An endless supply of rockets, machine gun fire, tank shells, and missiles crashed down upon his men in a torrential rain, turning the expansive dirt ground into a frothing sea caught in a storm.
“My God,” the Priest whispered.
Chapter 63
War
A soldier named Peter Hasting doubled over in the trenches, heaving and gagging with nothing left in his stomach to vomit up. His sweat-soaked jacket lay flopped on the ground like something dead, the old red handprint smeared with mud.
“Oh, Christ almighty,” he mumbled. “Oh, Lord in heaven, what the hell is the matter with me?”
What’s the matter with everyone?
Half of the line was experiencing stomach ailments and feverish conditions to varying degrees. His commanding officer had called for a medic over an hour ago, but no medic had arrived. It was the same all over Alice; some men were completely immobilized and others were experiencing respiratory ailments with rasping breathing, their lips blistering and swollen.
Food poisoning was suspected and the chefs were all woken and rounded up, but many of them were sick too.
Peter picked his head up out of his lap. He thought he heard a noise, something faint. Wind perhaps, maybe a swarm of insects. Sweat stung at his eyes.
That ain’t no wind.
He stood. A spectacular array of twinkling stars, so bright that they burned his retinas, pixelated before him in a full spectrum of prism-like colors. He gazed at the dark sky, searching for the invisible sound as it grew louder. A strange feeling pitted deep in his chest. His thoughts were becoming abnormal and unstable. His vision was hallucinatory and his body felt as if it were spinning around in a circle, spinning and spinning …
“Ohhhh, sweet Jesus, no … oh, Lord in heaven, what have you done to me? I’m gonna be sick.”
The sound in the sky grew louder, almost deafening, piercing and vibrating his eardrums to the point of pain. Now it was right overhead. The sound beat down upon his frazzled mind, making him cower and shake in paranoia, imagining an army of demons in the night ready to pounce.
In the center of Alice, far from the line, the foghorns blared.
War, he realized. War is coming … War is here.
A terrible crash pierced the night. A fireball licked up to the heavens, filling the horizon with a blaze of orange and red. The spectacle of the event made Peter’s lips quiver as a tear streamed down his cheek.
The blast was followed by another blast, and then another. At first, the explosions were distant, somewhere in the town, but soon places along the line close to his position erupted into flame. The vivid intensity of bright fire imprinted afterimages on his retinas. Machine gun fire and tracer rounds were illuminated in the air, but whatever they were shooting at, Peter could not see, and his perception of the unfolding events could not be trusted.
His body shook to the core, and his carbine felt slippery in his hands.
“What demon are you?” he yelled to the heavens, his rattled mind frantic with delusion and despair. Down the line, other soldiers were shouting and panicking in the same fashion, the explosions devastating their poisoned minds and bodies into alarm as the toxic and psychoactive ingredients swirled throughout their bloodstreams. Some ran over the trench line in either direction, crying, trembling, screaming.
“Karl! Where’s Karl?”
The sober-minded individuals, the unaffected or those who had not eaten the poisoned stew, grabbed at the fleeing men, attempting to beat reason into them with fists and boots.
Something cracked far off in the woods, across the rolling, shadowy field separating the trench line from the forest and wilderness beyond. The noise steered Peter’s attention away from the fires burning all around. The crackling grew louder. The tops of the trees in the forest swayed and shook, and some toppled over.
Peter’s eyes grew large.
What demon …?
The roar of engines preceded the line of tanks that stormed out into the open field, their massive treads, like metal teeth, toppling the thin trees and cutting away at the earth. Gunfire and tank shells struck the line, falling like raindrops from a hellish sky.
“Christ in heaven!” Peter ducked down.
Bullet fire erupted from everywhere, mixing with the slurred shouting of men. Off to Peter’s side, a guard tower exploded in a terrible combustion, sending splintering fragments of burning wood to rain down on the scrambling soldiers.
There was a man standing in front of Peter, speaking, but Peter could not hear the words coming from his mouth. Hands grabbed his collar, and his body was shaken, slammed hard against the trench wall.
“Get up! Get the fuck up! Fire your weapon!” The mouth belonged to a sergeant, and for a moment, Peter felt fine—his mind sharp, his body calm.
He stood, turned with his rifle, and looked out over the trench wall. And what he saw caused his poisoned fears to return like a tsunami. Both sides were launching star shells—flares that slowly descended to the earth on little parachutes like glowing stars, illuminating the approaching army and the trenches with bright burning light. A sea of soldiers and armored vehicles were advancing toward him—fast.
In the distance, behind the approaching wall of men, a steady wave of smoke trails shot into the sky from the mobile rocket launchers in the rear.
The trench line exploded to shreds, the cement and wooden walls splintering. Peter was blown off his feet in a wave of rubble.
“Where is our artillery? Where are our mortars?” shouted the sergeant beside him, gripping a wound on his arm.
Peter tried to speak, but dirt in his mouth caused him to sputter and cough.
The mortar battalions were the first to get rocketed by the helicopters, along with the infirmary, which was overflowing with men. In minutes, a small number of rockets had wiped them all out. The helicopters were now strafing the front line, the heavy machine gun fire and missiles raining down hellfire upon the scrambling soldiers.
General Driscoll’s soldiers crossed the field, and Peter wet his pants as the monstrous treads of a tank glided directly overhead, from one side of the trench to the other, dirt cascading upon his face. Men poured in the dugout on either side of him, and a fist struck him so hard that a strobe of white light consumed his vision.
Peter fell, and did not stand back up again.
***
Jeremy Winters marched behind a fast-moving tank, leading a column of men who had been ordered to follow his lead. When they exited the woods into the open field, he shouted, “Stay in formation! Stay in formation!”
His battle-hardened infantrymen looked back at him with stony eyes, listening to his words through the hail of machine gun fire plunking against the row of armored vehicles leading the advance. But bullets found their way around the tanks, and men began to fall. Explosions from short-range mortars and RPGs pockmarked the ground, sending geysers of dirt into the air and rocketing screaming soldiers to their sides.
The field before Jeremy resembled the torrent of a raging sea, the lights from the towers and trenches before him like a burning city on the horizon.
Something large struck the ground behind him, and the rumbling surged through his feet. He turned to see a rock the size of a small car bounce and tumble over the earth, just missing him and his men, and leaving a gash as it rolled. When he turned forward, another rock crashed down beside him, crushing the leg and torso of one of his men, who hollered and roared. The rock rolled further, crushing the leg of another man before coming to a standstill.
They’re using those stupid fucking catapults. Chris Lockton, you son of a bitch!
“Fan out!” Jeremy yelled. “Fan out!”
Rocks, bricks, and debris of all kind struck the earth. Rusted and twisted metal from lampposts, squared landscaping rocks, and hundreds of smaller pebbles and stones rained down from the dark sky, crushing and maiming men in a macabre scene straight from the Middle Ages.
Something stung Jeremy’s cheek, causing him to moment
arily reel. He felt at the pain on his face and then looked to the ground, where a dismembered hand had fallen. Panicked, he then saw an entire bare arm crash to the dirt, mixed in with broken glass from an exploding lamppost, followed by feet, viscera, severed heads, and bare bones.
We’re fighting the devil.
The catapults achieved their intended effect—to strike fear into the hearts of the soldiers—but Jeremy only felt angered at seeing the dismembered body parts of allies rain down upon him.
“They’re trying to scare us!” he shouted to his men. “These men, they’re only throwing stones! Pebbles! Move on, show them how real soldiers fight—show them how real men kill!”
It seemed to take a lifetime before Jeremy and his men crossed the no-man’s-land and poured into the trenches. The reserves were fast approaching from the rear in transport vehicles and school buses with armor-plated windows and machine gun nests constructed on top of the roofs, the once bright yellow exteriors painted dark green. Explosions marked the land, and many men perished, unable to escape the fiery confines of their vehicles. But soon, the advancing soldiers tore apart the defensive line of the Red Hands and all who stood in their way.
Jeremy and his detachment had been ordered to proceed east to the reservoir and filtering plant as the bulk of General Driscoll’s men followed the crescent-shaped trench line, flanking the defenses from the side rather than face them head-on. This initial charge against the Red Hands was taking place in the westernmost corner, farthest from Nick Byrnes’s mansion on Ridgeline Road.
Jeremy’s men diverted into the thicket of Alice Springs Park, and moved forward into the foreboding woods. Bullets whizzed by, smacking into the leaves and branches.
The soldiers fanned out, fighting the pockets of fleeing Red Hands who scattered behind trees and improvised defenses.
In the darkness, the terrain was difficult to navigate, and Jeremy tripped over roots and slipped on wet grass until he and his men arrived at the small stream that led to the reservoir.
The Red Hands were retreating to the fortification surrounding the water plant in haste, and the fighting became short range.
Jeremy was stuck behind a tree with bullets ripping at the bark as he watched a man from his detachment named Reynolds jump through a thicket of brush to find an old, bearded enemy soldier skirting along the bank of the stream.
The bearded man dropped his rifle.
“Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” he called out.
The old man fell to his knees, his quivering hands high in the air. Reynolds had his rifle trained on the man, his own hands trembling on the trigger, as bullets whizzed by and plucked at the water like skipping stones.
“Get down—facedown!” Jeremy heard Reynolds shout.
Before the surrendering man had time to do as commanded, a bullet struck him in his chest, toppling him over into the stream.
Reynolds’s eyes went large, and the sergeant who had shot the man ran up.
“No prisoners, Reynolds! Don’t waste your time! Keep moving!”
“He was surrendering!” Reynolds protested.
“No prison—”
A barrage of bullet fire walloped the sergeant and Reynolds at once, splintering the nearby trees and peppering the water behind them in plunks. The two men splashed in the stream, and their bodies were swept off in the current. Several Red Hands stamped out of the brush and continued toward the reservoir.
Jeremy fired at the fleeing men, but they were soon lost in the brambles. He jumped out from behind the tree, calling the soldiers behind him to advance.
“Let’s go!” he shouted. “Move! Move!”
The army crashed through the woods, coming to a steep incline over an earthen embankment. At the top of the incline, machine gun fire pelted the ground from well-fortified bunkers before the water plant.
Jeremy and his men crept to the edge, only daring to look up at intervals. The bullet fire was so intense that a few men were shot through the tops of their helmets while looking up for only fractions of a second.
“Stay down!” Jeremy commanded. “Keep your heads down!”
He turned to the men who were huddled all around him and those still running through the woods to catch up. “Davidson, get over here!”
Davidson ran to Jeremy, keeping his back against the steep incline as dirt rained down from the bullet fire only inches above him.
Jeremy took out a pocket map. “Call it in.”
He pointed to the coordinates, and Davidson spoke into his microphone. It seemed like eternity before the helicopters arrived, spraying the bunkers with large caliber ammunition, turning the cement and stone to rubble.
Jeremy and his lieutenants threw smoke grenades over the hill as the helicopters flew back to the front. The men who had night vision goggles adjusted them over their eyes.
Jeremy stood tall, looking out over the crowd of soldiers awaiting his command.
“The reservoir is ours—move out!”
Jeremy turned and ran headfirst into the blinding smoke and sporadic gunfire that cut through the fog. The army followed, roaring a thunderous cry.
***
Over this fence is where I’ll find Bethany, Simon thought in meditation. Over this fence is where I’ll find my best friend, Winston. Over this fence is pure evil—men who want to see humanity erased.
Over this fence is freedom.
Over this fence is how I find home.
I am the wind. I am the rock. I am the tree, and my roots grow deep …
Simon, Frank, Brian, and a handful of hardened soldiers waited, crouching low behind a fence and a wall of bushes separating Nick’s mansion from the neighboring yard, ready to flank the maze of trenches in Nick’s front lawn. They were alone, with the rest of Alice’s army fast approaching the front gates. The first explosion could be seen far away, rocketing a ball of fire into the air. The enemy was now on high alert, and the foghorn blared from across town.
Words came to him that were not his own. Some of us are monks and some of us are warriors. You, Simon, come off as a teacher, but I see fierceness in you that you may not yet be aware of. You must be careful, because that fierceness can tip your own scale in either direction—the way of destruction, or the way of ceasing destruction. Something bright burns inside of you, and you must take good care of that flame to see it grow into a blazing fire of your own choosing.
Simon’s mind dwelled in a deep layer of meditation as he studied the armored guard tower in the rear of the property.
I am the wind. I am the rock. I am the tree, and my roots grow deep.
I am the teacher, the student …
He repeated his mantras over and over, but the sentences were soon overtaken and replaced by simple names: Winston, Winston, Winston … Bethany, Bethany, Bethany …
Simon checked his watch. Tick, tick …
An hour earlier, a jet-black inflatable Zodiac raft had floated down the Ridgeline River, carrying a six-man Special Forces team, handpicked by General Driscoll. The men paddled against the steep, rocky shoreline, nearly as invisible as the fish swimming beneath the surface of the water.
They brought the boat ashore two properties away from Nick’s mansion, and the men dispersed to their intended location—the roof of a tall and marvelous home at the end of an expansive backyard. Once in position, the three snipers and three spotters laid out their mats, and the gunners adjusted their eyes against the scopes of their .50 caliber anti-material sniper rifles. They took aim through the night vision and thermal processing scopes and waited for the clock to count down.
When a spotter said, “Ready in ten,” they grew still, and the soldier continued counting down, “four, three, two—”
On one, they opened fire on the top tier of the tower in Nick’s backyard. The .50 caliber ammunition penetrated the fortifications as if the wood, cinderblock, and sandbags were made of butter. After the three snipers had squeezed off a complete magazine each, there was nothing left to the top portion of the tower
except splintered timber and pockets of flame. The snipers reloaded and took aim for the number of machine gun nests along the zigzag line of trenches in the front yard.
Simon witnessed the destruction of the tower and did not flinch. Never before had his mind been so clear.
This is my home … this is my home … Bethany …
His eyes flashed open.
I am the teacher. I am the warrior.
He jumped to his feet, pounced over the fence, and ran to the tree line bordering the broad side of the trenches circling Nick’s property like a maze of moats.
Simon stopped with Frank, Brian, and the soldiers at his side, and they each lit a stick of TNT—the type Simon had only ever seen in Western movies.
As they threw the dynamite over the thicket of trees, they heard the drumming blades of a helicopter swoop down, and the sound of gunfire erupted like a volcano bursting forth lava into the sky from Nick’s front lawn.
The soldiers of Alice were now knocking down the front gates of the house as the helicopter exchanged fire with the fortified emplacements and strafed pockets of men with barrages of large-caliber ammunition.
The TNT exploded, sending up a cloud of dirt taller than the trees bordering the two properties. Simon, Frank, and Brian each lit another stick and crashed forward out of the bushes.
They threw the TNT far off into the yard as they poured into the trench line.
A Dragoon who had been rocketed over by the first explosion was now getting back on his feet and unholstering his sidearm. Simon pulled the trigger of his shotgun, and the man flew backwards.
A great wave of fire and smoke erupted as the second sticks of TNT detonated, and Simon moved fast into the twisting maze of trenches.
Dazed and injured men stumbled forth, trying to find their footing, and they were mowed down before they had time to see the faces of their enemies.
The After War Page 41
