Elkhounds.
Tyr bolted off to muster the force. Trevor went in the house and found Sheila pacing in the living room.
'C’mon, we’re going out today.'
Sheila not only shook her head, but her whole body quivered.
'I don’t want to.'
He tried to show compassion- whatever that was — but his hard exhale and stiff lip belied his consternation.
'You can’t stay in here forever. We have to go out there. There are people out there.'
'No, no they’re all dead. Everyone is dead. We have to stay here,' an annoying pleading crept into her voice.
'Sheila, what if I had thought like that last week? Right now, there have to be more people out there, people who are alive today but won’t be alive tomorrow. If I can find them, and bring them here, then things will get easier for us. It’s what we have to do. We owe them.'
She shook her head again. Violently.
'I know you’re afraid-'
'No you don’t! You don’t know!' Tears glinted in her eyes. 'You never get afraid! Nothing scares you! You talk about all this like it’s a big game. Devilbats and Mutants and Deadheads. But you haven’t been chased by them and seen your friends killed by them!'
The vision of his parents’ bodies-what he had first thought to be shaggy rugs-blasted to mind.
'Shut up!' He commanded, raising his voice to her for the first time.
She stopped talking.
He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes.
'Okay then, you can stay here. I have to go.'
'No…please don’t go!'
'I have to go. If all you want to do is stay inside and you don’t care about anyone out there, then fine.'
Her mouth opened then shut.
He called, 'Ajax!'
Scrambling, obedient paws hurried along the first floor hallway. Ajax, a stout black Doberman charged with security inside the mansion, bolted into the living room flanked by two more Pinchers.
Trevor commanded, 'Protect Sheila.'
'Don’t leave me!'
Trevor stormed out.
– A thick cover of gray clouds hid the sun and cooled the day. Rain fell in a soft drizzle, just enough to add to the gloom.
Trevor drove to Francis Slocum State Park, a sprawling patch of roads and fields carved into a wooded basin dominated by a large pond that had once been perfect for paddleboat rides. Trevor chose the Ranger station and welcome center near the park entrance as the starting point for a reconnaissance sweep.
He left two German Shepherds at the motor home. The balance traveled with him on foot.
First, they surveyed a bedroom community across the road from the park entrance. The dogs immediately sniffed a pair of hostiles wandering the streets-a giant rat and something vaguely humanoid with two heads-both of which he easily dispatched with his M4.
Even though the K9s caught no human scent, he conducted a house-to-house search. He found nothing-no trace-in most homes: either the families had evacuated or scavengers had made off with any remains. Nonetheless, he did find one slaughtered family.
When Trevor first began his quest for survivors, he knew he would find many bodies. That is why he carried a jar of olfactory blocking cream.
He also knew he would find dead children, too. It made sense. Single persons held a survival advantage; they could run without consideration. But how does a mother leave a child behind? How does a family with kids move fast?
Seeing the family-including three young children-did not affect him in any particular manner. No shakes or convulsions; he did not vomit or cry an extra tear. None of it. He did not react at all and that made him wonder if perhaps his mission to slay the monsters meant he was becoming one himself.
Sounds of commotion from the park interrupted his search. He led his patrol of dog-soldiers through a wooded grove and stopped at the ridge of a short but steep hill. From that position, he oversaw a secluded parking lot and beheld a sight he had seen more often in recent weeks: monsters fighting monsters.
In the space below, six of the big-mouthed hover-bike-riding Mutants squared off against two fifteen-foot tall creatures resembling a combination of a walking-stick insect and a bald humanoid.
The Mutants wielded swords, daggers, and clubs, reserving their loud flintlocks for a few choice shots. The Stick-Ogres, as Trevor nicknamed them, swung impromptu clubs made of toppled birch trees.
He observed the battle with the eye of a researcher. He had already classified the Mutants as pack animals and labeled them as ‘semi-intelligent.’ As for the Stick-Ogres, he had never seen more than one of them at a time. His Hostiles Database categorized them as ‘solitary herbivores’ with animal intelligence. Perhaps he needed to make a revision.
More important, Trevor did not know why the two groups fought but it confirmed what he suspected for some time: the destruction of civilization was not the work of one well-organized homogeneous group. Earth’s Armageddon did not resemble Hollywood’s visions in Invasion of the Body Snatchers or Independence Day.
He had personally documented a dozen types of individual predators and twice that number of prey animals that gorged on trees, plants, and Earthly insects. From pack hunters to docile herds to solitary creatures, Trevor’s Hostile Database tracked a variety of newcomers of varying intelligence, habits, and tendencies.
Furthermore, he knew he had yet to see it all. Television and radio reports during those first weeks clearly identified a number of highly organized alien forces. However, those armies did not have the numbers or resources to take the entire planet themselves. At least not initially.
Then again, the television and radio stations flickered off one by one in June and July. By the second week of August, the only station he received on his high-powered antennas came from Lehigh University college radio overrun by summer-session dorm students.
The frat boys and sorority girls had a high old time for quite a while. Trevor had been impressed at how well they could convey the gist of things from audio only. He had especially enjoyed the 'Samantha and Randy' show as well as the 'Samantha and JoJo' show and the 'Samantha and Andrew' show. The next logical step, the 'Samantha, Randy, JoJo, and Andrew' show, had been promised but the broadcasts ceased. Apparently the fun and games-most likely the beer, too-ran out.
In any case, the Stick-Ogres and the Mutants pummeled each other amidst a steady drizzle. A swing of a massive club sent a Mutant crumbling to the pavement. A shot from a flintlock blasted away a chunk of gray shell from a Stick-Ogre’s leg, the accompanying howl of pain echoed over the treetops.
Despite his fascination with the fight, he chose a stealthy withdrawal. After quietly moving his patrol away from the ridge, Trevor drove the RV out of the park and further down the road. He stopped again, this time across from a massive hillside graveyard. At that point, he consulted his maps and realized a familiar place waited a short distance away.
Why had he not checked there yet?
In truth, he felt afraid of what he might find.
Having berated Sheila for cowardliness, could he be cowardly now?
No.
Trevor left two sentries at the motor home, then aligned the other six K9s in marching formation and tramped off through the brush toward a familiar back road. Toward the home of Jon and Lori Brewer.
– Trevor sent one patrol to scout the tall grass of the back yard while he approached the front with Tyr, Odin, and Seth-a Shepherd named for the Egyptian god of war.
Jon’s Explorer sat in the driveway and he heard Lori’s wind chimes clanging softly in the wet breeze.
Trevor knelt behind the Explorer and dispatched Tyr to the stoop. The dog pushed his nose against the door, sniffed vigorously, and then returned to his master communicating the scent of two or three people inside.
Before Trevor did anything more, the front door burst open. Jon Brewer stormed onto the stoop dressed in
