Moments before sunset, Trevor hurried in the front door of the mansion having just returned from a fuel run to William and Eva Rheimmer’s farm.
During the trip home, he received a radio transmission from Jon Brewer announcing the successful conclusion of the search for Nina Forest. Somehow, she had survived in that infested city for three days. The other officer, Scott, remained unaccounted for.
"She’s unconscious," Jon said as he met Trevor inside the front door.
Stone noticed Jon beaming. And why not? He had searched unfriendly territory and not only survived but also completed his mission.
Originally, Trevor anticipated problems with Jon, and sought to earn that man’s respect. Now Trevor wondered, perhaps it might be Jon seeking respect. Or something else.
Lori Brewer came along carrying a first aid kit and added her voice to the discussion.
"There’s some dried blood on her noggin’, a few cuts and scrapes, but from what I can tell she’s in good shape."
"But unconscious?"
"That’s how we found her," Jon said. "She was under a collapsed roof at the scrap metal yard a quarter mile from the crash."
"A quarter mile? And it took this long to find her?"
Jon's beaming faded as Trevor's words inflicted a wound.
Stone immediately mitigated, "Still, good job and all. I can’t believe you found her."
Captain Jerry Shepherd and Sal Corso emerged from the first-floor guestroom and the five people shuffled into the living room. A chill seeped in from the early-Autumn evening. Jon piled kindling in the large fireplace and Trevor pulled the tall red drapes closed to keep light from escaping.
Shepherd sat in a tobacco-colored wing chair and said, "I told you she’d make it."
"But she’s unconscious, right?" Trevor spoke as if the woman’s unconscious state made her survival less remarkable.
Lori, noticing the tone in his voice, countered, "Other than that, she’s fine."
"One tough chick," Sal used the word chick with lots of respect.
"I see," Trevor absently inspected a collection of porcelain carousel horses displayed in a corner curio cabinet. "Let’s hope she wakes up soon. Anyway, I’m not sending any more people in town for now."
A glare from Shepherd reminded Trevor that the police officers had not yet conceded to take orders from him.
"When Nina wakes up she’ll tell us what happened to Scott. Seems to me we’ll just have to go from there."
The kindling crackled as the fire started. Jon stoked the blaze with more logs. Heat billowed across the living room as the flames grew.
"I suppose so," Trevor acquiesced.
He did not need to extend an invitation again. He did not need to remind Shepherd that the invitation came with conditions. He had done so a dozen times already. Each time Shepherd told him they would wait and see.
Trevor left the living room with the intention of going upstairs to change clothes. He stopped and gazed toward the first floor guestroom. Curiosity got the better of him.
She looked nothing like he expected. In fact, he almost laughed.
Nina Forest lay in bed on top of a checkered comforter. An oil lamp cast the unconscious woman in a soft glow and filled the room with a subdued smell of kerosene. She wore black BDU pants and a white top. A series of small cuts and bruises decorated her arms, the only trophies she displayed from nearly three days in Hell.
The petite, early 20s girl sleeping silently on the bed contrasted sharply with his expectations of an Amazon warrior. She had medium length blond hair with naturally curly waves yet pulled it into a tight, short ponytail clearly designed for function, not style.
She did not resemble a warrior.
More like a cheerleader, he thought.
Except not a cheerleader as Sheila had been. More like the strong and agile cheerleader charged with performing the gymnastic stuff.
His eyes drifted across her shoulders and arms, all sculptured by a kind artist’s eye: no bulging muscles, but chiseled tone with nary a hint of body fat. She matched the stereotype of the all-American girl: attractive and physically fit with small but well-proportioned breasts.
But a warrior?
Trevor chuckled quietly at the difference between expectation and reality. Having debunked the legend, he turned to leave.
The arm seized his neck. How did she move so fast?
The cheerleader held him in a headlock and it felt as if she might crush his larynx. He grabbed at her arm futilely. The wind to his lungs clamped off.
The All-American girl spoke evenly but forcefully, "Where am I? Who are you?"
Her vice grip allowed only a grunt.
He felt lightheaded. The walls spun. Blurry figures entered the room.
"Nina! Nina let him go, it’s okay!"
The grip released. He collapsed to the floor on his back gulping air. Sal Corso bent over and looked down at him.
"You okay, Chief?"
– The fire waned. Jon Brewer placed his bottle on the mahogany coffee table and stacked more logs in the flames. Lori Brewer curled on the couch while Trevor sat in a walnut-framed easy chair massaging his bruised throat and dealing with a burgeoning headache.
Sheila Evans long ago retreated to her room while the guests from Philadelphia accepted temporary shelter in apartments above the garage. Shepherd promised a decision by morning.
Lori teased for the third time, "You got beat up by a girl."
Trevor pinched his nose. He could not decide if credit for the headache lay with the trauma dealt to his throat or Lori’s ribbing.
Outside, the wind whistled, rattling the windows. The people inside felt secure knowing K9s watched the grounds beyond those rattling windows.
Jon drank from his beer and asked, "What’s the story with Sheila? You two goin’ rabbit?"
Lori slapped her husband on the knee.
"No," Trevor answered.
"Where did you find her?" Lori asked.
"She was being chased by Mutants. I helped her out."
Jon mocked, "Trevor Stone to the rescue."
"Something like that, I guess. But…well I don’t know."
Lori pushed, "What? What is it?"
"It’s just…I was hoping she’d have it together more. All she does is sit in her room. She’s afraid to do anything, to go anywhere."
Lori shrugged, "I think we all are."
"No, not like this. If she had her way we’d just sit here behind these walls and hope to God nothing ever finds us."
Lori pushed again, "Sounds like a plan to me."
Trevor had enough pushing.
"You don’t really mean that. Don’t play games. I’m serious. She’s useless."
"Useless? Do you hear yourself?"
"Lori, you know what I mean."
Jon broke in, "That’s right. People have to carry their weight. No room for lazy bones."
She asked, "Are you sorry you saved her? Like it’d be better if she died?"
Trevor pinched his nose again.
"Forget it."
Lori took a long drink and then set aside her beer. She leaned forward and crossed her arms on her knees. Her eyes drooped a little, then narrowed, and her head tilted in the slightest. Trevor recognized her counselor’s face.
"What happened to Ashley?"
Trevor ran a hand through his hair and closed his eyes.
"She disappeared into thin air. Her whole neighborhood I think. Just like Wrigley Field. Just like West Point. Nothing but clothes left." Trevor asked Jon, "Did you ever hear any more about what they thought caused that? Still just vaporized?"
Jon’s posture on the couch stiffened and his eyes darted fast for the floor. He occupied his hands and mouth with the beer bottle.
"Go ahead, tell me. Did your cousin hear something more?"
Jon sighed and said, "Last I heard the only new info was that there was some sort of strange radiation left behind."
"And?"
"So…so they figured it was like a neutron bomb."
Lori did not understand. "A neutron bomb?"
Trevor said, "Designed to kill only people. A massive burst of radiation that would leave buildings and stuff in place."
Jon figured, "Makes sense. If someone wanted this planet and just wanted us out of the way, then that’s the perfect weapon. No structural damage. Just the people…gone."
The fire crackled and popped loudly as the flames devoured the fresh logs.
Lori consoled, "I’m sorry."
Trevor said bluntly, "You never liked her."
Her head cocked and she blinked. Her voice wavered with defensiveness, but she did not take well to playing defense.
"No, I-"
"Don’t lie to me. You didn’t like her. You never did."
Lori puffed in frustration.
"I tried. I really did. I’d talk to her, I’d invite her over…she was never interested, not in any of your friends."
"She wasn’t marrying my friends."
"Oh no?" Lori said. "Well I got news for you. To know a person, you have to know the people they grew up with. Their family and their friends. No one was closer than you and me. She didn’t care why."
"I didn’t know her friends well," Trevor countered.
"That didn’t matter because Ashley was-" she stopped but not in time.
Jon placed a hand over his eyes.
Trevor lunged, "What? Ashley was what?"
Lori tried to retreat, "Never mind, nothing,"
"Answer me, Lori. Ashley was what?"
When backed into a corner, Lori Brewer came out swinging. She knew no other way.
"Okay," her bottom lip stiffened. "She was the first girl you ever had sex with."
Jon drank deep from his bottle. Lori broke eye contact by retrieving her own bottle of beer. She took a long drink, too.
Trevor stood.
His throat hurt and his body tired. He needed rest to be ready for tomorrow, an important day. Tomorrow the police officers would decide whether to accept his invitation, with all the strings attached.
"I’m going to bed."
"Rich…" Lori started, stopped, and then rephrased, "Okay. Good night, Trevor."
He started toward the door and then stopped.
"You’re wrong. I loved Ashley. It was more than…more than that."
Lori lied in a gentle voice, "I know."
Trevor ascended the stairs. Jon and Lori cuddled in front of the fire.
– While unsophisticated, Trevor’s backyard shooting range served its purpose.
An old boiler filled with sand made a decent backstop. Human-shaped targets poorly cut from cardboard hung on clothesline.
He fired another round from a nine-millimeter pistol. Despite a near-perfect grip as well as a complete understanding of ballistics and shooting technique, Trevor shot good but not great. Nonetheless, before Armageddon he would have shot his foot off.
Tyr, hovering several paces behind, barked loud enough to penetrate the protective ear guards his Master wore. Stone turned to see Shepherd approaching with a slight limp, the only trace of his leg injuries.
"Hate to interrupt, but I thought it was about time we spoke."
"Yeah, well, it’s okay. Don’t want to fire too many shots. Don’t want things knowing where to come looking for us."
Shepherd waited as Trevor dropped spent cartridges into a small container set in the post built at the firing line. After clearing away the casings, Trevor wiped gunpowder residue from his hands with a handkerchief.
The men walked to the main house under an overcast morning sky. The temperature still held in the fifties, but the wind carried a colder note.
They entered through the rear door, crossed the large kitchen, went along the hall, and joined Corso and Jon Brewer in the living room. The charred remains of the previous night’s blaze lingered in the fireplace.
Shepherd found a chair and began the conversation.
"For us it started when we had to kill some thing inside the Constitution museum at Independence Hall. That was a couple of days before Philly went to Hell, and believe you me, Philly went to Hell real quick."
Corso, pacing by the fireplace, added, "Momma mia, that was nothin’. They was seein’ monsters in the sewers and diavoli on the streets."
"How’d you survive?"
"I reckon’ we got lucky with the calls we drew. We put down things that could be put down with what we were packin’. Things like what you call ‘Ghouls’ and the like. Didn’t matter though. After two weeks, the city was FUBAR. Then we were sent to guard a rescue station."
Shepherd closed his eyes and shook his head slow as he recalled unpleasant images.
"What about your friend, what’s her name, Nina?" Trevor asked.
"Donna forte," Sal spoke Italian with his hands waving.
Shepherd provided more useful information.
"We’re all on the same SWAT team. Nina’s also a Blackhawk pilot in the National Guard."
Jon surveyed the room from his seat on the couch. "Where is she?"
Shepherd told a transparent lie, "She’s not feeling good."
Trevor strolled to one of the tall, thin living room windows.
"Tell me about her."
From the window, he saw the porch pillars and the front lawn. In the distance, the waters of the lake lapped the shoreline.
"Nina? She’s something else, never met no one like her," Shep said. "She’s a great shot, a decent pilot, and got a head for fighting. If she were a guy, she’d probably have been in the Rangers or something along those lines. As it is, the force stuck her in the chopper half the time, but she’d rather be on the ground with the grunts."
Trevor mused, "Just an all-American girl."
"What’s that?" Shepherd did not hear.
Trevor ignored him. "So what about Scott? Does she remember what happened to him?"
Shepherd closed his eyes again as he shook his head ‘no’. His disposition answered Trevor’s next question before asked: there would be no more search parties.
Trevor asked, "Why can’t she remember what happened?"
Sal said, "Yo, a bump on the head can mess you up good. It’ll come back to her."
Trevor, through the window, saw Nina appear and stroll along the driveway with an HK MP5 on her shoulder. She walked slow, almost sluggish, with her head bent down as if trying to slip by life unnoticed which, he thought, might be why she kept otherwise attractive hair pulled tight in a boring ponytail.
She knelt to pat the head of a curious Rottweiler.
Lori Brewer entered the scene from the opposite direction. She approached Nina with the aim of striking a conversation. Trevor watched but could not hear.
"You’re thinking of staying and she doesn’t like that."
Shep eased in his chair, scratched his chin, and told the truth.
"She thinks we need to keep moving. She doesn’t think there’s anything here for us."
"And you?"
"Like I said, Nina’s got a head for fighting. But she’s still just a kid, you hear? Seems to me she don’t always see the big picture."
Trevor surmised, "She looks to you."
Sal cut directly to the heart of the matter: "Shep is the only person she’ll listen to."
Stone understood. "She’d have a tough time here; a tough time following."
"Not just her."
"Oh," Trevor swung about pulling his eyes from the window.
Shepherd told him, "I’ve been in the force for twenty odd years. I led a platoon in the Army. I’ve fought for guys with medals on their chests. So you can see my point."
"Why should you follow me?"
Jon broke in, "How about ‘cause we saved your ass?"
Trevor raised a hand to calm Brewer.
"Fair question. You’d be an idiot not to ask it."
"Nothing personal, you understand," Shepherd replied.
Trevor asked, "The estate, the stock piles, and the K9s aren’t enough?"
"Well, I am impressed. Lots of planning went into this. As for the thing you can do with the dogs, that’s a pretty neat trick. But to be honest, that’s likely to make me more jittery."
"Sure," Trevor admitted. "Not something you’d expect in the old world."
Brewer asked, "So you’re not going to stay?"
Trevor answered for Shep, "He didn’t say that. He wants me to convince him I’m a guy worth following. I mean, they made it all this way on their own. Why hand it over to a stranger now, right?"
The old policeman nodded as he listened.
"I’m not going to roll over and do tricks. I can’t call lightning from the sky or part the waters of the lake. The only thing I can do is tell you what’s going on here."
"Yeah?" Corso waved his hand. "What’s that?"
Trevor left no room for debate. "We’re done running. We may hide a little longer, but we’re done running. I’m looking for survivors. The ones that are out there had the strength and smarts to stay alive. People like you, and me, and your friend Nina."
Corso chuckled. "So, what, this is like the new Garden of Eden?"
"Oh no. We gather our strength, then we’re turning and fighting."
"Fighting?" Corso's surprise caused his voice to boom. "You can’t fight this. It’s over, man. The best we can do is make it ‘till tomorrow."
"If that’s what you think then you need to go hide in the hills. It’s going to take a while but when we’re ready we’re going to push back."
"News flash, Chief," Corso ranted while Shepherd watched silently. "No one could stop this and others had a lot more fire power than you got here!"
Trevor tried to explain, "We were taken by surprise. Military units were scattered, cut off, and overwhelmed. Still, the people who did fight took a lot of the bad things with them before being over run. Now we regroup until the time is right."
Sal asked, "And who decides when that is?"
"I do."
"Merda! And who are you? What brigade did you command, Chief?"
"Me?" Trevor wondered aloud. "I’m just…I’m just a link in a chain."
"What does-"
Shepherd finally returned to the discussion, cutting off Sal in the process.
"I got to admit, parting the water would have been a nice touch."
Captain Jerry Shepherd smiled.
– "Hello," Lori spoke to Nina Forest.
Nina, still kneeling, gave the Rottie another pat on the head and responded meekly, "Yeah, uh, hello."
"We didn’t get a chance to talk earlier."
Nina stood and hoisted the HK Mp5 over her shoulder. She wore black BDUs but time and action had dulled the color nearly gray in some spots.
When Nina said nothing Lori reminded, "I’m the one who cleaned you up, made sure you didn’t have a fever, all while you were knocked out," she tapped her own head to make the point.
"Yeah, sure," Nina mumbled as she watched the Rottweiler trot away.
"We looked for you for almost three days."
"Glad Shep found me."
Lori corrected, "Actually, it was my husband, Jon. Your friend Shep was on the bench getting his leg stitched."
"Oh," Nina’s eyes pointed anywhere but at Lori.
Mrs. Brewer did something she did not usually do; she waited patiently.
Well, she waited somewhat patiently.
"Okay," Lori groaned. "I can see this is going to be difficult."
"Look," Nina put it out there. "I’m not trying to be rude but I just don’t have any interest in getting to know anyone around here."
"Because you don’t plan on staying long."
Nina nodded.
"I thought your man Shepherd was in there right now making that decision."
"Right."
"And you’re sure he’s going to decide that you guys should keep on marching."
"Right."
"Why’s that?"
"Because I’ve seen what happens to people who stay in one place," Nina told Lori but still avoided eye contact. "They’re sitting ducks."
"And that’s how you guys stayed alive? By moving around?"
"That’s right, yeah. We were assigned to a rescue station and barely got out alive. There were eight of us back then. Now we’re down to three. I’m just saying that we’ve been on the move ever since, and it’s better that way."
Lori said, "Guess you got kind of lucky."
"I don’t know what you mean."
"Well, you’re lucky Trevor decided to stay in one place… here. Otherwise he wouldn't have been able to pull your butts out of the fire."
That did not sit well with Nina Forest.
Lori quipped, "You remember Trevor, right? The guy who saved you is also the guy whose neck you nearly broke."
Nina’s brow furled. It pleased Lori to see she had annoyed Forest. At least being annoyed was a reaction. It opened the door for a lot of other stuff. Lori pushed another button.
"I see that ‘thank you’ and ‘sorry’ aren’t words you’re good with."
"Huh? What’s that?"
"Well, you owe Trevor and Jon a ‘thank you’ for saving all of you and you also owe Trevor a big ‘sorry’ for nearly killing him. Don’t you think?"
Nina apparently did not think so.
"Listen, I don’t know who you are-"
Lori smiled a big friendly smile as she cut Nina off and extended a hand.
"I’m Lori Brewer, pleased to meet you."
The surprise gesture left Nina dumbfounded. She could think of no other recourse than to limply shake Lori’s extended hand.
Odin, the Norwegian Elkhound who had tracked Nina’s scent, trotted across the yard and affectionately licked Nina's fingers. Much as Lori’s surprise offer of a handshake, Nina felt compelled to pet the dog between its ears.
Lori sarcastically said, "Uh-oh. You’ve done it now. You’ve gone and made a friend."
Before Nina could reply, the front door opened. Shepherd and Corso came out with Trevor following. Nina hustled to Shep as if searching for the safety of his shadow.
Shep said to Trevor, "So that won’t be any problem? You have enough ammo?"
"No problem. What’s here is yours."
Lori Brewer maneuvered around the conversation and disappeared inside the mansion.
"Great. Thanks. We’ll check out your armory in a bit. Give me a chance to get us ready."
Trevor returned inside, closing the door behind. Nina jumped over Shep with questions.
"So, what? Is he giving us ammunition?"
"Nina…" Shep started and Sal Corso finished, "We’re stayin’ here."
Nina’s mouth froze open but that lasted only a second before her mouth worked again.
"What? What? Shep, we can’t stay here. This clown’s just a kid!"
"Yep, seems to me he’s not even twenty-three years old," he used her age against her.
"I’m just saying that I don’t see anything here that’s worth staying for."
"Nina," Shepherd spoke in his Captain’s voice. "We’re staying here and we’re going to be a part of this. And you know what? You’re going to listen to him. We all are. How things go down the road…well I reckon we’ll find out ‘bout that when we get there."
Nina bit her lower lip and shook her head.
"Why?"
Her protest lacked force. She could not use forceful words with Shep.
"I see two reasons. The first is I’m tired of running."
Nina muttered, "The second?"
Shep glanced at Sal, then to Nina again, and struggled on how best to explain.
"Have you looked into his eyes? I mean really looked? Ever since the world went to Hell, everyone I meet looks tired and afraid. But this guy-this kid… I look in his eyes and I don’t see tired and afraid. I see eyes that are looking at something I didn’t think existed no more. I see eyes that can see something none of us can see."
Sal spat, "What kinda shit is that? What does he see?"
Shepherd told them, "A future."
10. Stonewall
"Always mystify, mislead and surprise the enemy; and when you strike and overcome him, never let up in the pursuit. Never fight against heavy odds if you can hurl your own force on only a part of your enemy and crush it. A small army may thus destroy a large one, and repeated victory will make you invincible." — General Stonewall Jackson, circa 1860s
At one time, the Cafe Commons on the campus of Penn State Lehman served hot meals and sandwiches to hungry students. While most of the booths and fancy latticework remained intact, wooden tables and chairs lay in pieces. Based on the low growls from the K9s ahead of Jon's patrol, whatever caused the mess still lurked nearby.
Two black and tan Rottweilers trotted through the smashed doors; their paws crunched on broken glass and splinters. Jon entered next with Sal Corso and Shepherd.
A dim glow from the cloudy afternoon slipped in through several wide windows to provide some illumination; tactical lights on their M4 carbines did the rest.
They saw a drop ceiling that had literally dropped in several places with electrical cords, tiles, and bent metal rods drooping from above. They also saw several doors leading away from the room as well as a buffet counter where students had once stood in line for meals.
"Damn," Sal coughed. "What the hell is that smell?"
"Rotting food?" Jon hoped.
Shepherd said, "Something worse than that, I think."
Two more Rottweilers entered and the dogs fanned out, sniffing the air as they moved.
"Looky here," Shepherd shined his light toward a metal door. A coating of slime covered the letters 'office' on a small placard. Dents pounded around the frame suggested that whatever had left the slime had also tried to batter in the door.
"Wow," Jon said, "I can't wait to meet-"
A sharp bark cut him off. The dogs pointed their eyes, ears, and snouts toward the buffet counter. Something moved back there.
The three men raised their rifles in that direction.
"Hey," Jon called. "We're friends. C'mon out, we're here to help."
No answer. No reaction. No movement.
Shepherd grabbed a metal napkin holder from the floor, held it for the others to see, and then tossed it over the counter. It hit out of sight with a clang.
The 'survivor' revealed itself in the shine of their flashlights: Green, big, and pissed. It 'crawled' up the wall with the speed of a sprinter. The dogs burst into barks. M4s spit fire.
After reaching the ceiling, the monster slithered toward them upside-down: a big star-shaped creature with slimy slug skin and a center bulb with two Squid-like eyes.
Bullets from the trio of carbines ripped away more ceiling tiles, sparked off metal struts, and sent clouds of dust exploding from above, yet several rounds found their mark. Yellow goo erupted and the creature fell from the ceiling, scattering the quartet of dogs as it plopped to the floor. A smelly fluid dribbled from the motionless fiend.
"Been here one friggin day," Sal complained. "And I nearly get eaten by a god damn-"
"AAAAAA!" screamed a loud voice: a battle cry of sorts.
That voice came from a man who rushed out from the 'office' door wielding a baseball bat. He ran straight for the now-dead Star monster and battered it with his weapon again, and again; thump- squish; thump- squish.
"Relax there, partner," Shep grabbed the bat away. "We took care of it."
"A…guys?" Sal's voice wavered.
Sal stood straight with a pistol pressed to his temple. The man with the bat had not been the only one hiding in the office. In fact, a whole family of folks came from there, including one man now holding a gun to Sal's head.
"Hey, whoa, easy there," Shepherd slowly set the baseball bat on the floor.
"I'm doing the talking. Rifles on the ground, now."
The 30-ish man had thin, dirty jet-black hair and sported an overgrown beard that was the work of time, not choice. His hand trembled as he held a Glock to Sal's head. His clothes-a Penn State jumpsuit with the gift shop price tag still attached-hung loose from his bony body.
Jon said, "We're all friends here."
The man who had swung the baseball bat-a South Asian looking fellow-said, "Mister Washburn, I am not thinking this is the correct course of action."
Washburn-the man with the pistol-answered, "I've seen what happens when you trust people these days. These three could be cannibals like those whacks I ran into last month. No thanks, Danny doesn't want to end up on the menu."
"Is that your name? Danny?" Jon asked. "Hey, Danny, we're looking for survivors. We've got all kinds of supplies and food a few miles from here."
The darker-skinned baseball-bat man said, "Is that true? Would my family be welcome?"
Jon glanced to the office and saw whom else the baseball bat protected: a lovely woman, a six-year-old boy, and a girl of eleven or so, all sharing the same complexion as their father.
Jon said, "That's why we're here. Our dogs picked up the scent of survivors."
Danny held firm. "Food? Yeah, sure. We'd probably be the main course."
Jon tried another approach.
"No, no. For our main course we usually have steak."
Danny's gun wavered.
"Steak?"
Jon repeated what he learned the night before: "It seems Sal here is the expert Chef in our group. How would you do them, Sal?"
Sal, the gun to his head, mumbled out one corner of his mouth, "Huh? Ah, well, I would, um, well I'd broil a couple of fillets, get a real good, you know, sizzle going. Gotta leave a bit of pink through the middle. Real juicy, capire?"
"Jui-cy?"
Sal relaxed despite the gun thanks to his passion for cooking. "I make a mean mushroom glaze with a little, um, Worcestershire sauce and olive oil."
Jon stepped forward, smiled, and said, "The wine cellar is stocked with Merlots that wash steak down perfectly but you don't want to eat too much at dinner. We've got one of those ice cream machines-you know, the kind with the crank-and with the fresh milk from the farm, well, I think we've got a pint of Strawberry in the freezer right now."
Danny blinked fast and said, "You got all kinds of supplies at this place? And…steaks?"
"Yes," Jon said. "Everything you need and lots to eat."
Danny removed the gun from Sal's temple and popped the magazine.
"Do you got any bullets? I've been empty for three weeks now."
– Trevor had decided the first-floor den was too small for an effective nerve center and he did not like the big French windows behind the desk; they made the room feel exposed. Nonetheless, he stored some reference materials there and was searching through data on the water table in the Wyoming Valley when Jon and his charge of survivors entered.
Jon announced as the five arrivals filed in, "Trevor, may I present Omar Nehru, his wife Anita, and their children."
Once again, Jon beamed. Another successfully completed mission that, in this case, began when a patrol caught scent of humans at the nearby Penn State Lehman campus.
"It's a pleasure to meet you," Trevor extended his hand.
"I must be thanking you quite much," Omar shook Trevor's hand fast. "If for no other reason than to save us from the ramblings of Mr. Washburn."
Danny Washburn-a smile forcing its way from beneath the overgrown beard-entered last and waved at the mention of his name.
Omar continued, "We were considering mass suicide. Living on the Bisquik and cans of the fruit was difficult enough, but we have lived with Mr. Washburn's juvenile puns for nearly two months and that has been making us contemplate such drastic action."
Washburn said, "Don't let Omar's Quickie Mart accent fool you; it's just a front to keep you guessing. It goes away when he's scared or really pissed."
Anita stepped forward, cutting off her husband's response before it started.
"Thank you, Mr. Stone, for having us." Despite a ragged appearance from months of hiding and-apparently-refereeing between Omar and Danny, Anita Nehru came across as a woman of intelligence and grace. "We are all quite hungry and my son has a bad cough."
Trevor knelt in front of the young boy. Like his mother, the child appeared thin and worn but also like his mother he saw a strength-a dignity-in his eyes.
Jon said, "Omar here was an Engineering Professor at Penn State."
Trevor glanced to Jon, then back to the boy and said, "We have some antibiotics in stock that'll fix you right up, little guy." He stood and faced Omar. "Is that true?"
"Yes, this is true. We came from India five years ago for the position. I am thinking it was a bad decision after all that has happened. Would you be having any cigarettes?"
Trevor laid a hand on his shoulder. "How are you with solar power arrays?"
He did not wait for an answer. Trevor told all the newcomers what he had told the police officers from Philadelphia: "I take it Jon filled you in on the way over about how things work around here. We have supplies, security, and medicines but we also have a purpose. This is not a refugee camp, and it's not a democracy, either. If you accept that, then you are welcome to stay."
Omar and his wife nodded. Trevor turned to Danny who stroked his beard.
Jon said, "Washburn here is from Washington. He worked for the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms."
Danny waved his empty Glock. "I brought my own gun. Ran out of bullets, though. I was up here visiting my mother in a nursing home. Anyway, her heart gave out when this all started and I was kind of stranded."
"Okay, Danny," Trevor repeated his question. "Are you willing to take orders from me?"
"Well, like your man said, I worked for the Federal Government so I've spent my life taking orders from some pretty big assholes. You can't possibly be worse."
– Shepherd moved into one of the guest rooms, joining Trevor, Sheila and the Brewers already staying at the main house. Sal claimed one of the apartments above the garage as did Danny Washburn whose appearance changed from grizzly to clean-cut after a shave and a shower. Omar and his family occupied the A-Frame house beyond the northern fence of the estate. The A-Frame's garage had a tiny second-floor apartment that Nina called home. Or, rather, she considered it a place to stay. Omar connected a portable generator to provide electricity for his family and Nina.
As for Sheila Evans, the more people joined the estate, the more she withdrew.
The calendar came to October 6 ^ th.
– Trevor Stone, Nina Forest, and Danny Washburn undertook the glamorous mission of siphoning gas from abandoned vehicles. They drove a Humvee filled with fuel containers as well as the obligatory rubber hose. Trevor also brought a healthy dose of fuel stabilizer.
Despite Nina’s grumbling, their mission bore fruit: nearly fifty gallons of gasoline crammed into the cargo hold of the Hummer even before they arrived at the crowded parking lot of a small strip mall.
That mall sat dead center in a convoluted starfish-shaped intersection in Shavertown, with each fin a different rural road. In between those fins rested a handful of country homes, a wide-open field, and the modern "Shavertown" high school (home of the "Mountaineers!"). In the distance stretched rolling, forested hills.
Twenty-plus cars sat dormant in the parking lot. Trevor pitied the poor bastards who, on the day of reckoning, met their fate running errands to the drug store, Radio Shack, or the bank that sat on its own island away from the other shops. Of course, he sympathized with those caught at "Gertrude Hawke Chocolates."
They parked the Humvee amidst the derelict vehicles and exited, each armed with an assault rifle and an empty gas can.
Trevor had not brought any K9s; he wanted cargo space for gas containers. Besides, at only three miles from the estate, long-range K9 patrols went through that area every other day.
The trio crossed the parking lot unfazed by a charred chunk of human body or the skeletal remains of a horse-sized alien animal. Either the smell of death and decay had faded or their noses grew accustomed.
"This is what saving humanity is all about?" Washburn asked with both hands in the pockets of a denim jacket to keep a cold breeze at bay. While still underweight, Danny no longer looked emaciated after spending most of his first day gorging. "What do you guys do for fun?"
For the first time, Trevor heard Nina joke and she did it perfectly deadpan.
"Today’s Tuesday, right? Tuesday is orgy night."
"It’s Wednesday," Danny sounded unduly optimistic.
"Oh well, you missed it."
"Shit. Just my luck."
Trevor rolled his eyes. He would have been happy to hear Nina make with the sarcasm except he sensed her tone: she belittled. She was not making a joke; she felt it all was a joke.
Washburn, on the other hand, jumped into the spirit of things right off the bat. Trevor believed Danny a solid addition to the group despite his warped sense of humor.
Of course, when he thought about "solid additions" he also thought of the opposite. In the last day, Trevor had seen Sheila Evans once: sitting in a dark corner of the dining room eating breakfast. He did not know how she would cope when Sal opened his kitchen in the basement of a nearby Methodist church. She would actually need to leave the mansion in order to eat.
The three scavengers approached an overturned Dodge Ram truck. Trevor opened a gas can while Washburn prepared the rubber hose.
Without warning, the under carriage of the vehicle erupted into flames. A crackling sound accompanied a wave of intense heat. Trevor stumbled away from the surprise inferno.
A burst of weapons fire from his left.
Nina…Nina is firing toward the strip mall.
Trevor shook his head to clear the spots from his eyes. Shell casings flew from Nina’s gun; Danny dropped to a knee with a hand on his head where the flash fire had singed his scalp.
We are under attack.
He un-slung his M4 and followed Nina’s aim.
As his mind re-focused, he realized his error: they should have secured the shopping area first. Aliens charged from the stores there. They were organized and armed.
Trevor’s reeling mind thought of them as platypuses because of big duckbills. They also sported two muscular arms and wobbled on three legs. They would have been humorous looking, like some bad cartoon aliens on Space Ghost… would have been funny if not for balls of plasma spitting from weapons resembling a cross between a musket and a Super Soaker squirt gun.
He hoisted Danny to his feet with one arm and ordered, "Fall back, fall back!"
They knew ‘fall back’ did not mean run for the Humvee. The right flank of the platypus-things cut off that avenue of escape.
Plasma flew over their heads. Nina’s marksmanship knocked down two of the attackers but more appeared. There must have been a dozen in the stores.
They retreated into the bank building through a smashed plate glass window. Nina flipped over a desk for cover.
"This is just great," she moaned and squeezed a three-round burst toward the enemy.
The attackers did not pursue into the building. Instead, they formed a line outside, firing pot shots from behind parked cars.
"I don’t get it," Trevor said. "This area has been empty. The patrols didn’t find anything."
"Look, your patrols screwed up!" Nina's angry roar bellied her meek demeanor.
A chaotic hail of enemy bolts blasted into the lobby smashing what remained of the windows and leaving smoking black holes wherever they hit. The heat from the fiery plasma warmed the lobby, threatening to ignite a fire.
Danny Washburn mumbled curses as he dealt with a second-degree burn on his forehead. However, he could still fight despite the pain.
Trevor produced a radio from his utility belt. He had to shout above the firefight.
"Home plate, come in, this is left field!"
"Oh man," Washburn grinned. "Did you think that one up?"
"We need assistance!" Trevor radioed. "We’re at the Shavertown mall by the high school! Need immediate assistance! Under fire!"
Static.
Nina observed the platypus’ lack of assault with the frustration of a trapped animal awaiting the predator’s pounce: "Why aren’t they moving in? What are they waiting for?"
Another bolt, then another, whizzed by. A framed picture above the vacant loan officer’s desk fell and shattered.
"Wait a second," Trevor said. "I've got a bad feeling. Let me check something."
He crawled toward the far side of the lobby as plasma shots streaked overhead. The windows on that side afforded a view across one ‘fin’ of the intersection toward the large field. At the end of that field stood a tree line…and a row of figures: maybe fifty from what he could see. Nearly a mile away but marching forward. No, wobbling forward.
"Damn!"
"What? What is it?" Washburn shouted between bursts of fire.
"That’s why the patrols didn’t catch their scent!" Trevor explained as he crawled back. "Because they weren’t here yesterday!"
"What are you saying?" Nina yanked free an expended magazine.
A bolt of energy exploded the edge of the toppled desk into splinters.
"These ones are a scouting party!"
Nina fit a new magazine in her rifle, slapped the bolt closed, popped her head above the barricade, let fly a series of bullets, and then ducked behind their tenuous cover again.
"And how do you know that?"
Track lighting crashed to the floor behind the teller stations raising a cloud of dust.
Trevor told her, "Because the rest of their army is about five minutes away."
Nina shouted, "Oh, this is just great! I knew this shit would happen! I knew it!"
Trevor spoke with a commander’s voice: "Cowboy up, soldier! I don’t need fighters who lose it at the first sign of trouble!"
Her icy blue eyes widened. Nina mumbled something, popped up again, took aim at the scouting party cornering them, and plugged one of the things above its beak.
Good, Trevor thought. Be angry but don’t be discouraged.
"Home plate this is left field, do you copy?"
This time an answer came, but static overwhelmed whatever voice tried to reply.
"I can’t hear you, home plate, but if you can hear me we are at the Shavertown shopping center across from the high school!"
The plasma shots from outside stopped. The bank fell quiet except for the crack, twitch, and flutter of debris floating about. The three waited behind the over turned desk…waited…the silence broke with a sound that made Trevor think of an eight ball sinking in the side pocket on a pool table. Something rolled in to the building; sort of a glowing ping-pong ball.
Washburn gasped, "Oh crap."
The device rolled at their makeshift barricade. The three bolted in different directions.
The glowing ball exploded, shattering the desk. Shards of wood rained through the lobby and the concussion shook the entire building. More paintings and community service awards fell from walls. Once-important now-meaningless documents flew around like a ticker tape parade.
Trevor pushed off a desk chair that had landed on him and realized, yes, his limbs remained although a ripple of splinters in his forearm provided a painful sting.
Nina avoided the blast by toppling another desk for cover. Washburn jumped behind the teller windows. Both appeared unharmed.
Trevor dared a glance toward the field. The line of infantry moved slowly but relentlessly. Time favored the bad guys.
Plasma bolts rained in again. Trevor and Danny joined Nina at the newly overturned desk as the hot streaks of energy searched randomly for targets.
Trevor knew they needed to escape before the main force arrived. He spied a plan. A long shot, but a shot nonetheless.
Their besiegers ringed the front of the bank using parked cars for cover, including his Humvee. In fact he could see it, barely, through the smoke of battle.
"Nina, how good are you at tossing a grenade?"
During their stay at one of the doomed rescue stations, Shep’s team scored a few anti-personnel grenades, courtesy of the Pennsylvania National Guard. Nina carried one.
Trevor tapped her shoulder and pointed at the Humvee.
"Are you nuts? I can’t waste this thing, I only brought one!"
Two quick enemy bursts flew low over their heads, exploding a teller’s station behind.
"Do it!" Stone raised his weapon and ordered Washburn: "Suppression fire!"
Their storm of bullets forced the platypuses into cover. Nina pulled the pin, stood, and heaved the grenade. It looped through the air, rattled across the hatchback of a Honda Accord, and bounced next to the rear wheels of the Humvee.
One…Two… Three…the grenade detonated. Chunks of car flew away from the explosion. The gasoline containers in the Humvee rocketed skyward, overheated, and blew. Burning fuel-like napalm-rained over the enemy and caused a chain reaction as it splashed on parked cars. Those cars, in turn, exploded spawning curling fireballs of yellow, orange, and black.
Two of the platypuses evaporated in the explosions, four more wobbled around on fire squealing an ungodly noise. Shock overcame the remaining creatures. They dove to the ground or staggered about, overcome by the noise, the smoke, and the heat.
As suicidal as it felt, Trevor knew survival hinged on taking the offensive. He stood and mustered his comrades for a forward charge. A noise rose above the sharp report of the explosions and the crackle of the fires. Trevor halted their charge a step outside the bank.
Woh-who-ey! Woh-who-ey!
A ball of black smoke from the burning cars created a visceral wall at the end of the lot. That smoke parted as a human force came galloping through. Literally galloping on horseback raking the platypuses with pistol and rifle fire. The leader of the cavalry swung a sword and relieved one of the creatures of its head.
Already confused and disorientated from the explosions, the alien scouts deteriorated into disorganized rabble firing nary a shot as the horse soldiers exterminated them one by one.
Twenty riders and three wagons followed their leader through the smoke. They dodged and weaved between fireballs and flames as they finished off the creatures. The last soldier of the platypus’ vanguard dropped its rifle and ran for the candy store, suffering a bullet in its back.
Trevor felt certain the leader of the new arrivals must be an illusion. He rode tall in the saddle with a thick beard and handlebars mustache as well as heavy but well-groomed side burns. He wore a hat made of fur-felt material with a creased crown wrapped by a grosgrain band and a matching jacket with rows of ornate buttons. Both the jacket and the hat were colored in old mist gray, recalling the color of the confederacy during the War Between the States.
Other than their leader, the riders dressed in "normal" outfits such as fading leather jackets, vests, overcoats, sweatshirts, jeans, slacks, and more.
The man in charge gazed at the field and the approaching line of enemy forces.
"Mister Ross!" He commanded from his mount. "Stand to and deploy the cannon!"
Mr. Ross, a thick-necked black man with a shaved head and bulldog jowls, dismounted and stood at the edge of the parking lot overlooking the field full of incoming attackers.
Mr. Ross’ deep voice nearly shook the ground: "You heard the General! Mortar team assemble on my mark!"
Four people jumped from a wagon: an elderly man, a young woman, a man with a goatee, and a chubby fellow wearing a "Maryland Terrapins" sweatshirt. They produced two light military mortars and ammunition boxes from the wagon.
"Steady…steady," the ‘General’ encouraged as he viewed the approaching line through field glasses. A young boy, maybe twelve years old and also on horseback, waited in the General’s shadow holding a trumpet.
"Mr. Ross, range is 100 meters."
"Range! One! Hun-dred!"
The mortars fired with a dull ‘thwoop’. Their missiles whistled over the field then fell upon the enemy. Two explosions rocked the approaching force. Several of the aliens bounced into the air like rag dolls tossed by a child. More of that ungodly squealing noise.
"Do you need medical attention?"
The question came from a thirty-ish woman on horseback dressed in a rugged navy blue outfit straight from the Orvis catalog with her hair in a meticulously crafted bun. She projected a prim and proper manner. She also carried a high-powered hunting rifle.
While the sound of exploding mortar shells played in the background, she repeated, "Do you require medical attention?"
"Um…"
"Yes," Danny Washburn answered for Trevor. "Yes, in fact, I do. Ouch."
The woman’s soft voice morphed to a coarse yell: "MEDIC!"
Two teenage sisters attended to Washburn with ointment and a bandage. Trevor and Nina drifted across the lot through puffs of smoke and around burning debris. Neither could believe the sight before them.
More rounds of mortar fire scored hits in the thick of the alien formation, inflicting heavy casualties to the point that the enemy called off their assault. The platypuses about-faced and backtracked in an orderly manner. The General decided not to let them withdraw so easily.
"Cease fire, Mr. Ross."
"Mortar teams, HOLD YOUR FIRE!"
The General spoke to the boy at his side, "Billy, sound the attack. Second brigade."
He raised his trumpet and played a series of shaky bars followed by a ‘charge’ melody.
Ten of the horse-mounted fighters galloped forward and leaped the short ledge into the field. A thin black teenager rode in the lead brandishing a pistol and yelling…
…they all yelled…
Woh-who-ey! Woh-who-ey!
A rebel yell.
The screaming, shooting, charging cavalry turned the platypus' orderly retreat into a rout. The terrified aliens dispersed as they ran, separating into small groups.
Trevor and Nina watched the ‘Second Brigade’ finish off the aliens with small arms, circling and whooping and shouting as they slaughtered. A cloud of dust and the thunderous beat of hooves further demoralized the creatures who did not put up much of a fight.
The General’s forces re-grouped in the parking lot to the sound of the bugler-with-a-trumpet playing a rough rendition of Bonnie Blue Flag.
Mr. Ross walked to Trevor and stared silently. The General galloped to that position. Mr. Ross held his mount as he slid from the saddle.
Ross boomed, "Three cheers for the General!"
The assembled cavalry whooped:
"Hoo-rah!
"Hoo-rah!
"Hoo-rah!"
The man in the Civil War era jacket approached Trevor’s trio. He removed his hat, swung it beneath him as he bowed respectfully, and announced, "Garrett McAllister at your service."
Ross shouted, "Stonewall!"
The cavalry pumped their fists and cried, "Hoo-rah!"
General Stonewall McAllister said, "Pleased to make your acquaintance."
Nina whispered, "He thinks he’s Stonewall Jackson."
"My lady, I am not deaf nor am I Stonewall Jackson. My name is Garrett McAllister."
"Thank you," Trevor said. "You got us out of a real pinch."
Ross’ deep voice told them, "That’s what the General does best."
"My name is Trevor Stone; these are my friends Nina Forest and Danny Washburn. What brings you to these parts?"
The General’s own ‘friends’ approached, including the soft speaking but loud-shouting woman wearing the Orvis outdoors getup, the Second Brigade's leader, and, of course, Mr. Ross.
"Protocol demands I introduce my officers: Kristy Kaufman, whom I believe you have met," she smiled and waved politely. "Dustin McBride," the young black man smirked. "And Mr. Woody Ross." Ross bowed his head but his eyes never left Trevor.
Washburn pushed forward with one hand holding a bandage to his head.
"I know you. You’re Woody ‘Bear’ Ross. Linebacker for the ‘Skins."
Ross said, "We don’t play football n’more."
These were survivors. Eccentric, sure, but survivors and Trevor already understood they had traveled a long way.
"General, I am in your debt. Allow me to repay that duty by extending an invitation to you and your troop to visit my homestead. I offer good chow and comfortable quarters."
McAllister tipped his hat, "You are a gentleman, Sir."
Nina rolled her eyes.
"Alas, I am afraid we have pressing matters to which we must attend. Our journey nears its end and I feel we must push through."
Nina’s annoyance carried in the tone of her voice: "What's that supposed to mean?"
Garrett studied the three for a moment and then said, "Perhaps you can be of some assistance. For nearly three months, I have searched for a special place. I can see it clearly in my mind…" his eyes glazed over as if having a vision. "I see a lake surrounded by hills and homes. I see a gathering of soldiers preparing for the wars ahead. I see the place where we belong."
Trevor’s mind raced. The Old Man had told him to search for survivors but never suggested they would come searching for him. No, this was not the Old Man’s doing. This Garrett McAllister either had an incredible sixth sense or constructed the perfect delusion.
"I know of this place," Trevor said. "A few miles from here, a great estate on the shores of a lake surrounded by mountains, exactly as in your vision. That place belongs to me, General, and it is where we will survive until the time is right to fight."
General McAllister listened and with each word his eyes grew sharper. Trevor felt those eyes digging through his flesh and staring at the soul inside. At the same time, he saw the longing in McAllister's stare; he searched for something to believe in.
"I offer a purpose, General, for you and your gallant fighters. Come with me, see for yourself, and if it is to your liking be a part of the army I am forging."
– "I do not know if I was driven by divinity or derangement, but I have fought all the way from South Carolina to come to this place," were the first words "Stonewall" McAllister said as he stood on the front porch alongside Trevor after having toured the estate. Behind them, music drifted through the mansion from the welcoming party in full swing in the basement.
"It doesn't matter either way," Trevor answered as the two men-one dressed in the garb of a soldier of the confederacy-watched nightfall over the lake.
"Given what I see here, I sense that you are driven too, Mr. Stone," McAllister's eyes remained fixed on a trio of Doberman Pinschers trotting by on patrol.
"Oh, yes, well, a lot of people find the whole K9 thing a bit unsettling at first."
"As people find my wardrobe rather curious. In both cases, our eccentricities are extensions of who we have become. In your case, these canines serve as your royal guards-the nucleus of what is to be. Not unlike the British Grenadier Guards. In this case, Trevor's Grenadier Guards. Much more flair than merely 'K9s'. Yes, I like that."
"And you, General?"
McAllister smiled. The bars of his mustache nearly touched his ears.
"There is meaning in this uniform that I take to heart. Suffice to say, as long as I survive this new world I will conduct myself with honor, and never shy from battle no matter the odds."
"The odds will be long, General."
"True but, Mr. Stone, I present to you twenty-five skilled fighters; skilled if for no other reason than having survived dozens of battles on our march north. On their behalf, I accept your invitation and all the conditions therein. And Sir, I do not say that lightly. One of the meanings of this uniform is loyalty."
"I am honored. We will prepare quarters for your people in houses near the estate. K9-or should I say, 'Grenadier'-patrols will be extended for added security. We have a quantity of portable generators that Omar will connect to provide electricity to those homes. Speaking of your journey north, I am compiling an encyclopedia of hostile elements. Anita Nehru-Omar's wife-has demonstrated a skill for sketching those creatures to aid with visual identification. I imagine you could help fill the pages of our database with all you've seen."
Stonewall's smile faded. A choir of crickets sung from the bushes.
"Beyond the mountains of this lake, you will find a world gone mad. I have seen armies of intelligent lizards in North Carolina using armor and air power. While traveling along the Blue Ridge Mountains of Old Dominion, we fought a pitched battle with primitive tribesmen who faced mortar and carbine fire with spears and arrows yet never hesitated in their assault. I do not know if they were mad or brave. And every where…monsters of unspeakable design."
"It may be impossible, but we will have to try, General."
"Impossible? Oh, I say not, Sir. True, during our travels north along the flanks of Interstate 81 we saw many horrors. Yet we found something else, too. We found survivors: hidden villages, campgrounds, isolated farms; places where humanity hides from the Apocalypse. They are out there waiting for hope and leadership."
As he listened, he wondered if he, Trevor Stone- formerly ‘Dick’ — could be that resourceful and heroic leader. Certainly, McAllister thought so. What about Nina? Had his mistake at the strip mall reinforced her view of him as unworthy? Or had his plan to blow up the Humvee made her think more of him?
He tried to forget about it. What did he care what she thought? Right?
McAllister said, "I best return to the festivities. Your Mr. Corso prepared Country Captain Chicken in our honor; I had better return before Bear devours it all."
"Good night, General. And welcome."
McAllister tipped his hat and entered the house; his sword-a museum piece, no doubt-jingled as he walked.
A moment after the door closed behind Stonewall, it opened again and Lori Brewer joined Trevor on the porch. Dogs patrolled the grounds, the crickets sung, and lake water lapped calmly to shore.
Trevor considered McAllister's warning about what waited beyond those mountains. Yet he could not help thinking today was a good day.
Lori did her best to spoil it. "That man has problems, you know."
"We all have problems."
"I mean it. What made him run away and hide inside the front of a Civil War general?"
Trevor ran a hand over his cheek chasing away a mosquito and told her, "One day Stonewall will face his demons. Until then, I need fighters like him. Leaders."
"And what happens when he faces those demons?"
"I guess the same thing that happens to anyone when they take a good look at their own soul, to see what’s really living down there."
Lori asked Trevor; asked him, "And what is that?"
"I couldn’t say."