Nature celebrated Stonewall's coming to the estate with a bout of 'Indian Summer'. Temperatures rose to the upper sixties, the skies cleared, and the sun shined. Yet at the same time, the march of autumn continued unabated as Oak, Hickory, and Maple leaves completed their metamorphosis to russet, bronze, and scarlet.
Trevor opened the balcony doors allowing a breeze and the morning sun to enter the 'Command Center' where his de-facto officers gathered four days after Stonewall's arrival.
On the gigantic desk rested a map of Wilkes-Barre. Trevor pointed to an intersection.
"There, see? A dental supply company."
McAllister-dressed in his confederate uniform with the hat politely tucked under his arm-noted in a southern drawl, "For the occasional tooth ache, I suppose?"
Shep gently pushed the General's scabbard aside and leaned over the map, too.
Trevor pointed to another part of Wilkes-Barre. "Optical Manufacturing."
"My wife wears lenses," Jon said. "She'll need a re-supply as will other people, too."
Shepherd chimed in, "I’m more worried about our stocks of penicillin and antibiotics. Without that stuff a sore throat could turn to worse."
Trevor said, "About thirty miles off this map is Aventis Pasteur in Swiftwater, a pharmaceutical manufacturing plant. Vaccines, antibiotics…everything. Plus four hospitals in Wilkes-Barre and plenty of doctor offices, clinics and medical labs."
Jon Brewer tapped the tabletop just beyond the north end of the map.
"Scranton. Chamberlain Munitions. One of the biggest producers of ammo for the U.S. They do large caliber stuff but will have the materials and tools for smaller calibers, too."
"I reckon that might be a priority for us," Shepherd said.
Jon parodied, "I reckon you're right."
"Not half-bad," the older man conceded with a smile.
Trevor swept his hand over the map saying, "Interstates 80 and 81, the PA Turnpike, all at our front door. New York and Philly both about three hours away. Tobyhanna Army Depot and Ft. Indiantown Gap; lots of goodies laying around for the taking. But closer to home we've got the Kingston armory and the Marine Tactical Support Wing on Route 11."
"I see your grand strategy has vision," Stonewall addressed Trevor. "Alas, I fear we lack the necessary…um… divisions to accomplish these goals."
Trevor rested a hand on the eccentric’s shoulder and glanced around making eye contact with each of the three men.
"Yes, castles in the sky. Now we have to build the foundation underneath."
A German Shepherd named "Seth" trotted in to the room passing between two Dobermans guarding the entryway. The dog tilted its head while staring at its Master.
Trevor translated: "Hostiles, not far from here. And they’ve got prisoners."
– The warehouse blotted an otherwise isolated stretch of gently rolling hills along a snaking country road. At one point, a tall chain link fence enclosed the entire property. Time, or Armageddon, toppled it. Benjamin Trump would have wept.
The front of the bland rectangular structure sported two windows flanking a heavy wooden door with a dented white awning above. Around the rear were loading docks for whatever widgets had shipped from and to the place. The sagging roof and flaking sky blue paint suggested the building sat neglected for decades.
The cement parking lot had shifted and cracked over the years. Grass and ugly weeds competed to grow in those cracks. Piles of old wooden shipping palettes, discarded tires, a rusted-through Volvo commercial truck, and assorted debris of a surprising variety cluttered the lot and created a maze of rubbish.
Near the front door, four Mutant hover bikes were parked around a tall pillar resembling a glowing, forty-foot replica of the Washington monument. It appeared to be a kind of power station for the vehicles.
Across the road from the warehouse, the messy parking lot, the Mutant power station, and the toppled fence waited Captain Shepherd and Stonewall McAllister hidden atop one of those forested hills. With a dozen Grenadiers waiting nearby, they observed the progress of two assault teams weaving toward the building through the labyrinth of clutter.
Trevor led the team on the left including Jon Brewer, Woody "Bear" Ross and the K9s Tyr and Seth. About fifteen yards to the right moved Nina Forest, Sal Corso and Danny Washburn. The two groups paralleled one another as they crept toward the warehouse.
Experience suggested the captives would suffer a while; Mutants proved a sadistic lot.
Nina moved her column in unison with Trevor’s. She knew the mission; she had led a hundred similar missions over the years, albeit not against alien hostage-takers.
She felt a heavy throb of frustration: I'm expected to operate under the command of an unproven kid who looks awkward holding an assault rifle?
Some piles of junk stood quite tall, casting shadows and creating alternating patches of light and dark, warm and cool. A breeze blew across the lot rousting an eclectic collection of smells living among the junk: decades old dust, animal droppings, oily rags.
Nina stopped her team and whispered to Sal, "Let’s see how much our leader knows."
Sal cautioned, "Nina…"
She knelt next to an overturned bathtub lying atop crushed boxes and raised a tight fist: a tactical hand signal translating to "hold." Sal and Danny recognized the signal and stopped.
After a moment, Trevor saw her signal. It did not surprise Nina when Trevor halted his group; the hold signal was rather universal.
For his part, Trevor spied a mean glare in her blue eyes. He guessed her mischief as she flashed a series of more complicated signals. She pointed to Trevor, then at her own eyes with both fingers, then made a walking motion with her fingers, then motioned toward the building.
In essence, she told him to peek in one of the windows to ascertain the situation.
Trevor made an okay sign-rather universal in itself-then he surprised her by waving a flat hand over his head.
Nina bit her lower lip. Sal saw the back of her neck burn red.
Stone had signaled that he understood and then told her to cover this area.
He then separated from his group, maneuvered around a burned out Ford Maverick, and stealthily approached one of the front windows.
Nina, behind the overturned tub, watched with a crinkle in her brow as he glanced inside the dirty window then, while leaning against the building, found Nina’s eyes-or, rather, her glare-and relayed what he had seen.
First, he held his hand wide open.
Hostiles.
Next, he held up three fingers with his thumb over his pinky meaning the number ‘six.’
Last, he held his hand to his throat followed by one finger straight up.
Hostage. One.
Sal heard Nina growl.
Forest bent her right arm at the elbow, held the hand perpendicular to her shoulder and waved. Even an elementary school kid knew the motion signaled him to return.
Trevor took his place at the front of his column and smiled. Her brow crinkled more.
She pointed at herself then held her hand toward the front of the building in a fist with the thumb on top.
I’m going to breech.
Just to piss her off, he traced his finger in the shape of an upside-down 'U', telling her to breech the door. As if she might actually kick in the window.
With her cheeks burning red, Nina pointed at Trevor, then pushed her finger down and circled it, telling him to take his team to the rear of the warehouse.
Trevor flashed the "okay" sign, paused for along second, and then swept his hand slowly, palm up, toward the building essentially saying in an age-old motion used by so many New York City doormen, after you…
Sal whispered, "Are you two done flirting?"
If looks could kill…
Trevor led his team to the rear loading docks. Nina waited a moment then-feeling the need for violence-advanced her element to the front door.
Sal placed the barrel of his shotgun against the door latch. Nina used her fingers to count silently to three at which point Sal pulled the trigger. The blast echoed across the parking lot and out into the wilderness. Slivers of paint and wood exploded. The lock disintegrated, as did a fair measure of the doorframe. Nina kicked open what remained of the limp door and bolted through with Danny Washburn and Sal several paces behind.
One large room-cluttered at its edges with scattered boxes, rusted barrels, Metro shelves, and an old forklift-dominated the warehouse's interior.
Five of the leather-clad Mutants with the oversized mouths gathered in a tight group at the center of the room surrounding a live hostage. A sixth Mutant sat atop a high stack of crates gnawing on a femur. The remains of two other hostages lay strewn across the floor where fresh blood mixed with ancient oil and grease stains.
Nina rushed forward, surprising the enemy. Her swift movement and uncanny precision surprised them even more. The battle computer inside Nina Forest’s mind raced for targets, angles, cover, and projected counter-moves.
Her first shot from her MP5 skewered the throat of a Mutant, dropping the creature to a lifeless hulk before it could react in any way. Even as that initial bullet fired, she locked on the next target. Another burst from her gun. The first round missed and hit the far wall. The remaining bullets from the burst slammed into another monster’s chest as it pulled a cumbersome flintlock from a holster.
Nina cut and rolled to her left. Her short ponytail fluttered in the air. She righted her roll and knelt next to a metal drum. Her speed and determination unnerved the Mutants to the point that they did not notice more humans entering through an open loading dock door, or even the men behind the woman. Nina captured their complete attention.
Forest fired again. A trio of bullets sprayed a third Mutant; the heavy mace it wielded slipped from its dead hands but had not yet hit the ground when enemy number four felt lead from Nina’s weapon. That brute’s flintlock exploded a shell into its own booted foot as its finger yanked the trigger in a death spasm.
Nina did not pause to observe falling maces or spasms. A fifth Mutant sat atop the high stack of crates. Her tactical analysis gave that one next-to-last priority because she realized-in a quick glance upon entering-that its hands were occupied with bones.
She raised the iron sights of her gun but before she pulled the trigger that Mutant tumbled from the crates. Jon Brewer, entering through the loading docks with Trevor, plugged it before Nina could claim every kill.
Regardless of Jon’s prize, Nina Forest struck fear into her enemies and awe into her comrades. She saw everything.
What looked fast and heated was-to her-slow and methodical. Like an expert nine-ball player, Nina thought a shot ahead, planning and strategizing in the blink of an eye. The gun- whatever the weapon — became an extension of her body. The noise, the smoke, the flash of the muzzle; these were the sights and sounds that filled her with purpose.
As he watched, Trevor realized what made Nina Forest a great warrior. Not some Amazonian strength or perfect marksmanship but her instinct, her mind, her eyes…they worked faster than the bullets she fired. She understood battle: every nuance. She moved fluidly with every part of her body working to fire, for defense, to kill. She wore her cloak of death dealing comfortably.
Naturally.
Trevor’s admiration subsided as he realized what she planned next.
The last Mutant held a knife to the throat of a late-20s man with brown hair, lots of razor stubble, and the first cuts from what would have been hours of sadistic slicing. However, that blade wavered, suggesting the monster sought to negotiate.
Nina discarded her Mp5 and approached the remaining creature and its hostage with her pistol in a two-hand grip.
Trevor tried to intervene. "Nina…wait…"
Blam! Blam!
She fired two shots because the first missed the thing’s head by an inch. The second exploded its oval skull. The knife and the monster fell to the floor.
The captive staggered; shocked that two bullets had nearly grazed his head.
Nina said nothing to the hostage, nothing to the others. She casually retrieved her assault rifle and made to exit the building.
Woody Ross and Sal approached the rescued man who shook uncontrollably.
Trevor's eyes darted from the freed hostage to Nina as she walked away.
Danny, at his side, said, "Christ, that woman is the angel of death."
Trevor stormed after Nina.
"Hey. I said hey!"
Nina stopped, her shoulders slumped in annoyance, and she turned to face Trevor.
"What the Hell are you doing?"
"I’m killing monsters. That’s what you want me to do, right?"
He looked at those blue eyes with fire in his own.
"You nearly killed a man."
She answered, "Nothing to it, I killed the monster. What’s the problem?"
"The problem" he told her, "is that you missed with your first shot. So you ain’t perf-"
"The thing is dead. You should be happy. Listen-"
"No," he commanded, "you listen. This isn’t only about killing the bad things. It’s about saving people. We aren’t going to win this by shooting without thinking."
"Is that so? Well then maybe you got yourself the wrong girl."
Nina turned to leave. Captain Jerry Shepherd stood there. She stopped dead in her tracks, having never before seen such a disapproving expression from Shep.
"Nina…" Shep shook his head, then walked around her toward the freed hostage whose sarcasm echoed through the place: "Hey, be sure to thank Eva Braun for nearly killing me."
She shut her eyes, held a breath for a long second, and then walked outside alone.
– BLAM!
The sound of the gunshot rang out. More specifically, the first shot. The one that missed.
Nina pounded her fist against the tile as the shower drizzled over her.
The pressure and the temperature of the "hot" water did not impress. Still, even the light drizzle beat weeks of no showers at all when her team had been on the run.
She soaped her body and rinsed for the fourth time; the dirt from the morning's battle clung tough. Nina turned the squeaky faucet knob and the shower stopped. Steam filled the bathroom and coated the mirror thus hiding her reflection.
After wrapping herself in a tight towel, she walked the short hall into the orange and green 70s-styled living room where the cooler air against her hair and skin felt refreshing.
A stranger’s living room with a stranger’s furniture. She had already thrown away everything overtly personal: photos, CDs, clothes from the previous occupants. That did not help, though, because she lacked any mementos to fill the empty space. She realized she possessed nothing overtly personal of her own.
Yet…yet maybe some day she could make it feel like home.
She shook that thought from her mind. She reminded herself how she wanted to leave. What had Shep been thinking when he decided to stay?
Nina walked to the front windows and looked out at the long driveway and the waters of the lake. Her view included the boathouse and dock across the road from the main estate. Shep sat on that dock, a fishing rod in one hand, a beer in the other.
Her stomach fluttered. Had she pushed things too far today? How he had looked at her…
Nina decided to talk to him. She needed to talk to him.
She hurried to the bedroom to find some clothes. Her clothes. A soldier’s clothes.
– As Trevor crossed the dock, the planks creaked with each footfall while waves lapped lazily below. The warm afternoon, the blue sky, and the docile waters conspired to paint a picture of summer. The lie would not last, but it remained an enjoyable lie for the time being.
Jerry Shepherd relaxed in a patio chair at the rim of the small pier. The business end of his fishing pole drifted in the water hoping some unlucky trout would nibble. One empty and one half-full can of beer waited in arm’s reach. Next to the beer rested a shotgun. These days, who knew what might come out of the lake?
Trevor found a chair by the boathouse door and dragged it next to Shep. He sat and stared at the water, too.
"Catch anything?"
"Not a damn thing. Say, how's that fella we pulled out of harm's way this morning? What was his name? Evan…Evan something?"
"Evan Godfrey," Trevor said. "He's shaken up. Physically he's fine but he's starving and pretty freaked out right now."
"Funny," Shep flashed a wry smile. "That seems to be the only type of folks we get around here these days."
"Ain't that the truth? In any case, he's not talking much. It's going to take some time for him to come out of his shell. It'll be a while before we know much about Evan Godfrey."
The water swooshed and gurgled. A bird sung an enthusiastic song, perhaps also deceived by the weather.
Shepherd, still looking into the distance, said, "We wouldn’t be having this conversation if she were a man."
"What?"
"Now c’mon Trev, you know I’m no idiot."
Neither of the two noticed Nina Forest as she approached the boathouse, but when she heard Trevor's voice, she stopped. She turned to leave but did not. Instead, she listened.
Trevor said, "You’re right. If she were a guy, we’d think he was some sort of Rambo."
"But because she’s a woman, I reckon it’s hard to accept what the eyes see."
Trevor asked. "What is she like when her defenses are down? When she’s not being Mrs., Godzilla?" Shepherd chuckled. "Well now that’s a new one. Mrs. Godzilla?"
Trevor watched the older man's eyes sharpen to pencil thin as he focused on something out over the sparkling waters of the lake.
"I don’t know if Nina’s defenses have ever been down. I never met anyone like her."
Shepherd turned his head slowly to Trevor and drove the point home: "I reckon that’s why I think she’s special. Not just the fightin’ and all, but whatever else is inside there…well it hasn’t come out to the world yet. Like the hard parts of her have grown up faster than the rest."
"I see."
Shepherd corrected, "No you don’t. You’re too busy trying to pull this together and here she goes giving you trouble. Seems to me you’re wondering if it was worth it, asking us to stay. Seems to me you’re worried that one loose cannon could muck up the whole works."
Trevor smiled. Damn, he liked this old timer.
"I can see why she looks up to you so much."
"Then that makes one of you. Personally, I haven’t been able to figure it myself. I met her when she was a trainee. I put her through Hell. As soon as I figured out she had a way about her, I made it even harder for the girl. Ever since, it seems I’m the only person that gets through to her. Half the time she’s this shy little girl that won’t say a peep. But when the action heats up…well, seems I’m the only person that can keep her from going off half-cocked. Can’t say I mind it, though. Sometimes I feel like I got that kid I never had."
Trevor said, "Because you didn’t treat her like a girl."
"What’s that?"
"Why she took to you," Trevor went on. "When you put her through Hell, you put her through the same Hell you put the guys through. Maybe you were even tougher on her. You were probably the first person she’d ever met that saw a warrior first, not a cute chick."
Shepherd stroked his gray mustache, "I suppose that’s something worth thinking about."
"Think all you want," Trevor stood. "Just keep her from going off half cocked."
"I understand. You can’t have one person screwing things up."
Trevor gave him an entirely different reason. "No, I can’t go losing her."
"What?"
Nina, from her listening post, grew confused.
"I realized something today as I watched her fight," Trevor explained. "I realized that we can’t lose her. We need her to win this whole thing. Without her, we’re toast. I’m toast."
"That surprises me, after the shit she pulled today."
"Oh, she just wanted to show me up. That hand signal thing was just a kids’ game. I’m a big boy. Taking that risk with the hostage…that was a problem. She’s got to start understanding what this is all about. She’s got to do that fast because I can’t afford to lose her now that I know what she is."
" What she is? And what is that?"
"Well, if I'm the knight in shining armor in all this," Trevor said, "then she's my sword."
– A window and a wide counter separated the kitchen from the rest of the church basement hall. The equipment in that kitchen recalled 1960s styling but had been solidly built and well maintained over the years.
The dirty white paint of the kitchen walls differed dramatically from the dark paneling lining the rest of the basement. Dull brown linoleum, with patches of bubbles and rips, covered the floor throughout and a series of fluorescent lights radiated flat illumination over rows of long tables and metal folding chairs.
Despite the aged styling and boring ambiance, the basement offered a cheery, homey feel due to crayon sketches drawn by pre-Armageddon Sunday school kids. Tacked around the room were drawings depicting the church and its small steeple, crude portraits of Jesus and Mary, angels, disciples, and many that were no more than jumbles of colored lines from tiny hands.
The early breakfast crowd sat around the hall and included Lori Brewer. She had stationed herself alone at the end of the table furthest away from the stairs that ascended to the outside world. She held a paperback mystery.
Sal toiled at the stove aided by the two teenage sisters who had served with Stonewall as medics but who spent the two weeks since the kitchen opened working with ‘Chef’ Corso.
Lori heard the sizzle and crack of frying eggs, the beat of a whisk whipping pancake batter, the clang of dishes hauled from cupboards, and the pleasing glunk-glunk-glunk of juice poured from pitcher to glass.
She smelled salty, farm-fresh bacon, the sugary scent of syrup dripping over butter patties atop fluffy pancakes, and the whiff of her own mug of fresh-brewed coffee.
The sounds and smells surrounded her like a warm blanket chasing away goose bumps and cued memories of the diner where Jon had taken her on their very first date way back when life felt new.
Lori smiled to herself, just a little, then firmly grasped the well-worn pages of the paperback. She did read the words on those pages but the novel served as a front hiding her reconnaissance mission. If her husband found out what she was up to he would berate her for giving in to her counselor’s curiosity.
She peeked at her watch: 7:28 am.
A couple of Stonewall’s folks gathered at a table sipping coffee while Evan Godfrey, the newest addition, stumbled to the counter in search of breakfast. Lori made a mental note to get to know Evan. He had been at the estate for over a week now and she still had not talked to him.
However, Evan would have to wait. Lori had hurried to the basement that morning not for him, but for Nina Forest. Well, partly for Nina Forest.
Lori had come to know that Nina arrived at the church every morning for breakfast at 7:15 a.m., give or take exactly thirty seconds.
True to form, Nina had indeed arrived fifteen minutes ago and remained in the hall sitting by her lonesome. She studied the most up-to-date ‘Hostiles Database’ binder in between fork-fulls of eggs, strips of bacon, and the occasional sip of condensed orange juice.
Lori rested the book on the tabletop and held her coffee cup in both hands.
She waited.
While Trevor Stone and Dick Stone had few things in common, they did share one trait: neither were early risers. During the first week after the church basement opened, Lori had not seen him in the place before 8:30. However, in recent days he seemed to have found a new side to himself, a side that desired an early breakfast.
Preferably by 7:30, Lori figured.
She finished a sip of java and swapped the mug for her prop: the book.
A commotion erupted around the entrance as Danny Washburn, Jon Brewer and Trevor walked in together, laughing loudly.
Lori glanced at Nina.
Forest afforded the newcomers a brief glimpse.
Then another.
Nina shook her head as if annoyed at the distraction, and then returned her attention to the 'Hostiles Database'.
The men stopped at the counter, grabbed mugs and plates, and Trevor led them to a table as far away as possible from Nina Forest’s position. Trevor hurried to a seat against the wall.
Lori’s eyebrow rose. She did not think it a coincidence that his seat afforded a good view of Nina.
Stone, usually a man of few words, was surprisingly vocal at breakfast in recent days, or so Lori observed. Now he spoke to Jon and Danny about sports, hunting, and projects in need of attention. All the talk interspersed with quips and laughter.
As for Nina, her eyes remained planted in the binder. Lori guessed a marching band could not force Nina’s eyes from those pages. She wondered, however, if Nina actually read the words printed there or if the binder had become her own prop, much like Lori’s mystery.
It took the three men ten minutes to devour their breakfasts. Jon broke away from the trio as they dispersed to visit with his wife. Lori alternated her eyes between Trevor, as he walked toward the exit stairs, and Nina as she kept her vision glued to the binder.
Jon asked, "Whatchya doing?"
Lori did not look at her husband. She watched Nina close as Trevor climbed the stairs. First one step, then two…a few more and he would be gone.
Nina Forest cast her eyes toward the stairs, catching a quick glimpse of Trevor as he left the basement. When he disappeared outside, Nina returned her attention to the binder.
"I said, what are you doing? Earth to Lori?"
"Oh, sorry honey," Lori gave him a peck on the cheek.
"So what are you doing? Reading a good mystery?"
Lori smiled, "A good mystery?"
Jon did not know why she smiled. In a way, he felt glad he did not know.
"It’s a good one," she confessed. "But I can already see where it’s going."
Mrs. Brewer sipped her coffee.
Oh yeah, can see this coming a mile away.
The one-time counselor was not the only one who noticed. That other person sat hidden away at a tiny table in the corner picking at the remains of a canned peach.
Sheila Evans lost her appetite.
12. Raid "The art of war teaches us to rely not on the likelihood of the enemy's not coming, but on our own readiness to receive him; not on the chance of his not attacking, but rather on the fact that we have made our position unassailable."
— Sun Tzu, The Art of War
Jon Brewer walked into the Command Center and reported, "We’re bringing the convoy vehicles around now."
Trevor glanced up from the papers spread on the big desk and acknowledged, "Good."
"How tough is this going to be?"
Trevor answered, "I don’t think it’s going to be hard. We hit the Cross Valley Expressway, bypass the city, get on the Interstate, and we’re at the airport. About forty minutes unless there’s stuff in our way."
Jon did an about-face and, as he left, said, "Everything will be ready in a few minutes."
Trevor returned his attention to the papers.
Not much had happened in the ten days since the raid on the warehouse. During that time, Trevor concentrated on consolidating the situation around the estate.
The Brewers, Shep, and Sheila lived in the main mansion. Sal, Danny Washburn, and Evan Godfrey stayed in the three apartments above the garage. Omar and his family occupied the A-Frame with Nina in the rooms above their garage.
The Rheimmers welcomed four of Stonewall’s followers to their farm. Better still, five more of Stonewall’s troop used supplies from an Agway warehouse to re-start another dormant farm. That meant more crops, more cattle (some found grazing aimlessly in countryside) and more hope for the growing band of survivors.
Those of Stonewall’s crew who remained at the lake took residence in a quaint cluster of homes just past the Methodist Church where Sal ran his kitchen.
Despite Omar's chain-smoking, he proved invaluable. Earlier that week, he led a scavenging party to the Environmental Sciences Department at the Penn State Lehman Campus where they secured a supply of doped N and P type silicon: essential ingredients for building solar panels. Combined with the "charge controller", batteries and "inverter" in storage at the mansion, Trevor possessed the materials for a solar power array.
A work crew cut the tops off several trees to give the estate a better view of the southern sky, the best angle for collecting solar radiation.
Still, Omar warned that the long dark days of winter neared. Therefore, traditional generators would remain the primary energy source. Unfortunately, the limited quantity of portable generators could not meet the growing demand. Some of the occupied homes around the lake relied completely on candles for lighting and fireplaces for heating.
Of course, the new homesteads-including the new farm-conspired to spread thin Trevor’s most valuable resource: the Grenadiers.
Back in early August, the estate's garrison counted more than 60 dogs of various types. Disease, accidents, and engagements claimed several K9 lives during the summer. The search for Nina Forest sacrificed another nine. Four more had been killed or mortally wounded since.
The K9s' charge now included guarding the estate, two farms, and several homes around the lake. Furthermore, at any one time at least four bitches carried pups. Therein lay some good news: as many as 100 new Grenadiers would mature to fighting age by spring.
Interestingly, the canines mated within breed lines, maintaining the unique advantages and specific roles of each pedigree. They did their part in the grand scheme. More links on more chains, Trevor supposed.
The idea of specific roles carried over to many of the humans, too. Omar's tinkering would be critical in the times ahead, but that was obvious as was the contributions from warriors such as Shepherd and Nina.
Finding 'diamonds in the rough' satisfied Trevor even more. For example, Danny Washburn could fight fine, but his lighthearted attitude provided relief from the gloom. Others, such as Sal Corso and his kitchen, found a niche beyond the battles.
Kristy Kaufman-one of Stonewall's 'officers'- insisted on wearing make up and clothing looted from the finest stores and carried a mirror to check her hair-which she did often-and her outfits always matched. This fascination with propriety and luxury did not come from vanity, but personal dignity: she refused to yield to the Apocalypse.
In the old world, Kristy worked as an Accounting Director at a bank. Trevor tapped her organizational skills to track the community in terms of their needs, residences, skills, and more. With help from Lori Brewer, Kristy managed a census of sorts.
Stone stepped away from the desk and onto the balcony. 'Indian Summer' had faded and a cold October breeze chilled his arms. He would need a jacket for the day's work. Still, the goose bumps came not from the chill but from anticipation.
He considered today a test. He knew they would never truly go forward if they did everything piecemeal therefore, multiple tasks lay on the day's agenda.
Last night, K9 patrols caught scent of hostiles near the village of Noxen to the north; some kind of pack animals. At dawn, Trevor had dispatched a war party of Rottweilers and Huskies to confront, assess, and eliminate the threat.
In addition, Omar would lead a team to the new farm for a review of essential needs including water supply issues and the possibility of rigging a solar power system there.
Each task-the K9 war party and Omar’s work force-ranked as important. However, neither matched the magnitude of the raid on the airport.
During Nina's tour of duty at a rescue station outside of Philadelphia, she heard radio chatter that an army tactical air support unit abandoned prize equipment at the Scranton/Wilkes-Barre airport. Trevor organized a strike force to reach the airport and grab any goodies.
On any other day, such a raid would be a big project. On that day, it was but one of three projects. Trevor knew that he needed to be aggressive to maintain the momentum of his mission. He knew that soon ‘survive’ must change to ‘fight’.
– An assault team mustered in the driveway. Trevor joined them after throwing a camouflage jacket over his black T-shirt and heavy gray pants.
The group chatted excitedly as they checked guns and utility belts.
Trevor had amassed a small army for the mission and they dressed the part. Jon Brewer, "Bear" Ross, and Danny Washburn wore green BDUs. Nina Forest and Jerry Shepherd dressed in their SWAT tactical outfits. Garrett "Stonewall" McAllister completed the line up in his heavy confederate coat, hat, and sword, all snatched months ago from a South Carolina museum.
As they prepared, they shared lighthearted jokes and jovial conversation, except for one person: Nina's stiff lip and narrow eyes suggested the levity grated on her. She ignored the talk and focused on strapping tight a pistol-packed rig. Nina stretched her leg and rested a foot on the tire of a Humvee as she worked the Velcro of the holster around her upper thigh.
Danny Washburn stopped in the middle of a joke about a hitchhiking nun and a truck driver. He stepped to Nina then slowly-intently-caressed his eyes over her outstretched leg.
Danny said, "Say baby, do those legs go aaalll the way up?"
"They go all the way up," she said. "All the way up your ass."
He moaned, "Ooo…hey, I’m just kiddin’ ‘round."
"ATF, right? That’s all you guys ever do, kid around. One word for you: ‘Waco.’"
That one word recalled the death of numerous ATF agents during an infamous 1993 raid.
"Why you-"
"Relax," she said without a smile in sight. "I’m just kiddin’ ‘round."
"Hey, easy does it," Trevor broke in as he rested his M4 carbine on the roof of the Humvee and tied his boot.
Danny Washburn said, "I think your friend here is looking for trouble."
"Trouble?" Trevor finished with the laces, stood, and gave Nina an inquisitive stare as if deciphering a code on her face. "No, she’s not looking for trouble."
Danny came back, "Well she’s looking for something."
The edge in Danny’s voice dulled. He liked Danny for that; things rolled off his back.
Trevor agreed, "Now that’s true."
"What’s true?" Nina asked.
"You’re looking for something," Trevor answered as he tightened his utility belt.
"Oh, I am, am I?"
"Yep," he sounded very matter-of-fact. "But you don’t know what it is. I don’t think you even realize you’re looking. Not really. Not yet."
"Oh brother. Let me guess. Am I looking for true love? Prince Charming? Do I need to go find a frog to kiss?"
Washburn quipped, "Ribbit."
"Nah," Trevor shook his head.
"Well, are you going to tell me? What am I looking for?"
"I’ll tell you," he took two steps closer and found Nina’s blue eyes with his own. For a moment-not long enough for others to notice but Trevor noticed-for a moment something else reflected in those eyes. Something greater than cold and ice. "I’ll tell you. But not now. When the time is right. When I have to."
He winked and turned away.
Her brow crinkled.
Trevor waved the K9s into the Winnebago and commanded everyone to, "Saddle up."
Washburn leaned to Jon Brewer and joked, "I know what she needs. She needs a good-"
"Whoa there," Shepherd, lurking nearby, stopped him. "It’s too early in the day for me to have to go and knock you down, son."
"Hey," Washburn held his hands aloft in a ‘no offense’ gesture. "I didn’t realize she was your honey, pops. Kind of robbing the cradle, don’t you think?"
Shepherd ignored Washburn and ducked into the Humvee.
Jon told Danny, "Honey? More like his daughter."
Jon emphasized ‘like’ but Washburn mainly heard ‘daughter’. The former ATF agent turned pale and hurried to the Suburban.
Trevor sat in the RV’s driver’s seat and started the vehicle. From there he saw a sight he had not seen in a long time: Sheila Evans walking across the mansion grounds. She strolled with an arm on Sal Corso.
Sheila forced a smile and waved to Trevor.
– The autumn sun slowly rose higher as the convoy drove through the "Back Mountain." The golden beams lacked the strength of only a month before, barely pushing the temperature above fifty degrees. A few white, puffy clouds dotted the blue sky and carried rapidly on the wings of a cold breeze.
Mixing with the clouds, a massive ‘V’ of Canadian geese-real, honest to goodness birds that belonged on Earth-headed south. Trevor wondered what sights those birds would see on their long journey. He wondered what they would find when they returned to the lake next year.
The convoy’s path followed the main thoroughfare passing shopping centers, professional offices, and cemeteries. All of the man-made scenery looked dull and bland compared to the sea of rusty red and orange erupting across the forested slopes and woodlands. The advance of fall burst like fireworks through northeastern Pennsylvania, painting a tapestry of brilliant colors that would last a few weeks until the tree branches turned barren.
The trio of cars drove through the rock cut marking the end of the ‘Back Mountain’. At that point, the road morphed into a raised highway above the suburbs lining both sides of the Susquehanna. Creatures large and small moved down there but the caravan raced along, not stopping to observe.
As the expressway swept eastward, the northern neighborhoods of Wilkes-Barre climbed a slope toward the valley wall and overlooked the highway. A ridge of commercial buildings stood watch above the road; quiet retail temples that had been a thriving shopping district only four months prior.
The route banked sharp to the north and the convoy aimed for an exit that bridged the expressway to I-81 north. That exit went beneath an overpass where graffiti on a concrete strut asked, Why Have You Forsaken Us?
Two miles along the Interstate, they saw their first "hostile" lumbering through a far-off neighborhood. The featureless, lanky black figure stood six stories tall. Trevor thought it a walking shadow. It did not notice the convoy.
After fifteen more minutes of driving between toppled tractor-trailers, crashed cars, and flocks of crows feasting on decaying flesh, they reached the airport exit.
Located on a plateau alongside Interstate 81 and under the shadow of the Montage Mountain Ski Resort, the small ‘international’ airport incorporated two runways, one large terminal, a traffic-control tower, and a series of hangers and small buildings.
Parked cars and shuttle buses-including one overturned-sat discarded outside the terminal. A mass of skeletal remains lay near the main entrance, apparently burned to the bone by whatever fire had damaged the building's fascia.
The convoy bypassed the terminal by breaking through a security gate and driving directly onto the tarmac.
A split and burnt fuselage littered one runway. More planes of various sizes slept near boarding ramps and hangers. Luggage from an abandoned baggage cart had sprung open sending t-shirts and underwear across the grounds.
Trevor's team drove to a hanger on the south side of the airport where two army deuce and a half cargo trucks stood. Several crates lay outside the trucks as if they were in the process of unloading when something interrupted their work, yet no bodies or signs of conflict.
The convoy halted and people poured out. Trevor sent K9s swarming into the hanger while Woody Ross and Shep inspected the army trucks.
Nina jogged to the front of the hanger. In the distance, beyond the tarmac, lay open air and a magnificent view of a mountain range. As beautiful as that view was, it was not nearly as beautiful-to Nina-as what waited in front of the hanger.
"Jackpot."
– Jon rolled the hand truck full of ordnance from the hanger.
"Careful with that," Nina Forest advised as she examined the pilot’s helmet in her hands.
In front of the hanger sat two Apache attack helicopters in near-perfect condition, having been armed, maintained, and fueled before their unit disbanded.
What had happened to that unit they may never know. Nonetheless, two of the military’s most effective close-support craft were theirs for the taking, and Nina Forest could fly them.
During her stint in the National Guard, Nina was primarily restricted to flying Blackhawk transports but she had experience with Apaches, too, because her commanding officer had been impressed by her instincts and wanted to see how she handled those birds-of-prey (he also drooled over how she looked in a flight suit).
She handled them quite well but army protocol did not allow her to fly them in combat. Instead, she trained for and flew several ferry missions.
Apache helicopters have two seats with the front cockpit earmarked for the gunner and the back for the pilot. However, both cockpits offer redundant controls, making it possible to either fly or shoot or both from either position.
The Apaches were not the only prize. The day’s lucky strike included a topped-off tanker truck full of aviation fuel.
Nina did not need to consult with their ‘leader’ to know the best course of action: she would fly one of the choppers to the estate and the ground team could drive the tanker home.
Nothing to it.
Rockets and chain gun rounds presented a bigger issue. A fair supply existed at the hanger, but the local police station or even the 109 ^ th Field Artillery armory in Kingston would not have that type of ordnance on hand. They would need to use the Hellfires sparingly.
"Okay," she announced to everyone in earshot. "I guess I’ll fly one now and then we can come back tomorrow for the other one."
A voice suggested, "Why not take both?"
Trevor Stone strolled casually from the shadowed confines of the hanger. He wore a flight suit and helmet.
– "This isn’t a game," her voice crackled over the headset as Trevor punched ignition switches for the main rotor. "Seriously. You don’t need to impress-"
"Hey, Forest," Trevor transmitted. "Don’t worry; I’m sure you’ll do fine."
He could hear her growl over the mic.
The rotors spun to full power. He worked the pedals and stick.
The first Apache, with Trevor at the helm, lifted off the tarmac. The second followed.
Jon Brewer gaped as the helicopters rose above the hanger then banked to the southwest. The deep thump-thump-thump of the helicopter blades echoed over the plateau and bounced off the picturesque mountain range.
Stonewall-standing next to Jon-said, "I was not aware that Mister Stone had experience with such machines."
Jon muttered, "Wow."
Trevor's revelation that he could fly the Apache shocked Jon even more so than Nina. He knew what Trevor would tell him: the same thing he told him when he asked where Trev had learned how to shoot and clean an assault rifle; where did he learned tactical hand signals; where had he learned how to fix generators.
I just picked it up.
Jon shook away his disbelief and gathered the ground convoy together including the new, fully loaded fuel truck. The time had come to return home.
– Nina glared through the cockpit window at the other helicopter, her gaze nearly violent enough to knock Trevor’s Apache from the air.
As for Trevor, he sat in the pilot’s seat, amazed. Everything on the control panel appeared familiar to him. He knew the purpose of each button.
Yes, there, counter-measures. Okay and those are the fire suppression systems. Oh yeah, that button activates the targeting controls linked directly to the helmet.
Radar? Clear. Orientation? Slightly banked but hey, no one is perfect.
But the lighter-than-air feeling…
He snickered.
Lighter than air in such a heavy machine? Silly sounding, but true. The beast, as massive as it felt, glided through the sky above the highway as if hanging from an invisible rope.
He glanced down at the world. The homes and the buildings all looked small and fake, conjuring memories of the train table in his grandpa’s basement; the one with the Lionel engines and blinking RR crossing signs.
Trevor suddenly felt lightheaded. The orange and red trees of autumn, the houses, the highway…they faded…
…desert, flat and featureless stretching as far as he could see. Plumes of thick black smoke rising from the horizon and filling the sky ahead, blocking the sun in an oily veil.
Below him, a burning hulk in the desert. He knew that hulk had been a T-72M1 tank. He knew it had been a part of the Medina Republican Guard Division. He also knew it burned from the Hellfire missile he had put into its hull.
The radio crackled with the conversation of others.
"C2 this is ‘Venerable’, ah, we need some support over here."
"Ah, Roger that, two Ghostriders en route to your location now…going red in two minutes…"
Trevor’s dizziness dissolved. The desert disappeared and he saw the towns, forests, and roads of northeast Pennsylvania again.
Nina’s voice spoke from his radio headset, "Are you going to tell me where you learned to fly helicopters?"
He smiled to himself.
"I just picked it up."
– The two Apaches swooped in low over the lake and banked hard as they arrowed for the estate. The mechanical whirl of the turbojets and the heavy pounding of the rotors echoed across the water basin.
"Well this changes things," Trevor radioed Nina.
He could still feel her eyes-sharper than the laser targeting mechanism-on his chopper.
She grumbled, "The convoy should be back here in twenty minutes or so."
Trevor beamed. What a glorious day for humanity’s comeback!
"I’ll land on the helipad next to the mansion; you go to the fields to the west. Wait until every…one…sees…"
Trevor’s voice drifted and he shivered in his flight suit.
Bodies lay strewn in front of the mansion porch and around the driveway.
"Oh shit."
"What?" But Nina saw.
He commanded, "Put down at the crossroads by the church, I’m landing on the pad. Rally at the main entrance."
"Roger that."
The choppers split.
Stone landed his ride with a quick, heavy thud. He opened the canopy and retrieved his M4 then jogged along the driveway with his head on a swivel. He desperately wanted to start searching but first he had to meet Nina.
On the way to the main gate, he spied a dead German Shepherd and two killed Rottweilers. Primitive arrows had pierced one of the dead dogs. The other two showed massive stabbing traumas from knives or spears.
The K9s were not the only dead things on the lawn.
Trevor found the corpses of humanoid hostiles with bodies similar to man. They wore clothing made of animal hides and woven plants. The tribesmen had pale skin, elongated fingers and not one trace of body hair. Near the dead aliens lay bows and arrows, knives made of wood, and heavy clubs.
Trevor did not stop until he reached the main gate. Nina, her Apache parked near the church, joined him.
Facing the unknown together forced the two to act in unison, with no wasted words and no stray thoughts. Trevor ordered that they secure the ‘barn’ behind the mansion first. She followed his orders without question.
There, at the nest egg of the K9s, they found two dead Dobermans but twice that number in chewed attackers. The K9s had held the barn, keeping safe the pups and mothers-to-be.
Stone dispatched two Greyhounds to the farms with hand-written warnings tucked in their collars. The warnings commanded: ESTATE ATTACKED. HUNKER DOWN UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.
Trevor and Nina next entered the mansion through the back door. In the main hallway, they found the remains of battle. Bullets had ripped away plaster chunks from walls. Blood from one K9 and three dead tribesmen mixed in pools on the floor. The space there felt warm and musty and a fine dust floated about.
Lori Brewer sat on the floor propped against a wall loosely holding a. 357 magnum revolver. The Doberman named Ajax hovered next to Lori, panting.
Stone knelt next to her. She struggled with her breath to make words: "Oh…shit…they just kept coming…I could hear them outside."
Trevor gave her a quick examination while Nina stood guard. He saw no wounds other than the exhaustion and fear that had caused her collapse.
"I heard shots. I couldn’t get out there 'cause the god damn dogs wouldn’t let me go."
Trevor smiled, a little, and placed a hand on her shoulder.
"They were doing their job."
Trevor turned his attention to Ajax. That dog had no information other than that the house remained secure.
"Stay here. You’ll be safe here. I’ll be back. Jon will be back soon, too."
Lori nodded. Nina and Trevor went outside, leaving Ajax to keep the mansion safe.
The two checked the apartments above the garage and found Evan Godfrey hiding in his closet. After telling Godfrey to stay put, Trevor led Nina off the estate grounds with the aim of searching the church. Their plans changed when they heard a groan from the dock. There they found two people.
Trevor recognized the first person as hailing from Stonewall’s mortar teams: a chubby fellow with a "Maryland Terrapins" sweatshirt. Blood from a massive gash on the fellow’s neck drenched that sweatshirt. His dead hand held an empty AR-15 rifle. Shell casings from the weapon surrounded the nearby corpses of two primitive attackers.
However, the groan had come from the second person: Sal Corso. He lived, for the moment, despite four arrows driven deep into his body.
Nina helped Sal into a sitting position against the boathouse. His lungs drew his last breaths but Corso’s hand still gripped an empty pistol in the vain hope of continuing the fight.
"What happened?" Nina asked sternly.
Sal coughed blood. "They came out of the-aarrgg-woods…a couple dozen of ‘em."
He started to fade, then snapped, "Not long after you left… musta been watching… bastardi…"
Nina interrogated in an unyielding voice: "What’s the status here? Casualties?"
Sal spoke before her questions finished. He might not have heard her at all.
"They…they left…oh Christ, this hurts…I think there’s still a bunch of our people hold up in the church…awwwggg…I dunno ‘bout mansion…they were all over us…"
Suddenly his eyes widened as much as a dying man’s eyes can widen.
"Sheila…they took Sheila."