him put down a Wraith at long range and then kill a charging Ogre with a perfect shot in the forehead.
Inspired by the sight, Jon used a concrete chunk as a stepstool and hauled himself out of the bunker, grabbed an M16 from the arms of a dead soldier, and fired into the enemy’s side of the mob on Front Street. His first shot hit one of the robed Monks that had just rammed a sword through some poor guy’s BDUs.
Jon never saw the Ogre coming, however. The brute picked up and threw a soldier halfway across the street then closed on the general. A huge, muscle-bound arm hit Jon square in the chest and sent him flying back into the basement foundation.
His world went black.
Woody “Bear” Ross greeted General Rhodes with a nod as the two stood twelve stories high on the roof of a tall, thin building overlooking the Mississippi.
Before Armageddon, the building-a grain elevator-belonged to ‘Cargill’ as proclaimed by the big logo on the west-facing side. In the years since, the building belonged only to Father Time, who had eroded the grain silos to rusty heaps and warped the trestles and conveyor belts that once loaded river barges.
“Twelfth mechanized infantry brigade is assembling on I-255, about three miles from here. We’re all ready to go.”
Bear knew Rhodes deserved a big tip of the hat for pulling those troops up from Hannibal so fast. They now served as the only formidable human force opposite Voggoth’s St. Louis battle group.
Speaking of which, Ross turned his attention west. The wind blew across the roof carrying a stench of fire and decay. Directly across the river from Ross’s position stood the landmark St. Louis arch on the grounds of the Jefferson National Expansion Memorial. Somehow it still stood.
There should have been tall buildings beyond the arch. There should have been St. Louis. But with the exception of the frame of Bush Stadium, everything had been knocked flat. Supersonic blows from the Leviathan saw to that. Covered beneath the wind-swept banks of debris lay thousands of dead defenders.
St. Louis belonged to Voggoth. The storm clouds made for an angry sky encompassing downtown and reaching over the Mississippi. The Leviathan stood in stark contrast to the now-flat horizon as a monument to The Order’s power to destroy. Curls of smoke from smoldering fires and clouds of dust swirling around its massive legs gave it the aura of invincibility. Ross knew different; if only he had the means.
Artillery fired from the banks of East St. Louis and landed amid the Roachbots, Mutants, Ghouls, and assorted demons in the enemy’s army. The impacting shells cast small puffs of smoke that seemed insignificant against the backdrop of the towering Leviathan.
Rhodes stepped to Ross’ side at a rail on the edge of the roof. A handful of brave aids stayed with the Generals.
“Hey wait a second,” Rhodes saw something that surprised him. “You haven’t taken down that bridge yet,” and he pointed toward the Poplar Street Bridge that carried three different Interstates from Illinois to Missouri and back again.
“No. I’m going to let a nice bunch of his critters get across before we blow it.”
“Pinch him off, right?”
“Yeah.”
“What if they spot the demo charges?”
Ross said, “I got arty zeroed in on the bridge. We dropped smoke shells to make sure. But it doesn’t matter. Those things never go looking for mines or explosives. I think they like to act like it don’t matter.”
Rhodes agreed, particularly in the case of the Roachbots who led Voggoth’s advance to the river. They either did not care or were too insane to give it a thought.
Ross’ radio crackled with static and then the voice of Captain Carl Dunston reported from a recon Eagle circling overhead: “Bear, this is Dunston. We’ve got some newcomers to the party.”
Ross closed his eyes. He knew the newcomers would not be friendlies; there were no more friendlies around.
“What’d you see?”
”Look to the southwest, Bear,” Dunston said and Woody opened his eyes, raised his binoculars, and followed the direction. “Just off the river in from those docks. Just follow the railroad tracks.”
Ross’ field glasses first spied the rectangular white recon ship with the sharp nose cone. It hung over the far side of the river further to the south.
Dunston.
Ross found the spot the pilot directed him to: a huge labyrinth of railroad tracks complete with toppled box cars nestled among several partly-destroyed industrial and commercial buildings including the massive St. Louis Arsenal, all to the south of downtown by a little less than two miles.
Ross recognized the newcomers: self-propelled objects resembling upside down silver bowls with circular indents on top. He had seen them in action during the battle for Wilkes-Barre at the end of that first year.
“Centurians. The Redcoats are here.”
Rhodes mumbled, “Ah, shit.”
About a dozen of the heavy artillery pieces hovered into place in the massive train yard between Dorcas and Arsenal streets. Several smaller ground transports disembarked several hundred red and white clad soldiers slightly larger than the typical human male. The Centurian infantry mustered into ranks in preparation for battle.
“Damn,” Rhodes did not have binoculars but he held a hand above his eyes and squinted. He knew better, but the general could not help to ask in a hopeful tone, “Can they hit us from here?”
Ross lowered his glasses and answered, “You know they can. You know sure as shit they could probably hit the two of us right between the eyes from where they’re at.”
“Yeah, I know,” and Rhodes did, he had operated one of the captured Redcoat guns at Five Armies. Ironically the Eagle anti-gravity ship that spotted the approaching Centurians also came courtesy of those same aliens, although apparently they brought none of their own on that particular day. “Guess The Order figures they’ve got us whipped, time to send in their friends to get all the glory.”
“No bridges down there. They have to come across up here.”
“So we’ll just wait for them to cross then I’ll hit them with everything I got.”
Ross nodded his head and replied, “That’s about the size of it. Good luck, General.”
“You too, Bear. See ya’ when it’s over, one way or another.”
“Hey, you still with us?”
Jon Brewer could not be sure if the voice came from an angel or an earthly source-until he opened his eyes and saw Jerry Shepherd leaning over him.
“Yeah, I-oh, shit, my head hurts.” Jon felt a heavy thump.
Shepherd slipped his arms around Jon’s shoulders and one general helped the other to his feet.
Jon first noticed a heavy fog of smoke drifting over the bombed-out basement foundation. He also noticed a distinct lack of sound: no gunshots, no explosions, only a few voices. He next noticed several stretchers and makeshift beds at the rear of the basement where a solitary nurse tended to a trio of wounded boys. She must have been one of the few ‘groupies’ to stay behind when most of the army’s families ran east.
Another heavy thump. Jon placed a hand on his head.
“Damn, this thing is pounding. I must have a concussion.”
Shepherd told Jon grimly, “You probably do, but the pounding ain’t in your noggin’.”
Jon climbed out from the bunker with Jerry Shepherd behind him.
The remains of a gruesome battle covered Front Street from north to south. Bodies-of monsters and men-lay everywhere. Some still moaned and twitched. Craters dotted the park and the pavement as well as three huge sinkholes from the unnatural earthquakes; fires burned from human vehicles and Voggoth’s Shell-Tanks. Jon surveyed the damage through blurry vision.
Thump.
General Cassy Simms and a handful of riders slowly trotted south toward him and Shep. As a gust of wind pushed the fog, Jon’s vision cleared enough that he saw Cassy’s eyes to be wide and glazed. An abrasion bled on her cheek; her black general’s uniform appeared wet with alien gore.
Shepherd explained, “It was a good fight, Jon. We stopped the little ones dead in their tracks.”
“No-no-I missed it?” He glanced around, still unable to focus on anything more than a few yards away.
Thump.
