The Gathering Storm

by Marshall Miller

  “Reloading!” He yelled, swapping for a new mag. Another Eater was almost on top of him.

  Several shotgun blasts from a drum fed Saiga semi-auto twelve gauge, courtesy of the Russians, tore the guts from the Eater. It collapsed sideways, and Torbin jumped back, managing to dodge the corrosive stomach acids which were splashed from the ripped intestines.

  “Thanks, Sergeant Washington.”

  “I aim to please, Captain.” Sergeant Washington quipped.

  Torbin heard some screams that told him they were taking casualties. He kept firing.

  He cut the legs out from under another Eater, which then tried to use its arms to crawl toward him. Torbin fired a single round through each eye, and it finally stopped. The mad minute was over. It was quiet, except for the sound of moaning and cries of pain from the troops.

  “Gunny. Status report!” Torbin commanded.

  Gunnery Sergeant Greg Smith, late of the U.S. Marine Corps, began a head count. Right then Corporal Black, manning a Ma Deuce on the front Humvee, called out. “Contact, twelve o’clock, one hundred meters.”

  “What’ve we got?” Torbin asked.

  “Two Eaters just entered the street, and looks like they’re facing this way. Wait, now one is taking off. The other is headed straight toward us.”

  “Take it out, Corporal.”

  “Yes, Sir!” A couple moments later, a single round of 50 caliber between the eyes flattened the Eater.

  “Well done, Corporal Black.”

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  “Gunny. Got the numbers?”

  “Yes, Captain. Ten casualties. Seven minor, one serious... two dead, Sir. Sorry.”

  ‘Fuck’, Torbin thought. He had lost men before, but this had been entirely unexpected. He had lost men to wild alien animals.

  “All right troops. Listen up! I screwed up, and underestimated the enemy. That ends now. Everything gets checked out by the numbers. Stay frosty. Understand?”

  “Oorah!” came the response. Lessons learned from these deaths would ensure they did not happen again. Just then, Torbin could have sworn he heard a cry for help.

  “Captain. Up there. The steeple of that church, where the bell is.”

  Torbin looked up, and then grabbed his binocs. “Well, I’ll be damned. Survivors.” He spotted a single adult female, and what appeared to be three children. “Corporal Tatupu, take a squad and rescue those civilians.”

  “Yes Sir.” Corporal Tapua Tatupu was a huge American Samoan, noted for his unnatural strength. He took a look at his rifle, which looked small in his hands. He laid it in the back of a Humvee, and grabbed the M60E1 they had brought along as spare firepower. He threw a couple of ammunition belts across his chest, Pancho Villa style, then called out, “Squad One. On me. assault formation. Let’s go!”

  The Corporal and ten troops quickly made their way to the double doors at the entrance of the church. A large building, the Church was also fairly old, apparently having been part of the original town. The troops lined up, breached the doors, and went in by the numbers, the Corporal in front. The M60 boomed. Then silence.

  “One Eater down. You and you. Get up those stairs and get the civilians,” the Corporal ordered.

  “Yes, Corporal.”

  In five minutes, the woman and three children were down in front of the Church, the EMT checking them for injury. The soldiers also brought out a very injured male, his right arm severely burned from what looked like Eater stomach juices.

  “Sir, the lady said the man here was jumped by an Eater that tried to eat his arm. He managed to blow its brains out, but received some stomach acid for his efforts,” Corporal Tatupu reported.

  “I think this is a good time for a chopper dust off,” Torbin replied. “Private Hagel. I need the tactical radio.”

  “Here Sir.” Torbin took the handset of the backpack radio, a modification that tried to bounce waves off of both cell towers, as well as off of the ionosphere. He soon had Malmstrom Security Control on the line.

  “Yes, that’s affirmative. Need chopper support for four civilian survivors, one serious injury civilian, one serious military, and one moderate military. Yes, ASAP. Roger. Over and out.”

  He cautiously approached the civilian woman, a thirty-something year old frontier type that was still attractive even in her disheveled state. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she was helping the three children, ages six to twelve, drink from water canteens. “Excuse me, ma’am.”

  She smiled in reply. “No need to stand on ceremony, Captain. You saved us. Just tell me what I need to do.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “I’m Heather O’Hara, teacher and librarian of this town.”

  Torbin saw she had the frontier toughness of two centuries ago, when the American People were expanding Westward. She also had a lever action rifle in her left hand.

  “Well, Ms. O’Hara, two helicopters should be here in about an hour to airlift you, the children and the gentleman to Malmstrom Operations Base. There you’ll receive food, quarters, and medical aid. Right now, this town is not secure. Can you tell me what happened?”

  Heather paused. “Yes, I can. Hell visited us here. Pure and simple.”

  It seemed that about two weeks ago a large herd of feral pigs, well known by the townspeople who hunted them for fresh meat and sport, had suddenly disappeared. An unofficial dump about two miles out from the town had been used as an additional food source for the pigs in order to fatten them up. Then, no pigs. A hunting party went out and saw the first Eater, which they promptly shot. It was decided that the Eater and maybe a sibling or two had scared off the pigs, who would come back once the Eaters were gone. So, the townsmen started sending out hunting parties to rid the area of Eaters. Being an independent and self-sufficient lot, they informed no one. Near a farmers feed lot where a calf had turned up missing, two hunters were jumped by an Eater and injured before they killed it. One of the men was bitten and burnt by regurgitated digestive juices of the creature, an unpleasant characteristic of contacts with Eaters.

  The badly injured man was recuperating in his home near the edge of town three days later when Eaters broke in and dragged him away, long with his wife, his dog, and his cat. People responded to their screams but it was too late. Tracks indicated at least four Eaters, in spire of prior stories indicating that Eaters sometimes attacked in pairs, but nothing more numerous. A good old fashioned posse was formed–two dozen armed menfolk–some with military combat experience. A couple of good old bloodhounds were used to help track, as it had been established that dogs hated Eaters, and would attack them on sight. A few hours later, about a dozen shots were heard. Then, nothing. No one returned. No one answered the radio calls.

  They had a Town Hall Meeting. It was decided to start moving everyone to the Town Hall and the Church on the main thoroughfare. As this was taking place, some two dozen Eaters attacked. Once again, no one expected such pack behavior. The creatures immediately ravaged anyone they could latch onto. Crossfire also hit a few town residents, adding to the confusion.

  Heather grabbed three children she knew, having lost her own family in the first days of the invasion and harvesting. She took them to the church, where the Assistant Pastor Randolph, the injured civilian, was trying to fit as many people inside as possible. Another half dozen Eaters then struck from the other end of the main street, scrambling directly for the moving figures in and around the church. The barrelled in through a back door of the church. Randolph shot a couple before he had his arm almost taken off. Everyone scattered. Heather grabbed the kids and headed up the steeple to the church bell tower. Somehow, the Pastor followed before he collapsed at the bottom of the steeple stairs and ladder. Heather climbed back down and managed to get the access door locked and barricaded with a bunch of boxes of bibles. She had her own rifle, a Marlin 30-30, that she fired through the door when one Eater began tearing through to get to the Pastor.

  She heard shots and screams echoing from a
ll over town. After binding Randolph’s wounds as best she could, she joined the children at the top of the steeple. From there she watched the surreal tableau below. Eaters were being shot and killed, but were quickly replaced with others. Panic set in, and people began fleeing from the center of town. A fire somehow started in the basement of the Town Hall, adding to the fear and confusion. Heather watched as people tried to get into vehicles and flee, only to have some of the vehicles mobbed by Eaters. Eventually, a window would be smashed in and the occupants mauled.

  Within about a half hour there were no living humans within sight of the church. When silence had settled in, Heather made quick trip to the church kitchen and grabbed as much water and canned goods as she could, as well as a couple of fresh loaves of bread. She returned to the Steeple and secured the door once more.

  While Heather recounted her story, she also shared that she believed the Eaters were attracted to people whom they had wounded due to the digestive juice/saliva smell they left on the wounded, in addition to the smell of fresh blood. Torbin believed that jived with reports he had gleaned. It was much like Komodo dragons in the Southwest Pacific.

  Someone must have made the telephone call from the town hall to Malmstrom just before the fire started, as it had been about an hour later when Torbin was contacted and told to respond. It took Torbin and his unit just under twenty-four hours to finish the patrols they were on in Western Montana and haul ass to Evanston. And now, they were here, with dozens of dead alien bodies that needed tending to.

  “Well, Heather, we’ll bring you to Malmstrom with the children and the Pastor. When this area is secure, we’ll bring you back.”

  Heather looked at him. “Thank you, Captain, but I think it will be a while before I’ll want to come back. Think they can find me something to do near the base?”

  “I’m certain of it. If nothing else, you have a lot of hands-on experience in survival.”

  Just then, he heard a single shot that sounded like it came from a large caliber firearm.

  “Anybody see where that came from?” He bellowed.

  “Out to the south of town, Captain,” someone yelled back.

  “Gunny. Take a squad out and sweep the area south of here.”

  “Aye aye, Sir.” The Gunnery Sergeant began yelling for Squad Two to fall in behind him. Within a couple of minutes, the troops were moving out in loose column formation.

  “Ma’am, please stay behind cover with the kids until we figure this out.”

  Corporal Black manning the Ma Deuce on the forward Humvee called out, “People approaching from twelve o’clock Sir.”

  Torbin jogged up to the Humvee and looked through his binoculars. He saw three smallish adult-sized figures in some kind of camouflaged uniform approaching in a loose diamond formation. They all had long arms slung, but were pushing two ragged looking figures before them. The front figure held its hands out, palms up, to show that they were empty. Torbin unslung his rifle and placed it on the hood of the Humvee. “Got me covered, Corporal?”

  “Of course, Sir. This is close range for my Deuce.”

  “Don’t fire unless I go down. Clear?”

  “Crystal, Sir.”

  Torbin walked out to meet the three humans. About thirty yards away, Torbin noticed two of the figures had feminine curves that the camo pants could not conceal.

  “Captain Torbin Bender of the Unoccupied States at your service. To whom am I speaking?”

  “Avenging Angel Abigail Young, Nauvoo Legion, State of Deseret, formerly Utah.” It was a young feminine voice, but one which spoke with authority. Sixteen, seventeen years of age? The figure to her right was definitely a female also. The one figure to the left rear looked like a young male.

  “So, how do I address you, Ma’am?”

  She was close enough to speak in a normal voice. She took off her Fritz helmet that was adorned with a large set of painted on wings. She had naturally blonde hair, braided up into a bun, and flashed a genuine smile. “You can call me Abigail, Sir, being my senior.”

  The Captain chuckled. “Hey, I’m not that old. Call me Torbin. I take it you are in command of this small Unit.

  “Yes sir. Torbin. I am an Avenger First Class. To my right is Ruth Young, Second Class. The young man is Mathew Young, Third Class.”

  “You all related?”

  She shook her head. “No. We Avenging Angels all take the Prophet Brigham Young’s name to show we operate in his name and spirit.”

  “Is this it? Kind of sparse in the numbers department to be leaving your borders. And I see you have a couple of prisoners.”

  Abigail frowned. “We started with six. Two are dead, passed on to glory. One is wounded in a cave a few miles away. That is why I am approaching you. Can you provide us with some medical help? He is bitten and burned. Plus, we have these two… scum.” The one called Mathew had forced the two handcuffed miscreants to kneel during the conversation.

  Torbin regarded the young woman. Five foot seven or so, a hundred thirty pounds on a good day. Yet, she had the air of an efficient soldier and killer. “Would you consider air evac? I have two choppers in route.”

  She glanced back at her fellow Avengers. They each gave a slight nod. “I believe, given the circumstances, that would be a good idea. You are non-believers, but not heathens as the Ferals are. Or evil ones like these Krakens.” Abigail spat the name out as she spoke it.

  “No, Ma’am. I may be a bit rowdy at times, but I definitely not like a Feral.” Ferals to the Tschaaa meant all humans not under their control. Ferals to everyone else meant humans that had basically reverted back to a primitive concept of behavior; anyone not part of the Group was potential Prey, in every sense of the word.

  Abigail pointed due South. “We came straight north the last few miles, crossing the border over a day ago, while tracking Demons that had killed some of our people.”

  “Demons? You mean Eaters?”

  “Yes, I guess that is what you call them on your broadcasts. They are Demons to us, brought here by the Antichrist and the Evil One.”

  It took a moment for Torbin to translate. “Director Lloyd and the Tschaaa Lord.”

  Abigail spat in a very unladylike fashion. “Yes. His name is a curse. The Evil One the curser.”

  “Cthulhu, the ancient Evil One,” Mathew suddenly spurt out.

  “Stop that!” Abigail yelled at him. “This is not one of the fantasy books you read.”

  “H.P. Lovecraft,” Torbin commented.

  Mathew’s eyes widened. “You have read his stories?”

  “Yes, young man, at about your age. I looked them up recently. It’s funny, isn’t it, how they match much of what is happening today. An evil in the form of a Kraken like species. Go figure.”

  Abigail glanced back at him. “Whatever his name, you agree as to his evil nature. Our mission is to destroy his minions, send them back to hell.”

  ‘This is sick,’ Torbin thought. ‘A young girl coming into womanhood in a world where she is killing monsters instead of going to Senior Prom.’ He was going to mutilate the Tschaaa Lords the first chance he got.

  “If you three will walk back with me, I will introduce you to the men and make arrangements to retrieve your fellow soldier.” As they approached his troops, Torbin noted that the three teenagers were on relaxed alert status, walking loose but not missing anything. Some of his men took a break from dragging Eater bodies into a large pile for burning and walked over to get a look at the three newcomers. The female form even in a uniform attracts males like honey attracts flies. Soon, several soldiers were buzzing around Abigail and Ruth.

  “At ease, troops. These soldiers are from the former State of Utah. They are military members so treat them with the commensurate respect.” There was a little bit of grousing, but everyone kept a respectful distance.

  Torbin marched over to the lead Humvee. “Ready for a little trip, Corporal Black?”

  The young dark-haired soldier gave a slight smile. “Of course, S
ir.”

  Torbin returned to Abigail and the others. “You can jump in the Humvee there with me. I’ll drive, the Private will man the 50. We should be able to get close to the cave and recover your teammate. Sound good?”

  “Yes, Captain Bender. Thank you.”

  “Gunny, get the people ready for the medivac. We’ll take the prisoners with us in the Humvees, unless Abigail disagrees. I’m going to take a little trip.”

  Large, broad-shouldered and deep-chested Gunny Smith commented, “Sir, if something happens to you, the General will have my balls.”

  “True, Gunny. But I’ll not put anyone into a risky situation that I am not willing to face. I underestimated the Eaters here. I owe the men not to do it again until I figure out what is going on.” He handed the NCO his assault rifle. “Hang onto this. I’ll take the 1897 pump twelve gauge we found. I don’t want to give someone a full auto weapon. I’ll also have my pistol.”

  “You’re the boss, Sir. Just make it back in one piece.”

  “Don’t worry, Gunny, I’ll be careful.”

  He turned and directed the three Avenging Angels. “Mount up. Let’s do this quick.”

  The three had apparently previous ridden in a Humvee before. They quickly found seats and belts. Torbin started the engine, pulled out the line of vehicles, and then made a ninety degree turn to due south. “Just indicate where we need to go, Abigail. You’re the navigator.”

  “Yes, Sir,” came the reply. Abigail was soon giving clear and concise directions. Torbin had noticed that she carried a Remington Pump .308 rifle with an extended ten round magazine. Ruth had an M-16 clone, and Mathew had a bolt action scoped .308 Remington. The two ladies also carried sawed off double barreled shotguns, shoved in the pack on their backs. Mathew had a Hipoint 9mm carbine slung in his.