Mississippi.
Jon Brewer operated a. 50 caliber machine gun from the cupola of a badly-damaged Humvee. Jerry Shepherd-watching the road through a smashed windshield-drove the vehicle leading the human attack along CR- 346 south of the main route where Voggoth’s last elements mustered for a final stand. Cassy Simms and her ten remaining horse soldiers broke off from the column to chase a band of Ogres fleeing south along a cluster of railroad tracks.
“Only a few stragglers left by the river,” Shepherd said with enthusiasm in his voice. Yet his suspicious eyes glanced in the direction of the hovering airships, expecting the Geryon lasers to turn toward mankind again at any moment.
Jon finished off a Heavy Duty Spider Sentry with a burst from the mounted gun and answered, “They’re all being horded along highway. Probably start breaking west any second.”
A massive boom of thunder broke Jon’s thoughts; a boom so loud he thought it might have come from between his ears, a lingering result of his concussion. But it had not. The sound pulled his eyes to the sky where the storm clouds that had followed Voggoth’s army across the country rolled and boiled with more intensity than ever.
Why isn’t the storm breaking?
Jon glanced at The Order’s remnants: a collection of Spider Sentries, Ogres, and Shell-Tanks backing into a tighter and tighter group surrounded on three sides with the battleships of the Geryon Reich floating overhead-and then suddenly those airships banked hard and accelerated in different directions as if retreating for their lives.
Another flash. Another boom. A gust of wind so strong it nearly toppled the truck.
Shep shouted, “Holy shit! Jon, we need to bug out.”
With that the Humvee accelerated, driving south at great speed.
Jon Brewer saw why.
The storm came alive. The clash between Voggoth’s unnatural storm and the living environment of Earth finally exploded and nature joined the battle.
Two massive, swirling tendrils draped down from the thunderheads like lowering strands of rope: spinning black and red vortexes encompassing all of nature’s fury.
The pair of tornadoes touched ground south of Taylor, a few miles west of the battlefield. They roared along Route 24 in a mesmerizing dance of beauty and destruction. Jon saw a roadside house blow apart into nothing.
The Geryon airships hurried from the path of destruction; ground troops both alien and human scattered north and south. But the forces of Voggoth were afforded no such escape.
The tornadoes tore into the remains of The Order’s mighty army with such power that they swept the ground clean; purified it of the infection. The machines and monsters of Voggoth’s legion were first blown apart and then sucked into the heavens where they disappeared into the storm clouds. Secondary explosions glimmered in the vortexes like ghosts.
Shepherd drove them to a safe distance and parked in a field. The cyclones-gently swaying side to side as they graced across the plains-passed to the north, sending the spectators a healthy gust of wind; a tiny taste of the power visited upon Voggoth. A not-so-subtle reminder of man’s insignificance in the face of nature.
Life, Jon thought. Nature. Like the Grenadiers. Defending its own.
Jon was struck by an intense feeling of kinship. At any other time, the mighty twisters would have filled him with instinctive fear. But not here. Not now. His entire world had been under siege, the very concept of life. Mankind had been the champion of that life, fighting for more than a decade on behalf of the entire planet. Now the conflict between nature and the creatures from Voggoth realm erupted-like matter and anti-matter colliding-adding the final stroke; expunging the last traces of infection.
As they reached the river the tornadoes fell apart in strands of wind and debris; retreating to the clouds from whence they came. The wind blew from hard to soft and then still.
Jon and Jerry Shepherd exited their vehicle and stood in the field without speaking a word. What could be said?
The thunder faded and the dark clouds cleared.
27. Baptism
A feeling of descent woke Nina. Her eyes shot open and for an instant she felt vulnerable; worried some enemy reached for her throat. However, instead of being in the midst of battle she sat in the passenger compartment of an Eagle transport. A few weary soldiers shared the rows of bench seats as did Odin, her faithful dog, who lay curled at her feet catching a snooze of his own.
It all made sense, of course. She needed the nap; she would need many more hours of sleep before the fatigue in her muscles waned. She also needed a good shower; the stink and stain of battle remained, a trait she shared with the other soldiers onboard the transport which made for an unpleasant, musty smell.
That vulnerable feeling? That made sense, too.
Nina did not trust the Chaktaw. She did not trust the Centurians or the Geryons, regardless of their claim of ‘new orders’; orders that changed the battlefield dynamic not only along the Mississippi, but across the world.
She knew-from looking in their alien eyes-that they did not trust her either. She could not blame them. If given the chance, Nina would have gladly driven her sword through any of them. After all they had done on her planet, forgiveness simply was not a part of the equation. She could not make happy and act as if a new day dawn. None of her kind could. That is why Jon Brewer and the rest of the brass-including the extraterrestrial commanders-kept the camps well-separated, particularly after the sides traded shots on more than one occasion. Only one thing kept the tinderbox from exploding: alien and human alike had grown tired of war.
The alien armies not only ceased hostilities, but they now desired to return home, meaning there remained no need to slaughter them as long as they dutifully marched through the runes of their own volition. From what Nina had seen at the front, the Chaktaw-and probably the rest-wanted nothing more than to get off this planet that had become a world of misery for them.
Still, the quicker they go through the runes, the better.
Apparently the Witiko had not signed on to the truce, therefore any of their kind found on Earth would be subject to immediate attack. But few of their number remained. Nina heard talk of isolated redoubts of Witiko in Alaska and some Pacific Islands but nothing concrete. Just like the alien animals and whatever remnants of Voggoth’s soulless ones remained, any isolated Witiko would be purged one way or another.
Furthermore, there were probably pockets of other militant aliens who had not heard of the truce; certainly this would lead to some awkward moments down the road. Brewer, Shepherd, and the rest worked with the extraterrestrial representatives to overcome those challenges.
No matter how hard they worked, Nina knew finishing the job would take time. Decades.
But now we’ve finally got time.
Despite a few incidents, the truce held; at least in the short term. And Nina knew in her heart that the truce came from Trevor Stone. He had engineered it. And if he had engineered it, that meant he still lived.
We’ve finally got time.
She felt the transport rock as the landing gear touched ground. Nina gathered her well-worn battle gear and joined the rest of the soldiers as they exited the craft. Vince Caesar was not among their number. He remained in a field hospital outside St. Louis receiving treatment for his leg. But he, too, had earned a trip home.
A rest.
And yes, for the first time in her life the idea of rest appealed to Nina. That idea-the idea of a break from fighting-felt strange to her. She felt-finished. Like she usually did at the end of a successful mission but this time she did not think another mission waited.
Nina exited the craft and walked across the paved landing pad. Late June had come to Annapolis and the temperature soared. The midday sun caused her to sweat, adding to her grimy, dirty feeling. She eagerly anticipated a return to her apartment.
An empty apartment.
