Not long after dawn, Captain Nina Forest traveled by helicopter to the eastern part of the city in response to a civilian request for emergency assistance.
The helicopter landed on a stretch of gorgeous beach near a row of fancy condominiums and ocean view homes in an area known as Wrightsville Beach.
She exited her ride and moved out from under the whirring blades that spawned a miniature sandstorm. There she found a small gathering of Hunter-Killer units among a group of human survivors.
One of those people-dressed in patchwork clothes but in decent physical shape-approached her in an urgent gait. The older man with white hair and a permanent tan offered his hand but Nina felt it a gesture born of impulse, not thought.
“Hello, hello, are you the commanding officer?”
Nina nodded. “Captain Forest. What’s the emergency?”
“We need your help, desperately.”
“Yes, I know,” Nina told him. “You’ll be safe soon. Most of the city is under our control already.”
“Yes, yes, that’s wonderful, but that’s not the problem. It’s the children. They took them.”
She tilted her head and asked, “Children? What children? Who took them? Where?”
The man caught his breath and explained. “The orphans. Jim Brock’s orphans. A bunch of what you call ‘Mutants’ snuck over the bridge and grabbed them. They left one behind to tell us they want safe passage out of the city or they will kill all the hostages by sunset.”
“Mutants leaving messages? Taking hostages? That’s new.”
“Please, you have to help us. They’re just kids.”
Nina rested a hand on his shoulder and assured, “Nothing to it.”
10. Enclave en-clave n. 1. A country or part of a country lying wholly within the boundaries of another. 2. A distinctly bounded area enclosed within a larger unit.
Jon Brewer closed his eyes and filled his lungs with a deep inhale.
A fine mist carried across his face and the distinct aroma of salt water filled his nose. He heard the splash and surge of the ocean parting as the shark-like craft cut through the Labrador Sea.
He opened his eyes again and did not see much more than he saw with them closed. His entire trip felt shrouded in darkness. Perhaps that was appropriate.
Built for stealth, the submarine did not offer any external lighting. Its colorless hull pushed through a lightless ocean.
Jon stood in the conning tower of the Newport News as it sailed northeasterly. It would be a long while before they made it to Qaanaaq. Even then, their journey would not be complete. The coordinates indicated that the “X” marking the spot on Jon’s version of a treasure map waited even further north and further inland.
He expected that being bottled up in the submarine would become difficult over the next several days, particularly once they submerged again. Yet he wondered if it would be easy compared to the low temperatures, the bone-chilling wind gusts, and the hazardous terrain that awaited the Greenland leg of their trip.
“What’s on your mind?” Captain Farway stood in the cramped conning tower next to Brewer. They each held a cup filled with a liquid close in taste to hot tea.
“Just looking ahead.”
Farway said, “Not much to see out here. Not on a cloudy night like this.”
“Oh I can see it just fine,” Brewer answered. “I can see the snow and the cold and Lord knows what else is waiting for us up there.”
“I sure hope it’s worth it,” the Captain said. “Me? I’m not much for all this…all this…well I guess I’m not sure what to call it.”
“I’d call it crazy ass bull shit.”
“You certainly have a way with words.”
“Problem is,” Jon said, “I reckon as crazy as it may sound it sure as hell ain’t bull shit.”
‘Reckon’ had become a regular part of Jon Brewer’s vocabulary after having spent so much time around Jerry Shepherd.
The submarine Captain agreed, “I suppose you may be right about that.”
“So tell me,” Jon asked. “Where did you spend the Apocalypse?”
Farway chuckled, probably in reaction to the ease with which words like “apocalypse” and “Armageddon” were used.
“Now let me try and remember,” the Captain put his fingers to his chin in a reflective posture. “We were assigned to the George Washington Battle Group touring the Persian Gulf. Always seemed a reason or two for heading in that direction, you recall.”
“Yeah, I watched the news back then.”
“Anyway, we didn’t know as much as the surface boys because you don’t get to watch too much CNN when you’re several fathoms underwater. But we started hearing about the higher alert status, then Defcon 2, then all sorts of shit.”
Jon watched the skipper as he gazed at the field of blackness ahead. He knew Farway’s eyes looked not at the horizon, but back through time.
“Lots of confusion, no real info. I guess it was a week into things and we launched a bunch of tomahawks in support of the ground forces in Baghdad. They didn’t tell us what we were shooting at but I have to assume it wasn’t a bunch of terrorists or insurgents. You don’t need four cruise missiles for that. I also heard that the air sorties picked up so much that some thought we were back at the beginning of the war again.” Farway licked his lips. “Then the Vella Gulf went up.”
“Vella Gulf?” Jon recognized the name but could not quite place it.
“Aegis class cruiser. Part of our strike group.”
“Oh.”
“Something in the water hit it. Something big. Came up right from underneath so fast that the sonar didn’t give much warning. The whole thing went down in about ten minutes. We could hear the transmissions from the rescue teams. Whatever took out the Vella stayed around for a while and went after the rescue boats. We didn’t get much of a description, just lots of yelling. Whatever it was, somebody finally hit it with something and sent it down. We weren’t a part of that action but I think I speak for the entire crew when I say we found it rather disturbing. I’m sure you can understand.”
Jon nodded. “Yeah, I understand.”
“So then we get orders for the battle group to return to port in Norfolk. We had a big problem at Suez. Apparently, no one was around to let us through. Didn’t matter, though. We sent teams ashore to take care of that. There aren’t any locks on the Suez, so it’s not nearly as big a deal as Panama. Must have been late July when we were half way home. What happens then? The group gets split up.”
“Split up?”
“A bunch of the smaller, escort ships got rerouted to ports all over the place. The Newport News was ordered to the Azores to pick up some VIPs flown in from Europe. I think they were U.S. ambassadors being evacuated. That was not a comforting thought.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“Remember, we were hearing next to nothing. The satellite news services were off the air and the fleet commanders were too busy doing their own business to fill us in on the situation. But we knew something bad was going on. Most of us figured terrorists got a hold of some big bang or other. Or maybe there had been a coup d’etat in Russia or China. All we knew for certain was that Hell had broke loose. Of course, none of us realized how true that was.”
Farway paused. The sound of the white caps breaking against the bow droned on.
“Then we get to the Azores. A couple of landing parties later and we realize there is nothing on the island but lizards the size of bulldozers and what looked to me like some sort of flying dinosaur. I lost a couple of good men those two days.”
Jon could only say, “Wow.”
“So we set out to sea again and tried to raise someone and we get static. Nothing on the ship to shore. Nothing ship to ship. Dead air. Of course, by this time we are running low on food and everyone is on edge and going stir crazy. Part of that was because…because…”
Farway stopped.
“Go ahead.”
“General, have you spent m
uch time at sea?”
“No. Almost none.”
“There’s a way about the ocean. Don’t get me wrong, it can be as unpredictable as a woman. But there is a…a rhythm to it. An order, if you will. When you spend as much time as I have underneath these waves you get to know that rhythm, especially when you can’t really see things, so you hear them. You spend a lot of time listening to the ocean, through the sonar of course, but also just with your ears.
“Let me tell you, Jon, it changed. I could feel it. The whole crew could. We all came to realize that we weren’t safe out here in the middle of the ocean; we couldn’t hide under the waves from what had happened.”
Jon said, “Just like things happened on land, I guess. Monsters, everywhere.”
“You think there are some bad things walking around back home? Let me tell you, I think there are worse things down here. I’m just hoping we can quietly slip by without waking them.”
Jon smiled and reminded the Captain, “I thought you weren’t much for this crazy bull shit.”
The Skipper returned the smile.
“I’m not. I suppose that’s why now, today, I take orders from people like you and Mr. Stone. I think this world belongs to people like you now. I wish you luck.”
Jon returned his eyes to that unseen horizon and the horrors that waited.
I’m going to need it.
–
General Jerry Shepherd felt the frustration boiling over.
For all his effort to bypass Wilmington and rely on Hunter-Killer teams-not his Division-to pacify that city, his progress still faltered miserably.
While Nina and the Hunter-Killers invested Wilmington that afternoon, General Jerry Shepherd marched his 1 ^ st Mechanized Division around the western outskirts of the city and then southwest on Route 17.
The first sign of trouble came when two Armored Personnel Carriers ran out of fuel. That is when he realized that that morning’s fuel convoy never arrived. After a few heated radio calls, the General came to realize that he would not see those trucks until after dark.
With no fuel reserve, Shepherd halted his advance. The lack of gasoline meant he could not maneuver if they stumbled upon a Hivvan force of any consequence.
He had expected that, by Sunday night, his force would be approaching the South Carolina border. Instead, they bivouacked at a crossroads named Spring Hill about six miles outside of Wilmington.
At that point, he made another strategic decision based on his supply levels. Shep ordered a complete restock. He put in for ammunition, more fuel, medical supplies; the works. He knew the home stretch loomed and like a clever stock car driver he decided to take an early pit stop with the hope he would have fresh tires for the last laps of the race.
The convoys began arriving around dawn, but Shepherd knew they would not be in a position to march for a few more hours. He hoped that if they started up again by ten o’clock, they might still reach the border before sunset.
Nonetheless, the path ahead provided a small sense of trepidation. The impassable Green Swamp encroached on 17 from the north and east, filled with dense evergreen shrub bog, long leaf pines, and thick patches of yellow pitcher plants not to mention the immediate threat of alligators as well as plenty of non-Earthly hostiles.
Furthermore, 17 remained the only passable route heading for the border and his destination of Conway, South Carolina. While the Green Swamp kept a barrier between his army and the disorganized, retreating Hivvan forces falling into a pocket to the west, if enemy command in Columbia learned of his maneuver and managed to send a substantial force up from the south, they could easily block his advance.
However, there were advantages, too. First, that barrier the swamp provided meant he did not have to sacrifice as many units to man checkpoints to solidify the trap. Second, aerial reconnaissance spotted what appeared to be a major human settlement along the way. Their liberation would be a nice bonus as part of what could be a major victory for the newly christened “Empire.”
So on the morning of Monday, August 24, while Jerry Shepherd sat in his temporary command post inside an old truck rental garage waiting for his troops to receive re-supply, cavalry scouts from his army galloped south to survey the road ahead.
Captain Cassy Simms rode on horseback with a group of four other patrollers. The sun’s beams shot at them from the east across the coastal plain.
Cassy had joined Trevor’s band of survivors as part of General Stonewall McAllister’s party. However, she proved her mettle on several occasions and earned a command of her own. That opportunity came with a brigade in General Shepherd’s 1 ^ st Mechanized Division.
While she left behind Stonewall, she did not leave behind the notion of riding on horseback. The speed and maneuverability often provided great advantage on the battlefield, not to mention the pure shock value of a mounted warrior.
Besides, horses were not slaves to gas. So while the Humvees and Bradleys sat idle waiting for a drink of their precious fuel, Cassy Simms led a handful of mounted scouts on a reconnaissance mission, per General Shepherd’s orders.
She moved them along the wide, four lanes of Route 17 south on the path the rest of the army would soon follow.
Mid-morning, they passed what had once been called Town Creek, North Carolina. The forest and bog there came right to the pavement at some points. Isolated homes dotted the landscape, all apparently empty giving the area a peaceful feel, despite the occasional roar of something unworldly from the surrounding wilderness.
That peace dissipated as they approached what a sign told them should be the town of Winnabow. Only debris remained of that place.
First, she saw a flattened U-Haul rental center where the propane tanks appeared to have exploded. Another-or perhaps the same-conflagration consumed dozens of forested acres, isolated houses, and mobile homes to either side of the highway, leaving behind charred trees and vacant foundations as well as dozens of cars, some overturned, others twisted together in piles.
In her years of fighting against the invaders, Cassy came upon all manner of apocalyptic destruction left over from those first months. This particular carnage felt a little different from most. She tried to understand why and as they trotted through, she realized the difference: no human bones, and no extraterrestrial bodies.
Her patrol continued onward, leaving behind the ruins.
The wilderness crept in on either side of Rt. 17. The forest grew thick, fed by swamps.
After a spell, that forest retreated again and gave way to a golden, grassy field that descended a long, soft embankment. At the bottom of that embankment, straddling Route 17, stood a town.
At a half-mile’s distance, Cassy Simms spied wood and brick buildings, even a large structure reminding her of something like a Greek amphitheater.
Cassy raised her binoculars and surveyed the sight. She saw two and three story buildings, what appeared to be barns, as well as small homes grouped together.
To her surprise, the entire town appeared to be made of new construction. Many of the wood beams remained unpainted and bright white mortar held together brick walls, suggesting recent completion. No graying paint, all fresh colors. No litter.
That golden field bordered the town on the north and east, providing a buffer between the village and dense woodlands.
Through her field glasses, she followed Route 17 as it continued through the center of town and to the south beyond. There she saw more destroyed buildings and debris, yet this debris appeared to have been cleared and organized, resembling something more like a monument than the leftovers of a calamity.
“Captain…” one of her soldiers called for her attention.
A group of four persons approached the patrol. They walked along the road at a casual pace but Cassy saw rifles slung over their shoulders.
Captain Simms waved her team forward at a non-threatening trot. This would not be the first time she made “first contact” with a band of survivors. Certainly, they would be suspicious. They m
ight fear that Cassy led a band of marauders. They would be defensive and uneasy. She reminded herself to keep her temper in check and her dual pistols in their shoulder holsters.
As the gap closed, Cassy dismounted and approached the group of three men and one woman.
One of the men-a big man with broad shoulders and a freckled face-carried himself as if in charge. His appearance would have screamed ‘red neck’ if not for the soft, hand-woven tunic and primitive but skillfully crafted sandals he wore.
Perhaps he’s a redneck / beatnik hybrid, she thought. I wonder if the redneck in him will have a problem talking to a black woman.
“Hi, um, we mean you no harm,” she did her best to smile, something not naturally in her character. “My name is Captain Cassy Simms and I’ve got good news. Consider your town liberated.”
The redneck/beatnik hybrid cringed as if he bit into a sour apple.
“Liberated? What the hell does that mean?”
“I know; there are only four of us. We’re a scouting party for the 1 ^ st Mechanized Division. We’re part of a human army that’s been retaking the entire region. Why, we control everything all the way up to Pennsylvania.”
The leader spoke again, this time with less sour-face.
“And why would I care about that?”
This caught Cassy off guard. Usually she received one of two responses. The first response might be disbelief, either in shock, or in fear of deception.
The second response was normally a flood of questions or requests such as “do you have food?” or “we need medicine” or even “help us, there’s a horned monster with glowing red eyes that keeps stealing the town’s women.”
Occasionally they would stumble upon warlords running a colony of slaves, usually with a three to one female to male ratio. In such instances, bullets met scouting parties.
This response-one of indifference-came as a surprise.
Cassy eyed this man a little closer, trying to see beyond the redneck physique and the beatnik clothing.
No malnutrition, clean grooming, and his teeth appeared in decent shape. This was not a struggling survivor.
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