She felt no guilt. She had fulfilled her purpose as humanity’s champion. But in the process missed out on much. The time had come-the time to find what else remained.
There is more for me.
Nina stood and swiveled around to face the bay. She took one tentative step and stopped.
One more thing.
She reached to the back of her head and undid the black band holding her ponytail in place. Her blond hair fell free and dangled to her shoulders in curly strands. She dropped the tie to the ground with the rest of her discarded things.
Nina Forest moved to the edge and allowed the water to splash against her feet. It felt cold. And clean.
She stepped in, carefully walking over a combination of rocks, sand, and pointed shells. The salty smell of the brackish waters nearly overwhelmed her senses.
Deeper-deeper-until the water reached her chest.
Nina sipped a breath of air then slipped beneath the surface. Ripples from her submersion rolled away in perfect circles, one after another after another-and then calm-calmer-perfectly still.
The sun sparkled on the water, warmed the sandy shore, and reflected off the metal of the sword and rifle at rest on the beach. A gull swooped overhead cawing enthusiastically.
She burst from the surface in a spray of water. Her hair matted wet. Droplets across her neck and arms. What little clothes she wore soaked through but she felt refreshed, clean-new.
Nina Forest stood in the water and gazed east across the Bay, over the distant Peninsula, and beyond-to a world away.
Nina stood there in waist-deep water.
And waited.
28. Armada
Trevor knew the feeling of powerlessness. The first day of Armageddon after running from the gored bodies of his parents-things felt beyond his control then. More recently, for a few moments in the temple he felt powerless and insignificant in the face of Voggoth.
But he had never experienced anything quite like that first week after leaving the land once known as Satka, Russia.
He remembered what happened to the Feranites when the self-appointed Gods of Armageddon deemed them defeated. Given the situation in North America when he departed nearly six weeks ago, Trevor feared that even Jon Brewer’s best efforts would have fallen short by now.
Based on the reaction from JB’s peers, a vote to cast humanity into the abyss might have already concluded. At any moment-one heartbeat-he could find his molecules warping into some beast built to satiate Voggoth’s taste for irony.
The Feranites had loved nature, so they became what they most despised: machines. Perhaps the Roachbots had been highly-intelligent beings, but now were forced to live in madness with the brains of other species serving as their CPUs.
What about the Ghouls? Barbaric monsters created from a formerly well-ordered society? The Mutants? Perhaps a civilization that prided itself on its caste system reduced to the equivalent of an alien biker gang?
The nightmares seemed endless. But the biggest nightmare of them all came from the feeling of failure. In the end Trevor had lost everything. Nina. His son. His people.
And so he spent that week in a semi-daze, barely eating and rarely speaking. He waited. He waited for his body to change; for a descent into Hell.
Despite vanquishing Voggoth’s monsters, the march west from the destroyed temple felt like a retreat. He tried to explain what happened. Alexander understood on some level although he could not comprehend the idea of spontaneous mutation.
Armand refused Trevor’s conclusion. He pointed to the physical evidence: the temple fell, The Order’s monsters slaughtered. Victory, no matter how you sliced it. Trevor did not argue. He could have pointed out to Armand that history was full of stories of wars won on the battlefield but lost in the halls of power.
On day six of the return trip, the convoy halted outside a large city in northeast Ukraine. While Trevor sat in the back of an armored Sherpa holding the last memory of his son-Bunny, the stuffed animal wrapped in a small blanket-Alexander walked forward to investigate the delay. Trevor expected a horde of Voggoth’s minions attempting to intercept the convoy. Such attacks were long overdue.
However, he realized he heard no gunshots; no sounds of battle. When Alexander returned he appeared grim-faced and hurried.
“What is it?”
Alexander replied, “We are needed in the town.”
“Here? Where are we-Kharkov?”
“Yes,” Alexander said and directed Rick Hauser to drive the vehicle around the main convoy and into the city. “Ukrainian and Russian partisans retook this area last year while Voggoth was hammering us. Tenacious people, they are.”
Trevor’s mind filled with negative thoughts. Did these people want tribute to allow passage? Or would they beg for food and ammunition? In the end he supposed it did not matter because at any second his world would change.
He soon found out how right he was.
The Sherpa followed a pair of Ukrainian or Russian motorcyclists into the heart of Kharkov with Armand and a small group of his followers trailing behind.
The city remained in surprisingly good condition, apparently spared from large-scale fighting. It surprised Trevor to see so many green trees in the heart of what had once been a metropolitan area.
“Things look in good shape,” Trevor muttered.
“They really put it back together nice. They told me they’ve got the Malyshev Tank Factory back on line. A lot of them survived most of the last decade in the underground subway beating up the Duass when they were here and The Order later but they went to great pains to keep from permanently harming the city.”
They drove into the heart of Freedom Square, a teardrop-shaped cul-de-sac with a park at its center as well as large and buildings around the perimeter, several of which were massive including one that occupied 300 meters of frontage with multiple skywalks between multiple towers. Trevor guessed it to be an older government building built in a Soviet style meant to impress with strength of design but lacking in ornate detail.
Whatever the case, the motorcade worked its way toward the Kharkov Hotel. As they made their way in to town, Trevor realized this was no band of partisans scraping out an existence. These people managed to rebuild a tiny bit of civilization, much like his people had re-populated Wilkes-Barre that first year. There may not be many of them, but they were on the right track.
All for nothing.
“Alexander, what is this about?”
“Someone here looking for us. Messengers, I think.”
Trevor, Alexander, and Hauser exited while Armand’s bikers came to a halt curbside.
Their hosts wore a variety of clothing that again reminded Trevor of his own people; summer casual wear, blue jeans, slacks, cargo pants, dress shirts, and military uniforms of various kinds. Several of the more stoic types guarding the main entrance carried AK-47s or similar weapons, apparently a part of the city’s militia.
Trevor eyed the people and they returned his glances with smiles and what might be laughs. Excited, friendly laughs. Celebratory, even.
“No weapons,” Alexander explained. “Not inside the hotel.”
Trevor carried none. He did not think a machine gun would provide any defense against the coming judgment. Hauser, however, dropped his MP5 in the front seat of the Sherpa and Armand left an entire arsenal of small arms with one of his biker brethren.
The crowd spoke in excited chatter as the travelers moved away from their convoy into the hotel. Trevor did
