Sixty minutes later, Trevor convened a meeting in the Command Center on the second floor of the mansion. Nearly everyone who lived within walking distance, including those who had been a part of the airport convoy, crowded into the room. Stonewall entered last.
"We think they're gone," Trevor said but he could not be sure; with the bulk of his Grenadiers still on their mission to the north, he could not dispatch scouts. "Before Sal died he told us they'd been gone for about an hour but-"
"Frank Dorrance."
Stonewall’s voice derailed Trevor's thought.
"What’s that?"
"His name," Stonewall explained. "Most of you were already well acquainted with Mr. Corso. Frank had not yet had the pleasure to become better known in our community."
"I see," Trevor said, but he did not.
"Frank lost two children back in June. I met him outside of Martinsburg, West Virginia."
"West Virginia?" Trevor repeated. "I thought he was from Maryland."
"Because he wore a Maryland University football shirt. I had the opportunity to learn about the man beyond his favorite sports teams. He was over weight despite two months of near starvation, yet no one worked harder. I saw fit to assign him to a mortar team."
Woody Ross recalled, "He did a man’s job at the battle of Harper Tavern."
"I see," Trevor said again.
"I thought you should know the names of those who died under your command."
Nina changed the conversation: "Let's get the choppers in the air."
Stonewall had more to say on a different subject. "She’s probably still alive."
"What?" Lori Brewer gasped from across the room.
Woody "Bear" Ross’ said in his deep voice, "The raiders were from the ‘Tribe of the Red Hand.’ ‘Least that’s what we call em’. They take human slaves."
Stonewall drawled, "We drew engagements against many of their number during our march. They are what your database would call a ‘primitive and organized’ force. Yes, I believe that would be the description."
Ross said, "Each will have at least one hand stained red with blood. This is some kind of rank. They look like us ‘cept they have no hair and their eyes are all the same color. "
"Almost ivory in shade," McAllister said. "I’m sure a physical examination will produce more points of differentiation. I believe the most important information is that they appear to abhor all machinations of our modern, technological society. They fight with primitive weapons and make their encampments in the wild. From what we saw on our journey north, they divide their tribes into a series of smaller camps, spread out but close enough for cooperation on the hunt. You’ll find them in clusters."
Trevor mulled, "The Tribe of the Red Hand…"
"There's a good chance Sheila is still alive?" Lori’s loud voice drew attention.
"Yes," Stonewall agreed. "Although uncooperative or useless prisoners are discarded."
Useless.
"Nina, get airborne. Make sure these things have left our neighborhood. Don’t go out too far and I don’t want to waste fuel. You got an hour of air time, no more."
Nina nodded. Trevor barked more orders.
"Jon, organize our people and place sentries. Until the rest of the Grenadiers get back, we need to be vigilante. I want a couple of people with heavy weapons at each of the farms for now, too. The rest of you…well, we have to clean up bodies."
The group dispersed. Lori Brewer grabbed Trevor’s arm.
"They said she’s probably alive. We should go after her."
"We don’t have the manpower. I bit off too much today and this is what happened."
Her face contorted as if she eyed a monster. "You can’t risk anyone for Sheila. Is that it? What if it were me out there? Or Shep? Or Nina? I guess you’re going to decide who’s worth saving and who’s not."
"Lori, this isn’t about one person. Me, you, or anyone else."
"You damn well better make it about one person; one person at a time. You want to save humanity? Then start showing some humanity yourself."
– While Nina had been flying a fruitless patrol, Trevor helped pile bodies of enemy attackers on to a pick up truck that drove them to a field where the carcasses were burned. In contrast, they would inter Sal Corso and Frank Dorrance in a cemetery not far from the estate.
As for the K9s, Trevor had started a burial ground in the forest for man’s guardians.
In the midst of clean-up duty, the Grenadier war party returned from their mission, during which they slew two large frogs that posed little threat. Their big mission had been a waste.
Conversely, Omar’s team reported initial success in rigging a solar power grid at the new farm. Still, it would take several more days to complete.
Suddenly it hit Trevor that Sal and the Maryland Terrapins guy were the first people to die under his command. That thought stopped his walk right outside of Sheila Evans’ room. He realized he had nearly forgotten about her. He opened the door and stepped inside what had been her private little world.
A mess greeted him: candy bar wrappers, cups, and well-paged glamour magazines on the nightstand, a heap of clothes in front of a full-length mirror.
Sheila had been doing something in here; living some sort of life.
He sat on the bed and found a notebook poking out from beneath a pillow. Sheila had not recorded any dates in the book, but it apparently served as a diary. Trevor read from the pages.
I have not done one of these since eighth grade. Funny how I thought crushes and junior high dances were so important back then. Now I cannot remember what a normal life was.
I try to dream about it when I am awake. I daydream about eating at Milano’s. Sometimes I put on a nice dress and pretend I am going out for a night on the town.
I stole a bottle of wine from the pantry. If Trevor finds out, he will probably kick me out. Sometimes I sit here and sip the wine and I can almost hear the voice on the other side of the table or the questions from the maitre de.
Trevor turned the page.
More people keep coming. I do not think there is room for every one. What happens if the food runs out? They will probably want to get rid of me so there is more for the rest of them.
They act tough with their guns and talking like soldiers. I think they are really scared. I think they are just hiding. But I know that Trevor is not afraid. He does not have any thing to be afraid of. He is the biggest monster of them all. He hates me.
Again, another turn of the page.
I just want to stop being scared. I just want to stop crying every night. Is that too much to ask? No one else cries. Maybe I was not supposed to live through this. Maybe I should just die.
A break in the writing. The ink changed from black to blue giving the impression a significant amount of time elapsed between entries.
I thought I would have bad dreams all the time. But I keep dreaming about when I was a little girl. When my father would tuck me to bed and pull the covers up to my chin and kiss me on the forehead. I would feel safe. And I knew I belonged there.
I love you daddy. I miss you.
I hate that I do not belong here. I hate being afraid of the monsters and of Trevor and what he might do. He might kick me out.
I just want to be happy. Just for one day. I want my daddy to come and tuck me in and give me a kiss and tell me everything is going to be all right. To tell me that he loves me.
Trevor could not read any more. His rear end slid off the mattress and he fell to the floor.
Oh God, what have I become?
– Trevor stormed through the woods retracing his steps as best he remembered. He found the faded game trail, not nearly as clear a path as that day in late June.
"Come out! I know you can hear me! I don’t care about the rules!"
"Ah, what’s wrong now? Took a little bloody nose and you be lookin’ to turn and run."
Trevor swiveled around and saw the Old Man, the campfire, and the white wolf.
"Screw you!"
"I am pretty darned sure I told ya’ not to come lookin’ for me like I’m your high school guidance counselor."
"What have you done to me? I'm turning into a monster!"
The flames intensified. The Old Man’s eyes widened.
"Monster? I expect you’re right on that, Trevor. Seein’ the ways in which you go blastin’ the baddies. I suppose them things out there, they thinking you a monster. Now ain't that a hoot? Any-who, Trev, you go thinking that all this was my doing, if that’ll help you sleep the night. But the truth, Trevvy, is that I did nothin’ to you. All this has been down there the whole time, waiting to be let out. Buck up, Trev, you’re a natural born leader, makin’ the hard decisions and whatnot, knowin’ when to sacrifice some to save others. I am mighty pleased."
Is that who I am? Am I glad that Sheila is gone because I thought her useless?
"No! I’m going to make it right. I’m going to get Sheila back. Even if I have to kill every goddamn thing in my way! Even if I have to…"
…show compassion…make her belong…
"Wow," the Old Man grinned. "You are hoppin’ mad. A regular fury. You stay angry. Wake up every morn asking you-self, what can I kill today? But Trev, you gotta change the way you doing business. Now that you went and got all these fine folks around you, don’t go rushing in when you got plenty of folks who can die first. I think it's about time you started-what’s that fancy word? — oh yeah, 'delegating' your authority. You still gotta survive."
Trevor cursed him. Trevor cursed himself, too.
– A Humvee and a Suburban raced along a country road avoiding a fallen tree, a flipped garbage truck, and scaring away a six-legged fury red thing resembling a dog-sized anteater.
"Faster, faster," Trevor insisted from the passenger seat in the Suburban.
As had been the case all morning, Trevor's eyes burned red and he growled words. His hands fidgeted constantly and he spoke in sharp, machine-gun-like bursts.
Now he focused his boiling emotions to action. Thirty minutes ago Nina, during airborne patrol, spotted a group of people on Route 11 about twelve miles from the lake and half that distance north of Wilkes-Barre. He knew the odds that the group might be Red Hands with Sheila were remote, but he could not pass any chance to avenge yesterday's raid on the estate.
According to Nina's last sighting, the group approached a small town along the western bank of the Susquehanna.
Trevor’s team included himself, Jon Brewer, and six K9s in the Suburban. Stonewall McAllister, "Bear" Ross, and Dustin McBride (the 'Second Brigade' leader) rode in the Humvee.
The cars turned onto Route 92 and headed east under a sullen dull blanket of cloud cover threatening rain. They passed isolated homes and trailers. Shadows moved on the edge of the forest and around those dwellings but time did not allow for investigation.
Ahead of them lay the small town of West Pittston, founded in the mid-1800s as a result of the anthracite boom. The 1959 Knox Mine disaster flooded shafts, entombed workers, and left the town with no more mines but a host of mom and pop shops, a strip mall, a convenience mart, and two bridges crossing the Susquehanna into the mirror town of just plain old ‘Pittston.’
Massive Oaks lined the riverbanks while home styles ranging from colonial to modern, from rich to poor, lined the streets. Armageddon made them all the same: empty.
They came to an intersection where Rt. 92 met Rt. 11. The latter approached from the south, merged with 92, and then went east across the river via a concrete bridge. Homes, a small shop, and big trees surrounded the junction while a tangle of destroyed cars cluttered the roads.
A group of ten human beings stood together near the bridge. One of them held the attention of the rest. He wore black clothes and carried something in his hand.
The Suburban halted at the edge of the intersection behind the remains of a chain-reaction crash leftover from last summer.
Trevor eyed the group as he exited the SUV. His first impression suggested a holy man gathering his flock, although that flock seemed lethargic, as if they might be sleepwalkers.
This group did not appear related to the Red Hand tribe who abducted Sheila. Still, so many people in one place presented an opportunity to collect more survivors.
"Hello! Hello!" Trevor waved toward the crowd.
The K9s, including Tyr, held defensive positions next to the transports.
As Trevor crossed the intersection, he sensed something not quite right.
"Help! Help!" A voice cried from the middle of the gang.
The flock parted and the "holy man" approached with open arms.
"Greetings my children!"
Trevor studied the priest as he walked-glided-across the pavement between wrecked cars. The man appeared older, but not old: thin but naturally so, not emaciated. His eyes were the eyes of a fire and brimstone preacher. Or a madman. He held an object, probably a bible.
"Help!" Two of the sleepwalkers shuffled, nearly fell, as they restrained someone.
"Father…what is going on here?"
"Spreading the good word, my son."
Trevor realized his error. The man did not hold a bible but, rather, a container.
The thin man with fire in his eyes opened the container.
"Come, hear the word of Voggoth and be one with The Order."
He held aloft a small thing: a slug or a fat worm.
The clergyman reached the creature toward Trevor who instinctively raised his weapon and categorized the preacher as a ‘hostile.’ The missionary anticipated resistance, and he wasn't quite human.
Four eel-like tentacles slithered forth from the holy man’s neck. Two grabbed the barrel of Trevor’s M4 and twisted it toward the ground. The other two snared Trevor’s throat, choking and pulling him toward the slug-thing.
"Do not resist, my child. Accept the living God."
A flash of cold steel.
General Stonewall McAllister’s blade severed the vile appendages. The cleric dropped the squirming creature and stumbled backward.
"Heretic! Heretic!"
One of Stonewall’s boots stomped the slug thing wiggling on the pavement. It squealed.
The clergyman, retreating to his flock, shouted angrily, "Sinners! You are beyond salvation! Feel the wrath of the living God!"
Several-but not all-of the sleepwalking humans charged, brandishing crowbars, boards, hammers, and other blunt instruments. Many of them sported large gray and red patches on their faces and arms. Their eyes stared vacantly.
Stonewall calmly suggested, "A further demonstration of our mettle may be in order."
Trevor coughed and threw the dead tentacles away, then unleashed his ire.
"Shoot them! Shoot all of them!"
A volley of shots let fly from Trevor and his compatriots. The mesmerized flock shimmied and shook awkwardly like newbies in a mosh pit as round after round found their mark, dropping four of the missionary's flock to the ground.
Trevor surveyed those who remained. Some appeared dazed and confused; as if not quite ready to follow the holy man’s orders…or maybe they would…or maybe not.
Among the remaining flock, he saw the one who had yelled for help: a starved black man in tattered clothes lying in the street. Trevor immediately recognized his old friend, Dante Jones.
"How dare you defile the converted! You shall bend to the hand of Voggoth!"
The clergyman held aloft two fleshy orbs each slightly larger than a softball. He tossed the objects along the road as if bowling. As the balls rolled, they expanded in mass much like a cartoon snowball growing larger as it cascades down a slope.
The objects grew to the size of very large beach balls and stopped rolling. Thin appendages pushed through the surface into the air, bent at some sort of joint, and reached to the ground. They resembled huge Daddy Long-Legs spiders.
"Punish the heretics! Destroy all the non-believers!"
Two horizontal glowing red slits cracked open on the balls like bloody wounds and two rows of smaller circles-almost barrels-popped to the surface as well. Between those two rows of circles emerged a bone-like object that could have been the head of a large drill.
Overall, standing on their creepy thin legs, the beach ball heads hovered some eight feet above the ground.
Trevor fired. Woody fired. Stonewall fired. Jon and Dustin fired. The jolt of impacting bullets pushed against the spider-things, forcing the combination body/head to bob and bounce. Yet the creatures absorbed the bullets as they advanced.
The humans fell back.
Trevor bumped his butt into a burned out Firebird. He turned to run around the coupe. At that moment, the drill-like cone on front of one of the spider-things shot forward. That weapon flew in a straight, hard line and slammed into and through the remains of the Firebird. After a moment, the hose-like tendon holding the drill head retracted into the creature’s face.
Trevor saw the band of converts and their leader drag off Dante.
"No! Dante! No!"
Trevor stopped retreating and prepared to charge. He would NOT let Dante be taken.
Jon Brewer’s strong hands clamped on Trevor’s shoulders. At that moment, the round circles on The Order’s combatants made their purpose known.
They sounded similar to rapid-fire air pistols, absently reminding Trevor of the machine-gun BB rifles at the boardwalk in New Jersey; the ones for which you paid $2 for 50 shots in the hope of winning a stuffed animal. The projectiles were small but hard and sharp. The first flurry of shots rippled across a car carcass in pursuit of human targets.
Jon yanked on Trevor's shoulders to pull him toward the escape vehicles. Their legs intertwined and they stumbled to the ground next to the wreckage of a Jeep Wagoneer.
The lead attacker stopped firing at dead cars, wobbled forward on its spindly legs, then bore down on Trevor and Jon. Its shadow cast a circle of darkness over them.
Two K9s leapt first on the Wagoneer’s hood then on to the face of the monster, rending and tearing with claws and teeth until gravity pulled them off. While the K9s distracted the enemy, Jon tried to get Trevor to safety.
"C’mon," but Trevor fought against Jon’s grip.
"Dante!"
"We can’t save him!" Jon shouted as "Bear" Ross added his hands to help restrain Trevor.
"Yes! Yes, we can! Damn it! Let go!"
Trevor’s fury nearly provided enough strength to rip free of their gasp, but they managed to haul him off.
The second of the spider-things moved around the flank bypassing many of the burned out cars. Its miniature organic guns fired dozens of pellets into the sides and tires of the Humvee and then the Suburban, immobilizing the getaway cars.
"Sound the retreat, my friends," Stonewall raised his sword to rally them to his position near the store. "I suggest we commandeer this hard point."
"Trevor," Jon re-emphasized as they found temporary cover behind the disabled Suburban. "We have to retreat."
"You want to run?" Trevor yelled his question.
"Yes, we have to."
"Like you did at Indiantown! You ran!" Trevor attacked with the truth sensed by him in Jon’s voice weeks before. "You ran long before your unit was wiped out! You left them! Now you want me to do the same! Well I’m done running! I AM GOING…" Trevor pulled out of Bear’s arms and prepared charge. "…TO FIGHT!"
"You’re right," Jon conceded as they heard a K9’s dying yap. "I ran. They were coming at us and we were being slaughtered and I ran. I was a coward."
Trevor breathed in heavy, angry heaves
"I ran because I was afraid," Jon went on in a surprisingly calm voice. "But I’m not going to let you kill yourself because you’re afraid now."
More K9s charged at the spider-things.
Jon scolded, "You are afraid to keep leading! Because what? You made a mistake yesterday? Every leader makes mistakes!"
Trevor growled, "To Hell with you!"
"Gentlemen," Stonewall McAllister stuck his head around the corner of the Chevy. "I was wondering if you’d care to join us in a defensive position, or are you planning on dying today?"
"I am not retreating!"
The K9s barked and bit and dodged the weapons of the spider things. Tyr darted between the legs of one creature, causing it to twist and nearly topple. Yet the dogs only bought time…the drill-on-a-hose weapon skewered a Husky. Meanwhile, the group of Voggoth converts and their unwilling guest re-assembled by the bridge.
Above the sounds of hissing and popping organic air guns came an engine’s roar then squealing tires. A big, boxy ambulance painted red with a white Christian Cross stenciled on its side ripped around the corner and skidded to a halt in the midst of the battle.
A man surged from the ambulance cab; a stocky black man wearing a leather jacket over a black shirt. His face grim and angry, he looked next of kin to The Order’s clergyman, albeit larger and better armed.
Instead of a box of squirming slugs, the new arrival brandished a cumbersome M240-B heavy machine gun.
His voice boomed as deeply, if not more so, than woody ross’. "and the lord sayeth, look now; i myself am he! there is no god other than me!"
The machine gun sent a concentrated swarm of bullets into a spider-creature. A gooey, sickly, yellow fluid oozed from the wounds and the creature collapsed.
"I am the one who kills and gives life; I am the one who wounds and heals; no one DELIVERS FROM MY POWER!"
The newcomer’s entire body shook as he let fly more metal slugs at the remaining creature. More gooey mess. Another dead demon.
The Order’s cleric directed his followers to attack. The remaining six one-time-humans lumbered forward, some more enthusiastically than others. Dante, discarded for the moment, collapsed. The missionary fled.
Trevor’s idea of charging held new merit. He and his followers rushed the mob and opened fire, downing four of the enemy instantly.
The newcomer from the ambulance discarded his heavy machine gun and produced a. 357 Magnum revolver. He too closed on the remaining converts.
"And the Lord says, as surely as I live, I sharpen my flashing sword and begin to CARRY OUT JUSTICE!"
He aimed carefully at one of the minions with sickly blotches and blew away its head.
Trevor pointed his M4 at a woman. She looked clean enough, but had that vacant stare and waved a butcher’s knife.
"No, you fool! That one may still repent!"
Trevor held his fire. The ambulance-driving machine-gun-toting fellow holstered his revolver and produced a stun gun. He dodged the sleepwalking woman’s knife, zapped her, and steadied her wobbling body.
"Quickly, friends, move her to the ambulance."
Stonewall and Dustin obliged while Trevor and Jon raced to Jones.
"Dante, can you hear me?"
Dante-beaten and worn-coughed several times and opened his eyes.
"Do I…do I know you from somewhere?"
– The machine-gun Bible-quoting man went by the name of "Reverend Johnny". Despite the moniker, Johnny had attended no seminary, preached to no congregation. Instead, he was a successful New England surgeon before the end of the world.
As with them all, the invasion changed Johnny. He waged a crusade against The Order, chasing their missionaries, learning their ways, and wreaking havoc upon Voggoth’s minions.
Johnny explained what he knew of The Order at a meeting in the Command Center on the morning of October 22 ^ nd, two days after Sheila Evans' kidnapping. Stonewall, Shepherd, Nina, Danny Washburn, and Jon Brewer listened.
"They are an abomination upon this Earth. At first, I believed they were a parasitic life form. But now I suspect we are dealing with organic implants that first control the host’s mind then mutate that person into something new, possibly by re-writing their DNA."
Jon said, "You were able to save a girl yesterday but you killed others. Why?"
"There is time before irreversible assimilation. Sometimes a week, sometimes less. It depends on the individual's constitution. Once the blotches appear, that person is too far gone. However, before that point using one of The Order's own chemicals-an enzyme-can destroy the infection. It must be the correct enzyme. There are different batches."
Stonewall asked, "If I may, what were those gruesome beasts marshaled against us?"
"The Order uses organic technology. All of their facilities and tools are essentially grown. What you saw were biological machines. I call the ones from yesterday ‘Spider Sentries’. The Order’s clergy can deploy them hastily, as you discovered. They have many such demons. Many more horrid and more powerful. Fortunately, The Order does not have a strong presence in this area yet; just missionaries."
Jon worried, "Our weapons didn’t do much against them."
"Spider Sentries can absorb damage. Bullets will take them down if you concentrate your assault or utilize fire-based weapons. They don’t like a hot foot, praise the Lord."
Trevor walked in at a brisk clip saying, "Reverend, you should join us and stop wasting your time on a lone crusade."
Reverend Johnny widened his eyes and retorted, "That depends. What is it you intend? I have no desire to sit quietly and let Hell’s devils defile God’s green Earth."
"What do I intend? I intend to kill every creature that does not belong on my world. I will hang their rotting carcasses from signposts as a warning to others that this planet belongs to humanity. I am all out of mercy today."
Johnny cheered, "Praise the Lord."
Stone squared his eyes on each of his followers one after another. He burned his determination into them. Nina reluctantly-and even surprising to herself-averted her gaze not unlike a pack member bowing to the authoritative stare of the alpha wolf.
"Two good things came out of yesterday’s battle with The Order," Trevor explained. "The first, Reverend Johnny has joined us. The second came from Dante Jones."
Jon asked, "What did he tell you?"
"Dante was picked up by The Order after he escaped the Red Hands. He tells me there are four camps stretching along the Susquehanna banks northward. They have human slaves shuffling between the camps cutting trees, scavenging food, and the like."
Shepherd joined the conversation: "What about Sheila? Did he spot her?"
"No, but he gave me a general idea of where those camps are. Enough to go after her. We will bring her back to her home. I need someone to lead a rescue team."
"I’ll do it," Nina spoke as if it a foregone conclusion. "I figure three others-"
"No."
The room exploded in silence. Wind brushed across the glass of the windows. Nina’s eyes widened and her mouth hung open.
Trevor’s cold expression did not change but he delighted in her shock. He found some satisfaction in tormenting her; in being cruel to her: punishing her for having the same blackness in her heart that he found in his own.
"What?" She put a stiff finger on the table, "Listen, I’m the best person you got."
"No you’re not," Trevor spat the words at her (at himself?). "This is a rescue mission. I want her back alive. When we start killing again, I’ll call for you."
Her lip stiffened. What flickered behind her eyes? Not anger, no longer shock; not even damaged pride. Something else. Had his words hurt? Had those words punctured her armor?
"Jon."
"Yes, Trevor?"
"Put together a team. Go get her, Jon…I know you can do this. Bring her home."
– Brewer left later that morning with Dustin McBride, Shep, two men from Stonewall’s troop, and nine Grenadiers. According to Dante Jones, the Red Hands lived in four settlements close to the river north of West Pittston, each with a couple dozen tribesmen plus human slaves.
They drove the first part of the trip then waded into the countryside on foot. Early that evening they caught sight of the first camp nestled in a forest clearing a few hundred yards from the river. The team observed the tribe undetected.
The Red Hands' village included many small dwellings made of stretched animal hides anchored between wooden poles. Two larger buildings-constructed of log beams, thatch, and animal skins-reminded Jon of Indian longhouses and sat near the center of activity.
From a distance, he nearly mistook the Red Hands for storybook versions of the Susquehannock or Seneca tribes that had lived in those parts hundreds of years ago. Closer inspection revealed a nastier race.
Entryways sported trophies of mounted skulls. A fair number of those skulls appeared human. Buckets outside the doorways to the larger buildings contained the blood warriors used to paint rank on their hands.
A rancid smell drifted from a pit in a corner of the village. Using binoculars, Jon saw that the trash there included the gnawed bones of humans who had lost their usefulness.
The useful humans remained locked inside a flimsy open-air pen constructed of wood posts and rope made from vines. Jon counted four ragged people but no sign of Sheila.
He counted eleven warriors armed with daggers and a kind of sword fashioned from branches. Racks of spears and caches of bows waited at various points around the camp.
Several young and old aliens wandered the grounds conversing in a rough alien tongue. Others skinned animals over open flames sending the scent of cooking flesh into the air. Two washed clothes with water from a wooden barrel, three more guarded the village perimeter.
Brewer positioned his fighters around the camp and waited for the right moment, then signaled the snipers. Several pops of gunfire shattered the peace. Sentries dropped and the remaining pale-skinned aliens scrambled for cover and weapons.
A full assault followed. Jon’s team constricted inward from the forest, blazing away with licks of brilliant fire spitting from high-powered rifles as if dragon’s breath.
The Red Hands did not shrink from gunfire. Jon realized they felt no fear of advanced weapons. Indeed, the presence of the modern weaponry angered the aliens. They charged forward with a religious fervor, as if believing their righteousness could overcome firepower.
One of Jon’s team-a bearded fellow who had ridden north with Stonewall-suffered an arrow in the leg. An enemy warrior hacked to death a dog with a hatchet. Nonetheless, the assault turned to victory as K9s tore at throats and bullets felled the Red Hands.
– When Trevor called for her to fly him in an Apache to the Red Hand camp, Nina did not refuse. She had already decided not to let him see how much his rejection bothered her.
The sun had disappeared behind the horizon but enough of its glimmer remained to keep night at bay for a short while longer. The Apache flew above the treetops, ascending and descending with the contour of the land.
Jon guided them to the camp via tactical radio. She landed the chopper in the middle of the dead village. Jon, his team, and a small group of freed, shell-shocked human slaves waited.
Nina followed Trevor from the Apache and walked behind as Brewer gave his report.
"This one was closer than we thought. From what the captives told us, there are three settlements farther north, but they’re spread out more. Not going to be easy to find."
The men stopped. Nina stopped with them. Jon pointed toward one of the smaller structures. Trevor turned to his friend and put a hand on his shoulder.
"Thank you. You’re a hell of a soldier. I may not have-"
"Trev. It’s okay. Maybe now I have a chance to…to redeem myself."
"You already have. Now get ready to return to the estate. Your mission is over."
Jon turned around but Trevor continued forward. Nina hesitantly followed.
Trevor pushed aside the animal skin curtain at the entrance to one of the smaller dwellings. Remnants of a fire smoldered in the middle of the chamber, a hole in the roof allowed strands of lazy smoke to drift away. Sacks wove from plants hung on the walls serving as racks for weapons and tools. Next to the fire lay a wool blanket.
Trevor knelt on both knees and stared. Nina waited for him to speak, to tell her why they had come but she could think of nothing else to do other than kneel alongside him.
He pulled the blanket off the bruised and bloodied body of Sheila Evans, her eyes wide open but seeing nothing…nothing other than whatever pain and suffering she had endured the last hours of her life.
Nina had seen the face of death a thousand times since late June. Sheila’s face now became just another to join Sal’s and a parade of others.
Scott?
She turned to Trevor expecting he would be ready to go. He was not. His lips quivered. His eyes closed. He trembled.
"She just wanted to belong."
His chance at redemption… his chance to tell her she belonged…gone.
"I’m sorry, Sheila. I’m so sorry…"
Nina watched his misery pour forth. His grief took her by as much surprise as his cold tone had taken her at the meeting that morning. Could this possibly be the same person? So different the emotions. All in one person?
When we start killing again, I’ll call for you.
Stone sobbed alongside the body of Sheila Evans. As Nina watched, she stopped questioning why he acted this way. Instead, she questioned herself. She realized she should do something to comfort a fellow human being, but she did not know what. She didn’t know how.
Nina Forest envied him his remorse. She wondered how it felt.