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.
A painting of Armageddon; a gruesome recollection of the day when the hellish gates opened on the Earth. The day when humanity went into hiding.
The second painting was so well done that the emotion of its vision poured from the colors. This one showed a mass of downtrodden people surging forward with their hands outstretched toward the point of view of the artist. Despair, yes, but also hope in the eyes of the people, an expression Trevor saw often during those first months when he found survivors. Survivors like Sheila Evans, the first person he actually rescued.
In that painting were a hundred Sheila Evans’ rushing to whoever promised them salvation. They huddled together like refugees while in the background flames of destruction licked the sky.
A third depicted yet another group called forth. Trevor recognized this group, too: a thick line of canines of many breeds marching in strict obedience to a master.
However, as the line of dogs stretched from left to right across the picture, the animals changed. In the lead, rows of sturdy, proud K9s but as the march progressed the dogs warped becoming first shaggy, then weak, then diseased, and then pitiful creatures snarling, collapsing, and turning to bones
“The doggies, father,” JB stood on his tippy-toes and touched the image. “They’re in pain.”
He gave Jorgie a comforting hug even though he had little comfort to give, particularly when he saw the fourth painting. By the time he understood the image it was too late to warn his son away.
Again, perfectly crafted in vivid colors, mainly red.
People torn asunder, impaled on edged weapons and eviscerated by monstrous talons, grabbed by the extending maw of a Jaw-Wolf, decapitated by the claws of a Devilbat.
The carnage played out in front of a collection of buildings—most small but one a mansion—burning and collapsing.
Trevor recognized the scene. He saw it many times in his worst nightmares, an image of his greatest fear: an image of failure.
“Father…”
“Look away, JB.”
But Trevor realized JB had moved on to the fifth, final painting.
“I’m afraid, father.”
In the background, a large homestead of obscure but essentially Victorian style with a second floor balcony overlooking a lake. In the foreground, two people: one older, one much, much younger.
This fifth painting clearly depicted Trevor and Jorge Benjamin Stone in front of the estate where they lived.
Next to the painting, the artist had etched two messages into the wall; the first message contained a solitary word: Germanitas.
A second, simpler message appeared to have been written more recently due to a shiny gleam in the letters of the three words.
SEE YOU SOON.
9. Hunter-Killer
“Let those who have been fighting against their brothers and relatives now fight in a proper way against the barbarians. Let those who have been serving as mercenaries for small pay now obtain the eternal reward. Let those who have been wearing themselves out in both body and soul now work for a double honor. Behold! On this side will be the sorrowful and poor, on that, the rich; on this side, the enemies of the Lord, on that, his friends.”
—From a speech by Pope Urban II circa 1095 AD calling for a Holy Crusade
In less than forty-eight hours, General Jerry Shepherd’s 1st Mechanized Infantry Division raced more than one hundred miles from Raleigh to Wilmington without any engagements against the Hivvans who, for their part, slipped more and more into a nicely forming pocket in eastern North Carolina.
However, Shep’s race did include other entanglements that nearly slowed progress. Two trolls jumped the vanguard south of Newton Grove, injuring three soldiers. Fortunately, small arms fire dispatched the trolls without causing the army any significant delay.
In contrast, they did suffer a substantial hold up from a ‘Green Proto-Mass’ nesting at a Holiday Inn outside of Warsaw the morning of the second day. The single-celled organism blanketed a twenty-meter circumference but constantly expanded and contracted making any accurate measurement impossible and quite dangerous.
A big wad of acidic slime one relation away from the “Blob” of Hollywood fame, they were known as “Green Pudding” among the rank and file
It absorbed bullets like a fat kid eating candy. Try running it over with a car or an APC and it would work its way through the air vents or up the gun barrel and suck out the crew like that same fat kid going for the creamy filling in a cupcake.
Flame proved the best weapon against a Proto-Mass. While waiting for a flamethrower team to move forward, the Green Pudding killed two men and scattered several squads at the front of the column.
However, despite this delay, the advance retained an impressive pace, especially considering that most of Shepherd’s fighters walked in worn sneakers and loafers and carried their gear not in official weatherproof army sacks, but back and fanny packs better suited to strolling a shopping mall than marching into battle.
Along the way, he left small groups to hold key intersections and observation points outlining the bag in which the Hivvans would soon be stuck.
According to reconnaissance, the enemy remained disorganized and—generally—moving south and southwest in clusters ranging in size from squads to regiments. Aerial surveillance noted a number taking refuge in the small city of Clinton where they would face a colony of gigantic, dangerous, and highly territorial spider-ants, not to mention predatory razor-cats certain to inflict a fair number of casualties.
More of his reptilian adversaries continued southward on Rt. 701 in a raggedy column of artillery pieces and supply wagons while still more vacated an adhoc hard-point in Salemburg and retreated along Rt. 242 south.
Judging by their actions, it seemed to Shepherd that the Hivvans had not yet established reliable communications between their scattered formations and did not know where and how the human army deployed.
A communiqué from Gordon Knox detailed Intelligence’s opinion that the best opportunity for the Hivvan force to regroup would come if the smaller bands coalesced at the Bladen Lakes State Forest, roughly in the center of the pocket humanity hoped to box them into, and a scenario that appeared highly likely.
That suited Shep just fine. Hopefully by then the 1st and 2nd Divisions will have reached their objectives and cut off the enemy supply lines, lines already searching for their dispersed comrades.
Once those two depots fell to Shepherd and Stonewall, the Hivvans would be trapped and they would either starve or strangle in a tightening noose of artillery and air power.
As rosy as the plan sound, General Jerry Shepherd faced a bear of a problem that Sunday morning.
While Trevor and JB Stone flew south toward Blacksburg, Shep waited on the tarmac of Wilmington International Airport and contemplated his next move. The idea of investing the port city a short distance to his south did not sit well in his belly.
By all accounts, Wilmington stood in much better shape than most cities, in that it did not include an organized alien garrison and the worst of the extraterrestrial predators prowling its streets did not seem as nasty as those found in places like Pittsburgh or Philadelphia.
Indeed, Gordon Knox’s intelligence teams made contact weeks ago with a group of humans who carved out an existence on Masonboro Sound along the coast.
Nonetheless, going through downtown would
slow his boys and invite pest attacks from all manner of bad things.
Besides, Shepherd saw a real chance to reach Conway before Stonewall hit Dillon. That would make for great fun at the next military meeting.
Those considerations led Jerry Shepherd to a major decision certain to cause waves. He had authorized the use of two C-141 Starlifters (taken after liberating Andrews Air Force Base last year). Those transport planes sucked aviation fuel even more greedily than fat kids eat candy or take to cream filling. Considering all the air power deployed to befuddle the Hivvans (nearly 50 sorties a day), it meant Southern Command gobbled about seventy-five percent of ‘The Empire’s’ jet fuel and around 90% of available pilots.
He eyed the two behemoths taxiing in along the primary runway from his position outside the main terminal. While doing little more than idling, their engines still dominated the air with a droning hum while the smell of fuel covered everything.
Those planes brought with them Shepherd’s plan for dealing with Wilmington. And he must deal with Wilmington. Bypassing it completely would leave a hostile-infested city dangerously close to his supply lines. Furthermore, the city sat on a key junction of roads serving as a critical hinge in the developing trap.
Besides, a cleared Wilmington could be used as a supply distribution point. In addition to the benefits its sea and airports offered, the city was a significant railway hub.
In any case, the planes taxied to a stop and, after a few minutes, rear cargo ramps opened and lowered to the pavement.
The Hunter-Killers arrived.
Trevor Stone was the only human capable of giving complex orders to the Grenadiers. However, post-Armageddon canines came in to the world better trained than any police dogs Shepherd ever worked with during a long career in old-world military and law enforcement.
They responded fast to a wide range of commands and could—on some level—communicate with their human masters through barks and whines. No detailed information, but it did not take Trevor Stone to know when a Grenadier caught whiff of a predator or heard the cry of a human being.
K9s organized in ‘Legions’ of about 500, further broken down into groups of 100 called “Centuries.” Colored collars identified the organization, primarily for the benefit of their human masters: the dogs grew up and trained with each other, becoming a large pack that worked and stayed together as if by instinct.
Human “hunters” commanded Centuries in a loose manner. If you asked a hunter, he would probably admit he just got in the way half of the time.
However, there was the other half of the time, too. Those were the times when K9s faced foes sporting ranged or heavy weapons as well as when they came against the nastier, larger predators that could easily cut through a hundred dogs in a few minutes. Things like Goat-Walkers or a pack of Jaw-Wolves or a Shadow or a Proto-Mass.
Each Grenadier legion included a heavy-weapons Hunter team to combat these more dangerous threats.
The H-K groups straddled a line between military and Internal Security. Most of the time, I.S. coordinated and deployed the groups although military field commanders often took direct control of the teams during situations just like the one faced at Wilmington by Shepherd.
The engines on the planes slowly spooled down from loud to quiet to off. As they did, groups of black-clad humans, fierce looking Doberman Pinschers, Rottweilers, German shepherds, and Belgian Malinois’, as well as cargo and equipment off-loaded from the transports.
Usually Hunter-Killer teams did not operate in groups larger than a legion. For Wilmington, Shepherd used his influence with Dante Jones to have four legions placed at his disposal.
For the assault on Wilmington, an officer of Shepherd’s choosing would coordinate command of the Hunter-Killers, and he knew exactly whom he wanted for the job.
Nina Forest exited the terminal building and joined the General. The planes and their disembarking passengers stood one hundred yards away.
“Is this the last of them?”
Shep told her, “I reckon so. You got enough?”
“You sure you want me for this? You’re going to piss off some of the H-K commanders when they hear you put a field-operator in charge of this.”
“Screw them,” he replied, as his eyes remained focused on the planes. “You did a damn good job in Harrisburg and Trenton and you did it fast. That’s what I need.”
“Yeah, well, I’m just saying, we were a lot smaller than. Now we’ve got all sorts of chains of command and people get their panties in a twist real quick when their toes get stepped on.”
“Anyone thinking like that will get a boot up their ass. You know the boss isn’t much for red tape or bureaucracy. I’m putting in you in charge and that’s the end of the conversation as far as anyone is concerned. Your track record is pretty good. Use the Wolves as necessary. Sweep that city, clear it out, and cover my ass while we head south. Think you can handle that?”
The Captain answered, “Nothing to it.”
Shepherd turned and stared her directly in the eye.
“Nina, I mean it, I got to get my boys over to seventeen today and start going south fast to finish up this little trap we’ve put together. I can’t be worrying about what’s going on behind me. I need you to take this city. I need you to do it fast.”
Nina furled her brow and spat, “Which part of ‘nothing to it’ didn’t you understand?”
He could not help but smile. She was not being arrogant—okay, maybe a little—instead she was, in her mind, simply stating a fact.
After all, one way or another she always got the job done.
–
The city of Wilmington, North Carolina provided a perfect example of what happened to humanity’s sprawling concrete and steel jungles in the five years since the invasion. Unlike Richmond and Raleigh, no large organized alien army bothered with this port city. Instead, a new ecosystem grew over the old.
The vast majority of buildings—government, private, commercial, historical sites—stood intact, although the lack of maintenance showed in overgrown lawns, creeping vines, wind damage, and fading paint.
Five years after Armageddon, those buildings served as dens for a variety of creatures. Among the newcomers, Type A (herbivore, somewhat passive) Giant Sloths thrived by dining on the large number of trees throughout the city. In turn, Type B (carnivore, more aggressive) Giant Sloths thrived by dining on Type A Sloths, as well as a myriad of animals lower on the food chain such as slimy and electrified ‘Land Eels’ and dog-sized reptiles that spat acid and were known as—obviously—’Spit Lizards’.
Ironically, vacant cities like Wilmington became incubators for Earthly animals formerly in danger of eradication. Red wolves hunted amidst the buildings for both terrestrial and extraterrestrial prey including white-tailed deer prancing along vacant boulevards and furry six-legged squirrel-like mammals digging burrows in city parks. Foxes competed with alien carrion eaters for scraps and gray bats shared twilight airspace with gigantic Devilbats.
While the wildlife did not distinguish between Earthly and otherwise, Trevor Stone’s warriors did. Harmless or not, every alien creature faced extermination, and that was the job of the Hunter-Killer teams and why they came to Wilmington, North Carolina on Sunday, August 23rd.
Just before midday, a blue and white helicopter soared toward the squat skyline of Wilmington. Below the chopper, two columns of invaders marched aggressively for the city’s heart.
The first crossed the Northeast Cape Fear Bridge entering the city’s western sector; the second plunged southward along Route 117 intent on occupying the centrally located University of North Carolina at Wilmington campus.
Each column included a thousand disciplined and fearless K9s accompanied by human handlers dressed in black BDUs with matching caps carrying backpacks filled with specialized ordnance and armed primarily with shotguns or hunting rifles.
Nina Forest stood among crates in the rear hatch of an open-air Humvee holding a radio in one hand and claspin
g the roll bar with the other. She led the first column as it crossed the river and entered Wilmington from the west.
The previous day’s rain had blown out to sea leaving behind damp ground, fading puddles, and a musty smell everywhere. As noon approached, the clouds gave way to sun and the temperature rose. She rolled the sleeves on her black BDUs and took off her cap, letting a ponytail fall free to her shoulder blades.
Captain Nina Forest directed the Humvee to lead the mob of dogs and their handlers to the south along the river. When they came to a fork in the road, she radioed orders after consulting a map provided by the navigator sitting in the front passenger seat.
“Romeo One through Five, take Davis Street east until you hit McRae, then clear all points from Bess street north to Red Cross Street south with 4th as boundary west. How copy?”
“Romeo Command to Boss, hard copy all.”
Five different whistles blew and the mass of canines parted with half turning east into a residential neighborhood of small family dwellings, churches, and deteriorated neighborhood parks. Human handlers jogged alongside their fast-trotting Grenadiers waving their arms and shouting to show their army the way.
Nina surveyed the scene ahead where the four-lane blacktop led. Everything looked bleak and neglected, with colors worn to gray, dying and twisted landscaping, and scraps of litter coalescing against walls and stuck in the branches of bushes and trees. A picture postcard from post-apocalyptic America.
Insects—particularly mosquitoes—buzzed everywhere especially in the gravel and weed fields sloping down toward the river off to the right.
She pushed aside aesthetic considerations and dispatched the other half of her force.
“Juliet Two, push west to the river, spread out between the bank and Nutt Street and move south. You’re our right flank. Juliet Three, stack up next to Two, sweep the equipment rental place, the bus station, and then continue south on Front Street. Juliet Four, straight down on North Third until you hit the community college. Clear the college, secure a perimeter, and establish a first aid and rescue zone.”
Beyond Armageddon: Book 02 - Empire Page 13
