Empire ba-2

by Anthony DeCosmo

  A cave.

  “Now I know you have to go in there,” Rhodes said, “But you’re not going to like it.”

  Prescott instinctively swallowed hard and asked, “Why is that?”

  “Because you’re going to lose a lot of sleep from now on, Sir.”

  After bidding Jon Brewer farewell, Trevor nearly fell asleep in the big comfortable chair behind the oak desk in the den, but JB walked right in carrying colored paper and a box of crayons to work, once again, on illustrations of the great war.

  With his nap thwarted, Trevor spent the morning reviewing status reports on civilian and military operations. Those reports consisted of complaints from command posts and cities and distribution centers that had been raided for supplies. Those supplies had been transferred in the middle of the night to outfit Brewer’s northern expedition as well as to build a stockpile of food and munitions to support Southern Command’s encirclement of the Hivvans.

  Settlements previously categorized as ‘low’ on food now faced critical shortages. Military units down to their last two crates of ammunition were suddenly down to their last one crate of ammunition. Tanker trucks in transit to the west or east or north turned away in favor of a southerly direction toward operating centers established by the 1 ^ st and 2 ^ nd Mechanized Divisions.

  Before lunch time, Trevor was forced to hang up on the military Governor of western Pennsylvania, endured what sounded like Yiddish swearing from the manager of the Cape May County Distribution center, and successfully dodged two visits by Evan Godfrey and one by Eva Rheimmer.

  The shortages and squabbling for any morsel of foodstuffs or ammunition made the name he chose for their new nation- The Empire-sound like a joke. He wondered if he had made the right choice. Perhaps something like ‘the barely capable band of savages’ or ‘one step above starving republic’ might have better fit. He did not feel like an ‘Emperor’.

  Trevor used the pretext of reviewing military updates as an excuse to hide behind a closed door in his second floor office (the old Command Center). Unlike the reports from the rest of ‘ The Empire’, the info coming from Southern Command sounded good.

  Stonewall reported strong progress in his drive southwest on I-95 while Shepherd drove even further on I-40. It appeared Shep would reach the suburbs of Wilmington within twenty-four hours as he faced little opposition.

  Furthermore, aerial recon showed the Hivvans remained disorganized and-apparently-unaware of the closing trap. In a few more days it would be too late; their supply depots would fall and the remnants of the Raleigh corps would be cut off and annihilated.

  Despite the number of mayors and Generals cursing their “Emperor” that morning, Trevor finally found a reason to feel good…until late in the afternoon when Knox walked in wearing a somber look and holding a communique.

  Trevor felt a bolt up his spine; a tingle of fear. A variety of bad thoughts raced through his mind. Had the Hivvans regrouped for a counter-attack on Raleigh? Were enemy reinforcements pouring from Columbia to intercept the offensive? Either piece of news would derail the plan and cause the entire southern front to tip back into the aliens’ favor.

  The Director of Intelligence glanced at Trevor, back at the paper he held, and then handed it over to his boss, saying, “I don’t know what to think of this, so here you go. It’s from Prescott.”

  Trevor accepted the paper and read. His eyes scanned the lines, gaining speed as his mind deciphered the message. Trevor stood so fast that his chair rolled backwards into the sliding glass doors of the balcony.

  “When did this come in? Where is he? I need to get down there!”

  “It came in a few minutes ago. He’s west of Blacksburg, Virginia. Hauser is on standby but you probably want to wait until morning.”

  “Why?”

  “Because at this point, by the time you get there it will be nightfall and you’d probably rather view the site in daylight.”

  Trevor started to move, then stopped. He shook the paper, he shook his head.

  “Calm down…calm down,” Gordon tried to sooth.

  “I want Anita Nehru and Dante.”

  Gordon suggested, “I should go with you.”

  “No. I need you here to watch over the military stuff, with Brewer gone and all.”

  “Could this be more important?” Knox wondered.

  Trevor stopped cold, looked at the words on the paper again, and tried to answer.

  “Maybe.”

  Later that evening, after telling Ashley of his travel plans for tomorrow, Trevor searched out his son to break the bad news and found him in the den. Other than a trip into town with his mother after lunch, JB spent the entire day in there drawing.

  Trevor walked in and paced across the floor, careful not to step on the artwork. JB, for his part, gave his dad a quick smile but returned immediately to his drawings.

  “Hey, um, JB,” Trevor stuttered as he leaned against the desk. “Something has come up and I have to go away tomorrow. I shouldn’t be gone long.”

  Without looking up, Jorgie said, “I want to go with you.”

  Shocked, Trevor could not find any words so JB repeated as if worried his dad had not heard the first time. “I want to go with you, father.”

  Trevor stepped away from the desk and stood straight. His hands wavered in the air as if using them to sculpt words.

  “Umm, JB, no, it could be dangerous. Not a good idea.”

  “I want to go with you.”

  “Look,” Trevor stepped closer to his son and leaned over the boy who kept his focus on the drawing. “There really is no chance of that, Jorge. I’m not going to…I’m not. Um, JB, what is that you’re drawing?”

  The boy held the piece of paper aloft to his father who took it.

  While a crude work of crayons, Trevor could clearly see that his son drew two dogs lying on their sides with a black ‘x’ where each eye should be and a field of red crayon surrounding them. A black stick figure hovered over the dogs with his arms stretched wide.

  “It’s the doggies, father,” Trevor heard a sniffle in his son’s words. “They’re in pain.”

  The piece of paper wobbled as Trevor’s hands shook. He had not told JB about the problems with the K9s. No one outside of a few I.S. people, Ashley, and the military council knew of the issue.

  He swallowed hard, pointed at the black stick figure, and asked, “Who is this?”

  JB’s lip stiffened and his eyes sharpened.

  “He’s the Other. He’s bad.”

  “Who is he?”

  Jorgie’s mouth opened and then shut without a sound coming out.

  “Tell me, Jorge,” Trevor started in a harsh tone and then forced it to soften. “Have you seen this ‘Other’ before?”

  The three year old nodded his head slow. “When I’m sleeping. He’s been in my nightmares a lot. He’s why the doggies are in pain. That’s all I know.”

  Trevor knew Ashley would protest, but he also knew that in the morning his son would travel with him to Virginia.

  In 1663, Charles II quartered the arms of Virginia on his shield and since that time, the state has been known as ‘Old Dominion’.

  Before the end-of-the-world, Old Dominion boasted more than seven million souls in its boundaries. Those same boundaries now counted only one hundred thousand, most living in the eastern part of the state.

  Trevor and JB’s Eagle flight carried them south above I-81 with the gorgeous Blue Ridge range to their east and the imposing Appalachians-formed eons ago by colliding continental shelves-rising to the west.

  Early in the afternoon of August 23, Eagle One landed on the fifty-yard line of Lane Stadium, formerly home of the Virginia Tech Hokies. A pack of Jaw-Wolves had been living there when the 1 ^ st Armored Division arrived in town a few weeks before. After losing a tank, Prescott‘s forces managed to kill off the massive, armor-plated predators in a brutal engagement.

  Nonetheless, with arrival of the human army, the area around Blacksburg became f
airly safe although they found no survivors, much to Prescott‘s surprise. Indeed, the rural nature of the region should have resulted in a survival rate equal to or exceeding the 1.5 % average.

  Not in Blacksburg.

  In any case, they traveled out of town in a heavily armed convoy along Rt. 460. They followed the road north then west before hooking up with State Route 621 through the Jefferson National Forest. Not long after, they said goodbye to the major roads and dove deeper into the Appalachians.

  During the trip, Trevor fidgeted and squirmed in his seat as he considered what waited ahead. He kept wondering why he brought JB along yet, for some reason, he felt as if honoring the boy’s request was the right thing to do.

  As for Jorge, he admired the scenery from inside the armored Suburban. His nose spent most of the trip flat against the window while one arm gently clasped his stuffed bunny which was, as usual, tightly wrapped in its tiny blanket.

  Anita Nehru and Dante Jones accompanied the father and son, the former due to her knowledge of hostiles and the latter because Trevor felt he might need a friend.

  Finally, they arrived at the ultimate destination: an old burned compound once surrounded by a chain link fence.

  Troops from the 1 ^ st Armored division blanked the area with checkpoints and patrols in surrounding hills and fields.

  Trevor and his entourage of two advisors, his son, General Prescott, and human bodyguards emerged from the vehicles. No K9s accompanied Trevor on this trip.

  The rain from the previous day had moved along but a quilt-like cover of silky gray clouds remained overhead, blocking out a good deal of sunlight and contributing to a cold, damp chill that belied the August day.

  Captain Phillip Rhodes met them at the ruins.

  Trevor surveyed his surroundings and felt a tingle in his spine. Although destroyed, the fence, the smaller buildings, and the isolated location felt hauntingly familiar.

  “We don’t know how long ago this place was wiped out,” Rhodes answered the question before anyone asked. “Our division analysts have been going over the area with a fine tooth comb to figure out what did it in.”

  Anita Nehru asked, “Tell me, Captain, what have your men discovered?”

  “Not much,” Rhodes admitted. “We found rifles and pistols, most of which looked to have been in storage in this main building. We pulled them from under the ruins so it was probably stuff lying around and not used.”

  “Tracks?” Anita asked.

  “We found deer and bear tracks, all relatively fresh but that’s about it. Judging by the skeletons in the mess we figure this happened a long time ago, so much so that if they were hit by predators or something on foot then the tracks are long since lost.”

  “What about the bodies?” Trevor asked while his eyes scanned the rubble.

  “Nothing conclusive yet. Most of our medical evaluation staff is back at Lynchburg helping Dr. Maple’s quarantine team. But it don’t matter much-um, Sir, — because the remains are few and far between. I mean, we’re talking about parts. Scavengers, carrion eaters have picked this place dry.”

  Trevor glared. “So you’re telling me you don’t know jack shit about what happened here?”

  Rhodes‘ mouth opened but he did not speak. General Prescott stepped in.

  “Well, we just spotted this place yesterday and our resources are spread out up and down the range setting up positions. Sorry we don’t have more, but we’re working on it.”

  “Show me the rest.”

  Dante placed a hand on Trevor’s shoulder. “Are you sure? You might want to chew a few more of them out first.”

  Stone swiped away Dante’s hand and followed the others beyond the destroyed estate into the gently rising woods. That is when Trevor noticed the carcasses. Everywhere.

  Dogs. Canines. Judging by the bones, they represented a variety of breeds.

  Trevor heard a sniffle from his son and saw tears forming in JB’s eyes. He reached down and hoisted Jorgie into his arms.

  “All the doggies, father…all the doggies…”

  Dante asked Anita, “Can you figure out what did this?”

  “I’m not a veterinarian or a coroner. Besides, it doesn’t look like there are enough remains to draw any conclusions.”

  Trevor stated surely, “They tore each other apart, in fits of madness.”

  The dead dogs littered the forest with as many piles of bones as there were trees. It was hard to make out the parts; spring thaws and winter snows and thaws again conspired to warp and rot the bodies.

  They arrived at the small plateau in front of the mountain face where the overturned Hemlock tree guarded a black hole. Soldiers stood there, securing the cave from the outside.

  Trevor and the others stopped. JB slid from his father’s grasp and stood.

  The hole in the earth beckoned Trevor as if it were a voice from some forgotten past begging to be heard again. Pleading to tell a tale.

  Stone stepped forward. His son grabbed his hand and took a step, too.

  Trevor hesitated. How could he possibly justify taking his three year old son in there, especially before he had seen it himself? Then he remembered the drawing and the shadowy figure his son saw in nightmares.

  Against his better judgment, he allowed Jorgie to accompany him inside while the others waited behind. The two pushed through the deformed roots of the Hemlock and into a hole of black.

  Trevor stopped a pace inside the entrance. He saw nothing, as if he had closed his eyes.

  The air felt surprisingly dry and his nose detected-or perhaps felt-an almost chalky taste in the air, masking an underlying, distant odor of decay.

  His eyes slowly adjusted, noticing a flickering red light coming from somewhere at the back of the dome-shaped cavern. That flicker splashed enough illumination to allow his eyes to understand his surroundings.

  He saw bones. Human bones everywhere, the remains of skeletons broken and decaying. Many wore the torn and faded remains of jeans, dresses, fatigues, and police uniforms. The red light danced over them like a ghost of spilt blood.

  Trevor cupped his palm over JB’s blue eyes.

  “You shouldn’t see this.”

  Next, he saw a pile of debris stacked against a wall of dirt, rock, and roots. The light came from-no, that was not a pile of debris, it was a mound of remains. Skeletal bodies stacked one on top of the other creating a…

  “A wall,” he thought aloud.

  “What’s that, father?” JB’s eyes still hid behind Trevor’s hand.

  “I said, someone piled…piled junk in one corner to hide the entrance to another room.”

  Trevor hoisted his boy and carried him toward that next chamber, toward the red glimmer. With his father’s shielding hand gone, JB covered his eyes himself while slung against his dad’s hip.

  Trevor felt his son shake. Or maybe it was Trevor’s own tremble.

  Brittle human bones crunched under his feet as he approached the barrier. Something had breached that wall, pushing out from inside. A red light flickered from behind the pile.

  Trevor stopped. A chilled air escaped from the smaller chamber and carried with it a harsh smell that nearly overwhelmed his senses. He could not quite place the smell, perhaps one part rot and another part stink; something akin to the stench of a sewer.

  As bad the odor, he hesitated for a different reason.

  Like the smell, he could not quite place that reason but it caused an eerie tingle along his spine, much like the first day of the invasion when he went home and found the front door smashed open. Despite everything he had seen that day-monsters in the streets, people dying-it was that moment when he crossed the threshold of his house that his world truly changed; when he found his dead parents and the horrific creature that had mutilated them. At that moment, he had confronted the truth of a new reality.

  This felt similar. The tiny chamber in the cave hidden behind a mound of bodies held something more than just another creature or alien invader. Something waited
for him. For Richard Trevor Stone.

  “Father?”

  “Yes, yes, we’re going in. Hold on, I have to stoop, the ceiling is low.”

  The flickering red light came from two flares placed there by Rhodes‘ men. The red glow danced across the rocky dirt floor, around the rough walls, and against the low-hanging roof where roots reached down like warped fingers.

  In contrast to the larger chamber, the smaller one held no bones. Instead, remains of a different kind: empty bags of freeze-dried food, old soup cans, wrappers, and plastic water bottles pushed into a corner like a miniature garbage dump.

  “A survivor’s sanctuary,” Trevor, again, thought aloud.

  “It smells in here, father. It smells bad.”

  “Jorgie, it’s okay, you can get down and open your eyes.”

  JB squirmed and dropped to the floor where he stood next to his dad. At first, he shielded his eyes from the sparkle of the flares but his pupils soon adjusted.

  “Someone hid in here,” Trevor explained. “Look at all the wrappers and cans. Someone survived in here for a long while.”

  “Is that smell from the old food?”

  Trevor thought for a moment and then answered, “Some of it, yes. But if someone was hiding back here for a long time-”

  “Yuck,” Jorgie offered his thought on the matter.

  “Yes, yuck,” Trevor agreed.

  “Father, look, someone was coloring, like I do.”

  He followed his son’s attention to the walls.

  The survivor had left behind a story told in drawings.

  No, not drawings. Paintings.

  Colorful and finely detailed paintings by an artist’s hand. Borderline beautiful despite being colored on the canvass of rough stone along the rear wall. Trevor could not discern how they had been made. Perhaps real paint, perhaps colored chalk, maybe some manner of dye.

  The first depicted a city skyline erupting in flames. The silhouette of a tall lanky creature-probably a Shadow-wreaked havoc. What resembled Jaw-Wolves chased groups of people while primitive men, almost certainly Red Hands, fired arrows and gored humans.