Below him, a burning hulk in the desert. He knew that hulk had been a T-72M1 tank. He knew it had been a part of the Medina Republican Guard Division. He also knew it burned from the Hellfire missile he had put into its hull.
The radio crackled with the conversation of others.
"C2 this is ‘Venerable’, ah, we need some support over here."
"Ah, Roger that, two Ghostriders en route to your location now…going red in two minutes…"
Trevor’s dizziness dissolved. The desert disappeared and he saw the towns, forests, and roads of northeast Pennsylvania again.
Nina’s voice spoke from his radio headset, "Are you going to tell me where you learned to fly helicopters?"
He smiled to himself.
"I just picked it up."
---
The two Apaches swooped in low over the lake and banked hard as they arrowed for the estate. The mechanical whirl of the turbojets and the heavy pounding of the rotors echoed across the water basin.
"Well this changes things," Trevor radioed Nina.
He could still feel her eyes—sharper than the laser targeting mechanism—on his chopper.
She grumbled, "The convoy should be back here in twenty minutes or so."
Trevor beamed. What a glorious day for humanity’s comeback!
"I’ll land on the helipad next to the mansion; you go to the fields to the west. Wait until every…one…sees…"
Trevor’s voice drifted and he shivered in his flight suit.
Bodies lay strewn in front of the mansion porch and around the driveway.
"Oh shit."
"What?" But Nina saw.
He commanded, "Put down at the crossroads by the church, I’m landing on the pad. Rally at the main entrance."
"Roger that."
The choppers split.
Stone landed his ride with a quick, heavy thud. He opened the canopy and retrieved his M4 then jogged along the driveway with his head on a swivel. He desperately wanted to start searching but first he had to meet Nina.
On the way to the main gate, he spied a dead German Shepherd and two killed Rottweilers. Primitive arrows had pierced one of the dead dogs. The other two showed massive stabbing traumas from knives or spears.
The K9s were not the only dead things on the lawn.
Trevor found the corpses of humanoid hostiles with bodies similar to man. They wore clothing made of animal hides and woven plants. The tribesmen had pale skin, elongated fingers and not one trace of body hair. Near the dead aliens lay bows and arrows, knives made of wood, and heavy clubs.
Trevor did not stop until he reached the main gate. Nina, her Apache parked near the church, joined him.
Facing the unknown together forced the two to act in unison, with no wasted words and no stray thoughts. Trevor ordered that they secure the ‘barn’ behind the mansion first. She followed his orders without question.
There, at the nest egg of the K9s, they found two dead Dobermans but twice that number in chewed attackers. The K9s had held the barn, keeping safe the pups and mothers-to-be.
Stone dispatched two Greyhounds to the farms with hand-written warnings tucked in their collars. The warnings commanded: ESTATE ATTACKED. HUNKER DOWN UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.
Trevor and Nina next entered the mansion through the back door. In the main hallway, they found the remains of battle. Bullets had ripped away plaster chunks from walls. Blood from one K9 and three dead tribesmen mixed in pools on the floor. The space there felt warm and musty and a fine dust floated about.
Lori Brewer sat on the floor propped against a wall loosely holding a .357 magnum revolver. The Doberman named Ajax hovered next to Lori, panting.
Stone knelt next to her. She struggled with her breath to make words: "Oh…shit…they just kept coming…I could hear them outside."
Trevor gave her a quick examination while Nina stood guard. He saw no wounds other than the exhaustion and fear that had caused her collapse.
"I heard shots. I couldn’t get out there 'cause the god damn dogs wouldn’t let me go."
Trevor smiled, a little, and placed a hand on her shoulder.
"They were doing their job."
Trevor turned his attention to Ajax. That dog had no information other than that the house remained secure.
"Stay here. You’ll be safe here. I’ll be back. Jon will be back soon, too."
Lori nodded. Nina and Trevor went outside, leaving Ajax to keep the mansion safe.
The two checked the apartments above the garage and found Evan Godfrey hiding in his closet. After telling Godfrey to stay put, Trevor led Nina off the estate grounds with the aim of searching the church. Their plans changed when they heard a groan from the dock. There they found two people.
Trevor recognized the first person as hailing from Stonewall’s mortar teams: a chubby fellow with a "Maryland Terrapins" sweatshirt. Blood from a massive gash on the fellow’s neck drenched that sweatshirt. His dead hand held an empty AR-15 rifle. Shell casings from the weapon surrounded the nearby corpses of two primitive attackers.
However, the groan had come from the second person: Sal Corso. He lived, for the moment, despite four arrows driven deep into his body.
Nina helped Sal into a sitting position against the boathouse. His lungs drew his last breaths but Corso’s hand still gripped an empty pistol in the vain hope of continuing the fight.
"What happened?" Nina asked sternly.
Sal coughed blood. "They came out of the—aarrgg—woods…a couple dozen of ‘em."
He started to fade, then snapped, "Not long after you left… musta been watching…bastardi…"
Nina interrogated in an unyielding voice: "What’s the status here? Casualties?"
Sal spoke before her questions finished. He might not have heard her at all.
"They…they left…oh Christ, this hurts …I think there’s still a bunch of our people hold up in the church…awwwggg…I dunno ‘bout mansion…they were all over us…"
Suddenly his eyes widened as much as a dying man’s eyes can widen.
"Sheila…they took Sheila."
13. Fury
Sixty minutes later, Trevor convened a meeting in the Command Center on the second floor of the mansion. Nearly everyone who lived within walking distance, including those who had been a part of the airport convoy, crowded into the room. Stonewall entered last.
"We think they're gone," Trevor said but he could not be sure; with the bulk of his Grenadiers still on their mission to the north, he could not dispatch scouts. "Before Sal died he told us they'd been gone for about an hour but—"
"Frank Dorrance."
Stonewall’s voice derailed Trevor's thought.
"What’s that?"
"His name," Stonewall explained. "Most of you were already well acquainted with Mr. Corso. Frank had not yet had the pleasure to become better known in our community."
"I see," Trevor said, but he did not.
"Frank lost two children back in June. I met him outside of Martinsburg, West Virginia."
"West Virginia?" Trevor repeated. "I thought he was from Maryland."
"Because he wore a Maryland University football shirt. I had the opportunity to learn about the man beyond his favorite sports teams. He was over weight despite two months of near starvation, yet no one worked harder. I saw fit to assign him to a mortar team."
Woody Ross recalled, "He did a man’s job at the battle of Harper Tavern."
"I see," Trevor said again.
"I thought you should know the names of those who died under your command."
Nina changed the conversation: "Let's get the choppers in the air."
Stonewall had more to say on a different subject. "She’s probably still alive."
"What?" Lori Brewer gasped from across the room.
Woody "Bear" Ross’ said in his deep voice, "The raiders were from the ‘Tribe of the Red Hand.’ ‘Least that’s what we call em’. They take human slaves."
Stonewall drawled, "We drew enga
gements against many of their number during our march. They are what your database would call a ‘primitive and organized’ force. Yes, I believe that would be the description."
Ross said, "Each will have at least one hand stained red with blood. This is some kind of rank. They look like us ‘cept they have no hair and their eyes are all the same color. "
"Almost ivory in shade," McAllister said. "I’m sure a physical examination will produce more points of differentiation. I believe the most important information is that they appear to abhor all machinations of our modern, technological society. They fight with primitive weapons and make their encampments in the wild. From what we saw on our journey north, they divide their tribes into a series of smaller camps, spread out but close enough for cooperation on the hunt. You’ll find them in clusters."
Trevor mulled, "The Tribe of the Red Hand…"
"There's a good chance Sheila is still alive?" Lori’s loud voice drew attention.
"Yes," Stonewall agreed. "Although uncooperative or useless prisoners are discarded."
Useless.
"Nina, get airborne. Make sure these things have left our neighborhood. Don’t go out too far and I don’t want to waste fuel. You got an hour of air time, no more."
Nina nodded. Trevor barked more orders.
"Jon, organize our people and place sentries. Until the rest of the Grenadiers get back, we need to be vigilante. I want a couple of people with heavy weapons at each of the farms for now, too. The rest of you…well, we have to clean up bodies."
The group dispersed. Lori Brewer grabbed Trevor’s arm.
"They said she’s probably alive. We should go after her."
"We don’t have the manpower. I bit off too much today and this is what happened."
Her face contorted as if she eyed a monster. "You can’t risk anyone for Sheila. Is that it? What if it were me out there? Or Shep? Or Nina? I guess you’re going to decide who’s worth saving and who’s not."
"Lori, this isn’t about one person. Me, you, or anyone else."
"You damn well better make it about one person; one person at a time. You want to save humanity? Then start showing some humanity yourself."
---
While Nina had been flying a fruitless patrol, Trevor helped pile bodies of enemy attackers on to a pick up truck that drove them to a field where the carcasses were burned. In contrast, they would inter Sal Corso and Frank Dorrance in a cemetery not far from the estate.
As for the K9s, Trevor had started a burial ground in the forest for man’s guardians.
In the midst of clean-up duty, the Grenadier war party returned from their mission, during which they slew two large frogs that posed little threat. Their big mission had been a waste.
Conversely, Omar’s team reported initial success in rigging a solar power grid at the new farm. Still, it would take several more days to complete.
Suddenly it hit Trevor that Sal and the Maryland Terrapins guy were the first people to die under his command. That thought stopped his walk right outside of Sheila Evans’ room. He realized he had nearly forgotten about her. He opened the door and stepped inside what had been her private little world.
A mess greeted him: candy bar wrappers, cups, and well-paged glamour magazines on the nightstand, a heap of clothes in front of a full-length mirror.
Sheila had been doing something in here; living some sort of life.
He sat on the bed and found a notebook poking out from beneath a pillow. Sheila had not recorded any dates in the book, but it apparently served as a diary. Trevor read from the pages.
I have not done one of these since eighth grade. Funny how I thought crushes and junior high dances were so important back then. Now I cannot remember what a normal life was.
I try to dream about it when I am awake. I daydream about eating at Milano’s. Sometimes I put on a nice dress and pretend I am going out for a night on the town.
I stole a bottle of wine from the pantry. If Trevor finds out, he will probably kick me out. Sometimes I sit here and sip the wine and I can almost hear the voice on the other side of the table or the questions from the maitre de.
Trevor turned the page.
More people keep coming. I do not think there is room for every one. What happens if the food runs out? They will probably want to get rid of me so there is more for the rest of them.
They act tough with their guns and talking like soldiers. I think they are really scared. I think they are just hiding. But I know that Trevor is not afraid. He does not have any thing to be afraid of. He is the biggest monster of them all. He hates me.
Again, another turn of the page.
I just want to stop being scared. I just want to stop crying every night. Is that too much to ask? No one else cries. Maybe I was not supposed to live through this. Maybe I should just die.
A break in the writing. The ink changed from black to blue giving the impression a significant amount of time elapsed between entries.
I thought I would have bad dreams all the time. But I keep dreaming about when I was a little girl. When my father would tuck me to bed and pull the covers up to my chin and kiss me on the forehead. I would feel safe. And I knew I belonged there.
I love you daddy. I miss you.
I hate that I do not belong here. I hate being afraid of the monsters and of Trevor and what he might do. He might kick me out.
I just want to be happy. Just for one day. I want my daddy to come and tuck me in and give me a kiss and tell me everything is going to be all right. To tell me that he loves me.
Trevor could not read any more. His rear end slid off the mattress and he fell to the floor.
Oh God, what have I become?
---
Trevor stormed through the woods retracing his steps as best he remembered. He found the faded game trail, not nearly as clear a path as that day in late June.
"Come out! I know you can hear me! I don’t care about the rules!"
"Ah, what’s wrong now? Took a little bloody nose and you be lookin’ to turn and run."
Trevor swiveled around and saw the Old Man, the campfire, and the white wolf.
"Screw you!"
"I am pretty darned sure I told ya’ not to come lookin’ for me like I’m your high school guidance counselor."
"What have you done to me? I'm turning into a monster!"
The flames intensified. The Old Man’s eyes widened.
"Monster? I expect you’re right on that, Trevor. Seein’ the ways in which you go blastin’ the baddies. I suppose them things out there, they thinking you a monster. Now ain't that a hoot? Any-who, Trev, you go thinking that all this was my doing, if that’ll help you sleep the night. But the truth, Trevvy, is that I did nothin’ to you. All this has been down there the whole time, waiting to be let out. Buck up, Trev, you’re a natural born leader, makin’ the hard decisions and whatnot, knowin’ when to sacrifice some to save others. I am mighty pleased."
Is that who I am? Am I glad that Sheila is gone because I thought her useless?
"No! I’m going to make it right. I’m going to get Sheila back. Even if I have to kill every goddamn thing in my way! Even if I have to…"
…show compassion…make her belong…
"Wow," the Old Man grinned. "You are hoppin’ mad. A regular fury. You stay angry. Wake up every morn asking you-self, what can I kill today? But Trev, you gotta change the way you doing business. Now that you went and got all these fine folks around you, don’t go rushing in when you got plenty of folks who can die first. I think it's about time you started—what’s that fancy word?—oh yeah, 'delegating' your authority. You still gotta survive."
Trevor cursed him. Trevor cursed himself, too.
---
A Humvee and a Suburban raced along a country road avoiding a fallen tree, a flipped garbage truck, and scaring away a six-legged fury red thing resembling a dog-sized anteater.
"Faster, faster," Trevor insisted from the passenger seat in the Suburban.
&
nbsp; As had been the case all morning, Trevor's eyes burned red and he growled words. His hands fidgeted constantly and he spoke in sharp, machine-gun-like bursts.
Now he focused his boiling emotions to action. Thirty minutes ago Nina, during airborne patrol, spotted a group of people on Route 11 about twelve miles from the lake and half that distance north of Wilkes-Barre. He knew the odds that the group might be Red Hands with Sheila were remote, but he could not pass any chance to avenge yesterday's raid on the estate.
According to Nina's last sighting, the group approached a small town along the western bank of the Susquehanna.
Trevor’s team included himself, Jon Brewer, and six K9s in the Suburban. Stonewall McAllister, "Bear" Ross, and Dustin McBride (the 'Second Brigade' leader) rode in the Humvee.
The cars turned onto Route 92 and headed east under a sullen dull blanket of cloud cover threatening rain. They passed isolated homes and trailers. Shadows moved on the edge of the forest and around those dwellings but time did not allow for investigation.
Ahead of them lay the small town of West Pittston, founded in the mid-1800s as a result of the anthracite boom. The 1959 Knox Mine disaster flooded shafts, entombed workers, and left the town with no more mines but a host of mom and pop shops, a strip mall, a convenience mart, and two bridges crossing the Susquehanna into the mirror town of just plain old ‘Pittston.’
Massive Oaks lined the riverbanks while home styles ranging from colonial to modern, from rich to poor, lined the streets. Armageddon made them all the same: empty.
They came to an intersection where Rt. 92 met Rt. 11. The latter approached from the south, merged with 92, and then went east across the river via a concrete bridge. Homes, a small shop, and big trees surrounded the junction while a tangle of destroyed cars cluttered the roads.
A group of ten human beings stood together near the bridge. One of them held the attention of the rest. He wore black clothes and carried something in his hand.
The Suburban halted at the edge of the intersection behind the remains of a chain-reaction crash leftover from last summer.
Trevor eyed the group as he exited the SUV. His first impression suggested a holy man gathering his flock, although that flock seemed lethargic, as if they might be sleepwalkers.
Beyond Armageddon: Book 01 - Disintegration Page 18
