Dante knew he and Trevor had gotten off cheap thus far. They had swiped at the fringes of the enemy army for hours and inflicted casualties on their foe without paying any price themselves, save for expended munitions and arrowhead scratches on the Humvee. He also knew the hit-and-run raids served merely as a prologue. Now the real fight would begin.
The skies above the alien force remained empty: no sign of any flying machines. The road ahead appeared clear: no hint of an ambush lurking. Nonetheless, the main mass of Red Hands crossed the bridge cautiously.
As soon as the first warriors reached the west side, Dante radioed, "Go."
Two Apaches ascended from hiding spots among the residential streets of West Pittston and raced toward the bridge with chain guns spewing deadly rain. The bullets tore into the enemy columns, splitting the lead elements from the body of the alien army. While the bulk of those trapped in the open retreated the way they had come, about one hundred Red Hands ran forward to join the scouts on the western banks. There they found an army waiting.
Trevor’s army.
Grenadiers poured from the shadows between houses and from under the shade of trees and bushes, attacking from all sides. Dante grimaced as the raging beasts smashed into the enemy with no fear and no hesitation.
Claws gored. Teeth snapped. Red Hand warriors fell under the swarm as if drowning. Blood sprayed into the air above the slaughter and alien howls of pain filled Dante's ears.
Daggers and hatchets felled K9s but not nearly enough to stem the tide. Desperate warriors tried to retreat and were blasted by choppers hovering above the open bridge.
Rifle fire joined the chorus of growls and screams and thumping helicopter blades. Dante saw Trevor, standing away from the melee along the riverbank, raise his M4 and seek targets.
Dante pointed his rifle toward the battle…and stopped. He knew he should fire, but the sight below…gruesome: less a fight and more a slaughter. Indeed, the thought of shooting his bullets at the already doomed Red Hands felt wrong; like piling on a beaten foe.
He watched a group of a six Red Hands muster together, beat back the bites of K9s, then race toward the bridge in a desperate attempt to rejoin their army on the far side. They halted in the face of the Apaches then splintered and bolted in assorted directions. Several descended the banks toward the river; others ran for side streets.
Dante watched Trevor bark orders at his army. Small groups of K9s peeled away from the main battle to pursue the fleeing aliens. A dozen Shepherds bound over the riverbank; another ten Rotties hurried off along the side streets; a trio of massive wolfhounds cornered one Red Hand on the steps of a church and tore away the extraterrestrial's limbs.
Dante realized Trevor would allow no survivors. He planned complete extermination.
The scene below him changed from a mass battle to isolated fights to an eerie stillness around a pile of alien and canine bodies. The barking and beating faded, replaced by dying moans drifting on the breeze.
Dante sat in the window staring at the horror below. He had never seen such a bloodbath. His mouth hung open and his heart raced.
Not Trevor, though. His old friend walked calmly amidst the slaughtered with his rifle ready to snuff any lingering life.
A radio transmission from Nina shook Dante from his trance.
"Hey, we’re bingo on fuel, gotta bug out."
Both of the helicopters hurried off on their way to the refueling station established miles south at the Luzerne County Courthouse.
Dante’s eyes settled on the far bank of the Susquehanna. He knew many more of the Red Hand aliens waited over there. He desperately wished they would change their minds and withdraw, both for his life and for his desire to avoid witnessing such carnage again.
Dante squeezed his eyes shut. Trevor’s voice—a shout from below—pulled them open.
"This is beautiful, man. Beautiful!"
Trevor Stone walked among the corpses, smiling.
---
Shep stood at the command vehicle and held the walkie-talkie close to his ear.
"I say, Mr. Shepherd, bring your guns to bear for the first rows of the devil’s legions are approaching on the Interstate for all to see."
Shep translated Reverend-speak and concluded Johnny could see a forward formation of Viking fighters from his position atop the first mountain.
"Um…okay, Rev, you hang on and we’ll drop a little something on your visitors."
Two of the silver, upside-down-bowl-shaped artillery pieces taken from the Redcoats last winter hovered on the black top as part of the rear assembly area that included Shep’s command vehicle. Rhodes stood fifty yards away near a parked Trailblazer along the side of Interstate 81 where he helped two men unload supplies.
"Rhodes! Hey! Get them guns goin’; we need to hit the first mark!"
Rhodes nodded and jogged away from the men unloading supplies, across the road, and to the Redcoat artillery. The gun crews—two teenage boys, an old lady, and a chubby middle-aged woman—followed Rhodes’ orders.
Barrels sprouted from the otherwise smooth domes of the pieces. The mobile guns swiveled left then right; the barrels rose another degree, and the first volley of blue pulses launched with an electric buzz.
Shep watched the projectiles lob over the mountain and disappear on the far side. A second later, he heard a distant shudder as the bolts found their mark.
"Well done, General Shepherd," the Reverend’s voice congratulated success. "You hit the bulls eye. The fiends are scattering and withdrawing from whence they came."
Another pair of shots blasted forth. More distant shudders.
The sharp, unmistakable crack of gunfire echoed from the mountain.
Shep radioed, "Rev, what’s going on up there?"
"Hold, Mr. Shep—NO on your RIGHT! Are you blind? THERE!"
The transmission went silent but the sound of a distant firefight intensified.
"Reverend. Report. Now."
The pop of grenade explosions joined the crackle of gunfire.
Johnny finally answered his radio, "Skirmishers, my dear Mr. Shepherd, coming up through the woods. Apparently, the ones on the highway were not alone. Curses! On your LEFT! Mortar teams, fire!"
Shepherd gazed at the rolling mountains to the south.
Thwoop…BOOM.
Thwoop…BOOM.
Reverend Johnny reported, "Blasted trees! It seems the thick cover of the forest is diluting the effectiveness of our mortars. However, we have beaten back the devils. I believe it was merely a probe along our lines, Mr. Shepherd. However, I—wait a moment. What is that?"
While the crack of gunfire subsided, a new sound descended upon the rear area. A sort of chopping noise, as if they air vibrated.
Reverend Johnny broadcast: "General Shepherd, I fear our friends do have a trick up their sleeve. Some kind of catapults…"
A red ball arched over the mountain directly toward Shepherd’s muster zone. He realized in that instant that the ‘Vikings’ knew a great deal about counter-battery fire.
"Oh…shit…INCOMING!"
The first shot hit the highway next to the men unloading supplies from the Trailblazer. It erupted not with sound but with quiet: almost anti-noise, Shepherd thought.
In the first split-second, a round flash of red caused a tremor that knocked the men to the ground and rocked the Trailblazer, but no shrapnel, only a glowing red sparkle hovering in the air above the impact zone.
In the next split-second, that red sparkle sucked everything within the zone of effect into itself, yanking the two screaming men into the air and toward the red singularity. The Trailblazer SUV tumbled horizontally side over side.
The men…the truck…chunks of highway concrete…made contact with the red sparkle and disintegrated before the singularity collapsed.
That chopping sounded again from over the hilltop.
"Fall back! Fall back!"
The artillery crews followed Shep’s order immediately, abandoning the guns and hurr
ying away. Shep raced to the driver’s wheel of the RV, turned the ignition key, and slammed the transmission into reverse.
Another red ball hit the highway, tearing away rocks and dust and sucking it all to its deadly center like a tiny black hole.
The men ran; their artillery silenced.
---
The first wave of ‘Roachbots’ arrived at the bottom of the hill.
The odd machines walked in an unsure gait, as if using new legs. Each sported a faceplate with eyes resembling thin horizontal LED displays positioned above a rectangular speaker.
Jon Brewer watched through field glasses as the robotic nightmares started to cross the long straightaway his position overlooked.
The van-sized bots made a mechanical whirring as their six legs worked. Jon thought they resembled more a child’s wind up toy than some kind of sophisticated artificial intelligence. Indeed, he half expected them to get stuck against the cars parked along their path.
Still, the guns mounted on the sides of the robots’ faceplates appeared dangerous enough.
Jon held his hand aloft.
"Wait…on number five and seven...."
The lead row of robots stumbled around an old Chevrolet Camaro and a Toyota Camry.
Brewer dropped his hand, shouting, "Now! Five and seven!"
Boylen worked the demolition array. The Camaro and the Camry exploded. The concussion blasted two of the robots into halves. Sheet metal shrapnel from the cars tore the faceplate off a third; it wandered off, blinded.
The rest of the Roachbots, however, continued their approach without pause, without consideration, as if the other robots had no clue that three of their number had been destroyed.
"Two and four! Fire!"
BAM! BAM!
A commercial van and a Honda detonated. Three more robots suffered grievous wounds.
This time, however, the remaining force took notice. Several of the lead robots came to a complete halt. That’s when Jon heard the noise the creatures made, giving him his first clue as to what made the Roachbots so…so strange.
A synthesized sound came from the speakers on their faceplates. A sound similar to a doll with a pull string voice box, except the batteries of this doll ran low.
The chorus came. A chorus that could have passed for laughter. Electronic laughter.
A-hehehehe. A-hehehehe.
Then the forward most line of robots rocked side to side on their six legs like track stars stretching before a race.
A-hehehehe.
Next, they fired their guns on the remaining parked cars along their path. For some reason, those guns reminded Jon of a gangster’s Tommy gun.
In any case, the rounds ignited more of the explosive-rigged cars. Those wrecks erupted into shards of metal and engine pieces. Streams of smoke rose to the air from the burning hulks.
A-hehehehe.
The bots fired without precision. They sprayed the entire area with an absolute storm of gunfire. Their weapons swiveled on spherical mounts and shot in all directions.
Two of the lead robots crouched on their legs and jumped—hopped like frogs—over the mass of burning cars. They landed with a heavy thud on the far side of the graveyard of vehicles.
A-hehehehe.
Yet the robots remaining farther back continued to blast away at the burning cars in the same wild manner, destroying the two robots that had leapt forward with friendly fire.
"Jesus Christ," Jon mumbled to Boylen. "These robot things…my God…they’re insane."
A-hehehehe.
The robots finished destroying the trap of exposive-laden cars and marched forward.
32. The Battle of Five Armies
Trevor explained to Dante what Nina had just radioed: "They’re having trouble with the gun on Braggs’ bird and Nina’s got a mechanical problem. But they’ll both be airborne soon."
"Soon? Soon? Man, these guys are smartening up. We don’t need her here soon; we need her here now. Do you see what they’re doing?"
Trevor, standing in the cupola, answered, "Yeah. I see."
The Red Hands had noted the second bridge across the Susquehanna and divided into three groups: one group marching toward the northern bridge, one toward the southern one, and a third group in reserve as if to exploit any breakthrough.
Dante gritted his teeth and said, "We can’t stop them without the choppers."
Trevor gazed at the northern bridge in front of the idling Humvee. He had dispatched the Grenadiers to guard the south bridge. As the sun dipped toward the mountainous horizon, the Red Hands came.
They moved fast but orderly, jogging across the northern bridge lined in rows by weapons with archers behind spearmen.
Before he started firing, Trevor heard barks and snarls from the far side of the neighborhood. Apparently the Red Hands engaged the K9s blocking the other span. He knew they would eventually overwhelm the dogs and breakthrough.
Fifty-caliber rounds fired, slamming into the approaching warriors. Spearmen collapsed; their bodies in pieces. Regardless, the rows continued forward, not letting the slaughter dissuade their advance. A dozen…two dozen…fifty of their number lay in piles on the bridge. The machine gun smoked…the barrel grew red hot…shell casings spat in a continuous flow…
An arrow hit the hood of the Humvee. Then a downpour of bolts smashed on and around the car one after another forcing Trevor from the gunner’s position into the safety of the armored cabin. Arrowheads clanged and scraped off the roof and hood.
Dante’s voice sounded distant and awe-struck as he gasped, "Look…look at them, man. They’re just like…they just keeping coming. They don’t care. You could kill…you could keep killing them and they’d still keep coming."
Trevor said, "Someone set all this up. Maybe The Order. Whoever. Point is, these guys--these Red Hands--they’re just cannon fodder."
"Cannon fodder? Huh?"
"Something more for us to shoot at. The robots and them Vikings, they’re the heavy hitters. These guys here, I'm guessing Voggoth sent them to die just to make us waste bullets."
A particularly heavy arrow smashed directly into the windshield, popping loose a chunk of reinforced glass.
"Go. Get us out of here."
Dante spun the car around and raced to the southern bridge. The tree lined riverside boulevard hosted gorgeous old homes gazing upon the metal buttresses of the second bridge. That boulevard ran red with the blood of primitive aliens and Trevor’s Grenadiers.
Dozens of dogs lay dead or dying from spears and arrows. Dozens of Red Hand warriors lay dead or dying from K9 teeth and talons. Like a hole in a levee, the alien warriors poured from the narrow bridge onto the street. Their numbers grew quickly and the K9s lost the advantage. Spears and arrows got the better of teeth and talons.
"Stop the car!"
Dante did as ordered, coming to a standstill in the shade of a huge Oak tree.
Trevor opened the rear door and shouted to his Grenadiers, "Retreat! Retreat!"
His personal warriors heard his call although Dante did not know if they heard through ears or thoughts. Tyr and Odin separated themselves from the battle like officers leading troops.
Trevor pulled his M4 rifle from the rear seat and shot at the Red Hands. The aliens winced at the sound. That surprise helped the K9s disengage to dash south on Route 11.
Arrows flew at the Humvee again. Trevor climbed inside.
Dante hit the gas pedal, maneuvered around the fleeing dogs, and withdrew from battle.
The Red Hands crossed the river.
---
Nearly a dozen deactivated Roachbots lay in pieces at the big intersection. Some had fallen to the explosive cars, more from heavy fire from armored vehicles. Despite such firepower, the machines pushed and pursued Jon and his men from the grassy slope.
A-hehehehe. A-hehehehe.
Jon’s front line retreated inside a convenience store; a mid way point between what had once been his forward position and the Wyoming Valley Mall.
THWOOP!
An anti-armor shell obliterated the lead Roachbot.
A second, third…six Roachbots hopped from the road to the parking lot of the convenience store.
Another Abrams shell blasted another Roachbot.
A-hehehehe.
One of Jon’s men—an oriental fellow wearing a Nike T-shirt and carrying a shotgun—sprinted for the cover of an overturned 18-wheeler. Dozens of hard projectiles fired by the bots sliced through the man. He fell to the pavement a bloody mess.
More enemy fire sought out the tank. Those shots that were so lethal to the guy in the Nike T-shirt could not penetrate the hide of the Abrams, but they did make a racket akin to a rainstorm of ball bearings.
Jon watched from the convenience store as the robot attackers demonstrated that they had dealt with armor before.
Three bots targeted the tank. The first fell victim to a blast from the Abrams. The second leapt into the air and landed atop the turret with a clang. It fired at point-blank range into the war machine. At such close proximity, the rounds from its guns chipped away at the armor plating.
The third bot stood twenty yards from the Abrams and opened fire. At that range, the projectiles merely bounced off the armor. However, those projectiles obliterated the Roachbot that had leapt onto the turret.
"Well, will you look at that," Boylen gasped.
"Wow," Jon replied as the pieces of the enemy robot dropped from the turret. "Jesus. They’re like…I mean…these things are…they really are crazy."
A-hehehehe.
The tank rolled forward, shaking off the last pieces of leg and faceplate. The Abrams fired another round, blasting away the Roachbot that had saved it from destruction. The alien machine sparked and splintered to bits.
A concentrated volley from well-charged Redcoat rifles destroyed the remaining bot in the parking lot, something regular bullets could not do.
Beyond Armageddon: Book 01 - Disintegration Page 41
