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 ANY-MORE!”
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 t
o 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.”
Beyond Armageddon: Book 05 - Fusion Page 26
