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 hurrying 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.
The Abrams tank idled next to that store. The turret swiveled.
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.
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 t
hat 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.
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