The battle paused for a moment.
The majority of the Roachbot force crossed the intersection and climbed the grassy slope. They would reach the convenience store in a minute. Jon decided not to wait.
"Everyone, fall back to the mall. Boylen, get on the radio and have the gunners drop artillery all over this place. Maybe we can pick off some more with the big guns."
"Aye."
Jon hurried out of the store to the idling Abrams just as Prescott opened the hatch.
"Whew," the Major removed his headset and wiped his brow. "Thought they had us."
"We’re going to fall back to the mall now," Jon spoke, looking up at the Major. "We’re going…going to…going…" he could not finish his sentence.
A destroyed Roachbot carcass lay next to the Abrams’ treads. Jon and Prescott saw metal circuits and hydraulic servos and other high tech wizardry there, all part of a chaotic assembly.
They also saw gore. Biological gore.
"Christ," Prescott shivered. "That’s a…that’s a human brain."
More Roachbots crested the ridge.
A-hehehehe.
---
Nina paced while a ground crew composed of kids who probably had never finished high school refueled her chopper in the lot across from the county courthouse. While that building still stood, most of the area remained piles of debris from last year’s Redcoat bombardment.
Nina’s thoughts, however, dwelled not on battles past but on the battle raging.
She knew a fair quantity of aviation fuel remained. That would not be the problem. Even the makeshift repair job she had done on the rear tail rotor did not worry her.
She worried more about the dwindling supply of munitions. She and Bragg had split the remaining thirty-millimeter rounds. She would have to make every shot count. Of course, if Bragg could not fix the jam on his own cannon then she would inherit his supply.
In addition, she had six small rockets for the hydra launcher and two Hellfire missiles.
Nina stopped pacing, closed her eyes, and listened to the steady thudder of the fuel pump, the cling and the clang of tools working on Bragg’s gun, and the shouts of veteran mechanics to their apprentices: "No, over there," and "Put some muscle into it!"
Her attention floated away.
She remembered what the Old Man told her. She wondered if she should tell Trevor that the Old Man spoke to her.
No.
Trevor would want to know what the man—the entity—said but she could not tell.
She had learned that Trevor’s path led in an incredible direction, to places she could not follow. She had learned their tiny little battle in the mountains of northeastern Pennsylvania carried ramifications across the universe.
Universes.
What big concepts. What huge ideas. Her mind could not grasp the entirety of it.
Certainly the Old Man had not told her everything; only what her mind could handle.
However, she did fully comprehend one truth: she loved Trevor Stone.
Such a simple statement for such a complicated feeling.
He had brought out so much in her. She felt free to be herself with him, and free to be vulnerable. He had changed her from a shy outcast to a confident, complete person.
"Damn it, can’t you fuel this thing any faster?" she snapped at a teenaged technician. She wanted desperately to return to the air. She wanted desperately to chase away the sadness growing in the pit of her stomach. She wanted to get back to what she knew best: fighting. Apparently, it was all she would know for the rest of her life.
---
The riflemen stood ready.
The Roachbots wobbled into the mall parking lot.
A-hehehehe.
A cluster of human fighters behind overturned cars charged their Redcoat weapons then popped out from cover like a line of prairie dogs to unleash a devastating flash of energy bolts. The blasts fired into the lead trio of attackers, causing them to smoke and spark. Metallic legs detached, synthesized robotic voices droned, and tubular bodies collapsed.
Four more Roachbots appeared through the smoldering haze emanating from the dead chassis of their brethren. These four did not wait to be blasted by energy bolts. They leapt like frogs over the automotive barricades and fell among the human troops. One landed on and crushed a girl wearing a Rolling Stones tank top. The revolver she held discharged into the boot of one of Prescott’s career soldiers.
The remaining fighters broke and ran.
The bots wobbled as their legs absorbed the impact of the jump, then fired at the fleeing crowd with a Tommy gun-like rat-tat-tat-tat-tat.
An old man in a surplus Army jacket…a Hispanic woman clutching a gold crucifix…a young man who had lost an eye in a previous battle…the soldier with a bullet wound to his boot…torn to pieces by the enemy’s wild volley.
Jon retreated around the corner of an upended pick up truck and pulled a grenade from his assault vest. He yanked the pin and bolted around the truck, running in on the blind side of one of the metallic monsters.
He moved to within three paces of the bot’s frame and lobbed the explosive with an underhand pitch. It clinked among the cage-like bars lining the tube-shaped body.
Jon slipped in a puddle of human blood but righted himself in time to get behind the truck a half-second before the grenade exploded. The creature’s bars bent from the concussion and jagged shrapnel punctured the faceplate from behind. The beast flopped to the pavement motionless; another synthesized laugh silenced.
As Jon shouted, "retreat!" Boylen stepped forward and threw a Molotov cocktail. The liquid fire splashed onto and seeped into one of the things. It staggered about wildly, screeching and firing at nothing and everything before suffering a terminal malfunction.
The human defenders who had not already run fled the ring of dead automobiles comprising the outer defenses. A pair of armored Bradley Fighting Vehicles rolled forward and covered the withdrawal to a second row of defenses closer to the cluster of mall buildings. There waited another thirty men and women with a few Redcoat energy muskets and machine guns.
Jon—running across the open ground between the barricades—raised his radio and transmitted an order to the men atop the Wyoming Valley Mall.
"Artillery! Fire!"
Pairs of blue plasma balls fell from the roof of a department store, dropping on the advancing lines of Roachbots. One suffered a direct hit and disintegrated into shavings. The blast from that shot knocked two off balance and disorientated a third.
Jon leaned on the undercarriage of a flipped Nissan Pathfinder alongside other defenders, switched radio frequencies, and shouted one name: "Omar!"
Jon barely heard the response over blasts of both human and Roachbot weapons: "Do not bother me, I am being very busy."
"I hope to hell you’re ready because we’re running out of time!"
He heard the crackle and felt the vibration of more confiscated alien artillery dropping on the attackers but the clatter of Roachbot machine guns tinging and tinking against the opposite side of the flipped Pathfinder warned that the invaders approached.
Omar responded obstinately, "I will be ready in five minutes."
"We…don’t…have…five…minutes!"
A-hehehehe.
A bot climbed the flipped Pathfinder and peeked down at the defenders. Boylen pulled a heavy-duty military shotgun and blasted the thing. Mechanical gears and gooey brain oozed from the smashed faceplate.
Boylen reacted with disgust, "Jesus-Mary-and-Joseph!"
Jon peered around the barricade and spied a parking lot full of enemy machines. They spread into a wide front and advanced toward the flipped cars outside the mall. Another blast of blue plasma hit, tossing one end-over-end and frying another into sparking pieces, but Jon realized that the Roachbots would be under the firing arc of the rooftop artillery in seconds.
"Artillery teams," he radioed. "Time to bug out!"
Jon then yelled to the dozens of men and women clus
tered around the primitive battlements, "The rest of you, inside the mall! Hustle!"
They ran again, a mob of people toting alien muskets, machine guns, shotguns, and pistols. The Roachbots fired at their backs. Professional soldiers from Prescott’s group and average citizens turned modern-era minutemen fell side by side.
One of the Bradley Fighting Vehicles tried to buy time for the retreating humans. It drove forward firing from its twenty-five millimeter cannon, scoring a direct hit on and destroying one of the six-legged machines.
A Roachbot responded by leaping into the air and landing atop the Bradley, its flat-bottom legs sliding and scraping against the armor plating as it hugged the vehicle.
A-hehehehe.
The bot self-destructed in a powerful blast that shook the ground and severed the top of the Bradley clean off. Secondary detonations tore apart what remained.
Jon and Boylen reached the barricades at the entrance to the mall. Shrapnel from the Bradley/Bot explosion rained behind them. When the hail of metal ended, Jon took a good look at the battlefield.
Pieces of the cybernetic monstrosities littered the area but dozens more of the machines continued to advance. Among the broken gears, robotic legs, and detached faceplates lay the bodies of some forty of Jon’s defenders, including several still writhing and moaning in the vain hope that assistance might come.
Jon hovered for a moment, not wishing to leave living comrades behind. Not again.
"Aye, let’s go," and Boylen dragged him through the barricades erected around the set of glass doors marking the northern entrance to the mall. While most of the alien machines followed the retreating remnants of the human army, three of them focused on the rooftop artillery. Those three robots crouched low…
…Ah-hehehehe…
…and hopped dozens of feet into the air toward the roof.
One missed the mark, bounced off the gutter, and fell to the pavement belly up. Its legs kicked air like an overturned cockroach. The other two robots jumped successfully and cut down the slowest members of the gun crews before turning their weapons on the artillery pieces.
Jon-- behind the barrier of tables and planks piled between the entrance doors--called to Prescott who stood nearby after having relinquished command of his Abrams.
"Get everyone out of here, just like we planned."
Prescott did as instructed. The assembled fighters followed him through the racks of clothes, shoes, suits, and jewelry of the store's men’s department. Jon, however, stopped two of those fighters from going.
"Boylen, Casey, you’re with me."
Casey muttered, "This type of plan never worked for the coyote."
The Roachbots reached the last rampart and started to shove through.
Jon led Boylen and Casey across the department store toward the interior of the mall.
"Get the security door ready."
Casey slung his Redcoat energy rifle on his shoulder and lowered the heavy metal grated gate that shielded the store from the wide halls of the enclosed mall. He stopped halfway.
"Jon! We got ourselves company!"
Brewer saw what Boylen saw: a Roachbot in the aisle between dress shirts and shoes.
A-hehehehe.
Boylen raised his Redcoat musket and let a volley of energy fly, missing wide. The bot responded in kind, obliterating a nearby mannequin.
Jon did not need to issue the order: he and Boylen passed Casey who then dropped the security gate all the way. The three ran off as Roachbot shots sparked against the closed gate and a chorus of Ah-hehehehe echoed.
Jon raised his radio as he ran.
"Prescott? Status?"
The response came, "We’re outta there, Jon. You guys are it. Got a couple of them robots on the roof but most of the rest followed you in. Shit, there’s probably three or four dozen of them things in there with you."
The sound of the store's security gate collapsing rattled through the mall as Jon and the others rounded a corner next to a video game store. They ran along a hall that opened to a food court with exit doors on the far side.
A cloud of dust and flying panels avalanched from the ceiling.
A-hehehehe.
A pair of crazy red electronic eyes cut through the billowing debris. The men scattered. The Roachbot's twin guns fired, spraying a nearby arcade as well as ripping through Boylen.
Casey—his own alien rifle well-charged—fired. The burst blasted straight through the robot. Its beady red eyes flickered and died and it rolled on its side, motionless.
Jon stared at Boylen who had been reduced to a bloody pulp.
No time remained to mourn. A cacophony of metallic clatter announced the approach of the horde.
Jon and Casey exited the mall and sprinted across the south parking lot.
The crawl spaces and storage rooms throughout the shopping center had been packed full of the explosive Redcoat powder Omar had spent hours replicating from sand with the matter-making contraption, turning the Wyoming Valley Mall into one gigantic powder keg.
Jon heard the glass doors at the food court entrance behind him shatter outward. Time had run out. With his legs pumping and his breath heaving, he shouted into his radio.
"Omar! Hit it!"
---
"Here they come!" Shepherd yelled as the attackers charged through the trees and up the hill toward the first line of defenses.
Reverend Johnny quoted Leviticus: "I will release wild animals that will kill your children and destroy your cattle, so your numbers will dwindle and your roads will be deserted!"
Shepherd translated, "Fire! Fire at will!"
Nearly one hundred and fifty fighters lined the sloppily dug trenches and overturned trees marking the first line of defense. A stretch of forest in front of those battlements had been cut and cleared, creating an open killing ground between the human lines and the dense woods from where the Vikings assaulted.
Shepherd watched as the aliens stampeded forward hooting an enthusiastic holler that he figured to be their version of a rebel yell.
He tried to guess the number of attackers, but their chameleon cloaks made such estimates difficult for he could only see shadows and silhouettes.
Seventy-Five? One hundred?
Riflemen fired. The crack and pop of scattered shots erupted along the front. Shepherd feared that for many of his ‘soldiers’ those shots served as the first they ever fired in anger.
The leading alien squads emerged from the dark forest and into the twilight sun that glowed softly over the field of stumps and cleared brush. The ponchos that had shaded black and gray to hide among the trees instantly morphed into a soft orange high and a brown/green pattern low but even such powerful camouflage could not hide the aliens in the open.
Human bullets slammed into Viking chests knocking one, two, then more of the invaders to the ground. Crimson stains seeped through their battle suits.
The Vikings responded. The extraterrestrial weapons swooshed and buzzed as they launched small but fast slugs.
A man in a Philadelphia Eagles jersey stumbled backwards as one of the small projectiles flew through his body so fast and so powerful that it left an exit wound as large as what Shep would expect from a shotgun at close range.
More men fell…and women…and kids who should have been in high school or college, not fighting and dying.
Shepherd saw first one, then a scattered few, then a dozen of his troops lose their stomach for battle. Some discarded their weapons and ran; others tried to sneak off.
"Hold your lines! Keep up your fire!"
Shepherd ran forward into the thick of it. Guns fired to his right and left. Alien shots buzzed his ear. One sliced through the shoulder of a bald black man armed with an antique hunting rifle. The man staggered and howled. Two army medics hauled him away.
Shep pulled a semi-automatic pistol, stepped on to a protruding tree root to gain a better view, aimed his pistol, and squeezed the trigger once, twice, thrice. One round pierced the hooded head o
f an alien, turning it into a lifeless mass.
He paused and surveyed his warriors.
The lawyers and sales reps and plumbers fought bravely but they could not match the skill of the highly trained extraterrestrial mercenaries. Nonetheless, he realized the Vikings hurled only a small portion of their force against the lines, perhaps more interested in gaining information than ground. At least for the time being.
Reverend Johnny ignited his flamethrower and waded into the chaos. A wall of fire caught and burned two of the enemy while sending another bunch fleeing.
"But as for these enemies of mine who did not want me to be king over them—bring them here and SLAUGHTER THEM IN MY PRESENCE!"
Shep did not know if Johnny’s flamethrower did the trick or if the Vikings had simply gleaned the knowledge they sought, but whatever the reason the attackers withdrew in an orderly fashion leaving twenty of their number dead in the field.
Reverend Johnny stood tall and shook his fist at the aliens as they left, shouting: "I will leave your FLESH on the mountains, and fill the valleys with your carcass. I will water the land with what flows from you, and the river beds shall be FILLED WITH YOUR BLOOD!"
Shepherd smiled because he knew the Reverend’s brave defiance would inspire the troops and, perhaps, keep others from deserting when the next assault came.
However, his smile faded as his eyes counted ten dead human bodies at the barricades.
A clap like thunder rolled across the mountaintop. That thunder—that explosion—rode in on a southward bound breeze tickling the treetops. The human defenders glanced around nervously, but to Shepherd’s ears that explosion sounded as sweet music.
---
An hour after the detonation of the mall and the Roachbots lured therein, Trevor could still see a large plume of smoke on the horizon. He hoped Jon's plan had succeeded as designed, but more immediate issues held his attention.
The two men and their Humvee idled alongside a parked Eagle air ship. Behind them, the mass of surviving Grenadiers trotted southward along Route 11; they were not a part of Trevor's battle plan for the upcoming skirmish.
Ahead of them, the Red Hand army approached the northern side of the strip mall parking lot where the men, their Humvee, and the air ship waited.
Beyond Armageddon: Book 01 - Disintegration Page 42
