'Look, I’m kinda busy, can’t talk right now. Oh yeah, I brought some company along.'
A chorus sprung to life. The voices in that chorus included the heavy cannon of Bradley Fighting Vehicles, the chainsaw-like buzzing of helicopter cannons, the snap and pop of rifles.
Trevor slipped on the ship’s navigation goggles, affording him a view of the outside.
The infantry from Brewer’s relief force formed a protective perimeter around the Eagle while the armored vehicles and choppers rushed to encircle the Red Hand army.
With the Apaches flying overhead, the heavily armed ground troops engaged the spear-throwing, arrow- shooting primitives. The scene resembled scythes cutting fields of wheat.
Red Hand weapons bounced off armored plates. Human bullets fired without mercy, even when the aliens ran. In a few minutes, the blacktop of Route 11 grew heavy with dead aliens.
The tide of battle on the northern front changed, just as the trap at the mall had changed the eastern front. To the south, things looked much different.
– The Vikings attacked again, this time after dark aided by their own version of night vision equipment.
The enemy crossed the mountain field in full force with magnetic guns whirring and buzzing. Alien shrapnel grenades exploded in front of and behind barricades. Shepherd watched his defenders-already weary from a day of cutting, digging, and fighting-fall like broken matchsticks one after another. Their volleys of defensive fire felt weak and half-hearted, despite Reverend Johnny shouting refrain after refrain of inspiration.
The enemy reached the defensive lines. Rifles fired at point-blank range; knives and fists became weapons of desperation. The tree branches overhead trapped the smoke of spent cartridges, creating a surreal, smelly fog floating above the battle.
Shepherd called in Stonewall’s mounted soldiers to cover a retreat.
One hundred of the human fighters managed to disengage from the melee and fall back. They left behind the screams of dying comrades and pockets of doomed holdouts who failed to hear the call to evacuate.
Shep, at the rear of his running mob retreating through the darkness to the second mountain line, heard an alien victory yell from the top of the mountain he had just surrendered.
'Woooweeeeee! Woooweeeeee!'
33. Last Stand
Trevor Stone watched the day begin from atop the second mountain knowing that in this new world each new day brought another fight for survival.
He sighed and took stock of his forces: one-hundred survivors from the first mountain’s defense line, another fifty who had been in reserve, and forty remaining from Stonewall’s cavalry. Forty more followed Jon Brewer from the eastern front to the southern one, but the majority of those fighters had suffered injuries during the Roachbot encounter.
The sum of the equation totaled two hundred and thirty-less than a quarter being trained, pre-Armageddon military-plus fifty K9s. Trevor left the remainder of his surviving dogs back on Route 11 to hunt Red Hand stragglers.
Overall, he felt Shep had done a fine job preparing the ground for war. Nonetheless, Trevor had other preparations to make.
It had not taken him long to realize the Vikings held the advantage in every way except terrain. They outnumbered the humans (Stonewall’s reconnaissance suggested three hundred aliens occupied the first hill), the quality of their soldiers exceeded Trevor’s own, and the Vikings showed no signs of ammunition shortage, unlike his own dwindling supply of ordnance.
Yes, he would make a last stand in those mountains. If the second defense line fell then they would retreat to the third, and there they would hold to the grand conclusion. However, Trevor would not let humanity die. He had sent Omar to the estate to form an escape party. If all else failed, the eccentric engineer would round up everyone who remained-including Anita Nehru and Lori Brewer-and run.
Trevor watched a beautiful new day dawn and wondered if he would ever see another.
– Three deuce and a half trucks, the Abrams tank atop a flat bed, and one Bradley fighting vehicle comprised the convoy which parked on the shoulder of I-81 far behind the front lines and beyond the estimated range of the Viking catapults.
The drivers disembarked from their cabs. Most wore camouflage jackets to chase away the morning chill but soon the day would warm considerably.
Tolbert commanded the convoy and while the tank may have been the most striking of the vehicles, the supplies inside the cargo trucks were the most important.
He radioed, 'Base this is Hungry Hippo, you guys awake?'
After a moment, he received an answer: 'Ah, roger that, Hippo-who thought that one up? What can we do for you?'
'For me? Brother, I got the goodies you crave. Send some strong backs down here.'
Blam.
The grenade detonated on Tolbert’s left. Its crystal-like shrapnel tore one of the drivers to shreds. More hit Tolbert’s leg, knocking him to the ground.
Thwoosh…bam!
The Bradley erupted into flames from an anti-armor projectile.
Tolbert, on the hard pavement of the Interstate, saw six hooded alien fighters-a commando unit, no doubt- emerge from the heavy brush on the far side of the highway. They rushed forward with their guns shooting.
The human drivers scrambled behind the trucks and returned fire with pistols. One panicked but lucky shot felled a commando.
Tolbert crawled under a supply truck and grabbed his radio.
'Jesus Christ! They were waiting for us!'
'Say again, who is this?'
'This is Hungry-screw it; this is Tolbert with the supplies. We’re getting ambushed here! Need help!'
'Roger that,' came a female voice. 'Death from above.'
Tolbert glanced north and saw an Apache chopper rise from the Wyoming Valley river basin. It drifted across the skyline toward the mountainside highway.
He glanced around and realized only one of the drivers remained alive: a teenage boy dressed up like a soldier standing on the side of the road looking shell-shocked.
'Get out of here!' Tolbert yelled.
The shout shook the kid from his trance. He ran wildly toward the dense woods. Either the aliens did not see or did not care; the kid disappeared into the forest.
Tolbert propped himself against a truck tire and stayed hidden as he heard the enemy race frantically around the convoy, perhaps searching for him.
The thump-thump of helicopter blades grew louder.
Tolbert, emboldened by the arrival of air cover, peered around the front end of the truck in time to see the commandos disappear into the brush from whence they had come.
Shrapnel in his leg sent sharp pain from his knee to his neck, but he managed to stand.
He hobbled into the clear, waved to Nina’s approaching chopper, and pointed toward the brush. The Apache veered in that direction.
Tolbert noticed an open rear gate on one of the trucks. He limped over and surveyed the cargo inside. The crates of precious ammunition remained intact.
'Hold on a sec, what do we have here?'
A humming silver box with a flickering electronic display caught his eye.
'Oh shit.'
The silver boxes in the army trucks and under the Abrams exploded in a brilliant red flash, vaporizing the supplies, the tank, and Tolbert.
– 'Oh, now that’s just friggin’ great,' Jon Brewer stormed around the small clearing in knee-deep damp
