whipped through Trevor’s shoulder-length hair as he stood in the cupola.
Trevor heard Dante’s voice crackle in his earpiece, 'So, man, what’s this plan again?'
Dante had asked the question five times and each time he sounded more skeptical.
'Relax, Miss, we’ve got a couple of Apaches covering us.'
Dante snickered at the insult before reminding, 'Right. Me, you, and two helicopters against thousand of these guys. Yeah, I’m relaxed, man.'
'Odds will get better once we get back to West Pittston. Then we’ve got the K9s.'
'You mean, IF we get back, right?'
Trevor directed Dante to park in a gas station next to dry pumps.
The minutes ticked away until at 2 p.m. on June 2, the battle began.
First came the sound: a vibration. The noise of two thousand pale warriors dressed in animal skins jogging forward. They came as if a flood, filling side streets, pouring around trees, trampling bushes, climbing over dead automobiles, crossing porches, and knocking aside trashcans and human bones left in the aftermath of Armageddon.
The rumble grew to a pounding stampede. Windows on houses shook; cans on vacant store shelves rattled; a plastic number ‘9’ on the gas station marquee fluttered to the ground.
'Oh Christ.'
Trevor ignored Dante’s curse. His eyes remained transfixed on the approaching surge.
'Um…Trev..?'
Just as Dante seemed ready to bolt, Trevor brought the gun to life.
The heavy weapon fired furiously sending a vibration through Trevor's body and the entire vehicle. Shell casings flew to the pavement and blasts of fire flashed from the barrel.
Massive rounds tore into the line of Red Hands; a line so thick Trevor could not miss even at one-hundred yards. The shots sent gushes of red gore into the air and cut torsos in two.
He swayed the gun side to side. The hail of destruction obliterated a porch post. A second later, the roof there collapsed in a cloud of splintering wood and dust.
The Red Hands did not waver even as the lead row of their army disintegrated. Bows pulled taught. Axes rose above screaming heads. Elongated fingers gripped spears and charged.
'Trev…Trevor!'
'Wait!' Trevor shouted into the microphone to be heard above the clatter of the gun.
More savages fell. He blasted the legs off one, the head off another. Yet they still came! Even with the gore of their brethren splashing on their shoulders and cheeks, the warriors refused to retreat. Indeed, the carnage appeared to encourage their charge.
'Go! Go! Go!'
Dante gunned the gas, cranked the wheel, and raced south on the road. An arrow clanged off the bumper of the Humvee; an errant spear rattled the pavement behind.
The Red Hands raced forward as if their legs might catch the fleeing motor car. However, their attention quickly changed.
One of the Apache gunships appeared in the sky above the battlefield. It dove fast with bullets ripping from its thirty-millimeter cannon. Warriors literally exploded. Some vainly tossed spears or shot arrows at the chopper but the bulk sought cover in houses and storefronts.
The attack helicopter veered away after the Humvee had completed its escape.
With the roar of the machine gun temporarily silenced, Trevor realized how heavy he breathed. He still felt the vibration of the weapon in his bones; his gloved hands felt numb.
Trevor caught his breath and spied the parking lot of an old lumberyard. He banged on the roof of the speeding Humvee and ordered, 'Okay. Stop here and wait for them to catch up.'
Dante's voice quivered as he asked, 'We gotta do this again?'
'Dante, old buddy, we’re going to be doing this for a while.'
– 'Saddle up!' Stonewall commanded as alien small arms fire rat-tat-tatted against the wooden walls of the living room in the old farmhouse.
That house faced the western flank of I-81. Stonewall’s cavalry had occupied it an hour earlier to take potshots at the marching Vikings.
At first, only a handful of alien scouts exchanged fire with the ‘First Brigade.’ Then the better part of a column joined the fray. Garrett decided to withdraw before the enemy brought heavy weapons to bear or rushed his outnumbered skirmishers.
Kristy Kaufman, wearing a safari outfit complete with Aussie cowboy hat, crept across the grungy room to inform, 'Everyone is ready, General.'
Another alien shot zipped through the empty space where a front window used to be and smacked a bookcase against an interior wall. A copy of The Farmer’s Almanac fell to the shaggy rug in two big chunks; balls of dust puffed into the air.
'We can proclaim this engagement a success,' Stonewall said as he stood then walked with Kristy to the rear of the house. 'They have halted their forward progress and deployed a number of troops. It shall be some time before they continue their march.'
The two exited the back door where dead farmland stretched toward forest. Benny Duda held Stonewall’s steed as the General climbed on. Kristy hoisted herself to her own saddle.
'I suppose we’ll be doing this all the live long day, General,' she said.
Stonewall tugged the reigns of his horse and brought the beast around. The rest of his brigade formed ranks as they prepared to dash for the woods.
'My dear lady, I doubt our friends will fall for such tactics repeatedly. Eventually they will see the nature of our ways. Things will get dangerous then. Very dangerous indeed.'
– Route 11 swung across the Susquehanna River on a traveler’s choice of two bridges. Dante, hidden on the second floor of a home overlooking the river, spied the northernmost of the spans through binoculars and watched as the Red Hands crossed that concrete, featureless overpass en route from Pittston to West Pittston.
The crossing funneled the wide swarm of marching warriors into tight columns. They proceeded with less vigor and more caution after having suffered a pummeling from both the ground and the sky for miles: dead Red Hands covered Route 11 all the way into Pittston.
Dante knew he and Trevor had gotten off cheap thus far. They had swiped at the fringes of the enemy army for hours and inflicted casualties on their foe without paying any price themselves, save for expended munitions and arrowhead scratches on the Humvee. He also knew the hit-and-run raids served merely as a prologue. Now the real fight would begin.
The skies above the alien force remained empty: no sign of any flying machines. The road ahead appeared clear: no hint of an ambush lurking. Nonetheless, the main mass of Red Hands crossed the bridge cautiously.
As soon as the first warriors reached the west side, Dante radioed, 'Go.'
Two Apaches ascended from hiding spots among the residential streets of West Pittston and raced toward the bridge with chain guns spewing deadly rain. The bullets tore into the enemy columns, splitting the lead elements from the body of the alien army. While the bulk of those trapped in the open retreated the way they had come, about one hundred Red Hands ran forward to join the scouts on the western banks. There they found an army waiting.
Trevor’s army.
Grenadiers poured from the shadows between houses and from under the shade of trees and bushes, attacking from all sides. Dante grimaced as the raging beasts smashed into the enemy with no fear and no hesitation.
Claws gored. Teeth snapped. Red Hand warriors fell under the swarm as if drowning. Blood sprayed into the air above the slaughter and alien howls of pain filled Dante's ears.
Daggers and hatchets felled K9s but not nearly enough to stem the tide. Desperate warriors tried to retreat and were blasted by choppers hovering above the open bridge.
Rifle fire joined the chorus of growls and screams and thumping helicopter blades. Dante saw Trevor, standing away from the melee along the riverbank, raise his M4 and seek targets.
Dante pointed his rifle toward the battle…and stopped. He knew he should fire, but the sight below…
