Disintegration ba-1

by Anthony DeCosmo

  Further away, the gargantuan Veteran’s Hospital and the Wyoming Valley Mall dominated the terraced mountainside in the northeastern quadrant of the basin. Not far from those two landmarks sat shopping centers and restaurants surrounding a new arena, itself constructed next to an Interstate 81 on-ramp.

  On the near side of the Susquehanna, Route 11 paralleled the western bank of the river, running through suburbs and past strip malls. Similar to the homes on the eastern banks, the homes on the "West Side" included gothic Victorian residences that had survived the floodwaters mixed among Nixon-era ranches and duplexes built where those waters had swept away less fortunate houses.

  More neighborhoods-comprised mainly of smaller homes and double-blocks-lived on the mountainsides book ending the valley.

  Several bridges spanned the river, linking east to west. These included the Cross Valley Expressway to the north, two smaller bridges near downtown, a third span connecting the southern neighborhoods, and another expressway even farther to the south.

  Despite all he had seen in the last few months, Jon found it hard to believe that the serene picture under that cloudless blue sky hid unspeakable monsters, decaying bodies, and other assorted nightmares. Nevertheless, he knew they were there.

  For the first few days, Jon had followed Trevor because his mind was shell-shocked by the estate, the dogs, the equipment, the guns, and the horded food. He simply could not wrap his mind around the situation. Of course, his questions did not stop at the stockpiled supplies.

  "Where did you learn to shoot?"

  "How can you can break down and clean a rifle as fast as me?"

  "How do you get those dogs-I mean K9s-to do what you want?"

  Trevor's answer: "I picked it up."

  Nevertheless, Jon played his role…thus far.

  That role started with easy patrols. Jon suspected those patrols aimed to test his willingness to take orders.

  Four days after the Brewers came to the estate, Trevor took Jon to the scattered collection of up-scale housing developments and small farms known as Shavertown. The K9s had tracked the scent of a Devilbat to a supermarket there.

  Trevor led them into the dark market with so little fear that it served as a challenge to Jon. Indeed, he dared not retreat; not when Trevor actually stepped forward to attack in the face of the creature's flapping, fibrous wings and hissing, fanged mouth.

  Jon had watched in fascination. Could that really be Richard Stone?

  No. His name is Trevor.

  When the smoke from their firing cleared, the Devilbat lay dead, Trevor had shown his mettle, and Mr. Brewer understood how much the world had changed.

  Back atop the mountain, Jon asked, "You said someday you want to clear the city? You want to go in there and root everything out?"

  "You still don’t get this, do you? You need to understand-"

  A noise interrupted the conversation: a vibration chopping the air over the valley.

  "There," Jon pointed to an object flying south to north: a blue and white helicopter with ‘POLICE’ stenciled on the side. The chopper traced the Susquehanna River with its engine emitting a wounded chug.

  The helo flew above the residential neighborhoods of south Wilkes-Barre on the east side of the river but the more the engine chugged, the more altitude it lost.

  "They’re going to crash," Jon said.

  "Yes, and we’re going to rescue them."

  To Jon, that sounded suicidal. It meant the two of them with a small compliment of K9s fighting their way into a city infested with hostiles.

  The chopper fell from view behind trees and rooftops. The sound of a heavy metallic thud reached the observers’ ears. No fireball or explosion.

  "Let’s go," Trevor said.

  Jon hesitated.

  "Jon, this is what it's all about. What's it going to be?"

  Jon swallowed hard, nodded, and followed.

  – Stone guided the motor home around hairpin turns as they descended the twisty, paved road of "Plymouth Mountain." Overworked brakes filled the cabin with a dusty, burning smell and the entire vehicle threatened to rollover with each hard bend. Isolated homes and trailers populated the mountainside but they saw no living beings, human or otherwise.

  During the drive, Jon transmitted offers of help via the CB radio on multiple frequencies but received no reply.

  After half-an-hour, they reached the bottom of the mountain and the borough of Plymouth.

  Tiny shops, corner bars, and pizzerias lined the steep side streets of the tiny town. Some of those streets angled up the mountain, others down toward the Susquehanna. Route 11, the major road on that side of the river, cut directly through Plymouth. Trevor and Jon followed that route north until they came to a river crossing. That is when they saw their first hostile.

  It emerged from beneath an ugly concrete bridge built recently by PennDot to replace an aging stone and metal span. The creature stood nearly nine feet on two thick legs with wiry black and silver hair and four muscular arms. It swung a lizard’s tail and gnashed jaws akin to a crocodile’s snout.

  Jon said, in a surprisingly calm voice, "There’s a troll living under the bridge."

  It climbed the embankment and intercepted the vehicle. Trevor slammed the brakes and the RV skidded to a halt, facing the creature at twenty yards. The Troll stood and glared as if savoring a meal to come. Its jaws hung open in what might have been a smile of sorts.

  That changed.

  Suddenly its eyes widened and its four arms waved in self-defense. Something huge swooped from the sky, seized the Troll in massive talons, and flew off.

  Trevor and Jon leaned forward and watched a big black silhouette with dual sets of wings similar to a dragonfly soar away to the north with the silver and black haired monster struggling in its grasp.

  The two men glanced at one another but could not think of anything to say.

  Stone pressed the accelerator and they crossed the Susquehanna into the southwestern neighborhoods of Wilkes-Barre. The road became "Carey Avenue," a passage meandering through those neighborhoods toward the center of town. Based on what the men had witnessed from the mountaintop, they calculated the chopper crashed somewhere near Meyers High School, about a mile from the bridge.

  Trevor soon realized he had been wrong about one thing: Wilkes-Barre was no ‘dead city.’ It teemed with life.

  A mob of Ghouls identical to the things Trevor had seen attack the television station during the initial onslaught, gathered in a used car lot fighting over scraps. They were too busy pushing and clawing one another to notice the RV.

  The rescuers continued onward underneath a railroad bridge and through a major intersection where they saw an abandoned alien plane crashed into the front of a half-burned Burger King. About the size of a fighter jet, it sported two sharp-looking scimitar wings.

  Then they saw another ship. Or, at least, what they thought must be a ship because it flew high above the city. Longer and wider than a passenger jet, its shape defied the laws of aerodynamics. Indeed, it resembled more a blob than a craft, coated in a sickly green color with the texture of skin.

  The ship-or creature-disappeared over the southern horizon.

  As they drove, all manner of animals scurried about, most running from the motor home as if it might be a predator. Trevor had already noted the variety of invading creatures, many of which were docile and timid. Among those lived carrion eaters who, in a very practical sense, aided his cause.

  Nonetheless, many human bodies remained.

  No, that was not right.

  Parts of human bodies: the indigestible chunks predators did not want or the carrion eaters could not consume. Most of those remains had decomposed into gory piles, some more recognizable such as the messy heap on a curb wearing a Phillies jersey, the skeletal frame on a smashed Honda motorcycle, and a filleted body laying near a precious booty of cigarette cartons outside a convenience store.

  Many of the houses in south Wilkes-Barre wore unusual fronts s
uch as big bay windows or wide double doors for the reason that before QuikMarts and chain drugstores many had been small family businesses. Jon grew up in Wilkes-Barre during the tail end of those days. He had played little league for "Macris" Pharmacy against the kids from "Sarafini’s Groceries" and "The Spinning Wheel" restaurant. Shopping malls and powerful brand names had been the monsters visited upon those entrepreneurs.

  A sharp breeze blew a hurricane of litter across the road. Jon watched the papers flutter and said, "We're not going to find them."

  "Relax," Trevor sounded calm but he felt a growing sense of claustrophobia. Clusters of houses, churches, and funeral homes crowded the street on both sides. So few escape routes, so few avenues of retreat, but plenty of ambush points.

  A window curtain fluttered.

  A trash can fell over and rolled.

  Out the corner of his eye, Trevor saw a shadow dart between homes.

  Something hanging on tree in a corner park howled a bizarre cooing noise…their noses caught a strange, musty scent that warned of marked territory…a yellow Wilkes-Barre Area school bus sat in two pieces on a side street, its center stretch completely gone as if neatly removed by a surgeon’s scalpel.

  The RV rolled to a stop in front of E.L. Meyers High School, "Home of the Mohawks!" A black cat rested in the shadow of a massive pillar at the front of the long stone building. A shaded residential neighborhood surrounded the school.

  "Why are you stopping?"

  "We’re not going to find them just driving around, c’mon," Trevor killed the engine and both men exited the vehicle, carbines ready.

  "Perimeter," the Master commanded and ten K9s spread around the motor home.

  Across the street from the high school sat a house in the midst of major porch roof repair when the apocalypse had come, leaving only exposed crossbeams where there should have been wood and shingles.

  Trevor and Jon, in a state of curious shock, approached that porch.

  Four bodies dangled there-two men and two women-hanging from ropes secured to those exposed cross beams with roughshod nooses around necks. Jon stepped onto the porch to examine the rotting corpses; the bodies long ago picked clean. Probably by birds.

  Probably.

  Both men wore tuxedos. One woman dressed in a wedding gown, the other a fancy but dated prom dress. A piece of cardboard taped to the banister offered an explanation of sorts:

  "Here hangs the South Side Suicide Club,

  We couldn’t take it no more.

  So we dressed in our best, stood straight and abreast,

  And kicked away stools numberin’ four."

  "Wow, now this is so fu-"

  "Shh," Trevor cut Jon off.

  From the porch, the men viewed Carey Avenue and two side streets. Thick curbside trees shaded one of those side streets as it headed in an easterly direction. An autumn wind gust blew along that shady street directly toward them. Tree limbs softly waved; clusters of leaves came loose and surfed the air. Several sounds carried on that wind.

  First, a subtle, eerie howl hidden in the breeze. Second, a single sharp report.

  Stone and Brewer exchanged glances.

  Gunfire?

  Trevor estimated forty-five minutes elapsed since the crash. A gunshot meant — maybe it meant- any survivors were still survivors and not leftovers.

  "Trev," Jon pointed toward a blue sign with a big white ‘H’. "Mercy hospital. Probably a landing pad on the roof. That’d be something a pilot would aim for."

  Trevor whistled for his troops. The K9s piled into the RV.

  Stone started the vehicle again and they drove forward on that shady street.

  The tall, wide hospital dominated the surrounding blocks with its red brick and stucco frame. The main entrance waited a right turn away on a smaller street. Trevor drove to that turn, cranked the wheel, and suddenly slammed on the brakes.

  Jon jumped.

  "What? What?"

  Trevor laughed and shook his head.

  "Sorry. Just we’re going the wrong way down a one-way street. Old habits, you know?"

  Jon spotted the black arrow pointing the other direction and shared Trevor’s laugh.

  "Shit yeah, I know."

  On one side of the street stood the hospital, on the other a four-level parking garage. An overturned ambulance lay on the curb.

  The RV pulled behind the ambulance. The men and the K9s jumped out and Trevor led them toward the main entrance. One of the German Shepherds emitted a sharp yap and stared at the parking garage across the street. Hanging over the railing of the garage roof drooped the bent rear rotor blades of a helicopter…

  …The stairwell door swung open. Trevor, Jon and several K9s walked out into the sun where the zing of bullets greeted them. They hunkered behind a cluster of parked cars.

  Jon growled, "They shot at us!"

  "No wonder, they’ve probably been getting rushed by every monster on the south side."

  By the looks of things, Trevor had a point. The roof served as final resting place for six Ghouls, three giant jellyfish, as well as a lion-thing with an armor-plated head.

  Two men leaned against the toppled blue and white helicopter that had smashed into an ancient AMC Matador. They wore black S.W.A.T. BDUs and brandished pistols although empty Mp5s lay near. The metallic smell of expended shells floated over the rooftop battlefield.

  Trevor yelled, "We saw your chopper go down! We’re here to help!"

  No answer.

  "I’m coming out. I’m putting my gun down."

  Trevor held his empty hands high. Jon fidgeted as if to protest, but held his tongue.

  With his palms clearly visible above his head, Trevor stood and walked slowly toward the two men near the helicopter.

  The first man appeared to be fifty-something. He watched Trevor’s advance through narrow eyes on a thin face. His mustache, like the rest of the hair on his head, had long ago started the change from black to gray. That man’s left leg bled profusely.

  The second, a big, round guy with prematurely thinning hair and a slim mustache, stood.

  "Watch whatya doin’. Go real slow-like."

  His complexion matched his accent: a Philadelphia Italian who spoke as much with his hands as his mouth.

  Trevor said, "Looks like your friend needs first aid."

  The older man swallowed hard and said to his companion, "Have them go looking for Nina and Scott."

  "Shep," the Italian answered, "we gotta worry ‘bout you right nows."

  "Can I put my hands down?"

  The older man-Shep-spoke to Trevor, "Sorry ‘bout that. Can’t be too careful."

  Trevor waved to Jon and the K9s. The two police officers eyed the dogs with suspicion.

  "It’s okay, they’re with me." Trevor's assurances meant little to the policemen.

  Stone knelt in front of the wounded man.

  "How bad is that leg?"

  "It’s a fair-size cut. Shoulder hurts, too, but if I don’t stop the bleeding…"

  "Understood. We have some medical supplies in our RV. We can get it under control. But we need to get moving, it’s dangerous here."

  "If we coulda moved him we wouldn’t ‘a been sittin’ here like ducks."

  Trevor explained, "I can’t bring the motor home up here; there’s not enough clearance. Let’s get one of these cars to take you downstairs."

  "Wait a sec," the older man objected. "There are two more with us. They made a lot of noise and moved off to draw away a bunch of ugly things. I can’t leave them behind."

  Jon said, "We didn’t see anyone else. How long they been gone?"

  "Been a while," the Italian answered, "Half-an-hour or so."

  Jon stated the obvious: "They might not be coming back."

  The older man said, "Oh no, Nina will be back. She’s gotten out of tougher scrapes then-"

  A shot of pain deteriorated his words into a grunt.

  Trevor urged, "We’ll look for your friends, but first we have to stop tha
t bleeding."

  The two officers shared a glance and-reluctantly-nodded in agreement.

  "By the way, my name is Trevor. Trevor Stone. This is Jon Brewer."

  "Thanks for stoppin’ by, Trevor Stone. I’m Jerry Shepherd. This is Sal Corso. Straight from- ouch — Philadelphia."

  Sal sneered, "With friggin’ love."

  Trevor smashed the window on an old Nissan, eased Shepherd into the rear seat, and slipped the manual shifter out of gear. Sal and Jon pushed the car to the exit ramp and gravity did the rest. The lack of power assist for the steering caused some difficulty as Trevor struggled to keep the wheel from locking. Nonetheless, he maneuvered through the garage and onto the street. Sal, Jon, and the K9s followed on foot.

  They helped Shepherd to a bunk inside the RV where Trevor displayed the first-aid expertise of an army medic as he stopped the bleeding then sanitized and bandaged the wound.

  The leg needed stitching but three creatures the size of buses approached. At first glance, they resembled an ant/spider hybrid: eight furry legs, six coal-black eyes on an insect’s head, and an abdomen segmented into three parts. One walked along on the pavement pausing to inspect parked cars; the other two crawled sideways on homes peeking in windows.

  Trevor retraced Carey Avenue and parked on a grassy stretch near the riverbank. While K9s stood sentry outside, the four men discussed the situation.

  After describing the estate, Trevor invited the officers to stay at the mansion.

  "That sounds great," Shep answered. "But I’m not going anywhere without Nina and Scott."

  "You’re in no position to go looking for them," Jon said.

  "I can rest here."

  Trevor noted that when Shepherd spoke of this Nina woman his eyes sharpened, revealing something greater than simple concern for a fellow human being, but not the desperate longing a man would show for a lover.

  Fatherly concern?

  "Who is this Nina?" asked Trevor.

  "And there’s another guy," Jon said. "Scott is his name?"

  Sal joked, "Yeah, but Nina’s as likely to kill him as anythin’ out there."

  Trevor told them, "There’s a good chance she’s already dead."

  "No." Shepherd insisted. "You’re not hearing me, son. Nina will survive until she runs out of ammo or Scott does something stupid. She’s alive; I know it. We have to find her."