bikes. They grabbed machine pistols of varying types including Micro Uzis, Tuma MTEs, and Czech-built Scorpions. Everyone grabbed handfuls of grenades, a few satchel charges, and some larger packets that appeared to be homemade explosives. A few toted short-range mortar tubes with ammo crates strapped to the rear or sides of their bikes.

Most road singles; a few doubles. Most men, several women; some of the riders young and eager slapping high-fives and punching one another’s arms; others older and cautious checking safety straps and body armor.

Fifty bikes readied for war in the garage. A dozen of them—mainly touring style motorcycles—displayed modified windshields made from some kind of heavy plastic that seemed more to Trevor like a shield. Those riders wore the thickest body armor and carried large metal cylinder-like devices that enveloped one entire hand in a type of grip.

Trevor walked into the noise of the garage following Alexander and Armand with JB who plugged his ears with his fingers.

Armand—a FAMAS rifle slung over his racing gear—spoke as he fiddled with a red helmet. Trevor noticed the helmet came equipped with a transmitter and receiver and realized he was not dealing with a bunch of Hell’s Angels wannabes but a sophisticated force. Cavalry like Stonewall’s, except on steel horses.

Armand said to Alexander, “Hammer and Anvil, yes?”

“Exactly. Anvil will be ten minutes behind you, just as we have trained.”

Armand added, “The other regiments will meet us along the way in Saint-Nectaire and Montaigut-le-Blanc. We will number two hundred by the time we get on the A75.”

One of the riders—a burly fellow with a scruffy beard—paused on his way from the armory to his bike in order to ruffle Jorgie’s hair, apparently amused in a fatherly way at the kid blocking his ears.

JB responded with a smile and dared to pull a hand from his ear long enough to give the soldier a thumbs up. The fellow returned the gesture just before fixing a black and white helmet on his head and straddling a Yamaha Raptor ATV that carried several bundles of supplies strapped to its frame.

Jorgie blocked his ears again but watched the man prepare his ATV for riding. Trevor spied a glaze of awe on his son’s face. He realized he and JB had spoken often of battles, but Jorgie had never been so close to the front lines. At least, that is, other than his mysterious work at The Order’s base last year. But an actual full-scale battle? Nothing like this.

Trevor returned his attention to the two men and shouted over the revving engines, “Sounds like you have a plan.”

Armand turned to him and explained, “We have always known how to take out the Duass roadblocks. The ducks are nothing. It is the other son of a bitches camped out in Clermont-Ferrand that are the problem.”

Alexander clarified, “That is where The Order is held up, in what used to be a major city. From it they can react to any breach of the Duass checkpoints in southern France.”

Armand pushed his helmet into Trevor’s chest just hard enough to grab his attention.

“I will get us past the ducks. Then you had better have a plan.”

“We are committed,” Alexander said loudly before Trevor could respond. “Plan or not, we have voted to fight.”

Armand smiled at them as he answered, “That is what I do best. I hate this sitting around shit. If nothing else than at least the America has given me something to do.”

One of the bike soldiers approached Armand. He was a man of a very black complexion and lanky.

“Armand, what do you want me to do?”

“Take your scouts to Clermont-Ferrand while we kill ducks. I need to know enemy strength there. Meet us at the Duass base after it is our base with whatever you can find.”

“Done.”

The man walked away. Alexander explained, “That was Gaston. One of our better scouts.”

“Gaston is what we call him,” Armand corrected. “No one knows his real name. He was Russian intelligence spying on the French navy when the invasion came. We no longer hold that against him. It is all the same anymore anyhow, right?”

“Armand, be careful,” Alexander cautioned as the entourage came to halt and Armand climbed into the saddle of a red Ducati 999 superbike.

“I can only promise that I will be lethal, not careful. It is a tradeoff, no?”

Trevor stepped forward and extended his hand.

“Good luck, soldier.”

Armand shook it while flashing a cocky smile beneath the tinted black visor of the helmet.

“Good luck or good aim, I will take either.”

He revved the bike, kicked away the stand, and the garage door opened to let in the sun of a bright day.

Armand’s motorcycle cavalry swerved around a bend on the wide pavement of Highway A75 and sped north in a mass of some 200 riders on a variety of crotch rockets, cruisers, dirt bikes, and ATVs.

Fields of tall grass, dirt, brush, and burned foliage flanked the cracked and neglected pavement. Ahead waited the Duass checkpoint. A solidified, blurry but mainly clear gel four-feet-high served the Duass as sandbags often served human infantry. The substance stretched in a long wall from a hundred yards to the west of the highway, across A75, and then another hundred yards to the east.

The strange, duck-billed aliens on three thick legs drew plasma rifles that resembled a cross between a musket and a mega-sized squirt gun. As they approached, Armand and his riders also spied jumbles of heavy weapons, some kind of scanner atop a twenty-foot metal tower, and square temporary buildings built from thin metals.

No doubt the Duass had picked that particular spot due to thick woodland that started just to the north of their wall and reached to the east and west as far as the eye could see. Most likely reinforcements, munitions, and additional threats lurked in those dark woods.

One thousand feet south of the checkpoint the Route de Saint-Sandoux crossed overtop the A75 on an overpass. Atop that overpass lurked several Duass snipers wearing something akin to an American football helmet with a dark visor, a cord from which extended to a long-barrel rifle; a targeting mechanism of advanced design. Most of the Duass soldiers also wore a type of body armor that resembled chain mail.

Armand dared to use his short range radio knowing that the Duass would not waste one of their radio-tracking rockets on smaller targets such as the bikes. They reserved those for bases and command centers.

“Heavies, take point and execute the first phase.”

The ‘heavy’ cavalry formed a tight line across the front of the swarming bikers. Their engines roared with renewed enthusiasm. The scenery to either side of the highway became a blur.

As they neared the overpass, the first rounds of sniper fire came. The reinforced glass at the front of the bikes deflected those shots, making for black scars and cracked windshields.

One shot hit the top of a rider’s helmet leaving a smoking hole in place of the upper half of his head. The body fell to the pavement and rolled under the wheels of his brethren. The rider-less bike swerved wildly off into a drainage ditch.

Further north from the main checkpoint more guns came to life, some of a rapid-fire design and a few of a heavier caliber.

Bolts of plasma fired away from the barricade, under the overpass, and into the approaching bikers. Most of the smaller shots either missed or deflected away. One of the larger blasts launched from a powerful cannon smashed into the pavement just in front of one of the heavy cavalrymen. The biker and rider went airborne flying dozens of feet front wheel over back and spinning into the overpass.

The attackers passed under the overpass below the Duass snipers and raced toward the main barricade. As they neared, Armand calmly ordered, “Prepare to split..”

Enemy fire intensified claiming more kills but the cavalry responded with more speed and more intensity.

Faster—engines roaring—sizzling blobs of energy flying overhead and around and into the lead riders—alien tongues shouted commands—throttles revved—enemy infantry at the gel-wall instinctively ducked for cover as the speeding mass bore down—and then brakes and squeals and the smell of burning rubber.

Half of the attacking cavalry turned east, the other half west both running parallel to the boundary. As they changed course several of the ‘heavy cavalry’ soldiers lobbed canisters in front of the barricade. An instant later clouds of protective smoke billowed across where A75 met the Duass wall.

The ducks responded with glowing spheres the size of Ping-Pong balls. These grenades detonated, tossing bikers from their rides and splintering motorcycles into piles of burning steel. A few of the cavalry fired pot shots from machine pistols and hand guns, but they refused to sacrifice speed for firepower. Speed was the essence. Speed meant life.

The veil of white smoke rose like a curtain at the center of the defensive line. The bikers raced in opposite directions creating a different kind of cloud: a cloud of dirt and dust and exhaust.

As the last riders turned away from the barricade, they dropped bundles of explosives that bounced into the wall of solidified jell and came to rest at the center point, hidden from enemy view by the smoke. There the devices waited…

Alexander led Trevor and JB to the shaded park off the terrace at the Hotel le Parc. There—and on the streets nearby—mustered a column of military vehicles. The knowledge imparted to Trevor from his DNA database found entries for most.

He identified a pair of French-built Panhard AML armored cars with the fading remains of “U.N.” paint, one sporting a 90 millimeter barrel the other with dual 20 millimeter weapons for use as an anti-aircraft vehicle; three MOWAG Eagle military cars—based on American Hummer chassis—with what appeared to be anti-tank weapons mounted atop; four six-wheeled Finnish Sisu-Pasi amphibious armored personnel carriers, one of which sported some kind of homemade mortars; two Spanish Pegaso BMR APCs; and a dozen SUVs, some towing small artillery pieces and all hauling soldiers.

It occurred to Trevor that the vehicles ran on wheels, not treads. Alexander had left the Leopard tanks in the motor pool, choosing speed over outright firepower.

Their host led them to one of the half-dozen Sherpas at the rear of the convoy. The one they entered lacked a roof; the others brandished heavy machine guns.

Trevor noticed that Alexander kept closing and opening his one free hand (the other carried his ever-present clipboard) in a fist, repeatedly, as if exercising his fingers. He realized that the action came from nerves when Alexander said, “This had better pay off, Trevor. Even with your shipments our fuel resources are scarce. We have carefully shepherded them, preparing for our next offensive.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed. I see that civilians around here walk, use bikes, or ride horses. Very little vehicles.”

“We do not have access to those alien matter transformation machines you possess. Most of our petroleum resources came from Italian shale oil refined through Schwedt, Germany all the way over on the Polish border. Those facilities are still operating but the Duass and The Order have slowed our supply routes to a trickle. In other words—”

“In other words the gas we burn today may not be replaced for weeks, if ever.”

Alexander sat in the passenger seat, Trevor and Jorgie took the rear. A hard-nosed British Royal Marine slid behind the wheel and started the Renault truck. Meanwhile Hauser found a seat in one of the SUVs with a group of English soldiers who spoke his language.

The thump-thump-thump of helicopter blades pulled Trevor’s eyes skyward. Sunlight filtered through the trees in flickers. Rotating blades added to the strobe effect. As the convoy left the shade of the park he saw two helicopters circling overhead. The first was the green Eurocopter 135 transport that wore the iron cross of the German Bundeswehr. Trevor noted rocket pods affixed to the landing struts and an angry-looking soldier with a big gun leaning out an open side door.

The second bird impressed even more so: a 2-seat Tigre attack chopper wearing French colors.

“Look at it, Father!” Jorgie exclaimed excitedly. Certainly plastic soldiers on the table in the basement conference room back home could not compare to this experience.

The convoy picked up speed and moved quickly through Murol. Citizens hurried to the sidewalks and stared at the soldiers riding off to battle.

A skirmish line of Duass infantry hurried toward the eastern flank through overgrown brush and light forest to meet one end of the humans’ pincer movement. The sounds of the circling motorcycles echoed through the forest and grew louder—louder…

The attackers weaved through the trees aiming for the Duass encampment built on the highway. The smell of gasoline and the wake of dirt and rock tossed by the furious wheels made them seem like demons screaming out of Hell.

Alien soldiers fired. A shot knocked a rider from her saddle, breaking her neck around a thick, old tree and causing the motorcycle to split into front and back halves.

But the cavalry did not stop.

The heavy riders at the front pulled out their metal cylinders. In a series of smaller segments, those cylinders extended into metallic jousting lances twelve feet in length and anchored to the bars on their bikes.

First one then five of the alien fighters were impaled and then trampled. But the effect of the jousts—the sight of the devilish riders in heavy armor and wielding such a primitive and brutal weapon—caused more casualties from fear. The skirmish line broke apart. The motorcycles did not bother with them; they pushed toward the heart of the checkpoint; toward command and control.

That heart sat on the pavement of A75 1500 feet behind the front line and took the form of a trio of huts seemingly built from metal and a kind of glistening cardboard. Nearby, just to the west of the highway, were wooden racks filled with rectangular crates from which came the constant buzz and hum of insects; the equivalent of a Duass farm.

Several formations of alien infantry retreated from the front lines to protect the rear flank as the two pincers of bikers met behind the HQ and circled in toward the road.

A volley of plasma torched an entire squad of cavalry, leaving smoldering wheels and bloody leather behind.

A woman on the rear of a Suzuki super bike steadied her position with one hand on the driver’s waist while firing armor-piercing bullets from a Mach 10 in the other hand. She raked the enemy with bullets, killing three Duass and wounding several more.

One of the Duass fighters launched a large blob of energy from a shoulder-held tube. It hit one of the ATV’s. The vehicle burst into flames and the rider tumbled away.

A mounted soldier in red body armor sped toward one of the buildings and, with great balance, let go of his handle bars just long enough to yank pins from two grenades. He then bowled them forward, using his momentum to cause the explosives to bounce and roll into the structure. Just as the motorcycle veered away, the grenades exploded, knocking down a wall and sending two burning Duass running from the inferno and hollering an ungodly squealing noise.

Two bikers ditched their rides at the edge of the woods and quickly unpacked short-range motors. Several of the cavalry circled their position keeping the aliens at bay.

Armand communicated, “Second Phase. Everyone remember your assignments.”

Several dozen of the cavalry stopped their motored transport and dismounted, opening fire with rifles and carbines as well as tossing grenades.

The Duass rear area devolved into total chaos. Human bullets and alien plasma fired into, from and around the woods surrounding the base. Blasts of anti-personnel grenades tore apart three-legged aliens. Scorching balls of energy burned leather-clad humans. More soldiers left the front barricade to try and suppress the cavalry that had outflanked them.

Armand turned his Ducati sharply onto A75 and sped south directly toward the largest structure at the middle of the base. A pair of heavy cavalry crossed his path, one with a Duass body stuck on his lance. Bright laser-like blasts and red blurs of tracer shots crisscrossed the road in front of him.

He remained calm. Focused. Even as some of those plasma shots aimed for him.

Faster—faster…

Armand reached low on the right side of his 999 where several canisters were attached to his bike. He pulled pins.

He gripped the throttle tighter, revved it, and then yanked his wheel in a suicide turn. Armand lifted his ass from the saddle and kicked away, falling backward at over 60 miles per hour.

The motorcycle fell on its side and slid along A75 to the sound of screeching metal while sparks flew from the body armor worn by Armand as he slid behind the bike on his back, arms held wide to slow momentum. The friction of his padded suit stopped him far sooner than the cycle .

The Ducati—sparking and roaring and tires spinning futilely as it slid along the pavement—sent several Duass diving for cover as it impacted the headquarters building. The canisters—the fuel tank—they both explode and ripped the structure to pieces, killing several of the enemy both inside and out.

Armand moved nearly as fast as the blast wave. He rose to one knee and in the blink of an eye raised his right arm to knock off his helmet and, in the same motion, pull the FAMAS assault rifle from his shoulder.

Nearby Duass soldiers turned their attention to him while the rest of the battle raged behind on the road and to the forest to either side. The first plasma shot missed high of his head. The second bounced off the road to his right.

He did not panic. He did not hurry. On the bike, speed was life. With a rifle, aim was life. And dealt death.

He raised the sites to his eye and pulled the trigger. A bullet hit just above a bill. The duck dropped.

It all came naturally to him. As naturally as snowboarding in Avoriaz; parasailing off the coast of Cannes; rock climbing in the Swiss mountains of Bernese Oberland.

Before the invasion he desired challenge, thrills, and danger but never knew why until he held a gun for the first time and faced the aliens. Then those natural reflexes honed during extreme sports and his ability to suppress fear learned when facing death as part of his leisure activities all came into focus. All came together.

Another plasma shot, so close to his neck he felt hair there singe.

Armand swiveled left and fired. A bullet pierced body armor and another alien fell.

Armand turned right. He pulled the trigger.

Bang-dead.

Forward again.

Bang-dead.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

The armored convoy sped through the remains of a small village. The only pieces of buildings that stood were charred to the darkest black. A soft taste of smoke carried on the wind that whipped through Trevor’s shoulder-length hair as they drove. An odd-shaped mound of embers suggested human remains lying along one street; he did not think Jorgie saw.

A sign marked the rubble as Plauzat. The dead city brought questions to Trevor’s mind. He had heard vague reports and a few specific stories about how the invaders—led by the Duass—hit Western Europe at the beginning of the invasion. He decided to ask Alexander about those early days but when he turned and saw the expression of focus and determination on the Englishman’s face he thought better of it. Such questions could wait until another time.

The dead village faded away, replaced by plains although in the distance the sharp hills and rolling mountains remained, all part of the volcanic history across that part of France. A minute later the convoy approached a major intersection and drove around a bend to the left heading north.

“This is it,” Alexander warned. “We will stay back as best we can but you know how it is once these things start. But do not worry; we’ll keep your son safe.”

“I want to see, Father! I want to see the battle!” Jorgie perked up in his seat as if the main feature of a matinee were about to start.

The Duass snipers on the bridge opened fire but their rifles posed no threat to the armored carriers while the more vulnerable Sherpa’s and trucks remained screened behind the leading vehicles.

One well-placed high-powered round blew the snipers off the bridge and sent blasts of concrete exploding into the air. The convoy kept moving north, barely slowing.

Alexander retrieved a transmitter from a storage compartment.

“If all went according to plan, this should make for a big bang.”

Meanwhile, the fighting continued behind the barricades. Armand’s dismounted cavalry held the center of the Duass base amidst a fierce firefight. The duck-faced aliens, however, steadily regrouped and Armand knew this.

As he knelt beside a trio of comrades next to the toppled walls of a Duass building, Armand spied trouble above: a pair of Duass air craft. They resembled ultra-lights with a closed canopy cockpit, twin helicopter blades, and multiple weapons pods.

The thwoop of a mortar shot lobbed over Armand’s position and landed near a drainage ditch where ten or more enemy infantry huddled. The shell failed to score a hit and drew the attention of one of the Duass planes. It swooped in with its landing wheels skimming the tree tops, swung about, and launched a firestorm of explosive-tipped arrows into the brush where the mortar lurked. Armand watched two of his men die.

He popped up from cover and fired at the flyer but his bullets did no good against the well-armored hull.

Then Armand found himself flying backwards in the air with chunks of pavement and dirt flying with him. He hit the ground but quickly rolled into firing position despite a ringing in his ears and a sharp pain in his thigh.

His rifle barrel stared across the road and into a clearing where a Duass War Skiff rolled forward, smoke still lingering from its main gun and its big round wheels digging into the soil as it advanced.

Rifle fire could not penetrate its heavy wooden hull and fragmentation grenades only caused scratches.

A pair of fast-moving motorbikes whizzed by on the shoulder between Armand and the Skiff, drawing its attention away from the huddling infantry for a moment.

“Let’s go!”

Armand retreated with his men to the east searching for cover amongst the trees. Another shot from the Skiff went high, obliterating the top half of several pines and sending thick branches and leaves among the hiding humans.

With new confidence, Duass infantry emerged from positions along the road and the ruins of the base camp.

A line of heavy cavalry responded with a jousting charge north to south on A75. Their lances killed the leading Duass soldiers but a blast from the Skiff knocked out half the heavies with at least two dead on the spot.

Armand fired his FAMAS. The emboldened Duass re-thought their charge and took cover again. The Skiff, however, inched forward searching for targets to destroy.

At the barricade to the south, the smoke grenades dissipated and the skeleton line of defenders there spotted the new threat. A Duass officer and two grunts struggled to place a tri-pod mounted cannon in position to greet the convoy. The humans fired shells and machine guns in their direction.

Alexander, further back, judged the time to be right. He activated the transmitter a moment before the Duass’ gun came to life.

The explosive packages left by the riders detonated, immediately killing 20 Duass as a hole exploded through the wall of solidified gel.

The Finnish amphibious vehicles drove through first; their tires crunched over dead Duass as well as running over a few live ones. Enemy plasma bursts left marks—but nothing more—in the metallic hides.

Alexander’s car held back with the other Sherpas as the armored vehicles poured through the hole, firing machine guns and explosive shells almost continuously in the target-rich environment. At the same time, the transport trucks disembarked squads of infantry toting carbines and light machine guns.

The regrouping Duass infantry that had poised to make a run at the cavalry now found itself stuck between a hammer and an anvil.

One of the Duass flying fighters launched an air-to-surface projectile that arrowed down from above and into one of the Spanish BMRs. The vehicle stopped moving and smoke poured from a gash in its side. Hatches opened and men evacuated; several fell to Duass plasma rifles and grenades.

Rapid fire from one of the Panhards’ 20mm turrets took the flyer by surprise and sent it spiraling into the treetops where it broke apart.

As the spearhead of the column fanned out to press the attack, .50 rounds spat from the side door of the Eurocopter transport as it circled above the battle.

The second Duass plane fell victim to a rocket-propelled grenade as it hovered to strafe Armand’s dismounted cavalry. As it crashed Armand saw that as a signal the tide had changed.

“Forward! Forward!”

Bikers came from the woods and attacked, forcing the Duass to retreat into a smaller and smaller parcel of alien-controlled real estate. Armand’s FAMAS hit targets one after another, most in the back.

The War Skiff moved to assist. Its cannon blew apart an ATV and its occupants.

Suddenly that Skiff rocked as a missile from the Tiger attack helicopter joined the fray. Smoke poured from the damage and licks of flames pushed through the vehicle’s body, indicating an inferno inside. A tiny door opened but before the crew could exit the entire Skiff blew apart from a secondary explosion.

While sitting in the Renault with Trevor and JB, Alexander received a radio signal beckoning him forward. The marine behind the wheel drove them through the barricade.

As they inched ahead, JB intensely eyed the battlefield.

Duass and human vehicles burned; scorch marks all across the pavement of the road and the grass to either side; toppled trees smoldering; body parts—human and alien—scattered about. Jorgie saw it all and his mouth dropped open.

The car stopped. Armand put his leg up on a toppled Duass wall, hoisted his rifle high, and shouted to the late arrivals, “It is about time you made it here. Any longer and I would not have left any of them for you to kill!”

Alexander left the vehicle. Trevor and JB followed suit.

The two Europeans spoke. In the distance another shot fired.

“Casualties are light,” Armand bragged. “The plan worked perfectly. I told you, the ducks are easy.”

Trevor stopped listening. Instead, he watched Jorgie as the boy approached the remains of a four-wheel vehicle; an ATV. The chassis of the thing had been cracked in two, fluids leaked on the ground mixing with the blood of the driver.

“Father—Father look.”

Trevor did. The dead rider was the same scruffy-bearded man who had ruffled JB’s hair and given him the thumbs up back at the garage. The man would ride no more.

“Father—he is—he is dead…”

Trevor knelt next to Jorgie and put an arm around his boy.

How often had JB tossed around words about war and death and killing? How many pictures of glorious victories littered with crayon-colored dead bodies had he drawn?

Jorgie turned to his father. Tears streamed down his cheeks.

“I am sorry, Father. I should be stronger than this.”

“No, no. I’m glad. This is exactly how you should feel. War is a horrible thing, Jorgie. I wish you and I could know something better in our lives.”

Trevor thought of himself on that parallel Earth. A tyrant Emperor. A murderer.

He told Jorgie, “When you don’t cry over this—well, that’s when I’ll be worried.”

A motorcycle approached quickly from the north. Loitering soldiers leapt out of the way as a shiny, blue Yamaha flanked by matching bikes screeched to a halt a few paces in front of Armand. The rider onboard jumped off the seat and removed his helmet.

It was Gaston, the former Russian intelligence agent with the very black skin. His wide eyes and fast breath suggested something had blown away his cool demeanor.

Alexander and Armand hurried to Gaston. Trevor waited a few paces behind.

“What? What is it?”

Gaston answered, “It is The Order at Clermont-Ferrand…”

“What?” Armand jumped. “Are they mobilizing? Already?”

“No—no…” Gaston struggled with an explanation. “They’re gone.”

Armand and Alexander simply stared at Gaston as if the man had set forth an idea so foreign that their brains could not process his words.

Trevor spoke. “The city is empty. Dead bodies of victims but none of The Order’s troops. Just gone.”

Gaston gasped at Trevor, “How did you—but there were so many of them there! Our spies confirmed this just last week.”

“They moved? Where did they move to? Further north? To the east?” Alexander guessed as his gaze alternated between the other parties to the conversation.

“No, no,” Gaston shook his head. “No signs of movement. They are just—they are just gone. Vanished.”

Alexander forced his voice to calm, approached Trevor, and asked, “You knew this would happen?”

“Call it a pretty good guess,” Trevor answered and as he did he made eye contact with Alexander, and Armand, and Gaston. “Voggoth is breaking all the rules, gentlemen. The alien invaders came here through special gateways that I shut down a long time ago. But not Voggoth. He’s got an ace up his sleeve. Back in North America, for the past several years, we’ve noticed towns full of Order-creatures disappeared. Poof. Just like what happened to people before the invasion.”

“Yes? So what is the point?”

Trevor replied to Armand, “I was taken to a parallel Earth by the powers of something called the Nyx. Voggoth had somehow given the humans over there access to that power to grab me. When I was there—at the top of their world finding their runes—a creature of Voggoth’s appeared out of thin air in that green shit.”

“What’s the point?” Armand repeated in a louder voice.

“The point is, Voggoth thinks I’m dead. He thinks I went down on the Newport News. He thinks my mission to come here and fight my way across Europe to go knock on his door is over. Besides, he could use those troops in the final battle against my people.”

Alexander and Armand glanced at one another, clearly shocked at the missing enemy forces and what that meant for any offensive.

“So—so what is it you think we should do now?” Alexander asked.

Trevor stepped forward with his son at his side and made eye contact with each man as he spoke. Nearby soldiers and bikers gravitated toward him. Soon a circle of humanity surrounded Trevor.

“Call out all your forces—every hidden redoubt—all your knights scattered across Europe. Tell them that the time has come. There can be no hesitation. We must strike as fast as we can.”

Alexander said, “It will take time to muster those forces.”

“No, we have no time,” Trevor insisted. “Have them join us along the way. We will be one mighty horde growing in size as we move across Europe and into the heart of Russia.”

A smile—no, a grin—grew on Armand’s face. A big, evil and satisfied grin.

Alexander again protested, “But, Trevor, what about our supply lines? What about logistics?”

“We don’t need them.”

“Yeah,” Armand shot with that grin beaming, “logistics are for pussies.”

“We take what we can carry. We live off the land as best we can. But the only thing of importance is that we attack before Voggoth realizes his mistake, before his creatures start popping up in front of us again. We have to be one giant sword stabbing into our enemy.”

Alexander offered a long exhale. Armand nodded his head, smiling. They both stared at Trevor, waiting for the last word.

Trevor recalled the Chaktaw leader named Fromm from that parallel Earth as he mustered his forces for a great battle. He remembered what he had said on that day. Trevor repeated those words to his new allies.

“We march.”

16. Preemption

“I don’t want you to go, Daddy. Please stay.”

Jon knelt in front of his nine-year-old girl and ran a hand over her long, dark hair. She usually returned his gaze with beautiful eyes that were—as much as any could be in that new world—innocent. But eleven days ago her mother had been murdered by The Order’s assassins.

Together, Jon and Catherine Nina Brewer had drifted through a memorial, a funeral, and a bereavement dinner. Worse, they drifted through a quiet house with daddy sleeping beside his daughter each night to stem her nightmares and to keep from facing his own empty bed.

The knock at the front door came for a second time. A soft knock. Courteous. Somber.

Catherine glanced at the closed door then back to her father.

“If you go, you won’t come back and I’ll be all alone. I don’t want you to go!”

How could Jon answer that? Voggoth’s armies had firmly established their operating facilities in Kansas City and western Missouri. All of the enemy’s preparations appeared ready and the most recent intelligence reports—perhaps the most terrifying and puzzling reports ever provided by Gordon Knox—suggested the great battle along the Mississippi river would be a human slaughter.

Adding it all together, Jon did not expect to return home; he did not expect to see his daughter again, despite the fancy plan brewing in his head.

Desperate plan.

Of course, he could not tell her as much.

“I have to go, honey. I don’t want to. But I have to.”

She stuck out her lip and glared at him as if anger might accomplish where pleading failed. Jon turned from her and answered the front door.

“Jon. How are we doing?” Ashley asked as she followed Gordon Knox—rolling in his powered wheelchair—inside.

“As expected,” the general answered and then addressed Catherine. “Like I said before, Ashley and Mr. Knox will look after you while I’m gone.”

Ashley followed the cue and approached Catherine in an effort to make small talk about things they would do, fun to be had, and lots not to worry about. Jon took the opportunity to speak quietly with Gordon Knox.

“Anything new on your end?”

Knox shook his head and answered, “No. Jon, my people have no idea how The Order built up to such a level, even accepting that they might have established more farms faster than ever before. There is just no accounting for it. The SR-71 did another run yesterday evening and it’s still the same picture. We’re estimating his main force to be more than double what it was after the Rockies fight. What about you?”

“Wow. I just don’t get it. They came out of thin air,” he shook his head and answered Knox’s question, “Operation Baseplate should be ready to go tomorrow. I’m flying out now to brief Shep and the rest. The fuel supplies and armament load-outs are already at the airfields.”

“With the Chrysaor still out of action, it could be a suicide run,” Gordon spoke plainly with no drama and not as a critique of the plan, just a fact.

“She won’t be up and running for three more days. I don’t think we have that long. Besides, everything we do now could be a suicide run. But just waiting around for them to hit us…”

“I hear you,” Knox offered one of his trademark smiles that came across as much scary as in good humor, wheelchair or not. “We’ll just tough things out on this end.”

“I’m going to stay out and see this through. I probably should have left days ago.”

“Don’t say a word, Jon. You did what any man would do. Any husband—or father. Don’t second-guess yourself.”

“I suppose I do that a lot,” Jon admitted. “I guess no one is perfect.”

“Speak for yourself,” Knox smiled even broader and the scariness went away. “Anyway, if things go, well, badly out there then you can count on Ashley here to keep Catherine out of harm’s way.”

“Exodus protocols ready to go?”

“Not for me,” Gordon tapped the handles of his wheelchair. “This old thing becomes a bit more of a liability if we start running and hiding again. Besides, that was never my style. But your girl will be on one of the first boats out if we activate Exodus.”

“That’s your decision. Monitor what happens out west and if you lose contact with me, make the call.”

Knox nodded.

Jon returned to his daughter. Despite Ashley’s best efforts, Catherine would not willingly accept the situation.

“Honey, I’ve got to go now.”

“It’s not fair.”

He took her tiny fingers in his big hands. He thought about her words. He thought about the whole damn invasion, the war, and the deck Voggoth stacked in his own favor.

“It has never been fair. Fair just isn’t a part of it.”

Before Armageddon, St. Clair Square held the distinction of the largest shopping mall south of Chicago thanks to more than 140 stores on two levels brightened by sky lights and 1,000,000 square feet of retail space.

During The Empire’s march west the mall reopened as a barter center and—with Interstate 64 directly to the north and two air fields within minutes—a shipping waypoint.

As the last of the civilian population pulled out of the greater St. Louis area, St. Claire Square played a new role: command center.

From the point of view of General Jerry Shepherd, St. Claire served as the most recent command center. Not quite two weeks ago he survived—barely—The Order’s assault on his HQ at Riverfront Park in Kansas City. Shep knew that that park now operated as a center of operations for his enemy. Needless to say, this did not sit well with the general but battlefield reverses had become the norm during the last year.

St. Claire felt a lot like Riverfront had the day of the assassinations: vehicles driving to and fro; crates of supplies scattered around the large parking lot and a collection of weary veteran troops withdrawing east mixing with green newbies marching west.

Inside the mall different units created command centers out of what used to be shops. As Shepherd strolled the second story promenade he saw a group of soldiers standing beneath the facade of what used to be Bath and Body Works. The scented candles and gift baskets were long gone replaced with ammunition boxes, a metal filing cabinet on a hand truck, and radio equipment. Freckle-faced Benny Duda wore his black officer’s uniform with a patch on his shoulder depicting a hand gripping an axe; the icon for the 1st Mechanized Division.

He saw more men with more patches moving between stores-turned-unit-commands. He saw a young courier with a cowboy hat with a patch of a hand brandishing a broadsword on his shoulder. That patch indicated the 2nd Mechanized Division of Virginia.

Another such patch—this time on a slender brunette wearing Sergeant’s stripes—displayed a hand in a fist inside an armored glove: the calling card of William Rheimmer’s 3rd Armored Division of New Jersey.

The men and women shouted among each other, hurried the hall with important papers tucked under arms, or searched through boxes to find one need or another. Many sported trophies from the withdrawal across Kansas: slings, bandages, limps, bruises, and eye patches.

Shepherd shook his head in silent tribute to the marks of sacrifice, but then forced those thoughts from his mind as he walked inside what had once been a clothing store for children named ‘Abercrombie’. There Shepherd found a large round table in the center of the store, maps on the walls, and a gathering of important personnel. He finished his return trip from the restroom just in time to hear Jon Brewer tell the assembled crowd, “Any minute now.”

“Everything is still a go?” Shepherd came to the table and glanced—for about the one hundredth time that day—at the map of Missouri and Kansas.

“I just got off the radio with Carl Dunston. 2nd Tactical support’s fixed wing assets are in the air and joining up with the rest,” Jon answered and then took a sip from a glass of water.

“Not much left of them,” Shepherd said in reference to both the 2nd Tactical Support unit as well as the overall amount of air assets at The Empire’s disposal. He tapped the map in a spot northeast of Kansas City. “Still no idea how they built up so fast?”

Jon ran a hand across the back of his neck because that particular mystery remained a large pain there.

Shep shared that pain. He recalled the Blackbird’s surveillance photos depicting a massive amount of Voggoth’s biomechanical weapons in place and ready to fight. Many more—tens of thousands more—than thought possible. Enough to sweep across the Mississippi in one afternoon.

Jon said, “An idea? Yeah, I have an idea,” Brewer said and that caught Shep’s attention. “I was chewing it over during my flight out here last night. I’m thinking it’s one of two things: either The Order’s production cycle out of their farms has been sped up by ninety percent or—or…”

“Or?”

“Or—well, we’ve been asking ourselves for a couple of years now what happened to Voggoth’s boys in cities like Cincinnati.”

“When they just disappeared before we hit those cities, is that what you’re talking about?”

“Yep.”

Shep followed along, “So you reckon he yanked them out of those places in the past and is bringing them back now. Sort of like all those people before the invasion disappearing and then showing up again years later. Like Ashley.”

“I’d be lying if I said I knew for sure, but I have got to believe that Voggoth pulled these reinforcements from somewhere without using the typical type of transport we would expect. And I think finding that same radiation signature in those cities is a big clue.”

“Why not just drop em’ in behind our lines then? Like paratroopers or whatnot?”

“Why bother?” Jon thought. “He brings them in as reinforcements with the rest of his group and they make one big kick-ass army. If he drops them behind us maybe we manage to isolate them, split them up. I would bet he’d go for the easy way. The sure way.”

“Wait a sec,” Shepherd pointed out, “those things in the cities that disappeared were more like Mutants and Deadheads and bad things like that; not his core army.”

Jon cocked his head as that particular wrench bounced around in the works of his idea.

“Well, I guess you have a point there. Sometimes I sort of throw all of those things in with The Order as a whole. I guess there is a difference. His army he sort of grows or builds or whatever when he needs it. The rest of them kind of came here on their own it seems, like the other aliens but aligned with Voggoth. Still, all these reinforcements came from somewhere. Maybe somewhere else in the world? But you know what; I think this is the type of thing that Trevor was talking about. Every time Voggoth works his magic he risks, well, getting himself into trouble with the rest of the head honchos. If we can force him to keep pulling stunts like this then maybe that’s a break in those rules Trevor was talking about.”

“And you think that might get old Voggoth in trouble? That’d be a shame.”

“Only if he gets caught red-handed, I figure. If the rest of his pals are even capable of catching him. Trevor would know better. Damn. I wish he were here.”

Silence.

Shep fought the urge to tell Jon again how sorry he felt about Lori. About how he wished he could have traveled back east to be at the funeral. About how much he would miss that little pistol of a lady.

Instead he said, “Either way, I guess your little plan had better work.”

“It’s going to cost us,” Jon admitted. “It’s going to cost us big time. This is a one-shot, Shep. No matter how well we play this we’re going to take heavy losses.”

“So let’s hope he can’t pull any more reinforcements out of his magic bag, right?”

Jon swept a hand across the map noting, “He doesn’t need to. Hell, so far he’s used his main forces to fight us but he’s got all those other buddies of his spread out across the Midwest. He’s got hundreds of Roachbots in Kansas, a whole mess of Wraiths stirring up trouble in Iowa; I even saw a report of like ten thousand of those Ghoul-things tearing up shit in Oklahoma. Not to mention the rest.”

Shepherd knew what ‘the rest’ meant. It meant the other alien races coming together to support Voggoth’s attack. It meant the Geryons moving in from the north, the Centurians marching up from the south, and the Chaktaw somewhere to the west no doubt hurrying to join the battle.

“They on the move?”

Brewer answered, “Yeah. Intel this morning spotted the Geryon air ships leaving their moorings in Des Moines and the Redcoats breaking camp at Little Rock.”

Shep removed his hat and ran an arm across his sweaty forehead.

“That’s as sure a sign that this thing is coming to a head soon as anything else. If Trevor’s right, that is. Guess those other folks want to make it to the party on time.”

“Sure,” Jon agreed. “But if we can hit Voggoth hard enough he’ll postpone his attack on the Mississippi. If he does that, I’m guessing those others will back off and wait. If Trevor is right and all.”

“Be nice if we could hit them Geryons or the Reds first. You know, break the whole thing into pieces. I reckon that would improve our odds.”

Brewer smiled—a little—and flattered Shep with, “I ‘reckon you’d be right. But I don’t think we’ve got the mobility or the firepower to do it. Not with ground forces, at least.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Shepherd admitted. “Still, it’d be nice to play out Five Armies again, just like the old days. That worked out in our favor.”

“Never thought I’d see worse odds. Guess I didn’t know shit, right? But you’ve been running the show out here for a few weeks, Shep. Give me the lay of the land again.”

Shep leaned over the table and pointed to different segments of the map while he updated Jon on the defensive preparations made while Jon had mourned his dead wife.

“Duda’s got all of his 1st Mech boys around St. Louis: 4th Brigade is dug in the city in the worst kind of way, his 6th Mobile Artillery is positioned at the Lockhaven Country Club to the northeast of the city and can move to follow the enemy’s approach when the time comes.”

“What about his 5th Brigade?”

“They got sent all the way back to Springfield for re-supply and re-tool. Not much of those poor bastards left. I don’t think they’re going make it to the party.”

Jon mumbled, “Strip what you can.”

Shepherd went on, “Rheimmer’s 3rd Armored is backing up St. Louis. 10th and 12th Armored Brigades are exactly where you wanted them: over on this side of the river waiting around as a mobile reserve. By the way, Rheimmer rolled what was left of his 11th brigade in with the 12th, in case you’re wondering where they headed to.”

“Makes sense. What about Simms?”

Shep pointed to the town of Quincy to the north and answered, “Her cavalry and mobile artillery are holding up in this quiet spot. I’m thinking she can turn south when the fighting gets going but until then she’s holding a crossing up there.”

“She’ll want in. No way you’ll keep her out of this.”

Shep smiled and continued, “You know Rhodes’ Second Corp got chewed up real bad getting out of the Rockies. Only the 10th Mechanized Infantry Brigade is left in the 3rd Division. Captain Vervain has got them dug in down at Cape Girardeu. Not likely to see any action unless we call em’ up. As for 5th Mech, they were always under-strength to begin with. I’ve got one of their infantry brigades held up in Carbondale in reserve, the 1st Mountain guarding supply depots—“

“I thought there weren’t any of them left after what happened in the Sierra Nevadas.”

“Just enough to pull sentry duty. That’s about all those boys got left in them but they won’t catch a bad word from me about it.”

“Wow, yeah, I hear that,” Jon agreed and then prompted, “Go on.”

“Anyway, Rhodes’ Armored Car battalion is in Chester watching a crossing and the 1st Engineering Brigade is in the same neck of the woods mining in case Voggoth wants to try to cross that far south. But if he goes that way they will need help in a hurry.”

“Every bit helps. You did a hell of job getting Rhodes out of that pocket.”

“Wish I could take the credit. It was the Grenadiers who made that work.”

“And Third Corps?”

“Ross has got them moving good. That fella has a way of grabbing someone’s attention. He’s got Rothchild’s 10th Armored brigade in the Golden Eagle area northwest of St. Louis to protect the river bend. They can move out of there fast if need be. You know 11th Armored brigade was disbanded after the Rockies and I am very familiar with the 12th Engineering Brigade; those knuckleheads are sabotaging the approaches west of St. Louis.”

Jon laughed. He had heard the story of the mix up during Shep’s relief mission. If not for the Grenadiers there would be nothing left to laugh about.

“What remains of the 4th Mechanized infantry is positioned in East Alton. We’re talking about a fraction of an Infantry Brigade and some arty. Oh yeah, 14th Mech is east of Hannibal, they’re not in too bad a shape if push comes to shove. That’s about the whole of it.”

“Sounds good.”

“No it don’t but it’s all we’ve got.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Jon reached for his glass. “As Gordon Knox would say, we just got to tough it out.”

Jon saw the water in his glass ripple. The table came next, then windows rattled. Activity in the mall-turned-military-base slowed to a hush…

They came like bullets flying from east to west, little more 300 feet overhead. A rolling, ear-splitting roar came with them as they raced hard and fast but very low in the sky.

F-15s in the lead but F-16s not far behind along with Tomcats and even a pair of F-18 Hornets. Eight—ten—twelve in all leading the charge followed by a mixed bag of aircraft: Six F-111 Aardvarks; three F-117 Nighthawk Stealth Fighters; four A-10s all of which sported the scars of recent battles and five EA-6B Prowlers stripped of their electronic warfare gear in favor of weapons pods.

The mass of soldiers in the mall parking lot below stopped packing crates, woke from their naps, put aside their chow, and watched.

They knew what passed in the sky. The last of mankind’s once-mightiest air force. Now piloted by left over guardsmen and commercial pilots-turned-warriors, those high-tech machines were once capable of ruling the skies, even in the post-Armageddon world when the Hivvans and the Duass and the California Cooperative had tasted death from above courtesy The Empire’s gallant flyers.

Despite the mighty roar, every soldier below knew they watched the end of something.

Voggoth would sacrifice 100—200—1,000 of his half-machine/half-monster ‘Spooks’ to knock the planes from the sky only to re-grow those horrible weapons by the bushel while The Empire could no longer replace, repair, or rebuild the jets.

The soldiers on the ground did not know why the air force flew, they could only watch and pray that the Generals expended this last resource for some benefit. So they watched the fighters fly away; they listened to the last echoes of the turbines; they watched—and hoped.

The tail fins of the lead F-15s sported an icon of a female arm holding a bolt of lightning. The veteran combat pilot in the lead radioed, “Dasher One to group, watch the wash back there boys.”

His wingman—young before Armageddon but now a veteran as well—pointed out, “Dash One, this is Two, we’re at about three cherubs and really booming here; how we going to keep this all together with the slow-movers back there?”

“Don’t work your thinkbox too hard, Billie. That’s just the way it has to be. This isn’t exactly the most sophisticated mission we’ve gone on so we’ll just have to make it work.”

“What are we doing, boss?” Billie spoke through his mask as the scenery—some 300 feet below—whizzed by in a blur and the slower-moving of the phalanx of aircraft drifted further to the rear.

“Weren’t you at the meeting with General Brewer?”

Billie heard the sarcastic tone but replied, “No,” before he could stop himself.

“Guess not,” Dasher One answered with the obvious connotation of you don’t need to know.

“Dash-One this is Viking One, aren’t we do for a course correction?”

“Roger that,” Dasher One radioed the Prowler’s pilot, “turning on my mark.”

The planes—the army of jet fighters—banked to the northwest as they flew low and fast over the western suburbs of St. Louis. Below them scattered units of infantry gave the fleet a quick look. While the foot soldiers had grown accustomed to wearing a mixture of uniforms and carrying a diversity of gear, they had never seen such an eclectic collection of air power before; certainly not flying in one flock.

As impressive the aerial profiles and as ear-splitting the sound, the earthbound men and women who saw the sight knew it to be a formation of desperation.

“Dasher One to all wings, listen up. Follow I-80 below until we hit our next waypoint for Alpha target. Flight leaders, you know our instructions. Follow them.”

“What instructions?” Dash Two let his familiarity with this superior officer overcome the need to remain quiet.

“Billie, you just do what I tell you and be ready to jink, copy that?”

“Um, copy that Dash One.”

The attackers followed the interstate westward across Missouri. They flew over the hamlet of Pilot Grove, startling a band of civilian stragglers hurriedly transferring canned goods from an overturned and abandoned Deuce-and-a-half into a wagon pulled by two aging horses. Two of the civvies—carrying burlap sacks—actually fell over onto their rumps from the vibration and wind gust caused by the fast-movers.

Shortly thereafter, the historic town of Sweet Springs drew the attention of the flyers as a stream of thinning black smoke rose from a reconnaissance Eagle crashed nose-first next to a sagging gazebo in Gusher Park. A trio of gigantic Rat-like creatures—one of the first and most persistent alien monsters to invade Earth—clambered over each other to stick their snouts in the cracked-open transport module.

Dasher Two—‘Billie’—tapped his thumb against the flight stick nervously. He had flown hundreds of sorties with Dash One, including knocking Screamers out of the sky in support of Stonewall McAllister’s push into South Carolina during the Hivvan war and later the aborted strike on the Witiko’s Stealth Field Generator as the opening salvo of the California campaign. In each case he knew the mission, knew the goal, and understood the stakes.

Things felt different this time. He could not remember a mission when Dash One kept the details so murky. He did not understand how so many diverse aircraft—including several now miles behind the formation—should be tightly formed and used together in such a fashion.

But he did know The Order’s main battle force waited outside Kansas City. He knew them well-guarded by anti-air Spooks that would outnumber the strike force exponentially. He knew that all of the F-15s not born with Vulcan cannon received said cannons in wing-mounted weapons pods because fighting spooks with missiles made for losing the economics of this war. Still, he wondered if he carried enough bullets on board for the hell that would great them at Excelsior Springs. Of course he also wondered why the Spooks—not potential ground targets—appeared the priority of this mission.

And that led to the tapping of his thumb against the stick. A nervous tapping filled with questions as to why they should run a kamikaze mission for no apparent gain.

“All wings, we’re coming up on Odessa. Bank north, grab some altitude, and proceed toward Alpha target. Take a moment to review Bravo target before things get hairy.”

Billie did as commanded. He turned his fast-moving F-15 to starboard and remained on his leader’s flank as a loyal wingman should. But the questions refused to yield.

In the distance he saw the line of puffy white clouds stretched across the horizon turn black; like smoke boiling in the heavens.

They crossed the Missouri River, whooshed over the waters of the crescent-shaped Cooley Lake, and bore in on the flattened, rotted land that had once been Excelsior Springs, Missouri. The sky turned dark and twisted.

Each pilot in the formation gasped or closed their eyes or felt a nauseous lurch in his or her belly. No matter how often they came upon The Order’s legions a human soul could not become accustomed to the sight, one akin to kicking over a rock and finding the slimy, squirming bottom-feeders hidden beneath.

Tendrils of white smoke newly-birthed from egg-shaped mounds tried to hide the army in a sheath of unnatural fog but the job had just begun. In fields to the south of Route 69 assembled row upon row of shell-covered hover tanks with gun barrels of various design. Dozens of slithering turtle-things serviced the vehicles with lines feeding ammunition and energy.

A little further to the west on the far side of an access road, the boxy industrial buildings of Excelsior Plastics had succumbed to Voggoth’s dominion. The walls of the factory drown beneath a cover of dark metallic roots. Sizzling steam escaped from tubes atop the roof and instead of manufacturing injected moldings the plant now housed legions of once-human monks and the mutation chambers that attached and re-supplied the bio-weapons affixed to the arms of these damned souls.

Several varieties of Spider Sentries in uncountable numbers massed along Route 69; a hundred armor-plated rolling tubes adorned with glowing missiles waited in the parking lot of a strip mall; thousands of gray-skinned Ogres filled the gaps between with carts full of glowing orbs standing at the ready; a hundred locomotive-like treaded transports carrying surface-to-surface missiles sat at station on the destroyed neighborhoods to the southeast of town; mechanical Commandos in a hundred lines of one-hundred each stood perfectly still in formation on the browned grounds of East Valley Park with all manner of portable weapons on display like a May Day parade in Hell. Dozens of walking turrets formed a protective ring around the mustered army.

Above it all—standing taller than the planes flew—loomed the Leviathans.

One straddled the center of town while hundreds of eel-ish things slithered up and down its form like an infestation of maggots cleaning and repairing the vile beast. Two more stood stationary to the northwest on the grounds of Rocky Hollow Park. A fourth knelt on its skyscraper legs four miles west on the cracked and broken tarmac of Clay County airport where car-sized flying mechanical insects inspected its workings in preparation for battle.

The protective mist crept over it all from the egg-shaped dispensers located at the corners of the encampment, hiding even more of the army that aimed to crush humanity at the Mississippi. In a few hours that veil would be complete, shading all but the Leviathans from The Empire’s sights until the time came to march.

“Dash One, this is Two, Jesus Christ what do we hit first? We need to slow down here. What approach should we take? I need some direction here!”

“Billie! Don’t do shit. Stay on course—full throttle—gain some altitude—keep heading at them.”

The Spooks came. They came from brick-shaped boxes lined with ivy-like pulsating red veins. Each of the two dozen launchers sported four spouts that spat the flying beasts into the air like cannon balls. Flapping wings—more like a cloak over a ball—unfolded after ejection and an unseen force propelled the creatures at tremendous velocity.

With each launch the boxes deflated a little but before they emptied those launchers filled the skies with the horrible weapons: 50—100—300 balls of destruction rising up and screaming toward the approaching fighters.

The air waves filled with panicked chatter. The clouds grew angrier. Lightning flashed. Thunder boomed loud enough the pilots could hear the rumble through their radios and above the roar of engines. Wind shear rocked wings.

“Blow through! Blow through!” Dasher One ordered and despite every natural instinct calling for retreat, the pilots followed his lead and rammed into the cloud of destroyers.

“They’re everywhere!”

A sidewinder air-to-air missile launched from under an F-16’s wing, hitting a Spook but making only a splash in the tidal wave crushing down on them.

“Use your goddamn guns!”

Vulcan cannons met the living missiles splattering bunches into bits and carving a tunnel through the mob. But not without sacrifice. An F-16 lost a tail and spiraled fast into the army below where its fireball incinerated a column of Ogres. An F-15 took a shot directly in the canopy, exploding its front nose and sending the balance of the craft flat-spinning toward Earth.

The vanguard of fighters broke through but the Spooks did not give up the hunt. Most changed direction like a grotesque flock of birds to give chase to the fastest fighters. The rest rained down on the slower planes at the rear of the attack group.

A Prowler suffered a direct hit. The pilot instinctively ejected. Fortunately another of the Spooks blasted him to pieces before he could parachute into the devils below. Two A-10s suffered impacts, one lost a wing and plunged toward the ground, the other absorbed the hit and continued on.

Their first pass complete, the Spooks turned about and gave chase.

“All wings! All wings!” Dasher one shouted through grit teeth. “Break off to Bravo target! Hit the burners and break off!”

Billie stared out his cockpit window. Ahead he saw the rolling black clouds give way to clear sky. Behind, Spooks giving chase. Below, undefended legions of Voggoth’s army. And on his wings a pair of heavy bombs waiting to drop. Perhaps barely enough to scratch the numbers assembled below, but at least some compensation for the losses already suffered.

“What are you talking about? We’ve got a clear shot!”

“Billie! Shut the hell up and follow your orders!”

For a second—a long time in a jet fighter moving hundreds of miles per hour—Billie considered releasing his bomb load. His eyes saw the Leviathans standing at Rocky Hollow Park and he thought about raising his nose and letting momentum and gravity send thousands of pounds of explosives into one of their sick bellies.

But his loyalty overcame his frustration. He banked southwest. The twin towers of monsters disappeared from his line of sight.

“All wings, full throttle and hit the deck. I repeat, full throttle and hit the deck. Make time, people. Make time!”

The attacking planes dropped altitude and gained speed. The swarm of angry spooks gave chase, overtaking and downing an F-117 as the human fighters flew over top the kneeling Leviathan at Clay County airport.

“Faster—faster…” Billie heard Dasher One mumble over the radio as if his words might will more speed from the engines.

Blue sky replaced churning clouds. Sunbeams of an early June day replaced flashes of lightning. But the death struggle continued. The Spooks gained ground as they bellowed a horrid cry as if killing provided relief from an existence of agony.

Eight miles away from Alpha target, two Spooks hit another Prowler. The broken plane crashed hard into the grounds of the Shoal Creek Golf Course north of Pleasant Valley.

At 12 miles one of the F-111 Aardvarks fell victim to the pursuit. The cockpit assembly drifted on parachutes down into a vacant housing development on the north side of Kansas City.

At 15 miles the first Spook ran out of energy. Its body grew crusty and tired; the flapping wings—perhaps more like the flaps of a kite—stiffened. It fell. At 17 miles more died and dropped one after another. The pursuit shrank from a swarm to a flock to a handful.

“Approaching bravo target,” Dasher One radioed. “Targets identified as farms along the coast of Wyandotte lake.”

“That’s it? That’s it?” Billie could no longer hide his frustration. They had lost several planes—good pilots—and passed on a chance to drop a few bombs on Voggoth’s main army. Not much, but something.

“Farms? We did all this to hit some goddamn farms? Whose dumb-ass idea was this? We had their friggin’ army under our wings. We could have done some damage.”

Dasher One first greeted Billie’s protests with a chuckle. And then an assurance.

“Relax Billie, we just kicked their ass, they just don’t know it yet…”

The black heavens above Voggoth’s army rolled and bucked like an inverted ocean tide. Licks of lightning bounced among the clouds but no rain came; only the energy of a storm that refused to break.

Something moved among the storm clouds.

Another bolt of lightning erupted through the heights. The flash illuminated three deadly beasts descending from the clouds with wingspans greater than 180 feet and bellies full of death. The thunderclap that followed sounded one part roar and one part laughter.

The monsters descended upon Voggoth’s legions to the droning roar of Pratt & Whitney turbofans making some 17,000 pounds of thrust. A hydraulic hum followed by a heavy clang announced the opening of bomb bay doors.

The B-52’s wore icons on their noses and came with names: “Memphis Belle IV,” “In Harm’s Way”, and “Lady Ashley”.

With the anti-air Spooks pulled en masse to the southwest and new ones yet to be birthed in the launchers, Voggoth’s army could only watch the mighty planes approach.

The B-52s had served little purpose in The Empire until that moment. Precision strikes and air-to-air capability held sway against the Hivvans and The Cooperative, while the sheer volume of Spook support kept the Stratofortresses away from Voggoth’s minions.

Now, with the Chrysaor still undergoing repairs and Imperial air forces dwindled to nearly nothing, the gigantic manmade monsters found one more mission in a history of missions stretching back to the 1950s.

The bombs fell. One after another after another after another. They fell like rain and hit the ground like earthquakes—180,000 pounds of ordnance pounded the tightly-packed ranks of The Order’s great army.

Shell tanks splintered into pieces. Armored missile launchers broke and scattered like smashed toys. Muscle-bound ogres disintegrated into chunks of gore. Mechanical commandos shattered to shards. Monks and Spider sentries vaporized by the hundreds.

The Leviathans proved too tall a target to place under the bombardier’s sights—except for the one at Clay Count airport. The one kneeling for repairs.

A trail of bombs walked across the tarmac destroying dozens of blister-like support buildings until reaching the gargantuan. The barrage fell onto the creature’s skin and into the top of its skyward-facing mouth. The slug-like body burst and oozed. Tendons supporting the main frame unraveled. The legs fell away from the whole. The entirety of the thing broke into gigantic pieces.

The storm grew to a frenzy both in the clouds and on the ground. The sound of the bombardment spread for miles, shaking the lonely landscape of Missouri and collapsing unstable structures as far away as Kansas City.

The Order’s army tasted Hell served by mankind. Different than Voggoth’s own brand. Less vicious. Colder, perhaps; more detached. But just as effective.

When the last bomb dropped, the B-52s banked away and flew east with impunity. The army of Voggoth lay cut in half.

The storm raged on.

17. Maze

The air felt damp and smelled of rot. Bindings on her wrists and ankles kept Nina secure to the hard surface; a table or the like. The black ceiling above appeared featureless save for red and green lines that could have been wiring—or veins.

She heard the voices again.

“The first implant is complete, your Excellency.”

“Did you take care to conceal it?”

“While dormant it appears as nothing more than a common skin blemish. Even when activated it will remain small.”

“Very well. And the second phase?”

“The processors are encoding the appropriate memories based on our scan of the subject female’s brain chemistry. The supplemental memory unit will be available for implant in a short time. Prior to implantation, we will suppress all recollections since her capture and route chemical paths to those memories through the supplemental unit.”

“We must accelerate the process! If we do not return her to the crash site soon they will cease their search and the opportunity will pass. We already failed to neutralize the surrogate’s female carrier on the first day of hostilities and her location is no longer known to us. In the same day our assassination attempt of the surrogate’s genetic predecessor failed and he has avoided our detection since that time. She represents our last hope at disrupting human resistance before it can coalesce.”

“I understand, your Excellency.”

Then it stood over Nina and glared at her through emerald eyes on a face covered in decaying skin.

“Do not fear, my child. Soon we will purge these unpleasant hours from your mind and return you to your human compatriots. You have a duty to perform for the blessed Voggoth.”

The Bishop glared at an underling as he moved away from the blob-like Chariot transport and walked—nearly glided—across the pavement of the parking lot. The young Missionary man who met him bowed and they spoke, but Nina could not hear the conversation as she watched the Bishop’s arrival through binoculars.

She felt her heart thump faster and a wave of anger build in her bones.

Next to her along the berm lay Carl Bly with his own pair of binoculars eyeing the new arrival. The two hid at the fringe of a ring of vacant cookie-cutter duplexes to the west.

“Man, I think that’s the first time I ever saw one of those Order guys looking pissed off. Whoever he is, he’s not happy. I guess a couple of B-52s can pretty much ruin anybody’s shit.”

Nina’s team received news of yesterday’s strike via radio, the same radio call wherein she had requested—again—for transports to be sent to Clinton, Missouri. Her team directed any survivors they came across to that small town.

Command’s answer? Vague. A sort of ‘we’ll see what we can do’. At the very least Nina hoped they could air drop supplies to the survivors but even that remained uncertain.

But thoughts of survivors, air strikes, and supplies held little importance at that moment. She remained focused on the creature dressed in clergy garb with emerald eyes and a robe underneath which things squirmed.

She recognized him.

Not a memory passed from Trevor’s consciousness to hers. Not a falsehood planted by Voggoth’s henchmen. A real memory. One originally suppressed during her captivity. This memory belonged to Nina, like those other memories from The Order’s prison where they had infected her with their implants.

Bly spoke unaware of Nina’s silent rage, “Cap, this was a good idea on paper. Doesn’t look like they’ve got a lot of security around. But this place is huge. We don’t have enough C-4 to bring it all down.”

Bly referred to the massive series of warehouses formerly owned and operated by Sysco Foods of Olathe, Kansas. Years ago the world’s largest food distribution company used the place to store everything from frozen mozzarella sticks to prime rib to bags of soda syrup. The entire complex stretched hundreds of yards from south to north parallel to Interstate 35. Rows of discarded tractor trailers lined the docking bays; abandoned cars lay swept into a pile at the perimeter of the massive parking lot; a handful of monks walked patrols with support from Spider Sentries and Ogres.

The facility seemingly served two functions. First as a refueling depot for The Order’s Chariots. The blob-ish ships swooped in, hovered above the center of the complex, and received fuel via wiggling tubes protruding from roof-mounted piles of metal and bubbling black rock.

That fuel, in turn, arrived at the complex in the form of a dark gel transported in on boat-like vehicles escorted by Shell Tanks. As far as intelligence could discern, Voggoth’s minions drained this ‘fuel’ directly from the soil, sapping the Earth of nutrients that could be used to grow crops.

The second purpose of the facility appeared to be command and control. Gordon Knox’s intelligence people suspected that directives—such as where to march and what to do—were delivered to The Order’s troops via broadcasts of some kind, perhaps radio waves, maybe even telepathy. All attempts to isolate and block those broadcasts had failed.

Nonetheless, those orders came from Voggoth from his Temple in the Urals to his army via his cadre of clergymen, in which the Bishop held high rank. The theory held that the Bishop distributed these orders via various Missionaries and couriers, with various levels of redundancy.

All of this knowledge held little interest to Nina as she watched the Bishop enter the facility with a gang of monks and a Missionary providing escort. Overhead an orange sunset shared the sky with a slow-moving veil of gray; not The Order’s storm but rain clouds of Earthly origin.

“You’d think they’d guard this thing with a little more heavy duty shit,” Bly went on, still not noticing Nina’s silence. “But I guess that clicks with what we were hearing this morning.”

Bly meant reports of Wraiths, Roachbots, Mutants, Ghouls and more pouring toward Excelsior Springs like ants to a picnic. Reinforcements, no doubt, for The Order’s core army elements destroyed by the B-52s.

When she did not react, Bly asked, “So what is it, Cap? This place a good target still?”

“The place? No,” she answered and thought but the Bishop, yes.

“Get the others ready. We hit it when the sun goes down.”

One of the blob-shaped Chariot craft hovered above the center of the complex. A series of pulsing red and green lights from the craft’s underbelly lit the starless, rainy night. In response, a black hose slithered from the roof like a snake rising from a basket and met a bulging orifice underneath the flyer. A burst of steam signaled the cementing of their bond.

Glug-glug-glug.

The sound carried above the noise of a steady rain clanging off the roof and drumming on the pavement as The Order’s version of fuel pumped up from a pile that resembled charcoal-colored gelatin atop the occupied warehouse.

After a few minutes, another burst of steam squirted from the bond and the hose fell away. The Chariot’s engines hissed louder and the ship flew away, passing over the dark parking lot on its way south.

The Dark Wolves moved between wrecked cars and approached the large complex. Nina halted her group and, through night vision goggles, eyed their entry point.

She saw the remains of a human building of metal and glass and concrete succumbing to tendrils of green and black ivory although the grainy haze of the night vision did not afford much detail.

She spied a steel door that had once been an employee entrance. Two monks wearing soaked brown robes stood guard outside, each armed with The Order’s version of swords attached to rope belts as well as forearm-mounted pellet guns. Above the door a solitary orb of light provided a cone of illumination.

Oliver Maddock joined Nina at the front of the group. They both raised suppressed Colt M4s. Two quick pops broke the silence in the parking lot followed by two damp thumps as the alien-assimilated bodies dropped.

Caesar and Bly raced forward with the latter making a little more jingle and clink than Nina preferred due to the light machine gun he carried.

Nina approached and opened the door. A gust of foul-smelling air rushed out. The Dark Wolves moved inside.

The interior lighting immediately created problems for the team. They entered a long concrete hall with doors to either side. A pair of thick root-like conduits ran the tops of the walls, probably carrying electricity or fluids or whatever ungodly substances The Order needed to run their horror chambers. Two glowing balls provided patches of an almost liquid-like light illuminating either end of the corridor. The rest of the passage remained dark.

Nina removed her night vision. The others did the same. While shadows still remained the light created enough interference to make the high-tech gear more a liability than an asset.

They walked the hall stopping at each door to glance inside. They found empty offices with smashed computers, a chamber full of dust-covered filing cabinets, and a janitorial closet overrun with mice.

A continual rumble reverberated through the complex, helping to hide their footfalls but the sound added to the tension. Anywhere else Nina would say the noise probably came from large machines chugging away somewhere at the heart of the complex. But inside those walls laced with organic-like conduits and filled with the smell of decay, she easily imagined the noise to come from a giant creature. The noise of the machine or monster—whatever it may be—joined with the constant metallic pitter-patter of raindrops on the roof to create enough sound to make ‘hearing’ the least reliable of their senses.

They reached the end of the hall and paused where a human door had been replaced with skin-like drapes. A humid breeze blew in from beyond and a sound like a nervous stomach rumbling broadcast over unseen loudspeakers.

Something big moved past the other side of those drapes en route to wherever its orders commanded.

Nina used her silenced gun barrel to separate the slit sheaths and eye the darkness beyond. She saw a large room. The concrete floor wore yellow and white caution and traffic lines and a forklift lay toppled against one wall. Several rows of metal racks lined the chamber and loading docks remained sealed to the west.

Directly across from her position a wide archway with straps of heavy plastic offered access to one of the larger warehouses while this room, she realized, served as a loading and unloading zone for trucks.

Again, just enough glowing orbs hung on the wall to make night vision impractical.

Nina sent Vince first, then Carl, then Oliver, and then herself from the entrance hall and across the chamber. No signs of enemy activity. No hint of security devices.

The wolves gathered by the archway and then pushed through the sheets of plastic and entered a wide hall. Empty pallets, several parked forklifts, and wheeled garbage bins sat discarded to either side. Metal bulkheads—like small garage doors—lined the walls and the ceiling reached six stories tall but everything higher than twenty feet remained hidden in darkness. The lights along the big corridor provided only spotlight-like spheres of bright in an otherwise empty passage. The constant drum of rain on the rooftop echoed all around.

Nina felt naked in the open, but saw no cover.

Thirty yards away—at the far end of the hall—loomed a closed sliding door. Nina guessed the larger warehouses waited ahead and the Bishop somewhere further beyond.

The sound of another Chariot flying low over the building drew her attention for a moment. Nina wished she had not sent Odin with the human survivors. She forgot how much they depending on his sensitive canine nose.

“Cap?”

Nina answered Vince with a wave of her arm ordering them to spread out and move forward. The rain increased. The Chariot’s engines sounded directly overhead. Nina glanced toward the ceiling again and saw only black.

What was that?

Did something move up there?

She heard—they all heard—a soft clang. Like a chain tapping against metal.

Nina gripped her rifle tight and took mental stock of her armaments: the Mac-11 in a shoulder harness; the desert eagle on a thigh rig; four grenades on her belt and—as a last resort—a short sword strapped to her left leg. She also carried a detpack in her kit.

They reached the halfway point of the hall. The closed door loomed ahead.

Oliver Maddock walked a step behind and to Nina’s right. The other two stayed close to the far wall.

The sound came again. A rattle. A squeak. Louder.

Nina’s eyes darted from wall to ceiling. Vince and Bly hurried toward the sliding door. Maddock checked their rear, turning around in time to see the thing drop from the shadows and swing toward his gut.

He raised his rifle and pulled the trigger. His silenced rounds went askew as the thing shaped like a scorpion’s tail cut into his chest and hauled him up into the darkness above.

More of that clanging noise.

Nina saw him go. She raised her rifle, but suddenly the darkness turned to bright as a hundred orbs of light sprung to life along the hall. She shielded her eyes with an arm and instinctively dove for a spot low against the wall. Maddock—screaming his last breaths—went higher and higher into the rafters carried by the half-shell, half-iron scorpion tail hanging from a series of chains and pulleys.

As it neared the crisscross of rafters above, the tail uncurled and let the man fall from 50 feet to the concrete. Nina—her eyes barely adjusted to the newfound illumination—could do nothing to save him. He and his gear hit the ground with a sickening crunch.

The metal door slid open of its own accord. Two Spider Sentries stood in the entry on their spindly legs. Their high-powered rapid-fire pellet guns fired. Vince Caesar barely avoided a burst as he rolled toward the wall and returned fire with his carbine.

Bly dropped into a prone position and rested his M-249 on its small tripods. As the alien rounds skipped across the concrete around him, Carl Bly fired a fierce volley. The loud rat-tat-tat of the machine gun joined with the falling rain, the complex’s constant rumble, and the hiss of Spider Sentry guns to fill the hall with an eclectic mix of sound that bounced off the high ceiling and echoed to ear-splitting levels.

Bly’s first rounds went wide but his steady hand guided the hose-like stream of bullets into one of the Spiders. Its round head disintegrated into goo.

Nina felt a shot hit her high in the shoulder, catching uniform and padding but not flesh. She concentrated her M4 at the head. The silenced rounds fired from her carbine in a series of pops. Those bullets annoyed the Sentry—knocked its round head side to side—but could not only chipped at its flesh.

Just behind the rat-tat-tat of the machine gun, the pop of her silenced weapon, and the sharp hiss of the Spider Sentry guns came the whir and clang of the scorpion tail descending from the heights somewhere—not far—behind her.

Vince, from one knee, launched an M203 grenade hitting the second sentry in the side. A nice chunk of its centerpiece fell away but it kept on shooting at Nina. She found cover along a metal bin—a kind of dumpster—but a new threat garnered her attention.

Her instincts felt the thrust of the scorpion tail’s razor-sharp stinger and she dropped and rolled at the last instant. The strange device hit the metal bin where its stinger lodged. The tail-thing immediately wiggled to try and free itself.

Despite incoming fire from the sentry, Nina wedged an anti-personnel grenade in the last joint by the tail’s sharp point. A moment later it freed itself from the metal bin and retreated toward the ceiling.

Nina threw herself to the ground alongside the bin and covered her head.

The grenade exploded. Pieces of metal and a kind of hairy skin fell to the floor but the sound of machine guns and air guns and rain drown out any noise the impact may have made.

Nina sat up and refocused on the remaining Spider Sentry just in time to see Bly’s M-249 finish it off. The thing wobbled side to side and then collapsed.

“Move! Move! Move!” She commanded and led them into the next room—where they stopped dead in their tracks.

The three soldiers entered a massive rectangular chamber filled with pallets full of cereal boxes, canned fruit, powdered milk, shortening tubs, chemical jugs, pasta crates, and much more. All stacked in piles seven to eight feet tall, shrink wrapped into tight bundles, and aligned in rows to create a maze of boxes. Most of the goods inside certainly spoiled a long time ago; an acidic sour smell emanated from the collection joining with the already pungent aroma of the facility.

The room stretched as long and as wide as a football field. A catwalk ran the length of the chamber halfway up the four-story western wall. Bright fluorescent lights hanging from a flat metal ceiling lit the whole place up like a stage on which a play would soon begin and Nina knew exactly who the players would be.

“We have to keep moving,” she said, but she did not get a chance to finish the sentence.

Nina felt hot shot fly passed her face, inches from her nose. She instinctively dove toward the first line of packed pallets.

Carl never stood a chance. A round hit him in the forehead. The weight of his M-249 machine gun pulled his lifeless body over like a toppling statue.

Vince tried to dodge but another blast of alien bullets hit him in the leg. He crumpled over, barely finding cover behind another pallet of goods.

The shots came from the catwalk overlooking the maze of crates from the west wall. One of Voggoth’s mechanical commandos served as assassin.

Nina raised her rifle and tried to return fire, but more shots came in from the advantage of an elevated position. She retreated, pulling Vince along with her by his utility belt.

Behind cover, Nina took stock of her mates.

Bly lay in the open in a growing puddle of crimson. The impact tore away the top half of his head. Despite knowing battlefield gore all her life, Nina felt a sharp pang in her heart at the sight of her friend so badly mangled.

She turned to Vince. Blood streamed out and over his black BDUs from a wound to his knee. His face twisted in agony, but he refused to cry out.

Captain Forest removed her pack and retrieved a heavy bandage. She struggled to wrap it around the wound. His leg shook violently from the pain.

“Listen, we have to stop the bleeding; or at least slow it down,” she spoke the obvious. “Then I can get you out of here.”

“I can’t walk, Nina.”

“Not yet you can’t. But look, I’ve got strong shoulders. We’ll get you out of here.”

“Strong shoulders? Yeah—yeah…” he mumbled as she wrapped the bandage tight. Blood spouted but with each trip around the leg the dressing grew firmer and pressed against the hole in his leg.

A grating metallic sound interrupted the first aid treatment. The two soldiers faced south and saw the bulkhead from which they had come slam shut with a very permanent clang.

Nina returned to her work, pulling the bandage tight on its final trip around his knee.

Another grating metallic sound. This one farther away. This one from the north end of the warehouse. Nina did not need to see the bulkhead opening; she could picture it in her mind. She wondered how the Christians had felt when the Romans opened the tigers gate on the far side of the coliseum…

The north side door finished opening and out of the black came Voggoth’s robotic commandos skating in and swaying side to side on the wheels in their heels. Kind of like rollerbladers gliding along a sidewalk.

Bronze-colored metal helmets protected solitary round red eyes that swiveled sideways surveying the warehouse as they moved in. Their skeletal bodies wore bronze metal ribcages that protected blobs of bio mass that blurred the line between robot and animal. Gun barrels affixed to forearms gave the Commandos fire power equivalent to a human carbine.

A Sergeant—identified by black chevrons atop silver shoulder plates that also sported twin grenade launchers—generated a static-filled electronic tone that served as a communication. The squad of ten commandos split into pairs and entered the maze from the north side and searched for their quarry…

Nina tried to clamp the bandage but Vince grabbed her hand.

“Go.”

“What? Listen, I’m not going to leave you.”

“Then what, Nina? We’ll just wait here until they come and gun us down? Don’t be—don’t be stupid. Get going.”

She stared at him for a moment. Thought. Then pulled him into a small space between two pallets.

“Wait here,” she said. “I’m not going to leave you.”

He opened his mouth in protest, but she silenced him with glaring, narrow eyes.

With that, Nina adjusted her beret tighter on her head and ran into the maze from the south moving fast but silent. She discarded the sound suppressor on her carbine as she moved.

Sterile bright lights from above cast over the labyrinth, chasing most but not all shadows. The same smell of rot that lived throughout the complex remained in the air here, but joined by the sour odor of decaying foodstuffs hovering over the field of crates.

She followed the nozzle of her gun as she ran forward then turned right along a wall of grain sacks, then left and forward again between row upon row of number ten soup cans piled eight feet high.

The sound of wheels rolling on the concrete floor carried through the passages of the maze. The noise grew, then spread all around her. Some to the east, others to the west, more to the north.

Movement to her left.

Nina flattened against a barricade of white cases marked “Sysco Imperial Brand”, held her breath, and grabbed her M4 by the barrel upside-down.

Two pair of wheels rolling—closer—closer…

She stepped around the corner and waved her rifle like a club. The stock smashed into a Commando’s head. The casing cracked. The creature emitted an electronic wail one step removed from a turntable needle scratching across a warped LP. The metallic neck of the thing bent backwards and its red eye went dark as it hit the hard floor on its skeletal back.

As her swing followed through, Nina let go with her right hand and reversed motion with her left. The M4 twirled around and she caught it in perfect firing position.

The second Commando took aim with its forearm-mounted barrel. At a distance of three feet, Nina held her trigger on full-automatic. Flames burst from the gun as it spat a fatal storm of bullets into the gut of the thing. Impact after impact pushed the roller back on its skates, arms flailing wide, taking on the appearance of a tent-revival robot preacher channeling powers from above.

She stopped firing. The creature fell dead into a cluster of cookie tins.

Nina’s instincts gave warning: danger from behind.

Two more Commandos came around the t-intersection of crates behind her. One immediately knelt, the other stood, both took aim.

Nina darted left passed a pallet stacked with industrial-strength salts. Pursuing shots tore into cardboard boxes spilling grains like sand seeping from a punctured hour glass. She disappeared around a corner.

The robotic assassins skated forward, eager to catch their quarry. As they rounded the corner of boxes she fired toward them from the far side of a small open space. The Commandos halted. One returned fire. The other glanced down just in time to see the grenade at their wheeled feet. It howled a screeching electronic scream before an explosion of shrapnel tore apart both their metallic rib cages and splattered the biological mass contained therein. Two more red eyes went dark.

Nina turned away from the ambush and moved north again, racing fast but careful down a center aisle lined with crates of tea bags, shortening, and powdered soups.

As she passed one crossway, a flurry of enemy bullets whizzed by the back of her head. She heard their wheels gain speed in frantic pursuit.

The passage led to an open space. A sort of courtyard at the middle of the maze.

The wheels behind her to the south grew louder. But as she stepped forward she heard more wheels come from the north. And still more from the east and west.

The blood hounds had surrounded the wolf…

The Sergeant skated into the open section with twin grenade launchers on its shoulders ready to fire. It found only the other five of its number. Red eyes stared at red eyes with electronic bewilderment.

The wheels on the Sergeant’s feet retracted and the robot paced the empty space while emitting a series of scathing bleeps and chirps.

It paused as a communication came through from the team’s spotter…

The Commando on the catwalk radioed the search party as its own gun barrel drew a bead on the human running and leaping atop the stacks of the maze. The woman moved with the agility of a cat, never breaking stride just stretching a little further with each step to make it to the next piled pallet.

The spotter opened fire, but the distance did not allow for accurate aim. Instead, it radioed a target…

The sergeant—flanked by two Commandos—skated furiously along the aisles of crates and boxes guided by electronic chatter from the catwalk. As it moved, the small cylinders on the sergeant’s shoulders rotated side to side and then elevated.

One last quick buzz came to the leader’s robotic ear from the spotter on the catwalk. The sergeant halted. Two projectiles launched from its shoulders, lobbing out from the hidden passageways into the air above the labyrinth…

Nina heard the soft pop of the launchers as she jumped from a stack of tomato paste cases onto a cluster of pallets holding boxed detergents. She landed in a kneel with her M4 bouncing hard in its sling on her back.

She turned her head and saw two burning balls arching through the air directly for her.

Nina jumped, falling between the walls of crates and packages yet again. The two explosive shells detonated above, blowing open a dozen containers and sending a grainy cloud of powdered detergent into the air.

Nina felt a sharp pang of pain in her right ankle as she landed but the minor injury did not slow her. She took flight through the warren of passages with the sound of rolling wheels chasing from behind—and then bullets ricocheted off the concrete in front of her just as she entered a four way intersection. The fire came from her left.

The wolf flattened against the wall for a moment, then bobbed around the corner on a knee firing on full automatic. She walked her shots in toward the Commando who stood half-behind a pallet full of cooking oil cans tightly shrink-wrapped in a bunch. The bullets from her M4 made a muffled ting as they pierced the tin containers. Steady streams of Wesson splashed on the floor.

The robot returned fire. Nina retreated a step and switched out an empty magazine for a new one. A moment later she peeked again and rapid-fired not so much to kill but to suppress in order to buy time to gain a better view of available paths.

The one directly across the intersection appeared the most inviting and the most expeditious route to the north; the way she felt she must go to find and kill the Bishop. But just as she decided to dart across the intersection, one of the Commandos appeared in that passage ahead at a distance of thirty feet in a direct line of fire to her, and vice versa.

Nina won the test of speed. Her rifle launched lethal shots just as her foe raised its arm. Some bullets missed wide but in the storm of full-auto fire quantity overcame a lack of quality. The Commando shivered and then fell in a heap to the concrete floor. Its red eye flickered before fading black.

Nina ran across the intersection spitting suppression fire to her left as cover. She raced between a high stack of potato sacks to her left and large red shelving holding drums and crates to her right.

To her surprise, a second Commando stepped over the body of the dead one and into the passage leading north; directly in front of her. Nina braked hard and nearly fell as her momentum grappled with the traction of her boots.

The new arrival had a clear shot at her. This time Nina did not win the test of speed, but she reversed course quickly and jogged side to side to avoid incoming bullets. Fragments of rotting potato peels blew out from her right and jets of smelly liquid shot out from her left as the Commando’s rounds hit the walls to either side but missed the zigzagging mark.

As she raced toward her previous position another of the Commandos—the Sergeant with black Chevrons on silver shoulder plates—appeared 15 yards ahead.

Nina fired her weapon but just as her mental tab sheet knew it would, her gun ran dry before hitting home.

The Sergeant rocked its metal-encased head side to side in what might have been a kind of robotic taunting and launched a pair of burning grenades as Nina approached at full speed with enemy bullets from behind chasing her all the way.

She reached the intersection before the explosives and jumped left. The devices hit a pallet of boxes and exploded. A thunderstorm of peanuts and cashews filled the four-way intersection with nearly shrapnel-like velocity. Nina rolled east beneath it all then found her feet and ran. As she moved she struggled to change out another empty magazine for a fresh one.

The Commandos pursued. She heard their garbled, synthesized conversations and the roll of their wheels. The passage she traveled straightened with crossways every five yards.

A flash of bronze to her left.

Nina fired a burst to ward off the shadow.

A volley of enemy fire from her right.

She responded with another burst, but kept moving east.

Nina slowed and turned about and saw one of the skeletal Commandos following her at a distance. She paused and it fired but did so with no real attempt to aim from its concealed position behind a stack of containers.

BAM!

Jugs of fouled sweet peppers exploded in a corridor to the south. Liquid and slimy slivers of green and red oozed to the floor.

She fired in that direction then ran again to the east. Rolling wheels sounded to her right—and her left—and from behind.

They’re herding me.

She ran faster, stopped at an intersection, and aimed to her left—the north. She fired bullets before she saw anything. One of the Commandos—rolling parallel to her flight—drifted into the stream of fire. It spun around like an off-kilter top and went down in a pile of scrap.

Its partner learned from the mistake, stopping shy of the open corridor and holding its arm around the corner, letting fly a hail of rounds. At the same time, to the south, Nina heard the distinct pop of more grenades: the Commandos shadowing her on her right flank had arrived.

She did not wait. Nina grudgingly ran east again: the way they wanted her to go. A moment later a pair of small explosions blew apart chunks of concrete where she had just stood.

The rolling wheels began again, content to contain her and direct her rather than engage.

She ran faster—faster, trying to reach the next intersection before the enemy did, as if maybe she could change direction north or south to avoid the trap. It did no good. The metallic soldiers increased their rolling speed as if sensing each change in her momentum.

She fired bullets to the left. The enemy there had learned not to charge into intersections without caution.

She fired more to her right. The Sergeant and his companion avoided the shots and answered with their own.

Nina ran forward again although her sense of direction—confused as it had become—felt as if all her running, dodging, and avoiding led her closer to the starting point where she had left her comrades than the end. As she moved she changed out yet another clip as ammunition became a scarce commodity.

The pallets piled high with boxes and crates and barrels stopped at an open space facing a trio of loading dock doors in the vast expanse of the eastern wall of the chamber. She arrived there a moment before the Commandos.

My last stand.

She turned south, knelt, and fired at the first sign of movement. Her volley hit the Sergeant’s wingman as it emerged full speed from the maze. That robot rolled across the open space and slammed lifeless into one of the loading dock doors.

The Sergeant blindly launched grenades in defense to ward off her automatic fire. The maneuver worked: the explosive balls hit one of the concrete walls between garage doors. Pieces of stone and mortar fell around Nina and the concussion wave knocked her off-balance. Her fire stopped; she fell over flat onto the cold floor, her rifle slid several paces away.

The three remaining bloodhounds reached the end of the hunt; one from the passage Nina had come, one to the north, and the Sergeant to the south.

They paused in what might have been a soldier-to-soldier courtesy as she stood in preparation for liquidation.

The turrets on the Sergeant’s shoulders swiveled with the sound of whirring gears. The one big red eye dominating its robotic head shrunk to a sliver as if squinting for better aim.

A series of fiery sparks engulfed the Sergeant. The thing shivered and spun around facing a new enemy to the south.

Vince Caesar—a trail of blood behind him—lay on the floor thirty yards to the south holding Carl Bly’s SAW.

Nina dove across the floor, grabbed her M4, and launched bullets into the Commando to the north. It went silent and fell backwards as if something flipped its ‘off’ switch.

The machine gun rounds tore apart the Sergeant. Vince tried to draw a bead on the second one, but it swerved side to side like a smart duck in a shooting gallery. Vince’s fire went high partly because he could not risk hitting Nina.

The remaining red-eyed soldier met Vince’s machine gun with shots from its own weapon. Before it found its mark, Nina blasted it from behind at close range. It emitted a sad electronic hum and fell face-first on the concrete.

The warehouse went quiet. The loudest sound to her ears came from her heaving chest.

Nina hurried along the outer wall to Vince. He lay on the floor. Blood pushed through the makeshift bandage on his knee. He had exerted a dangerous amount of effort.

She spat, “Vince, are you crazy? Your knee—“

“Shut up. I wanted to rescue you for once. About time someone did. That all of them?”

Nina spoke through huffs of deep breath; the adrenaline still ran through her veins like burning aviation fuel.

“There’s one still up on the catwalk,” she glanced in that direction but the maze of crates and shelves blocked her view and therefore, in return, blocked any view of them from the spotter.

“Nina Forest.”

Nina turned around fast expecting to see the Bishop standing over her with some implement of torture. She saw nothing other than the labyrinth of stacked pallets and the de-activated Commandos.

“It is good to be near you again.”

The voice came from a PA system. She did not know if that system belonged to the remains of the Sysco facility or something The Order installed. She supposed it did not matter.

“You were always a good soldier,” the Bishop’s words slithered through the air. “Always focused on accomplishing the mission.”

Vince mumbled, “Who the hell is that?”

Nina did not answer.

“You performed a tremendous service for Voggoth many years ago. Your most glorious mission. Do you remember? You delivered Trevor Stone to me. You betrayed him, Nina. I never had the opportunity to thank you for your work. Well done, Nina Forest.”

The back of her neck grew red. Her brow furled as her eyes darted around the chamber searching for the source of the transmission. She did not think the Bishop saw her, but his dead minions certainly gave him a clue as to her position.

“He suffered for days. We nearly purified him. All thanks to you, Nina. It is a shame that you have wasted your skills in service to humanity. Voggoth could use another drone as talented as you.”

Nina stood tall and straight. She cradled her M4 in her arms.

Vince grew nervous. Not for himself, but for her.

“Nina, listen, he’s just trying to bait you. Trying to draw you further in.”

It occurred to Nina that Vince held little understanding of what the Bishop might mean. He—like the other wolves—only knew the general story of her capture, implantation, and stolen memories. Nothing more.

“You are such a good soldier, Captain Forest. Especially when you serve Voggoth’s ends.”

Vince reached up from his position on the ground and grabbed her arm.

“Don’t do it. It’s a trap.”

Nina realized that while Vince did not know the whole story, his faith in her—his loyalty—trumped anything the Bishop might say or suggest.

“I know.”

“Nina,” but Vince’s protest trailed off when he saw her narrow eyes; her determined eyes. “Okay, then, you want the SAW?”

“No, too heavy,” she answered and eyed his wound. She might be able to get him out of there with a strong shoulder, but he could not help her with what lay ahead. “You keep it. Hold out here as long as possible. I’ll come back and get you when I’m finished with this.”

“Here,” he slipped off his shoulder holster with the Mac-11 and held it to her. “Take this. Every bit counts.”

She accepted the weapon and slipped it over the shoulder opposite her own Mac-11.

“I apologize, Nina Forest,” the Bishop’s voice returned. “It is a shame that when your compatriots removed our implant you lost all those memories.”

Nina thought about the missing year of her life. She thought about what she had lost. She thought about a life with Trevor, stolen by Voggoth and his ilk.

If the Bishop had hoped to intimidate or confuse, he failed. His taunts gave birth to the seed of fury planted in Nina the day she had awoke in The Order’s facility with her memories stolen. A seed nurtured first by mystery and then by the revelations of all she had lost. Of all they had taken.

“I am sure you would be proud of how efficiently you performed for Voggoth. I cannot restore those memories, but I could share the story with you if you care.”

Vince threw his eyes toward the ceiling and remarked, “He really doesn’t know who he’s fucking with, does he?”

The energy in her body—every muscle, every nerve—seemed to vibrate. All her life Nina had felt proficient with weapons; now she felt as if her very person had become a weapon, fueled by anger and guided by lethal instinct. The battle in the maze with the Commandos served merely as an appetizer. The main course awaited.

She nodded to Vince and then walked north. After a minute she reached the end of the maze. Far across the chamber on the western wall the remaining Commando rolled along the catwalk and aimed his weapon toward Nina as she moved into the open.

Its shots went wide; distance again thwarted the creature’s accuracy.

Nina changed the M4’s rate of fire switch, raised her rifle, and fired a solitary bullet that traveled all the way across the warehouse.

The Commando’s red eye shattered. Its robotic body rolled backwards, hit off the wall, then slumped forward over the catwalk railing. The thing fell to the floor far below.

Nina paid the dead enemy no mind. She continued walking north toward the exit.

Toward the Bishop.

18. Lone Wolf

The St. Claire Square mall included a food court. Not much had changed between pre-and post-Armageddon in that respect. On that particular evening as a steady rain drummed against the skylights, Jon Brewer sat at a long table in that big room with a cup of coffee and a grilled chicken sandwich.

Well, at least it tastes like chicken.

Only a few lights shined in the place, creating spaces of dark and spaces of light illuminating aged counter tops here, marble floors there. At a distant table a trio of soldiers—two men and a woman—shared a midnight breakfast. At another table a solitary officer from an armored division paged through manuals in an attempt to solve a mechanical problem or another; probably seeking a way to make one kind of part that was available substitute for another kind of part that was not.

As for Jon Brewer, he reviewed readiness reports. Like much of his army, those reports suffered from sloppiness to a greater extent than typical just a few months ago. Another sign of his military machine—one he fostered since its inception in the ashes of Armageddon—descending into the chaos of final defeat.

Then again that analogy held true throughout ‘The Empire’ as things unraveled. In the eleven years since the invasion, humanity in North America had rebuilt itself into clusters of civilization surrounded by dangerous wilderness with that wilderness often times including major cities overrun by a new ecosystem of predators and prey: concrete jungles in a most literal sense.

Food production, industry, education, military training, and an entirely new economy—similar to but still distinct from the old world—grew into place. Man adapted.

Post-Armageddon Nebraska, Oklahoma, and Iowa may have only been populated by a few thousand settlers, but those settlers harvested enough crops to feed half of the nearly four million persons living and surviving in North America. Stocks would soon run low and starvation would become a serious concern as more and more refugees joined the larger enclaves in the east.

Upon Trevor’s return last year, he had broken the leadership of the burgeoning labor unions due to their involvement with the assassination attempt. This created difficulties in manufacturing goods and services. Shortages of clothing, machine parts, and electronics not only affected the civilian population but could be felt on the battlefield as evident by a dearth of hygiene and medical supplies.

Education? The schools had emptied either by order from local governors or due to a lack of students. Teenagers joined Jon Brewer’s army or the militias springing to life on a community by community basis. Kids as young as eight trained in firearms use in anticipation of a last stand.

Military training? The grooming of new officers came to a halt; every cadet became active-duty either on the front lines or in support roles or taking over garrison duties in far flung regions so as to free veteran troops for combating The Order.

Overall the economy stretched and broke. Continental dollars remained the official currency but Jon knew barter had come back in style. Indeed, growing numbers of people bartered for survival equipment then head for the hills or islands or the same bunkers they had occupied eleven years earlier when the monsters first arrived.

Then again—as he had witnessed on the Poplar Street Bridge—some sought a more permanent, personal end to the nightmare.

He tried to clear his mind. He needed to dice his concerns into bite-sized pieces so as not to choke on the whole.

While the distant click and clack of footsteps offered constant companionship to the darkness of midnight in the mall, a set of more determined clicks and clacks caught Brewer’s attention as they marched to his table.

He glanced away from the readiness reports and saw a slender black man. The guy walked with the type of military precision that spoke of his pre-Armageddon service.

Jon immediately recognized Carl Dunston, one of the original band of military survivors who had found the estate with Tom Prescott back in the first year.

Dunston saluted. Jon returned the courtesy with much less vigor; perhaps his own concession to the coming chaos.

“How was the flying out there tonight, Carl? Weather seems a bit iffy.”

“Not so bad, General. Just a little rain. Takes more than that to ground an Eagle.”

Dunston—an army pilot by trade—had been one of the first graduates from Trevor Stone’s personal ‘how to fly a captured alien shuttle’ course.

“What have you got there?” Jon referenced the envelope tucked under Dunston’s arm.

Carl removed the envelope, undid the clasp, and handed it to Jon. General Brewer pulled out a series of photographs—most aerial and many taken with infrared equipment—as well as a trio of pages stapled together.

“Intelligence summary, sir. Data comes from flybys this afternoon and earlier tonight.”

Jon skipped the photos and paged to the final paragraph of the typed report.

He read aloud, “In summary, Battle Damage Assessments indicate the enemy suffered substantial losses to core ground units including the elimination of one Leviathan. Furthermore, precision strikes by air combat group Dasher on secondary targets resulted in a thirty-five percent reduction in munitions production as well as a forty-five percent reduction in farming facilities. Intelligence estimates a minimum of three days will be required for the opposing force to affect repairs to munitions production and a minimum of seven days to re-constitute destroyed and damaged farms with subsequent crop yields anticipated no sooner than June 22nd.”

Jon allowed the hint of a smile to tug at the corner of his lips.

“At this time, enemy resources are focused on re-constituting air defenses in preparation for additional aerial incursions. Reconnaissance indicates an increase in AA batteries by a magnitude of three compared to pre-strike levels.”

“Jesus,” Dunston muttered. “We won’t be able to get near them again with that kind of flak.” The pilot thought about that for a moment and conceded, “Then again, we only got a handful of planes left, anyway.”

Jon pulled his eyes away from the report and agreed with the caveat, “True, but Voggoth doesn’t know that. Point is, with his farms beat up this bad that means every defensive Spook he builds is one less Sentry or Chariot or other ground weapon he can use to hit us on the Mississippi.”

The general continued reading and found that, like most intelligence reports these days, this one had offered the good news first as if apologizing in advance for the bad.

“Auxiliary enemy forces are now moving to the muster zone at Excelsior Springs to compensate for reduced farming capacity and lost core units. These auxiliary units are typically employed for mop-up or terror operations and hence have a lower offensive capability. However, observations suggest the entirety of such auxiliary forces west of the Mississippi are redeploying to Excelsior Springs. An estimate of numerical strength at this time would prove inaccurate but military planners should expect the enemy force to be similar to pre-Operation Baseplate numbers within 7 to 14 days.”

Jon let the report drop.

Dunston asked, “What do you think all that will end up meaning, General?”

Jon eased in his chair and relaxed with the feeling of a death row inmate earning a stay of execution albeit at the expense of a final, hopeless appeal. The day of reckoning would still come, but Operation Baseplate purchased more of the valuable commodity known as time.

“It means we bought ourselves a week. Maybe two. The Geryons have stopped moving south and the Centurians have stopped marching north. Wherever the Chaktaw are, they’ve stopped marching too, I’ll bet. They won’t hit us until Voggoth hits us.”

“But what does that mean for us?”

“More time to prepare,” although Jon knew that also meant more time for his demoralized army to disintegrate from fighting machine to rabble. “It also means we’re going to face more of the little guys like Roachbots, Mutants, and monsters and less of Voggoth’s heavy stuff when he does come knocking on the Mississippi.”

Jon knew those words sounded encouraging, as long as Dunston had not really examined the Intel photos. The volume of Wraiths, Mutants, mutated Feranites, and Roachbots leaving their raiding territories to join the main army was alarming, to say the least. Once they assembled they would become an army nearly as numerous as the units they replaced, albeit not quite as well-honed for large-scale battle. Yet as long as the Leviathans figured into the equation Jon guessed that made little difference.

“Do we have a fighting chance now, sir?”

Jon thought not about the unstoppable onslaught destined to smash into the Mississippi, but about Trevor and his son somewhere on the other side of the world and answered, “Yes.”

Like a Frisbee, the device spun through the dark corridors of the Sysco complex. On top of the spinning disk rested a box of wires and veins sporting two eye-like lights surveying the space below.

The Bishop saw what the flying drone saw via a display set in a wall of green paste and supported by metallic ribs that bent gently with the domed shape of the chamber. That display more resembled the warped mirrors of a fun house than a video screen but the picture came through clear enough, causing a flicker of light through the wide round room.

The surveillance drone relayed images of Voggoth’s slaughtered children: a monk in a corner near an open door; two of his expert Commandos reduced to sparking heaps behind an overturned desk in a supervisor’s office-turned-ambush point.

But no sign of their attacker.

The body of a young man who had been turned into a Missionary hovered at the Bishop’s side and listened as his master extrapolated from the trail of bodies, “She is moving toward the fuel depot. Toward me.”

“I shall send our forces to intercept.”

“Which forces are those?”

The Missionary man glanced toward the skin-like door leading away from the Bishop’s refuge. Outside, in a wide corridor and surrounding office-space, waited some 100 monks and a pair of the brutish Ogres.

“No,” the Bishop read the Missionary’s intention. “We transferred the bulk of the garrison to Excelsior Springs. They are all that remains to guard this sanctuary,” by that, the Bishop most certainly meant himself. “You will go, personally, and use the tools with which Voggoth has blessed you. Intercept her at the entrance to the depot.”

The Missionary man hesitated.

The Bishop glared in disdain for what remained of the human instinct for self-preservation inside Voggoth’s vessel. The Missionary relented and retreated from the room.

At one time the warehouse housed frozen foods in a freezer hundreds of feet long and thirty yards wide. In those days a massive cooling system maintained a frigid temperature to keep everything from chicken tenders sticks to ice cream bars in stasis while waiting to be shipped across the Midwest to restaurants and cafeterias.

That time had long past, but The Order found new use for the gigantic freezer, albeit with a temperature much warmer and humid than before.

Growths of dark green and brown covered the concrete floor in something akin to a shaggy carpet and continued up the tall walls on either side in a kind of otherworldly ivy. A handful of luminous bulbs sprouted from buds mixed in with the ivy creating starlight specks from the upper reaches of the terraformed walls.

The young Missionary man walked along the wide, open, and dimly lit warehouse aware the enemy might lurk in one shadow or another. And while he did not fear death, he did fear the wrath of Voggoth. Of course fear was an emotion useless to the machinations of The Order except when utilized as a weapon. Inside the converts to Voggoth’s legions, that remaining trace of humanity served as a detestable obstacle to purity.

Along the walls of the frozen foods section of Sysco-Olathe stood a dozen vats twenty feet high constructed by Voggoth’s engineers. The bloated containers pulsed and gurgled with the occasional hiss of a what might be considered steam.

Thick hoses traveled from the top of each vat into the ceiling high overhead, then across that roof where they met at a solitary sphere. From there fuel traveled topside for collection by passing Chariots.

Chunks of charcoal gelatin surrounded the base of each vat, spilling out on the otherwise flat and vacant center of the huge chamber.

The Missionary man passed the array with his eyes darting from side to side, waiting for the predator to pounce.

She did not. Instead, Voggoth’s convert reached the southern opening of the gigantic freezer. A particularly thick membrane dotted with tiny purple and red veins withdrew and he stepped into a wide passage running east to west in front of the bulkhead.

The thing that had once been human pulled two small balls from the pockets of his black jacket and dropped them to the floor. The balls expanded as if filling with gas until reaching the size of a beach ball. Then the spindly legs of Spider Sentries poked out from the spheres, followed by the sharp pointed nose of their jagged skewers and the rows of barrels across their ungodly faces.

The Missionary—flanked by the Spider Sentries—stood and waited. His eyes ran east up the hall. Doors lined the corridor there, some open and leading to dark passages; others closed tight, all tainted by the spread of sickly ivy.

His eyes ran west to a t-section where a garage door stood shut and corridors led off to other parts of the complex. No movement there, either.

A noise grabbed his attention; a sliding noise. Something scurried along the concrete floor directly for his feet.

The Missionary jumped back a step, bumping into the heavy membrane protecting access to the depot. His eyes darted to the floor in front of him where he saw some kind of backpack; something thrown across the floor at his position.

The Missionary reacted faster than the Spider Sentries. In a moment’s time he retraced the flight of the backpack to one of the dark doorways to the east. His new eyes—accustomed to the dim lighting of Voggoth’s den—saw the silhouette of the enemy stooped low by one of those doors.

He raised his arm to command the sentries to assault.

The detpack at his feet exploded.

A volcano of concrete erupted form the floor and radiated outward turning the Missionary into a blob of gore and ripping the legs off the Spider Sentries. Their ball-shaped heads flew away and shredded apart in layers like peeled onions. Their charred remains came to rest dozens of feet away from the blast zone.

Most important to Nina, the explosion tore a hole in the bulkhead.

With her Colt M4 pointed ahead, she hurried across the hall, stepped carefully around the blob of gore on the floor, and moved into the vast darkness of the old freezer chamber.

There she met the constant, rhythmic glug and hiss of the vats converting raw nutrients into fuel. A whining noise drew her attention from the vats lining the chamber to something overhead. There she saw two eye-like lights fixed to a spinning disk.

She took aim with her rifle and fired. The drone zigzagged to avoid the shots and circled high into the darkened rafters.

Nina tried to track its movements, but a more immediate concern grabbed her attention: a chorus of electronic hums from the far side of the chamber. She watched as pinpricks of yellow formed over there like a cloud of angry gnats. That cloud turned into a storm streaming across the open space at her, fast and then faster; loud and then louder.

Nina raised her weapon and fired.

One of the yellow balls exploded in a shower of liquid that engulfed another of its number. Both flickered dark. The rest kept coming.

Nina instinctively retreated a step, and then two, but her eyes remained fixed on the approaching targets.

She fired again.

One of fourteen disappeared.

She fired a three-round burst.

Two misses—one hit.

Louder; close enough now that she could see the tiny licks of flame-light dancing on the surface of the sun-like glowing balls.

Another—another—another dropped to her shots, but time ran out.

Nina switched to full automatic on her rifle and met the storm with a storm of her own. Quantity over quality; metal against burning acid.

Three more of the glowing projectiles exploded into mists of acid. Where every drop of spilt acid fell, puffs of smoke sizzled form the mesh-covered floor.

Nina ran toward the side of the complex. The six pursuers changed course not so much in a straight line, but sluggishly as if in battle with their own momentum.

She switched out her magazine while in the midst of a full sprint. The glowing spheres screamed their electronic hum just over her shoulder. Nina dove—straight to the floor into the soft surface of intertwined vines. The balls of acid swooped over her prone back by the nearest of margins, flew forward, and tried to turn for a second pass but another could not stifle speed fast enough and hit into a gurgling vat of fuel. Its corrosive juices splashed on the vile barrel but did not breach the container. Plumes of steam carried toward the ceiling and Nina felt sure she heard the container moan.

Nina knelt and fired at full automatic again. The barrel of her gun created flashes like fireworks bouncing off the green walls. Her shots down two more enemies. A splash from one dropped on the shoulder pads of her body armor at the same time as she rolled to her right to avoid the remaining trio of attackers: they over shot again.

Nina took to her feet and ran toward the wounded vat; one in a line of such vats along the eastern wall. She felt heat radiating from her shoulder; digging through the padding to find its way to flesh. Behind her the electronic screams grew louder yet again as the hunters sought the target.

With one hand holding her weapon, the other struggled with the smoking body armor. She pulled one arm free then reached the vats, pressing into the small space between the hideous containers and the infected wall.

The missiles altered course away from the vats, not daring to hit another of their own, and circled higher toward the rafters like dive bombers re-positioning for another attack run.

Nina used the momentary respite to remove the remains of her damaged armor taking care to not touch the noxious surface of Voggoth’s machinery. The horrid, decaying smell forced a wretch in her stomach but she remained focused on the task. No distractions could dissuade her. No horrors here could intimidate her. Nina had become a weapon unto herself. She played the nightmare in Voggoth’s dreams.

Nina emerged from the shadow of the vat and spied her attackers looming over head. They, in turn, descended in a glowing yellow picket line.

Nina squeezed the trigger on her M4 and again met their charge with bullets; a furious barrage of bullets. She felt the heat from her over-worked weapon; she smelled the burning metallic aroma of cartridges firing one after another after another.

Pop—splash. Pop—splash. Pop—splash.

A light rain of acid drizzled to the warehouse floor as her rifle dispatched the remaining orbs. Yet her victory felt pyrrhic as the battle computer inside her head realized the cost: she had expended the last 5.56 round in her possession..

The twin Mac-11s on her shoulders, a threesome of grenades, and her thigh-mounted Desert Eagle stood ready but nothing to feed the Colt…

A legion of Monks and a pair of muscle-bound Ogres awaited The Bishop’s orders in the dark hall outside his command chambers. The emerald-eyed fiend took great pleasure in what was to come and like all of Voggoth’s creations he understood that only pain—as acute as possible—could satiate his Master’s desires.

“’Go,” he commanded the mutated humans in robes, “go and purify her with your blades.”

The Monks drew the short pikes that passed for swords and marched south, first slow and then faster—faster—with the evil enthusiasm of a crazed mob…

Nina gazed at her rifle. It nearly glowed with heat, but even the radiation of the barrel could not match the heat of anger firing in her heart. The Bishop still waited. The creature responsible for her loss. The one who had used her as a tool against the man she loved. The root of the death and destruction delivered unto her world.

He will not escape.

At the far side of the chamber a long wide portal opened. A line of silhouettes raced into the room. She saw the flaps of their robes as they ran. Their numbers—100 strong—stretched from one side of the chamber to the other. Behind that fast-moving vanguard lumbered a pair of slower Ogres.

Trevor’s voice came to her as clearly as if he stood next to her in that darkness. The words he had said to her at the mansion; after the last meeting.

“Go after them, Nina.”

She would not wait. No retreat. No defense. No escape. The only thing Nina had known all her life presented the only remaining option.

Attack.

She dropped the M4 and drew her sword. Her eyes narrowed, her brow furled, and Nina ran at them. She ran with every ounce of speed her legs could muster. The black beret flew off and her ponytail fluttered behind.

Fifty feet…

The monks with their swords increased their speed in response to her charge. The sound of their pounding footfalls created a steady beat like an unstoppable tide rolling to shore. Their wide line condensed into a mob as they neared their target.

Thirty feet…

Nina grasped the hilt in a death-grip. The sword she had taken from a Mutant; the day she had met Denise. It hung behind her and to the side as she leaned forward in eagerness to meet her fate. She ran even faster. Her heart raced like a drum played by the devil.

Ten feet…

She saw the once-human rotting faces with splotches of red and green and flakes of skin hanging like scales. Their damned eyes locked on to her and knew only that they must hurt and wound and kill because that was all any creature of Voggoth could possibly desire. A destiny Nina once thought she shared but now she knew more. She understood more. And she would fight for it.

Nina jumped. She jumped like an Olympic hurdler, passing over the first enemy swings, landed behind the vanguard and in the midst of the mob, and she kept running, swinging as she moved with the momentum of her charge behind the arc of the blade. No consideration for defense. No blocks. No attempt to parry. Nothing but attack—attack—attack.

A head rolled free; a robe fell limp; an arm holding an alien rapier flew through the air. And still Nina darted through the sea of attackers, dropping her shoulders and swinging; leaping forward and thrusting. Everything in the blade. Nothing but attack!

Their counter-thrusts hit air as if trying to puncture a ghost. Enemy swords clanged against enemy swords where she had stood just a blink ago. Nina refused to stop, instead sweeping onward like a farmer’s scythe reaping harvest.

The bodies dropped around her in a line of dominoes knocked asunder. Yet more moved in with the Bishop’s orders of purification dictating tactics.

She felt the tip of one sword rip across her shoulder. Before a single drop of blood came from the laceration she had slain three more.

No fencer’s skill; Nina moved as a butcher.

A wide swath—a slit chest, a cut throat, a skull torn in half, a shoulder chopped into mush. Her sword did not falter; did not get caught in the gore. The strength of her muscle and the power of her rage made each swing unstoppable.

The entire upper half of an enemy body fell away from the bottom; the blade drove through a rib cage without pause; her weapon eviscerated a monk who dared block her path…

That sea of robes—still four score strong—spread in the slightest; took pause in the face of this demon of slaughter.

Directly in her path one of the monks discarded his blade and against the desires of his master raised his forearm and took aim with the alien gun mounted there.

Nina threw her sword. It hit the mutated man square in the chest. The body fell straight backwards to the floor.

Before the sound of the thump carried to her ears, Nina pulled the Mac-11s from their dual shoulder harnesses and, holding the guns sideways, waved her arms to either side in a slow arc dealing deadly bullets into the mob. She kept her eyes forward; she did not aim with anything other than instinct, yet not a single bullet missed.

She spied the Ogres lining up for their run at her through the gauntlet of robed monks. Her battle computer saw it all so clearly. So precisely. So easy.

Her guns clicked dry at exactly the same moment. Piles of dead monks rose on her flanks but the balance of the force did not hesitate; they climbed over their fallen brethren and poured in toward their unarmed victim like Moses’ parted Red Sea collapsing onto Pharaoh.

Nina ran forward again as the blades thrust toward her person. As she did, her arms worked in fast unison to her utility belt. One—then a second grenade—sans pins—dropped to the moss-covered floor.

While the mob closed in from the sides, one of the Ogres met her at the dead body pierced by her thrown sword.

Captain Nina Forest acted in a flash of lightning. While the clumsy brute raised its arms in attempt to pound her from above, she drew the sword from the fallen monk like Arthur pulling Excalibur from the rock and slashed across the creature’s kneecaps. She felt the bone there—or what passed for bone—crunch and the flesh gape open.

The monster stumbled to a knee.

The monks swarmed in.

She balanced her left hand on the shoulder of the half-collapsed beast and swung over as if she were a gymnast working the vault. As she landed, the grenades exploded. The shrapnel bore into the face and chest of the wounded Ogre; its body served Nina as an unwilling shield. A shotgun blast of an explosion hammered the horde of Monks. Bodies flew. Blood rained. Limbs tumbled through the air

The second Ogre confronted Nina.

Her sword plunged up where a crotch should be, driving in nearly to the hilt.

The Ogre fell forward; it’s face directly in front of her.

The Desert Eagle appeared in her hand. The Ogre’s alien eyes gazed at the big black barrel. From point blank range she pulled the trigger once, twice, three times. Each powerful round tore away a chunk of monster-skull. The dead creature dropped over and hit the floor with a heavy tremor.

Nina turned around. A handful of monks remained to face her. A handful of bullets remained in the Desert Eagle. She found a match for each.

The last gunshot echoed through the chamber, replaced by the steady gurgle and throb of the fuel tanks and feint moans from the mortally wounded.

Nina let the hand gun fall and then struggled to retriever her sword from the body of the second Ogre. It took some doing, but the blade came free.

Her eyes—still determined; still alive with anger—turned north again.

Next.

The walls wore a thick coating of green growth that took on the texture of not-quite-dry spackle. Wires—that could easily be mistaken for vines or perhaps even veins—hung loose over the musty corridor. A pair of glowing orbs drooped from the ceiling on twisting ropes casting the hall in a pale light.

No opposition greeted Nina. The last of The Order’s minions lay dead or dying (whatever that might mean to such abominations) behind her in the fuel depot. Only the buzzing sound of the Frisbee-thing with the glowing eyes followed her, and she had determined it presented no threat other than broadcasting her position. She decided that no longer mattered.

She knew the Bishop would not run. She knew he would wait for her with, no doubt, a surprise or two. Admittedly, as she entered the dome-shaped chamber that served as the Bishop’s final refuge, the nature of that surprise managed to take her off-guard.

Three images played on rectangular screens lining the curved wall on the far side of the dome-shaped room. The video in the center came from the surveillance drone showing Nina’s backside as she passed through the open sheath at the chamber entrance.

The one to the left presented video taken from an aircraft; most likely one of The Order’s Chariots. The scene depicted a mixed eastern forest covered in a blend of turning autumn leaves as well as stalwart evergreens. In a clearing atop one mountain she saw two people.

The man wore shoulder-length hair and pointed toward the shipboard camera. Nina recognized him: Trevor Stone.

Behind Trevor stood Nina Forest, evident immediately by her telltale ponytail and tactical gear. She fumbled for something in a bag as the craft circled the clearing in an obvious attempt to land.

“This is who you are, Captain Forest,” the Bishop’s voice spoke from alongside the monitors. “Rather impressive, actually.”

The Nina on the mountainside pulled a small device just as Trevor turned to address her. After an electrical flash Trevor Stone doubled-over onto the grass and rocks of the mountain top clearing.

The image jumped. The camera now much closer; the Chariot had landed. Two monks moved from the craft toward Nina as she directed them at Trevor, who writhed in pain on the ground, unable to defend himself.

Again the video jumped, starting from the beginning in a continual loop of her sin.

“Such an accomplished soldier. Why you even used his affection for you as a weapon. You used it to isolate him. To deliver him unto Voggoth. I say again, impressive.”

The remaining video screen offered a darker image from a monitoring device mounted in the corner of a dimly lit chamber. She saw Trevor there, naked and bound by tentacle-like manacles. She saw herself approach him. And while no sound played, she could see by the anger in her eyes that she berated Trevor; scolded him. Taunted him, even. Much like the Bishop taunted her now.

“You are the greatest warrior of your people, Nina,” the words hissed from the Bishop’s mouth like a snake offering an apple. “Yet you served in his shadow. You won more victories than any other human, but never recognized. Your efforts go unappreciated.”

The image of Stone naked and weak taunted by Nina Forest looped as well. The screens continued to play over and over again. Her hand gripped the hilt of her short sword nearly to the point of crushing the metal. Her eyes left the fun-house-like screens and focused on the shadow of the fake-man standing along the wall.

“Voggoth has taken note of your abilities. There is no reason for you to perish alongside the rest of your species. It would be a shame for a creature of your talents to be thrown away.”

Nina did not speak. She listened. Certainly the Bishop knew she had come to kill, but it did not seem as if he spoke to save his existence. As slickly as he delivered his lines, the words felt rehearsed. A speech made to more than one group, no doubt.

She wondered how often the Bishop—or Voggoth itself—spoke such words. While the looping images tried to raise doubt and regret in her heart, the monster flattered her in an effort to turn Nina away from her kind.

Divide and conquer; but this time on a micro scale.

“Come, join with Voggoth. I promise the majority of your personality will remain intact but without doubt or regret or fear. With these weaknesses removed, you can be the greatest warrior the universe has known.”

Nina raised her sword.

The Bishop stepped forward. The light washed across him reflecting the crimson, squirming robe.

“I see. You may be under the misguided notion that my destruction will somehow benefit your people on the battlefield. This is not so. The army of Voggoth is replete with redundancy. It relies on no one piece. I offer for the last time a chance for you to survive and become something greater than your species could know; something immortal.”

Nina held steady. Her eyes ignored the looping images and focused entirely on her prey.

“Very well then.”

The Bishop held his arms aloft as if praying to something above. His head shook. Whatever lurked beneath the robe pushed against the cloth.

Nina had no intention of waiting. She lunged forward.

The Bishop’s skull opened like a blooming tulip. A thick appendage shot out from the sprout that had once been a neck. At the end of the four-foot-long tentacle hovered a shiny point of steel.

Nina plunged her sword toward its midsection, but before her blade struck the robe tore open and a series of limbs unfolded like a fist of crab legs stretching. Behind those tendrils dwelled something hideous. Nina glimpsed it—only a glimpse—before a blast of air in the form of a raucous scream knocked her backwards, rolling away from the monster.

The real face of the Bishop lived there, in what might have once been the chest of a man: a jagged orifice like a broken sore lined with blood-red gums and metal shark’s-teeth; a trio of slits—eyes—around the circumference.

The six smaller tendrils grew foot-long blades of steel. The apparition walked on legs that bulged into stumps where feet should be. It lumbered toward her. The maw huffed and puffed as if catching its breath; each exhale sent a cloud of muck into the air so pungent in smell that it served as a weapon.

Nina gagged and stood, her sword ready; her resolve strong despite the hideous beast she confronted.

The Bishop’s stinger launched as if spring-loaded. Nina side stepped and sliced, eliciting a howl from the round mouth. The other six appendages attacked in a series of lunges, thrusts, and hacks.

She stepped back, left, then right, and countered with a sweep of her blade that cut through the spongy flesh. One of the limbs fell to the ground.

The Bishop staggered a step in retreat. The red eyes narrowed. The stinger darted forward just brushing her shoulder as she leapt away. The three nearest alien blades all stabbed at her; each hitting the floor one after another as she rolled off and collided with the wall of the dome.

Its stinger struck again. She held her sword with the support of both hands and stooped. The blade deflected the attack and the sharp point of the stinger imbedded in the chamber wall. Before the creature could free its primary weapon, Nina hacked it off at the halfway point.

The pain from the blow caused the Bishop to abandon another wave of thrusts by the five remaining smaller limbs. Instead, it made a deranged weeping noise and wobbled backwards.

Nina went on the offensive. The face of the Bishop screamed again. The gust of wind came out like cannon-fire. She stumbled off her feet and back into the chamber wall just below the lost stinger.

With regained the initiative, the beast wobbled forward in a bull-like charge. All five of its remaining weapons came down around her. Instead of retreating—instead of dodging—Nina moved forward, directly at the maw of the thing.

Alien blades crashed into the floor creating a cage of arms. Her face hovered inches away from the massive, smelly orifice; too close to raise the sword with any real force. Strands of slimy saliva dribbled from the gaping mouth. The odor caused a ripple of nausea from her stomach to her throat. The monster opened wide; the jagged jaws poised to bite.

The smell—the noise—the trapped feeling inside the cage of talons… Nina’s internal battle computer forged past the horror and acted on instinct. Before the beast could strike, she stuck the one remaining grenade on her utility belt directly into the mouth.

The Bishop reacted as if choking and hobbled in retreat, pulling free its legs and ignoring her while struggling to dislodge the small object jammed in what mimicked a throat.

Nina jumped up, bound two big steps, and dove to the floor covering her head.

The monster flailed its arms and hacked as if trying to scream out the obstruction. The detonation of the grenade ended its struggle. The five remaining legs scattered around the room; a blob of pink and red gore splashed into the ceiling; tiny fragments of bone and flesh sprayed across the dome.

The rain fell in a steady dribble, the only sound filling the space around the massive Sysco warehouse. Off, to the east, the first fingers of sun tried desperately to cut through the gloom as dawn approached.

Nina supported much of Vince’s weight as they limped away from the complex. She knew that when they finished here her first order of business would be finding motorized ground transportation because Vince would not be walking under his own power any time soon.

They reached the berm near the old housing development, the place from where Nina and Carl had spied the Bishop’s arrival last night.

Not only did dawn usher in a new day, but also a new dynamic in Nina’s life. The assault on the complex decimated the Dark Wolves. For years the four of them survived seemingly hopeless battles against Duass infantry, missions into the heart of the Hivvan Republic, an ambush by humans from another dimension, and too many other operations to count.

Yet it had been The Order who managed to inflict the most damage upon them. Fitting, Nina figured, since it had been The Order who had inflicted the most damage on her, personally.

She carefully lay Vince on the soaked black dirt along the ridge.

“We have to move, Nina,” he reminded. “They’ll be sending reinforcements.”

Nina agreed, of course, but the job was not yet complete. The mission had to be more than about her sense of revenge; it had to mean something to the greater effort.

She produced the remote detonator. Bly had warned that they lacked enough C-4 explosives to bring down the entire complex. He had been right. Fortunately, The Order provided the rest of the needed firepower in the form of their fuel depot.

Her eyes marked the buildings infected with Voggoth’s machinery one last time through the steady drizzle of a dark morning.

Silently she whispered, “Aaawoooo,” in a wolf’s cry to her fallen friends.

The explosion started at the center of the complex as a flash, followed by the roof rising as if poked from below, then collapsing. Licks of fire danced in frosted windows. Then came the alien fuel drums. As they burst Nina heard moans of pain from the burning alien equipment.

The secondary explosions knocked out walls sending beams and planks like missiles over top her head and into the dead houses of the residential neighborhood behind. The fire spread in an eagerness to consume the pestilence of The Order’s works. The flames glowed a fierce yellow cast over the highway, the tree line, the parking lots, and the silent homes of Olathe, Kansas.

19. When Gods Weep

“Logistics is the ball and chain of armored warfare.”

–General Heinz Guderian

Armand’s blue Ducati—his tenth such motorcycle in the last year—joined with fifty other of his mechanized cavalry in creating a yellow dust storm rising from the flat steppes of Ukraine.

Fields of thinning yet tall grass surrounded the small road—more of a glorified path—for as far as the eye could see, except a mile to the north. There the jagged remains of a city disturbed the horizon’s otherwise even plane. The broken brick walls stood like ghosts staring through the lifeless eyes of windows hollowed by fire and collapse. Most of those fires and collapses had occurred long ago, but bursts of artillery and the crack of rifle fire signaled the return of warfare to a land whose history knew too much of invasion and battle.

Like the rest of the riders, Armand’s fashionable leather outfit and menacing black helmet and visor looked less cool covered in that chalky film, but they moved with a purpose as they flanked the southern side of Zhytomyr.

Purpose.

Armand gnawed on that word. As much as it pained him to admit it, Trevor Stone (no longer ‘the American’) had brought purpose to their consortium of enclaves.

The court of Camelot had saved the splintered and distraught tribes of Europe from the fires of Armageddon. Alexander proved himself a master at diplomacy, at building consensus, at understanding the details of survival and making a collection of diverse parties act as one. Indeed, Armand would have gladly given his life to protect that court or to act on Alexander’s commands. But Stone was a different animal.

The flock of bikers swerved—in unison—around an elephant-sized carcass of bones half-blocking the route. As he rode, radio transmissions from the battle in Zhytomyr played on Armand’s headset. Fortunately the last of the Duass outposts were squarely in the human horde’s rear view mirrors, reducing the chance of encountering that alien’s radio-attracted missiles.

“Command—requesting more artillery on those coordinates; enemy forces are preparing for another assault.”

“Roger that, request received. Stand by.”

Armand blocked out the chatter. He would be a part of the battle soon enough.

Different. Yes, that’s how he saw Trevor Stone. He failed to recognize that difference at first. He mistook it for something left over from the old world. But in the 11 days since breaking out from Murol and beginning their march east, Armand came to see that Trevor Stone was not a diplomat, not a self-important egomaniac, not a man of arrogance. He was a leader finely-tuned to this specific crisis. That exact moment in human history.

He doubted Stone would have made a good President or Premier or even King. Yet at the same time, Armand doubted any other person in all of human existence could understand the nature of their predicament with any more clarity.

“Twenty more of them coming in from the southeast sector! Damn it! They are riding those things again! Shit! Man down! Man down—”

Armand saw that difference for the first time when they found Voggoth’s armies disappeared from the battlefield. Apparently Trevor had anticipated that disappearance, but initially kept it to himself as if knowing no one in the court of Camelot would have believed it until they saw with their own eyes.

When they did, Stone’s credibility surged.

And when he said “we march” he meant it.

No waiting around for supply trains to gather, no delays in beginning their trip. Mere hours after the fall of that first Duass blockade the cavalry started out followed by a column of armor and trucks full of infantry. By the next morning the remaining forces from Murol joined the crusade and brought Danish armor, Italian horse soldiers, and German motorized infantry.

Armand sent couriers around Europe to call out all who would come, but the legion would not stop to wait. A Swiss artillery regiment met the group on the third day. Belgium troops barely found the rear echelon on day four, and a column mixed with Austrian citizen-soldiers and Hungarian regulars made contact in Prague on day five.

Armand eyed a split in the dusty path and signaled his riders to turn north. Their maneuver to the rear of the enemy neared its final stage. The motorcycles bounced over the rocky surface that one old map dared label a road.

Armand remembered how annoyed Trevor appeared on day seven when Alexander insisted they halt the advance outside of Krakow to wait for a battalion worth of hard-nosed Turkish soldiers to fly in on aging NATO cargo planes. Their numbers swelled that day, but Trevor reacted with only the slightest hint of approval.

Instead, he kept repeating that they must keep moving; that time served as their number one enemy. Armand could see part of that concern for time revolved around what might be happening in North America. The other part focused on the most important weapon in their arsenal; surprise.

After breaking out of the Duass’ choke hold on the countryside around Murol, they expected to encounter Voggoth’s great army; the army sent—according to Stone—to knock the Europeans down before The Order dealt a death blow to The Empire. That great army had vanished, possibly reappearing in North America although no lines of communication existed to confirm that suspicion.

Stone said on more than one occasion that Voggoth would not have pulled those forces from Europe had he not believed Trevor dead onboard the submarine. Yet as the days passed and the army grew in size it seemed Voggoth grew suspicious.

On Monday, June 8th—the same day, unbeknownst to Armand or Trevor, that Nina Forest set The Order’s Olathe compound alight—the Europeans crossed into Ukraine. Twice in the three days since they encountered large gatherings—‘forces’ would be too strong a word—of alien creatures blocking their way.

First came a pair of giant Goat Walkers which descended from the Carpathian mountains and intercepted the column at the airport just north of Pustomyty. Choppers and shoulder-fired AT weapons killed one of the beasts and drove off the other.

Two SU-24 Strike fighters from the remains of the Belorusian Air Force landed at the airport and joined the ragtag army. The planes were low on armament and would need to leapfrog between landing strips, but were welcome nonetheless.

At Rivne a mob of primitive Ghouls numbering nearly 500 charged the convoy’s flank. A contingent of Irish infantrymen and Italian cavalry bore the brunt of the assault and suffered a couple hundred casualties. Many of the injured were left behind under the care of volunteers so as to not slow the march.

After that battle Gaston’s intelligence unit traced the attack route of the Ghouls to an abandoned automotive manufacturing factory where he found hundreds of blobs of green goo.

If Trevor were to be believed the Ghouls had traveled through space and time from as far away as Cincinnati, Ohio; from the time when Trevor’s Empire seemed unstoppable in its expanse Voggoth, it seemed, scrambled to blunt the European advance.

And now came Zhytomyr where a couple hundred Mutants—the humanoids with big ugly mouths, beady eyes, and hover-bikes—manned barricades in the ruined city.

The easy part of the maneuver ended. Armand’s attention refocused on the mission. He radioed, “Tighten things up, everyone. Heavy weapons teams hurry to your mark and dismount. The rest of you with me to keep these bastards busy.”

The motorcycle cavalry gained speed as they swung in unison to the west again, riding fast for the destroyed city. Heaps of bricks and collapsing walls remained where buildings once stood—telephone poles lay splintered and toppled—roads were pot-marked with craters and lined with rusted Avtovaz sedans—bones here and there from various species—these were the sights of Zhytomyr.

An artillery shell burst in the blue afternoon sky in a puff of black and gray. Then another. The rat-tat-tat of assault weapons echoed over the ruins answered by the deep booms of alien flintlocks.

The cavalry spread into a skirmish line. Their approach did not go unnoticed.

A line of Mutants onboard hover bikes raced from the shadows of a shattered warehouse and rode to intercept in numbers nearly equal Armand’s troop. The aliens seemed a warped reflection of the human cavalry: both wore leather, although the Mutants’ gear appeared harder and bulky. Both brandished weapons: maces, chains, and clumsy pistols for the aliens; assault rifles and swords for the humans.

The forces raced toward one another across the fields east of the destroyed city, weaving and swerving to avoid piles of burned bodies and the weed-infested fuselage of a crashed passenger airliner.

Armand lowered his head as if he might be a human battering ram.

The two formations of riders smashed into one another. Rifles shot Mutants from hover-bikes. Maces smashed helmets. Collisions sent rides of both flavors into death spirals.

The cavalry pushed through.

While the remaining Mutant bikers swept around to make another pass, Armand gazed at the battle ahead. He saw hordes of the aliens huddled around barricades of tires and steel beams trading fire with soldiers. He saw 15-foot tall dinosaurs shooting streams of flame from barrels seemingly screwed into their necks with Mutants riding in saddles high on the creatures’ shoulders.

He saw what Trevor saw: an obstacle to be smashed and cast aside so that the mission could be complete. Armand saw purpose.

“Heavy teams, dismount and cut these bastards down. The rest of you, follow me!”

Night fell over Zhytomyr. The city that had been broken and torched at the outset of Armageddon burned yet again, although it surprised Alexander to find any kindling remaining among the rubble.

Overhead, a legion of peaceful stars belied the confusion below. The army marched forward, kicking up clouds that joined the smoke of a battle won to create a foggy ceiling nearly blocking any view of those heavens. The entire place smelled dusty, like an old closet opened for the first time in years.

Alexander walked hastily away from a group of officers in eclectic clothes who gathered beneath one of the few remaining ceilings in town. He left behind their campfire that cast a yellow glow over the chipped plaster of what had once been a small café.

The European leader carried what he always carried: his clipboard and a shoulder’s worth of worries.

The growl of truck motors, the drum of marching boots, the whirr of an unseen helicopter, and the occasional crack of distant gunfire played as background music to Alexander’s thoughts. Unhappy thoughts at that.

They had finally punched through the Mutant blockade just before nightfall, but his army had grown into a nearly unmanageable snake. The rear most elements—if they could even be identified—were just passing through Rivne, nearly 100 miles behind. Additional units spread to the north and south; a few completely disappeared due either to misdirection or attack.

And they kept coming. Volunteers poured in with the latest being dozens of Russian partisans traveling in horses and carts. Their knowledge of the lands to come would prove valuable but Alexander could no longer be sure he possessed an accurate roster.

That reminded him. Alexander erased the listing for “Romanian armored car group”. Their pair of light military vehicles failed to start after a rest stop that morning. A few of their number jumped in with the Polish mobile hospital, the rest remained with their vehicles hoping to effect repairs. In any case, they no longer deserved a listing in that all-important roster.

A fuel truck kicked a wooden plank from the road which rattled into the remains of a concrete divider wall a dozen feet from Alexander. The noise drew his eyes away from the clipboard and to the column of trucks. He wanted to believe the fuel trucks carried topped-off tanks, but he knew differently.

Fuel. Gasoline.

Reserves from stockpiles in eastern Germany and Romanian refineries alleviated the petrol problem for a few days, but even the tanker trucks needed gasoline to keep moving. He could not fathom how they would make it all the way to the Urals without a significant influx of petroleum.

On top of that, fuel for the thousands of horses and mules also grew scarce. He hoped the fertile grasslands of Ukraine would provide some relief, but only time would tell.

Fuel for the soldiers—the human soldiers—was less of a problem than the other two kinds. Word spread of the great march east. Thousands of volunteers continued to join and those settlements who could not spare fighters sent foodstuffs: canned goods over a decade old, recently harvested grains, smoked meats from game hunts, and bins of seafood all found their way to the army. While the diet lacked consistency, at least the marchers ate.

Another reminder.

Alexander penciled a question mark alongside “5th Highlander Brigade.” While those Scotsmen remained in the march, a bout of dysentery kept a fair number of their rank confined to a few select—and isolated—wagons. Medicine, for the Scotts as well as everyone else, remained a rare commodity. Most of the supply wagons that did not carry ammunition or fuel stayed at the rear where they were far from those in need and subject to guerrilla attack, which increased in frequency each day.

Alexander stopped walking and gently banged the clipboard off his head in a sign of frustration. At the same time, a half-track loaded with Albanians singing a marching song and swigging bottles of scavenged wine drove by and covered him in a layer of dust.

“What’s wrong, Father? Did we not win the battle?”

Jorgie’s observation lacked his usual enthusiasm for the marching armies of humanity. Perhaps the fast pace had finally taken its toll. Perhaps he did not sleep well in the back of a van. Perhaps the strange surroundings—a world away from home—made him uncomfortable.

“We won the battle, yes.”

Trevor suspected something else deserved the blame for JB’s lack of enthusiasm. After all, Jorgie used to love hearing the stories of war, of aliens routed, of heroic human soldiers. He ate the tales like a kid munching popcorn at the movie theater.

But now he lived those stories. Now the battles raged around him. Many of those heroic soldiers died fast and violent or—worse—lay on the ground begging for morphine while blood and hope spilled from their gored bodies.

“Was it—was it glorious, Father?”

Jorgie’s eyes tried to widen as if forcing zeal.

Trevor told him the truth as they sat together in the back of a parked armored van. Bundles of supplies, ammunition, and several footlockers filled the rest of the space. JB lay atop a tiny mattress on a small cot while Trevor sat beside a wooden crate.

“No.” Trevor coughed and then repeated. “No, it was not glorious.”

“Did people die, Father?”

“Yes, Jorgie. Many people died today. But the army is still marching. We pushed through.”

“How many people died?”

Trevor felt it good that his boy finally started to understand the consequences of war. But he wondered if his fascination might go too far.

“Don’t worry about it, JB. You just get some sleep.”

“How many?”

Trevor ran his hand over his son’s forehead; his fingers through blond hair. Those big blue eyes remained locked on his father.

“A couple of dozen, Jorgie. A lot more wounded.”

Jorgie turned his eyes to the ceiling of the van. He whispered, “Some of them were kids, weren’t they?”

Trevor tried to answer, “I don’t know. Depends on what a ‘kid’ is. We were all kids once, JB. Me, your mother—every person. When I was a kid I didn’t have to worry about fighting and killing and all that.”

“What did you worry about?” The boys eyes found his father again.

“Little league and schoolwork; chores around the house and summer vacations. Point is, Jorgie, this isn’t how things are supposed to be. Kids shouldn’t have to grow up learning how to shoot a gun at the same time they’re learning to read and write. It’s not how the world was meant to be.”

JB’s head cocked slightly askew in an expression of curiosity.

“But, Father, if it had not been for the war you would not be a great leader.”

Trevor placed a fatherly hand on this son’s cheek.

“I’d trade it all for a normal day, JB. I would have loved to have been a normal dad to you. The way a father and son are supposed to be.”

“But you’re a hero.”

Trevor could not be sure that word fit. But instead of arguing he suggested, “Every dad is a hero to his son. My dad was my hero, and he never saved the Earth. He was just a dad. That’s how life is supposed to be. The little things, Jorgie. That’s what this invasion has stolen from us. From me—and you.”

“And Mommy.”

“And Mommy, too, yes. Now you get to sleep. Once the fuel trucks get here we’re going to be on the road again.”

“Father, what is it you’re expecting to find when we get to where we’re going?”

Trevor pulled his hand from the child’s cheek and sat stiff.

“I don’t know for sure. I’m desperate, JB. I don’t know what else to do. What you did at The Order’s base last year gave me an idea. You’re a very special boy, you know that, right?”

”Because you’re my father, yes.”

Trevor smiled.

“I think you have a great power inside you. Sort of—I don’t know—sort of a culmination of everything our world is. As if a part of the force that caused life to start on this planet is collected in you. I think that’s very powerful. I think Voggoth is afraid of it, to be honest.”

“And what will I do when I get there?”

Trevor did not offer an answer. Jorgie rested his tiny hand on Trevor’s strong arm and offered a stroke of assurance.

“It’s okay, Father. I trust you. And I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Two heavily armed Royal Marines stood sentry outside the armored van that functioned as a mobile apartment for Trevor and JB. One nodded at Trevor to acknowledge his presence but otherwise stood stoic. Yet beneath that seemingly passive stare Trevor saw the man’s eyes darting from broken wall to smashed car to pile of rubble in search of any threats.

Rick Hauser sat with a can of something hot to eat in front of a nearby campfire that cast all of it—the van, the marines, the rubble—in a gentle yellow glow isolating the scene from the rest of the world as if it were a stage on which a performance played surrounded by a dark theater. From that darkness came a steady drone of rumbling engines and rolling wheels as the convoy moved through Zhytomyr. Trevor knew that he and Jorgie would rejoin that convoy as soon as their van received another helping of petrol.

Ahead, just beyond the remains of a one-story brick wall standing alone at the edge of the campfire’s glow, Trevor spied movement. Neither the watchful Marines nor Rick Hauser—his attention focused on some kind of soup or stew—saw that movement and Trevor knew why: The Old Man came to call him off-stage.

As he had done often during the last 11 years, Trevor followed the commands of his stage director and strolled away from the fire’s glow and into the shadows. The Marines remained at their post.

Trevor stumbled on a chunk of steel-reinforced concrete and then made his way around a jumble of wire fencing. He nearly lost his footing as the ground dropped away in a steep slope of gravel and dirt. He found himself in the basement of a bombed-out brick house. The walls of the foundation stood but nothing overhead other than the haze of smoke and dust that blanketed the ruined city.

The entity that had guided Trevor through the fires of Armageddon and encouraged him on to Empire building paced near a dim fire. Trevor did not know the thing’s true nature, but it masqueraded as an elderly human male with sunken dark eyes and gray stubble on pale cheeks.

The Old Man’s hands worked nervously, first tugging at his black vest and then tapping against the image of faded blue jeans that comprised the lower half of the costume. His mouth worked fast as if hurrying to finish a pinch of tobacco.

He threw Trevor a quick glance and then focused his eyes at something Trevor could not see, all while continuing to pace back and forth, forth and back.

“Damn it, what are you doing here?”

“Funny,” Trevor answered. “I was going to ask you the same question.”

“There ain’t nothing funny about none of this!”

Considering the Old Man had tracked him across parallel universes a few years ago, it did not surprise Trevor to find him there in the Ukraine. Yet recent events made Trevor wonder exactly how much the Old Man could see; or how much he refused to see.

“I’m doing what I have to do. I told you last time we spoke that unless you can help, stay out of my way.”

The Old Man stopped pacing and turned to Trevor. The flicker of the small fire danced across the fellow’s pale skin and sunken eyes. Trevor saw something there that sent a hard shiver up his spine.

He saw fear in the Old Man. His face had drawn taut and a tremble danced on the his phony lips.

“Trevor, listen to me,” the entity pleaded. “Things aren’t looking so good these days. Back home your boys are puttin’ up a hell of a fight but they don’t have spit’s chance.”

“Because of Voggoth,” Trevor drove the point home. “We were in control up until then. Until he decided to screw things up and play the spoilsport. I get the feeling that’s not a part of those precious rules you’re always preaching about.”

The Old Man clutched the sides of his head in a manner reminiscent of a child refusing to hear.

“It doesn’t matter! It doesn’t matter!”

Trevor stepped forward, stiffened his lip, and bobbed a pointed finger at the Old Man like a Cobra striking repeatedly.

“It does matter! That’s the whole point, you fool! We never had a chance to win. None of you do! There are rules, old timer, but they’re Voggoth’s rules! He’s going to do whatever he has to do to wipe you all out.”

“You don’t know what you’re yappin’ about!”

Trevor growled, “He let those other humans steal me away to their universe so that the Chaktaw might lose on their home Earth and my people—without me—would lose here! He sent Deadheads to kill me on the first day of the invasion but they didn’t find me, they only found my parents. Was that part of the rules? Targeted assassination? Was it? WAS IT?”

“Trevor—“

“He kidnapped Nina and implanted her so she would track me down and hand me over to The Order! Was he playing by the rules then? Last year he stole my goddamn son—“

The Old Man’s eyes bulged and he screamed—a scream of outright terror. “That was a mistake!”

“How many mistakes did Voggoth make on other worlds? How many times did YOU turn your back and let him kill the Feranite leader or maybe kidnap a Hivvan child or assassinate one of the Duass’ generals or whatever? How many times, Old Man? HOW MANY TIMES?”

The Old Man shook his head violently. “No—no—no…”

“It was okay then because it was the other guys, right? You didn’t care because it hurt them and helped you. So you closed your eyes to whatever fast ones he pulled other places because as long as it wasn’t you, who cares? Right? Right? Well now it is you and no one else cares. And next time it will be them—one by one—and each time whoever is left won’t care until it’s too late for all of you!”

“Shut up! You just shut up! Your inferior brain don’t have a clue!”

“Inferior? That’s right, it’s all about who is inferior and who is superior, isn’t it? You’ve got the power of Gods and the arrogance to match. Voggoth has twisted you around ‘till you can’t see the truth that’s right in front of you. And now you’re going to burn because of it. Problem is, all of my race goes with you, right? Tell me Old Man, why is the universe empty? Do you know?”

The Old Man stopped babbling so fast Trevor nearly heard the squeal of brakes.

“Yeah, that’s right. This inferior brain knows what’s going on a lot better than the rest of you. I’ve seen it. I’m fighting it. And I’m going to do my damndest to end it.”

“You can’t—you can’t go to him…” the Old Man trembled again. “It’s against the—“

“Don’t you dare tell me that. Don’t—you—dare.”

“Back home, Trevor, your pals are going to lose. Pretty soon—maybe by next week—they’re going to get wiped out! When that happens…when that happens it could be all over.”

The entity who resembled an elderly human male ran a hand over his face trying to brush away fear and desperation. As he did his face brightened as if energized by a new idea. A last straw, perhaps.

“Look, yeah listen, Trev, you take some of these fine folks here and go hide away. Turn ‘round and go back to the Alps or whatnot. Find you-self a cave or somethin’ and hide away. Go—what would you call it?—oh yeah, goes underground for a spell. I can sell that as regroupin’. That’s the only way, Trevor! That’s the only way!”

“Now you listen to me,” Trevor stepped closer. The brightness on the thing’s face faded. The Old Man seemed to shrink before him; cower, even. “You took me away from my life and put the weight of the world on my shoulders. I never wanted any of this. And now what am I? I’ve felt anger like I—like no man should ever feel. I did things—evil things. All because the stakes in this game are so high that I’ve had no room to do anything else. Fight the aliens. Kill anything or anyone who stood in the way of victory. Even if it was my own kind. Even if it was murder.”

He clenched his fists and gazed at them. Trevor imagined streams of blood there.

“Look at what you turned me into. I am what you made me. So I’m going to finish this the only way I know how. I’m not going to hide—I’m going to fight!”

“Trev—“

Stone’s eyes left his hands and shot at the entity.

“And I know something now, Old Man. I know that fighting the Duass or the Hivvans or even those blasted Witiko won’t end this. I’m going after the thing that’s pulling all the strings. The thing that is responsible for everything that’s happened.”

“No! Trevor, no,” the Old Man’s eyes narrowed and he fell over on his knees and wept, “Please, Trevor, no! Don’t go! I’m so afraid—I’m so afraid…”

Trevor walked away from the entity, climbing the ruined walls of the bombed-out house. The tiny campfire faded and the sounds of a god weeping followed Trevor through the dark.

20. Rally

Nina and Vince Caesar hobbled away from the inferno that consumed The Order’s Olathe facility on the morning of June 8. Vince’s leg could not fully support his weight, but she refused to leave him behind.

Late that night the pair found shelter inside what remained of the Overland Park Convention Center about seven miles southeast of The Orders now-defunct base. If she had not already realized as much, their difficult journey from Olathe to Overland Park drove the point home: the Dark Wolves’ mission to disrupt enemy rear areas had ended.

While Nina managed to salvage some ammunition from her fallen comrades before setting the facility ablaze, Vince’s wound would not allow for maneuverability or combat. At best she hoped they could reach friendly lines in time for the showdown on the Mississippi. At worst they would wander the countryside until running into the wrong hostile or Voggoth’s minions.

The rain grew heavier on June 9th. The two soldiers spent the day searching for ground transportation. They found plenty of cars and motorbikes but no fuel. The search ended when Vince developed a fever. She managed to get them through the downpour to Blue Valley High School where Nina killed a pair of Rat Things; an expenditure of valuable bullets.

There in the school infirmary she actually found a small cache of pain relievers. Despite a long-past expiration date the medicines appeared to work. Or at least they took the edge off his temperature. Either way, they spent most of the day and all of the night in the high school eating rations and resting. Vince, of course, encouraged her to leave. The Nina Forest of a decade ago might have listened. This Nina would not abandon a comrade. A duty even higher than the mission called: a duty to each other.

On the afternoon of June 10th, Nina and Vince happened upon a trio of survivors wandering the railroad tracks on the southeast side of Stillwall. The group—two younger farm hands and an Internal Security beat cop—had escaped the onslaught of a couple hundred ghouls who, at the last moment, simply lost interest in slaughtering humans and marched east a few days ago.

“They’re pooling all their forces,” Nina explained in the shade along the railroad tracks on the outskirts of the deserted town. “We pasted The Order’s main army at Excelsior Springs. Now Voggoth is calling up all his reinforcements, even things that are more animal than soldier.”

Vince said, “That means we might have it easier between here and—well wait a sec, where are we heading anyway?”

“Clinton,” she told them. “We’ve been sending all the stragglers there and that’s pretty much what we are now.”

The extra arms relieved some of the load from Nina’s shoulder as they took turns playing the role of Vince’s crutches. They crossed out of Kansas and into Missouri at Cleveland, where they found a dozen people—remnants of a Food and Agriculture survey team—laying low among the wreckage of a bombed-out farmhouse. Their convoy had fallen victim to a squadron Voggoth’s Hammerhead-shaped flyers.

With these new additions to their group Vince moved from the shoulders of volunteers to the back of a small wagon pulled by the willing.

Late in the afternoon of June 12th the group arrived at Harrisonville, Missouri; about 30 miles northwest of Clinton but also a straight shot to their destination via Route 7. What they found there filled Nina and her followers with rage.

Bodies. Hundreds of dead bodies spread among the historic Old South buildings of downtown and across the green recreational parks. Perhaps a third of those bodies belonged to a slaughtered military convoy, an armored car brigade providing cover for the civilian refugees who comprised the rest of the dead.

But they had not merely been killed. No, Voggoth’s pets had taken the time to inflict maximum suffering, as was their modus operandi. While the majority of soldiers had met their fate with rifles in hand, the preponderance of civilians died in a much crueler fashion: skewered on tree limbs, smashed beneath slabs of building debris, splattered against walls.

Nina saw more than murder here. She saw anger. She saw retribution. Whatever motivated The Order, part came from sheer hatred. A hatred for life. This had always been obvious in the manner by which Voggoth’s followers slaughtered. But the spectacle at Harrisonville showed a measure of frustration. Perhaps even panic.

Still, amidst the carnage the group found one precious gift: a deuce-and-a-half truck with gas in the tank.

They traveled southeast on Route 7, reaching Garden City by nightfall. There they drew the attention of more stragglers, this time a stranded Intelligence Alpha Team of four operators dry on ammo and out of mission objectives. Since their transport was three days overdue they thought it best to join the party.

The group caught some sleep in Garden City and on the morning of June 13th they completed their journey to Clinton.

Nina did not know what to expect there. Indeed, she did not really know why she had sent survivors to that town. It had been no more than a speck on the map; a place close enough to friendly lines that perhaps command could send transport.

The historic downtown square of Clinton lay in ruins. The courthouse, shops, restaurants—all piles of rubble. Nina jumped from the army truck and stumbled toward the mess of a place. She saw chunks of concrete, wooden planks, pieces of furniture, and shattered glass spread across thousands of square yards all under a late-morning sun blazing from a crystal-blue sky.

I’m the one who sent them here.

She could not remember how many she encouraged to make their way to Clinton. A couple dozen, at most. But what had she sent them to? Rubble.

Nina took a hand and ran it through the soft curls of her blond hair while she shut her eyes tight.

Trevor would not have sent them to rubble. He would have—

The sound of a rock rolling over the pile of debris grabbed her attention, followed by the sounds of glass cracking and shoes shuffling.

They came from the piles of rubble, from between the broken planks and the holes where buildings once stood; from caves inside the hills of debris, from the wrecks of burned-out cars.

Dozens. Hundreds. Their clothes covered in a layer of brown dust. Their eyes glazed as if questioning the reality of the woman standing before them.

“Cap—Captain?”

The voice came from a man in soldier’s garb. A corporal. His arm still in a sling the way it had been when they first met at Fort Larned where the Dark Wolves closed The Order’s implant facility. She had entrusted him with those survivors; the first person sent to Clinton.

He stumbled from the rubble as more and more people dared step into the open to greet the arrivals.

Before Nina could answer the corporal, her head snapped around at the sound of a dog barking. Odin darted out between over turned buses and raced toward her with his curled Norwegian elkhound tail wagging furiously.

She smiled and knelt. The dog nearly bowled her over in a rare sign of affection from the otherwise stoic canine warrior.

“Captain, I hope you don’t mind,” the corporal said. “On our way here we found some others and, well, brought them along. We’ve been waiting for you.”

Nina patted Odin on the head and then stood. Her eyes moved through the crowd and she saw a curious thing. She saw them watching her with a mixture of curiosity and awe.

We’ve been waiting for you.

She envisioned the corporal on his journey telling each band of people he came across that Captain Forest told him to head to Clinton. No doubt those words served as a glimmer of hope for people who thought no hope remained. Her arrival had become the event for which these people waited.

Smiles—tentative, unsure—sprung among the crowd of men and women, young and old, black, white and other. All nearly identical in appearance thanks to the cover of filth.

“We found some food stocks along the way,” the corporal explained with a hint of pride in his voice, as if wanting to impress the Captain with his work. “We also scavenged some weapons and ammo from a destroyed convoy up in Harrisonville. It’s not much, but it’s a start.”

Vince’s voice called from the truck, “Nina! Hey, what have we got here?”

Nina’s eyes passed over the gathering flock. As she met each one, their faces brightened. Some of their resolve returned. Some of their hope.

What have we got here? We’ve got an army.

They gathered over the burned out and blasted remains of the last army. Overhead a churning mass of gray and black clouds boiled; bolts of lightning flashed, thunder echoed.

They paid no attention to the blobs of bio mass and shards of metal remaining from the shattered formations of commandos, monks, and ogres. They did not come for these things; they came only because the Master called; because they knew nothing more than an instinct to fight and maim.

Gangs of Mutants mustered among the burned-white branches atop Siloam Mountain park. They rarely gathered in groups larger than a dozen. Now a thousand came together, some riding hover-bikes, others in saddles atop bipedal lizards, all brandishing blunt weapons, swords, and their trademark flintlocks.

Bomb craters littered the pavement of Isley Boulevard. Between those craters and to the flanks of the road among the ruins of a bedroom community stood row after row of the six-legged crazy robots nicknamed ‘Roachbots’ . Nearly 5,000 of the insane machines waited there, including hundreds of the two-legged walking cannon Mortarbots.

A harsh wind blew over the lines of what had once been the Feranite race which now resembled thick iron bars with three legs and a metallic maw like a computerized Venus fly trap. Their arms sported Gatling guns. The hideous machines—only a year into their new existence as part of Voggoth’s minions—wobbled in the gust from two spinning whirlwinds raging back and forth across the greens of the Excelsior Springs Golf course.

Voggoth had called all his children to battle, from walking statues that had earned the nickname of ‘Stone Soldiers’ to a horde of the lumbering, red-eyed Deadhead monsters, to huge rolling balls covered in eyes and mouths, to thousands of the grayish-skinned skull-headed Ghouls that bound about and snarled like rabid apes.

They joined what remained of The Order’s core army: hundreds of metallic commandos, a thousand or so monks with swords and forearm guns, handfuls of walking missile launchers, hovering shell tanks, and half-machine/half-monster artillery pieces.

At the rear of the group loitered a quartet of gigantic Goat Walkers surveying the army spread around their cloven feet through red eyes on goat heads. But even those demonic beasts trembled in the shadow of three Leviathans.

The army of Voggoth waited as more and more numbers swelled its ranks. Monsters conjured from nightmares. Soldiers recruited from Hell. Machines powered by madness.

And then—on the morning of June 20th—they moved as if of one mind and marched to battle.

The last battle.

21. Voggoth

“Why do we humans have such a feeling of strangeness? Is this necessary? I have not yet considered it deeply, but it may be important to our self-preservation. We must complete the map of the uncanny valley to know what is human…”

–Masahiro Mori, The Uncanny Valley

The ground and the sky shared much in common: both charred black. Overhead that came in the form of storm clouds seemingly made from swirling soot. They shielded the land from the summer sun; it felt more like a frosty fall day.

Below, the terrain might have once been full of fruitful foothills, but now lay covered in a fine grain of charcoal dirt lacking any fertility. Even the smattering of weeds scattered here and there were long dead.

Ahead of Trevor the land rose to a lip of rock like the outer rim of a crater. The map identified the area as Satka, Russia, but some great upheaval had terraformed the land into something an astronomer might expect to find on the harsh worlds of Mars or Venus. It felt wrong. Warped. Diseased. Dead. And devoid of hope.

He stepped to the parapet with JB at his side. It dropped away in a soft slope of gravel and more black dirt. A few dozen feet below the ground leveled again. Trevor reconsidered. This did not appear to be a crater, but a place where a great mass of Earth had sunk.

At the bottom of the hill the land stretched east on a plain of black soil and dried stalks that might have once been trees. Something had flattened the foothills approaching the Urals. No sign of Satka remained. No crushed buildings. No rubble. No stretches of street, no lamp posts, no trees—nothing.

The mountains themselves also suffered the devil’s touch. Trevor saw a massive wall stretching hundreds of feet in the air like a frozen tidal wave of rock devoid of color; as if a God’s bulldozer had dug apart the land, turning it into something cold and harsh; a fitting landscape for a circle in Dante’s Inferno.

Three miles across the stamped-flat plains at the foot of the barrier wall of rock waited the Temple of Voggoth: an infection of green and red bubbling from the surface of a cancer-ridden Earth. Spires of twisted vine reached hundreds of feet into the air from a convex roof lined with ribs. Wisps of smoke or steam slipped into the evening sky from hidden vents.

Smaller buildings—some round, some square, some domes—flanked the main hall like a cluster of foul warts.

Through a set of field glasses, Trevor spied a small group of defenders—mainly Spider Sentries—positioned around the facility; nothing that could not be handled in a few short minutes by Alexander’s approaching army.

“Is that where it is, Father?”

Trevor lowered his binoculars and found his son’s eyes.

“Yes, JB. Are you—are you afraid?”

Jorgie did not answer at first but his eyes wavered. He told his dad, “I trust you, Father.”

“Trevor!” Alexander’s voice interrupted. “You have to see this. Come here.”

The Englishman beckoned them away from the cliff and off the dusty path that had served as the main road to their destination. As they followed Alexander, Trevor took stock of his forces. They came from the west, a line of headlights spaced between packs of horses and carts, motorbikes and trucks. The collective sound of their engines made the ground tremble and filled a dark sky—far too dark for early evening—with a steady roar. Somewhere off in that dark sky a helicopter whirred.

He knew they would keep coming. In the ten days since marching through Zhytomyr, Alexander managed to tighten their formations a great deal. Yet still, the long snake of an army stretched for miles and they would arrive piecemeal at a continuous rate for the rest of the day, if not longer.

“Come on, Trevor! You have to see this!”

With Royal Marines on their flanks, Trevor and JB followed Alexander through an orchard of small trees that were now nothing more than tall sticks. It appeared to Trevor that something had sucked the life out of the plants so fast that they did not have time to fall. He saw what amounted to be tree skeletons propped upright in neat lines.

At the end of the orchard they came to a gentle hill that sloped away to the south forming a huge bowl of sorts ringed on all sides by more hills.

Gaston—the lanky black man who scouted for the Europeans—stood at the top of that gentle knoll with Armand and a small group of biker-cavalry.

“Father? What is it?”

Trevor made out things of various shapes and sizes filling the small valley, but no movement.

“My God,” Armand—standing next to his ride in his biker’s leather—muttered. “I think I have never seen the like. Am I really seeing this?”

Trevor raised his binoculars for a better view. His eyes managed to adjust to the darkness and as they did, he understood what he saw.

The tanks stood out the most. About a half-dozen Russian T-72s as still as statues. Their green armor had faded in several spots and thin coats of black dust settled across the cupolas. Their thick treads and long barrels made Trevor see them as something akin to T-Rex fossils: harmless at the moment, but fearsome to behold.

An additional pair of tracked vehicles shared the same fate as the tanks. It took Trevor’s collection of genetic memories a moment to identify them as Akatsiya self-propelled artillery pieces. Several wheeled vehicles in the form of BTR APCs also shared the graveyard of armor.

Yet it was not the tanks, APCs, or self-propelled artillery that piqued Trevor’s interest the most. That honor fell upon the dozens of empty—and some collapsed—tents, the boxes upon boxes of supply crates, the trio of tanker trucks, the collection of assault rifles and carbines lying about and—most important of all—the Russian army jackets, shirts, pants and boots scattered by the hundreds throughout the field. Enough clothes for a small army.

Gaston—who once worked for Russian intelligence—murmured loud enough for all to hear: “The 276th motorized rifle regiment. Part of the 34th Motor Rifle Division.”

A dry, cool wind blew across the scene. The sleeves of empty jackets waved.

“What the hell happened to them?” Armand asked.

“They disappeared,” Trevor answered. “It was happening all the time right before the invasion started. Remember?”

Gaston said, “I have heard that during those first days the central government lost contact with villages and towns along the Urals and that elements of the 34th Motor Rifle Division were on a training maneuver near here. They were probably dispatched to ascertain the situation.”

“So what happened to them?” Alexander alternated his attention from Trevor to Gaston and back again. “What does it mean?”

Armand quickly shot, “It means more fuel and bullets for us, I would think. Don’t you?”

Trevor pinched his nose as if trying to sort through a chaotic collection of thoughts. He managed to simplify and told them, “Look, it doesn’t matter much right about now. Armand is right, see what your people can scavenge from the wreck. We have bigger things to think about.”

“The buildings down there,” Alexander stepped closer to Trevor. “Is that what we’ve come for?”

“Buildings?” Armand wanted in on the conversation. “What buildings?” Apparently he thought the remains of a vanished Russian regiment served as the day’s biggest revelations.

Jorgie, perhaps trying to chase away concerns over what was to come, hurried to Armand and took hold of his hand. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

With one arm holding his stuffed bunny and the other leading the Frenchman, Jorgie Benjamin Stone led the group away from the abandoned military equipment, through the orchard of skeletal trees, and to the ledge overlooking the dead plain where Voggoth’s temple waited.

The rumbling mass of charcoal-colored clouds sprung to life with a sudden blast of energy. Lightning sizzled. Thunder boomed.

“You can see it all from here, Mr. Armand,” Jorgie tried to sound cheerful; a stark contrast to everything around him. “It’s right there.”

Jorgie stopped speaking as they reached the cliff and gazed across the earth toward the monstrous wall of mountain. The plain there—the one stretching from the observation point to the temple—was no longer empty.

All around the temple lay thousands of blobs of green goo of various sizes and shapes. Trevor could not be sure, but he thought he saw puffs of smoke—maybe steam—rising from the things. Perhaps cooling or sizzling after their journey through time and space.

“My god…” Armand’s voice trailed off.

One by one—repeated a thousand times—the green bubbles ripped and popped and parted. The barbed legs and jagged fangs and sharp claws of thousands of monsters of more shapes and sizes than any nightmare could conjure poked and pushed free from the capsules.

Trevor recalled how humans taken in the vessels had been found unconscious, but Voggoth’s demons traveled with no such limitations. No doubt the discrepancy lay in the difference between life and lifeless. Regardless, Voggoth had brought an army to face them. An army, Trevor felt certain, that a moment ago infested the cities and towns of middle America in years past.

Those creatures could have done no good against Dreadnoughts and armored divisions, K9 corps and jet fighters. But there in the shadow of the Urals they could serve Voggoth as a last-gasp stopgap against the surprise strike of the European force.

“My god, what do we do?” Alexander’s shock and surprise cut through his more rational tendencies.

Armand coolly answered the obvious, “We bring the army up. We fight.”

“But if Voggoth could do this once, he may very well keep doing it.”

Trevor told Alexander, “Let’s hope so.”

Even Armand found that answer surprising.

Trevor said, “After we cut through these things, Voggoth will send more. And then more. And then more. He will keep sending them until he can stop us from doing what we came here to do. I think that each time he brings these things through space and time it disrupts the natural order of things, like splashes in a quiet pond. I think the other beings who are involved in all this know that he should not be making those splashes, but they’ve either not noticed or ignored him so far. Let him keep sending them until those splashes can’t be ignored. If he does it enough, maybe someone will listen to me.”

Alexander and Armand shared a look and then Alexander asked, “Who will listen to you, Trevor?”

He did not answer Alexander’s question. Instead he knelt and rested his hands on his son’s shoulders. With his eyes settling smoothly on Jorgie, Trevor said to the others, “We have to get in that temple. Armand, I’m counting on you to get us past all that. Can you do that?”

Armand snorted a chuckle.

“Can I do that? Trevor, it is what I was born to do.”

The mortar shell exploded in the midst of a group of charging, four-legged horse-sized creatures covered in metal-like armor with horns and jagged barbs everywhere. The concussion from the blast knocked three of the things over but they each regained their feet fast. A fourth was not so lucky. Shrapnel hit it square in its relatively unprotected face; a face covered in pin-sized lights that might be eyes arranged above a screaming, elongated jaw from which bellowed one last ghastly death-scream as the blast tore away its blood-red flesh.

Not far from them, a swarm of things best described as mutated alligators—dozens of them—charged at the northern flank of the European lines. Their spines glowed white from some unearthly energy bottled inside; their snouts snapped open and shut, flashing hooked teeth. The rest of their bodies were covered in constant slither as thousands of tiny parasites—worms of a hellish sort—lived on the hides of the devilish things.

A tripod mounted machine gun behind a wall of toppled boulders met the monsters hitting those in the lead snuffing whatever spark of motivation masqueraded as life within the damned animals. Still, more than half of the alligator-beasts crashed into the machine gun nest. One German soldier was caught between jaws from behind as he abandoned his post a second too late. Another managed to break free thanks to covering fire provided from Turkish assault rifles, but one of the warped alligators spat a stream of fire from its belly and incinerated the man.

Similar scenes repeated across the battle field as the lead elements of the European army arrived soldier by soldier, truck by truck and the legion of monsters guarding the temple moved to meet them.

To the south at the foot of the ridge overlooking the black plains, a line of Spanish infantrymen with light arms and grenades waded into a sea of half-metal devil dogs the size of small cars.

To the north a brave charge of Italian horse soldiers violently collided with rhinoceros-like beasts sporting twin horns from which arced electrical bolts capable of microwaving a man.

Across the center raged a chaotic battle. Polish fighters on foot and in light trucks advanced with Danish regulars on their flanks. They hit the enemy with assault rifles and mounted machine guns. That enemy hit back with burning balls of screaming fire flying like comets and dropping napalm on the human ranks; with axe-wielding ten-foot-tall crimson-colored octopuses slashing the attackers in an insane fury; with bipedal yellow-eyed fur-covered mammals resembling upright tigers capable of leaping fifty feet in one bound.

On the ridge to the west, mankind’s reinforcements kept coming as the stretched army arrived at its destination piece by piece. Military vehicles with machine gun and anti-tank mounts refueled and deployed toward the action; towed artillery assembled and prepared to fire; fighters ranging from young and old, amateur to professional grabbed rifles and pistols and raced toward the action.

To the east beneath the wall of rock cut out of the Urals, bolts of lightning reached from the charred heavens to the Temple of Voggoth. Every few minutes those flashes illuminated yet another crop of green sarcophagi appearing on the plains around the blasphemous building. Those bulbs burst open and more claws, mandibles, and walking horrors joined Voggoth’s defenses.

The battle raged in the sky. The Euro Tiger helicopter strafed the demonic mobs with cannon fire. Giant flying insects swooped into the chaos and plucked hapless victims from the carnage like gulls snatching fish from the sea.

This was no pitched battle. It was the nature of war itself: bloody, anarchic, and merciless. The wonder weapons of man’s futuristic arsenal played no role. Bullets fired at close range—explosives tearing apart apparitions—sharp and blunt weapons, fists and kicks battled talons and jaws, breath of fire, spitting acid, and swinging clubs.

A V-shaped formation of motorcycles cut through the madness. Heavy cavalry led the charge with lances knocking aside and skewering any beast that dared block the path. Guns blasted; swords swung. Armand’s riders led the way like a plow clearing a snow-covered road.

In the middle of the formation, Rick Hauser drove the heavily armored van Trevor and JB had called home during three weeks of travel from France to Eurasia.

One of the Royal Marines sat in the passenger seat alongside Hauser. Trevor and JB huddled behind gripping the van’s cargo nets as the vehicle bounced and wobbled over rough terrain and dead bodies. Through the windshield Trevor could see Armand on his Ducati zipping side to side and adding his FAMAS fire wherever the battle needed it.

The scene outside the van’s windows reminded Trevor of the Battle of Five Armies, albeit on a much grander scale. The shots of gunfire, the thumps of explosions, the clang of armor, and the screams of victims filtered to his ears but the sounds were hollowed by the insulation of the van’s walls. It gave the noise an unreal edge; as if it might come from a radio broadcast.

He glanced at his boy. Jorgie held the cargo net in a death-grip. Water streamed from his eyes.

“Jorgie, what is it?”

A stupid question, of course. Nine-year-old boys did not belong in the midst of such carnage. Still, Jorgie looked more sad than afraid.

“Father—this is so—this is very bad…”

Trevor slung an arm on his son’s shoulders.

“Yes, it is,” he felt it important that his mysterious son realize as much. “People are dying out there. Lives are being lost, Jorgie. Fathers and sons; even mothers and daughters. That’s why we have to stop it.”

Trevor waited for a response from the boy who had often thought battle a glorious endeavor.

Jorgie mumbled only, “Yes.”

The vehicle took a particularly nasty jolt and a side of the van bent in from an exterior impact. Trevor glanced out and saw, through the tiny windows at the rear, a motorcycle spin out of control into a mob of dog-sized worms. A second later that bike detonated in a flash of yellow and orange.

Trevor turned his attention forward. He saw Armand balancing his FAMAS in one hand while steering his bike with the other. The man shot a flying thing that tried to dive bomb the formation.

Inside the van, Hauser—struggling with keeping control on the rocks, uneven ground, and bodies passing beneath the wheels—said, “We’re almost to the front entrance. Get ready.”

At that moment one of the heavy cavalry riders in bulky body armor tumbled end over end, separating person from bike. Trevor saw something akin to a horned turtle standing where the rider had been but he caught only a glimpse as the spearhead continued on at a rapid pace leaving both the turtle-thing and the rider to their fates.

Trevor leaned forward to see above the fray. And yes, there loomed the massive Temple of Voggoth beneath boiling black clouds.

“Just drop us off, Rick. Then you and the rest get out of here.”

“Sir, I signed on for the whole ride.”

“Thanks, but you can’t help us inside and if you stay outside you’ll be overrun. Get back to the main lines and help Armand and Alexander keep the fight going.”

BAM!

The van flew and landed on the driver’s side. Crates, buckets, Jorgie’s cot, ammo boxes, canned food, Trevor and JB all fell in a jumble against the toppled side of the van which slid and spun several more feet. From outside came the roar of something very big. And gunfire.

Trevor immediately found his son. Jorgie appeared dazed but in one piece. Then he leaned forward to check on Rick Hauser and the Royal Marine. With the exception of the indignity of having fallen on top of one another, the two men up front remained uninjured.

“Something big came out of the ground,” Hauser said as he struggled to right himself “We have got to get you moving. Is JB okay?”

“Yeah. We’re ready.”

“Wait here,” the Marine said as he produced an SA80 bullpup assault rifle and reached up for the passenger door. “I’ll pop open the back.”

Hauser used his hands to help hoist the soldier up and out through the passenger side door that was now at the ‘top’ of the overturned vehicle.. Then he, too, went in that direction.

More gunfire rang out from the immediate vicinity as Armand’s riders dealt with whatever had flipped the van.

Trevor found an HK MP5 and urgently grasped it in one hand. Jorgie did something similar, except he grasped his wrapped bunny albeit with even more urgency.

The rear of the van opened. Hauser motioned them out while the stoic Royal Marine stood nearby pointing his gun at something. Judging by the way he craned his neck, that something was rather tall.

“Father…”

“C’mon, Jorgie. It’s time to go.”

Trevor took his son’s hand and led them from the overturned van.

The air felt cold. Far colder than even a Russian summer should feel; cold enough to see white puffs from Hauser’s mouth as he encouraged their exit. Trevor suspected the chill came from a blackened sky that had blocked out the sun in that area probably for more than a decade.

Now that night had fallen, not even the faintest of glimmers tried to poke through the rolling clouds. No stars shone. But light did come from the periodic flashes of lightning. Those flashes—as brilliant as they could be—felt sterile, too: less like a force of nature and more like the snap of a photographer’s bulb.

The motorcyclists had successfully cut a path through the mob of combatants. While that mob still raged 50 meters away to the west, the immediate area surrounding the fallen van was clear. Save for the thing sprouting from the ground.

It wavered in the air like a warped version of Jack’s beanstalk, stretching a hundred meters into the pitch-black sky and swaying side to side. Trevor saw scales and pulsing veins and slithering eel-like parasites all along the thick body. At the top lived a triangle of bone and tendons that opened wide and screamed a high-pitched holler into the night.

“Around the front—move it, you hear?” The Marine ordered as he fired a burst at the tall creature. Hauser acted the part of usher and shuffled Trevor and JB away.

The van had come to rest 20 yards from the short but wide flight of granite-like steps that led to a set of fibrous doors.

A Spider Sentry fired at Armand’s cavalry from atop those stairs. Bodies of several of the gray-skinned Ogres lay nearby. Armand had kept his promise to get them to the temple. Unfortunately, two bodies clad in riders’ leather lay on the hard ground at the foot of the stairs and several more carried on the fight despite serious wounds.

“Move! Move!” The Marine shouted as he covered their advance to the temple.

The giant creature struck down. It’s triangular head split open and engulfed the armored van. A moment later the creature straightened to its full height and spat the car with great force. It tumbled through the sky and crashed into the mob of monsters.

The orb that served as body and head to the Spider Sentry at the temple doors cracked and withered from a string of bullets. Its spindly legs lost strength and the creature collapsed.

Armand wasted no time.

“Perimeter! Form a perimeter!”

When the beanstalk-thing struck again it was met by licks of fire from a flamethrower. Its ‘head’ burned like a grotesque candle, melting from the top down.

As for the rest of Voggoth’s pets, machine gun fire and tossed grenades from the half-circle of human defenders kept the army of monsters at bay for the time being while Armand slapped a bundle of explosives on the temple doors.

“Fire in the hole!”

Trevor crouched to the ground and covered JB’s head. Hauser provided his body as another layer of shielding over the boy. A dull explosion slapped the air and a man-sized hole in the fan-like doors appeared—leading to darkness.

Hauser tapped Trevor’s arm and asked, “Are you sure you couldn’t use some back up in there?”

“I’m sure. Here, you could use this more than me,” and he handed the MP5 machine pistol to the man who had been his personal pilot for so many years.

“Good luck to you, boss,” Hauser took the gun and then ruffled Jorgie’s hair. “You take care of your dad.”

JB returned the gesture with a sweet but unsure smile.

The entry point secure, Trevor hurried up the stairs while Hauser joined the ranks of warriors at the perimeter. The Marine covered Trevor and his boy but he did not have enough bullets for all the monsters that would soon flood in.

A girl manning the defensive line fell over with a spear-like projectile through her stomach. The arm of a man wearing a blue racing suit caught fire and he rolled on the black ground screaming. A bike exploded sending wheels, handle bars, and an exhaust assembly smashing into the temple walls.

Trevor hurried toward the hole in the blasted door with his son in tow. He met Armand at the top of the stairs and said, “Thank you.”

“I come with you.”

“No. You can’t help. Out here—this is where I need the warriors.”

A shout from the perimeter warned of a pending charge by the nightmares. The rat-tat-tat of heavy gunfire accentuated the point. The Royal Marine standing by Trevor’s side fired a burst of bullets at something in the distance.

Trevor added, “Get your people out of here. Keep fighting, no matter what happens.”

Armand shook his head in frustration, but only for a moment. He placed a hand on Trevor’s shoulders.

“Good luck to you, Trevor Stone. Whatever happens, it has been fun, yes?”

Trevor nodded.

Armand yelled to his force, “Saddle up! We will withdraw back to our lines!”

An explosion from across the battlefield suggested Alexander managed to get the heavy artillery into the fight, yet Trevor knew Voggoth’s reinforcements would keep coming—and coming—and coming unless he could do something. Or Jorgie could.

Armand descended the stairs. The perimeter of biker cavalry collapsed in an orderly fashion to their rides. Hauser found the back of a bike, as did the Royal Marine.

Trevor and his son slipped through the hole in the door and entered the temple of Voggoth.

The sounds from outside—motorcycles racing away, guns blazing, artillery shells exploding, and all manner of monsters howling and groaning—disappeared as Trevor and JB entered the temple. The hole in the door remained and the light of fire and lightning flashed but none of it shined into the large chamber, as if some sheath still hung over the blasted door that kept sounds and light at bay.

Father and son entered a great empty space that stretched away forever both across the featureless floor and overhead. A putrid smell carried on the humid air; a smell Trevor knew too well from the cadaver-filled cities in the days after Armageddon.

Two massive orbs broke the blackness of the chamber’s heights. They hung from the hidden ceiling by an unknown mechanism; floating in the void. Each measured hundreds of feet in diameter and appeared made of some clear material such as glass or polystyrene.

“Father…”

At first they were hard to notice due to the colorless background of the temple’s ceiling. But Trevor did see a familiar sight; something he had seen on a parallel Earth.

Inside each orb lived a swirling mass of living black cloud. The creatures pushed against their confinement in an attempt to break loose. Trevor thought he saw the silhouette of faces inside the mist. Screaming, angry faces, but that might be a fantasy conjured by his nightmare memories of the things.

No sound came from their futile efforts to escape but a shimmering halo of energy crackled from the surface of each of the gigantic spheres. That energy—like electricity—arced between the balls like some arcane power source in Dr. Frankenstein’s laboratory.

For a split second—a blink of the eye—Trevor saw some huge, formless mass lurking between those spheres; something siphoning the energy from the imprisoned Nyx.

In that instant the reality of the situation—or at least as close to it as his simple human mind could comprehend—filled his soul with dread. A shiver ran along his spine; fear as cold and as real as he had sensed since that first day when monsters arrived on Earth.

He had buried thoughts of this moment beneath the battle to get here; beneath a single-mindedness focus on arriving at the objective but he had refused to fully consider what waited at the end of the road.

Voggoth.

For years he contemplated the nature of this entity. The thing that had orchestrated his torture, the invasion, the mutation of millions of human beings, the collapse of civilization. The puppet master pulling the strings of the Gods.

“Father—it is very cold in here. Very empty.”

Trevor felt insignificant standing there in the massive hall filled with nothing. He did not feel like a conquering Emperor or a hero for a species. He felt like a lonely, weak, meaningless man. Nothing more. An overwhelming urge to turn and run nearly overcame his senses; nearly sent him into a blind panic. But just when that feeling neared critical mass, he felt the hand of his son grab his hand.

His heart continued to beat at a fast clip; each exhale nearly turned into a gasp, but Trevor held his ground.

Barely audible above the crackle of energy, Trevor heard a rhythmic click, click, click.. The sound of footsteps moving across the darkness. Louder. Louder.

A human form materialized from the dark and approached at a slow pace. Trevor saw the outline of a man dressed in casual clothes and strolling forward as easily as a favorite son coming home to a welcoming family. With each step the stranger took, Trevor saw he was no stranger at all.

“Hello, Trev.”

The face—the hair—a voice that lingered on the edge of a joke with each word. Trevor recognized it all despite not having seen Danny Washburn since the first winter of the invasion, nearly eleven years, when his friend had disappeared into a hellish vortex on the grounds of SUNY Binghamton.

“What’s wrong? Not happy to see a familiar face?”

Trevor remembered sending Danny and Bird and several others on a mission to destroy one of the gateways, one that belonged to Voggoth’s realm. Danny had constructed a fertilizer bomb onboard an 18-wheeler. While Nina’s group distracted the gateway’s guardians, Danny and Bird delivered the bomb. It exploded, despite the sudden materialization of a Goat Walker.

To his surprise, the Gateway did not simply vaporize in the blast. Instead, the detonation created a screaming whirlpool of reality, sucking away everything in the event horizon to someplace different.

Danny had pleaded for help. Trevor did nothing.

“I can understand why you’re not so thrilled to see me,” the body of Danny Washburn said. “I guess you probably managed to forget about ol’ Danny after all this time.”

“Father, who is this man?”

“Dan—Danny?”

“Yep, old Danny. Your pal. You stood back and watched me get dragged to Hell. But hey, I guess it was all part of the equation, right? Sacrifice some for the good of the whole, isn’t that how you do things?”

“Trevor! Help us for Christ’s sake! You can’t leave us! Trevor! Help me! Help me!”

It seemed as if that horrible day happened all over again. He could hear the cries for help. He could see the spinning vortex first distorting then pulling in Danny Washburn and the rest of the team—and then disappearing, leaving behind a hole in the Earth that slowly turned white as a raging snow storm rushed to fill the scar.

“There was nothing I could have done,” Trevor mumbled in a daze.

“Well, of course not. I mean, you have to believe that or how would you be able to sleep? But, say, who cares. That’s what all of us have been for, right? Me, Reverend Johnny, Tolbert, Bird, Sheila Evans, Sal Corso, Garrett McAllister—we’re all Trevor Stone’s toy soldiers to be thrown into the meat grinder. An expendable resource. But as long as those armies are on the march it’s all for the greater good.”

Trevor turned his head away from Danny and studied the hard floor as if answers might lurk there.

“I do what I have to do.”

”How easy that is to say,” the voice of Danny Washburn replied. “Tell me, Trevor, did you have to crucify those Chaktaw bodies? What purpose did that serve? Was that something you had to do? Or was it something you wanted to do.”

“I—I don’t know…”

“Don’t lie. Don’t stand here in front of your son and lie about who you are. You’re a tyrant. A conqueror. It’s in your blood.”

“I fight to save my people,” Trevor still refused to meet Danny’s eyes.

“Did the Trevor of that parallel Earth fight to save his people? No. He was an invader. He killed for fun. He ruled with an iron fist. He used Nina as his plaything. And guess what, buddy, he was the exact same as you. The same hair color, the same eyes, the same height. The same DNA. You’re a killer, Trevor.”

“My father is not a killer!”

Danny said, “Ask the people of New Winnabow.”

“I had to—“

“You had to send your canine army to tear them to pieces? The great leader showed his wisdom by choosing slaughter! What about the Governor of California? You remember, the one you murdered with a missile strike. How did you justify that?”

“We—we had to destroy their leadership. If any part remained it would have—“

“It would have clouded your mission. It would have brought a voice of dissent to the table and you dared not have that. Nothing must stand in the way of the war. No negotiation. No quarter. Just slaughter without end and Trevor Stone ruling over it all.”

Trevor felt weak. With each word he saw the faces, the aftermath, the ruins of those who had met their fate by his hand.

“Congratulations, Trevor. Genghis Kahn and Alexander the Great have nothing on you!”

“I had no choice!” Trevor yelled and his voice echoed through the endless chamber. The pulses of energy from the spheres containing the inky-black Nyx crackled loud like a blast of lightning and thunder. “The stakes were too high! All of the world on my shoulders!”

“Poor Trevor, no choice at all…”

Trevor’s yell turned to a sob, “I never wanted this! None of it. I did not choose this path. I—I…”

Trevor clasped his head with both hands. The body of Danny Washburn stepped closer like a shark in blood-scented waters lunging for the kill.

“I can release you from it all. I can make the guilt and the pain go away. Old Danny boy knows a few secrets, you see. You listen to me, Trev, and I can make it right as rain.”

“Father!” Jorgie pointed at Danny and shouted, “Don’t listen to him! He is empty, Father! He is as empty and dead as everything in this place!”

As he shouted, the nine year old boy—without realizing it—stepped in Washburn’s direction. In that moment, the thing that looked like Danny Washburn grew a scowl on his face and hurriedly retreated a step. In fear.

Trevor witnessed that fear. Everything changed.

“I can make it all right for you, Trevor. Do what I ask and I promise you, no more pain. I can do more than save your people, I can make them immortal. I can make you immortal, Trevor.”

But the bribe felt flat. Trevor had seen the thing falter in the face of a little boy and with that falter, the creature wearing the cloak of Danny Washburn lost its power to bully or persuade.

“Is that what you tell all the races? How many ears have you whispered that promise into? I’ll bet you told the Feranites they were special, that you would help them. How did that work out?

Washburn glanced from Trevor to Jorgie and said, “Are you sure you don’t want to listen to my offer, Trevor? Say, maybe I can even throw in the woman you love. Oh, I’m sorry, the boy doesn’t know, does he? He doesn’t know that you don’t love his mother.”

“Shut up!” Jorgie hurried to his father’s side and grabbed hold. “You aren’t real! You’re a phony!”

“How does that feel, little one? I bet it scares you. I bet you would do anything to keep your father and mother together. You need them to love each other. Nothing can stand in the way of that: no one. Especially not another woman who isn’t Mommy. You’d do anything to keep your parents together because if Mommy and Daddy don’t love each other, maybe they don’t love you, either.”

Trevor felt his strength return in no small part from the hug of his son. His jagged breath eased. The wobble in his legs steadied.

“It’s okay, Jorgie. You’re right, don’t listen to him,” Trevor wiped his hand across his eyes as if clearing his view. “Truth is, he’s powerless.”

“Powerless?” Washburn’s voice shook in the slightest. “I have more power than you can comprehend. I am eternal. You are frail and inferior.”

“You are nothing,” Trevor insisted and he recalled words Lori Brewer once used. “Power is never taken, it is given. You have only the power that the others have given to you.”

“Leave!” Washburn ordered. “Leave now and maybe you’ll live a while longer.”

“You’re the one who is going to leave. You’re the one who doesn’t belong here.”

“You sound so sure of yourself, Trevor. Do you really think your little surprise army means anything to me? I’m not the Hivvans. I’m not the Duass. I don’t have to play by the rules, Trevor. I wrote those rules.”

The thing that wore Danny Washburn’s body glanced up at the crackling energy between the two orbs. The power there grew to a frenzy. Glowing, shimmering tendrils reached from one of the spheres across to the other. The clouds of black inside writhed back and forth in pain.

Strands of energy intertwined and formed a glowing image. In that image Trevor saw the waterfront of a modern city. It took him a moment, but he recognized post-Armageddon Seattle with blasted buildings, abandoned cars, and debris strewn across the streets.

On those streets slithered oversized snakes with metal fins along their spine; large ape-things with a cluster of spider eyes and four arms; glowing red worms the size of a city bus with barbed ribs along their sickening body; and legions of other nightmares.

“I can summon infinite reinforcements. I can reach back through the time line of this universe and grab what I need…” the creatures disappeared. No flash. No slow fade. Just wiped from existence. “…from a time that would not have served me. And deposit them here.”

The view shifted to outside the temple. From the brief glimpse afforded in the pool of energy, Trevor saw the European force driving across the black plain with piles of dead monsters before them. Clearly a victory in the making.

Then blobs of green appeared in their path. The monsters of Seattle from a time past emerged from the vessels and took to battle immediately. The human strike faltered and split then withdrew; a victory turned back.

“That was easy, Trevor. No limit. Nothing to stop me.”

This time the image between the orbs showed Grand Forks, North Dakota. The Red River had climbed its banks and flooded most of downtown. The western stretches of the city, however, were flooded with a different catastrophe: hordes of demons, some walking upright, others crawling or flying. Angry, snarling beasts that sought prey not for sustenance but by impulse; an impulse to inflict pain. To destroy for destruction’s sake.

They disappeared from Grand Forks, leaving it exactly as The Empire would find it a few weeks later: half-flooded and fully deserted.

The army of beasts re-materialized outside the temple walls in blobs of green from which they quickly burst forth and joined the battle. The Europeans were forced wholly off the plain and sent scrambling to the west.

“Go. Take your—take your son with you. Go into seclusion and never return. You may live out the end of your sad existence without interference from me.”

Trevor tilted his head and studied the body of Danny Washburn. The demonstration of power did not intimidate Trevor. In fact, it had the opposite effect. Trevor now knew his choice to confront Voggoth had been the right choice. He knew because history demanded fulfillment; a circle waited to be closed.

“We’re not going anywhere. I came here for you.”

“You have no idea what you’re dealing with.”

“I know exactly what you are. You’re the rot that remains when something living decays. You’re the after-birth of the big bang; a side effect of the creation of the universe. You come from some void where you’ve been since before time. And you’ve watched us. You’ve watched the living. You’ve watched species rise from bits of bio mass into mighty civilizations and that scares you. Ever-changing, getting better, improving with each generation.”

“You wither and die. I am eternal.”

“You are stagnant! You never change. Since the moment you existed you have been all that you will ever be. And you look out from your void and see life flourishing and growing and experiencing the universe. You are filled with nothing but envy and hate. That’s why your ‘children’ are cruel and vicious; that’s their purpose, to punish life. That’s why you tortured me for the sake of torture. And that is all you have to offer: violence and misery.”

The thing that looked like Danny Washburn answered, “I am filled with envy and hate? Look at your ‘evolving’ life—look at your species. You divide into sub-groups of race and culture, always searching for reasons to call your own superior; better.”

“And that’s how you’ve done it, right? You tapped into the dark nature of each of the races and used it to your advantage. You are a master manipulator and with your bag of parlor tricks you’ve convinced them that your sad corner of existence is some kind of immortal paradise; that you are a king-maker that can bring all manner of wonders if they are worthy, when the truth is that you are no more than a cast out.”

The image of Dallas, Texas appeared in the energy current between the spheres. Another batch of creatures disappeared from the past and reappeared in the present.

Danny Washburn’s voice warned, “Soon your species will be wiped from time and space. Or belong to me.”

“That’s the only way for you. You can’t reproduce or evolve, so you conquer and subvert. You turn the living into the soulless dead. The only way you can expand your reach is by convincing the others to submit to you. Like I said, a master manipulator. But your puppets made a mistake last year, didn’t they?”

“You are wasting your time. Go now, or I will kill you.”

Jorgie scrunched close to his father who slung an arm around his boy’s shoulder. Trevor ignored the threat and continued, “A little of that good old human greed and ambition remained in those you mutated, enough so that your Missionary Man wanted to earn your favor. Taking me—that was for your amusement. You’ve been obsessed with hurting me since this began. But you did not count on my son. When the force of life inside this child’s body touched the great machines of Voggoth, what happened?”

“Go now!”

“He took control. He manipulated your tools. Life proved superior!”

Jorgie chimed in, “It was empty! YOU are empty!”

The thing that resembled Danny Washburn nearly glowed red with anger. Its eyes bulged to inhuman size. Its arms flailed in the air. And in a voice that cried out from the void it screamed, “I am older than the first atom of the universe! I am eternal! I—am—a GOD!”

The body of Danny Washburn erupted and the thing hiding inside grew like an airbag exploding from a dashboard. It filled the room in a second, stretching from one side to the other of the massive hall; towering high between the two glowing orbs of enslaved Nyx.

A giant mass; a mountain of creature not quite solid, not quite liquid. A brown and black building-sized alien organism from the darkest hole of all existence. Its surface rippled and the faces of a trillion swallowed souls pushed against the flesh from the inside out, wailing a chorus composed by the devil himself.

The energy from the orbs filled the chamber in a brilliant glow. The giant creature hovered above father and son.

Voggoth.

22. A Line in the Sand

The Eagle air ship flew low and fast along the banks of the Mississippi River. To the east, clear blue skies and a low-hanging morning sun. To the west, a line of dark clouds rolling and rumbling like an incensed tide.

General Brewer and General Shepherd shared a row of seats while a small contingent of soldiers and technicians filled the remainder of the passenger compartment.

Jon stabbed his finger into the map on his lap and asked, “How did this happen?”

Jerry Shepherd could not be sure if Jon really wanted an answer. Nonetheless, he provided one.

“Lack of aerial recon. So many of those damned Spooks flying around we can’t get a horsefly close enough to spy what they’re doing. We’re damned lucky Cassy’s scouts saw it when they did.”

“Yeah, well, we’re going to need a lot more luck before this is over,” Jon grumbled without pulling his eyes from the map.

“I’ll see what I can whip up, General.”

Jon sighed, ran a hand over his face, and then turned to Shep to see the older gent with a half-cocked grin. He could not refuse to return it.

“We never get a break, do we?”

Shep told him, “I reckon it’d be too easy if we did. So we just got to roll with the punches,” and he patted Jon on the shoulder. “We’ll be there in a minute.”

‘There’ meant Quincy, Illinois, about 100 miles north of St. Louis on the eastern bank of the Mississippi. If humanity survived the day, Quincy would most certainly join the ranks of Waterloo, Gettysburg, Stalingrad, and Five Armies as history’s most important battlegrounds.

Shepherd asked, “So you figure ol’ Voggoth channeled Erwin Rommel or something? Getting fancy isn’t usually his style.”

“Yeah, well, he pulled a quick one at the Rockies so I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. He tried to stretch us thin there. That’s what he’s trying to do now.”

“You’re not worried it’s a feint?”

Jon considered the possibility. But human eyes—from Cassy Simms’ Stonewall Brigade—spotted two Leviathans and a host of The Order’s core units crossing Route 63 north of Long Branch State Park just before dawn. Correspondingly, the last transmission from a Predator UAV identified the third Leviathan and a mass of Voggoth’s irregulars fording the Missouri river and moving east through the “Spirit of St. Louis” airport; about 20 miles from the Mississippi on the outskirts of the airport’s namesake.

“No, no,” Jon shook his head. “It’s a two-pronged attack. St. Louis and Quincy. I hoped he would come after our army in St. Louis and we could make this into a street fight. But wow, I didn’t figure him splitting up like this. Under most circumstances I’d see this as a blessing; nothing like a superior force dividing to improve our odds. But we don’t have enough troops to cover both areas. And up here—Quincy—it’s wide open. Perfect for the Leviathans.”

The transport ship descended.

Shep completed the thought, “So he hits us in both spots at about the same time.”

“You want my guess? If I’m Voggoth I beat up St. Louis to keep us pinned while I ram across the Mississippi up here then haul ass to the southeast to circle behind St. Louis. Hell, if he manages that he could finish us off by tomorrow afternoon.”

“And we can’t retreat.”

Shepherd did not ask so much as observe, but Jon replied nonetheless, “The next real natural barrier would be the Appalachians, maybe. But that’s no good. The civvies would be all crammed along the east coast and he could cut us to pieces. No, this is the best ground for a stand. Besides, we pull out now and start running he’ll just pick us off from behind. We stand here.”

“What about the rest of them?”

“The Geryons are camped a few miles north. Not far away at all. Same with the Centurians to the south and I’m guessing the Chaktaw, wherever they are. Sooner or later they’ll find their way to the front. The way I figure it, they’ll all be fashionably late. By then we might be minced meat and they can walk right through and take the credit. I’m thinking we’re going to get this on before lunch time.”

The landing gear touched ground and the Eagle rocked. A moment later the side door slid open and the general’s escort of well-disciplined career-soldiers led the entourage outside.

They landed at Bicentennial Park on the grassy river banks of Quincy, Illinois. A large gazebo with a blue roof and a miniature steeple served as HQ and provided a beautiful—but exposed—view of the river. The Mississippi stretched nearly 2,000 feet wide between the east bank at Quincy and ‘West Quincy’ on the other side.

Two bridges crossed the waters. The southern span was a truss bridge that brought the east bound lanes of Route 24 into town. Armageddon and Father Time had taken their toll on this relic. It appeared unsafe for travel. Only a handful of engineers dared work the bridge. Jon had half a mind to save the demolitions and challenge Voggoth to cross it.

The second bridge—a cable-stayed bridge in much finer condition—crossed the banks of the river a mere 200 feet north of the gazebo and shepherded the westbound lanes of 24 to the far side.

As for that far side, it offered flat, barren farmlands broken only by the remains of industrial buildings to either side of the highway and a patch of woodlands right along the coast. Jon hoped those trees would provide some measure of wind break but feared that, more likely, they would become deadly projectiles.

As for the town of Quincy that sloped down toward the east bank, a great fire during the days of Armageddon leveled much of downtown but a significant population remained in the neighborhood until a week ago. At that time evacuations removed the 5,000 residents living in the general area most of whom had resided close to the rail station on the northeast side.

Jon approached the gazebo where a cluster of soldiers and equipment worked frantically. Beyond them, across the river to the west, a threatening line of black clouds approached.

Cassy Simms met Brewer and Shepherd at the edge of the command center. She saluted. Jon returned the gesture and then got right to work.

“Cassy, can we stop them from crossing here?”

She appeared baffled; afraid even. Jon, however, could not question either her bravery or dedication. This was the woman who had sat in the shadow of Voggoth’s Leviathans as they pushed through the Rockies at Wetmore, Colorado. Somehow she had survived that Charlie Foxtrot and returned to command the best cavalry unit in Trevor’s army.

“I don’t know, Jon. I mean, I’ve got good people here. The town will provide a little cover for the 3rd Mobile Artillery brigade. The streets are kind of tight and there’s a park—Washington Park—a few blocks from the river. I’ve got the guns moving in there and they should have no trouble finding range.”

“But?”

“But there aren’t too many hard points. This isn’t like St. Louis. Lots of the buildings downtown burned to their foundations and there aren’t many reinforced structures. A good puff from one of them Leviathans and this place will go first little pig.”

Jon said, “Use those burned out basements as pillboxes and artillery emplacements. Get whatever Patriot batteries you have left in them, too. I’m guessing we’re going to trade bombardments with the bastards before they try to get across.”

Shepherd jumped in, “What about your riders, Cassy?”

“We’ve got ammo and grease for the guns. We’re digging in as best we can,” she swept her arm in a wide arc that referenced the trenches and sandbag bunkers hurriedly springing into place along the banks. “But our horses aren’t going to do us much good here and we don’t have the numbers to be very effective dismounted infantry.”

Jon told her, “The 14th Mechanized Infantry brigade is to the south opposite Hannibal. They’re packing up and coming here.”

“What about the rest of Third Corp? Can we get some more of their pieces up here?”

General Brewer told her bluntly, “No. They’re dug in around St. Louis. Besides, that’s more than one hundred miles south of here. Even if we pulled them out they couldn’t get here in time to make a difference. But the first and second tactical wings are going to run some sorties up here. That, and, well you heard it here first: your old friend Kristy Kaufman is on her way. She should be here just in time.”

“The Chrysaor? She’s back on the line?”

Shep smirked as he told Cassy, “C’mon now, you rode with Kristy back in the days of Stonewall. Think she’d miss a fight this big?”

“Okay, good,” Cassy relaxed, a little. The thought of a dreadnought floating overhead inspired confidence. Jon, however, knew it to be a small consolation. The odds remained steep.

The trio of Generals moved into the shade of the gazebo. Soldiers worked on lap tops, studied maps, and barked orders into transmitters.

“Say, Cassy,” Shepherd spoke to the general but eyed the storm clouds on the horizon. “Time to find a new command post.”

“There’s a hospital at the center of town with an old fallout shelter in the basement. We’re moving things there. I’m just worried about freedom of movement once this starts.”

She walked to one of the bulky radio sets on a table inside the command post.

“All personnel,” Jon and Jerry heard her voice echo from radios up and down the river bank at Quincy. “Enemy contact estimated in less than two hours. Dig in, check your ammo, and confirm lines of supply and communication before things get hot.”

Shep whispered in Jon’s ear, “Before she breaks all this down, now might be a good time for you to send some final instructions to the boys.”

“What? Oh, well, I think everyone knows what to do.”

Shep stared at Jon. It took a moment, but he came to understand.

“I’m not really good at that sort of thing. Never have been. That’s kind of Trevor’s bag.”

“Jon, I reckon it’s your job today. Time for you to step up to the plate.”

Jon admitted, “I tend to strike out when I step up to the plate.”

Shep would not let go. “They’re fighting for you this time. You owe em’.”

Jon closed his eyes and ran a hand through his crew cut. And then accepted the radio from Cassy Simms.

“Um—hello,” his voice carried to every squad and vehicle radio in Quincy. “This is General Brewer. I just wanted to say—I wanted to say something—well, something…” he let go of the transmit button and sighed. Then, with resolve, he raised the radio again.

“Look, I’m not really any good at this. Every time I give a speech it just doesn’t sound right. I wasn’t made for this sort of thing. Never was. I’m not a politician. I’m not even a football coach.”

He stopped again, took a deep breath, cleared his throat, and broadcast, “I’ll tell you what I am. I’m a soldier. Like you. Like all of you. Maybe in the old world, you weren’t. Maybe before ‘all this’ you were a teacher, or a scientist, or you pumped gas. Whatever. Point is, since the day this started you’ve been soldiers.”

Quiet settled over the commons, intruded upon only by the call of a lonely bird and the rumble of approaching thunder.

“I know how you feel right now. You have energy, and you don’t know what to do with it. You feel afraid and you’re trying to hide it because you think a soldier isn’t supposed to be afraid. Part of you wants this battle to start right now—and part of you keeps hoping it passes us by. I feel—I feel the same way. My adrenaline is running fast—my mind is imagining what is to come—my stomach—hell, my stomach is doing somersaults.”

A few chuckles sounded in the air.

“Sorry, that’s not really very inspirational. But, here’s the thing; we’ve nowhere left to go. This is the last line in the sand; the enemy cannot cross. We’ve retreated all the way across the country. Our families have been uprooted. We’ve given back nearly all of what we’ve worked for; there’s no more room to give. No more concessions. No pulling back.”

He let the transmitter sag for a second. Memories of his wife danced in his mind. Shep must have seen them, too, because he put a reassuring hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“It’s no longer about territory or victory. It’s about the person next to you. It’s about us—about soldiers doing what we have to do. We did not ask for this fight. We don’t want to die. We don’t even want to kill. No one hates the taste of death more than the soldier because we’re the ones who shoulder the burden. We’re the ones who live with the dead faces in our dreams and the scars on our bodies.”

A long roll of thunder interrupted Jon’s words for a second. Not natural thunder; the sound of the enemy on the move; of the evil storm approaching from the horizon.

“So why did we sign up for this? Civilians? They don’t get it. They don’t understand why we would chose to be soldiers. Do we love guns and violence? Are we misfits who want to pick fights? You bet your ass that’s what some of them think. But you know the reason, don’t you? You just have a hard time putting it to words. I think it’s time someone tried, because you deserve it.”

“You do it so they don’t have to. You do it, because all your life you have taken responsibility. You stand here with me on this riverbank because someone has to stand here.

“You do it because the soldier next to you is your brother or sister and they are worth your loyalty and your courage. Your biggest fear isn’t death—hell, we face that every damn day just training for this job. Your biggest fear is letting them down. Your biggest fear is that if you fail here today, someone back home will have to do the job. Someone’s kid—maybe yours. Someone you love. You stand here and fight the nightmares because you don’t want the charge to fall to them; because you know how terrible this is. You wish no one had to face this but if someone has to, let it be you.”

Jon paused and took a deep breath.

“I don’t know if this makes a difference or not, but you should know that I will stand here with you because I don’t want to let you down. Not in some command center five miles away, but here on the river bank. As long as I draw breath, the enemy will not cross this line in the sand. Until the battle is won I will not move from this river. My wife—my dear wife—once told me that I can be a stubborn son of a bitch. She was right. I refuse to move. I refuse to retreat. I refuse to give way.”

The eyes in the command tent focused hard on Jon Brewer. As he glanced around, he saw soldiers poking their heads out from Humvees or pushing through the crowd to get closer or setting aside their shovel or spade to listen to their general.

“I feel personally responsible for all of you. I put together this army from the beginning. I’ve tried to do right by you. And I’m going to be honest, we’ve got a tough fight coming. Maybe the toughest ever. But I’m not going anywhere. No matter how bad it gets, you’re going to hear my voice through it all; right here, with you. You’re going to see me fighting alongside you. The only thing I ask, is that you do the same. Stand with me, do not yield, no steps back, no second thoughts, and give every last ounce you have one more time. The line has been drawn. They shall not pass.”

No cheers. No hollers. No surge of enthusiasm. For a second, Jon felt certain his words had fallen flat; that yet again he had taken the ball of leadership and fumbled.

He set the radio down and felt the urge to crawl in a foxhole.

Then he saw his soldiers. The Generals and officers in the gazebo, the men and women in BDUs and jeans all along the commons, the bridges, the streets. He saw every last man and woman holding their arms in rigid salute.

His jaw felt loose. The general’s heart thumped. Goose bumps sprung on his arms and tingled.

Jon took a deep breath and stiffened his shoulders. His hand snapped to his forehead and his elbow locked tight returning their gesture with the same pride and courage that radiated from his soldiers.

They shall not pass.

Wild Horse Creek Road ran through the heart of upscale homes nestled among woods and small hills in the western suburbs of St. Louis. A set of railroad tracks ran parallel to the road about 1500 feet to the north where the hills and trees gave way to fields. Beyond those fields between the residential neighborhood and the bend of the Missouri river lay the Spirit of St. Louis airport as well as various commercial and industrial buildings of boxy design.

Nina’s rag tag army used the woods, hills, and vacant homes between Wild Horse Creek Road and the railroad tracks for cover as they chased Voggoth’s army in a maneuver akin to a kitty-cat shadowing a pride of lions.

She used a salvaged and badly dented Chevrolet Trailblazer SUV as a mobile headquarters. Vince rode with her; his leg felt somewhat better despite a mild infection and he could move with the help of a crutch if push came to shove.

The vehicle sat in the driveway of Wild Horse elementary school that served as a temporary mustering point for her forces. Those forces had grown to nearly 300 during the march across Missouri, a march aided by all manner of scavenged vehicles, a few horses, and lots of bicycles.

She had grabbed a map from an old Amoco station a few miles back and now unfolded it on the hood of the Trailblazer to plot their next move. Ahead of them, the road met Interstate 64 which ran southeast into the heart of downtown and toward crossings at the Mississippi. Voggoth’s army had passed through the area an hour before leaving many of the trees and buildings stamped flat.

Nina tried to focus on the lines and landmarks on the paper, but even her soldier’s mind struggled to block out a feeling of oppression; of looming doom that encompassed the entire area. That feeling came from the clouds overhead. They resembled the underside of a big gray quilt. It felt to her as if those clouds hung abnormally low, as if maybe alien eyes spied her every move from behind the thick veil.

A crack of lightning here; a roll of thunder there. One continuously raging storm birthed from the interaction between Voggoth’s unnatural army clashing with Mother Nature.

With the morning sun effectively blocked, the air under the storm turned cold and gusty winds blew through those few trees that still stood.

Vince, leaning out the open passenger side window with a pair of binoculars said, “I can still see the Leviathan. Damn, that thing is big.”

Nina did not need binoculars to know the Leviathan loomed not far away. She could feel the tremor with each step it took; steps that sounded eerily similar to the dull rumble of thunder.

“They’re probably getting near the I-270 junction,” she forced away her uneasiness and traced the map with a finger. “Their lead elements will be hitting the defense at St. Louis any minute now.”

“Good, they’re focused on the city,” Vince said as he lowered his binoculars. “If they turn around and see us they’d pretty much squash us.”

Nina estimated one Leviathan, at least 5,000 of the well-armed Roachbots, another couple thousand of the mechanical things the Feranites had mutated into, hundreds—maybe thousands—of Mutants with most of them on hover-bikes, and several thousand Ghouls not to mention support from Voggoths’ warped artillery and AA batteries as well as a variety of other monsters in various shapes and sizes. Probably enough to overwhelm the defenses in St. Louis unless the commanders there could bog the enemy down in house-to-house fighting. Certainly more than enough to crush Nina’s vagabond army without breaking a sweat.

And that raised an important question. Exactly what did she hope to accomplish? If The Order’s army shared the same structure as humanity’s forces, then perhaps she could have snuck up from behind and damaged command and control. But the enemy lacked any clear command structure; they exhibited more of a flock mentality. This made them less susceptible to precision strikes or operations to break command and control, as evidenced by the destruction of the Olathe facility failing to disrupt The Order’s march east.

The lifelong soldier knew it had taken great skill for her to move people across the state and start tracking Voggoth’s army without being spotted. Indeed, she found some pride in that. But now that the final battle neared, exactly how could she contribute?

“Captain Forest,” the wounded corporal’s voice came over one of the short range radios in the truck. “You need to see this.”

Nina drove west passing scattered pockets of her ‘army’ moving along the road in cars, on foot, bikes, and horses. She had assigned unit commanders—some ‘commanding’ for the first time in their civilian lives—to maintain order and they all knew to muster at the elementary school. Muster for what remained a question but the summons to the rear echelon might provide an answer.

She followed radio directions to a three-story home on Pine Bend Drive to the south of Wild Horse Creek Drive. The corporal and a small group of citizen-soldiers gathered on the half-collapsed roof at the top of a once-beautiful colonial home. Nina left Vince below with Odin resting in the back seat of the SUV while she went up top.

“What is it?”

“Look,” and he pointed west while eyeing that direction through field glasses. Nina brought her own pair. “That’s Babler Park Drive. It ends there at a ‘T’ with Route 109. They’re turning left—that means north.”

Nina understood exactly what that meant as she watched the alien army march in disciplined columns three quarters of a mile to the southwest.

She said, “That’ll take them to Wild Horse Creek. That means they’ll be coming right up behind us.”

The corporal noted dryly, “All this time we’ve been chasing Voggoth’s army and someone has been chasing us, too.”

Nina studied the aliens. Most wore ponchos with matching hoods and goggles over eye sockets. The material changed color to blend with the green and brown background of light woods and overgrown lawns.

A handful did not wear the hood of their ponchos, probably desiring a few breaths of fresh air. According to conversations she had had with Shep, when humanity first encountered these aliens during the Battle of Five Armies Stonewall McAllister thought them something from a Dr. Seuss book: big puffy cheeks with wiry hair, whiskers, and bald heads on otherwise humanoid bodies.

Their prowess at war fighting, however, belied their benevolent appearance. While Nina could not directly recall her involvement in the battle due to the theft of her memories, she understood them to be skilled and cunning tacticians. The Hostiles Database recognized them as such not only from the encounter during Five Armies, but also when Jon Brewer faced off against these aliens during his trek to the Arctic Circle to retrieve the ruins.

“Chaktaw,” Nina grumbled and lowered her glasses.

In addition to hundreds of foot soldiers several tricycle vehicles with huge wheels and dozens of wagons pulled by elephant-sized lizards marched with the force.

“I don’t think they’re following us,” she said. “I don’t think they know we’re here. I’m just saying, I think they’re coming to be a part of the battle.”

“Well,” the corporal sighed, “either way, they’re going to know we’re here in a little bit. Looks like we’re stuck between these guys and The Order. A real rock and a hard place.”

Nina evaluated the situation and drew a conclusion. “No, this is good. Look, we couldn’t do much against Voggoth’s group. Too many of them. But maybe we can do some good after all.”

“Captain, they’ve still got us outnumbered at least three to one, maybe more. Looks to me like they’ve got light artillery support and lots of nasty-looking weapons. I’m all for it, but I don’t know how we could possibly stand a chance.”

Nina said, “Listen, this is the only way we can do some good. Now get your ass in gear. Tell everyone to bypass the elementary school. We’re going to set up somewhere closer to down town. Somewhere defensible where we can block the Chaktaw’s advance and stop them from hooking up with Voggoth’s group. “

Nina returned her eyes to the binoculars and gave the marching Chaktaw another good look. She had known for days that the odds of victory were long. She hated the idea of falling to one of Voggoth’s warped beasts. But fighting an enemy as worthy as the Chaktaw—there would be some measure of satisfaction in that. Furthermore, if Trevor was right and The Order wanted it to appear as if the other alien forces won the day on Earth, then hurting the Chaktaw might frustrate that goal.

“Let’s go,” she ordered. “We don’t have much time.”

“Incoming!”

Jon stuck his head out from cover and looked west. Voggoth’s army had arrived. He saw the two Leviathans standing far off on the horizon like twin towers from the 9th Circle of Hell. The trees on the western bank of the Mississippi blocked his view of the ground elements, but he knew they were there.

Jon’s forces waited to greet the enemy. Thousands of soldiers sat in sandbagged foxholes and trenches dug into the river bank, open lots, and Bicentennial Park. The buildings along the waterfront provided cover although most had already collapsed—wholly or partly—during the early years of Armageddon. Still more defenders found refuge behind the vehicles—armored and otherwise—lining Front Street and the railroad tracks that ran parallel to the Mississippi.

Machine guns, mortars, and vehicle-mounted weapons ranging from tank barrels to TOW missiles awaited the onslaught. Both bridges—one to the north of the park, one to the south—still stood but explosives could bring them down on a moment’s notice.

Jon’s immediate concern involved artillery, both friend and foe.

Behind him, 105mm and 155mm towed artillery pieces fired high-explosive shells from the center of Quincy, over the front lines, and into the approaching horde. A reconnaissance Eagle hovered above the city acting as spotter. General Brewer listened to the conversation between observer and gunners from his personal pillbox inside a concrete foundation lined with sandbags and made—quickly—into a bomb (or wind) shelter in the center of the defensive line across from Bicentennial Park.

Humanity managed to fire first. The shells hit although that required no great skill; the density of the approaching army meant easy pickings.

Based on the reconnaissance Eagle’s transmissions, Spider Sentries, Ogres, and Monks led the enemy assault and suffered the worst the human artillery could give. Balloons of black smoke rose from the west and the constant rumble of impacts kept the ground trembling.

Then the observation ship reported, “Wait a second, they’re pulling back. They’re not coming forward. All firing arcs need to be adjusted—oh, shit. Incoming! Incoming!”

Jon heard before he saw. He recognized the piercing tone from a month ago when Voggoth’s assassins killed his wife.

Balls of red and yellow emerged from the tree line on the opposite bank and flew fast across the waters of the Mississippi. Machine gun fire rose to meet the swarm of hundreds of attacking, glowing orbs.

Many exploded over the river triggered by the veil of intercepting bullets. Many more hit the defenders along the bank blowing aside sandbags, exploding against earthen berms, splashing acid on human defenders. Yet even more continued beyond the front lines, weaving through the streets of Quincy like softball-sized cruise missiles.

Jon knew where they headed. He heard explosions and screams from town.

He raised his radio and transmitted, “Shep! What’s your status back there?”

Jon had placed Jerry Shepherd in charge of the artillery batteries and reserve forces from a position overlooking the big guns at Washington Park.

“We lost one artillery piece and a couple of crewmen, but I don’t think that’s gonna put—shit!” Jon felt the ground shake and a loud boom from a few blocks away. “Ah, damn, we just lost a truck full of shells. Make that two pieces out of action and at least a dozen casualties. Jon, you got to have them machine gun nests keep these things off us!”

“You let me worry about that, Shep. You just get those howitzers back in the game.”

Jon did not wait for a response. He turned his attention forward.

The storm clouds generated by the approaching army remained clear of Quincy and to the west, where the heart of the enemy force gathered. However, Jon spied two large whirlwinds, one on the northern flank of Voggoth’s army, the other to the south. He wished he could believe they were natural tornadoes. Unfortunately, Jon had dealt with a similar phenomenon once before at the top of the world.

“Goddamn Wraiths,” he muttered, but the soldiers in his bunker did not react. “He’s throwing the whole ball of wax at us.”

Another warning from the observation Eagle: “More incoming! Get down!”

More glowing, exploding spheres approached from the west.

According to legend, the city of Richmond Heights, Missouri received its name because General Robert E. Lee said it reminded him of his hometown of Richmond, Virginia.

After more than a century of development, expansion and incorporation, Richmond Heights retained its charm despite being situated at the heart of St. Louis County, just west of the metropolitan area of King Louis the IX’s namesake.

Even though Interstate 64 ran directly through the neighborhood and the pace of growth resulted in tight clusters of homes, Richmond Heights maintained an upscale feel thanks in part to shaded lots and a quaint shopping district.

Those viewing the region on June 21 were not reminded of towns from Old Dominion nor upscale bed room communities. Images of Hell on parade better matched the sight.

A solitary Leviathan with its top touching the black clouds above stood at the rear of a demonic host and straddled the Interstate where the north-south thoroughfare of South Hanley Road crossed. Spread out in front of the towering beast—like a swarm of locusts—rushed forward the devils from Voggoth’s domain.

Mobs of ghastly white Ghouls with protruding ribs and skullish faces took the lead, bounding forward on all fours like some kind of mutated gorillas. They snarled and snapped searching in a frenzy for the next person to find and kill. Like a flood, they spread to either side of the Interstate and swarmed into Richmond Heights.

The ones on the Interstate died first when they tripped the rows of mines laid previously by The Empire’s engineers. Beastly bodies tore apart as explosions popped and boomed one after another. But the horrid things did not care. They rushed on as if compelled by suicidal instinct.

In tight streets to either side of the highway the Ghouls met the fire of human soldiers. Those soldiers wore a variety of uniforms and some wore only street clothes but they all faced the onrush without flinching. Assault rifles rat-tat-tatted and grenades burst.

Freckle-faced Benny Duda oversaw the first contact of the day from the Richmond Heights City Hall building. His soldiers—the 4th Mechanized Infantry Brigade—met the enemy vanguard with machine guns, carbines, and well-positioned explosives as well as a formation of Bradley Fighting vehicles positioned east of the mine field on I-64. Their heavy guns decimated any Ghouls that survived the mines.

Woody “Bear” Ross assumed command over the St. Louis region when Shepherd went north with Brewer to meet Voggoth’s northern prong. His voice came to Duda over the radio as Benny cradled a scoped M4 against his shoulder from the roof of city hall. His vantage point provided a great view of the interstate and surrounds.

“Benny, what’s your status?”

“Kinda busy, Bear,” and Benny squeezed the trigger adding the sound of his rifle to the chorus of bullets.

Outside of the City Hall building and across South Big Bend Boulevard twisted an on-ramp descending around a grassy field in a long north to northeast curve en route to the Interstate. A trio of Ghouls left I-64 and climbed that gentle slope with the aim of charging a mortar team operating in the city hall parking lot. Duda’s slug tore the head off one of the fiends .

“Benny, give me a sit-rep now.”

Captain Duda fired another shot that missed but a machine gunner positioned at a first floor window several stories below managed to stave off the attack on the mortar team for the moment, giving them time to launch another series of shells onto the highway full of creatures: thwump—BOOM. Thwump—BOOM.

Duda growled in frustration as he radioed Ross, “We’re getting hit right now. Looks like the Ghouls are cannon fodder. They took out the mines and are still coming.”

Benny raised his rifle and fired a quick series of shots at another group of Ghouls compelled to attack City Hall. The first two bullets missed. The third winged one of the things and put it out of effective action. The downstairs machine gun fired again; once more stopping an assault. Duda knew it would not be long before the mass of Ghouls would overwhelm the position.

Worse, from his vantage point he spied about twenty Mutants on hover-bikes moving among the homes on Lindbergh Drive a quarter mile south as if to flank his forward positions. A Humvee hurried to intercept; its .50 caliber mounted gun fired furiously. The Mutants returned fire with their oversized and very loud flintlock-style fire arms.

“Listen, Bear,” Duda transmitted. “We’re going to have to fall back real soon unless you can send us some reinforcements—hold on sec…”

The Mutants trying to flank Duda’s troops to the south stopped advancing and not merely because the Humvee killed several of their number. In fact, the bikers turned and sped off from whence they came as if their asses had suddenly caught on fire.

Duda gave his attention to the highway. The minefield had stopped exploding. The Ghouls passing through halted their advance and also fled west.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he mumbled.

Had their defense spooked the invaders? Had their resolve forced Voggoth to rethink his line of attack?

“No,” he said aloud as the truth hit him. “All 4th Mech units and anyone in the vicinity of Richmond Heights, take cover. I repeat, take cover. Big Bad Wolf is knocking at the door.”

The skyscraper-tall Leviathan stepped forward. Its right foot—something like a clawed elephant’s foot—smashed down on the ultra-modern Civic Center built just off the interstate. Swarms of Ghouls at the front of the advance withdrew west to either side of the gigantic monster where the rest of the St. Louis-bound army waited.

Its slug-like body shimmied and a sound similar to a forlorn air raid siren came from the innards of the Leviathan. The miserable black clouds twisted and turned as the monstrosity gulped air at a rapid pace. As it did, sacs popped up all along its sick skin like boils. The tendons holding the main body to the legs stretched as its belly filled.

Duda raced from the roof with his command staff and descended the stairwells of City Hall. All across the front his soldiers broke for the cover of basements, storm drains, and pre-built shelters. The Bradleys on the Interstate drove east as fast as their engines could go.

The siren-sound stopped. The Leviathan bent forward; stooped, it seemed. A brilliant flash of lightning danced through the heavens chased by a magnificent clap of thunder.

The Leviathan fired a blast of supersonic wind that outraced its own sound. The deadly gust projected out in a cone with Interstate 64 at its center. Every manmade structure—almost exclusively residential homes—between Ethel Avenue a thousand feet to the north and Arlington Drive to the south evaporated into tiny pieces.

Benny Duda—huddled in a restroom in the basement of City Hall—felt the entire building above fall apart like a sand castle in a hurricane. The pressure burst one of his ear drums and would have sucked him away if not for his death-grip on a drain pipe. Two of the other four soldiers huddled with him in the basement fared worse. They went aloft and broke apart into bits before they could even scream.

The sound of the blast came just as the worst of the wind passed; a low howl so deep it made the ground vibrate and played a dull hum on the pipes in the ceiling-less bathroom.

Then it stopped.

Duda—his right hand planted firmly on his burst ear—staggered to what remained of the stairwell. He knew the Ghouls and Mutants would come next, sweeping in and ripping apart the survivors. He had little time to escape and, with his equipment destroyed, could only hope that any of his men who survived the wind would be smart enough to retreat downtown.

As he reached the top of the stairs he paused.

The land had been swept clean. Nothing higher than foundation-level remained of Richmond Heights. The explosive gust covered everything in a dune of dirt like a brown snowdrift. With the exception of a handful of stumps, every tree had been uprooted with an efficiency the most talented landscapers would envy. Slabs of concrete had actually peeled away from the highway.

He glanced east and saw the remains of the wind dying down like a dust storm losing steam. Pieces of Richmond Heights settled over the St. Louis suburbs a mile to the east.

Duda turned his attention west. And froze.

Contrary to past encounters, the Leviathan did not return to standing position. Instead, the massive maw remained fixed on the battleground as if admiring the destruction. With the landscape laid flat, Benny could see the Ghouls, Mutants, warped-Feranites, and Roachbots of the force holding in check.

“What the hell?”

Then it started again. That siren sound. Except this time the Leviathan did not draw breath from the heavens. Instead, a great suction swept from east to west and into the maw of the titan as if racing to fill a great vacuum.

Another dust storm formed, this one churning toward Voggoth’s pet with incredible force. The shards of shattered houses, the twisted remains of guard rails, crushed cars, overturned armored military vehicles, chunks of concrete, the remains of the 4th Mechanized Infantry Brigade, and Captain Benny Duda flew through the air as the Leviathan gulped them like a musket loading shot.

The sound stopped. Then the Leviathan fired again with not only wind, but the shrapnel of people and things. Yet nothing remained to destroy; nothing for the supersonic gust to knock over.

Once the wind slowed and the fine grains of debris that had been a town and its defenders drifted to earth in a coating of brown, black, and red dust, the army of Voggoth marched forward once more. A wave of mechanical Roachbots joined the Ghouls and Mutants at the front of the army aimed at down town St. Louis.

23. Time Redux

Voggoth filled the chamber, rising between the two containment orbs where the Nix squirmed and boiled sending energy bolts between them. The universe’s original monster towered above father and son. The threats and words of discouragement spoken through the lips of Danny Washburn gone; replaced by a gigantic writhing mountain of venom and anger.

Trevor retreated a step, shocked by the creature in the temple that came as close to Voggoth’s true form as the physical universe would allow. The surface of the thing shimmied as if liquid, yet held together as if solid. He could not comprehend its composition except knowing with a certainty in his soul that the being before him was comprised as much of hatred as any form of matter.

In an instant, Trevor knew he had miscalculated. Too horrible. Too powerful. Too alien in every sense of the word. His instincts screamed run, run, run! but the image of Voggoth so disorientated his puny human mind that he could not move. His body locked in inaction; his thoughts scrambled with fear and revulsion.

Voggoth did—nothing.

The mountainous mass postured as if preparing to roll over the petty humans—tendrils sprouted, uncurled and threatened to strike—but did not.

The skin—if that’s what it could be called—of the devil rolled and bubbled; faces of countless victims pushed from beneath as if begging release. But the master of Armageddon did not strike.

Jorgie Benjamin Stone—the nine year old boy holding a stuffed animal—stepped toward Voggoth.

Trevor found an anchor to reality in his son. He squinted his eyes and focused on JB, ignoring everything else in the chamber as best he could. And while the synapses of his mind continued to misfire, Trevor managed to see what happened with enough clarity to understand.

“You—are—empty,” the child said in a plain, matter-of-fact voice that resonated in Trevor’s thought process like a huge stone splashing into a stream of confusion.

“Jorgie,” Trevor mumbled with the aim of telling his son to ‘stay back’. But he stopped the warning as he saw the false-God tremble at the boy’s approach.

That current of disorientation inside Trevor’s head abated. The confusion—the fear—the revulsion dissipated because they were never real. Just another parlor trick from the master manipulator: the only cards Voggoth could play in the universe of the living.

JB dropped his plush bunny. The rabbit and its tightly-wrapped blanket fell to the temple floor. With both arms free, Jorgie lunged at Voggoth, reaching with open hands.

“I am life,” he said with an obstinate tone worthy of the most stubborn child.

His human flesh touched the abomination. Life collided with anti-life. The energy of the living rushed to fill the void. The giant shivered. A flash came from the point of contact. Jagged bolts of power engulfed the massive entity and conducted across its being and merged with the forces emanating from the captive Nyx.

Trevor stepped toward his son as those waves of energy engulfed the boy. But while Voggoth shriveled and thrashed as if trying to escape, Jorgie basked in the light of the discharge. The touch had released a power within. A power that overwhelmed the monster and engulfed the orbs above.

An image of perfect black—of someplace devoid of light—formed in the vortex between the contained Nyx. The false-god collapsed upon itself, spinning and shrinking and finally slipping out of the universe, chased from the world of the living by the touch of a child.

“Jorgie! Jorgie!”

Energy crackled around JB, stretching to the temple heights in continuous bolts and surrounding the pair of spheres up there. Those spheres splintered and fell apart. The oily-black Nyx escaped, stretching toward the boy like predators leaping at prey.

Trevor’s son kept his hands aloft. Energy filled the temple, forcing his father to drop to the ground and cover his head. That energy stopped the diving Nyx in mid-air. The cloud-creatures froze in place, captured again not by a physical barrier but by the force radiating from Jorgie.

“Father! I can feel it, Father! I am—I am becoming whole…”

Trevor took to a knee and gazed with wide-eyed wonder at the power his son wielded. The energy strands between the creatures formed a bridge again, and once more images of the past played.

“It’s still open, Father.”

Jorgie did not appear in pain, but a look of stress draped over the boy’s face, as if he held aloft a great weight but one supported by his mind, not muscles.

The Nyx struggled against these new bonds but could not gain freedom.

“He was taking from before, Father—reaching back and bringing his monsters here—he was cheating, Father. He was breaking the rules!”

The portal in the buzzing lines of energy opened to a waterfront of shops and restaurants and the baseball stadium named Camden Yards. The city of Baltimore. Those storefronts and parks teemed with monsters from the void. Trevor remembered Reverend Johnny finding and exterminating one of The Order’s outposts in that city.

Trevor realized—given another moment Voggoth would have pulled those monsters from Baltimore and deposited them outside the temple as reinforcements for the ongoing battle. Shepherd and Johnny would have found nothing; just like his Generals had found empty cities in Cincinnati, Oklahoma City, Dallas, and Grand Forks when they had expected to find hordes of Voggoth’s forces.

The history they lived when finding those empty cities came from Voggoth’s action in the here and now; in the temple: what the Gods of Armageddon had referred to as ‘local linear time’ on this Earth—humanity’s host world—when Trevor eavesdropped on their gathering last year.

He understood.

“Jorgie, listen,” he spoke calm but firmly to his son; a difficult task given the chamber full of energy, the Nyx trying to pounce, and his son’s fascination with the power surge. “You’re a link in the chain! You have already done this. You have to do it now or everything will change.”

The image morphed to a view of the present. Outside the temple, lines of European infantry slowly retreated before the horde protecting the structure. Armand’s FAMAS rifle fired round after round slaughtering monsters wholesale but too many remained. Artillery positions on the ridge were overrun—motorcycle cavalry charged desperately into the advance but could not stem the tide.

“I don’t understand.”

“You have to do what Voggoth did. You can go back, Jorgie. You are the ark!”

The boy absorbed what his father said and as he did his eyes widened with a revelation and with fear.

“Father—he said he went looking for Mother. That bad Missionary Man—he said he went looking for Mother to kill her and me while I was in her belly.”

Trevor stood. He felt pinpricks against his skin and the hairs on his arms stood straight like needles.

“Then save her, JB. You have to go back and save her or you will never exist and none of this will have happened.”

“I don’t—I don’t know if I can.”

“You are in control, JB. Concentrate and use your mind to go back—farther than Voggoth went—go back to the beginning.”

His son’s face contorted with concentration and frustration.

“Easy, Jorgie.”

“I can’t reach it—it’s there but I can’t reach it—it’s like I’m being blocked!”

Trevor glanced up at the rumbling black clouds. They struggled in the grip of the energy field—and against the child’s will.

Trevor narrowed his eyes and urged, “Take it from them, Jorgie. It’s time to be strong—stronger than them. If they won’t let go—hurt them.”

Jorgie’s eyes found the pair of cloud-creatures suspended in the air above as if encased by another pair of spheres but these of energy.

“I want to go back,” he growled at them and stuck out his lip. “I want to GO BACK!”

The clouds twisted and a nightmarish moan escaped from a chorus of vaporous faces forming one after another in the inky mists. Flashes—the smell of something foul burning—the storm of energy raged in the space between the two paralyzed Nyx. Images came and went one after another after another. Between the bright flashes and the speed of change, Trevor struggled to identify the images.

“I can reach out—I’m looking for Mommy.”

“Concentrate, Jorgie! Make them take you where you want to go.”

An oil platform in the North Sea. Workers in yellow hardhats battling strong winds and raucous waves—gone in an instant leaving behind empty decks.

“It’s not easy, Father,” the boy pleaded in frustration. “Everything keeps spinning and moving. I reach out for her and then—and then she’s gone and it’s someone else…”

Calmer waters—that same platform off in the distance—dozens of green coffins burst into existence in a different time and sink beneath the waves to a watery grave.

“Father! I killed them! They’re gone—I can’t do this!”

“You already have. Keep trying!”

A magnificent temple dominated by a Kmer-style tower with two sets of steep steps leading to terraces. Four smaller prangs surrounded the main tower, each decorated in seashells and porcelain. Tourists dressed in a variety of colorful, warm-weather clothing swarmed the grounds moving between somber-looking Buddhists. Then, in an instant, they vanished.

“I can grab them, Father, but it’s like scooping sand. What I do grab feels like it’s slipping through my hands.”

Jorgie’s eyes closed and he concentrated his will on the task. Trevor saw fatigue and aggravation battering his son. He wanted to grab him, pull him from the energy field, and comfort him in his arms. But he knew he could not. His son had a role to play; a power that needed to bloom if humanity were to survive the day. No matter how hard—no matter the pain—no matter the number of failures, Trevor knew he must let his son try.

The tourists and worshippers reappeared along the banks of the Chao Phraya, not far from the temple at a time after the armies of Armageddon had descended upon the Earth. The cluster of emerald sarcophagi appeared in the midst of a pack of monstrous Jaw-Wolves playing with the bones of victims in a riverside park.

“Jorgie—Jorgie listen to me,” Trevor took a deep breath, held his hands palm-up in a calming manner, and spoke to his son in his best father’s voice. “Think of a place first, Jorgie. Don’t worry about time or where to go, think of place. Think about home, JB.”

“I—yes, okay, Father, I understand.”

Trevor understood. Voggoth had created this gateway by enslaving the powers of the Nyx. Jorgie jumped in mid-stream, commandeering the mechanism but without any real control. It amazed him that JB could do so much with no preparation. Yet if history were to be fulfilled, he would need to do more. Trevor could not fathom what would happen if he pulled Jorgie from the energy pool before he completed his task, but he had to believe that the world outside the temple would change drastically. All their success to date might be wiped clean and any chance at saving humanity would vanish as quickly as the ‘ark riders’ had vanished in the days before the invasion.

“You’re starting in the right ‘when’, Jorgie,” Trevor said as he remembered disappearances in Norway and Thailand during those early days. “But you’ve put them back too early.”

“I can’t control this.”

“Yes, you can. The same way you controlled Voggoth’s machines on the island last year. I have confidence in you.”

JB—his eyes still closed—muttered, “I’m in the right when…”

A spinning globe stopped on the savannahs of Africa. An entire village vanished.

“I can’t hold them for long.”

“Can you move them somewhere, Jorgie? Can you take them to a different ‘where’?”

”I’m trying—I’m trying…”

The villagers reappeared in cases of green in a wooded patch not far from the remains of burned and collapsed huts and buildings; something had come through and destroyed their homes. Before the image changed, Trevor saw a reason for hope: he saw a group of camouflage-wearing African troops riding in Jeeps approach the still-steaming vessels. If this was a scene in the time since Armageddon’s start, then perhaps these soldiers were survivors, too.

“Jorgie! That’s it! You did it! You pulled them forward through time to when they would be safe. But think about places closer to home. Think about your mother.”

Flashes of cities, mountain towns, seaside villas, campgrounds—they came and went in quick succession.

Wrigley field—thousands of fans and two baseball teams ceased to exist in the summer of the invasion—and reappeared in the streets of the Lakeview neighborhood of Chicago; a neighborhood teeming with alien wildlife.

Trevor gasped, “No…” but he already knew The Empire had found those unlucky time travelers torn to shreds.

Any confidence JB felt quickly dissipated with this failure.

“I have to stop—I’m killing them!”

“Listen to me, Jorgie. You can’t stop. You have already done this. You are a link on the chain. Hell, maybe it’s a whole new chain that those son of a bitches didn’t count on, but you’ve got to see it through. Keep trying. You’re in the right time. Don’t give up, son. Please. For your mother’s sake.”

The mention of his mother’s name re-energized the boy. His eyes opened and while Trevor could not see what his son saw, he could see a new sense of determination in his expression.

More images—random places—random buildings—people pulled from their lives days or hours before the onslaught of invaders. With each group, Jorgie’s skill at moving them through time improved. Only a handful arrived too soon. Many more began to appear in places that Trevor immediately recognized from those early years of expansion; places where they had found ark-riders.

As he watched his son work, Trevor had a revelation.

Whenever they had found batches of ark riders they had always found a scientist of some importance, or an engineer, or a brilliant mathematician or a fanatically brave soldier. At the time, Trevor had sensed a purpose behind the ark; as if some force had targeted the best and brightest of humanity and ensured their survival beyond the first days of Armageddon.

Not so. The groups Jorgie pulled from history were random groups. Yet someone of importance, someone of great value, someone who aided the cause did arrive in each batch because even the most random samples of humanity always produced such persons. The plan existed not in the power behind the ark, but in the nature of mankind.

Jorgie’s face grew drawn and tired. Working from the center of the energy spike—the vortex—put a great strain on his body and no matter how great his powers, he remained a human being.

“Father—something is—something is wrong,” Jorgie’s eyes searched the streams of energy; again seeing things not visible to Trevor. “I feel—I feel like I’m being watched. Like another door has opened.”

Trevor could not decipher what his son meant. He only knew what needed to be accomplished. And from what he could see in the spinning, flashing storm of energy, Jorgie’s skill at fishing the currents of time improved.

Trevor saw West Point along the Hudson. He watched as a cache of summer students and teachers—all across campus—vanished into thin air. Trevor knew General William Hoth—hero of the Wetmore battle—would be among that number. Trevor searched his memory. They had found the ark-riders at West Point less than a year after the Battle of Five Armies but before major expansion. Jon had suggested an expedition to the academy with the hope of finding materials for ‘teaching’ as part of his strategy to improve humanity’s burgeoning citizen-army. They had found much more than that: they had found hundreds of cadets and dozens of instructors; including Hoth.

“Jorgie—put them back in two years. No more.”

“I’ll try, Father,” and the boy grunted and the emerald sarcophagi reappeared on the academy grounds. Trevor could not tell if the time was exactly right, but from what he saw no predators threatened the ark-riders.

“Father!”

“JB? What?”

Again, the child’s eyes searched the bands of energy, seeing something.

“They’re coming, Father! They’re coming!”

“Hurry, Jorgie! Hurry!”

In rapid succession Jorgie guided the Nyx’s energy across the world during the June days just prior to the full force of the invasion. Trevor fed him dates and places, but despite becoming better skilled at manipulating the power, Jorgie still could not be as precise as Trevor wished. Nonetheless, he grabbed thousands of people form the past and, with Trevor’s guidance, deposited them at times when they would awake in lands re-claimed by the expanding Empire.

Again Jorgie warned, “Something is happening—there’s another door open—to someplace different. Father—I’m getting so very tired.”

“Your mother, Jorgie. Find your mother,” Trevor had not pushed to pull Ashley from the past because he wanted his son’s skill to improve as much as possible. Of all the ark-riders, losing Ashley—and, ironically, baby Jorgie in her belly—would prove the most catastrophic. He wondered if his son—standing in the energy field—would simply vanish should Ashley find her green coffin deposited before the battle for Wilkes-Barre; before the Battle of Five Armies; before Northeastern Pennsylvania had been retaken by humanity.

His concern proved unwarranted. Ashley’s entire family and all of her neighbors disappeared from their homes, leaving behind singed clothing and empty rooms.

In the moment before the image changed, Trevor saw a silver Chevrolet Malibu with a badly-damaged passenger side screech to a stop in the half-circle driveway of the Trump’s modular home. He saw a person to whom he shared some similarity; he saw a young man named Richard Stone exit the car and bound up the stairs in search of his fiancé. All this before the Old Man, before New Winnabow, before the journey to a parallel universe.

Trevor gazed at the fading image. The stranger pictured there—could that really be his past self? How he wished for a world where Richard had never become Trevor.

Then the image changed. Ashley and the others from her street rode the ark landing safely in secure territory not far from her home a little more than a year since her disappearance. For her the time past in the quickest of flashes. During that flash, his entire life—his entire person—changed.

Richard became Trevor.

“Father—I am so tired—and they are coming…”

The energy field waned. The image showed the grounds outside the temple. Voggoth’s monsters prepared for one last strike at the Europeans; one last surge to send them running.

“One more, JB. One more time and then you’re done.”

“I can’t…”

“You must! Armand and the others are dying. Send them help, Jorgie.”

The mention of Armand’s name grabbed JB’s attention. No doubt the thought of the gallant Frenchman—someone Jorgie had grown to admire—gave him one last burst of energy.

Trevor saw the scene change to a place he could not identify; an industrial town situated beneath a row of beautiful, towering mountains covered with green and surrounded by serene rolling hills. A formation of soldiers marched along a road outside of town, enjoying the sun of a gorgeous Russian summer day as well as a postcard view.

Trevor realized—Satka, Russia. This place. This very place before the infection of Voggoth came and tore it asunder.

Alexander stood at the open passenger’s door of a Sherpa military vehicle. He used a small flashlight to consult the map unfolded on the seat therein. A Royal Marine watched over the leader with his eyes aimed east at the battlefield raging just below the nearby ridge.

Explosions of red and orange—barrel flashes—streams of fire—and vehicle headlights created a shifting tapestry of light within the mass of combatants. The occasional lightning flash from the cloud-covered heavens revealed a morass of human fighters in close-quarters battle with the alien horde. A smoky haze floated above the slaughter.

Behind Alexander the crews for a pair of small artillery pieces hurriedly hitched their guns to transports. Other workers packed crates with gear and sealed them shut.

Armand’s motor bike roared to a stop near the Sherpa. The warrior—a big blood stain on one thigh and a slash cut through the leather sleeve of his outfit—knocked the stand into position with a sharp, frustrated kick. As he approached Alexander he removed his helmet.

“What did you want me for?”

Alexander answered, “Round up your cavalry. I need you to cover our retreat.”

“Retreat?” Armand’s face twisted in disgust as if Alexander had just cursed a dear relative. “Trevor and his son are still inside that temple.”

“I know. I am not happy about this. But the battle has turned against us. Too many of those things coming out of thin air. Already our northern flank has collapsed. As it stands, we may have to leave our wounded behind.”

“Alexander, I have followed you for years without question. Your pragmatism kept us alive and together during those early times. But I do not want to do this thing. If Trevor is right, then this is a battle that must be won. Sometimes it is best to take a chance, even when the odds are against you.”

Alexander shook his head not in disagreement but surprise.

“I did not know you had come to trust him so.”

Armand answered, “He has been right since the moment he came here. I cannot ignore that. And neither should you. We must stay and fight.”

“If we do not leave soon then we may not be able to disengage! Do you know what that means? We will be overrun and cut to pieces. Right now we are a wounded army, but we are still an army. With cover from your riders we can retreat. Soon we will not even have that luxury. The lines of this battle are already disintegrating. Please, Armand, I do not like to—“

“Come!” a shout interrupted Alexander’s argument. “Alexander! Armand! Come and see!”

The voice belonged to the lanky black man named Gaston. The one who had been spying in France for Russian intelligence at the time of the invasion. He stood at the edge of the dead orchard waving frantically.

Both Armand and Alexander knew Gaston not to be a man easily taken to shouting. They reacted by dropping everything and walked quickly toward Gaston. Alexander’s bodyguard joined the group and they pushed through the forest.

“What is it?” Alexander felt time—and a chance to escape—slipping away with every wasted second.

Gaston said, “It is unbelievable. A miracle.”

After the field of dead trees came a small, round valley, the valley they had inspected prior to the battle: the field full of the tanks, guns, equipment, and uniforms of the 276th Motorized Rifle Regiment.

Alexander and Armand stopped at the edge of the orchard. And gaped.

The T-72s, the mobile artillery, the BTRs and the boxes and crates of equipment and ammunition remained. However, hundreds—perhaps thousands—of green blobs the size of coffins now filled the space between the gear.

Rick Hauser and several of Gaston’s men worked among the strange blobs, digging into and peeling away layers of what resembled hardened gelatin. Dozens of strangers stood among them. Alexander squinted as if to ensure his vision worked properly. A bolt of lightning lit the scene and confirmed what he thought he saw: those strangers were naked men.

“We started pulling them out as soon as we found them,” Gaston explained. “They are alive! We focused on freeing the officers. With a little searching they should find their uniforms.” He considered then added. “I suppose any uniform will do for the time being. It is cold, no?”

“I do not understand,” Alexander said. “Who are they?”

By the tone in Armand’s voice it seemed he understood and accepted the situation: “You see, they are alive. Trevor and his son are alive. They did this! They turned Voggoth’s trick and used it to help us. We must keep fighting, Alexander. These men will turn the battle.”

Alexander wanted to say something to Armand, but the Frenchman hurried away from his side and wade among the newcomers, smiling in a fashion Alexander had rarely seen from his friend.

For their part, the naked men huddled in small groups taking pains to shield themselves in modesty and from the cold air under the cloud-filled night. A few realized their clothing lay nearby and scrambled into uniform. Shock, however, stymied the majority.

Armand aimed to change that. He hurried to the nearest T-72; a dust-covered dinosaur on the verge of resurrection. Gaston realized Armand’s intentions and stood at the base of the vehicle, translating his words.

Despite the sounds of battle from a half-mile away, one burst from Armand’s FAMAS rifle into the air grabbed the attention of the liberated soldiers. A line of naked Russians stood in front of the tank; more spread across the field.

“Listen to me,” he yelled and as he did, Gaston repeated the words in Russian. “You do not know what is going on. I understand. The short way to put it is that you have traveled through time; about eleven years. In that time, Earth has been invaded and we are at war for our survival.”

Armand tried to summon some kind of inspirational speech. He tried to capsulate lots of information into a few sentences as clearly as possible. Alas, the Russian soldiers were neither inspired nor enlightened by his words.

Armand chose a different approach.

“Okay, then let me just put it like this. Now is the time to fight…”

He threw his arm behind him and pointed toward the sounds of battle.

“…and those are the bad guys.”

Jorgie fell to a knee. The energy field buzzing around him flickered. The Nyx seemed to wriggle free of their prison but only for a split second before something stopped them dead again.

Trevor stepped forward but the electricity kept him away as surely as it kept the cloud-things held in place.

“They’re coming, Father. I felt another door open.”

Trevor saw—shapes forming in the energy stream around Jorgie.

Although worn to the point of exhaustion, Trevor heard a measure of awe in his son’s voice as he mumbled, “Something is happening to me—I am seeing things—I feel different.”

Higher up, toward the dark ceiling, the images in the energy screen changed. The cities of yesterday—the battlefield outside the temple—they disappeared replaced by a spinning red funnel that tugged at the power generated by the Nyx.

“I can’t control it any longer.”

At that moment his grip on the energy field ended. The inky-black Nyx creatures became free and threatened to envelope the boy and his father. But at the last moment the pull from the red funnel overcame the strength of the creatures.

Trevor thought he heard a scream—perhaps only in his mind—as the open door in the energy field sucked the creatures up and in. The spinning red vortex sealed shut.

Energy still crackled around Jorgie, filling the Temple with a soft glow. Voggoth and the Nyx had both been sent away to whatever realms they hailed from. But Trevor realized—something else had come through.

They were not alone.

24. The Eight

JB remained on one knee, still surrounded by sparkles of light. Trevor saw his son taking deep, exhausted breaths.

“Jorgie—Jorgie, are you—are you okay?”

JB’s eyes appeared to be watching something; something Trevor could not see.

“Father, I see now. I understand. This wasn’t supposed to happen like this. I am— am becoming whole again—Father I’m very tired.”

JB placed a hand to his forehead.

Trevor took a step forward—and stopped.

They materialized from the glittering energy field like ghosts taking physical form. Trevor realized that the door through space and time his son had commandeered from Voggoth remained open. But open to where?

The light dimmed in the slightest but still surrounded the players on center stage. The sour stench of Voggoth’s earthly lair faded; the feeling of swirling energy calmed.

The newcomers gave JB—still exhausted; still kneeling—a glance before drifting into a circle around Trevor. Their hands—the hands of children—reached and touched his skin as if ensuring the reality of his existence.

He eyed each of the six one by one. A Hivvan, a Duass. A Witiko without a trace of silver cosmetic. A Centurian with big black eyes; a Geryon lacking the leather armor Trevor had seen his people wear on the parallel Earth.

Trevor saw a familiar face as the hands stopped reaching and the children retreated into a ring round him. He dropped to a knee and greeted the Chaktaw girl—Alenna—at eye level, with a smile.

She returned his smile as she asked, “Do you know who we are? Do you know what we are?”

Trevor sighed as he replied, “You are an advanced evolution of each of your races. Probably from some—from some original universe. Did you create the eight parallel universes?”

The Hivvan boy said, “The original universe is older than you can imagine. Its creation resulted in echoes of itself; empty echoes. Identical but lacking in sentient life.”

“Like rings in water after a pebble has been dropped in a puddle,” the Duass spoke through a short bill.

The Geryon added, “An infinite number of echoes. You are aware of only eight because we chose to create bridges between only those eight.”

“And in the original universe,” Trevor’s words felt heavy on his lips. Heavy with disappointment. “In it, eight races. But an empty Earth. Humanity sprung to life on Sirius. The rest—each of you—on your own home worlds. And you evolved there, for eons.”

“Yes,” the Centurian confirmed. “Our races are far older than you can comprehend.”

The others added their voices one after another.

“We grew beyond the physical.”

“Our minds evolved.”

“A synergy of matter and energy; the energy of our intellect.”

“Our technology advanced in ways you would be unable to grasp, but our beings advanced even further.”

Trevor held his hands aloft and cringed as he filled in many of the blanks for himself, wishing with each word he were wrong but knowing otherwise.

“So you accessed a universe for each race, seeding the planets to mimic what your universe was like in the beginning. Each universe identical in almost every way, except for one way. Mankind living on Sirius in each, except for one. In one you moved my people here, to this Earth. You did the same for each of the races in one of the universes. I don’t understand. Why?”

The Witiko sneered as if the reason should be obvious to any creature of intelligence, “To maintain identical conditions. To ensure equality in the test.”

“Test? So, what—Earth offered an environment suitable for each of the races. You erased any advantages of position or geography or weather or anything you couldn’t control, and found equal ground. Seems like a lot of trouble to go through just to kill each other off.”

“You see, I told you he could not understand,” the Duass said.

“He is unable to grasp the complexities,” the Geryon admitted.

The Witiko grumbled a tirade, “There is no reason to share this information. His understanding is irrelevant. Contamination has occurred here, resulting in our reunification which was something to be avoided until the end of the challenge.”

Alenna spoke, “We must deal with the changing circumstances. The use of the parallel cosmos’ was intended to prevent such contamination. His actions here were a surprise. Our planning did not consider this possibility.”

“You screwed up.” Trevor voiced his accusation in a soft tone, but they reacted as if thunder had burst in their ears. Their eyes grew wide. Their children’s faces twisted into expressions of offense.

“You made a mistake,” Trevor repeated and found satisfaction in making them speechless. “Congratulations. It shows you’re human. Or, I guess, it shows you’re just people, just like me.”

“We are not just like you,” the Hivvan corrected. “Do not be deceived by our physical bodies.”

“Yes, yes,” Trevor waved a hand dismissing their pompous attitude. “You not only seeded the races on Earth, you seeded yourselves inside those races. You say you evolved beyond the physical? Well then, what—you split yourselves in two? You scrambled your physical beings—your genes—into the gene pool. And you waited. You waited for the combination to be put together again. That was the chain I was on, wasn’t it?”

Unlike the others, Alenna did not appear offended at Trevor’s rant. The faintest hint of a smile flickered on her Chaktaw lips as she nodded and answered, “Yes, Trevor Stone, we waited—and watched. And prepared.”

He glanced around at each of the young-looking ones and made eye contact as he continued, “You prepared. Because everything had to be equal. You recorded a collection of genetic memories so that a leader could fight on behalf of his entire people. You influenced everything so that when the war came each race would have the same starting point. A level playing field.”

The Witiko insisted, “It is the perfect design to test the worthiness of each race. To see which life pattern is strongest.”

“Is that what you tell yourself? Is it? Yes, of course,” Trevor lectured. “You are all so very evolved. You call it a challenge or a test. To you it is an experiment. A controlled experiment. Why don’t you call it what it is? Death. Misery. War. Destruction. You have no right to do this.”

The Centurian said, “On behalf of our races and in the interest of reaching our full potential, some sacrifices must be made for the greater good.”

The Hivvan added, “Unfortunate in many ways, yes, but necessary for the benefit of all.”

The Witiko said, “It is the obligation of those with the power and intelligence to—”

“To make decisions for the rest?” Trevor interrupted. “To force your will upon others? You are playing god.”

The Duass quickly pointed out, “From your limited perspective, we are gods.”

Trevor erupted, “You are no such thing! Don’t fool yourself. You did not create life. You copied it and placed it on this empty world not because you should, but because you could. This isn’t just about fighting, it’s about showing off. Which of you first breached the dimensional barriers? Which of you recreated each race’s environment and genetic codes in the primordial soup of one Earth after another? Which of you hit upon the idea of separating apart your physical body and slipping it into this recreation of evolution? If you wanted a war, then you should have fought it among yourself instead of dragging billions more into your game.”

“Distasteful.”

“Devastating.”

“A war between our evolved selves could have torn the fabric of existence to pieces.”

Trevor snapped, “And it’s so much more fun to watch the barbarians fight it out. Tell me, do you place side wagers? Have you bet on the outcome?”

The Geryon took offense, “Ridiculous! This is no sport but a challenge of evolution.”

The Duass said, “Even the universes are of finite existence, they will eventually collapse, leaving nothing but the void. The void is eternal. Through this challenge of evolution we will determine which race is worthy to exist there.”

Trevor said, “The void is where Voggoth comes from.”

The Hivvan agreed, “Our life patterns are all different. It is critical that we understand which is superior. For this answer, we chose to look at our roots. What we once were.”

Trevor shut his eyes and shook his head.

“You’re just children, after all. Just children with questions about who you are, and why you are. What is your purpose? But you are children with the power to rip apart space and time.”

“Your metaphor is insulting and incorrect,” the Centurian noted. “But, yes, we search for the answers to existence by looking first at ourselves. We agreed that this challenge was the best way to discover which life pattern is superior. In doing so, we will be a step closer to achieving immortality.”

That caught Trevor’s attention. His eyes snapped open again. He glanced about the ring of children as if searching but not finding what he sought. His mouth hovered open for a moment as he tried to form the words to express his thoughts.

“Imm—immortality. You are all mortal…”

Alenna said as Trevor’s words faltered, “Each of our races exist less as what you would call individuals and more as collectives, a merging of our technology and our physical form to the point that our life span stretches for eons, but in the end we are still mortal. Like the universes themselves, one day we will end. There is only one who has broken free of such constraints and evolved to the point of immortality.”

The Duass spoke, “Only one not confined to the physical realm. One that has achieved evolution beyond the need for any physical presence.”

Trevor found the answer, “Voggoth.”

“He lives in the void between the universes. He is older than all of our races by a measure of time beyond even our ability to track,” Alenna explained.

“A superior form of existence.”

“A type of intelligent energy. An intellect surpassing any of ours.”

“Perfection.”

Trevor’s eyes narrowed. He felt the skin on the back his neck tingle as a shiver coursed through his spine.

“Yes. I see it now,” he whispered. “It’s all so very clear.”

The children eyed him suspiciously.

Trevor strolled slowly around the Hivvan and Duass representatives and walked outside of the ring, stooping to whisper in each child’s ear as he spoke.

“Voggoth—so completely different from you—so much older. So much—so much wiser. He has what you covet, doesn’t he? Immortality. You see that as superior, don’t you?”

“It is superior,” the Geryon insisted.

The Witiko clarified, “Even we succumb to death. Both our physical and mental selves have a finite existence, although we have come to view time much different than your limited perspective allows.”

Trevor snarled, “My limited perspective sees things clearer than you do.”

“Foolishness!”

“I don’t’ think so,” he circled. They listened.

Trevor stooped to the Duass’ ear.

“I can share the secrets if you are worthy. We must find who is superior.”

He strolled another step to Alenna.

“Is it you? Is your way correct?”

He stood, walked another pace, then stooped behind the Hivvan.

“You are such a marvelous race—not like the others—I think you are superior.”

The Hivvan snarled, “You mock us.”

“No,” Trevor corrected as he circled behind the Centurian. “I mock your foolishness. I can hear the whispers in your ear. Tell me, Hivvan, did Voggoth take you aside and tell you how different you are from the rest?”

The Hivvan shifted uneasily but did not answer.

“What about you, Witiko? Did Voggoth come to you one day and tell you how he admires your race, how you are far superior. Did he tell you how the other races are holding you back? Did he promise to share all the secrets if only you would cast aside the others?”

The Geryon insisted, “You have no frame of reference. You have never encountered beings as evolved as us.”

Trevor sneered, “You are not as evolved as you think. There is nothing standing here that I have not seen before. I’ve seen arrogance and pride. I’ve seen those who do because they can and not because they should. I’ve seen architects of destruction move people about as pawns. I’ve seen the so-called greater good be the good for a few. I’ve seen cold, calculating ‘logic’ translate into misery. I’ve seen it all before because while I may not know much about time, I know history. And I’m seeing it all over again.”

“Insolence.”

“A lack of perspective.”

“How dare you speak to us this way.”

“This is a far too complicated matter for your limited intellect.”

Trevor continued, “It is not complicated at all. You wish it to be so, so that you could hide behind the idea of gray areas and different perspectives and oh, the complexity of it all! But it is simple. It is war. It is war for pride’s sake. It is a war waged because of whispers in ears, because of promises of greatness, because you have come to know that despite how great you are, you are humbled in the face of the forces of nature, of the universe.”

Alenna peered at Trevor as if searching for clues on his face and said, “You speak in riddles. How are we—the greatest of all living things—humbled?”

“Because you don’t know all the answers. You have kidded yourself into thinking you created all the pieces for your little game, but you haven’t, have you?”

“Nonsense!” spat the Hivvan

“Really? Tell me why I command armies of canines?”

All of the children appeared ready to answer, but stopped. Their collective mouths shut.

“Yes, that’s what I thought. You don’t know, do you? Something in my genes. Something put there; another gift added into the chain you manipulated. Someone spiked your little concoction, didn’t they?”

“A part of evolution, nothing more,” the Witiko tried to sound sure but did not.

Trevor told them, “You put life on trial—nature—and that nature, that power of life defends itself through me. That is why on each Earth a helper species evolved. A defense mechanism, rooted in the truth that all of life sprouted from one organism.”

The Duass spat, “Nonsense.”

“Really? Tell me, on your home worlds in the original universe, did your people develop such an ability? I know Alenna’s father commands the Behemoths on the Chaktaw’s version of Earth. What is it the Witiko have on their side on their Earth? Or the Hivvans? But in your original universe—nothing.”

Trevor thought of Nina and Armand and added, “Why is it that among my people there are those who have been waiting for this fight? Why are some destined to be champions?”

Alenna cocked her head as if trying to hear a distant, faint thought. “Are you suggesting that Voggoth did this?”

“The Chaktaw should refrain from feeding these fantasies!” came a shout from the young Witiko.

Trevor shook his head. “No. Not Voggoth. Something else. Something greater. The power of life itself. What some might call nature, others might think of as God, or the greater plan of the Universe. Forces beyond your comprehension. Beyond your control.”

“Speculation!”

“Ridiculous!”

“Foolishness!”

Trevor circled the ring of children again. They followed with their eyes.

“I don’t know the answers. I am content not to ask for all the answers. I was content to live my life. You took that from me. From all my people. You took it because you have been manipulated, used.”

“That is not true,” the Duass child said. “This undertaking is the result of our different races reaching the conclusion that evolution would be best served by determining which way of life is the strongest and that only the strongest would be worthy of Voggoth’s favor.”

The Geryon agreed, “Each of our races is different. Our environments vary greatly. Each, however, evolved into a higher life form. Through this conflict, the differences between our races will become clear and the strongest will survive.”

Stone concluded, “I’ve read about it time and again in the history books of my people. You are no different from my world’s Hitler or Genghis Khan, or Napoleon. You think you are superior; you think that if your race wins this challenge then you will impose your will on the others.”

The Centurian echoed, “That is the way of things. The strong survive.”

Trevor pleaded again, “No! You are doing this because you have been used! You look to Voggoth and somehow, for some reason, you see something that you think is better than what you are. And so he has used that against you. He has convinced you to fight one another with the victor promised the chance to learn what oh-so-mighty Voggoth knows of the universe. ”

“Voggoth is perfect! He is immortal. He is not confined to the physical universe!”

Trevor countered the Centurian’s claim in a shout, “He is not allowed in the physical universe! Look what happened when a child of life touched it! It was banished from this place in an instant! It has no real power, only the power you give to it!”

The children shook their heads, some violently.

“Listen to me! See! For the sake of life—see!”

Alenna threw her eyes to Trevor and asked, “What do you mean, for the sake of life?”

Trevor’s anger morphed into anguish. Sadness. Pity.

He strode slowly to Alenna, knelt, and touched a hand to her cheek.

“We—you—and I—all of us—we are the living. We are life. Voggoth is—Voggoth is death. He was never like us. He did not evolve into an immortal entity, he has always been that way. It’s his prison! He is the same now as he was at his creation. Static and dead. No evolution. No reproduction. No purpose. No challenge.”

The Duass meekly answered, “He is immortal. We can—we can become immortal, too.”

The Witiko insisted, “If only we can understand ourselves. If we can find out what makes us different—who is strongest and why.”

“Immortal,” Trevor explained, “is not better. It is our very mortality that makes us special and unique. It is our mortality that makes us strive to improve ourselves. It is what makes us want more for our children; for our next generation. Yes, you are evolved and great, but you stand on the shoulders of all of us who came first. All the steps in the process. All the stages of life. You owe it to those who came before you to cherish that life given to you. To champion life, and protect it.”

The Hivvan said, “Voggoth is a being of immense power. He can manipulate life itself.”

“Is that true? Can Voggoth do that? Or is it you letting him manipulate life. Power, is never taken, it is given. What has Voggoth been able to do without you? I suggest, nothing. He could not start this war, he could only make you start it. He cannot evolve you into beings as powerful as he, but if you let him he can change you; make you into warped, lifeless reflections of yourself. He has no life. He cannot create, he can only destroy. Because of that he envies you, to the point that he wants you destroyed.”

“Voggoth is supreme,” came the voice of the Geryon.

“No, Voggoth only has what you give him. He thrives on your arrogance and pride, on your vanity. He feeds you lies and manipulates you. He awes you with his age and makes you covet what he has even though he truly has nothing at all. He is evil. Evil itself, in every way. He enjoys inflicting suffering on the living out of his envy for that life. He is shallow and empty but projects an image of power. Yet it is all an illusion.”

The Centurian objected, “Evil? We are beyond such absolutes. There is no evil, only facts and science. Only truth that waits to be discovered.”

“You are wrong,” Trevor told them. “Evil exists, as surely as good does. I know, I have seen both.”

He glanced into Alenna’s eyes and held his hands low and palms out, still pleading.

“He has convinced you of your differences. Told you that your ‘life patterns’ are distinct. He has made you wonder if one of your ways is better than the other.”

The Witiko agreed, “Yes. To grow to our full potential we must discover why we are so different and which way is best. Throughout the universes even the most basic living creatures compete for survival. From civilizations to microbes, those entities that are superior eventually win such competition.”

The Duass added, “This challenge eliminates any variables giving each race the same point of origin in an identical environment. This challenge is structured perfectly.”

“No! Your entire premise is wrong!”

The children all spoke at once, creating a chorus of indistinguishable words that translated only as anger and contempt for such a brash suggestion from a puny being.

“You are wrong!” Trevor shouted above the chorus, silencing it. “He has convinced you that strength is to be found in war? War is easy! War is a mindless struggle that reduces us to our most basic, primitive instincts. You will find no answers in how we fight, only in why we fight. I fight for survival.”

The Centurian told Trevor, “It is not your fault. You simply cannot see the big picture. You cannot comprehend.”

“I do see the big picture. I see the truth that eludes you even now—even as it stares you in the face!”

The children grew silent yet again. Trevor burned red in frustration.

“You gave me the genetic memories of my race so that I could fight like humanity’s best soldiers and fly like mankind’s pilots and have the skills needed to rally a resistance.”

“Yes,” Alenna concurred. “It seemed a reasonable balance to the surprise and force of the initial onslaught.”

Trevor’s eyes burned into the little girl’s as he asked, “Why can I fly one of the Centurian shuttles then? Why did I understand the Witiko slave device? How come your father knew how to operate a Geryon battleship? I will wager that each recipient of the genetic memories can tell similar stories.”

The Hivvan tried to reason, “We believe the answer may lay in the manner in which the memories were collected.”

The Duass did the same, “It is possible that during their creation the memories were cross-contaminated.”

Trevor dismissed their excuses.

“No. There was no error of collection, only of time. The gift of memories you gave me contains memories from the Centurians and the Witiko because those memories come—they come from the same source.”

Eyes widened. Heads shook.

Alenna spoke in a confused tone, “What do you—what do you suggest? I do not see your meaning.”

Trevor’s fatherly voice explained, “We are not all different races but the same. We have the same genetic structure—all derived from the same basic materials, scattered around the universe.”

The Witiko refused to listen, “Your suggestion is preposterous. The differences in our life patterns is evident.”

The Geryon agreed, “Our social structures and technologies; our physical attributes all point to demonstratively different life forms. I suspect your suggestion to be a jest.”

Trevor forcefully reiterated, “If we are so different, how is it that one planet—Earth—can be perfect for all races? Because we are created from some original source in your original universe and even now that source—call it nature, call it the universe, call it God if you must—but whatever the source, it has built in protections for its children; protections against Voggoth. Protections like the canines for me; and the instincts of my people’s greatest warriors.”

Trevor put his hand first on the shoulder of the Duass, then on the shoulder of the Hivvan. He told them, “You say you evolved beyond merely the physical, then why can you not see beyond it? Because we look different you assume we must be different. Where is the evolved intellect in such short-sightedness? It serves only Voggoth’s interest for you to be so blind.”

The two alien children shrugged off his grip, stepped away, and glared; the suggestion of a common bond disgusted them.

“No. Our patterns are unique.”

“We see existence differently. We have different philosophies.”

“Witness the armies assaulting your planet. The differences are plain to see.”

Trevor shook his head, “The similarities are plain to see. Weapons and tactics; organizational structures. But you have to see past how you look and act. Our DNA may be different but only by the smallest degree. It all comes from an original source.”

The Witiko said, “Pointless speculation. Guesses. Myths. Do not look to him for answers.”

“No. I do not know. But I know that you won’t find those answers at each other’s throats. For the love of God, see this before it is too late! See the trap you have fallen into! See that the enemy is not each other!”

“There is no trap,” The Hivvan corrected. “Only a challenge of our construction. Everything is of our design.”

“A trap! A trap you built for yourselves set by Voggoth! Look at the your so-called challenge. See how you created it. See how well you isolated and contained each race! Eight battles for survival, perfectly crafted so that no one theater would depend on another!”

“Perfectly created,” the Centurian agreed. “Sterile environments allowing each race to be judged independently, so that one result would not depend on another. Until this contamination.”

Trevor cried, “Perfectly created so as to ensure there would be no winner!”

“Liar!”

“Eight different Earths built to ensure eight failures!”

“Quiet!”

“The strongest will survive!”

Trevor roared, “The Red Hands fell but who grew stronger? Voggoth!”

“You cannot understand!”

“Your reasoning is flawed!”

“It is not so simple!”

“Open your eyes! See! How old is Voggoth? How old?”

Trevor grabbed the Duass by both shoulders and nearly shook the child. The boy could not answer. Instead, a voice from across the circle—the voice of Alenna—replied, “He predates all of our races. He may predate the creation of the universes themselves.”

Trevor pulled away from the Duass and leaned over into the eyes of the Hivvan.

“And where does Voggoth live? What animals come from his environment?”

The Hivvan staggered and stumbled, “He comes from the place between the universes. He—he has followers of physical form, animals and organized alike. They worship his greatness. They participate in the challenge with a token force on his behalf.”

Trevor swung about and took two big steps to the Witiko. He grabbed the child’s hands.

“And where did they come from? If he has evolved beyond the physical universe why does he have followers who take physical form? Why are they not put to this same test? Why do they have nothing to lose? Why? Why!”

“They are not life,” came the answer. “They are immortal, like Voggoth.”

Trevor growled, “They are dead. They are his puppets. He cannot evolve and give birth, but through them he extends his armies. He extends his power. He broke your precious rules and brought his forces across time and put them here, in the field, to face what remains of my people. But you say nothing, because he will wipe my people out and that will be one less enemy for you to face; one less participant in this ‘challenge’. But when he finishes here—then it will be your worlds, one by one, that he will overwhelm.”

The Centurian risked Trevor’s wrath as he suggested, “Voggoth’s actions may be the direct result of the contamination here. It is a counter balance to—”

Trevor jumped to the alien, forcing him into silence.

“He has created and unleashed a massive army of war machines. Machines grown from materials of the physical universe—standins to do his dirty work and far more than a token force. How does it serve the challenge if it is Voggoth—and not your armies—that destroy my people? How is that a judge of mankind’s strength?”

“Your defeat is imminent,” the Geryon said in a shaky voice that suggested his own lack of surety. “It was decided in the beginning to sterilize those who lose.”

“That’s not what Voggoth wants! He does not want the losers to be destroyed. If he did, then why didn’t the rules of your challenge allow each race to use their most advanced technologies? Why have you used your collective powers to suppress my people’s nuclear weapons? Why didn’t one of the attacking species use their knowledge to splinter my world with an asteroid or fry my people with mass carnage? Your armies on my world—they all have these weapons at home, don’t they? But they can’t use them!”

The Hivvan tried to explain, “It is a matter of balance.”

Trevor yelled again, “Fools! Voggoth does not want us all destroyed, he wants us beaten and weakened. He wants the survivors for himself!”

The assembled children exchanged a series of glances.

Trevor told them, “Yes, I know what happened to the Feranites. You spoke of sterilizing them, but when the time came of their defeat Voggoth had another suggestion, didn’t he? It sounded oh-so-merciful to you then. But it is what he has planned for all of you.”

“No.”

Trevor remembered The Order at its basic level: “On my Earth, his token force used implants to consume and control living human bodies, warping them into his slaves. Making them into lifeless creatures bent to his rule. Voggoth has not been a silent, passive observer or a token participant. He has been manipulating and guiding this entire war, on all the Earths.”

“You are incorrect.”

“That would contradict what I was promised.”

“You were promised?”

Stone recalled, “It was Voggoth who orchestrated my abduction to another Earth in an attempt to engineer the downfall of my species on this planet and, at the same time, to try and finish off the Chaktaw on their Earth. He gave the humans from Sirius access to the Nyx’s abilities to steal me away.”

He thought of Nina and that first year. He told them, “And it was Voggoth who, in the very beginning, tried to sabotage the survival of humanity by implanting one of my followers and using her to betray me. This was an attempt to lure my race’s survivors to an early and fast transition to The Order’s ranks. How did that serve the challenge? How did that prove or disprove mankind’s worthiness in comparison to other races? It did not. It only attempted to hurry humanity’s ultimate conversion to one of Voggoth’s legions.”

“This suggestion is outrageous.”

“Outrageous?” Trevor nearly cried out. “What has been outrageous has been your complicity in the breaking of these rules! I am certain that some of you standing here know exactly what Voggoth is doing on my Earth, but you don’t protest because he has whispered in your ear that he wants you to win the challenge. He wants you to be the last race standing. And he hasn’t said that to only one of you. He’s probably said it to all of you!”

“Voggoth’s interaction on each of the subject worlds has been limited.”

Trevor continued, “And I’ll bet he told it to the Feranites, too. By the time they were double-crossed, it was too late for them. None of you listened then, because with the Feranites gone, you were one step closer to victory.”

“The human does not know this to be true.”

But Trevor did know it to be true. He recalled the words Anita Nehru had shared from her tomb deep within Red Rock. The final piece; the last truth. The ultimate truth. What she had discovered in that lair of horrors. The answer to the Fermi paradox.

“I ask again—how old is Voggoth? How old are the universes? Why are they so empty?”

“Voggoth,” Alenna repeated the answer provided previously, “is older than the universes. He predates our existence by uncounted millennia. His consciousness existed long before the first sparks of our life. We are the first to come since. Despite our age, we are still young.”

They stared at Trevor. He told them, “No. You are not the first. You are only the most recent. The next—the next victims. Look at the minions of Voggoth—look at the Mutants and the Wraiths. See what waits for you. See what became of all life before you!”

Silence. No reply.

“The universes are empty because the arrogant fools of races long past fell for the same trick. I wonder what words he whispered in their ears that convinced them to hand over their souls? I suspect those words sounded very much like what you’ve heard. It is the only way he reproduces. The only way his power expands. And you—you evolved superior beings—you have taken the bait again. It is not good enough to be so strong and so smart. You have to be the strongest and the smartest. Along the way you have handed your lives over to the darkness.”

Still, no replies.

“It may be too late. Voggoth has grown too powerful. While he himself is not allowed in the physical universe, he has built an army that mimics organic life. It grows. It devours. It infects with parasites, taking over my people and multiplying. Combined with his soulless armies, he is on the march here. Look close and you will see that his ‘token’ force is massive and nearly unstoppable. He will wipe us out and you will stand by and let him do it because we will be one less participant in your challenge. Even now what remains of your forces on my Earth converge to join Voggoth’s army to strike the last blow on humanity. And when he has destroyed my people he will move on to the next Earth, his ranks expanded with some warped version of mankind, circumventing the gates you control by using the Nyx directly—a back door he will exploit against us all. And soon he will no longer need your help to destroy one another. Soon what little reach he has into your universes will be enough. Then, just as he seems ready to do here, he will take over your bodies and swallow your souls!”

“Enough!”

“There is no reason to discuss the matter with one who cannot understand!”

“Fantasies and stories to save his people, nothing more.”

“We are superior. We can see through these fabrications.”

“We must leave! We must take the human surrogate and complete the reunification. No more time should be wasted in senseless discussion.”

Alenna stepped forward.

“Our time here is over. We must consider the effects of this contamination.”

The Duass spoke, “The interaction between your son and Voggoth changed everything. The reunification of our physical bodies and greater essence was reserved only for the victorious race.”

Trevor mumbled, “It is still not too late for you all to be victorious. The strong survive together. Division only serves Voggoth.”

But Trevor had barely the strength to mumble, nothing more. All of it had poured from his body. Exhaustion overtook not only his person but his mind.

The row of children retreated. Alenna hovered for a moment longer. She found Trevor’s eyes, smiled in sympathy for his plight, then followed the rest as they faded into the white light.

The children of the races departed.

Trevor turned his attention to JB.

His son staggered to his feet, having regained some control. The glimmer of light surrounding the area began to contract, forming a ring around the boy.

“I have to leave now.”

Trevor stepped closer but was held at bay by a field of power, like electricity—but not quite—around his son.

The stuffed animal—Bunny—wrapped in a blanket—lay on the dead floor of the temple. Trevor stooped, grabbed hold of the plush toy, and cradled it in his arms. He knew his son would no longer need it.

Trevor said with deep regret, “I know.”

JB tilted his head, blinked, and gazed at his father with curiosity and awe.

“I’m sorry, Father, that things turned out this way. I’m sorry you did not have a normal son, or a normal life.”

Trevor half-smiled and told his child, “It would have been nice to—to watch you grow up. To see you play little league and go to school. To see you meet someone, and start your own family. You’re missing so much of what it means to be human. You’re missing so much of life.”

“That would have been nice. But we all have our roles to play. Our parts. No one knows that better than you, Father.”

The energy began to circle around Jorgie; a growing funnel. Sparks of wondrous colors flickered like a rainbow of camera flashes.

Trevor tried one last time, “You have to tell them, JB. Tell them what life means. Share with them what they have forgotten, what you experienced. Tell them about a mother’s love. Tell them about how hard it is just living; just finding our way.”

Trevor bowed his head under the weight of the world placed on his shoulders. After a moment he blinked his eyes fast to stave off the sad, and honestly told his son, “I’m going to miss you.”

“Father, you have done your best—you always did what you thought was right. I know—I know what it has done to you. It has made you wonder what you’re really capable of. You wonder if you’re a hero or a monster. Maybe the difference between the two is not as great as it may have once seemed. But you need to know—for all you did—for everything you had to do—you are forgiven.”

Trevor swallowed hard. His legs wobbled. The energy field sped faster and faster. JB’s face faded in the light. Trevor fell to a knee. The tears of a lifetime swept down his cheeks.

You are forgiven.

A wind born from the circle of power swept through the chamber.

The boy disappeared in the flood of light. That flood rose toward the ceiling and expanded. The energy pushed against Voggoth’s walls and those walls crumbled.

Trevor wiped a hand across his face and watched the beam push through the ceiling and erupt into the night sky. He clutched the stuffed animal as tight as Jorgie ever had.

Debris fell, first small shards followed by larger chunks. The chamber grew unstable.

Trevor retreated a step, then two, then turned and jogged away.

The light faded, leaving behind a collapsing, empty shell of a building.

The fall of the temple accelerated as Trevor stooped and pushed through the hole in the front door. As he jumped down the stairs, the side walls collapsed inward and the twisted spires shriveled and fell into the growing pile of ruin. The boil-like smaller buildings withered.

Trevor stopped a few yards from the collapsing temple and took stock of the battlefield. Things had changed drastically since he had entered the building.

Bodies—of monsters and men—coated the black plain, in some places piled high like small mountains. Patches of fire burned here and there, primarily from the remains of motorcycles and vehicles although he also saw some giant snail-shell totally engulfed in flames.

He did his best to avoid stepping on bodies, but found that difficult. Some of those bodies still twitched and moaned; not all of them belonging to humans, either. Even when he managed to avoid stepping on a corpse his boots still slipped on the tools of battle: shell casings by the thousands; bits of shrapnel; shriveled tentacles and broken spears.

A tremendous shudder caused the ground to quake. Trevor spun his head around and watched the last standing temple wall fall. Sparks of arcane power danced along the edges of the pile, but the temple of Voggoth existed no more.

He shot his eyes to the sky and thought he glimpsed a sparkle of energy that might be the remains of his boy traveling off into the heavens. But Trevor quickly realized that he did not see energy but, rather, a star. An honest-to-god star: the thick cloud cover dissipated. No lightning remained.

BOOM.

He traced the source of the explosion to the northern end of the plain. There he saw a ring of iron—tanks and armored personnel carriers—tightening like a noose around a band of Voggoth’s monsters. Motorcycle cavalry circled the force like vultures waiting to dive in for easy pickings while squads of infantry—mainly Russian—filled the gaps between taking pot shots with rifles and tossing the occasional grenade. Above it all circled the Eurocopter adding its firepower to the mix.

Trevor allowed himself a sigh of relief. The ark-riding soldiers had turned the tide. Jorgie had fulfilled the time loop first begun eleven years ago and now complete. But in the end, what had he accomplished? A battle won. But the war lost.

Trevor’s sigh of relief morphed into a heavy pang in his heart. He had made the journey across the ocean, fought all the way from France to the Ural Mountains, banished Voggoth from Earth, and forced a confrontation with the powers of Armageddon. All that he could possibly have hoped for. Yet victory eluded his grasp.

A swarm of motorcycles worked around the bodies and drove to Trevor with a Renault Sherpa amidst the formation, squishing and crunching over the dead as it approached. The group halted as their headlights fell upon Trevor Stone.

Alexander bound from the vehicle with a smile from ear to ear. Armand jumped from his Ducati with an equally pleased expression.

“You did it, Trevor!” Alexander celebrated. “We have won the battle.”

Armand joined in, “It was you or JB who sent the Russians, yes?”

Trevor nodded his head, slowly.

“I could not believe it,” Alexander admitted. “I was ready to pull our forces away. We were being defeated. They just kept coming. And then the soldiers came. It made all the difference, Trevor. We won the day.”

The two stood there, beaming, with their chests heaving in and out with both excitement and exhaustion. Trevor, however, did not return their enthusiasm. He stood still, his head bowed.

Their smiles faded.

Alexander: “Where is your son?”

“He is gone.”

“I am sorry, Trevor,” Alexander consoled.

Armand, meanwhile, sensed more awry.

“Trevor, tell us, what happened? What did you accomplish?”

He raised his head.

“I accomplished nothing,” he told them. “They wouldn’t listen.”

25. Armageddon

Hell came to Quincy, Illinois. The inferno raged around Jon Brewer’s tenuous hard point along the banks of the Mississippi River. It raged in a hurricane of metal, fire, explosions, screams, and battle cries all beneath a tumultuous front of evil black clouds.

Glowing, lethal balls poured into the hardened city, dozens more with each passing minute. No structure remained standing along the waterfront; everything reduced to wreckage. Both bridges lay in the water, denied to the attackers.

Humanity’s defenders took refuge among the blasted buildings and toppled vehicles. Many of the prepared machine gun nests and gun emplacements remained, but just as many had been rooted out and destroyed by the invader’s barrage.

Mankind returned fire with fire. Hundreds of guns—large and small; mounted and dismounted—targeted the incoming projectiles with growing accuracy. Artillery shells fired from behind the lines managed to hit Voggoth’s army as it lurked more than a mile from shore waiting for the pummeling to pave the way.

Jon used his glasses to gauge the enemy. The tree line on the western dike that had obstructed his view of the opposing force just hours before was long-gone, replaced by a smoldering pile of toppled timber and hundreds of stubborn trunks of various sizes all warped and melted by the crossfire.

“Bragg, do you copy? Jimmy, come in!”

The constant roar of explosions and flying ordnance forced Jon to scream into his radio.

A barely audible voice responded, “Copy that. Give me targets.”

An exploding ball hit the pavement of Front Street in an eruption of concrete and dirt. The resulting fallout caused Jon to duck his head for the briefest of moments; even his determination must succumb to reflex.

The spotter Eagle had long ago been swept from the air, therefore target acquisition came from more conventional means.

“On your map,” Jon consulted his own as he estimated the target area, “in the fields west of CR-346. I count three batteries. The damn things are killing us.”

Captain Jimmy Bragg was a veteran of Five Armies, having been the first to spot the approaching Roachbots before the battle and then later his Apache had been knocked down by the Chaktaw at the same time as Nina’s.

As he had during that battle eleven years ago and throughout his career in Trevor’s army, Jimmy Bragg answered Jon’s call with a military stoicism that bellied the suicide mission he undertook: “Roger that, General. We’re heading in.”

Another explosion, this time to Jon’s right. An already-overturned Humvee disintegrated into pieces of metal and rubber. He watched with detached fascination as one tire spun high into the air. Several more glowing spheres whizzed past the tire with indifference just as it reached maximum height. It seemed to pause there before deciding to accept the invitation of gravity.

At that moment a new roar rumbled across the battlefield: a trio of Apache helicopters flying ungodly low and roaring over his head like thunder incarnate. He saw the determined pilots—dead men already—grimly guiding their birds of prey out and over the river. They banked hard south, flying over a pair of capsized barges. The undercarriages of the helicopters nearly skimmed the water. Then, at the right moment, they swerved west again, rose above the riverbank, and launched Hellfire missiles. The contrails from the rockets gave the impression of warheads traveling on ropes of smoke. That smoke obscured Jon’s view of the gunships.

A moment later came a brilliant flash followed first by the sound of screeching metal rotors and then the heavy splash of a helicopter falling into the river.

Bragg’s voice ignored the casualty as he radioed, “Targets hit. All three batteries out of action. We’re pulling—“

The choppers emerged from the smoke heading east with their noses down. Flames raged from the rear of one of the helos, creeping forward to the cockpit like yellow fingers grasping prey.

An explosion to Jon’s left sent more shrapnel his direction. He ducked behind the protection of the concrete foundation out of instinct. A second later his eyes saw Bragg’s cockpit engulfed. The burning helicopter crashed into the east-side bank of the Mississippi.

Three more Spooks flew in from the west aiming for the last escaping Apache. A soldier in a forward fox hole launched a shoulder-fired Stinger. The warhead hit and destroyed one of the Spooks as it crossed the water. But the other two drones found their mark, one slamming the chopper portside and inducing a spin, the other hitting the canopy head-on. The collision sent a dead pilot’s body away from the airframe while the rest of the Apache crashed somewhere behind the front lines.

The battle did not afford Jon time for prayer. Voggoth answered with aerial thunder of his own. A flight of five of Hammerhead bombers swept down from the storm clouds and disintegrated overhead thanks to Patriot batteries. Hundreds of bomblets dropped along the waterfront.

The detonations traveled from north to south. One of the 14th Mechanized Infantry Brigades’ Bradley Fighting Vehicles suffered a direct hit, as did a trench full of soldiers stationed not-quite-under the raised highway that led to the remains of the Quincy Memorial Bridge. Jon saw body parts and rifles thrown out from there.

He crouched in a corner of the basement and spoke into his radio.

“Cassy! What is your status?”

General Cassy Simms took cover behind an overturned car at an intersection across from the Quincy Junior High School, nearly one mile from the river but no less a part of the action.

Several squads of her cavalry ringed the school firing bullets and lobbing grenades at the robotic Commandos held up inside; the ones who had dropped in from the sky an hour before in an attempt to create a second front or, perhaps, to silence the artillery batteries around Washington Park.

Not far from her position behind the toppled car smoldered two piles of metal that had recently been one of Voggoth’s favorite storm troops. Near that inhuman creature lay a young man no more than twenty sprawled on the pavement in a pool of red a silent Calico 960 just beyond the reach of his cold fingers.

She looked away from the body.

“Jon,” she answered the radio call above the sound of exchanging fire. “We’ve contained the airborne troops but it will be a while before we can mop them up.”

“Great,” his voice lacked the enthusiasm the word might otherwise convey. “Bragg’s flight just took out their arty batteries. I don’t think we’re going to have to worry about those damned balls again for a while.”

“That’s great—“ she stopped as an enemy round ricocheted off the road a few feet away. Cassy tried again, “That’s great. Give Jimmy a big thanks for me.”

The pause on the other end of the radio told the story.

Cassy regrouped her thoughts and transmitted, “Anyway, we’ve got this buttoned up, but, I mean, that doesn’t mean he won’t just drop more of these things in here somewhere else to try and get at Shep’s guns.”

“Say again, I missed that. Goddamn dive-bombing Spook just hit the wall here. What’d you say?”

She heard a cry for ‘medic’ from somewhere away from Jon’s radio.

“I said—oh, shit!”

One of the flying blob-like Chariots swept in from the residential neighborhood to the south. Its side gun spat a series of blasts. Cassy heard cries from her men; the gun certainly found its mark.

She grabbed her rifle and darted across the intersection yelling into the radio to her own people at the command center, “We need AA over at the school right now!” She glanced at the street sign as she ran. “That’s 14th and Main. Mobile AA stat!”

The Chariot exploded. Half-organic, half-metal pieces—few larger than a breadbox—fell on school grounds. The craft’s destruction took everyone—robotic and human—by surprise.

Cassy looked to the sky where Voggoth’s machine had hovered two seconds before. As she did, a shadow blocked out the sun, approaching from the east.

“General Brewer,” she transmitted. “The Chrysaor is here.”

And damn glad to see you, Kristy.

Two Abrams tanks pin-wheeled through the sky carried on the Leviathan’s supersonic breath like row boats on a mega tsunami. Below and around the flying tanks the strip malls, townhouses, and commercial buildings along Vandeventer Avenue changed from solid structures into grains of debris as the northward-bound gust obliterated the 10th Armored Brigade’s thrust into The Order’s flank.

The wind faded, leaving behind a handful of standing walls, wrecked vehicles, and seemingly sand-blasted roadways all covered in a dune of dirt and dust. The Leviathan stood straight and towered over the St. Louis skyline once again. Around its feet scrambled hundreds of the mutated mechanical monsters that had once been living, breathing Feranites. Voggoth’s slaves raced north into what remained of the Turner Park area to seek out and slaughter any surviving infantry while the main force resumed its eastward march around Interstate 64.

Woody “Bear” Ross observed the annihilation of his counter attack from one of the concrete vomitories of Busch Stadium. The tall buildings of down town partially obstructed his view of the carnage, but the sound of raging wind, the sight of an apocalyptic dust storm, and the radioed screams provided ample evidence of failure.

He shook his head in disgust. Fighting The Order felt like a game of rock-paper-scissors with Voggoth always knowing what to expect. Form hard points or attack with ground forces and the Leviathan made you pay. Sit back and bomb with arty or air power and the soulless armies marched forward through the destruction, undeterred by bombs and explosions; they did not fear death. Which meant it required prepared hard points or armored counter attacks to check those warped foot soldiers which, in turn, the Leviathan skillfully countered and the entire dance would start over again.

That left the fight to the ‘scissors’ of air power which Voggoth blunted with the ‘rock’ of his throw-away Spooks. In the early days of The Order’s invasion air power and Dreadnoughts often stymied or slowed the enemy’s advance. But, attrition finally whittled The Empire’s air force to a handful of combat-capable assets and the Dreadnoughts—one by one—had been overwhelmed. Only the Chrysaor remained and she fought at Quincy; where she would, no doubt, eventually be overwhelmed.

Ross did not know what to do. His artillery batteries stood ready across the river and would soon send another salvo toward the enemy, but the robots and Ghouls of Voggoth’s group would gladly suffer casualties in exchange for infesting St. Louis and then fording the Mississippi. If he kept his soldiers in place around downtown they could halt the advance, but the Leviathan would simply step in and blow it flat.

The Leviathan. That was the key. But he lacked the means to bring it down and it stayed clear of the main fighting until called upon to blast through well-defended positions or—as had just occurred—decapitate an offensive.

Ross growled and raised his radio to do the only thing he could.

“Send them in,” he transmitted.

Captain Carl Dunston’s radioed a reply, “Fast-movers inbound. ETA thirty seconds.”

Ross turned to one of his aids; a man whose wide, frightened eyes contrasted with his snappy green BDU’s that seemed the paragon of military professionalism.

Although Bear’s voice lacked its usual ground-shaking boom, he still commanded immediate action, “Get the command staff ‘cross the river to the fallback bunker. And tell General Rhodes to get his group up here or these things are going be over the Mississippi before dinner.”

The aid nodded and turned away sharply, motivated not only by his commander’s orders but also by a hardy embracement of evacuation. He shared the directions with other members of the staff and they immediately set to work disassembling equipment.

A pair of F-15s swept in flying low over the tangle of roads and rails to the south of the stadium that ran away from the river and across St. Louis. The planes actually flew beneath the shadows of downtown’s taller buildings, briefly filling the dug-in defenders there with false confidence.

The crazed, six-legged robots nicknamed ‘Roachbots’ comprised the Vanguard of Voggoth’s force. They scurried in front of the insanely-tall Leviathan to engage the forward positions of the troops sent in to fill the vacancy left by Benny Duda’s obliteration. Those forces, Ross knew, would last minutes—not hours—against the full might of The Order’s advance.

Anti-Air spooks rose to engage the fighters but the planes dropped their deadly cargo of napalm first. Flames burst to either side of the interstate, engulfing the baseball diamonds and tennis courts of a recreational park to the north as well as several commercial buildings to the south.

The heat melted the frames and singed the circuits of the mad mechanical monsters that bore the brunt of the bombing. Secondary explosions added to the inferno and streams of black smoke rose to mingle with the dark storm clouds overhead.

The F-15s banked away and skillfully weaved through downtown St. Louis, evading the anti-air creatures some of which collided with buildings and detonated.

For all the fiery destruction, the napalm offered the briefest of reprieves. In mere moments the next wave of Roachbots marched around their burning comrades and continued into the thick of downtown. Human infantry and vehicles responded with bullets and explosives. The battle for St. Louis reached its final stage.

Plumes of smoke from the fight outside of St. Louis drifted high on the eastern horizon. Nina watched from some five miles behind the action. Still, the Leviathan—so tall the storm clouds often hid its uppermost reaches—felt close. Too close.

Her ragtag band of guerrillas managed to wipe out a pair of supply vehicles and their escorts before settling into ambush positions to either side of Interstate 64.

Her force of 300 included displaced soldiers, government workers (mainly from food and agriculture) and civilians either liberated from The Order’s clutches or accidentally caught behind enemy lines.

Half that number served under the wounded corporal’s command to the north of the interstate in the buildings and on the grounds of St. John’s Mercy Medical Center. Before Armageddon the concrete, glass, and steel buildings hosted a variety of medical facilities including a well-respected children’s hospital. The campus had not reopened since the first Armageddon, but the proximity of the structure to the highway gave it a prominent role in this second Armageddon.

In any case, the best shots among the corporal’s contingent occupied the upper levels of the tallest buildings where they could cover the interstate with sniper rifles. The less skilled positioned themselves in the parking lot and tree line along the highway with any weapons they could find.

Ironically, the southern side of the ambush utilized a nearly identical facility for cover: this one being the Missouri Baptist Medical Center, also unattended since Armageddon but its campus of modern buildings provided equally useful sniper positions. Together Nina’s two groups would form a gauntlet the Chaktaw pass as they crossed over a major highway cloverleaf on their way toward downtown.

“Hey, Nina!” Vince called from the western side of the top floor. “You need to see this.”

She gave Voggoth’s army one last glance. It might be the last time her eyes saw a Leviathan; one small consolation as she entered what, most likely, would be her final fight. She watched the walking tower take another step forward and while she could not directly see them, she knew thousands of robots and monsters marched in front of the gargantuan and into down town where her fellow soldiers fought desperately to stave the assault. She wished she could be with them, but fate dictated a different path.

“Nina!”

Vince’s voice suggested urgency but not panic. She doubted the Chaktaw had reached the ambush yet but history suggested these aliens to be a wily bunch so she prepared for any possibility.

She moved away from the east side window and traversed the dark, cold hallway with Odin, the elkhound at her side. The dust and erosion of time had long ago supplanted the hospital’s sterile environment. Broken equipment, overturned trays covered in the black and brown decay of decade-old food, and crusty file folders of now-useless paperwork lay scattered about. A stench of mold and mildew pervaded the air.

She came to a waiting room lobby on the northwestern corner. The big windows there afforded a great view of the highway. That highway should have basked in a late-afternoon sun. Instead, the heavy cloud cover made the entire scene feel more like the tail end of dusk.

Vince sat in a wheelchair with his finger pressed against the glass pointing at something on the road below.

Nina thought she had prepared or any possibility. She was wrong.

A solitary Chaktaw—its camouflage poncho colored gray—stood at the center of the road, apparently unarmed and holding its alien hands aloft.

Odin stood on his back legs, propped his front paws against the glass and growled.

The walkie-talkie on Vince Caesar’s lap came to life with a voice from a checkpoint along the highway.

“Captain Forest, do you copy? What do you want me to do?”

The sight of the Chaktaw told Nina that she had not hidden their movements as craftily as she thought.

She grabbed the radio.

“Shit. Yeah, okay, look, I don’t see any more of them so go on up and see what he wants.”

She watched two burly fellows in assault vests over jeans and tshirts cautiously approach the alien emissary with their weapons drawn. As she witnessed the meeting, Nina recalled a story from the Battle of Five Armies and shared it with Vince Caesar.

“I get it. Those cocky son of a bitches,” and while she spat the words, she did feel a sense of admiration for their prowess and confidence.

“What?”

She relayed the story in first person because she had participated, yet her recollections came from the memories of others.

“At Five Armies when we were down to our last hill, the Chaktaw sent an ambassador to invite Trevor to a meeting. It seems they’ve got this tradition or something that if they know they have you beat they give you the chance to surrender.”

The human sentries reached the Chaktaw. The alien produced some kind of short microphone device. Nina suspected it to be a translator. A conversation ensued.

“Surrender?”

“Listen, not like you’re thinking. They offered to kill us quickly if we’d line up and let them do it. Something about it being a sign of respect for a worthy adversary, as if letting them slit your throat real quick is better than dying in battle.”

“So you’re saying they knew we were here, is that it?”

“Looks that way to me. Shit.”

The radio sprung to life. The men from the checkpoint relayed a message from the aliens: “They say their leader—a ‘Force Commander’—wants to meet with you. Something about a message for you. They guarantee safe passage.”

“Bullshit,” Vince shot.

“No, it’s okay. They gave Trevor safe passage back then.”

“He met with them?”

“Yep. Met with their commander who laid out their great ‘deal’ to him. He basically told them to stuff it. But look, they let him go back to our lines. Big mistake for them, I guess.”

“Captain?” the voice on the radio asked. “What do you want me to tell them?”

Nina’s brow furled. She slammed a hand into her thigh. She hated being bested. With surprise no longer on their side, she doubted they could do much more than delay the Chaktaw; not hurt them.

Then an idea percolated inside her devious mind.

“Yep. I mean, yes. Look, I’ll go and meet their leader.”

Odin dropped from his propped position against the window as if hearing her words and reacting with surprise to them.

Vince did as much as he gasped, “You can’t be serious. No way I’m lining up to be off’d. If I’m going down, I’m going down fighting.”

“You still have your KA-BAR?”

He did. She held out her hand and took the military knife from him. At the same time she removed her other weapons and handed them to Vince one at a time. Odin eyed her suspiciously, as did Vince.

“What are you planning, Nina?”

“Listen, we’re dead meat if we stick to the original ambush. I’ll get close enough to their leader, listen to his dumb-ass proposal, and then slit his throat.”

“Isn’t that against the rules of safe passage? What’s the point anyway? They’ll just kill you.”

She thought about what Trevor had said at the last council meeting; about the ‘rules’ to the invasion and what Trevor planned to do in regards to those rules.

“First off, screw the rules. Truth is, this is war and war doesn’t have any rules when you cut right down to it, no matter how hard we try to pretty it up. This is about doing whatever it takes to win and I don’t give a damn how many rules we break. We get the chance, slaughter every last one of them. And yeah, they probably won’t give me safe passage back after I slit their leader’s alien throat, but so what? All I’m sayin’ is that if I can take out their Force Commander, then that’ll cause confusion. Go hook up with the corporal and get ready. Give me some time then charge them.”

“Charge them? Are you kidding?”

She smiled. Actually smiled as she slipped the knife into her boot and covered it with pant leg.

“Just like Five Armies. That’s what we did then. With their leader dead and them expecting us to be waiting here, it’ll take them by surprise. Look, it sucks, but it’s the best chance we got.”

He said nothing. Not so much because he accepted the plan, but because it sounded ludicrous. Nina suspected the beaten men and women atop that third and final hill at Five Armies had shared the same expression—until Trevor led them to victory.

She pat Odin on the head and ruffled his ears, “Sorry to be saying goodbye to you again so soon. See you over the rainbow bridge, my friend.”

Odin bowed his head. Nina turned her attention to her human companion.

“Goodbye, Vince,” she set a warm hand on his shoulder and he returned the grasp. “It’s been, well, you know.”

“Yeah. I know.”

Nina walked away, descended the stairs, and exited the hospital.

The crash of yet another Spook into the undercarriage of the Chrysaor caused only the slightest tremor on the bridge. The ‘impact’ icon flashing on Kristy Kaufman’s console drew more attention than the actual damage which—judging by the computer’s report—had been superficial. As with all the Spook impacts. Problem was, there were a lot of Spooks hitting the undercarriage. The ‘impact’ icon flashed continuously.

“Firing main batteries,” she announced more from habit than need.

This time the bridge did shudder quite noticeably. Bands of energy shot from the underside and swept the fields west of Quincy. The streams of red splashed across a building-sized Goat Walker and a cluster of hovering Shell-tanks. The tanks ruptured and disintegrated; the demonic Goat Walker fell into gory pieces. The beam dug a deep, dark trench into the ground like a jagged dagger eviscerating the landscape.

Kaufman managed the destruction from her position as the brain onboard the dreadnought. She stood in a circle of monitors, keyboards, and touch screens while wearing a virtual reality headset that fed even more information in the form of pictures and data. The crewmen on the crescent-shaped bridge served mainly a redundant role while a few handled less-important tasks outside the scope of the brain.

With her aircraft long ago stripped to serve other operations, the Chrysaor acted more as a battleship than a carrier. Still, she played that role with brutal efficiency.

“Belly Boppers recharging. Thirty percent—firing…”

More blobs of energy. This time striking mobile artillery batteries appearing next-of-kin to cement mixer trucks. She stopped them from reaching firing position from where they would have launched more of the red, yellow, and blue balls of destruction at the human lines.

Kristy pulled her attention from data streams and ground cameras and stared across the bridge out the main viewing window. If things became too heated, a set of protective shutters would close. But for now she could see the quilt of rolling storm clouds a few dozen meters overhead. She could also see the two Leviathans, standing tall enough that when she reached them the Chrysaor would face them at what could best be described as eye-to-eye.

However, facing them would be a challenge. Voggoth’s favorite pets not only retreated from the battlefield in giant steps the further the Chrysaor advanced, but the twins separated with one backpedaling northwest in its withdrawal, the other southwest.

Kristy understood. The Leviathans retreated not only to avoid her batteries, but to draw her into a gauntlet of fire. The bottom of the vessel took a pounding with breeches to the hull in several places already and substantial damage to the superstructure throughout.

She’s a tough ship, Kristy mused. She can take it. She must take it.

Her eyes returned to the monitors. She spotted a rolling tube-like machine. A glowing spear—something like a rocket or missile—raised on its back in preparation to fire. She tapped a sequence of buttons and two missiles of her own sped away from the Chrysaor on plumes of smoke. They hit the enemy vehicle before its payload could fire. The vehicle exploded into two parts; the glowing missile fell apart in a storm of sparks.

The Captain’s eyes swept the ground below through the cameras linked to her work station. The Chrysaor’s ‘belly boppers’ had slaughtered thousands of Voggoth’s forces ranging from simple monks to more complex battle wagons. Wrecks of the coral-like hovering platforms that launched the rolling artillery shells lay scattered across the fields. The charred remains of a hundred Ogres blew in the air like volcanic ash carried on the wind. None of the enemy’s flying-ball machines remained in action; they could do no more damage to the defenders of Quincy.

Yet, so many more remained. She saw formations of Robotic Commandos and uncountable numbers of Spider Sentries and more of the Shell-Tanks and rows of walking gun turrets and to either side of the army spun the whirlwinds of the Wraiths.

Kristy fired again. The stream of energy sprayed across the field and through the middle of a half-collapsed industrial structure. The line of fire cut apart a vehicle resembling a locomotive capable of firing surface-to-surface projectiles and slaughtered a number of heavy duty Spider Sentries hiding in the ruined building.

A trio of Spooks made it over the bow and sped across the inactive runway toward the raised tower section at the rear of the ship. Gatling guns made quick work of them.

“Okay,” she said as much to herself as the bridge crew. “It’s time to get one of those Leviathans. Increasing speed—charging boppers…”

Instead of drifting calmly over the fields full of monstrosities, the dreadnought moved at a brisk clip, quickly closing the distance to the walking skyscraper to the northwest. Bolts of lightning from a cluster of small gray clouds struck to either side of the Leviathan as if anticipating the dramatic showdown.

The beast halted its retreat on the farmland outside of Maywood, Missouri; 14 miles west of Quincy. The Chrysaor slowed to a crawl and closed for the kill.

Kristy wanted full power to her weapons; anything less would waste valuable time slicing and dicing while the bulk of the army continued to march on the Mississippi.

“Boppers at thirty percent and charging…”

A blip on the radar screen. Then another. And another.

“Boppers at forty percent…”

She accessed one of the telescopic cameras and zoomed for a closer look. Just as the profile on the radar screen suggested, the blips belonged to a group of Chariots: the blob-like machines that served multiple roles in Voggoth’s army ranging from attack fighters to transports to bombers. They could certainly inflict damage on the Chrysaor, but nothing to be overly concerned about.

“Boppers at sixty percent…”

The flying blobs approached from the west and flew around the Leviathan, just below the handful of storm clouds that had followed the giant’s retreat from the front. The things flew in tight formation and slowed to nearly a stop in the airspace between the battling behemoths.

“Boppers at seventy percent, stand by to fire…”

Kristy expected the ships to use their rapid-fire guns or perhaps launch some kind of missile. What they actually did fell under the heading of ‘unexpected.’

The Chariots crashed together, one after another.

No, that description did not exactly fit. That’s what they appeared to do to Kristy’s eye. They did not exactly crash. They flew into each other one at a time, their blob-ish forms attached like droplets splashing together except they stayed stuck together. One by one the Chariots merged, creating one large blob from a series of smaller ones.

“What the hell?”

Kristy decided the Leviathan could wait. Her fingers interacted with the touch screen in rapid succession, accessing the forward defenses menu category Anti-Air, sub-menu ‘missile defenses.’

Select: Launch bay Bow – 4

Ordnance select: AMRAAM (quantity remaining: 4).

Ordnance loading standby—loading complete.

Arm warhead: Yes – No.

Caution: Warhead ARMED.

Input target acquisition source.

Target acquired from radar lock. Confirm target: Yes – No.

Launch: Yes – No.

The Chariots ceased merging and hung in the air as if catching their collective breath.

Launch.

The missile shot away from a tube embedded in the bow of the dreadnought.

The blob of Chariots rotated, fast. Faster. Spinning like a warped top while still hovering in the sky. A glowing halo of energy formed around mass.

The missile closed.

Kristy did not wait; she loaded air-to-air AMRAAMs into the other three forward launch bays and hurried to fire. She moved a moment too slow.

The Chariots exploded. Not in shrapnel; at least not entirely. More important, they exploded with energy: a ring of crackling blue power that slammed into and coated the dreadnought like a rogue wave sweeping across the deck of a boat. As the wall of energy moved from bow to stern, flashes and bolts of blue and green sparked from the deck plates and warned of more sinister chain reactions within.

The blast enveloped and then passed the bridge and tower section. Electronic work stations flickered; some shot sparks. Video screens filled with dead air before stabilizing; the hair on the back of Kristy’s neck stood straight. The room felt electrically charged.

Then it was gone. The work stations returned to normal operation. Monitors showed what they meant to show. With the exception of several blown but easily replaceable fuses, the Chrysaor felt—felt…

Kristy could not immediately identify her feeling of uneasiness. The Chariots were gone. Ahead of the ship waited the Leviathan, its grotesque skyscraper-sized body stood still like a morbid statue.

Captain Kaufman checked the main batteries.

Fifty percent.

What?

Forty-five percent.

Warning lights flashed across her screens in succession. One stood out above the rest: “DANGER: Gravity Generator Magnetic Field Compromised”.

A frantic voice from the engineering section—located at the bottom rear of the ship—yelled into her earpiece confirming the words on her display: “The grav generators are off-line! Jesus-shit they just cut out!”

Everyone on the bridge—everyone throughout the ship—felt it in their bellies like riders on a rollercoaster cresting that first big drop. The entire craft started to fall. Kristy’s stomach lurched toward her throat.

“Emergency boosters!”

She swerved around in the command module, located the set of controls every dreadnought commander feared to need, and quickly flicked a series of toggles. A hundred small round plates fell away from the ship’s undercarriage and row upon row of rocket engines burst to life with fire and smoke.

The thrust of the emergency engines sounded a like a line of explosions from beneath the mighty ship. That feeling of descending slowed but did not end. The altimeter ticked under 1,000 feet and continued. The back-up rockets were never meant to keep the incredible weight of the ship aloft; they were meant as a supplement to the grav generators in the case of emergency.

Main Forward Battery Energy Level: 30%.

Kristy—in an act driven as much by spite as anything else—punched the ‘fire’ button. Red strands of power shot out from the bow, across the sky, and into the front of the hideous beast.

The Chaktaw convoy stood ready to move. Nina saw the small army waiting in rows across the eight lanes of Interstate 64 including Lizards the size of elephants serving as pack animals, motorized tricycles with huge wheels, some kind of missile trucks toward the rear of the formation, and hundreds of infantry huddled in groups conversing, snacking, and checking gear.

She sensed unease in the air. Maybe even confusion among their ranks. Maybe the same feeling of oppression her people felt when under The Order’s unnatural storm clouds.

The alien soldiers eyed her with a mixture of suspicion and awe. They stared through in a way that made her feel they regarded her more as a strange curiosity than a reviled enemy. Perhaps they did not consider her worthy of their contempt; an over confidence she planned to make them pay for. Indeed, her escort gave her only a quick look for weapons and hence her knife remained hidden. She did not know if their lack of a thorough search indicated laziness or if they took it for granted that she would act honorably and respect the truce.

A cluster of homes on wooded lots sat just off the highway to the south. Her Chaktaw escort led her through the surprised formation of fighters to one lone tent seemingly made of canvass or something very much like it assembled in a driveway next to the remains of a collapsed duplex.

The tent appeared hastily constructed for their meeting. Perhaps some kind of tradition among the aliens, she did not know but she did care: killing the Chaktaw leader would be a lot easier out of view from the rest of their army. It might even give her a chance to take several more with her before they realized their mistake in inviting the wolf into their hen house.

Her escort pulled a drawstring and motioned her inside the tent. A small oval table made of what resembled plastic sat in the center of the chamber. A solitary glowing orb hung on a rope or string from the ceiling creating a cone of light over the center but left the outer rim of the interior in shadows.

The escort withdrew, closing the flap.

Two Chaktaw remained inside: One at the table who studied Nina in a curious manner. His eyes widened, then shrunk to slits; the corners of his mouth changed between something like a frown to something like a grin, but not a friendly one. His whiskers twitched and his hands tugged at a plain brown tunic. He plainly did not know what to make of her. Either he was confused to find her group so far behind the wrong side of the battle line or her audacity at daring to challenge his advance annoyed him. Whatever the case, she held his complete attention.

The second Chaktaw remained in one of the dark corners of the tent sitting on a chair. Nina could not make out this one’s features but pegged him or her for a bodyguard but if that bodyguard held a weapon it was not obvious to Nina.

The male at the table raised a small microphone device. His lips moved and spoke in his native tongue but the device broadcast synthesized English. The disconnect between the movement of his mouth and the words from the speaker reminded Nina of a poorly dubbed Godzilla movie.

“I am Force Command Jaff.”

Nina replied, “My name is Captain Nina Forest,” but the tactical computer inside her warrior’s mind busied itself with a plan: stoop fast, pull the blade, reach over and cut his throat, then deal with the Chaktaw bodyguard or aid or whatever he or she was in the corner. The commotion would summon her escort and a sentry or two. If she were fast and lucky she could get hold of one of their rifles. That would make the killing and sowing of confusion all the easier.

“You are either very foolish or very brave to attempt to block our advance.”

“Yeah, well, whatever.”

Jaff struggled to understand her reply as it played through the translator.

“Yes,” Jaff worked to find the right words from his dialect for translation to her language. “I must tell you that your position has changed. This is why I have asked you here.”

Nina spoke harshly as cover for her actions: her fingers tugged at her pant leg, trying to raise the cuff enough so that she would not have to struggle to free the blade when she lunged for it.

“Look, I know what this is all about. I fought you guys before. And I’ll tell you what Trevor Stone told the last Force Commander who messed with my people. I’ll tell you to stick your offer of mass execution in whatever orifice passes for an asshole on you things. We’re going to fight you and before this day is over, you’re going to wish you never came to Earth.”

Nina felt the pant leg rise above the hilt of the KA-BAR. She summoned her courage and prepared to strike.

Jaff—clearly a look of disappointment on his face—answered, “You are a very strange and dangerous creature, Captain Nina Forest.”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

The Leviathan wobbled and a noise like a howl coming from some unseen source reverberated through the air. Sprays of sickening fluids squirted in small waterfalls from the cuts in its flesh.

Energy levels in the forward batteries drained to zero and blast from the Chrysaor faded after cutting a deep gash across the front of the walking skyscraper. A host of squirming things hurried to seal the breach but green and yellow streams still poured from the monster.

Kristy realized that her ship could no longer muster enough power for the boppers to knock down the Leviathan.

An alarm sounded on her console. The altimeter ticked off feet in bunches. Another display indicated two emergency boosters ran out of rocket fuel. More would join them in seconds.

The Leviathan loomed outside the bridge window. It had no face, but she imagined a grin there. Voggoth’s grin.

Captain Kristy Kaufman stood straight in her command module. She raised a hand to the bobby pins holding her hair in a tight, proper bun and pulled them free.

In the years since the invasion, she had sacrificed much but she refused to sacrifice her appearance. Perfectly manicured nails, matching outfits, and just enough makeup to capture the right highlights of her features.

None of it came from vanity. Instead, it was her personal resistance to the forces of Armageddon. They could turn her from a white collar worker into a soldier; they could take away her Lexus and Caribbean vacations. They ended her dreams of white picket fences and big families. But they never stole her dignity. And she would face the end with that dignity intact.

She tossed aside the virtual reality goggles and stepped out from behind the monitors, computers, and keyboards. Some orders were best spoken directly to the crew.

Kristy raised a fist and growled her final command.

“Helm—RAMMING SPEED!”

They followed without question. The helmsmen ignited the hydrogen engines and a jolt kicked the magnificent flying city in the rear end. The battleship continued to fall slowly from the sky as one by one the emergency boosters faded. But most of the momentum went forward.

Kristy held a safety rail tight and enjoyed the show through the bridge windows. The Leviathan discerned the move too late. The bow hit it midsection and pushed. The gargantuan tumbled over and the Chrysaor fell on top of it like a heavy weight wrestler working for a pin.

The stern rose higher and the bow dipped lower becoming a mile-long dagger. Kristy watched SteelPlus gouge into the beast’s skin. The front end of the dreadnought bent and crumbled in a wave of destruction rolling across the flight deck toward the tower. Crewmen lost their footing as the angle increased; two flew from their stations and slammed into the forward wall. Papers, equipment, and chairs flew around the crescent-shaped room. Kristy held tight.

Sprays of Leviathan-gore jettisoned into the air and coated the bridge windows. The crumbling front end raced toward the bridge. Bursts of yellow and orange and black joined the carnival of carnage as sub systems, fuel tanks, ammo caches, and batteries erupted.

Kristy let out one last holler in either victory or terror. The tower of the Dreadnought collapsed; the roaring engines tore the tail end apart as the ship lost all structural integrity.

The crushed and eviscerated Leviathan lay beneath the burning Chrysaor, and together they made a funeral pyre fit for a God.

26. Storm of Eternity

Jon surveyed the battlefield.

To his right looking north along Front Street he saw eight vehicles burning and the scattered remains of three more across both the paved road and the grass of Bicentennial Park. The columns of black, oily smoke stretched into the sky and mingled with the thunderheads spawned by Voggoth’s army. The greasy smell of ignited fuel, the burning odor of expended ammunition, and the putrid stench of death swirled together and hung across the scene so heavy Jon thought he might suffocate.

Several squads remained intact across the waterfront and a pair of Vietnam-era APCs rumbled into position along the railroad tracks where they disembarked about 15 newcomers—most in Internal Security police uniforms—who searched for cover in the shadow of the toppled cable-stayed bridge.

A field adjacent to the basement of the destroyed building where Jon’s bunker lay had been filled with foxholes, trenches, and armored vehicles at the start of the battle. Now he saw bodies, blasted sandbags, and an overturned LAV. Smoke from the fires and explosions settled over the lot like a fog. Through that fog he saw signs of movement: a gun barrel here, a helmet there, but he could not accurately gauge how many men remained in those positions.

To his left—to the south—a similar sight. The heart of the truss-style Memorial Bridge lay in the Mississippi, leaving a raised highway and on-ramp leading to nothing. Beneath that a substantial number of soldiers still fought from inside the remains of an industrial building as well as from trenches dug in the riverbank. A badly-scarred but still-functional Abrams tank stood defiantly in the open on Main Street and a pair of matching Humvees held their ground within the shell of a destroyed cistern along the river.

Still holding, Jon thought, but the real battle hasn’t even started yet.

The Order’s weapons for that ‘real’ battle assembled on the far bank with a massive cloud of smoke from the destroyed Chrysaor floating behind like the back curtain of a stage.

They resembled frogs. Big mechanical frogs; each the size of a house with spiked treads instead of feet. Armored plating, cameras for eyes, and mist-spitting tubes along their back ensured they would not be mistaken for Earthly creatures, but the frog analogy held in Jon Brewer’s mind.

They lined up among the flattened woodlands of the western side of the Mississippi; about two dozen of them. White mist attempted to hide their activities but humanity’s defenders saw the intent: the time had come for Voggoth’s army to cross the river.

In addition to the frog-things, the twin whirlwinds that had spent most of the battle dancing on The Order’s flank swept in to the river bank. As the swirling clouds of white and gray approached, the winds slowed and collapsed in toward a central point like a fog machine in reverse. From those dying winds materialized a host of demonic creatures.

Jon recognized their gray cloaks and skeletal faces with empty black eyes and elongated jaws: the Wraiths. Each of the two fading windstorms spawned hundreds of the foot soldiers as well as a pair of giants, each one eight-stories tall with skinny bodies and slack-jawed maniac faces. Their extremely long arms dragged on the ground and ended with big fists attached to rubbery wrists.

The Order’s assault did not go unchallenged.

Jon radioed, “Mortar teams open up, damn it! We need anti-armor up here!” Then on another frequency, “Shep, get ready.”

“Roger that, Jon, we’re ready to roll,” came the radioed reply.

The remaining mortar teams in the field to the north opened fire. Explosions tore across the western river bank. One of the frog-things blew into two pieces; a squad of Wraiths flew into the air and broke apart into grains of dust.

“Cassy, what’s your status?”

She radioed back, “I’ve left a few units at the school and am moving into position with the rest of my riders. Just give us the go and we’re there.”

He admired her enthusiasm.

Tendrils of white mist spread across the western dike in an attempt to cover the approach. The giants—all four of them—strode in big steps to the riverbank and added their unique form of artillery to the fight.

Their arms raised high above their savage heads.

A Javelin anti-tank missile hit one of the creatures in the chest, eliciting a roar of anguish and knocking it backwards before it could complete its strike.

The other three, however, were not stopped. Their fists hit the ground. Three focused earthquakes sped from the opposite bank and caused the water of the Mississippi to boil; a huge whirlpool sprung to life in the center of the river sucking down the overturned barges.

The tremor reached the east shore. What remained of the pavement of Front Street cracked and shook. Three huge sink holes opened to a hiss of steam and a geyser of water.

Soldiers—both career professionals and post-Armageddon civilian recruits—along the river retreated in panic; a few fell into the holes, most found new places to hide among the bombed-out, burned houses and shops of Quincy.

Two machine gun teams and a squad of irregulars joined the general in his foundation-bunker. Jon could not blame his men for retreating but Voggoth’s first intent—to clear a bridgehead—proved successful.

The protective shield of mist hung like a thin veil over the far side of the Mississippi, yet Jon could still see the creatures busy at work. The frog-things reached the water’s edge. Their mouths—if that is what they could be called—opened as if the things needed to vomit. A flap—what Jon’s eyes saw as a tongue—stretched overtop the water all the way to the east bank where it dug into the ground and root-like protrusions cemented the seal. An instant latter that tongue—the bridge—solidified into a material resembling hardened rubber.

“Shep! Cassy! Better get up here!”

More than 20 of the insta-bridges spanned the Mississippi from the warehouses and docks a quarter mile south of Jon’s position to Riverfront Park opposite Quisippi Island north of the now-destroyed Memorial bridge. The Wraiths came first across the bridges and the giants waded the waters taking pains to avoid the spinning whirlpool. Jon suspected the rest of Voggoth’s army lined up to follow the vanguard across.

“Get those guns going, boys,” he told the men around him who in turn used the edge of the concrete slab as leverage for their M249 machine guns. The rest of the soldiers—some in army-reg BDUs others in street clothes—added to the fight with carbines and hunting rifles.

Jon thought he might go deaf from the roar of the guns but they sounded sweet music nonetheless. The first pack of Wraiths to set foot on Bicentennial Park were ground into dust instantly. More followed.

A runner jumped into the open foundation carrying cartridges of ammo for the heavy guns. As the soldiers accepted the fresh bullets, Jon patted one of the heavy gunners on the shoulder and motioned down the destroyed block.

“Get your ass a hundred yards south,” the soldier saw where one of the bridgeheads faced only small arms fire. “We got more than just one bridge here!”

A hauntingly familiar sound came to Jon’s ears, forcing him to pause his instructions. The sound made him shiver, not so much from fear but from memories of frigid winds and frozen snow drifts.

He heard the sound of a Wraith screaming its deadly voice: “wwwwwhhhHHAAAAAAAAAAAAA.”

The screams came in a chorus. The jaws of the skeletal beasts opened to unfathomable width. The atmosphere between their black mouths and the targets of their fury shimmied as if the air molecules vibrated to the point of shaking apart.

Their voice acted as their only weapon, but proved lethal enough. While others could hear the sound, the weapon killed more precisely: Jon witnessed a foot soldier wearing a St. Louis Rams T-shirt and a blue baseball cap firing a shotgun from behind a toppled tree explode from the chest up. He saw a mortar team situated between a pair of crumbling concrete walls break apart as if unseen chains pulled their bodies in ten directions; the explosive shells around their feet detonated as a side effect.

But the Wraiths did not last long. Like the allies at Normandy in 1944, the first wave met a withering rain of fire. Puffs of dust up and down the line signified destroyed monsters one after another from rifle fire and grenades.

The giants did better. Two of the three reached the shore although both were littered with deep wounds from bullets and shrapnel. One stomped down on a machine gun nest crushing the crew; the second kicked an overturned car and sent it flying into a cluster of soldiers shooting from a collapsed store front.

Behind the giants, the waters of the Mississippi sizzled and then two more oversized attackers emerged from the river and climbed the bank: the “Stone Soldiers” resembled 15-foot-tall statues carved in tribute to a Roman Legionnaire or a similar ancient warrior. They walked in big clumsy steps and waded into the fray. One knocked a Humvee over. A second crushed a girl firing an MP5.

Across the bridges came a flood of Spider Sentries of various configurations as well as Ogres and Monks taking advantage of the chaos caused by the rampaging giants. A line of hovering Shell-tanks—at least 20 of them—floated overtop the river waters and moved to support Voggoth’s foot soldiers. As the invaders poured onto the east bank Jon could feel the front collapsing—until…

The squeak and clatter of armored vehicles filled the general’s heart with joy. A line of Bradley Fighting Vehicles, APCs and a column of infantry descended the slope of Main Street toward the river front. General Jerry Shepherd, running with his troops, led the way.

“Cassy,” Jon radioed. “Get your riders onto the northern flank. We need to cut off either end of the attack and collapse everything down along the riverfront.”

She answered with an enthusiastic shout, “Roger that, General. Stonewall’s brigade rides again!”

Jon envisioned the cavalry galloping headlong into The Order’s bridgehead at Riverfront Park. A violent collision of men, horses, and guns against the ungodly creations of Voggoth’s war machine. While he imagined the happenings to the north, Jon could plainly see the battle raging around him.

Fire from Shep’s armored vehicles gored the giants and broke the Stone Soldiers into rubble; a Shell-Tank burst into flames from an armor-piercing round.

The newly-arriving infantry—the last of Jon’s reserves—engaged in close-quarters battle with Voggoth’s army turning Front Street into a battlefield as brutal and primitive as any in history.

Shot gun blasts at point blank range proved enough to decapitate Ogres. Spider Sentry weapons spat deadly pellets. Monk guns found targets; grenades blew apart everything. Shell-Tanks fired lethal bolts that exploded among the human ranks; one hit and disabled an approaching Bradley. An anti-tank missile hit one of those Shell-Tank; it fizzled and broke and collapsed.

And there stood Jerry Shepherd, the old war horse, in the midst of the fight with dust and dirt covering his officer’s uniform and a Stetson on his head. Shep wielded an M14 rifle and carefully selected targets. Jon watched him put down a Wraith at long range and then kill a charging Ogre with a perfect shot in the forehead.

Inspired by the sight, Jon used a concrete chunk as a stepstool and hauled himself out of the bunker, grabbed an M16 from the arms of a dead soldier, and fired into the enemy’s side of the mob on Front Street. His first shot hit one of the robed Monks that had just rammed a sword through some poor guy’s BDUs.

Jon never saw the Ogre coming, however. The brute picked up and threw a soldier halfway across the street then closed on the general. A huge, muscle-bound arm hit Jon square in the chest and sent him flying back into the basement foundation.

His world went black.

Woody “Bear” Ross greeted General Rhodes with a nod as the two stood twelve stories high on the roof of a tall, thin building overlooking the Mississippi.

Before Armageddon, the building—a grain elevator—belonged to ‘Cargill’ as proclaimed by the big logo on the west-facing side. In the years since, the building belonged only to Father Time, who had eroded the grain silos to rusty heaps and warped the trestles and conveyor belts that once loaded river barges.

“Twelfth mechanized infantry brigade is assembling on I-255, about three miles from here. We’re all ready to go.”

Bear knew Rhodes deserved a big tip of the hat for pulling those troops up from Hannibal so fast. They now served as the only formidable human force opposite Voggoth’s St. Louis battle group.

Speaking of which, Ross turned his attention west. The wind blew across the roof carrying a stench of fire and decay. Directly across the river from Ross’s position stood the landmark St. Louis arch on the grounds of the Jefferson National Expansion Memorial. Somehow it still stood.

There should have been tall buildings beyond the arch. There should have been St. Louis. But with the exception of the frame of Bush Stadium, everything had been knocked flat. Supersonic blows from the Leviathan saw to that. Covered beneath the wind-swept banks of debris lay thousands of dead defenders.

St. Louis belonged to Voggoth. The storm clouds made for an angry sky encompassing downtown and reaching over the Mississippi. The Leviathan stood in stark contrast to the now-flat horizon as a monument to The Order’s power to destroy. Curls of smoke from smoldering fires and clouds of dust swirling around its massive legs gave it the aura of invincibility. Ross knew different; if only he had the means.

Artillery fired from the banks of East St. Louis and landed amid the Roachbots, Mutants, Ghouls, and assorted demons in the enemy’s army. The impacting shells cast small puffs of smoke that seemed insignificant against the backdrop of the towering Leviathan.

Rhodes stepped to Ross’ side at a rail on the edge of the roof. A handful of brave aids stayed with the Generals.

“Hey wait a second,” Rhodes saw something that surprised him. “You haven’t taken down that bridge yet,” and he pointed toward the Poplar Street Bridge that carried three different Interstates from Illinois to Missouri and back again.

“No. I’m going to let a nice bunch of his critters get across before we blow it.”

“Pinch him off, right?”

“Yeah.”

“What if they spot the demo charges?”

Ross said, “I got arty zeroed in on the bridge. We dropped smoke shells to make sure. But it doesn’t matter. Those things never go looking for mines or explosives. I think they like to act like it don’t matter.”

Rhodes agreed, particularly in the case of the Roachbots who led Voggoth’s advance to the river. They either did not care or were too insane to give it a thought.

Ross’ radio crackled with static and then the voice of Captain Carl Dunston reported from a recon Eagle circling overhead: “Bear, this is Dunston. We’ve got some newcomers to the party.”

Ross closed his eyes. He knew the newcomers would not be friendlies; there were no more friendlies around.

“What’d you see?”

”Look to the southwest, Bear,” Dunston said and Woody opened his eyes, raised his binoculars, and followed the direction. “Just off the river in from those docks. Just follow the railroad tracks.”

Ross’ field glasses first spied the rectangular white recon ship with the sharp nose cone. It hung over the far side of the river further to the south.

Dunston.

Ross found the spot the pilot directed him to: a huge labyrinth of railroad tracks complete with toppled box cars nestled among several partly-destroyed industrial and commercial buildings including the massive St. Louis Arsenal, all to the south of downtown by a little less than two miles.

Ross recognized the newcomers: self-propelled objects resembling upside down silver bowls with circular indents on top. He had seen them in action during the battle for Wilkes-Barre at the end of that first year.

“Centurians. The Redcoats are here.”

Rhodes mumbled, “Ah, shit.”

About a dozen of the heavy artillery pieces hovered into place in the massive train yard between Dorcas and Arsenal streets. Several smaller ground transports disembarked several hundred red and white clad soldiers slightly larger than the typical human male. The Centurian infantry mustered into ranks in preparation for battle.

“Damn,” Rhodes did not have binoculars but he held a hand above his eyes and squinted. He knew better, but the general could not help to ask in a hopeful tone, “Can they hit us from here?”

Ross lowered his glasses and answered, “You know they can. You know sure as shit they could probably hit the two of us right between the eyes from where they’re at.”

“Yeah, I know,” and Rhodes did, he had operated one of the captured Redcoat guns at Five Armies. Ironically the Eagle anti-gravity ship that spotted the approaching Centurians also came courtesy of those same aliens, although apparently they brought none of their own on that particular day. “Guess The Order figures they’ve got us whipped, time to send in their friends to get all the glory.”

“No bridges down there. They have to come across up here.”

“So we’ll just wait for them to cross then I’ll hit them with everything I got.”

Ross nodded his head and replied, “That’s about the size of it. Good luck, General.”

“You too, Bear. See ya’ when it’s over, one way or another.”

“Hey, you still with us?”

Jon Brewer could not be sure if the voice came from an angel or an earthly source—until he opened his eyes and saw Jerry Shepherd leaning over him.

“Yeah, I—oh, shit, my head hurts.” Jon felt a heavy thump.

Shepherd slipped his arms around Jon’s shoulders and one general helped the other to his feet.

Jon first noticed a heavy fog of smoke drifting over the bombed-out basement foundation. He also noticed a distinct lack of sound: no gunshots, no explosions, only a few voices. He next noticed several stretchers and makeshift beds at the rear of the basement where a solitary nurse tended to a trio of wounded boys. She must have been one of the few ‘groupies’ to stay behind when most of the army’s families ran east.

Another heavy thump. Jon placed a hand on his head.

“Damn, this thing is pounding. I must have a concussion.”

Shepherd told Jon grimly, “You probably do, but the pounding ain’t in your noggin’.”

Jon climbed out from the bunker with Jerry Shepherd behind him.

The remains of a gruesome battle covered Front Street from north to south. Bodies—of monsters and men—lay everywhere. Some still moaned and twitched. Craters dotted the park and the pavement as well as three huge sinkholes from the unnatural earthquakes; fires burned from human vehicles and Voggoth’s Shell-Tanks. Jon surveyed the damage through blurry vision.

Thump.

General Cassy Simms and a handful of riders slowly trotted south toward him and Shep. As a gust of wind pushed the fog, Jon’s vision cleared enough that he saw Cassy’s eyes to be wide and glazed. An abrasion bled on her cheek; her black general’s uniform appeared wet with alien gore.

Shepherd explained, “It was a good fight, Jon. We stopped the little ones dead in their tracks.”

“No—no—I missed it?” He glanced around, still unable to focus on anything more than a few yards away.

Thump.

“They stopped coming about half an hour ago and pulled back. Their bridges are still up. They’ll be coming again soon. But we don’t have much left to face them, General. I reckon it’ll be over mighty quick.”

The quiet of the battlefield amazed Jon. He heard a few groans here, a couple of cries of pain, and random whispers. He also heard a buzzing noise. Something distant. He tried to look around but his head spun.

“Easy, big fella,” Shep consoled as Cassy dismounted nearby. “They showed up a few minutes ago. Moving into position now. I guess time’s up.”

“Who? What?”

THUMP.

Jon’s vision cleared—enough. A wind gust blew away much of the remaining fog. He saw the spinning clouds overhead. He saw a mighty flash of lightning. And in that flash he saw the latest arrivals to the battlefield: a trio of Geryon battleships. Each one a big dirigible with two smaller blimps attached to either side with a slow moving propeller to stern, a nasty-looking main gun that resembled a cross between a satellite dish and a howitzer on the bow, as well as a modular gondola hanging underneath the main frame.

Cassy Simms reported in a monotone voice, “Stonewall’s brigade has held the northern flank, sir. But there are only ten of us left. Hoorah.”

Shepherd walked to Cassy and told her, “Garret would have been proud, Cassy. Damn fine job.”

Jon took a step forward and nearly stumbled over the remains of an Ogre. It appeared to be a leg or something. He steadied himself and—

THUMP.

Jon faced west. The thumps did not come from his head. They came with each step the Leviathan took as it approached the riverbank: a walking skyscraper looming over the survivors of humanity’s last stand. The final weapon in the war of Armageddon.

They should have run. The natural flight instinct in the face of such a horrifying creature should have turned the men and women of humanity’s last battle into a hysterical mass.

But it was not courage that kept them from fleeing. It was exhaustion. Physical and mental. A sense of malaise overcame the soldiers as they watched the last act unfold.

Except for Jon. His emotions cut through the exhaustion; through the malaise.

“No.”

Not a plea, but an order. No. This will not be allowed.

Jon looked over his troops again. So many dead, but they still held. The odds had been stacked against them but they held. And now this?

No!

“Now, what are they up to?” Shep asked in a shaky voice that tried hard to sound calm but only partially succeeded.

Shep pointed Jon’s attention to a field across the river north of the battle. One of the Geryon battleships hovered there. A nice chunk of its gondola dropped away from the zeppelin on wires and fell to the ground.

“Steel Guard,” he told Shep. “Trevor told us about them, remember?”

“Oh, yeah, virtual reality robots or something. More of that Star Trek shit I can’t get a handle on.”

Cassy spoke the obvious with a sneer in her voice, “The Leviathan blows us over and they come marching through to take the credit.”

NO!

The remaining two Geryon airships floated into formation with one to either side of the Leviathan as the cloud-touching monstrosity came to a standstill on the far side of the Mississippi.

Only a handful of soldiers on the human side took refuge. The rest remained in the grip of that malaise. Either the Geryon’s would fire first and cut them to pieces or the Leviathan would unleash its big wind. Either way, in a minute Quincy would be the final resting place of humanity.

Jon, however, refused to go quietly.

“No, not after all this,” and he pulled his side arm—an automatic pistol—and stepped away from the group toward the bank. The mighty Leviathan towered high above. He craned his neck as if speaking directly to the monster across the river. Bolts of lightning crackled in the turbulent sky. The winds whipped in a frenzy like demons dancing a long night’s last song.

“We survived!”

He raised his gun and fired a single shot that echoed up and down the river.

“Everything they threw at us and we survived!”

Bang. The second bullet, like the first, carried out over the Mississippi and fell somewhere in the water or on the opposite bank.

“We lost Johnny, and Stonewall and Casey! They were good people!”

The Leviathan sucked in air from above. A sound like an air raid siren competed with Jon’s voice but that voice still managed to reach the ears of his people, many of whom stepped forward with their own pistols and shotguns and rifles.

“YOU TOOK MY WIFE!”

BANG.

Shep and Cassy flanked Jon. They would face the end the same way they had survived the beginning: together.

The Geryon battleships shimmied as their main guns charged. They stayed to either side but slightly behind the Leviathan, clear of its blast cone.

“YOU STOLE OUR LIVES!”

A lightning bolt lit the sky like a miniature sun. The thunder boom that followed made the ground shake. Bubbles like sores rippled all along the giant creature’s skin as it filled with the air needed for its deadly weapon.

“WE’RE NOT RUNNING FROM YOU! GIVE US YOUR BEST YOU SON-OF-A-WHORE!”

A chorus of rifle and pistol fire rang out, all directed at the Leviathan. All futile. But they cheered nonetheless. One last act of defiance.

The Geryon’s reached full-firing power first.

Streams of laser-sharp energy shot out from the dish-like guns at the front of the airships. The dirigibles rocked from the power. The twin beams cut through the air and speared the Leviathan in a downward crisscross like golden swords skewering Voggoth’s pet. The lasers dragged up and down, cutting open the air sacs inside. Chunks of the impossibly-huge monster fell apart, a big one splashing into the Mississippi and showering the eastern bank; other pieces on the western bank where they landed in a serious of sharp impacts.

Jon held his breath but he heard others react with gasps; no one spoke.

Jon Brewer watched the Geryon’s carve the Leviathan into pieces and as he watched he saw something looming even larger over the scene than the dirigibles or the 1,000-foot-tall monster.

He saw—he felt—the hand of Trevor Stone.

He’s alive. He did it. Or Jorgie did. Whatever ‘it’ is.

The army of Voggoth hesitated, equally as dumbfounded as Jon’s forces. Still, they did react. A series of Spooks targeted the battleships but a halo of anti-air craft shells met the counter-attack. Only a handful of Spooks breached those defenses causing a flash here and a puff of smoke there but nothing fatal to the blimps.

“Sh-shep…”

Nothing.

Jon tried again to break through the trance cast over his people by the turn of events.

“Shep!”

“Huh? What? Oh, I—my god Jon, am I seein’ this?”

“Shep, get everyone together. Everyone who can walk and use a trigger finger,” and Jon swept his hands toward the bridges built by Voggoth’s mechanical frog-things. “Get them across. We’re attacking,” Jon turned and faced Cassy who watched with an expression of detachment; wonder.

“You too, Cassy. Everything we got left. And remember, the Geryons are friendly.”

From his position atop the Cargill grain elevator, Woody Ross watched the 12th Mechanized Infantry Brigade move along a convoluted series of roads and on-ramps that merged together just east of the Poplar Street Bridge. General Rhodes commanded this last combat-ready fighting force from a Humvee near the lead.

Also from his position, Ross could see Dunston’s reconnaissance Eagle flying over St. Louis beneath the storm clouds, having thus far managed to avoid The Order’s Spooks and the powerful AA batteries protecting the Centurian artillery south of downtown.

Human guns launched a series of muted volleys from the east side of the Mississippi. The howitzers shots landed in isolated puffs and booms amid Voggoth’s advancing force as the Roachbots, Feranites, and monsters of the mob passed the blasted remains of Busch stadium on I-64.

If everything went according to Ross’ plan, the lead elements of the enemy force would cross the Bridge and run head-on into Rhodes. He hoped the width of the bridge would create a bottle-neck for conditions like a modern-day battle of Thermopylae, negating the value of Voggoth’s superior numbers.

Ross’ plan did not execute as expected.

“Centurian guns are prepping to fire,” Dunston radioed. “If they’ve seen Rhodes they probably are going to starting nailing him.”

Ross agreed. He had witnessed the accuracy and firepower of that artillery firsthand in Wilkes-Barre the first winter of the invasion.

“General Rhodes,” Bear transmitted. “Enemy batteries are preparing to fire. You might be in their crosshairs.”

“Nothing I can do about that,” Rhodes responded solemnly.

A series of blue flashes flickered from the rail yard. Balls of energy arched into the air. Bear watched as those artillery shots—an entire cluster of them flying tight formation—slammed into Voggoth’s Leviathan standing amid the ruins of downtown. The hits turned large chunks of the creature’s skin into a powder that drifted to the wasteland below like a perverse snow.

Bear did not immediately comprehend what he saw. Did his eyes play a trick? Had the Centurians miscalculated their firing coordinates?

Dunston’s voice cut through the cavalcade of thoughts competing for Bear’s attention.

“Holy shit! They just blasted the piss out of the Leviathan!”

A mistake—this has to be a mistake.

As if to answer Bear, another volley of shots came from the Redcoats and—just as precisely as before—slammed into the walking skyscraper. This time the powerful rounds tore away an entire leg from the main body, causing the thing to collapse into the twisted girders and concrete mounds that remained of St. Louis. The tremor from the impact carried across the Mississippi shaking the Cargill building so hard that it threatened to break apart beneath him but Woody “Bear” Ross was too transfixed by the sight to notice.

Rhodes radioed from his place at the 12th Mechanized Infantry’s lead, “Woody! What the hell is going on?”

Ross answered, “I haven’t got a goddamn clue.”

Another round of Centurian fire fell into the ranks of Voggoth’s force. This time reducing Roachbots, Feranites, Ghouls, and assorted fiends to fine powder.

Dunston radioed from his observation Eagle in an even more excited voice, “Bear, if you think that’s fucked up, you won’t believe what I’m seeing now.”

They came from the west along Interstate 64, charging forward like cavalry from a John Wayne movie: Columns of Chaktaw infantry, the three-wheeled oversized bikes, elephant-sized lizards—and Nina Forest’s ragtag militia in cars and on foot forming a spear striking into the rear of Voggoth’s army.

Captain Forest had found the hilt of her blade and had pulled it to strike just as Jaff had said, “I have new orders,” and just as the figure in the dark shadow of the tent had stepped into the light. Not a bodyguard, but a Chaktaw woman of advanced age whose footsteps did not make a sound as she walked.

New orders.

The Chaktaw Force Commander had said those words as if it hurt his lips to speak them. She understood why as she raced forward in the passenger seat of a Trailblazer with her gun sights pointing east but expecting at any moment to be turned upon by her newfound alien ‘friends’.

The old woman—most certainly an architect of Armageddon—had told her, “The situation has changed.”

And Nina understood. She had mumbled, “Trevor?” to which the old Chaktaw woman responded with an affirmative nod.

Captain Nina Forest did not trust the Chaktaw. She had fought against them and their ilk for more than a decade. How could she set aside the hatred and anger to fight with her enemy?

The same way Jaff and his warriors set aside their hatred and anger. They had come to this Earth on the Old Woman’s call for crusade. She had steered them from battle to battle in attack the same way she had assisted the leader Fromm on the Chaktaw’s version of Earth in defense, a parallel universe away.

Nina and Jaff did what soldiers always did: they followed orders.

New orders.

And so the charge came from west to east—Chaktaw and human—hitting the rear area of Voggoth’s army by complete surprise. One of many surprises that day for Voggoth; and equally as many surprises for human and alien alike.

The joint force collided with the half-machine, half-monster brick-shaped boxes covered in red veins that provided the ‘Spook’ anti-air support for The Order. Chaktaw rail guns and human carbines cut through the undefended launchers in mere seconds.

The Chaktaw quickly assembled catapult-like artillery pieces of their own. Soon glowing red singularities joined the bombardment of blue Centurian guns aimed at the center of The Order’s forces near the stadium. The explosions sucked Ghouls and Roachbots into matter-eating beach-ball-sized spheres that ripped the targets apart atom by atom.

Nina—with Odin, a hobbling Vince, and the wounded corporal at her side—led a line of humans into battle at the flattened St. Louis Amtrak station against a horde of lumbering Deadheads, making quick work of the clumsy monsters before moving on to engage the tripod-like machines that had once been Feranites.

Jaff’s Chaktaw fighters slammed into a phalanx of Roachbots and Mortarbots; they engaged in a fierce fire fight around the blasted Scottrade Center north of the Interstate.

The Chaktaw lizards turned from pack animals to war-beasts, rampaging through and stomping a counter-attack of Ghouls. The ghastly creatures managed to pull down several of the lizards but not before the Chaktaw pets eviscerated the Ghouls’ charge.

Human citizen-soldiers fell by the dozen—but the Feranite machines broke.

Chaktaw fighters suffered 100 casualties, but routed the infestation of Roachbots at the arena.

The Centurian infantry entered the ground assault just as General Rhodes’ mechanized infantry crossed the Poplar Street Bridge.

Tank rounds joined powerful Centurian rifles; Chaktaw railguns fought in chorus with human carbines. Voggoth’s army—its Leviathan now nothing more than piles of gore—was corralled into a smaller and smaller circle among the ruins of the city they had destroyed.

Another blast of Geryon lasers cut a swath through a group of walking turrets as they tried to re-form a cohesive defense along Route 24 a half mile west of the riverbank. Their energy sacks ruptured and fire consumed the pillars and their guns; several walked around like self-propelled torches before toppling.

Through the fields to the north came the ten-foot-tall Golems of the Steel Guard. Their bipedal bodies resembled thick metal skeletons colored a scarlet red. Nothing elaborate or pretty; no concession to aesthetics. Large metal bolts served as joints on the knees and elbows. Two yellow camera-eyes glowed from beak-like faces. The arms ended in three thick, bulky clasps; similar to the projections on their ‘feet’ acted as toes.

Behind them rolled several smaller tracked machines resembling mine cars fitted with chutes and tubes so as to re-arm and maintain the mechanical war machines.

A line of Geryon infantry trailed the advancing Golems and their supply wagons. These humanoids wore battle suits made of materials similar to leather and metal. A tight fitting helmet covered their heads and a communicator next-of-kin to a ball gag covered their mouths. What little glances of their skin were visible—cheeks, wrists—appeared pale and soft. The aliens brandished weapons resembling high-tech crossbows that fired glowing steel rods.

The Geryon ground force chopped to pieces the Monks protecting The Order’s northern flank while the human force—supported by a handful of armored vehicles—overran the Spider Sentries covering the western bank of the Mississippi.

Jon Brewer operated a .50 caliber machine gun from the cupola of a badly-damaged Humvee. Jerry Shepherd—watching the road through a smashed windshield—drove the vehicle leading the human attack along CR-346 south of the main route where Voggoth’s last elements mustered for a final stand. Cassy Simms and her ten remaining horse soldiers broke off from the column to chase a band of Ogres fleeing south along a cluster of railroad tracks.

“Only a few stragglers left by the river,” Shepherd said with enthusiasm in his voice. Yet his suspicious eyes glanced in the direction of the hovering airships, expecting the Geryon lasers to turn toward mankind again at any moment.

Jon finished off a Heavy Duty Spider Sentry with a burst from the mounted gun and answered, “They’re all being horded along highway. Probably start breaking west any second.”

A massive boom of thunder broke Jon’s thoughts; a boom so loud he thought it might have come from between his ears, a lingering result of his concussion. But it had not. The sound pulled his eyes to the sky where the storm clouds that had followed Voggoth’s army across the country rolled and boiled with more intensity than ever.

Why isn’t the storm breaking?

Jon glanced at The Order’s remnants: a collection of Spider Sentries, Ogres, and Shell-Tanks backing into a tighter and tighter group surrounded on three sides with the battleships of the Geryon Reich floating overhead—and then suddenly those airships banked hard and accelerated in different directions as if retreating for their lives.

Another flash. Another boom. A gust of wind so strong it nearly toppled the truck.

Shep shouted, “Holy shit! Jon, we need to bug out.”

With that the Humvee accelerated, driving south at great speed.

Jon Brewer saw why.

The storm came alive. The clash between Voggoth’s unnatural storm and the living environment of Earth finally exploded and nature joined the battle.

Two massive, swirling tendrils draped down from the thunderheads like lowering strands of rope: spinning black and red vortexes encompassing all of nature’s fury.

The pair of tornadoes touched ground south of Taylor, a few miles west of the battlefield. They roared along Route 24 in a mesmerizing dance of beauty and destruction. Jon saw a roadside house blow apart into nothing.

The Geryon airships hurried from the path of destruction; ground troops both alien and human scattered north and south. But the forces of Voggoth were afforded no such escape.

The tornadoes tore into the remains of The Order’s mighty army with such power that they swept the ground clean; purified it of the infection. The machines and monsters of Voggoth’s legion were first blown apart and then sucked into the heavens where they disappeared into the storm clouds. Secondary explosions glimmered in the vortexes like ghosts.

Shepherd drove them to a safe distance and parked in a field. The cyclones—gently swaying side to side as they graced across the plains—passed to the north, sending the spectators a healthy gust of wind; a tiny taste of the power visited upon Voggoth. A not-so-subtle reminder of man’s insignificance in the face of nature.

Life, Jon thought. Nature. Like the Grenadiers. Defending its own.

Jon was struck by an intense feeling of kinship. At any other time, the mighty twisters would have filled him with instinctive fear. But not here. Not now. His entire world had been under siege, the very concept of life. Mankind had been the champion of that life, fighting for more than a decade on behalf of the entire planet. Now the conflict between nature and the creatures from Voggoth realm erupted—like matter and anti-matter colliding—adding the final stroke; expunging the last traces of infection.

As they reached the river the tornadoes fell apart in strands of wind and debris; retreating to the clouds from whence they came. The wind blew from hard to soft and then still.

Jon and Jerry Shepherd exited their vehicle and stood in the field without speaking a word. What could be said?

The thunder faded and the dark clouds cleared.

27. Baptism

A feeling of descent woke Nina. Her eyes shot open and for an instant she felt vulnerable; worried some enemy reached for her throat. However, instead of being in the midst of battle she sat in the passenger compartment of an Eagle transport. A few weary soldiers shared the rows of bench seats as did Odin, her faithful dog, who lay curled at her feet catching a snooze of his own.

It all made sense, of course. She needed the nap; she would need many more hours of sleep before the fatigue in her muscles waned. She also needed a good shower; the stink and stain of battle remained, a trait she shared with the other soldiers onboard the transport which made for an unpleasant, musty smell.

That vulnerable feeling? That made sense, too.

Nina did not trust the Chaktaw. She did not trust the Centurians or the Geryons, regardless of their claim of ‘new orders’; orders that changed the battlefield dynamic not only along the Mississippi, but across the world.

She knew—from looking in their alien eyes—that they did not trust her either. She could not blame them. If given the chance, Nina would have gladly driven her sword through any of them. After all they had done on her planet, forgiveness simply was not a part of the equation. She could not make happy and act as if a new day dawn. None of her kind could. That is why Jon Brewer and the rest of the brass—including the extraterrestrial commanders—kept the camps well-separated, particularly after the sides traded shots on more than one occasion. Only one thing kept the tinderbox from exploding: alien and human alike had grown tired of war.

The alien armies not only ceased hostilities, but they now desired to return home, meaning there remained no need to slaughter them as long as they dutifully marched through the runes of their own volition. From what Nina had seen at the front, the Chaktaw—and probably the rest—wanted nothing more than to get off this planet that had become a world of misery for them.

Still, the quicker they go through the runes, the better.

Apparently the Witiko had not signed on to the truce, therefore any of their kind found on Earth would be subject to immediate attack. But few of their number remained. Nina heard talk of isolated redoubts of Witiko in Alaska and some Pacific Islands but nothing concrete. Just like the alien animals and whatever remnants of Voggoth’s soulless ones remained, any isolated Witiko would be purged one way or another.

Furthermore, there were probably pockets of other militant aliens who had not heard of the truce; certainly this would lead to some awkward moments down the road. Brewer, Shepherd, and the rest worked with the extraterrestrial representatives to overcome those challenges.

No matter how hard they worked, Nina knew finishing the job would take time. Decades.

But now we’ve finally got time.

Despite a few incidents, the truce held; at least in the short term. And Nina knew in her heart that the truce came from Trevor Stone. He had engineered it. And if he had engineered it, that meant he still lived.

We’ve finally got time.

She felt the transport rock as the landing gear touched ground. Nina gathered her well-worn battle gear and joined the rest of the soldiers as they exited the craft. Vince Caesar was not among their number. He remained in a field hospital outside St. Louis receiving treatment for his leg. But he, too, had earned a trip home.

A rest.

And yes, for the first time in her life the idea of rest appealed to Nina. That idea—the idea of a break from fighting—felt strange to her. She felt—finished. Like she usually did at the end of a successful mission but this time she did not think another mission waited.

Nina exited the craft and walked across the paved landing pad. Late June had come to Annapolis and the temperature soared. The midday sun caused her to sweat, adding to her grimy, dirty feeling. She eagerly anticipated a return to her apartment.

An empty apartment.

True, for the first time in years Denise would not be there. The newlyweds had spent the last month in militia training in West Virginia preparing for Voggoth’s breakthrough. The end of the war meant Jake would complete his military education. At the same time, it appeared Denise took a fancy to flying and planned to join the Air Corps. What the future held from there? Well, time would tell.

She parted from the main flow of traffic and exited through the perimeter fence bypassing the squat, modular steel building that comprised the old Southern Command. A small paved path led southeast and merged into a walkway that paralleled Highland Beach. Despite the gorgeous day no one played on the sand or in the water. Less than a week had passed since the turn of events on the Mississippi and the details of the war’s finale remained sketchy to the general public. Most stayed home and convened around the television or radio eagerly awaiting the news. Indeed, most expected the fighting to break out again and any moment.

Nina suspected that, for most of them, the very concept of the war ending would seem too fantastic to believe. Then again, they had not ridden into battle alongside the Chaktaw or watched Centurian artillery decimate Voggoth’s army. Her proof came from participation; it would take longer for the public to trust news reports and stories.

On the far side of the short beach, the waters of the Chesapeake rolled to shore. A series of wooden posts marched out into the surf, all that remained of a dock washed away long ago. Rusted playground equipment occupied a rectangular stretch of beach. Nina hoped that in the days ahead children would emerge from their hiding spots and return to the playground and beach, but for now the nation felt on hold. As if catching its collective breath.

“Bee-u-tiful day, if I don’t say so myself.”

He sat along the walkway with both arms draped to either side of a park bench and his ancient, mysterious eyes alternated between the surf and Nina Forest.

“Probably a great day for a dip, wouldn’t you think?”

She glanced toward the water and then back at the Old Man. She noticed that despite his long-sleeve white shirt, black vest, and dusty-looking jeans she spied no signs of sweat.

He said, “Take a load off them feet. Seems to me you’ve earned a rest, ain’t that about right?”

Nina lugged her gear over the bench, rested her rifle alongside, and sat with him. Yes, it did feel good to sit but the heat still grilled down. The water—over there, across the beach—looked oh-so inviting.

She said to the Old Man, “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

“Third times the charm, missy.”

“What happened? What did Trevor do?”

The thing that resembled an Old Man kept his attention focused on the beach while he answered, “And that’s just about the size of it, right? You’d know it was Trevor. Some kind of intuition. Guess there are some things I still need to figure out. Ol’ Trev—he’s just full of lessons. Guess it was ‘bout time folks started listenin’.”

“What’d he do?”

“Oh, I suppose the easiest way to put it is he opened up some eyes. Yeah, that’s the best way to wrap your head around it. Nothin’ like a little—a little…” the Old Man’s voice dropped for a moment. She clearly heard sadness there. “Nothin’ like a little firsthand experience to cut to the chase of the matter, I suppose.”

“What’s that mean?”

The Old Man shook his head and took a deep breath. His eyes widened and he smiled.

“Now no need to go rehashing all that. The times come to move forward, missy.”

Nina said, “I remember.”

“Figured a few of his memories would make the trip over to you when we gave him a jump start last year. Have to admit, I got a fair glimpse of a few things myself. Made a—made a…” the Old timer seemed lost in something for a moment before he found the right word. “Made an impression.”

“Listen,” Nina corrected. “This is something more. Not just what I got from him. Stuff that belongs to me. From the first time The Order grabbed me—then last year, I flew an Eagle transport, but I never actually knew how. Other stuff, too. Ideas—feelings…” but she could not finish.

His eyes narrowed and the thing shaped like an Old Man told her, “Memories aren’t just in your noggin’, you know. Flying something, well, that’s probably like riding a bike; what you folks might call ‘muscle memory’. As for the stuff about Voggoth pulling that fast one on you, well, they tried to tuck that away in some dark corner of your mind before they slipped in that implant. That was bound to come out sooner or later. Honestly speaking, I don’t think they expected you to live too long so hiding it forever wasn’t part of the plan.”

“But—“

“But what? A bunch of things got all jumbled up inside that head of yours when I played London Bridge between you and ol’ Trev. Maybe something was left inside that got a jump-start when we had our little powwow. Then again, maybe you’re a little confused and whatnot.”

Nina stared at the Chesapeake Bay and assured, “I’m not confused. Not anymore. Things are pretty clear now. Tell me something. Trevor is alive, isn’t he?”

“Yeppers. He’s got a little more to get done. Probably a while before he makes his way back here. Loose ends and all. Point is, I’ve got this feeling in my gut—let’s just say—well, when you see ol’ Trevor ‘gain, there’s something I need you to tell him. Tell him I’ve got something for him. Call it—call it a gift. A fourth gift.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Well we can’t have that, now can we? I think the time for keeping secrets has pretty much sailed off. You and I had a talk a long time ago. Laid it all out for you, I did. I didn’t know why I clued you in back then. I think—well now ain’t this somethin’? I think I wanted you to know. Maybe because I wanted to be forgived for what had to happen.”

“And now?”

“Now? Well I guess we’d better dot them i’s and cross them t’s.”

Nina watched the Old Man drift away into the light woodlands opposite the beach. As he moved off she saw more shadow and less him until she could not see him at all.

The sun glared. Her gear weighed a ton. A line of perspiration trickled from her forehead down her nose. She turned around and stared across the sandy beach at the crisp, rolling surf. How good would it feel to take a dip?

Nina left the side walk and carried her load onto the stretch of sand. Her boots sank and walking became a chore; her pack felt all the heavier.

She watched the water as it lapped against the coast in a gentle rhythm. Her mind replayed years of fighting: Her early career with the police and National Guard—confronting the first monster from another planet inside the National Constitution Center in Philly and knowing then that her world had changed—acting as Trevor’s personal sword in places like New Winnabow and Beale Air Force Base—slipping behind The Order’s lines.

Her mission. Her life. A warrior’s life. If not for Denise, she would have known nothing other than war. Being a mother unlocked much inside her. But she felt even more dwelt down there, hidden inside that lockbox of a heart. And she knew who held the key.

Captain Nina Forest turned her back to the ocean and rested her pack on the sand. She bent over, unlaced her combat boots one at a time, and then set them together next to the pack.

She slowly undid her utility belt and holster and draped them over the pack. Her sword came next: the sword she had taken from a Mutant in Wilmington, North Carolina. Although it shined clean, she could see years of blood there. How many had she killed? She could not count. They registered in her battle computer of a mind not as names or individuals, but as mission objectives and hostile forces.

She lay the sword on the sand. The sun reflected off the blade.

Her BDU’s came off, first the shirt and then the pants leaving her standing in a dark green t-shirt and matching underwear. She folded her warrior’s clothes with great care and lay them side by side with the sword and the pack and the boots.

Nina popped the cartridge from her trusty M4 and ensured a clear chamber. Then she knelt in front of the shrine that had been hers for a lifetime and she set the rifle as the centerpiece.

She gazed at the arrangement. The tools of her life. They had served her well and in turn she had served her people well. She could not discard them easily. A world without them was a world fraught with mystery; a world filled with nightmares of another kind. She would have to find a new strength. But the time had come. Her body felt covered not only in sweat and grime, but in blood.

She felt no guilt. She had fulfilled her purpose as humanity’s champion. But in the process missed out on much. The time had come—the time to find what else remained.

There is more for me.

Nina stood and swiveled around to face the bay. She took one tentative step and stopped.

One more thing.

She reached to the back of her head and undid the black band holding her ponytail in place. Her blond hair fell free and dangled to her shoulders in curly strands. She dropped the tie to the ground with the rest of her discarded things.

Nina Forest moved to the edge and allowed the water to splash against her feet. It felt cold. And clean.

She stepped in, carefully walking over a combination of rocks, sand, and pointed shells. The salty smell of the brackish waters nearly overwhelmed her senses.

Deeper—deeper—until the water reached her chest.

Nina sipped a breath of air then slipped beneath the surface. Ripples from her submersion rolled away in perfect circles, one after another after another—and then calm—calmer—perfectly still.

The sun sparkled on the water, warmed the sandy shore, and reflected off the metal of the sword and rifle at rest on the beach. A gull swooped overhead cawing enthusiastically.

She burst from the surface in a spray of water. Her hair matted wet. Droplets across her neck and arms. What little clothes she wore soaked through but she felt refreshed, clean—new.

Nina Forest stood in the water and gazed east across the Bay, over the distant Peninsula, and beyond—to a world away.

Nina stood there in waist-deep water.

And waited.

28. Armada

Trevor knew the feeling of powerlessness. The first day of Armageddon after running from the gored bodies of his parents—things felt beyond his control then. More recently, for a few moments in the temple he felt powerless and insignificant in the face of Voggoth.

But he had never experienced anything quite like that first week after leaving the land once known as Satka, Russia.

He remembered what happened to the Feranites when the self-appointed Gods of Armageddon deemed them defeated. Given the situation in North America when he departed nearly six weeks ago, Trevor feared that even Jon Brewer’s best efforts would have fallen short by now.

Based on the reaction from JB’s peers, a vote to cast humanity into the abyss might have already concluded. At any moment—one heartbeat—he could find his molecules warping into some beast built to satiate Voggoth’s taste for irony.

The Feranites had loved nature, so they became what they most despised: machines. Perhaps the Roachbots had been highly-intelligent beings, but now were forced to live in madness with the brains of other species serving as their CPUs.

What about the Ghouls? Barbaric monsters created from a formerly well-ordered society? The Mutants? Perhaps a civilization that prided itself on its caste system reduced to the equivalent of an alien biker gang?

The nightmares seemed endless. But the biggest nightmare of them all came from the feeling of failure. In the end Trevor had lost everything. Nina. His son. His people.

And so he spent that week in a semi-daze, barely eating and rarely speaking. He waited. He waited for his body to change; for a descent into Hell.

Despite vanquishing Voggoth’s monsters, the march west from the destroyed temple felt like a retreat. He tried to explain what happened. Alexander understood on some level although he could not comprehend the idea of spontaneous mutation.

Armand refused Trevor’s conclusion. He pointed to the physical evidence: the temple fell, The Order’s monsters slaughtered. Victory, no matter how you sliced it. Trevor did not argue. He could have pointed out to Armand that history was full of stories of wars won on the battlefield but lost in the halls of power.

On day six of the return trip, the convoy halted outside a large city in northeast Ukraine. While Trevor sat in the back of an armored Sherpa holding the last memory of his son—Bunny, the stuffed animal wrapped in a small blanket—Alexander walked forward to investigate the delay. Trevor expected a horde of Voggoth’s minions attempting to intercept the convoy. Such attacks were long overdue.

However, he realized he heard no gunshots; no sounds of battle. When Alexander returned he appeared grim-faced and hurried.

“What is it?”

Alexander replied, “We are needed in the town.”

“Here? Where are we—Kharkov?”

“Yes,” Alexander said and directed Rick Hauser to drive the vehicle around the main convoy and into the city. “Ukrainian and Russian partisans retook this area last year while Voggoth was hammering us. Tenacious people, they are.”

Trevor’s mind filled with negative thoughts. Did these people want tribute to allow passage? Or would they beg for food and ammunition? In the end he supposed it did not matter because at any second his world would change.

He soon found out how right he was.

The Sherpa followed a pair of Ukrainian or Russian motorcyclists into the heart of Kharkov with Armand and a small group of his followers trailing behind.

The city remained in surprisingly good condition, apparently spared from large-scale fighting. It surprised Trevor to see so many green trees in the heart of what had once been a metropolitan area.

“Things look in good shape,” Trevor muttered.

“They really put it back together nice. They told me they’ve got the Malyshev Tank Factory back on line. A lot of them survived most of the last decade in the underground subway beating up the Duass when they were here and The Order later but they went to great pains to keep from permanently harming the city.”

They drove into the heart of Freedom Square, a teardrop-shaped cul-de-sac with a park at its center as well as large and buildings around the perimeter, several of which were massive including one that occupied 300 meters of frontage with multiple skywalks between multiple towers. Trevor guessed it to be an older government building built in a Soviet style meant to impress with strength of design but lacking in ornate detail.

Whatever the case, the motorcade worked its way toward the Kharkov Hotel. As they made their way in to town, Trevor realized this was no band of partisans scraping out an existence. These people managed to rebuild a tiny bit of civilization, much like his people had re-populated Wilkes-Barre that first year. There may not be many of them, but they were on the right track.

All for nothing.

“Alexander, what is this about?”

“Someone here looking for us. Messengers, I think.”

Trevor, Alexander, and Hauser exited while Armand’s bikers came to a halt curbside.

Their hosts wore a variety of clothing that again reminded Trevor of his own people; summer casual wear, blue jeans, slacks, cargo pants, dress shirts, and military uniforms of various kinds. Several of the more stoic types guarding the main entrance carried AK-47s or similar weapons, apparently a part of the city’s militia.

Trevor eyed the people and they returned his glances with smiles and what might be laughs. Excited, friendly laughs. Celebratory, even.

“No weapons,” Alexander explained. “Not inside the hotel.”

Trevor carried none. He did not think a machine gun would provide any defense against the coming judgment. Hauser, however, dropped his MP5 in the front seat of the Sherpa and Armand left an entire arsenal of small arms with one of his biker brethren.

The crowd spoke in excited chatter as the travelers moved away from their convoy into the hotel. Trevor did not need a translator to catch Ukrainians and Russians speaking amongst themselves:

“Is that him?”

“How did he do it?”

“They mentioned him by name.”

While the exterior appeared dull, the interior was luxurious: marble floors, thick gold bands of trim, stately columns, and crystal chandeliers.

A large gathering of people—easily 100—crowded the lobby. The escorts pushed past. The crowd parted and they approached a meeting area of leather seats and sofas facing a magnificent fireplace. There they found the reason for their summons.

Gaston—Alexander’s lanky, black, Russian spy who had been scouting for the return convoy—stood by the couriers and explained, “They are spreading the message. Here, you should see it first,” and he handed a scroll to Trevor. “You are mentioned by name, Trevor Stone. They had to write all of it down. They are not very good with our language.”

A trio of couriers stood alongside Gaston. Duass couriers. The three-legged duck-billed aliens left to watch over a conquered Europe when The Order had withdrawn to attack North America. They wore cloth garments and some kind of wrappings around their legs that served the same purpose as hip boots on humans.

Armand pushed forward, his face turning grim and his fingers searching for weapons he had left outside. Gaston intercepted him with a raised hand.

“Easy, my friend.”

Trevor read the document. Alexander could not wait. He asked Gaston, “What is it? What is this about?”

Gaston told him, “It is over.”

Trevor regarded the Duass ambassadors with suspicion as they exited the lobby under Ukrainian protection.

He had to admit, the aliens demonstrated great courage. The three entered the city with merely a promise of safe passage from the people they had brutalized for more than a decade. Apparently many such Duass patrols—and those from other alien groups except the Witiko—sought out human leadership with the same message.

Trevor hoped, for the sake of peace, that other human enclaves proved as honorable as Kharkov, although he could not entirely blame any mob that chose retribution over reconciliation.

Regardless, they delivered a simple message: The end of war. Cooperation in rooting out any remaining entities from the realm of Voggoth. Retreat to specific outposts until such time as travel through the runes (something unknown to most humans) could be arranged through consultation with Trevor Stone, the man who had brokered this resolution. Release of all prisoners by both sides and assistance in rebuilding necessary infrastructure to ensure the survival of the human populace as well as extraterrestrial forces until their evacuation from the planet.

The duck-like Duass disappeared from the hotel and the commotion carried outside. Alexander sat across the lobby in deep discussion with the representative of Kharkov; a big man with a deep voice.

Another leader of men.

Trevor’s mind considered Kharkov and the people there. He wondered if the weather was harsh here. He thought about the return to Europe and what manner of transport he would secure to re-cross the ocean. He…

He stopped thinking about all that. A wave of weakness traveled across his body and he slumped deep into a leather chair.

It hit him. Not like an explosion or a powerful force, but with the exact opposite effect. As if his muscles had been tight and tense for a decade and now relaxed. Not quite calm. Exciting on some level.

Relief.

Gaston had said, “It is over.”

It.

What exactly was ‘it’? Constant fighting. Always thinking ahead to the next battle. Counting casualties like taking inventory. Speeches to rally. Providing direction for the people even when Trevor could not be sure of what to do next. Serving as symbol, and facilitator. Worries. Concerns. Desperate measures. Brutality and stoicism in the face of tragedy. Sacrificing his sense of right and wrong and replacing it with a blind focus on completing ‘the mission’.

‘It’ was finding his parents torn apart so badly that he mistook them for shaggy, rolled rugs; feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders; killing the man named ‘Richard’ and replacing him with the icy leader known as ‘Trevor’; sacrificing his innocence on an altar of bloodshed in the name of the bottom-line equation of survival; carrying on alone because destiny chose his path and allowed choices only between evils.

He suffered no illusions. In the Armageddon war Trevor did not fight for a greater good; he fought to save his species. An ends justified by any means and the responsibility for those ‘means’ lay squarely on his shoulders. His responsibility.

It is over.

“No. It’s not over. Not yet.”

“What is that?”

Trevor realized he spoke aloud and disturbed Alexander’s conversation.

Trevor repeated, “I said, it’s not over yet.”

“I do not understand,” Alexander’s mouth hung open in what appeared to be a pang of fear. Perhaps he worried the dictator had not yet tired of wielding power; a power born from the fires of this conflict.

Trevor wondered if his doppelgangers on parallel Earths would refuse the order to stand down. Would they—would he—accept the end of the war that gave him his power in the first place? Would the despot walk away from the throne so easily?

He envisioned settlements all across his Earth waking up tomorrow to find the war over. How many petty warlords had Trevor’s Empire found in North America alone? What would happen to the isolated islands of survivors struggling to live another day? A lack of adequate food and medicine could kill as efficiently as Hivvan guns or Witiko rockets.

The war against the invaders had ended. The purpose given to the survivors by the goal of victory now gone. What will fill that vacuum?

“There’s something more left to do. Alexander, let me borrow your clipboard.”

He tentatively handed the board and pen to Trevor who wrote feverishly on a blank page.

“Armand,” Trevor called as he scribbled

The gallant motorcyclist stood near the hotel’s front desk sipping a glass of something-and-vodka in celebration of the day. He quickly discarded the drink and walked fast to the rows of furniture near the fireplace.

“Yes, Trevor?”

“I need you to do something. You and your cavalry,” Trevor glanced at Alexander and added, “With your permission, of course. I have a message that needs to be sent.”

Alexander—still wary—asked, “One last order from an Emperor?”

“An invitation. My last—my last act, if you will.” He turned to Armand. “Will you and your riders deliver it?”

“Where to?”

Trevor told him, “Everywhere.”

The messengers began their journeys in convoys of 100 or more but divided into smaller groups as their paths branched off in different directions. The larger cruiser models were vital to each mission due to the cargo capacity for extra provisions, but eventually almost all the riders needed to live off the land for weeks at a stretch despite fuel trucks sent along major routes to top their tanks as often as possible.

Many fell victim to the extraterrestrial predators roaming the wild lands or bandits of various species. Others lost their way never to be seen again. The world remained a dangerous, unforgiving place with pockets of civilization—alien and human—surrounded by vacant cities and barren wastelands. Plenty of the riders failed to find fuel reserves and ran dry, changing them from riders to walkers or other means of transportation. Nonetheless, they searched for pockets of humanity and carried Trevor’s invitation to the world.

The second week in July, couriers stumbled upon a community of Ukrainians, Russians (mainly former naval personnel), and Tartars living around the harbor and old fortresses of Sevastopol on the Crimean Peninsula. Nearly a thousand fishermen, farmers, and children of the new age gathered to hear the invitation.

By the end of that month the message found tribes surviving in the mountains outside of Almaty in southeast Kazakhstan—boat people hiding in the fjords of Finland—and nomads herding goats and hunting in the Carpathian ranges of Romania.

During August, the word reached far across Asia where remnants of the Russian and Mongolian armies had battled the Geryon Reich’s garrison at Ulan Bator for a bloody decade. Hostilities had ceased nearly two months before as part of the general armistice but Trevor’s invitation brought post-war direction to the combatants and they eagerly accepted the invite.

Around the same time, Duass water transports conveyed Armand himself to their prison colony on the Greek island of Mykonos, where the human POWs found the reason behind their liberation in the words of Trevor Stone’s message.

In late September, couriers who had traded in their motorcycles for horses came across the stubborn remains of the PLA’s 38th Mechanized group at their Baoding base 100 miles south of the ruins of Beijing. Since the first days of Armageddon, 5,000 soldiers and civilians held the city against Geryon battleships and Steel Guard Golems. Time and war had eroded any ideological objection to the invitation while Geryon-supplied foodstuffs proved the sincerity of the truce.

Back in North America, Jon Brewer received the message via HAM radio with the added information that Trevor Stone lived and would return ‘soon’. He and his generals spent the time rebuilding infrastructure.

With the help of Chaktaw and Centurian aides, Jon and Jerry Shepherd oversaw the demolition of dormant gateways in Atlanta, Sacramento, and Northern Mexico. Based on the concept of ‘leave well enough alone,’ such gateways had remained observed but untouched after being shut down by the runes six years ago. Demolition charges placed at specific points disintegrated the structures—of various design—into harmless pieces.

Ambassadors reached the Hivvan holdings in the Caribbean and brokered the return of human prisoners there. At the same time, well-armed rebel forces in Trinidad and Haiti agreed to release hundreds of the intelligent bipedal lizards they had captured in recent years, many in as poor physical condition as human slaves freed from Hivvan labor camps.

Mass graves holding victims from both sides were uncovered; a rogue human sniper killed a Centurian inside a declared alien safe zone; an anti-air missile fired from a Chaktaw position knocked a Chinook transport from the Missouri sky killing a dozen men onboard—but the truce held.

Jon Brewer had overcome great odds in war; he worked just as hard to maintain the peace. He sat in judgment at a junior officer’s hanging for shooting a Hivvan prisoner; he accepted a Geryon Captain’s assurances that the soldier responsible for badly beating a human civilian would be severely disciplined.

Alien consulates were established in vacant Pennsylvania cities to serve as staging points for repatriation and with each day more of the invaders found their way home through the runes in the caves behind the estate.

Centurian soldiers as well as civilians—the offspring of an invading army—came from across the Americas to the empty streets at Towanda. Soon they would come from outposts scattered across the world. Chaktaw personnel gravitated to Tunkhannock, Geryons established a community among the farms and rural homes of Huntington Mills. Eventually such bases for the Duass and Hivvans would be needed.

By autumn, hundreds of invaders from those civilizations returned to their home worlds via the runes. Thousands more waited to make the trip. Considering the runes served as the only means of returning them home and considering the spread of invaders across the globe—often times grossly off their original intended mark—Jon Brewer estimated it would take at least three years to complete the task, assuming they could contact and establish transportation for all the extraterrestrials in a reasonable amount of time.

That job grew easier as the aliens sought out that exit as part of their new orders. The Geryons proved the easiest to assemble. Their airships offered effective transportation from their primary bases in Asia to northeastern Pennsylvania. The dirigibles made constant sorties while human airliners helped shuttle evacuees from points across the North American continent.

A world away, in November Armand and a convoy of his best riders met the Kurdish governors of Mosul, Iraq where they shared their homeland and oil reserves with refugees from across the region; an oasis of calm in an otherwise desolate land.

Armand learned that few remained alive in the great expanse from the Mediterranean shore to Baghdad: the arrival of Armageddon provided an opportunity to settle old-world scores. The forces of hatred from all interests in the Middle East had battled one another, often times at the expense of fighting the invaders. A decade of assassinations, ambushes, massacres and slaughter left empty lands soaked in blood. The well-fed vultures tasted no difference in religion or ethnicity.

The more civilized minds from that region took flight in those early years and, as Armand discovered in December, camps of the more reasonable from all flavors of diversity survived in settlements along the lower Nile where brigades of the Egyptian army bravely carved safe zones and tolerated no in-fighting. Although disease and starvation culled their numbers over the course of a decade, they survived on cooperation and tolerance; the lack of which had doomed many of their kin.

It took until January for the invitation to penetrate the jungles of southeast Asia where The Order’s rampaging monsters had forced civilization into the wilderness. Many riders lost their lives, but the message was delivered and preparations made.

The fortress of Hong Kong with 20,000 people—well-armed partisans in the Philippine archipelagos—a flotilla of Indonesian military and civilian vessels linked together in an ocean-bound city—all accepted the message.

No one lived in Japan or Taiwan to hear the call. The couriers found an infestation of Voggoth’s creatures on both islands. Meanwhile, Witiko forces—rejecting any peace overtures—fired on the couriers from their enclaves in Papua New Guinea and fortifications along the northeast coast of Australia.

Still, Sydney remained a human city thanks to a combination of Aussia military and civilian recruits. They eagerly accepted Trevor Stone’s invitation, but the Aboriginals from the continent’s interior chose to remain recluse.

While the riders carried the word across Europe, Asia, and the Pacific rim, Trevor personally led an expedition into the heart of the dark continent.

In the early months of the new year, his convoy of Land Rovers drove across a golden savannah under the harsh beams of an unforgiving sun. Drinking water had become a commodity as precious and nearly as scarce as gasoline. Fortunately, human settlements in Algeria and Mali as well as a Centurian outpost in Niger willingly helped re-supply the travelers.

In any case, Rick Hauser slowed the lead Rover of four to a halt on what passed for a road. A wooden fence and armed check point blocked their way. Trevor exited the vehicle and approached the guards, one of whom accepted and then hurried off with a copy of the note Trevor came to convey.

The soldiers wore patches on their green uniforms suggesting old-world affiliations with the Central Africa Republic, Cameroon, or the Democrat Republic of Congo; political entities devoured by Armageddon’s fires.

Some appeared older: veterans, no doubt, of those countries’ old world militaries. Several more appeared younger—late teens, even—new recruits for an army of new thinking.

Movement on the plains caught his eye. Trevor saw a small herd of zebra daring the heat of the afternoon to graze. They paid no attention to the shaggy brontosaurus-sized creature sporting spiked tusks that wandered by on its way toward the delicacies offered in a nearby cluster of trees.

If Trevor had his way, all such otherworldly beasts would be purged from the planet to restore the natural balance of things. But as he watched the docile giant bite into the branches of a hardy umbrella thorn acacia, he realized that the new life brought to Earth by the invasion had grown roots. And besides, if he truly believed what he had argued in the temple of Voggoth, then all the universe’s life shared common beginnings and thus would find a new, acceptable balance here on Earth.

The guard directed Trevor beyond the checkpoint to a more shaded stretch bordering a large pond. As he moved forward he saw buildings. A few were makeshift shanties built from scavenged metals and stone; a few more crude shacks of thatch and bamboo. But at the heart of the settlement stood a series of sturdy concrete structures.

Around it all ebbed the currents of life: a woman in a flowered Senegalese-style Bubu pushing a cart loaded with vegetables; a man in a silk shirt and work pants carrying a tool box en route to some repair job or another; a cluster of children kicking a soccer ball on a makeshift playground near the skeletal remains of a well-scavenged truck; two elderly men embroiled in a tabletop game on a porch; a mother humming a soothing tune to an infant.

The activity slowed and then stopped as Trevor and his party strolled along the main path. The newcomer grabbed their attention. Or perhaps the rumors of the invitation had already begun to spread.

A tall man of the darkest complexion emerged from the town hall with the note in hand and approached Trevor, eyeing him through wise eyes that had shepherded a village during years of uncertainty and peril. On his tunic he wore the stars of a general, but the way the villagers regarded him told Trevor this man was more than a warrior; he was a leader.

The general stopped in front of Trevor and studied the visitor.

Trevor raised his arm in a rigid, proper salute; a salute for a soldier who had demonstrated his valor by the evidence of success displayed in the thriving village. The gesture of respect struck the right chord and the general returned the salute with equal precision.

As their hands left their foreheads they reached out and grasped in a firm shake. The man wearing general’s stars smiled as the crowd gathered to hear the news.

Trevor leaned against a corner at the rear of the school room next to Rick Hauser and watched the last stages of the process, as did dozens of onlookers in seats, from the hall, and through windows along the wall.

The general sat at the teacher’s desk overseeing the counting of ballots. The blackboard kept score with strokes of chalk. As the last slip of paper was pulled from the wooden box, the general marked the final tally.

A middle-aged woman with braided hair gasped and raised her hands to her mouth in a vain attempt to suppress glee. The trio of losing candidates grimaced for a moment and then congratulated her with hugs and smiles.

She controlled her enthusiasm as the general approached. Then, in a rare display of affection, he let his stoic guard drop and embraced the moment as he embraced her.

Children conveyed the last of her luggage as well as jugs of water to the convoy of Rovers parked outside the town hall. The braided-hair woman’s husband slipped into the lead vehicle’s rear seat alongside Trevor Stone.

She waved to the crowd of well-wishers one last time and then joined the other passengers. The convoy drove away from the village and across the savannah.

One mid-May afternoon a young barefoot boy with a Mediterranean complexion ran as fast as his small legs could carry along the jetty stretching out on a bed of rocks from the charred remains of Palermo. He joined the gathering of curious children at the end of the pier in time to add his voice to the chorus of “Arrivederci! Arrivederci!”.

The boys and girls offered their farewells to a 300-foot luxury yacht and a salvaged corvette of the Italian navy breaking port.

The convoy that had scoured Africa for months returned north to make final preparations. They crossed from Morocco to the Iberian Peninsula on a series of helicopters.

Dozens of persons from dozens of enclaves of African survivors exited the choppers alongside Trevor in the shadow of the giant rock of Gibraltar. A face Trevor had not seen since last fall waited to greet him: Alexander.

The two spoke on the grounds of a long-abandoned Royal Navy base that recently found new purpose.

After exchanging pleasantries, Trevor dove straight into the matter, “We’re getting near the deadline.”

“Yes,” Alexander agreed as they walked toward the ocean side of the base. “I have received word that many of the others have already departed for the rendezvous.”

“What about the round table at Camelot?”

Alexander assured in a lighthearted tone that belied his usually serious personality, “I told you last year that everyone would accept the proposal. You need to learn to relax.”

Stone stopped walking, considered, and said, “You know what? In a way this part scares me more than the fighting did. There is an opportunity here, Alexander. I don’t want to blow it. But yeah, once all this is done I’ll relax.”

“Do not get your hopes up. I know human nature. If you’re looking for a storybook ending, you are likely to be disappointed. Besides, nothing ever really ends. Things simply move to a new stage.”

Trevor realized that therein lay the difference between himself and Alexander. He—Trevor—felt born for Armageddon. The three gifts—his sense of responsibility—his very genetics—all groomed for this one fight. Alexander came from a different breed. More pragmatic, perhaps. Not as hasty. Not as driven. Better suited for the long haul.

The world will belong to people like him, now.

Trevor asked, “Where is Armand? Is he coming with us?”

“No. He and Cai are getting married and taking care of southern France for the meantime.”

“Good for him. Do you think he can make the switch back to being ‘just a guy’?”

After a laugh Alexander answered, “I do not think Armand was ever ‘just a guy’. Besides, there is much work left to be done. Lots of nasty things out there that will need to be hunted down, even after the main forces have departed. Voggoth’s pets, the Witiko bases—much more blood will be shed for years to come.”

“Alexander, are you trying to cheer me up?”

The Englishman grunted at Trevor’s sarcasm.

The sight at the docks changed the conversation.

Alexander told Trevor, “About half of the original crew remains onboard. They helped us keep lines of communication open between England and the continent during the worst of times. The remaining officers and surviving sailors of your submarine—the Newport News—have volunteered to serve onboard for the return journey.”

Trevor eyed the magnificent ship from stem to stern. As he did, a stalwart British Captain descended the gang plank. Trevor saw this veteran of the sea as a spiritual brother to Farway; the man who had brought him to Europe a year before and whose sacrifice had bought vital time.

The Captain acknowledged Alexander with a nod and then spoke to Trevor, “It would be an honor, sir.”

“The honor will be all mine.”

Enthusiasm and energy returned to the lakeside estate. Vehicles drove the perimeter road; administrative personnel walked the grounds—even a handful of young K9s served human masters again.

An Eagle transport left the landing pad, ferrying away a Hivvan representative under the escort of Internal security.

In the basement of the mansion at the conference table surrounded by televisions and communications gear, Jon met with Jerry Shepherd, Gordon Knox, and Eva Rheimmer on the topic of logistics: the logistics of transportation and seed corn for the families returning to their homes west of the Mississippi; the logistics of aviation fuel and rail lines for the alien passengers traversing the land in search of the way home; the logistics of bullets and guns for the highly-active Hunter-Killer teams taking to the wilderness in search of monsters.

Jon rubbed his eyes and answered Gordon Knox yet again, “It has been eight months since we saw any sign of a farm or any of The Order’s organized facilities.”

“We have to be sure. You heard the lizard—“

“Hivvan,” Jon corrected as he fought the daily battle of hearts and minds.

“You heard the Hivvan,” Gordon sneered as he accepted Jon’s correction. “One of their air patrols saw a Goat Walker in St. Thomas.”

Shepherd chimed in, “Them things sure ain’t a picnic, but they’re not exactly what I’d call organized forces. The way Anita has it figured, they’re just animals from some older race that got warped into Voggoth’s pets when he got the better of em’. We’re going to be finding them for a long time, but they can’t reproduce so there’s only so many out there.”

“We have to be sure,” Gordon insisted as he did at each meeting, albeit with a little less urgency each time. “It only takes one farm for Voggoth to start building an army again.”

“Gordon, we will never be sure, unless we find something. Until then, we keep our guard up. Omar’s re-starting the dreadnought program and we’ve got a shitload of intel from the other races.”

“One big happy family,” Gordon said with a sardonic smile. “Of course, tell that to the Centurian officer and his regiment that has refused to surrender. Then there’s that group of Duass who slaughtered their Internal Security escort and disappeared into the Louisiana swamps. Like I said, one big happy—“

“It’s not perfect,” Brewer interrupted. “There are also a hundred stories of our people taking revenge out on aliens. Cassy’s cavalry found about a dozen dead Hivvans refugees murdered and skinned just five miles from this mansion. But that’s not the point. Like you always said, we have to tough things out. In this case, we have to tough out the small things so that the big picture doesn’t get screwed up.”

Eva—wanting to move the discussion toward the important matter of food production—egged on Gordon with the question, “Aren’t you going away for vacation soon?”

Gordon—fully understanding her concern for what it was—tilted his head and offered a smirk that doubled for a popular phrase ending in ‘you’ as he answered, “Yes. We leave tomorrow. Thank you very much, Eva.”

The phone buzzed.

“I’ll grab that since there’s nothing going on down here other than a whole bunch of circles being run.”

Shep eschewed the tabletop phone and walked over to one mounted on the wall beneath the stairs. The others took up the issue of re-invigorating fields poisoned by Voggoth’s version of farms, which sucked the nutrients from the ground exchanging barren wasteland in place of fertile plain.

“Jon,” Shepherd called and held up the receiver. “It’s coastal security.”

Brewer left the table and accepted the phone.

“Yes? When—how soon—okay, we’re on our way.”

He hung the receiver harder than he realized; the result of a jolt of energy delivered by the message.

“We need a transport right away.”

“We’re we heading?” Shep asked.

“New York.”

Nina Forest drifted along the short hall in her apartment. Denise and Jake left just minutes before after having spent a belated Mother’s Day in Annapolis. Nina had been thinking about the class she was scheduled to teach later that summer at the academy when the television—left on in hopes of catching a weather forecast—grabbed her ear.

An excited anchorman reported, “We are getting some news from New York City right now—one of our reporters is in the city taping a story on the reopening of the Statue of Liberty after hundreds of volunteers spent the last month repairing missile damage. Apparently there is a bigger story developing right now. Our reporter is describing it as the most amazing sight she’s seen in a decade. We’re trying to re-establish phone contact and hope to have an update here in a moment.”

Nina knew.

Her wait was over.

During the initial invasion, New York City became infested with alien pack animals gorging and vicious monsters from Voggoth’s realm inflicting horror and pain. Law enforcement as well as neighborhood street gangs battled to survive against an estimated 200,000 extraterrestrial creatures; most hungry and dangerous. The strict fire arms prohibitions in the city, however, made civilians easy targets.

Within 12 months after the invasion, New York City transformed into a new ecosystem including prey animals and predators with humanity belonging to the former category. Pockets of people existed in skyscrapers-turned-fortresses and the best-protected evacuation shelters while National Guard troops held out at LaGuardia until the military brass could no longer airlift in supplies.

Then things got really bad.

The forces of Trevor’s Empire attacked Manhattan island nearly six years later and fought in an atmosphere described by those who experienced it as a modern day Stalingrad. However, instead of alien soldiers, artillery, and armor, the human force of liberation fought giant beetles, hordes of Jaw-Wolves, flying Devilbats, and scores of other nightmares all hiding and pouncing from the ruins of the Big Apple.

Only a handful of survivors—many reduced to a primitive, barbaric existence—were found and much of the city suffered from blast and fire damage. The bulk of the five boroughs remained relatively uninhabited in the years since, waiting for the time and resources to invest in rebuilding.

The harbor area served as the exception. Many ships of The Empire’s small navy called the area home while supply vessels sailing from docks at Newark Bay, Jersey City, and Hoboken carried food, equipment, fuel, and passengers up and down the eastern seaboard.

Furthermore, the fishing industry found new life; between eight and twenty trawlers left the harbor every morning and returned to sell their catch to the highest bidders at the historic old South Street Seaport. Refrigerator trucks would then spirit the haul away, some sending the fish back out to sea on those supply ships headed to points south, others driving in-land to rail yards for distribution to the west.

An important link in the eastern security fence or ‘Tambourine Line” was established on Governor’s Island and the old financial district of Lower Manhattan came to life again a few years after Continental dollars replaced an economy of barter.

Ellis Island eventually earned new purpose as a survivor processing center while several amateur playwrights and wannabe starlets reopened two Broadway theaters and played for small audiences. At the same time, Battery Park became a popular recreation spot.

On the afternoon of May 28, the 10,000 or so people and military personnel working in and around New York harbor enjoyed a spring day beneath a band of white clouds.

The buzz started at about two o’clock with radio chatter coming in from Rockaway Point. Word spread through Internal Security. A half hour later a reporter for the National Broadcast Network on Liberty Island overcame a myriad of technical challenges and cleared a phone line to NBN’s main office.

Within minutes the construction crews, the fishermen, and the businessmen, left their jobs and headed to the harbor. Traffic on the Brooklyn bridge came to a halt as truckers parked their rigs to watch. Dockworkers stopped loading ships and soldiers vacated their posts.

They lined the Jersey coast, the ferry launch at the tip of Manhattan, the piers on Staten Island.

A helicopter flew in from the west, swinging around and set down hurriedly on the park at the tip of Ellis Island. Jon Brewer and Jerry Shepherd bound out onto the lawn, hurrying to the water’s edge.

On liberty island a father hoisted his daughter onto his shoulders to afford a better view but the best view of all belonged to the volunteer construction workers atop Lady Liberty’s torch.

The armada sailed up New York bay in haphazard formation. Hundreds of ships of every conceivable ocean-going kind: small to medium-sized military vessels from a dozen countries, a powered catamaran that once served as a ferry, 20 sea-worthy yachts with sails hoisted, a cargo ship, and a pair of small cruise ships.

Trevor Stone stood on the deck of HMS Cornwall, a British frigate that survived the invasion and fought for the court at Camelot. He stepped forward on the deck as the mixed crew of English and American seamen guided the ship inland.

In a fit of spontaneity, Trevor pumped his fist in the air and let loose a shout of joy. He did not know if that joy came from the sight of his homeland, from the understanding of what he had accomplished, from the war’s end, or from relief at knowing his personal journey neared conclusion.

Whether they saw his joy or heard his shout or merely felt the energy radiating from the fleet, the crowds along the shore and on the bridges burst into a frenzy of celebration. A magnificent ovation of clapping hands, victory cries, and tears.

In their celebration, Trevor felt something greater. A sense of gratitude. Appreciation. For all their suffering, he had taken the responsibility upon his shoulders. He had done what needed to be done, no matter the personal cost. A decade-long act of sacrifice.

The fleet dispersed to the various docks around the harbor bringing the representatives from a thousand human settlements and enclaves; representatives elected not on the basis of political boundaries, ethnic backgrounds, or religious manifestos, but on their ability to speak for the ones left behind.

The Cornwall slid into port at Ellis Island. The crowd at the base of the gangplank roared with approval as Trevor led a procession to shore.

The crowd parted. Jon and Shep approached.

“Permission to come ashore, General.”

Shepherd tipped his Stetson to Trevor then shook Rick Hauser’s hand vigorously.

Jon stared at Trevor with no expression at all for several long seconds before admitting, “I can’t think of anything smart to say.”

“Well—why start now, right?”

Jon took his hand but the handshake turned into a hug. When they released, Jon asked, “Jorgie?”

Trevor’s jubilation hesitated.

“He—he went away.”

“So we won,” Jon laid it out. “But paid a hell of a price.”

Something in the inflexion in his tone—Trevor’s heart thumped hard.

“Lori?”

Jon shook his head and repeated, “We paid a hell of a price.”

The crowd at the pier would not let the mood sour. A wave of cheers carried among the mob. Trevor let a smile—an unsure smile—flicker on his lips.

“Tomorrow,” he said. “Tomorrow we’ll remember the dead. Today, we celebrate life.”

29. The Fourth Gift

“I have often thought that in the hereafter of our lives, when I owe no more to the future and can be just a man, that we may meet, and you will come to me and claim me as yours, and know that I am your husband. It is a dream I have…”

–the character of King Arthur in Excalibur

Trevor stared out the closed sliding glass door on the second floor of the estate, watching a gaggle of geese float across the lake waters as midafternoon turned to late afternoon. He saw the dock where Jerry Shepherd used to fish during that first year, before he had moved south as the armies of liberation marched.

He spied Omar Nehru—rolls of blueprints under his arm and a cigarette between his lips—walking hurriedly to a waiting car. Trevor knew that Omar’s wife, Anita would never regain all of the sanity she lost in the bowels of Red Rock.

Nonetheless, the estate felt peaceful. Relaxed. And, admittedly, a little dull.

I could use a little dull for now.

Dull did not describe Trevor’s trip to Montreal the day before where he addressed the global congress of hundreds of representatives from around the world; the people who responded to his invitation to build a better future.

And what did they do?

They bickered. They argued. They demanded. They protested. Some proposed and some rejected. One big mob shouting and pointing at one another.

Trevor had felt certain that the relief of having survived the invasion would result in cooperation. He hoped for a communal spirit that would lead almost immediately to all kinds of treaties, a commitment to one world government perhaps based on a global federalism, and a format for electing representatives: a post-Armageddon constitutional congress that spoke for the entire world.

He had given a speech saying as much, detailing how the old world’s political in-fighting and an overbearing bureaucracy failed man’s nations when the invasion began. He spoke of our common bonds, the insignificance of superficial differences, and the need to reject the pre-Armageddon divides that had made civilization susceptible to outside attack.

They smiled. They nodded. They clapped at the right moments and in the end roared with a standing ovation. So moved were they that a vote to create a ceremonial position of ‘Emperor’ passed without a single objection.

And then the arguing began anew.

All the old ‘isms’ made the rounds: socialism, capitalism, communism, despotism, along with monarchy, oligarchy, and anarchy. Trevor heard them all. He sat in on the discussions for three hours until a headache forced his retreat to a transport. He left Jon Brewer behind.

Trevor had realized as he fled the convention center that he did not know how to handle the debate because debate had never been a part of his mission.

Evan Godfrey, where are you when we need you?

And there was the irony. If only Evan had been patient. This could have been his moment. His ability to inspire with speeches, to boil politics to their essence, to find common ground—it would have been something to behold and Trevor would have gladly handed the reins to him now, with the world safe.

Instead, chaos ruled in Montreal. The old lines of divide reared their ugly heads: nationalism, ethnicity, religion, tribal loyalties and a plethora of other excuses to divide groups into further divisions.

Trevor came to realize that the concept of one great world government providing peace and prosperity for a rebuilding planet would not arise from the conference. Still something would come of it. Something better than the old status quo. Something that would recognize the common interests of humanity.

It had to. It must.

Or we did not learn the lessons of Armageddon.

Trevor felt his fingers instinctively moving to pinch his nose and forced them away. He did not need to worry. These problems belonged to someone else. Perhaps Alexander would form a consensus. While not as political savvy as Godfrey, Alexander’s track record at Camelot proved he could bring disparate parties together.

Trevor’s problems had finally changed to a more personal nature. Humanity would need a new leader for this new age.

He lived in the estate by himself. Ashley’s things were long gone, her bags somewhere with Gordon Knox’s bags on a well-earned respite to someplace south. Probably Miami. Trevor had not asked. He had met with Ashley long enough to convey the events in Russia the previous year. She accepted his account without comment although her contempt for Trevor’s actions came across in the glare of her eyes. He could not blame her. She was a mother, and a mother would gladly let the world die instead of sacrificing her child because that’s what mothers do.

He could not hold any of that against her. She had played her part. Indeed, she may have suffered more than he. Now she reached for a life of her own. He wished her well.

Trevor eyed the view. How often had he gazed out that glass over the years? In the early days he had pulled the curtains shut at night to hide. He had stood on that balcony on one fateful morning and watched sunrise knowing his canine soldiers did his dirty work at New Winnabow. And he had returned from another Earth to the surprise of Evan Godfrey in that same room.

The old world might have been a dream. More than a decade past since he changed from Richard to Trevor yet—yet it felt like yesterday and like an eternity ago at the same time. A contradiction, but also a truth.

He heard the creak of a floorboard and turned his head expecting to see a courier bringing tidings from either the politicians in Montreal or the hunters on the frontier.

“Hello, Trevor.”

She stood there on the far side of the room in jeans and a casual black shirt, not the usual military uniform. Something else appeared amiss, but he could not tell exactly what.

Nonetheless, he hid his surprise and answered with his best, formal voice, “Oh, hello, it’s good to see you Captain—“

Trevor stopped as he realized what else seemed different about her. Instead of a ponytail, her hair lay to her shoulders.

He tried again, in a quieter voice.

“Hello, Nina.”

He watched her close; studied her blue eyes for signs of ice or warmth. Nina strolled slowly—drifted, nearly—around the desk and toward him with her eyes focused on the sights beyond the closed glass door.

Trevor’s skin erupted in goose bumps, a reaction to an energy that came into the room with her.

Nina stopped and eyed the sun sparkling off the lake waters.

“I remember. I remember standing here—watching the sun rise that last day. I remember being—feeling…” her lips pressed together tight to control the echo of an intense emotion. “I remember envying you because you would remember for the rest of your life and I would remember for only a few more hours. I remember the night before, we sat together and talked about a dream world all of our own with no obligations, no titles.”

Trevor stumbled for words: “How—that’s not possible…”

“You said once that memories make us who we are. Maybe the reverse is true, too. What happened last year was part of it. When I—when I helped you, images came across the bridge to me. Feelings. Emotions. The things you lost. The people.”

She turned and faced him. His lips parted, but he found no breath.

Nina said, “After that day—that last day—I woke up without a year of my life. In all the time since, I felt something missing. But I didn’t know what. I could never open up to anyone. I always pushed people away. My daughter was a help. With her I found a little part of what went missing, but I always knew there was more.”

Her brow crinkled. She squeezed her eyes shut for a second and then opened them wide again, fully focused on him.

“And there you were, my Emperor. My commander. Those times when you came to see me yourself, for a mission or whatever. I—I felt special. You respected me. I could feel the trust you had in me. When I looked at you I saw a man who had a purpose like I always had a purpose. I saw—I saw…”

“What did you see?”

“I saw a man imprisoned by that purpose,” she said in less sure words, as if worried he might take it as an insult. “I was always afraid that soldiering and killing and fighting were all there was to me. And there you were. I could see determination and strength—and loneliness.”

Her hand reached and tentatively touched his cheek as if the touch would serve to prove the image real.

Nina said softly, “I saw a reflection of me in your eyes. Then when I thought you had been assassinated—that missing part of me hurt. I felt robbed. Cheated. Something personal had been taken away.”

“You brought me back,” he pointed out. “Without you I would be dead or insane.”

“Yes,” she agreed, withdrawing her hand and speaking in a surer voice. “When all that confusion and fear came from you in to me, I realized how hard a life you led. And I realized that I could help you. Not anyone; you. When we came together I felt whole. What I’m saying is, for the first time in my life I felt like a complete person. That’s when I finally started to understand what that missing part of me was. It was you. It has always been you.”

She tilted her head and confessed, “Look, Trevor, do you understand? I fell in love with you a second time. They stole my memories. You sent me away farther and farther and I still fell in love with you all over again.”

Trevor trembled from head to toe. He swallowed hard.

Nina spoke in the mother’s voice she honed raising Denise, “I’ve waited nearly a year for you to come home and before that I spent months trying to understand what we once had and why it was taken from us. Now I know. But for you—oh, Trevor, you didn’t have the luxury of forgetting. I know how you felt about me. I can feel it,” she held a hand to her heart, “in here. I can only imagine how hard that must have been for you. All those years…”

He felt his breath grow shallow; a pain in his chest where his wounded heart raced.

“Nina, I would have done anything to keep you. If it hadn’t been for your memory loss, I think I would have abandoned the world to be with you.”

“But you couldn’t,” she knew. “Because you had a purpose, like me. You had a responsibility.”

“Responsibility?” He rolled the word around on his tongue and he felt a sting build behind his eyes. “The weight of the world—he told me the weight of the world was coming down on my shoulders. Until I lost you, I had no idea how heavy that weight could be.”

She held her hands out and offered, “You’ve carried it by yourself long enough. I helped you before. Now let me help take that weight from your shoulders.”

He gazed into her blue eyes and his legs wobbled. Trevor collapsed to his knees and buried his head into her body. She clutched him with arms so tight they would never let go. Not again.

It flowed out of him. The loss. The sorrow. The emptiness that had threatened to turn his heart black. It poured like a river from his body. The man who had been strong for humanity found the woman—the only soul—who could be strong for him.

“It has been so hard all these years—so alone…”

“Not anymore,” she growled as if warning the powers of the universe not to dare try to part them again. “I put my life on hold to be a soldier. It was all I knew. Until now.”

She slid to her knees and faced him. Trevor ran a hand through her blond hair.

Nina said, “I want the rest. I want it all.”

His answer came in a kiss. A soft press to her lips. He felt her quiver. He felt a tremor of energy himself. A brief, sweet kiss. Merely a taste of things to come.

But, as is often the case with two people who have loved each other for a long time, a strong hug felt even deeper. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled tight, feeling the rhythm of her heart and the warmth of her breath on his neck.

She slid her arms around his back and closed her eyes. She let herself be swept away in his grasp. Nina trusted Trevor with her heart; she could drop the shield and let him in with no fear of injury.

Her strength would always be there, it lived in the nature of her being. It would be there in her arms and her strong shoulders for those dark nights ahead when the memories of his personal nightmares came to haunt. As Nina had told him so many years ago, she would hide with him in the dark if needed. That, of course, is part of being in love.

Their embrace pulled back and they sat on their knees staring at one another.

“He came to see me,” Nina said and she did not need to clarify who.

“What—what did he want?”

“He told me he had something for you. Or maybe us. I’m not sure.”

They got off their knees and stood in front of the sliding glass door that led to the balcony. A shadow cast by the mountain behind the mansion grew across the grounds and reached for the water’s edge.

“He said something about a fourth gift.”

Trevor and Nina moved through the woods hand in hand. Odin—once Trevor’s pet now an old dog in Nina’s service—trotted along in front as if leading the way.

The darkness of the evening and the dampness beneath the canopy of green conspired to chill the air but the excitement of the moment kept any discomfort at bay.

A slight rise in the land gave way to a dry streambed. As Trevor expected, the Old Man sat there on a slab of red rock alongside a flickering campfire with his wise old eyes studying the flames and his mouth moving gently as if chewing a last pinch of snuff. His familiar—a brilliant white wolf—lay at his feet enjoying the warmth of the fire.

Trevor and Nina descended the bank and walked into the sphere of heat radiating from the flames. Odin sat near the wolf. The Old Man tilted his head and eyed the newcomers with what might by a grin tugging at the edges of his lips.

“Surprised there, Trevvy?” The Old Man greeted.

“No,” Trevor shook his head.

“Kinda all got started with me. Makes sense for me to be here and wrap it up, don’t you think?”

“You know,” Trevor wagged his finger at the Old Man, but not harshly. “I’ve been thinking a lot about you. About why you were so upset back when you first heard about Nina and me that first year.”

Nina stood off and watched. The Old Man had told her the answers once in the beginning when she learned that she could not be with Trevor. Those answers were lost with the rest of her memories but when the Old Man came to Annapolis last year he shared the secrets again.

Trevor pushed on, “You took it—you took it personally when you found out I loved her. You weren’t just afraid about the big picture—I think you were sad.”

“Now see that,” the Old timer chuckled nervously. “Trev here thinks he’s got it all figured out.”

“It’s never been that complicated. The war was about what happens when the mind surpasses the heart; when intelligence isn’t kept in check by compassion and love. It bred arrogance and pride; things that are easy for a devil to exploit.”

The Old Man did not appear offended. He blinked fast. Maybe to stave off something sad.

He told Trevor, “You did a fine job of that, yessir. Struck a chord with the whole bunch. Made us—made us remember what we’d forgotten. Made us remember who we really are. I ‘spose when you cut through a couple o’ million years of evolution—well, I guess we was just human after all. ‘Least in my case. But you get the point.”

“The only thing I did was bring you back together. The biggest mistake you made was cutting the mind loose from the heart. Once we patched that up…”

“Yessir, that was one hell of a left turn, wasn’t it?”

“No,” Trevor corrected and admitted as he controlled a wobble in his voice: “I felt sure it would come. I had faith in you. I just—I just had to be strong enough to let you go.”

A glint flickered in the Old Man’s eye.

“Now Trevy, what’s that you got hiding up your sleeve?”

“I’ve figured it out. I figured out exactly who you are.”

The fire crackled. Trevor took a step closer. His eyes blinked twice and he sniffled while trying to fight off tears.

“It’s good to see you again—my son.”

The Old Man stood and walked away from the fire. As he did, the façade faded away and Jorgie Benjamin Stone—the little boy born to Trevor and Ashley—walked to his dad.

Trevor knelt. JB hugged hard and Trevor hugged him back with the love of a father.

“I’m sorry,” Jorgie said. “I’m sorry for what I put you through.”

“You didn’t know,” Trevor spoke to the part of the entity that had been born his son. “You couldn’t have known while you were growing up with me. You were split in two. Two different beings made from what had once been one.”

“Father—I…”

Trevor held Jorgie by his shoulders and gazed into his eyes. As great a being as those eyes belonged to, they still were of his blood. One part comprised of the energy and intellect of a greatly evolved entity; another part the body sent to be reborn as both a marker and an observer; a collector of data.

A surrogate for a god.

In the end, it had been the body of the child—his love for his mother—his innocence—his understanding of what it meant to be human—the very chain on which Trevor had been a link—that won the day.

Trevor told his boy, “I have been proud of you since the day you were born. And I don’t blame you. No son could be blamed for loving his mother; for wanting his father and mother to be together. If I had to do it all over again, I would. For you.”

Jorgie smiled and backed away, giving Nina a glance before the child gave way to the Old Man again. But of course he was not an old man; and neither was he a child. He was something much more but in the end he had been human.

The Old Man sat on his slab of red rock and held his hands out to either side and up; waiting for them to take hold.

“Now don’t just be standing there gawking,” he berated. “You two know the drill.”

Trevor and Nina shared an unsure glance.

“Oh, now, I told you that I had a fourth gift for Trev. It’s also for you, missy. Think of it as payment on a debt I owe you.”

Trevor and Nina cautiously walked around the fire and sat next to him. Trevor took his hand, Nina grabbed the other.

“Now, Trev has been through something like this before. Funny how I always use to say that it was irrelevant. Now I’m starting to think it might just be the most precious thing in the whole universe. Guess that joke was on me, right? But, Trev, last time you went for this type of ride it wasn’t so much fun. This time, well, I think you’ll see it in a different light.”

Nina said, “What was irrelevant? I don’t understand. What is it you’re giving us?”

“The one thing I took from you,” he answered. “Time.”

Trevor and Nina took the Old Man’s hands much like they had taken his hands in that cottage in the wilderness when Nina went searching for her Emperor and found the lost hole in her heart.

“Now, listen up. Trev, you know how this trick works. What do you think, an hour or two before you got to get back to business around here? Vacations are nice and all, but…”

“An hour or two should do,” Trevor smiled at Nina seemed both puzzled and amused.

“Now close your eyes and relax. Just—relax…”

A horn honked and startled Nina’s eyes wide open. A bright sun replaced the dark forest. A blend of smells assaulted her nose; she could taste smoky exhaust fumes from traffic on a wide city street and the aroma of sizzling steak floating from a nearby stand.

Trevor squeezed her hand as he surveyed the surroundings. They stood in the shadow of tall buildings with throngs of pedestrians who wore the clothes of a busy work day walking around them in either direction. The sounds of cars driving, feet drumming, a distant siren, and a melody crooning from a nearby radio bombarded their ears.

“W-what is this?” Nina gasped as her head snapped side to side.

Trevor understood.

“You tell me. Where are we?”

Nina licked her lips, steadied herself as if on the verge of falling over from confusion, and searched the area a little more methodically. She saw landmarks immediately; landmarks she had not seen in years but they remained familiar.

“Broad Street,” she mumbled. Then louder: “We’re on Broad Street. In Philadelphia.”

Trevor smiled and repeated what she had said to him one sad night, the last night before her memories were taken. “You said this would be the best place to live. Lots to do around here, I guess.”

She did not hear him. She stared at the bronze statue of William Penn atop City Hall.

“But Trevor, that statue fell when City Hall burned back on the first day of the invasion. We never rebuilt it.”

“Nina—I think—I think this is going to take some explaining.”

She stepped closer to him and he gazed into those beautiful blue eyes.

“How did we—why is this—I’m just saying, this isn’t right.”

“It’s exactly right,” Trevor assured. “Just the two of us. No responsibilities except to each other. We can stay here for a while and catch up on lost time. Stolen time.”

“So this…” she gazed around at the traffic, the crowds, a passenger jet flying overhead far above the downtown skyscrapers. “…this isn’t real?”

Trevor pointed to the image of a blue sky and told her, “Out there an hour or two will pass. In here? Maybe a week or so. Think of it as a vacation. Besides, time is really all in our heads anyway. I went through this once before—not as pleasant, of course. Trust me—our memories will make it real.”

Something distracted Trevor. He turned around and yelled to the cheese steak vender while pointing toward the radio just inside the service window.

“Hey, buddy, you mind turning that up?”

Like everything else in the dream, the man accommodated.

The melody drifted above the commotion of gridlocked cars and shuffling people.

“I go out walkin’ after midnight, Out in the moonlight, Just like we used to do, I’m always walkin’ after midnight searchin’ for you…”

Nina recognized the voice of Patsy Cline. The music Trevor had played for her that first night at her apartment; that first night of being in love. So many more nights lay ahead.

Trevor extended a hand to her in invitation.

“May I have this dance, miss?”

She accepted.

Trevor glanced around at the crowd of phantasms. He recalled her fear that first time and warned lightheartedly, “I’m afraid a lot of people are watching.”

Nina smiled and answered, “As long as you’re watching.”

She stepped close, wrapped her arms around his waist and rested her cheek on his shoulder. It felt nice. Comfortable. Familiar.

Trevor cleared his mind of the troubles of the world that waited outside the dream, and took her in his arms. The strength he felt in holding her was no illusion.

“I go out walkin’ after midnight, out in the moonlight, just hopin’ you may be, somewhere a-walkin’ after midnight, searchin’ for me…”

The music played, the crowd walking Broad Street parted around the dancing pair, and Trevor and Nina swayed gently back and forth—together in a world of their own.

THE END

Tony DeCosmo

December 9, 2007

Table of Contents

BEYOND ARMAGEDDON

Book V: Fusion

1. Offensive

2. Something Blue

3. The Horror at Red Rock

4. Spoilsport

5. Déjà vu

6. Intelligence

7. Exposition

8. Fond Farewells

9. The Last Mission

10. Decapitation

11. Crash Dive

12. March of the Grenadiers

13. Camelot

14. Scorched Earth

15. Hammer and Anvil

16. Preemption

17. Maze

18. Lone Wolf

19. When Gods Weep

20. Rally

21. Voggoth

22. A Line in the Sand

23. Time Redux

24. The Eight

25. Armageddon

26. Storm of Eternity

27. Baptism

28. Armada

29. The Fourth Gift