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 first-hand 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.
<
br /> 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.
Beyond Armageddon: Book 05 - Fusion Page 50
