Through it all, no one ever asked their General the most basic question. No one ever asked, ‘who is Garrett McAllister?’
In a land where three-legged platypus creatures carried laser rifles and Mutants with massive maws rode hovercraft, a man with the persona of a Civil War General did not seem so odd. They accepted his persona because Armageddon had swept the slate clean.
The solitude of the road they traveled gave way to more signs of yesterday’s civilization.
They came upon a convenience store with two gas pumps and a rusted Buick station wagon out front.
The patrollers guided their horses into that parking lot to find what five-year-old goodies might be scavenged, although they knew any gasoline in the pumps would have long ago eroded into worthless liquid.
One of the mounted riders did not follow the rest.
Stonewall eschewed the store and directed his horse in another direction, toward a bank of numbered mailboxes under a large wooden signpost for “Happy Acres.”
The General examined those boxes for several seconds before dismounting and tying his steed to a yellow and black “Children at Play” sign.
Stonewall, as if in a trance, followed a small side road that ascended a slight grade into a patch of thin woods.
Across the way, Benny Duda took note of the General’s behavior. He grabbed the attention of the other officers who, one by one, dismounted and tied their horses, too.
Woody Ross directed the attention of Dustin, Kristy, and Benny to one particular mailbox.
McAllister.
They followed their General. Garrett paid them no attention; his eyes remained focused ahead as the woods gave way to a flat clearing holding the remains of a trailer park.
A few of the mobile homes stood intact, but they were the exception. Others lay in halves, many more burned to the ground, one simply flattened like a stomped cardboard box.
Garrett’s head turned side to side as he walked, marking each home, each memory.
At the end of one row sat the remains of a trailer, its roof and most of the walls burned or otherwise disintegrated yet, ironically, the front door stood closed, held in place by a frame that refused to collapse.
Garrett paused for a brief moment and then circumvented the door, walking under the shadow of what remained of the roof.
His eyes grew wide and his lips parted slightly, giving him the look of a child in the grips of great wonder.
Burned boards and curtains and shattered glass littered the floor. He stepped around overturned furniture, a crooked reading lamp, and a split kitchen table as he surveyed the destroyed interior.
His friends hovered several paces behind, silently watching.
Garrett removed his hat and tucked it under one arm as he approached a shelf nailed into one of the few remaining walls. He ran a hand over the surface, as if performing a white glove test. When he found nothing other than dust, he retreated a step and scanned the debris below.
Garrett bent and retrieved a picture frame from the floor. The image showed a woman, a little boy, and a little girl. A mother and her kids. A wife and a husband’s children.
He held the frame and studied it, tracing the cracked glass with gloved fingers, touching the faces of the family there. His fingers trembled. At first a little, but then more.
His eyes narrowed and lips pursed tighter…tighter…and then he surrendered.
Stonewall had slain many aliens and chased off uncountable hordes of monsters in the years since donning a General’s uniform, but he could not fight the man’s tears.
As thin streaks traced down his cheek, he felt the strong grip of Woody Ross on his shoulder, then the slender form of Kristy Kaufman as she wrapped her arms around him and squeezed. Then Benny and Dustin completed the warm wall of affection and strength around their General.
They stood there, together, their hearts melded to his in a tender silence broken only by the sobs of a man named Garrett McAllister…
…He sat on a pile of cinderblocks outside what had once been his home, and stared into space as the others gathered around.
“I was a man of many…passions,” he licked his lips but his eyes did not blink nor waver. “Many of these passions were easily obtained from a bottle. I really did not care which bottle it was, as long as my passion was satiated. And it was not for me to question why. After all, for a life so lacking in adventure and so rooted in the routine, what was wrong with seeking a little passion now and then?”
Wind blew through the trees surrounding the long-dead trailer park. Leaves rustled. Litter bounced across the streets like tumbleweeds in a desert.
“When the good Lord decided to pass judgment on humanity, I was busy indulging my passions at a tavern. Indulging quite heavily. I recall a rather nasty brouhaha, one which required the local constable to intercede. Therefore, my dear friends, when fate knocked on my door I was not home to answer, in that I was in the custody of that constable who did not take kindly to being struck.”
Garrett paused. After several seconds, he blinked and regained his train of thought.
“Where was I? Oh, yes. When fate knocked at my door, the task of answering fell upon my wife and my children. It seems that if fate could not have me that day, it would take them.”
Stonewall’s friends glanced around the neighborhood. Whatever hostile ‘fate’ sent to knock on McAllister’s door, it performed its destruction with efficient brutality, leaving almost no home in the park untouched.
“With all that was afoot that momentous morning, the good constable saw it in his kindness to allow me my leave. Indeed, he encouraged me to—in not so many words—to see to my family’s safety. Of course, by the time I found my way home, fate had already claimed its prize.”
Kristy tried, “There’s nothing you could have done.”
“That is where you are quite mistaken. I could have died. I could have died with my children. Had I managed to do at least that, then I would have done something of consequence for them. As it is, my record as a paternal guardian and as…as a husband…well,” he licked his lips but found little saliva there. “Suffice to say that a recounting of my history in such capacities would show that I was, to say the least, ‘lacking’. In the end, they died very much as they lived; without their father.”
Garrett glanced at them quickly, as if hastily fulfilling an obligation for eye contact. Those eyes then found the ground.
“As you are quite aware, destruction came to this Earth in many forms, and the manner in which people faced that destruction came in many forms as well. I witnessed acts as cowardly and as selfish as I had been guilty of in my neglect for my family, but fate showed me the best, as well. I watched from a distance as a police officer protected a mother and her child. With the last bullet expended from his pistol, he grappled a monster twice his size. It cost him his life.
“I saw a woman ram her car into a giant beast as it assaulted traffic when she might have lived longer had she driven off. As I snuck through the parking lot of a retirement village, I witnessed a teen age boy run into a burning building under assault from fire-breathing insects to rescue an elderly man, perhaps his own grandfather although equally as likely a stranger.
“I saw so much that day, that as I look back, it was as if a higher power granted me a tour of the human soul; as if Virgil took my arm and guided me through the inferno.
“So yes, I saw the best, but also the worst. For every police officer protecting a family there was a scoundrel using the chaos as an opportunity to ravish a woman, or loot a store of wares. Imagine that, stealing a television in the midst of the Apocalypse! What absurdity.
“I saw, in others, my shortcomings. As everything fell apart, I realized how small a man I was, and how utterly worthless to anyone around me.”
He wiped his brow.
Kristy Kaufman said, “That’s the old world, General. None of that matters now. Forget the past.”
“How kind of you to say, but I remember the past. I hold
on to it, you understand.”
He clutched the fabric of his uniform above his heart.
“I begged my way onto a pick up truck heading south to Florence, where a cousin lived. I hoped to connect with a family I had distanced myself from, perhaps in a subconscious attempt to redeem myself. I failed in that regard, but as I roamed the streets, I saw a group of what we now call ‘Ghouls’ attacking a neighborhood. I felt certain I would soon perish, and for the last act of a despicable life, I desired to die for someone else.
“A car burned on the street, I can still smell its foul smoke. Through a thick plume of that smoke, I saw a trio of those Ghouls charge through the front door of a home, and I am certain I heard a scream at that point, perhaps a woman or maybe a child. Regardless, I stormed to the rescue with nothing other than my bare hands. I did not expect that my fists would be any match for the claws and teeth of those animals, but absolution—not victory—remained my priority.
“I found that this was no ordinary home. It was, in fact, the ‘War Between the States’ museum. In the lobby, I found the three Ghouls. I also found at my feet, a toppled display case, smashed open and its contents strewn on the floor. Something like ‘swords of the confederacy’ or the like.
“I never held a sword in my life, and this example did not appear particularly sharp. Nonetheless, I dispatched the three beasts, I am still not sure exactly how. It felt as if providence guided my blows. When I searched the museum, I found no trace of damsels in distress; perhaps I imagined the scream.
“Regardless, I left the building, sword in hand, and sought to send as many monsters to their doom as possible before they could end my suffering. Opportunities for such a glorious death abound for I saw at least nine, maybe ten of the things attacking persons trapped in cars and swarming homes.”
He turned to his friends and told them, “I killed all of them, without suffering a single scratch on my person. I was tired and worn and with each moment I expected to die. My only thought was that I would die fighting; that I would die with some manner of dignity, the way a good southern gentleman faces his fate. You must understand that the odds would have been stacked against me even if I carried a machine gun as a weapon, let alone an ancient sword with a dull blade.
“When it was over, a father thanked me for saving his family trapped in their overturned minivan. He said, ‘God bless you.’ I wondered if God would ever do such a thing.”
“You saved all those people,” Kristy said. “You redeemed yourself.”
“No, my dear, the balance sheet in my soul is still red; many markers for a life wasted remain to be paid. Nonetheless, I should have died that day. The life I lead now is borrowed time and I shall put it to good ends. In a way, it is a dream of what I wish I had been before. Therefore, I embrace it fully. I take all that was good from my southern heritage and carry it into this new world, leaving behind the bad including the lazy, dead parts of the man who failed his family. This is who I must be, from now until the day fate comes to collect its due. Until then I shall be the person I should have been when destiny knocked on my door and I failed to answer.”
–
Grandpa Trump took JB by the hand and the two strolled off along the hospital corridor with Tyr the Elkhound pacing behind protectively. Dr. Maple closed the office door behind them and turned to speak with the boy’s parents.
The doctor desperately suppressed a yawn before he started; it had been a long day.
No. It had been a long morning followed by a long day followed by a long evening and, finally, what had the makings of a long night. He had spent every minute of that time testing, analyzing and theorizing about Jorge Benjamin Stone, a three-year-old riddle of a boy.
“Your son is fine,” he blurted out as their mouths started to form an assault of questions. “He has a good bump on his head but no lasting damage.”
“Dr. Maple,” Ashley said. “I doubt it took you all day to tell us that.”
“Well, of course, no,” he stumbled. “I ran those extra tests.”
“And..?” Trevor encouraged an answer. “What did you find?”
Ashley stared at him in a mixture of anger and surprise. She suddenly realized that he had ordered their son to be thoroughly examined, like a specimen in a research lab.
“I…I’m not really sure,” the doctor admitted.
“You poked and prodded him all these hours and you’re not sure?” Trevor treated the doctor like a field General who failed an assault.
“What did you do to my son? You didn’t hurt him, did you?” Ashley’s anger blossomed in the red of her cheeks. Anger at both of them. Anger at her son being treated like a guinea pig.
Dr. Maple held up his hands defensively. “Nothing! No, no, everyone relax. We did only the least obtrusive of tests. He barely felt a pinprick. In fact, it seemed to me your son enjoyed the entire process. Nonetheless, for all our work the tests—the scans—can only provide a snap shot. Some of our brain specialists were able to do a little more but—”
“Brain specialists?” Ashley shouted and alternated death-dealing glares between the two men.
“What did you find?” Trevor repeated, ignoring Ashley’s anger.
“You’re son, he is extraordinary.”
“Yes, thank you, but what did you…” Trevor stopped himself. Dr. Maple had not offered a casual compliment. He offered his analysis. “What do you mean…extraordinary?” the father changed his tone.
Dr. Maple led them both to seats next to his desk.
“Your son…his mind…his brain,” Maple struggled to find the description and decided it best to retreat and start somewhere approximating the beginning. “For all our science and technology, we still know very little about how the brain works, how it does the things it can do. It controls our involuntary reflexes and all of our bodily functions. Like the computer at the center of each person. But so much more; personality, senses, perception, memory…so much. Yet the normal human being accesses and uses only a small percentage of the cells inside the brain.”
Ashley trembled as she asked, “And…and my son?”
“You realize I can not draw any conclusions from the rushed tests we did today,” he covered himself. “I would need weeks…maybe months to truly develop a real understanding—”
“And my son, doctor?” Ashley insisted.
Maple heaved a deep breath.
“It appears to us that he is accessing and utilizing a higher percentage of his brain than we ever thought was possible. You have to understand, there are a large number of cells inside the brain that science has always assumed were there just as protection. Yet in Jorgie’s brain they appear to be active.”
Dr. Maple fidgeted as he grew excited.
“But what does that mean?” Trevor needed an answer.
“I don’t’ know,” Maple admitted. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“Is he in danger? Is his health in danger?” Ashley panicked.
“I don’t think so, but I have no way of knowing. You have to understand,” Maple struggled to boil the complex data and observations into something he could translate to laymen.”Science has identified more than 300 types of neurotransmitters in the human brain.”
“Neurotransmitters?” Trevor repeated the word.
Trevor’s access to the genetic memories of humanity had not included much in the way of health sciences info. Instead, those memories focused on weapons systems, fighting techniques, marksmanship, and flying attack aircraft.
“Chemicals that transmit across synapses in the brain. Each of the known types is associated with different functions of the brain. For example, um, Acetylcholine transmits messages to the heart, other muscles, and sweat glands. Serotonin is associated with the process of learning and consciousness.”
“And..?” Trevor led.
“And we’ve found indications that your son has three, maybe four times as many types of neurotransmitters in his brain. With more tests we could confirm that, and maybe under
stand.”
“No more tests,” Ashley said.
Trevor did not argue. He still struggled to understand the meaning. He said, “He has more of these neurotransmitters than the average Joe?”
“A lot more types,” Maple put a fine point on it. “His brain is doing things we don’t understand. It has more functions…more uses…more ability…deeper consciousness—I do not know. We just don’t know.”
Ashley threw her hands into the air in frustration and repeated her question, “But doctor! What does it all mean?”
Dr. Maple’s voice rose a little but not to the point of disrespect. “I…don’t…know.”
Trevor’s eyes gazed off at some yet-to-be-revealed truth as he spoke.
“Someday…someday we’re going to find out.”
20. Battle at the Top of the World
A slab of rock protruded from the sea of white like an island in the middle of a frozen ocean, perhaps coughed up from beneath the surface as the result of an ancient earthquake or other disturbance.
Whatever the cause, this sanctuary from open ground covered a square mile with edges surprisingly defined, as if nature purposely grew a fortress to command the surrounding plain of snow and ice.
A lip of rock reaching as high as five feet tall at spots composed the outer ‘wall’ while boulders, mounds of dirt, snow and more rock walls created a sort of maze within.
This strange stretch of rock was not Jon Brewer’s final destination, merely an interesting sight on his journey across the glacier. However, it quickly became the most important piece of real estate on the planet. Jon and his expedition raced for that stretch of defensible territory because their lives—and perhaps the continued existence of mankind—depended on it.
“C’mon damn it! Hurry!”
Jon abandoned the SUSV command module for a fast-moving snow mobile, leading other snow mobile troops ahead of the main force as they marched in a northeasterly direction.
A half mile away, an alien army moved parallel to the human one. Like Jon’s force, the enemy traveled primarily on foot although several elephant-sized fur-covered lizard-things served as pack animals and the enemy also drove a couple of big, two-seat vehicles with three thick, huge wheels, making them resemble a grown up version of a tricycle.
Beyond Armageddon: Book 02 - Empire Page 30
