Beyond Armageddon: Book 02 - Empire (31 page)

           
The Screamers descended in earnest. Their wings glimmered in the sunlight, as did the two intimidating, scimitar-shaped appendages at the front of each craft. As they dove, the flying machines emitted a siren: a horrifying scream.

           
Kristy answered Stonewall’s suggestion, “I suppose that would be a good idea, Sir.”

Stonewall looked at Kristy, then to the approaching planes, then at her again. “Yes, um,” he staggered. “These Hivvan machines are no match for our boys, um, so one call should take care of this problem…um…”

           
The screams grew louder.

           
Yet Kristy did not move.

           
Stonewall tried to sound unfazed. He said, “Yes, well, I am inclined to agree with intelligence’s theory that the Hivvans are accustomed to using aircraft only in support of a ground-attack. These, um…” he glanced at the closing fighters. “…these lizards are not much for air combat.”

           
Ross added, “Haven’t seen them for a while. Thought we hit all of their forward air bases.”

A shrieking filled the air as the Screamers made their run on the human army along Interstate 95.

           
“Princess, if I may suggest—”

           
“You know, General, I’ve been thinking. I’m not sure I’m entirely fond of that nickname.”

           
“What? My dear, I do not think that now is the time to worry about such trivial matters.”

           
She said, “It does not convey the, well, oh what is the word I’m looking for?”

           
A whistle in the air suggested bombs falling toward Earth. Soldiers shouted in anticipation of the pending destruction.

“Respect.
Yes, that is the word. Respect.”

           
“Captain
Kaufman,” Stonewall conceded without a trace of his usual charming accent. “I suggest you GET THE HELL DOWN HERE NOW!”

           
Kaufman managed a smile of satisfaction and then spurred her horse to cover. The bombs sizzled on the road above. This time claiming no casualties, but only by the thinnest of margins.

           
She dismounted and shuffled through a pack in search of a radio transmitter. As she did, Stonewall stood, dusted dirt from his Civil War era uniform, coughed, and said to her in a voice quite contrite, “Ms. Kaufman, please do me the favor of never doing that again. I am quite sure I would be lost without you.”

           
“Why General!” She spoke as she assembled the gear. “You are certainly the charmer, aren’t you?”

           
“I endeavor to be so, this is true. However, I would find this situation much more agreeable if a few of our fine fellows would—oh how to put this? — saunter on by and shoot our noisy friends from the heavens. Could you possibly arrange that,
Captain?”

–

           
“Dasher One this is T-A-C do you copy?” the radio crackled in the veteran pilot’s ear.

           
“Uh, Roger that, TAC this is Dasher One. Go ahead.”

           
“You should have bandits painted on your screens,” the TAC officer radioed.

           
“Roger that, TAC. We’ll be hitting Gomer in thirty seconds,” the Veteran pilot ended his conversation with the Tactical Air Control station operating with the 2
^nd
Mechanized Division.

“Hey Billy, you good over there?” he asked his wingman as they flew a pair of F-15s.

           
“Yeah—I mean, roger that.”

           
The veteran pilot had been in the New Jersey Air National Guard before the world went to Hell. He had served in the Persian Gulf region and flown CAP missions over
New York City
the month after the 9/11 terrorist attacks on
America
.

On the other hand, Billy was a rookie. Before ‘all this’, Billy trained to fly Learjets for private corporations. The Apocalypse claimed his young wife and the rest of his relatives. Now the twenty-seven year old ‘kid’ attacked alien aircraft in the
North Carolina
sky.

Of course, Billy’s scant experience was far more than most of the guys learning to fly in The Empire’s tiny air force. Planes were not a problem; pilots were. More specifically, pilots surviving flight school.

           
“Just relax,” Dasher One told Billy. “These things are sitting ducks. We’re going to make them go away before they even know we’re coming.”

           
“I’m frosty,” Billy said once and then nervously repeated, “I’m frosty.”

           
“Yeah, well don’t shit your bag. Just do like we did in training. We’ve got stand-off missiles and they don’t have any shit like that. They won’t even see us. You copy?”

           
“I copy, um, I mean solid copy.”

           
The veteran told his wingman, “Hey Dash-Two, you know who called us in?”

           
“No man, who?”

           
“That’s Stonewall down there. These Screamers have been taking pot shots at him.”

           
“Stonewall? Really? Holy shit.”

“So what you say we make these things go away?”

           
Dasher Two answered enthusiastically, “Hell, yeah.”

           
Dasher One radioed Tactical Air Control to let them know that he and his wingman were close enough to take control of the combat situation:
 
“Judy. I repeat,
Judy.”

           
The Screamers—distant specks silhouetted by sunset—entered firing range.

“I’ve got a heat-lock on Alpha Bandit,” Dasher One transmitted.

           
“Um, yeah, a roger that. I think—I mean I got a lock on Bravo Bandit.”

           
“Then let’s do it. Dasher One, Fox Two.”

           
Dasher One launched a heat-seeking air-to-air Sidewinder missile. It blew out from under his wing and raced across the sky with a vengeance.

           
Billy spoke, “Ahhh…oh yeah, Dasher Two, Fox Two.”

           
Another sidewinder roared through the blue sky.

           
The two pilots watched their scopes. The bandits—first one, then the other—flickered and disappeared.

           
“Tactical Air Control this is Dasher One. Ah, read bandits one and two gone away. We’re bingo here, RTB.”

“Dasher One, General Stonewall McAllister sends his thanks,” came the radio reply.

The veteran pilot said, “See Billy, you’re getting the hang of this after all.”

–

Nina sent word to Wrightsville via a supply truck driver that Denise Cannon was safe and spending the evening with the Hunter-Killer team.

           
Nina did not know why she let Denise hang around. She told herself that with a Shadow haunting the area it was safer for the girl not to travel. Besides, Denise dropped a number of hints that she wanted to stay, although she would not openly admit it.

           
In any case, Denise and Nina shared a supper of beef jerky (from the crates in the back of the Humvee) and apples in an old conference room at City Hall.

Eventually, Nina asked Denise about her past.

The daughter of a middle class family, Denise was six when the end-of-the-world came. Instead of memories, her recollection of those days came in muddled nightmares of monsters and fires and frantic riot police battling hideous beasts and helicopters whirring overhead and cars grabbed by some massive monster.

In the years since, she lived on the run with the other children and the chaperons from the center as led by Jim Brock. At first they lived day to day, scrounging for canned food and drinkable water; hiding in burned out buildings and basements.

Eventually, Brock’s group found their way to
Wrightsville
Beach
where they settled into vacant beachfront properties and made contact with other survivors.

Those survivors cooperated. Fishing, gardening, hunting, and scavenging for left over food stocks kept them alive. At least
most
of them.

The stoicism—the
I really don’t care about all this
adolescent attitude
—
wavered as she remembered watching people die of infections and illness. Worse, her mind stored crystal-clear memories of hiding in dark corners and ignoring cries for help while monsters found others. Friends; children even younger than her.

For the people of
Wrightsville
Beach
, survival did not mean fighting. Other than a few low-caliber handguns, knives, and homemade spears, they owned no weapons. When something dangerous prowled the area, they could only hide. If a bad thing found one of their number, the others merely watched as it devoured or carried off the hapless victim.

Nina explained that The Empire had arrived; that order and safety came to
Wilmington
and now it would be the monsters hiding and running.

It all sounded good to Denise. The big guns and battle-hardened dogs made Nina’s assurances sound real.

Then the Shadow came.

–

It started around 2 a.m.

Nina and Denise slept on small cots in second-floor offices across the hall from one another. K9s stood posts throughout the building and Grenadier patrols roamed the grounds.

The stars flickered in the sky with only scattered clouds trying to obscure their light.

A breeze blew across the empty streets and over City Hall coming in from the northeast. On that breeze rode the hint of a sound. A sound far too soft for human ears, but the dogs heard.

The K9 sentries on the front steps stood and tensed. Their sensitive noses sifted through the air for clues.

Again the noise came, a fraction louder but still hidden among the chirp of crickets, the flutter of flags atop poles, the noise of litter scraping across the pavement in the wind.

Perhaps the buzz of insects. Or maybe the crackle of static electricity?

The breeze faded but the sound came again, loud enough to reach human ears this time, loud enough to illicit growls from the Dobermans guarding the main entrance of City Hall. Loud enough to stir a little girl from sleep.

A fuzzy, electric-sounding burst.

Eleven-year-old Denise Cannon sat up in her makeshift bed: a wool blanket and a raggedy old pillow on the carpeted floor. As she rubbed her eyes, she realized that she had been in a deeper sleep than she remembered having her whole life. With Nina and the Grenadiers around, she felt safe: a new feeling to her.

Alas, that feeling faded as a sizzling noise seeped in from the dark outside. It sounded as if someone tried to tune a radio station but found only static.

Denise heard a new sound, one from the hallway. A scratching noise.

She opened her door. A portable light at the end of the hall fired a thick beam of harsh illumination down the corridor, flooding most of the passage in brilliant white but also creating sharp shadows along the ceiling and floor.

The black and gray Norwegian Elkhound named Odin pawed at Nina’s door across the hall. That door opened and
Captain
Forest
stuck her head out. She wore sweat pants and a tank top while holding a pistol in one hand and a walkie-talkie in the other.

That static-like, electronic buzz came again. It sounded far off, but still managed to send a shiver through Denise’s body.

Nina saw Denise watching her and must have noticed that shiver.

“Hey, it’s okay. Don’t worry. Now hang on a sec.” Nina raised her radio and transmitted, “This is
Captain
Forest
. Night watch, what have we got?”

A man’s voice answered. Denise had trouble understanding his words because it sounded as if the guy chewed gum while he spoke.

“You hear what we hear, Cap. No visuals, yet. I got spotters on the roof. They can’t see shit. “

Nina answered, “Doesn’t sound too close. Did we get a pinball in yet?”

“No, Sir,” came the reply. “We sent the request up yesterday when we realized what we were dealing with. 1
^st
Mech is shipping one over in the morning. We’ve got rockets down here, if it comes to that.”

“I don’t want to screw around with rockets. That’s not the best way to deal with these things,” Nina sighed and looked to the ceiling as if searching for an answer there. After a moment, she ordered, “Look, bottle things up tight. Stay out of sight. I want to wait until we get a pinball before we start messing around with it.”

“Roger that.”