Their weapons consisted of hunting rifles, shotguns, and some military-grade carbines; a variety of arms requiring a variety of bullets, a situation that created constant supply challenges.
Cavalry units formed a loose picket line in the distance ahead while crawling APCs, Humvees, and civilian-model vehicles clogged the middle of the road.
General Stonewall McAllister trotted along on horseback with Captain Kristy Kaufman as well as his bugler—freckle-faced Benny Duda—at his side and a perfectly blue sky above. The terrain ahead appeared flat and featureless; except for gaudy billboards promoting the “South of the Border” tourist stop.
Kaufman finished the most recent intelligence report: “There are no signs that the Hivvans have sent reinforcements from Columbia to support the supply depot at Dillon. That means the garrison there is on their own.”
“I am not happy, Captain. Not at all.”
“Sir? I would think this would be good news.”
“What? Yes, the lack of reinforcement is good—if not surprising—news. However, I am focused on the bad news today. We have lost cohesion in our division,” he pointed forward to the unknown ahead. “The front of our column is but seven miles from the objective.” He then turned in his saddle and pointed one gloved hand to the north, behind them. “Yet our column stretches some ten miles. We will arrive at Dillon piecemeal.”
“I understand, General. I suppose those screamer attacks managed to scatter us.”
“No doubt. Yet I sense a lackadaisical attitude among many of our number. Perhaps the proximity of the so-called ‘groupies’ travelling at our rear has caused some to wander in search of, let us say, comforts and leisure activities.”
“Possibly, Sir. I will dispatch a squad to search the caravans for any sign of deserters. However, General, I must point out that food distribution has been rather limited as of late. Some of the boys may merely be searching for a warm meal from the civilians following us.”
“Yes, I know,” Stonewall responded but in a hushed tone to keep his soldiers from hearing. “A scarcity of fuel is inhibiting the supply trucks. Nonetheless, we have a task to accomplish and our fighting spirit has not yet been diminished by these shortfalls.” He pointed to the billboard advertising ‘South of the Border.’ “I intend to rally our forces around this point ahead; this tourist trap. I want to establish my headquarters there and we will organize for the assault on the enemy depot.”
A commotion grabbed their attention. The thin line of horse soldiers marking the forward tip of the division parted and a trio of riders galloped through, led by Dustin McBride.
Benny Duda used his trumpet as a pointer and spoke the obvious, “Our scouts are back.”
“Yes, I see that,” McAllister eyed the galloping riders suspiciously.
McBride waved and yelled but the General could not quite hear the words.
“I say, what is he shouting about?”
Dustin yelled again, “Take cover!”
A flash in the sky caught the General’s attention. Another flash followed a split second later, this one at ground level and it included an electronic buzz as a zone of explosive energy hit the front of an infantry line. The blast fried six men there like a microwave on full power. Their blackened bodies fell apart and the remains of their clothing smoked.
“Incoming!”
The marching columns scattered off the Interstate for cover, but found only fields of grass and light brush.
WHAM-BUZZ. WHAM-BUZZ.
A horse soldier and his mount melted in a lethal electrical blast. The pavement beneath his charred horse turned to slag.
“Hivvan artillery, Sir!” McBride reported as he reached the General. “They’re all over that big rest stop up ahead!”
WHAM-BUZZ.
Two soldiers cowering near a small bush off the highway burst and burned as did the shrub around them.
Stonewall said, “It appears the enemy has sallied out to face us and decided to use the very place I earmarked for our use.”
McBride reported, “They’re dug-in at a fancy shopping place up ahead. We also saw short and medium ranged artillery.”
Another electrical explosion hit close to an APC. Blue sparks danced on its hull, leaving a black scorch on the armored plating.
“Yes, Dustin, I have ascertained as much.”
McBride suggested, “We should call Tactical Air Command. I hear they have the two A-10s up and running again. Send them to bomb the crap out of them. That would do the trick!”
“Splendid idea, Captain,” Stonewall said. “Alas, we received word this morning that no more sorties will be made in support of our advance. It seems our air force has run short on aviation fuel and ordnance. What little remains is committed to interdicting enemy convoys supplying the Hivvans in the pocket.”
The air filled with a feeling of static electricity and a glowing ball of energy impacted the pavement thirty yards from the General and his Captains. A Humvee suffered the brunt of the lethal discharge, its fuel tank exploded and a trio of barbecued bodies scattered on the pavement. Pieces of blasted armor and something resembling a human forearm flew by inches from Stonewall’s nose.
Kaufman warned, “Not safe here, General. They probably have this whole stretch of highway ranged!”
“Sound the retreat, Benny,” he ordered to his teenaged bugle boy and reared his ride about. “Captain Kaufman, signal Bear to move his artillery unit to the front of our column with all due haste. Captain McBride, come with me, we have an attack to plan.”
–
Built adjacent to the eastern edge of I-95, ‘South of the Border’ included a 300-room motel, five different theme restaurants, a variety of trinket stores, eye-catching over-sized ceramic animals including dinosaurs, a wiener-dog and a Hippo that made for humorous photo backdrops, an in-door 18-hole miniature golf course, a couple of fireworks stores, and several gas stations all surrounded by fields and forests.
Sombreros decorated much of the park, including a tall sombrero tower and a giant man straddling a parking lot wearing, of course, a sombrero.
A few vehicles remained, particularly around the gas stations to either side of the main entrance where lines of cars rusted away. An 18-wheeler lay jackknifed in the middle of the main road and the tail end of a crashed Cessna protruded from a white ‘restroom’ building.
Dustin McBride dismounted and moved his brigade forward bravely, but the words “tallyho” did not sound as suave from his lips as from Stonewall’s.
Several of his soldiers rode on horseback; several more were stuffed into Bradley Fighting Vehicles; even more crammed into cargo trucks, SUVs, and pickups.
They descended off the high ground of I-95 about a half-mile from the center of “South of the Border.” Hivvan artillery shells sounded a high-pitched whistle as they fell. Explosions of deadly electrical fields erupted around the vehicles.
One hit an army truck and it caught fire. The men inside scrambled to exit even before the vehicle stopped. Two rolled on the pavement, burning to death.
“Get the hell out of the trucks,” McBride radioed. “Form a picket line of vehicles and men and let’s move forward!”
Dozens of soldiers dismounted their rides. Those in the armored Bradleys stayed put.
The entire force spread into a wide, advancing line. Foot soldiers moved through retail stores where bold ‘sale’ signs advertised wares and around restaurants decorated with giant plaster hamburgers and hot dogs.
All the while incoming artillery melted pavement and men. One shell hit and collapsed a shop where several soldiers sheltered, killing a dozen and wounding twice that number.
Dustin closed in on the 200-foot tall Sombrero Tower by “Pedroland” park. What sound he heard through his one good ear suggested that the Hivvan batteries fired somewhere just ahead. However, Dustin did not have time to give those batteries much thought. A probing force of Hivvan infantry supported by two Firecats came along the main road and opened fire. His ground troop
s hurried to defensive positions while two of the Bradleys moved to intercept.
A firefight raged.
One of the Bradleys smoked from Firecat plasma blasts but it let loose a storm of high caliber bullets into the attacking vehicle causing vapors to spew from the rear engine compartment. The crews of both war machines abandoned their rides.
Dustin watched alien energy bolts come at his troops like horizontal rain, catching victims one after another. Yet his boys returned as good as they got, flinging grenades that sent reptilian soldiers flying into pieces, firing rifles—all manner of firearms—in a murderous rage.
He knew that even as his men fought and died in their attack from the north, Stonewall and his sappers cleared snapmines to the west and came at the Hivvans from that direction, too. Only one piece of the plan remained.
“C’mon, let’s push these bad boys back,” Dustin encouraged. “Let’s go! Attack!”
Using two more Bradleys as cover, several human squads inched forward against the veil of defensive fire. Energy bolts from Hivvan infantry firing from a pedestrian bridge spanning the main road knocked down several of Dustin’s fighters. At the same time, a shoulder-fired missile blasted a Hivvan heavy gunner and his crew from the front window of a souvenir shop.
Dustin watched a burly woman wearing a blue doo-rag charge two reptilian soldiers. She was armed with only a .22 caliber rifle and her thirst for revenge against the invaders. They cut her to pieces but her example encouraged more to race forward, avenging her death and sending a group of Hivvans to flight.
The attackers broke through the first ring of defenders who then retreated using abandoned cars and stores for cover. The enemy artillery barrage ceased for a moment as the front line of the battle broke into chaos.
Yet just as the enemy appeared ready to retreat en masse, reinforcements braced their lines. More Firecats and a horde of infantry. The defenders increased their power threefold and added short-range artillery—green cauldron-like mortars—to the mix.
Dustin’s men fell one after another until fear—not orders—halted the advance.
McBride found cover in the foyer of a drug store. Through his field glasses, he saw the big red and green artillery pieces of the Hivvan defenders that bombarded anything daring to approach Dillon. The four guns resembled 18th century cannon, but much larger, mounted on spherical platforms, and linked to a shed-sized control station via heavy cables.
“This is McBride calling fire support, do you copy, Bear? Are you guys ready to get in on the action?”
He held the walkie-talkie closer to his one ear and listened. A deep, booming voice came over his radio, “McBride, this is Ross; everything is a go for support. Give me coordinates and get your head down.”
Dustin whispered a prayer of thanks, knelt with his back against a building wall, and pulled a small map from the pocket of his dirty jeans. He examined the hand-written lines crisscrossing the map and then radioed his savior, Woody Ross.
“Okay man; let’s see if I can do this right. Um, fire mission, grid 5 – 7, target enemy batteries, infantry, and, um, vehicles. I think that’s—no wait, um, danger close. Fire for range.”
Ross’ voice came through, “Are you sure, Dustin? Don’t be too close.”
“Hey Bear, between me and the General we’ve got these guys boxed in here. You do this right it’s like hitting fish in the barrel just, well,” the enemy’s artillery came back on line and a blast turned two human soldiers standing to McBride’s right into piles of burnt ash. “Just be sure to hit the target, man.”
“First round comin’, keep your head down.”
A moment later, an explosion erupted just in front of the pedestrian bridge crossing over the main road where alien infantry fired mercilessly at Dustin’s force. As nice as it felt to see the lizards scatter, they were not the target.
“Fire control, yeah this is Dustin. Range, short, about fifty yards. Just a little short. Adjust and repeat.”
Thirty seconds later another explosion; this one hit a store near the enemy’s artillery. Dustin watched the Hivvans scurry for cover.
“That’s it! You hit—I mean, fire control, this is Dustin. Right on! Fire for effect! Light em’ up!”
The rain came. A pouring rain of artillery. Explosion after explosion tore apart the pavement, the shops, the restaurants, as well as the enemy guns and infantry. A thick cloud of smoke formed over the one-time tourist attraction, fires burst to life, and the Hivvan defenses crumbled.
–
Trevor and Ashley waited quietly in the sterile hospital lounge.
A clock on the wall ticked but it told faulty time; no one had bothered to reset it since power had been reestablished a year after the invasion began. It ticked away the wrong minutes as if never interrupted by Armageddon.
Still, the ticking sounded as loud as gunshots in the quiet room.
Trevor rubbed his hands together in a physical motion that mimicked his mental state. He replayed the things the intruder had said. He tried to understand.
Was it true? Was there some clue to all of this locked away in his genes? Was he the result of generation after generation of pairing and mating, had his life been predetermined by his DNA?
That would explain his role as a “link” on a chain. Perhaps the Old Man’s words had been a metaphor for genealogy.
But to what end? To what purpose?
Maybe he would fight this war his entire life and then hand the reigns to his son?
He prayed that was not true. He did not want to pass on the loneliness and despair of his purpose to the one bright spot of his life.
Of all the things his half-brother said, one accusation stood above the rest: “You started this. You caused Armageddon.”
Trevor sighed aloud.
“You’re worried, aren’t you?” Ashley asked. “There isn’t something you haven’t told me, is there?”
“Maple said JB did not have a concussion, just a pretty good whack on the head. He’s going to be fine.”
“Then why are we sitting here waiting? Why isn’t he on his way home with us?”
Trevor wrung his hands more and explained, once again, “Because I asked Dr. Maple to run those extra tests. Just to be sure.”
“To be sure he doesn’t have a concussion?”
“Yes,” he lied to her.
To find out who my son really is.
–
General Stonewall McAllister strolled among the devastation wrought by the human and Hivvan armies. Medics lifted crying, pleading comrades from the rubble and hurried them to aid stations while scattered pistol shots signaled the end for alien wounded. A haze of smoke and dust hovered over the scene where the destruction on the ground contrasted sharply with the peaceful blue sky overhead.
Those Hivvans who survived the battle pulled out of “South of the Border” and retreated toward Dillon on secondary roads, primarily Rt. 301.
More than three hundred of Stonewall’s troops died, at least twice that number injured enough to be pulled from the lines. They killed nearly that many Hivvans in addition to destroyed Firecats and artillery.
McAllister realized, however, that had the aliens truly grasped the supply shortfalls faced by his army, they might have risked reinforcements from Columbia. His ‘mechanized’ division lacked the fuel to put the bulk of his mobile units into battle. A little air support or a battlebarge might have allowed the enemy to take the offensive and beat back his infantry, thus halting the entire plan to form a pocket around the alien army in North Carolina.
Regardless, the Hivvans still nearly fought him to a standstill. Only an advantage in artillery range and accuracy allowed humanity to carry the day so quickly. If not for Ross’ guns, Stonewall would have had to deploy almost his entire division to flush out the Hivvans, and that would have cost at least a full day, if not two.
Nevertheless, no significant enemy defenses remained in front of Dillon. They would collect and bury their dead, muster the division, and rea
ch their objective in one last fast march.
That would come tomorrow. What daylight remained would be used to pull his forces together, tend to the wounded, and prepare.
As he resolved himself to this course of action, Stonewall allowed his mind to wander. That is, ‘wander’ in the way a ship ‘wanders’ when in the grip of a whirlpool. It may feel like sailing, but the pilot truly has no choice in direction.
His eye recognized the landscape. His soul—the one buried beneath—filled with old desires. The ghosts called.
With his army’s position secure, General Garrett McAllister issued the rather routine order to dispatch scouts. To the surprise of his officers, the General chose to personally lead one of those scouting parties.
The glassy look in Stonewall’s eye caused Kristy Kaufman, Dustin McBride, Woody Ross, and 17-year-old bugle boy Benny Duda to accompany the man who had saved each of them five years before when the fires of Armageddon threatened to consume everything.
So they ignored the danger of gathering the division’s top officers into one patrol and rode with their leader—their friend—into the past.
They traveled north on back roads near the border between the Carolinas. Horseshoes clomp, clomp, clomped on the pavement, trotting at a leisurely pace along a secluded route surrounded by litter-filled brush. The rustle of slung machine guns, the slosh of half-full canteens, and the gentle jingle of spurs created an almost calming melody.
Five years before, Garrett McAllister—in the person of “Stonewall”—assembled survivors and trekked north, charming his flock with a smooth tongue, courage, and a seemingly supernatural vision of a lakeside estate where humanity gathered for a stand.
In the midst of the chaotic collapse of law and order…in the face of horrendous creatures from the worst possible nightmares…at a time when people deteriorated to basic and selfish survival instincts…in the middle of that came a gallant southern gentleman full of bravery, dignity, and honor.
He treated them with respect but expected their best efforts. He suffered no fools, yet comforted the strong in their moments of weakness.
Beyond Armageddon: Book 02 - Empire Page 29
