General William Hoth stood in the cupola of an Abrams main battle tank. In front stretched Route 28 heading straight for Blanchester, Ohio. To his left and right, open fields of frozen soil broken only by sagging or even snapped telephone poles. Behind, six more Abrams tanks, a couple of Bradley fighting vehicles, several Humvees, and all manner of civilian vehicles 'up-armored' with metal plates and bars moving single-file on the pot-hole-marred roadway.
Overhead, a quilt of gray clouds pressed down on the battlefield as if trying to smother the scene. Gusts from icy winds caused a black banner depicting a hand holding a hammer to flutter at the rear of his tank.
Boom! Boom!
A pair of explosions in the field sent chunks of tundra and black smoke curling into the air. A moment later pebbles and ice tinged off his armored ride.
Hoth wore a headset through which came a communique from three quarters of a mile to his right-northern-flank. A female voice reported, "Hostiles engaged at Dudley Road."
He radioed, "Punch straight through, Captain Rothchild. Do not break formation."
The response came in the form of a ground-rattling blast; the unmistakable sound of a main gun firing.
Through field glasses, Hoth spied his companion column as it drove along Second Creek Road, parallel to his own route. Like his, Gwen Rothschild's 'armor' started with impressive Abrams tanks but the further east it stretched the more it became a smorgasbord of car lot leftovers until ending with rusting fuel trucks and covered cargo carriers.
Facing that column, six-legged van-sized robots with tubular metal frames, eyes resembling LED displays, and a mouth-like speaker on a front face plate. On either side of that "face" fired lethal Gatling guns swiveling on round bases giving them a wide firing arc.
Roachbot drones, the same type defeated by Jon Brewer during the Battle of Five Armies.
Boom! Boom!..Boom! Boom!
Enemy artillery exploded to either side of Hoth's column, forcing him to refocus on his end of the pincer movement. He swung his binoculars forward and saw a sight identical, no doubt, to what Captain Rothchild saw in front of her: a line of Roachbot drones followed by several 'Mortarbots'.
The 'Mortarbots' resembled walking cannon. More specifically, they could have been silver-painted guns lifted from an 18 ^ th Century Man-O-War.
They moved on two mechanical legs affixed to an upward-pointing big gun that included a faceplate at the bottom of the barrel. The things wobbled in a clumsy manner but would stop, squat, and spit an artillery shell to the sound of a synthesized voice, "bwamp-bwamp."
Hoth instructed his gunner, "fire at will," but reminded the driver, "run through."
The General clamped his hands on his headset but the mind-numbing blast from the main gun still managed to make his ears ring. However, the result-a Roachbot drone obliterated into clumps of metal-made the pain easy to bear.
A blast of heat from behind caught his attention. He swiveled around in time to watch two halves of a burning Humvee roll off the road.
When he faced forward again, he saw sparks as Roachbot rounds sprayed his tank. Above the squeal of tank treads he heard the insane ramblings of the drones: A-hehehehe. A-hehehehe.
Boom!
Hoth's ears rang again but, also again, a Roachbot fell to pieces.
Before he could fully appreciate the direct hit, the General instinctively ducked as his tank smashed through the remains of a rusted pick up truck cluttering the intersection of Route 28 and tiny Dudley Road directly in front of a "Welcome to the Village of Blanchester" sign.
"Captain Rothchild, what is your status?" Hoth radioed as he raised his binoculars.
"We've breached the front line and are taking up final positions."
Hoth confirmed her words with his eyes. Rothchild's column slowed their westward advance and pivoted to face south. At the same time, his column slowed and turned north. Between the two gathered a mass of Roach and Mortar bots, caught between two pincers on the wide open terrain of a dead field.
"All guns, watch your crossfire, aim low and aim accurate," he radioed.
If the enemy understood their predicament, it did not show. The Roachbots fired wildly-one could say crazily-with no regard for each other. Before the first human volley launched, Hoth watched a Mortarbot lob an explosive shell in the midst of three of its drone brethren and robotic Gatling guns tear apart two of their own number.
Then the guns of the 2 ^ nd Armored Division came to life. Abrams tank rounds, TOW missiles from atop Humvees, machine guns with armor piercing rounds, bazookas, and short-range artillery turned the mob of alien machines into a cloud of dirt, metal, fire, and smoke.
As his brigades finished their work, the General organized an expedition to invest the Roachbot assembly line constructed nearby on the grounds of old Blanchester High School. A place known in human circles as a ‘slaughterhouse.’
– Trevor's flight west included a refueling stop outside of Pittsburgh where he flew over the reincarnated steel mills. Smoke billowed from the foundries while convoys carried raw materials in and forged steel out.
Stone knew that those mills operated thanks to Omar Nehru’s matter-makers. He also knew that the workers in those mills stamped the axles and girders and gun barrels keeping the armies on the march.
However, those same workers only recently returned to the job after a three-week strike protesting the dropping value of their 'pay' in the face of rampant inflation. Trevor did not enjoy the irony that before the introduction of an official currency-as pushed by Evan Godfrey and others-those steel workers earned little more than food rations yet never felt so dissatisfied as to walk away from the mill.
It felt to him as if the return of currency was yet another Pandora's Box from the old world. Certainly money would have its place again someday, he just wondered if humanity would be better served if such things from pre-Armageddon life did not return until after securing the survival of the species. Alas, money, politicians, unions, snake-oil salesmen, and accountants had escaped from their bottles.
Later that day, they landed at the crossroads town of Chillicothe, Ohio where Army Group North had established a supply depot supported by a railroad junction and airstrip.
Trevor, the Rev, and Shepherd switched from Eagle to Blackhawk for the flight to Washington Court House. However, when word came that Hoth faced Roachbots, Trevor insisted on detouring to the battlefield.
As they flew toward Blanchester, Trevor appreciated the change in rides. While the open door of the helicopter let in the bitter cold air, the sounds and smells of battle also came in.
Trevor felt goose bumps when he heard the first cannon shot. He filled with exhilaration as he smelled the thick aroma of burning oil. Then came the blasted Roachbot carcasses, the impact craters and smoldering fields…yes, the maps and color-coded push pins of his office brought to life. The meaning behind it all.
They flew over as the last Roachbots met their fate. Ahead on the athletic fields of a high school stood a featureless rectangular metal building akin to a giant shoebox.
The Blackhawk landed in the school parking lot. Trevor and companions disembarked.
Reverend Johnny covered his nose. "That stench is certainly from the sewers of Hell."
Shepherd said, "I reckon this is your first visit to an assembly line? That's the smell of mass murder."
A squad of soldiers dressed in an assortment of coats and colors hovered outside the building trying to warm themselves with drinks from a flask. They snapped to something like attention as Trevor approached.
"Is General Hoth inside?"
"Yes, Sir." The soldier then suggested, "You may want this, Sir."
Trevor accepted a small jar of olfactory blocking cream, placed a dab beneath each nostril, and then shared with Shep and Johnny before entering a garage-door-sized portal.
Two gigantic rooms dominated the interior. The first filled with silver and black machinery: conveyor belts, robotic arms, and metal presses.
As they walked among the soldiers milling about the chamber, Shepherd explained to Reverend Johnny, "This is where the things are made. Sort of an assembly line, I suppose. Almost looks like it could be a GM plant putting together Chevys or something, don't it?"
Indeed, several Roachbots stood silent at the end of the line, having completed the manufacturing process save for the last, most vital component; like a car waiting for an engine.
The second room offered an assembly line of a different sort, although not clean and sterile like the first. However, the men spied robotic arms and conveyor belts here, too. This time, those arms wielded long hypodermic needles filled with a paralyzing drug and the conveyor belts conveyed man-sized restraining tubes.
While the chassis assembly line operated welding robots, the second line used surgical bots sporting blades and saws, perfect for opening a human skull. It was at that point on the line where the blood began. Lots of blood.
Instead of metal stamp presses, the final machines were grinders, designed to manage the waste byproduct; pulverized and drained into large vats for disposal.
The walls, the floors…splattered with discarded parts thrown haphazardly around the room in the same way a person might absently toss aside an empty peanut shell.
General Hoth stood near the machines examining the mess with a few of his aides. Trevor's appearance certainly surprised the General but his version of a ‘surprised’ expression would pass for 'stoic' on any other man.
As they walked toward Hoth, Reverend Johnny gagged then spat, "Of all the dens of horror I have been witness to…this…this," Johnny could not complete his thought and joined the number of men who vomited inside a slaughterhouse. Indeed, not getting sick upon a first visit to such a place would actually be cause for concern.
One part stuck out amidst the discarded mess and caught Trevor's attention. It could have been a Halloween mask of a little boy with holes where eyes once lived.
Stone stooped to look at that discarded piece of flesh. What had once been a child’s mouth was locked open in a scream. In that mask, Trevor saw what the invaders desired. He saw the horror and agony; he saw the sadness and isolation. He felt it in his bones.
Here was a child whom he did not save.
The fleshy fascia was stretched and worn and rotting; the boy might have died years ago, perhaps during those first days while Trevor built his strength at his secretive estate. Maybe the boy’s fate came during the years of painstakingly slow expansion or maybe while his divisions battled the Hivvans across the south.
Trevor did not know when the aliens murdered this child but he knew- knew — that somewhere on the planet Earth at that exact moment another child faced a similar fate. Maybe in the claws of a Devilbat or the maw of a Jaw-Wolf. Perhaps an implant from The Order or an energy bolt from a Redcoat's gun.
And tomorrow another child, or elderly lady, or caring mother, or trapped father. Tomorrow someone would die because of the invasion; because The Empire could not fight its way to them fast enough.
"I won’t go back there, never again," Trevor said.
Reverend Johnny wiped his mouth with a handkerchief and asked, "Back where?"
"Behind that desk. I’m staying on the front lines. This is where I belong."