“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 re-groupin’. 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 thi
ngs—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.
Beyond Armageddon V: Fusion Page 36
