Jon surveyed the battlefield.
To his right looking north along Front Street he saw eight vehicles burning and the scattered remains of three more across both the paved road and the grass of Bicentennial Park. The columns of black, oily smoke stretched into the sky and mingled with the thunderheads spawned by Voggoth’s army. The greasy smell of ignited fuel, the burning odor of expended ammunition, and the putrid stench of death swirled together and hung across the scene so heavy Jon thought he might suffocate.
Several squads remained intact across the waterfront and a pair of Vietnam-era APCs rumbled into position along the railroad tracks where they disembarked about 15 newcomers-most in Internal Security police uniforms-who searched for cover in the shadow of the toppled cable-stayed bridge.
A field adjacent to the basement of the destroyed building where Jon’s bunker lay had been filled with foxholes, trenches, and armored vehicles at the start of the battle. Now he saw bodies, blasted sandbags, and an overturned LAV. Smoke from the fires and explosions settled over the lot like a fog. Through that fog he saw signs of movement: a gun barrel here, a helmet there, but he could not accurately gauge how many men remained in those positions.
To his left-to the south-a similar sight. The heart of the truss-style Memorial Bridge lay in the Mississippi, leaving a raised highway and on-ramp leading to nothing. Beneath that a substantial number of soldiers still fought from inside the remains of an industrial building as well as from trenches dug in the riverbank. A badly-scarred but still-functional Abrams tank stood defiantly in the open on Main Street and a pair of matching Humvees held their ground within the shell of a destroyed cistern along the river.
Still holding, Jon thought, but the real battle hasn’t even started yet.
The Order’s weapons for that ‘real’ battle assembled on the far bank with a massive cloud of smoke from the destroyed Chrysaor floating behind like the back curtain of a stage.
They resembled frogs. Big mechanical frogs; each the size of a house with spiked treads instead of feet. Armored plating, cameras for eyes, and mist-spitting tubes along their back ensured they would not be mistaken for Earthly creatures, but the frog analogy held in Jon Brewer’s mind.
They lined up among the flattened woodlands of the western side of the Mississippi; about two dozen of them. White mist attempted to hide their activities but humanity’s defenders saw the intent: the time had come for Voggoth’s army to cross the river.
In addition to the frog-things, the twin whirlwinds that had spent most of the battle dancing on The Order’s flank swept in to the river bank. As the swirling clouds of white and gray approached, the winds slowed and collapsed in toward a central point like a fog machine in reverse. From those dying winds materialized a host of demonic creatures.
Jon recognized their gray cloaks and skeletal faces with empty black eyes and elongated jaws: the Wraiths. Each of the two fading windstorms spawned hundreds of the foot soldiers as well as a pair of giants, each one eight-stories tall with skinny bodies and slack-jawed maniac faces. Their extremely long arms dragged on the ground and ended with big fists attached to rubbery wrists.
The Order’s assault did not go unchallenged.
Jon radioed, “Mortar teams open up, damn it! We need anti-armor up here!” Then on another frequency, “Shep, get ready.”
“Roger that, Jon, we’re ready to roll,” came the radioed reply.
The remaining mortar teams in the field to the north opened fire. Explosions tore across the western river bank. One of the frog-things blew into two pieces; a squad of Wraiths flew into the air and broke apart into grains of dust.
“Cassy, what’s your status?”
She radioed back, “I’ve left a few units at the school and am moving into position with the rest of my riders. Just give us the go and we’re there.”
He admired her enthusiasm.
Tendrils of white mist spread across the western dike in an attempt to cover the approach. The giants-all four of them-strode in big steps to the riverbank and added their unique form of artillery to the fight.
Their arms raised high above their savage heads.
A Javelin anti-tank missile hit one of the creatures in the chest, eliciting a roar of anguish and knocking it backwards before it could complete its strike.
The other three, however, were not stopped. Their fists hit the ground. Three focused earthquakes sped from the opposite bank and caused the water of the Mississippi to boil; a huge whirlpool sprung to life in the center of the river sucking down the overturned barges.
The tremor reached the east shore. What remained of the pavement of Front Street cracked and shook. Three huge sink holes opened to a hiss of steam and a geyser of water.
Soldiers-both career professionals and post-Armageddon civilian recruits-along the river retreated in panic; a few fell into the holes, most found new places to hide among the bombed-out, burned houses and shops of Quincy.
Two machine gun teams and a squad of irregulars joined the general in his foundation-bunker. Jon could not blame his men for retreating but Voggoth’s first intent-to clear a bridgehead-proved successful.
The protective shield of mist hung like a thin veil over the far side of the Mississippi, yet Jon could still see the creatures busy at work. The frog-things reached the water’s edge. Their mouths-if that is what they could be called-opened as if the things needed to vomit. A flap-what Jon’s eyes saw as a tongue-stretched overtop the water all the way to the east bank where it dug into the ground and root-like protrusions cemented the seal. An instant latter that tongue-the bridge-solidified into a material resembling hardened rubber.
“Shep! Cassy! Better get up here!”
More than 20 of the insta-bridges spanned the Mississippi from the warehouses and docks a quarter mile south of Jon’s position to Riverfront Park opposite Quisippi Island north of the now-destroyed Memorial bridge. The Wraiths came first across the bridges and the giants waded the waters taking pains to avoid the spinning whirlpool. Jon suspected the rest of Voggoth’s army lined up to follow the vanguard across.
“Get those guns going, boys,” he told the men around him who in turn used the edge of the concrete slab as leverage for their M249 machine guns. The rest of the soldiers-some in army-reg BDUs others in street clothes-added to the fight with carbines and hunting rifles.
Jon thought he might go deaf from the roar of the guns but they sounded sweet music nonetheless. The first pack of Wraiths to set foot on Bicentennial Park were ground into dust instantly. More followed.
A runner jumped into the open foundation carrying cartridges of ammo for the heavy guns. As the soldiers accepted the fresh bullets, Jon patted one of the heavy gunners on the shoulder and motioned down the destroyed block.
“Get your ass a hundred yards south,” the soldier saw where one of the bridgeheads faced only small arms fire. “We got more than just one bridge here!”
A hauntingly familiar sound came to Jon’s ears, forcing him to pause his instructions. The sound made him shiver, not so much from fear but from memories of frigid winds and frozen snow drifts.
He heard the sound of a Wraith screaming its deadly voice: “wwwwwhhhhhaaaaaaaaaaaaa.”
The screams came in a chorus. The jaws of the skeletal beasts opened to unfathomable width. The atmosphere between their black mouths and the targets of their fury shimmied as if the air molecules vibrated to the point of shaking apart.
Their voice acted as their only weapon, but proved lethal enough. While others could hear the sound, the weapon killed more precisely: Jon witnessed a foot soldier wearing a St. Louis Rams T-shirt and a blue baseball cap firing a shotgun from behind a toppled tree explode from the chest up. He saw a mortar team situated between a pair of crumbling concrete walls break apart as if unseen chains pulled their bodies in ten directions; the explosive shells around their feet detonated as a side effect.
But the Wraiths did not last long. Like the allies at Normandy in 1944, the first wave met a withering rain of fire. Puffs of dust up and down the line signified destroyed monsters one after another from rifle fire and grenades.
The giants did better. Two of the three reached the shore although both were littered with deep wounds from bullets and shrapnel. One stomped down on a machine gun nest crushing the crew; the second kicked an overturned car and sent it flying into a cluster of soldiers shooting from a collapsed store front.
Behind the giants, the waters of the Mississippi sizzled and then two more over-sized attackers emerged from the river and climbed the bank: the “Stone Soldiers” resembled 15-foot-tall statues carved in tribute to a Roman Legionnaire or a similar ancient warrior. They walked in big clumsy steps and waded into the fray. One knocked a Humvee over. A second crushed a girl firing an MP5.
Across the bridges came a flood of Spider Sentries of various configurations as well as Ogres and Monks taking advantage of the chaos caused by the rampaging giants. A line of hovering Shell-tanks-at least 20 of them-floated overtop the river waters and moved to support Voggoth’s foot soldiers. As the invaders poured onto the east bank Jon could feel the front collapsing-until…
The squeak and clatter of armored vehicles filled the general’s heart with joy. A line of Bradley Fighting Vehicles, APCs and a column of infantry descended the slope of Main Street toward the river front. General Jerry Shepherd, running with his troops, led the way.
“Cassy,” Jon radioed. “Get your riders onto the northern flank. We need to cut off either end of the attack and collapse everything down along the riverfront.”
She answered with an enthusiastic shout, “Roger that, General. Stonewall’s brigade rides again!”
Jon envisioned the cavalry galloping headlong into The Order’s bridgehead at Riverfront Park. A violent collision of men, horses, and guns against the ungodly creations of Voggoth’s war machine. While he imagined the happenings to the north, Jon could plainly see the battle raging around him.
Fire from Shep’s armored vehicles gored the giants and broke the Stone Soldiers into rubble; a Shell-Tank burst into flames from an armor-piercing round.
The newly-arriving infantry-the last of Jon’s reserves-engaged in close-quarters battle with Voggoth’s army turning Front Street into a battlefield as brutal and primitive as any in history.
Shot gun blasts at point blank range proved enough to decapitate Ogres. Spider Sentry weapons spat deadly pellets. Monk guns found targets; grenades blew apart everything. Shell-Tanks fired lethal bolts that exploded among the human ranks; one hit and disabled an approaching Bradley. An anti-tank missile hit one of those Shell-Tank; it fizzled and broke and collapsed.
And there stood Jerry Shepherd, the old war horse, in the midst of the fight with dust and dirt covering his officer’s uniform and a Stetson on his head. Shep wielded an M14 rifle and carefully selected targets. Jon watched him put down a Wraith at long range and then kill a charging Ogre with a perfect shot in the forehead.
Inspired by the sight, Jon used a concrete chunk as a stepstool and hauled himself out of the bunker, grabbed an M16 from the arms of a dead soldier, and fired into the enemy’s side of the mob on Front Street. His first shot hit one of the robed Monks that had just rammed a sword through some poor guy’s BDUs.
Jon never saw the Ogre coming, however. The brute picked up and threw a soldier halfway across the street then closed on the general. A huge, muscle-bound arm hit Jon square in the chest and sent him flying back into the basement foundation.
His world went black.
Woody “Bear” Ross greeted General Rhodes with a nod as the two stood twelve stories high on the roof of a tall, thin building overlooking the Mississippi.
Before Armageddon, the building-a grain elevator-belonged to ‘Cargill’ as proclaimed by the big logo on the west-facing side. In the years since, the building belonged only to Father Time, who had eroded the grain silos to rusty heaps and warped the trestles and conveyor belts that once loaded river barges.
“Twelfth mechanized infantry brigade is assembling on I-255, about three miles from here. We’re all ready to go.”
Bear knew Rhodes deserved a big tip of the hat for pulling those troops up from Hannibal so fast. They now served as the only formidable human force opposite Voggoth’s St. Louis battle group.
Speaking of which, Ross turned his attention west. The wind blew across the roof carrying a stench of fire and decay. Directly across the river from Ross’s position stood the landmark St. Louis arch on the grounds of the Jefferson National Expansion Memorial. Somehow it still stood.
There should have been tall buildings beyond the arch. There should have been St. Louis. But with the exception of the frame of Bush Stadium, everything had been knocked flat. Supersonic blows from the Leviathan saw to that. Covered beneath the wind-swept banks of debris lay thousands of dead defenders.
St. Louis belonged to Voggoth. The storm clouds made for an angry sky encompassing downtown and reaching over the Mississippi. The Leviathan stood in stark contrast to the now-flat horizon as a monument to The Order’s power to destroy. Curls of smoke from smoldering fires and clouds of dust swirling around its massive legs gave it the aura of invincibility. Ross knew different; if only he had the means.
Artillery fired from the banks of East St. Louis and landed amid the Roachbots, Mutants, Ghouls, and assorted demons in the enemy’s army. The impacting shells cast small puffs of smoke that seemed insignificant against the backdrop of the towering Leviathan.
Rhodes stepped to Ross’ side at a rail on the edge of the roof. A handful of brave aids stayed with the Generals.
“Hey wait a second,” Rhodes saw something that surprised him. “You haven’t taken down that bridge yet,” and he pointed toward the Poplar Street Bridge that carried three different Interstates from Illinois to Missouri and back again.
“No. I’m going to let a nice bunch of his critters get across before we blow it.”
“Pinch him off, right?”
“Yeah.”
“What if they spot the demo charges?”
Ross said, “I got arty zeroed in on the bridge. We dropped smoke shells to make sure. But it doesn’t matter. Those things never go looking for mines or explosives. I think they like to act like it don’t matter.”
Rhodes agreed, particularly in the case of the Roachbots who led Voggoth’s advance to the river. They either did not care or were too insane to give it a thought.
Ross’ radio crackled with static and then the voice of Captain Carl Dunston reported from a recon Eagle circling overhead: “Bear, this is Dunston. We’ve got some newcomers to the party.”
Ross closed his eyes. He knew the newcomers would not be friendlies; there were no more friendlies around.
“What’d you see?”
”Look to the southwest, Bear,” Dunston said and Woody opened his eyes, raised his binoculars, and followed the direction. “Just off the river in from those docks. Just follow the railroad tracks.”
Ross’ field glasses first spied the rectangular white recon ship with the sharp nose cone. It hung over the far side of the river further to the south.
Dunston.
Ross found the spot the pilot directed him to: a huge labyrinth of railroad tracks complete with toppled box cars nestled among several partly-destroyed industrial and commercial buildings including the massive St. Louis Arsenal, all to the south of downtown by a little less than two miles.
Ross recognized the newcomers: self-propelled objects resembling upside down silver bowls with circular indents on top. He had seen them in action during the battle for Wilkes-Barre at the end of that first year.
“Centurians. The Redcoats are here.”
Rhodes mumbled, “Ah, shit.”
About a dozen of the heavy artillery pieces hovered into place in the massive train yard between Dorcas and Arsenal streets. Several smaller ground transports disembarked several hundred red and white clad soldiers slightly larger than the typical human male. The Centurian infantry mustered into ranks in preparation for battle.
“Damn,” Rhodes did not have binoculars but he held a hand above his eyes and squinted. He knew better, but the general could not help to ask in a hopeful tone, “Can they hit us from here?”
Ross lowered his glasses and answered, “You know they can. You know sure as shit they could probably hit the two of us right between the eyes from where they’re at.”
“Yeah, I know,” and Rhodes did, he had operated one of the captured Redcoat guns at Five Armies. Ironically the Eagle anti-gravity ship that spotted the approaching Centurians also came courtesy of those same aliens, although apparently they brought none of their own on that particular day. “Guess The Order figures they’ve got us whipped, time to send in their friends to get all the glory.”
“No bridges down there. They have to come across up here.”
“So we’ll just wait for them to cross then I’ll hit them with everything I got.”
Ross nodded his head and replied, “That’s about the size of it. Good luck, General.”
“You too, Bear. See ya’ when it’s over, one way or another.”
“Hey, you still with us?”
Jon Brewer could not be sure if the voice came from an angel or an earthly source-until he opened his eyes and saw Jerry Shepherd leaning over him.
“Yeah, I-oh, shit, my head hurts.” Jon felt a heavy thump.
Shepherd slipped his arms around Jon’s shoulders and one general helped the other to his feet.
Jon first noticed a heavy fog of smoke drifting over the bombed-out basement foundation. He also noticed a distinct lack of sound: no gunshots, no explosions, only a few voices. He next noticed several stretchers and makeshift beds at the rear of the basement where a solitary nurse tended to a trio of wounded boys. She must have been one of the few ‘groupies’ to stay behind when most of the army’s families ran east.
Another heavy thump. Jon placed a hand on his head.
“Damn, this thing is pounding. I must have a concussion.”
Shepherd told Jon grimly, “You probably do, but the pounding ain’t in your noggin’.”
Jon climbed out from the bunker with Jerry Shepherd behind him.
The remains of a gruesome battle covered Front Street from north to south. Bodies-of monsters and men-lay everywhere. Some still moaned and twitched. Craters dotted the park and the pavement as well as three huge sinkholes from the unnatural earthquakes; fires burned from human vehicles and Voggoth’s Shell-Tanks. Jon surveyed the damage through blurry vision.
Thump.
General Cassy Simms and a handful of riders slowly trotted south toward him and Shep. As a gust of wind pushed the fog, Jon’s vision cleared enough that he saw Cassy’s eyes to be wide and glazed. An abrasion bled on her cheek; her black general’s uniform appeared wet with alien gore.
Shepherd explained, “It was a good fight, Jon. We stopped the little ones dead in their tracks.”
“No-no-I missed it?” He glanced around, still unable to focus on anything more than a few yards away.
Thump.
“They stopped coming about half an hour ago and pulled back. Their bridges are still up. They’ll be coming again soon. But we don’t have much left to face them, General. I reckon it’ll be over mighty quick.”
The quiet of the battlefield amazed Jon. He heard a few groans here, a couple of cries of pain, and random whispers. He also heard a buzzing noise. Something distant. He tried to look around but his head spun.
“Easy, big fella,” Shep consoled as Cassy dismounted nearby. “They showed up a few minutes ago. Moving into position now. I guess time’s up.”
“Who? What?”
Thump.
Jon’s vision cleared-enough. A wind gust blew away much of the remaining fog. He saw the spinning clouds overhead. He saw a mighty flash of lightning. And in that flash he saw the latest arrivals to the battlefield: a trio of Geryon battleships. Each one a big dirigible with two smaller blimps attached to either side with a slow moving propeller to stern, a nasty-looking main gun that resembled a cross between a satellite dish and a howitzer on the bow, as well as a modular gondola hanging underneath the main frame.
Cassy Simms reported in a monotone voice, “Stonewall’s brigade has held the northern flank, sir. But there are only ten of us left. Hoorah.”
Shepherd walked to Cassy and told her, “Garret would have been proud, Cassy. Damn fine job.”
Jon took a step forward and nearly stumbled over the remains of an Ogre. It appeared to be a leg or something. He steadied himself and-
Thump.
Jon faced west. The thumps did not come from his head. They came with each step the Leviathan took as it approached the riverbank: a walking skyscraper looming over the survivors of humanity’s last stand. The final weapon in the war of Armageddon.
They should have run. The natural flight instinct in the face of such a horrifying creature should have turned the men and women of humanity’s last battle into a hysterical mass.
But it was not courage that kept them from fleeing. It was exhaustion. Physical and mental. A sense of malaise overcame the soldiers as they watched the last act unfold.
Except for Jon. His emotions cut through the exhaustion; through the malaise.
“No.”
Not a plea, but an order. No. This will not be allowed.
Jon looked over his troops again. So many dead, but they still held. The odds had been stacked against them but they held. And now this?
No!
“Now, what are they up to?” Shep asked in a shaky voice that tried hard to sound calm but only partially succeeded.
Shep pointed Jon’s attention to a field across the river north of the battle. One of the Geryon battleships hovered there. A nice chunk of its gondola dropped away from the zeppelin on wires and fell to the ground.
“Steel Guard,” he told Shep. “Trevor told us about them, remember?”
“Oh, yeah, virtual reality robots or something. More of that Star Trek shit I can’t get a handle on.”
Cassy spoke the obvious with a sneer in her voice, “The Leviathan blows us over and they come marching through to take the credit.”
No!
The remaining two Geryon airships floated into formation with one to either side of the Leviathan as the cloud-touching monstrosity came to a standstill on the far side of the Mississippi.
Only a handful of soldiers on the human side took refuge. The rest remained in the grip of that malaise. Either the Geryon’s would fire first and cut them to pieces or the Leviathan would unleash its big wind. Either way, in a minute Quincy would be the final resting place of humanity.
Jon, however, refused to go quietly.
“No, not after all this,” and he pulled his side arm-an automatic pistol-and stepped away from the group toward the bank. The mighty Leviathan towered high above. He craned his neck as if speaking directly to the monster across the river. Bolts of lightning crackled in the turbulent sky. The winds whipped in a frenzy like demons dancing a long night’s last song.
“We survived!”
He raised his gun and fired a single shot that echoed up and down the river.
“Everything they threw at us and we survived!”
Bang. The second bullet, like the first, carried out over the Mississippi and fell somewhere in the water or on the opposite bank.
“We lost Johnny, and Stonewall and Casey! They were good people!”
The Leviathan sucked in air from above. A sound like an air raid siren competed with Jon’s voice but that voice still managed to reach the ears of his people, many of whom stepped forward with their own pistols and shotguns and rifles.
“You took my wife!”
BANG.
Shep and Cassy flanked Jon. They would face the end the same way they had survived the beginning: together.
The Geryon battleships shimmied as their main guns charged. They stayed to either side but slightly behind the Leviathan, clear of its blast cone.
“You stole our lives!”
A lightning bolt lit the sky like a miniature sun. The thunder boom that followed made the ground shake. Bubbles like sores rippled all along the giant creature’s skin as it filled with the air needed for its deadly weapon.
“WE’RE NOT RUNNING FROM YOU! GIVE US YOUR BEST YOU SON-OF-A-WHORE!”
A chorus of rifle and pistol fire rang out, all directed at the Leviathan. All futile. But they cheered nonetheless. One last act of defiance.
The Geryon’s reached full-firing power first.
Streams of laser-sharp energy shot out from the dish-like guns at the front of the airships. The dirigibles rocked from the power. The twin beams cut through the air and speared the Leviathan in a downward crisscross like golden swords skewering Voggoth’s pet. The lasers dragged up and down, cutting open the air sacs inside. Chunks of the impossibly-huge monster fell apart, a big one splashing into the Mississippi and showering the eastern bank; other pieces on the western bank where they landed in a serious of sharp impacts.
Jon held his breath but he heard others react with gasps; no one spoke.
Jon Brewer watched the Geryon’s carve the Leviathan into pieces and as he watched he saw something looming even larger over the scene than the dirigibles or the 1,000-foot-tall monster.
He saw- he felt — the hand of Trevor Stone.
He’s alive. He did it. Or Jorgie did. Whatever ‘it’ is.
The army of Voggoth hesitated, equally as dumbfounded as Jon’s forces. Still, they did react. A series of Spooks targeted the battleships but a halo of anti-air craft shells met the counter-attack. Only a handful of Spooks breached those defenses causing a flash here and a puff of smoke there but nothing fatal to the blimps.
“Sh-shep…”
Nothing.
Jon tried again to break through the trance cast over his people by the turn of events.
“Shep!”
“Huh? What? Oh, I-my god Jon, am I seein’ this?”
“Shep, get everyone together. Everyone who can walk and use a trigger finger,” and Jon swept his hands toward the bridges built by Voggoth’s mechanical frog-things. “Get them across. We’re attacking,” Jon turned and faced Cassy who watched with an expression of detachment; wonder.
“You too, Cassy. Everything we got left. And remember, the Geryons are friendly.”
From his position atop the Cargill grain elevator, Woody Ross watched the 12 ^ th Mechanized Infantry Brigade move along a convoluted series of roads and on-ramps that merged together just east of the Poplar Street Bridge. General Rhodes commanded this last combat-ready fighting force from a Humvee near the lead.
Also from his position, Ross could see Dunston’s reconnaissance Eagle flying over St. Louis beneath the storm clouds, having thus far managed to avoid The Order’s Spooks and the powerful AA batteries protecting the Centurian artillery south of downtown.
Human guns launched a series of muted volleys from the east side of the Mississippi. The howitzers shots landed in isolated puffs and booms amid Voggoth’s
advancing force as the Roachbots, Feranites, and monsters of the mob passed the blasted remains of Busch stadium on I-64.
If everything went according to Ross’ plan, the lead elements of the enemy force would cross the Bridge and run head-on into Rhodes. He hoped the width of the bridge would create a bottle-neck for conditions like a modern-day battle of Thermopylae, negating the value of Voggoth’s superior numbers.
Ross’ plan did not execute as expected.
“Centurian guns are prepping to fire,” Dunston radioed. “If they’ve seen Rhodes they probably are going to starting nailing him.”
Ross agreed. He had witnessed the accuracy and firepower of that artillery firsthand in Wilkes-Barre the first winter of the invasion.
“General Rhodes,” Bear transmitted. “Enemy batteries are preparing to fire. You might be in their crosshairs.”
“Nothing I can do about that,” Rhodes responded solemnly.
A series of blue flashes flickered from the rail yard. Balls of energy arched into the air. Bear watched as those artillery shots-an entire cluster of them flying tight formation-slammed into Voggoth’s Leviathan standing amid the ruins of downtown. The hits turned large chunks of the creature’s skin into a powder that drifted to the wasteland below like a perverse snow.
Bear did not immediately comprehend what he saw. Did his eyes play a trick? Had the Centurians miscalculated their firing coordinates?
Dunston’s voice cut through the cavalcade of thoughts competing for Bear’s attention.
“Holy shit! They just blasted the piss out of the Leviathan!”
A mistake-this has to be a mistake.
As if to answer Bear, another volley of shots came from the Redcoats and-just as precisely as before-slammed into the walking skyscraper. This time the powerful rounds tore away an entire leg from the main body, causing the thing to collapse into the twisted girders and concrete mounds that remained of St. Louis. The tremor from the impact carried across the Mississippi shaking the Cargill building so hard that it threatened to break apart beneath him but Woody “Bear” Ross was too transfixed by the sight to notice.
Rhodes radioed from his place at the 12 ^ th Mechanized Infantry’s lead, “Woody! What the hell is going on?”
Ross answered, “I haven’t got a goddamn clue.”
Another round of Centurian fire fell into the ranks of Voggoth’s force. This time reducing Roachbots, Feranites, Ghouls, and assorted fiends to fine powder.
Dunston radioed from his observation Eagle in an even more excited voice, “Bear, if you think that’s fucked up, you won’t believe what I’m seeing now.”
They came from the west along Interstate 64, charging forward like cavalry from a John Wayne movie: Columns of Chaktaw infantry, the three-wheeled oversized bikes, elephant-sized lizards-and Nina Forest’s ragtag militia in cars and on foot forming a spear striking into the rear of Voggoth’s army.
Captain Forest had found the hilt of her blade and had pulled it to strike just as Jaff had said, “I have new orders,” and just as the figure in the dark shadow of the tent had stepped into the light. Not a bodyguard, but a Chaktaw woman of advanced age whose footsteps did not make a sound as she walked.
New orders.
The Chaktaw Force Commander had said those words as if it hurt his lips to speak them. She understood why as she raced forward in the passenger seat of a Trailblazer with her gun sights pointing east but expecting at any moment to be turned upon by her newfound alien ‘friends’.
The old woman-most certainly an architect of Armageddon-had told her, “The situation has changed.”
And Nina understood. She had mumbled, “Trevor?” to which the old Chaktaw woman responded with an affirmative nod.
Captain Nina Forest did not trust the Chaktaw. She had fought against them and their ilk for more than a decade. How could she set aside the hatred and anger to fight with her enemy?
The same way Jaff and his warriors set aside their hatred and anger. They had come to this Earth on the Old Woman’s call for crusade. She had steered them from battle to battle in attack the same way she had assisted the leader Fromm on the Chaktaw’s version of Earth in defense, a parallel universe away.
Nina and Jaff did what soldiers always did: they followed orders.
New orders.
And so the charge came from west to east-Chaktaw and human-hitting the rear area of Voggoth’s army by complete surprise. One of many surprises that day for Voggoth; and equally as many surprises for human and alien alike.
The joint force collided with the half-machine, half-monster brick-shaped boxes covered in red veins that provided the ‘Spook’ anti-air support for The Order. Chaktaw rail guns and human carbines cut through the undefended launchers in mere seconds.
The Chaktaw quickly assembled catapult-like artillery pieces of their own. Soon glowing red singularities joined the bombardment of blue Centurian guns aimed at the center of The Order’s forces near the stadium. The explosions sucked Ghouls and Roachbots into matter-eating beach-ball-sized spheres that ripped the targets apart atom by atom.
Nina-with Odin, a hobbling Vince, and the wounded corporal at her side-led a line of humans into battle at the flattened St. Louis Amtrak station against a horde of lumbering Deadheads, making quick work of the clumsy monsters before moving on to engage the tripod-like machines that had once been Feranites.
Jaff’s Chaktaw fighters slammed into a phalanx of Roachbots and Mortarbots; they engaged in a fierce fire fight around the blasted Scottrade Center north of the Interstate.
The Chaktaw lizards turned from pack animals to war-beasts, rampaging through and stomping a counter-attack of Ghouls. The ghastly creatures managed to pull down several of the lizards but not before the Chaktaw pets eviscerated the Ghouls’ charge.
Human citizen-soldiers fell by the dozen-but the Feranite machines broke.
Chaktaw fighters suffered 100 casualties, but routed the infestation of Roachbots at the arena.
The Centurian infantry entered the ground assault just as General Rhodes’ mechanized infantry crossed the Poplar Street Bridge.
Tank rounds joined powerful Centurian rifles; Chaktaw railguns fought in chorus with human carbines. Voggoth’s army-its Leviathan now nothing more than piles of gore-was corralled into a smaller and smaller circle among the ruins of the city they had destroyed.
Another blast of Geryon lasers cut a swath through a group of walking turrets as they tried to re-form a cohesive defense along Route 24 a half mile west of the riverbank. Their energy sacks ruptured and fire consumed the pillars and their guns; several walked around like self-propelled torches before toppling.
Through the fields to the north came the ten-foot-tall Golems of the Steel Guard. Their bipedal bodies resembled thick metal skeletons colored a scarlet red. Nothing elaborate or pretty; no concession to aesthetics. Large metal bolts served as joints on the knees and elbows. Two yellow camera-eyes glowed from beak-like faces. The arms ended in three thick, bulky clasps; similar to the projections on their ‘feet’ acted as toes.
Behind them rolled several smaller tracked machines resembling mine cars fitted with chutes and tubes so as to re-arm and maintain the mechanical war machines.
A line of Geryon infantry trailed the advancing Golems and their supply wagons. These humanoids wore battle suits made of materials similar to leather and metal. A tight fitting helmet covered their heads and a communicator next-of-kin to a ball gag covered their mouths. What little glances of their skin were visible-cheeks, wrists-appeared pale and soft. The aliens brandished weapons resembling high-tech crossbows that fired glowing steel rods.
The Geryon ground force chopped to pieces the Monks protecting The Order’s northern flank while the human force-supported by a handful of armored vehicles-overran the Spider Sentries covering the western bank of the Mississippi.
Jon Brewer operated a. 50 caliber machine gun from the cupola of a badly-damaged Humvee. Jerry Shepherd-watching the road through a smashed windshield-drove the vehicle leading the human attack along CR-346 south of the main route where Voggoth’s last elements mustered for a final stand. Cassy Simms and her ten remaining horse soldiers broke off from the column to chase a band of Ogres fleeing south along a cluster of railroad tracks.
“Only a few stragglers left by the river,” Shepherd said with enthusiasm in his voice. Yet his suspicious eyes glanced in the direction of the hovering airships, expecting the Geryon lasers to turn toward mankind again at any moment.
Jon finished off a Heavy Duty Spider Sentry with a burst from the mounted gun and answered, “They’re all being horded along highway. Probably start breaking west any second.”
A massive boom of thunder broke Jon’s thoughts; a boom so loud he thought it might have come from between his ears, a lingering result of his concussion. But it had not. The sound pulled his eyes to the sky where the storm clouds that had followed Voggoth’s army across the country rolled and boiled with more intensity than ever.
Why isn’t the storm breaking?
Jon glanced at The Order’s remnants: a collection of Spider Sentries, Ogres, and Shell-Tanks backing into a tighter and tighter group surrounded on three sides with the battleships of the Geryon Reich floating overhead-and then suddenly those airships banked hard and accelerated in different directions as if retreating for their lives.
Another flash. Another boom. A gust of wind so strong it nearly toppled the truck.
Shep shouted, “Holy shit! Jon, we need to bug out.”
With that the Humvee accelerated, driving south at great speed.
Jon Brewer saw why.
The storm came alive. The clash between Voggoth’s unnatural storm and the living environment of Earth finally exploded and nature joined the battle.
Two massive, swirling tendrils draped down from the thunderheads like lowering strands of rope: spinning black and red vortexes encompassing all of nature’s fury.
The pair of tornadoes touched ground south of Taylor, a few miles west of the battlefield. They roared along Route 24 in a mesmerizing dance of beauty and destruction. Jon saw a roadside house blow apart into nothing.
The Geryon airships hurried from the path of destruction; ground troops both alien and human scattered north and south. But the forces of Voggoth were afforded no such escape.
The tornadoes tore into the remains of The Order’s mighty army with such power that they swept the ground clean; purified it of the infection. The machines and monsters of Voggoth’s legion were first blown apart and then sucked into the heavens where they disappeared into the storm clouds. Secondary explosions glimmered in the vortexes like ghosts.
Shepherd drove them to a safe distance and parked in a field. The cyclones-gently swaying side to side as they graced across the plains-passed to the north, sending the spectators a healthy gust of wind; a tiny taste of the power visited upon Voggoth. A not-so-subtle reminder of man’s insignificance in the face of nature.
Life, Jon thought. Nature. Like the Grenadiers. Defending its own.
Jon was struck by an intense feeling of kinship. At any other time, the mighty twisters would have filled him with instinctive fear. But not here. Not now. His entire world had been under siege, the very concept of life. Mankind had been the champion of that life, fighting for more than a decade on behalf of the entire planet. Now the conflict between nature and the creatures from Voggoth realm erupted-like matter and anti-matter colliding-adding the final stroke; expunging the last traces of infection.
As they reached the river the tornadoes fell apart in strands of wind and debris; retreating to the clouds from whence they came. The wind blew from hard to soft and then still.
Jon and Jerry Shepherd exited their vehicle and stood in the field without speaking a word. What could be said?
The thunder faded and the dark clouds cleared.